Beauty and the Mustache (Knitting in the City #4)(35)
Author: Penny Reid

I knew Drew was still there, still behind me. But I didn’t realize that he’d crossed to where I stood leaning against the wooden post of the porch until I felt his hands on my shoulders.

He didn’t wait for me to assent to his comfort. He just grabbed me, turned me, pulled me to his wall of a chest, and encircled my body with his arms. One of his great paws was on my lower spine, the other on the back of my head, and his lips were at my temple.

Caring not one stitch about my pride, I held on.

I conveniently forgot all my previous objections against his offers of compassion. Instead, I immediately melted against him. I clung to his shirt and I buried my head in his chest. I pressed my body against his.

His embrace was a forceful promise of security, full of commanding comfort. In fact, it felt desperate. If a hug could be frantic, this hug was frantic. It felt as though he needed to hold me without accepting anything in return; he needed to demonstrate that he possessed enough strength for both of us; he needed to gather me close and carry my burdens.

Therefore, for a confusing, foggy stretch of time, I handed over my grief.

I was far away from my friends, from the life I loved and the family I had chosen in Chicago. I was surrounded by people I’d rejected, people who were essentially strangers, and now I was regretting pushing them away and missing out on years with my brothers. I wanted to apologize and mend those fences, but I’d been a mess of distracted anguish.

I was facing a life without my mother in it.

I leaned on Drew and just gave in, and it felt impossibly good. He was solid and warm. He was strong. He even smelled good, like the woods and rain and man. His T-shirt was worn cotton—soft and absorbent.

For a moment, I just let myself need someone. My hands gripped the fabric at his sides and I cried.

Drew’s fingers threaded through my hair; his lips brushed a soft kiss against my temple and forehead.

“Ashley…Sugar….” He whispered, and his voice was so different from the usual gruffness, or the sardonic stoicism he employed when quoting Nietzsche. I was busy crying into his absorbent T-shirt and clinging to the fleeting relief of a temporarily shared burden. I had no attention to spare. I could dedicate nothing to deciphering the meaning behind the caressing quality of his tone and words.

“Tell me what you need,” he said between raining soft kisses against my hair, temple, and cheek. “I’ll do anything for you.”

I heard him, but I didn’t really process his words other than at the most basic level. He wanted to help me. That was the takeaway message.

Therefore, I wiped my nose on his shirt and said between tears, “I’m using your shirt as a tissue.”

“That’s fine.” I felt his smile against my cheek. “It’s yours if you want it.”

“I’ll wash it.” I still needed to wash his other shirts. This would be shirt number three.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I will worry. It’s covered in snot, very unsanitary. You could get sick. I don’t want you to get sick.”

Drew chuckled. His hand on my back rubbed slow, soothing circles, and he gave me another squeeze.

“I’ll let you wash my shirt if you tell me what I can do. Tell me what you need.”

“I need….” I hiccupped. I’d cried so much that my breathing had dissolved into stop, starts, and hiccups.

“Anything, Ashley.”

“I need….”

“Anything, it’s yours.”

“I need you to tell me a joke.”

Drew stilled, his hand ceased moving on my back.

“A joke.” He said the words deadpan.

“Yes. A joke. Make sure it’s really funny.” I could feel his heart beat against my cheek; instinctively, I snuggled closer as I said, “No pressure.”

The sound of his heartbeat was eclipsed by his sudden laugh, deep and low and rumbly. I lifted my head from its comfy spot and glanced at him, his features just visible in the indigo night.

He was smiling and he was looking down at me and his eyes were completely captivating. They traced my face with reverence and, whether what I saw was real or imagined, his eyes told me that I was precious to him.

And then I kissed him.

I didn’t know why I kissed him. Well, other than the obvious reasons. Really, the issue was that I didn’t know why I was kissing him now.

CHAPTER 15

“Any man who can drive safely while kissing a pretty girl is simply not giving the kiss the attention it deserves.”

― Albert Einstein

If Drew was surprised by my lips suddenly against his, then he hid his surprise really, really well.

