Monica Murphy - Four Years Later

“It’s just Wade, Chels.” I drop a kiss to her lips, then take the bag from her hand, surprised it’s so heavy. “What did you bring for dinner?” Whatever it is, it smells damn good. My stomach is growing more demanding by the second.

“Indian food.” She looks pleased with herself. I think she has me all figured out meal-wise. That my diet consists of pizza and fast food and … pizza. Beer and soda and beer and … that’s about it. “I hope you like this place. I’ve only tried them once.”

“I’ve never had Indian food,” I admit as I carry the bag over to the dining table.

“Really?” She sounds incredulous as she walks into the kitchen. “Well, I brought a huge variety of dishes, so hopefully you’ll like something.” She’s grabbing plates and utensils as though she lives here, and I like seeing her move about my house so comfortably. She fits in. I want her here.

I like having her with me.

“Wade, you can join us if you want. Do you like Indian food?” she calls from the kitchen as she pushes up her sleeves, turns on the faucet, and washes her hands.

“I’ve never had it either,” he answers.

“We have so much. You need to come over here and try it. I think you’ll like it.” She shuts off the faucet, dries her hands, then grabs another plate before she brings everything to the table and starts setting it out.

I can’t take my eyes off her. She’s a completely different girl from the one I met only weeks ago. The first version of Chelsea had been shy, quiet, unsure of herself. This version is still a little shy, a little unsure, but there’s something different about her now.

A confidence. It’s in the way she moves, the way she talks, how she looks at me. I can feel it, see it, hear it, and I realize my sweet little Chelsea Rose has blossomed.

And I can’t help but think I’ve been a huge influence in this change.

Chelsea

“God, that was torture,” Owen murmurs the minute his bedroom door shuts behind him. He pulls me into his arms, pressing me against the door as he leans in and kisses me.

I melt into him, curling my arms around his neck, burying my hands in his hair. His mouth on mine, firm yet soft, hot and damp, his tongue sliding against mine—relief mixed with desire floods me at the connection. I’ve waited for this, wanted it all night.

We spent hours out on that couch with Wade sitting right by us, watching some movie I really didn’t pay much attention to. I couldn’t. Owen kept touching me. Innocent little touches that should have meant nothing but instead meant everything.

Fingers on the back of my arm, his warm breath stirring my hair every time he spoke, he sat so close to me. The rumble of his laugh vibrating through me, making me shiver. His whispered words in my ear, griping about Wade being clueless, his lips brushing against my skin and sending a tremble throughout my body that I felt down to the very depths of my soul.

Dramatic. Silly. I know it, but I don’t care. I’m in the throes of an Owen obsession and I’ve never been happier.

Though I’m scared, too. I’m just … me. And he’s so … him. Easy to smile, easy to laugh, easy to show me exactly how he feels. Like now, being wrapped up in his arms, his big, capable hands sliding down my sides, I can feel him. Every hard inch of him pressing into me, and I’m scared and exhilarated and overwhelmed and ready.

So ready.

“I can’t believe Wade didn’t catch on I wanted to be alone with you,” Owen murmurs against my neck, pressing tiny kisses there. “Thank God that shitty movie’s over so we could bail.”

His hands feel so good on my skin. He’s slipped them beneath my sweatshirt, beneath the thin T-shirt I’m wearing under it, and his fingers dig into the pliant flesh at my waist. He’s drawing little circles with his thumbs as he slowly kisses his way up the length of my neck. I close my eyes, my arms tight around him, my fingers tugging his hair as I lose myself so completely in his embrace.

“Fuck, Chelsea, you smell so good,” he whispers just before he settles his mouth on mine. I open to him easily, gasping in surprise when he pushes me away so he can tear off my sweatshirt. He tosses it on the floor, irritation flashing in his eyes as he reaches for me again. “Who’s the jackass who bought you that bulky thing anyway?”

Laughing, I shake my head. “I don’t know. Some hot guy I just met who’s the best kisser on campus?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Only on campus?”

“The entire town?” When he doesn’t say anything I laugh even more. “The whole state of California?”

“Better.” He kisses me again, soft and slow and so deliciously wonderful I swear my knees are buckling. Thank God he’s holding me against the door. “Though I don’t like the thought of you assessing my kissing skills in comparison to the other guys you’ve been with.”