One of his hands gripped me around the waist, the other grabbed hold of my hair and he tugged, positioning my head as he liked. As though arranging me and opening me for his use…as though he’d been waiting for this…as though he’d planned and choreographed this kiss to guarantee perfection.

It was a thoroughly tuned, tactile tango. Where he led, I followed.

With no hesitation, he twirled us, backed me into and against the outside wall of the house. He gave me three sensual, carnal closed mouthed passes that made my stomach tighten and my chest expand with hot desperation.

Then he nipped at my bottom lip and tasted me.

Instinctively, I parted my mouth, my tongue darting out, seeking his. He gave it to me. He gave me his weight. He gave me the pressure of his fingers against the bare skin of my sides and stomach. He gave me a deep rumble in his chest that echoed in my head and sounded to my heart and body like more.

More of this…more of you. Give me more.

I was no longer sharing a burden. His entreaties had switched focus. His need to give had reversed and—with the same fervor he’d commanded my comfort earlier—he now demanded my unconditional surrender. My head was in the stars. Our bodies were heavenly instruments of careless need. Worries melted beneath us into nothing.

I think I whimpered, my hands under his shirt, touching the hard, hot expanse of his stomach. I think I whimpered because he felt as good as he looked, better than he looked. The thought of not touching him everywhere made me feel weak, and awakened an agonizing urgency within me.

It was a soul scorching, pride destroying, body claiming kiss. And he ended it.

Drew abruptly pulled away. I was left in the cosmos with no map, not knowing if a return trip to Earth were possible.

I lifted fingertips to my lips. I found them used and swollen, evidence of our frenetic kiss, and I released a short breath. My eyes searched the porch for him and discovered he was at the far end. His back was to me, and he was leaning on the railing, looking out into the night. It was so dark I doubted he could see much.

I’d never experienced a kiss before where recovery time was necessary for one or both parties. Needing a minute to collect myself, I closed my eyes and pressed my hand to my heart. My head fell back, connecting with the wall, and I tried to regulate my breathing. My heart would not cooperate. It beat like it knew better, like it understood what this kiss meant better than the rest of me, and it was both thrilled and frightened.

Gradually, like waking from a dream, I was once again aware of the rain and the rolling thunder and the lightning; the symphony that was a rainstorm in the old mountains.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a while.” Drew’s voice—the sound and the tone—startled me.

“You have?” I lifted my head from the wall and blinked at his inky silhouette, still some distance away. “For how long?”

“Since I saw you.”

“Since you saw me?” My echo was a squeak.

“Yes.” He admitted, stalking closer. His eyes glinted in the sparse light offered by a distant flash of lightning. They were focused with heated intensity on my mouth.

I sought to clarify his meaning. “Since you saw me tonight?”

“No. Since I first saw you. Since I first laid eyes on you and felt sorry for every beautiful thing that was made no longer resplendent—nullified by your being.”

I didn’t breathe for ten seconds. When I did, the air left my lungs in a whoosh, and with it departed my peace of mind.

“Fuck….” I said, because what I was feeling deserved a remarkably harsh expletive. “You really are a poet.”

“Ash….”

I shook my head and closed my eyes because the memory of our damn hot perfect kiss, the vision of him standing in front of me, the whisper of his delectably distressing admission, became too much for my little heart to handle.

“No more talking,” I begged. “I think your words aren’t safe for me to hear.”

They’re weapons, I thought, as sure as a martial artist’s fists are weapons. With enough use, practice, and honing of skill, words were the weapons of choice used by exceptional writers and poets. Minds can be changed, hearts can be lost and broken, souls can be surrendered given the right words.

Or the wrong ones.

“No more talking,” he repeated, closer than I’d expected. His breath fell over my cheek and his hands slid around my waist, pressing my body to his. “No more talking.” He said again, this time as a whisper against my neck.

“Drew….”

“Shh.” His hand lifted and cupped my cheek, his thumb caressing my bottom lip.

I was mixed up and turned inside out. I didn’t know what to say or do or how to move forward from this labyrinth of my own making.