I say nothing. I can feel my cheeks flush, though, as he rears back slightly to study me. “The list of guys I’ve been with is embarrassingly small,” I admit.

Both eyebrows are up now. “I know you’re inexperienced, but …”

“Even with kissing,” I finish for him, feeling inept. Totally out of my league, which is a feeling I absolutely do not like. He knows this.

The giant grin on his face tells me he sort of doesn’t care.

“Is it wrong to admit I like that I’m a lot of your firsts?” He wraps his hands around the backs of my thighs and lifts so I have no choice but to let him carry me to his bed. He deposits me there, dropping me in the middle of the bed so I land with a plop, and I glance around, grimacing when I see the bed is a mess. The comforter’s on the floor at the foot of the bed and there is no flat sheet, no blankets.

“Don’t you ever make your bed?” I ask, bracing my hands behind me on the mattress.

He shrugs, then tugs off his shirt with one hand, yanking it over his head and tossing it on the floor. “Why bother? We’re just going to mess it up anyway.”

His words are full of wicked promise and anticipation skates through me, heady and strong. My nipples are hard beneath my bra and I press my thighs together to stave off the ache that throbs there. I let my gaze roam over the acre of bare skin on display just for me.

I’m dying for him to get closer so I can touch him.

“You know I promised you something the last time we were together,” he says as he joins me on the bed, the mattress creaking from his weight as he crawls toward me.

“You did?” I scoot back as he comes forward, until my back is against a pile of pillows. He has a predatory gleam in his brilliant green eyes that both scares and thrills me.

“Yeah.” He’s over me, his knees on either side of my hips, straddling me. I stare up at him and curl my fingers around the waistband of his jeans, my knuckles grazing hot, bare skin. His eyelids flicker the slightest bit, his only outward reaction to my touching him. “I said next time I would make you come with my mouth.”

I immediately let go of him, my cheeks so hot they feel like they could burst into flame. Closing my eyes, I hear him chuckle, feel him move over me, his spicy fall-like scent washing over me as I inhale deep.

“Don’t be shy, Chels,” he whispers against my lips right before he kisses me. “You know you want it.”

He’s right. I do. Oh God, I so do. I want everything Owen is willing to give me. There is so much I don’t know, so much he could show me. When I’m with him I feel greedy. Insatiable. Completely and totally out of control.

And I like it.

“I want this to be good for you. I want to make sure you’re ready,” he says, his voice soft and solemn. My heart lodges in my chest and I’m at a loss as to how to respond.

But he kisses me before I can say anything, do anything, and it’s as if his tongue knows just what to do to shut my brain down. It goes blank, until all I can focus on is his tongue swirling around mine, his gentle hands skimming over my skin, encouraging me to remove my shirt, which I do as if in a daze, opening my eyes so I can watch him. He’s touching my chest, his mouth at my collarbone, his fingers drifting over the tops of my breasts. He’s so patient, which shocks me. He’s usually impatient and impulsive with everything else in his life, it seems, but not with me.

Never with me.

“I love touching you,” he whispers as his fingers go for the front clasp of my bra. It unsnaps easily, the cups loosening, and then he’s pushing them out of the way, his fingers, his palms brushing against my sensitive skin, and I shiver. “Your skin is so soft.” He tugs the straps down my arms, pulls the bra off me, and then he’s kissing my skin, his lips wrapping around my nipple and drawing it deep into his mouth. A jolt of electricity pulses between my legs and I smooth my hand over his hair, whimper when he sucks my flesh harder.

I love how he seems to savor me.

His impatience finally comes over him and he’s pulling off my pants, taking my panties along with them. I kick them off, trying to fight off the embarrassment of being naked in front of him. I’ve done this before. He’s seen me like this before, but not with the lights on. And that lamp sitting on his bedside table is distracting me.

“I’m not turning it off,” he whispers, reading my mind as he kicks off his own jeans and underwear. I try not to stare but I can’t help it. He’s just so beautifully formed, so perfectly male. “I want to see you.”

Before I can protest, he’s kissing me again, his mouth working its magic, his hand trailing down my stomach until it’s between my legs, testing me. Arousing me. He moans against my lips, a sound of utter male satisfaction, and then he’s gone. Kissing his way down my shivering body, his lips hot against my skin.