“Damn, you have a grip.” I rub my wrist with my other hand. I’m probably going to have bruises.
He sits up. “I’m so sorry. Let me see.”
I take a place on the couch beside him and show him my wrist. “How’d a preacher boy like you get a grip like that?”
“I played football in school.”
I laugh in spite of the pain in my wrist. There’s no way the lanky Isaiah I remember played football. “You did not.”
“I said I played. I didn’t say I was any good. Anyway, I was at practice one day and I broke my arm.”
Ah, yes. That makes sense. That I can easily picture. “I bet your mom flipped.”
“Isaiah Samuel,” he says in a perfect imitation of his mother’s voice. “What did I tell you about contact sports? A gentleman with your ambition need not associate with ruffians.”
I roll my eyes. “She didn’t.”
“She did. And just to piss her off more, I told her I’d changed majors and wasn’t going to law school and didn’t want to run for Congress.”
“I wish I could have been a fly on the wall for that one.”
“She got over it, eventually. I think. But that was the end of my football career. I kept working out though. I liked the way I felt. I lifted weights and ran. Still do.”
“You run. On purpose?”
“Yes, ma’am. On purpose. Now let’s look at that wrist.”
He turns on a small lamp beside the couch and takes my hand in his. Carefully, he moves it from side to side. “Hurt?”
“Just a little.”
“I’m sorry. I’m supposed to be helping you and keeping you safe. Not hurting you further.”
“It’s okay,” I tell him, and it is. I mean, seriously. I’ve had much worse. But I can’t get the words out because he’s lifted my hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to the inside of my wrist.
I suck in a breath. It’s a gentle kiss and completely unexpected. I’m ashamed that my first thought is that he must be expecting payment now. For letting me sleep in his house.
“Isaiah,” I start. “I can’t. It’s —”
“Shhh. Let me do this. You can tell me to stop at any time and I will.”
I close my eyes as his lips return to my wrist. He’s only kissing my wrist. Nothing more. And I can stop him whenever I want. That, I tell myself, makes it different. I have a choice and I can stop this at any time.
I don’t want to stop it. I want him to continue. I want to see if I can feel anything.
I’ve never enjoyed sex. Even my first time with Mike, before I found out who and what he was, wasn’t pleasurable. Sex is something I do in much the way as I brush my teeth or wash my clothes. Except it’s also an act, and I know exactly how to act like I’m enjoying it.
I don’t want to act with Isaiah, but as his lips travel up my arm to the crook of my elbow, I suck in another breath. Not because it feels good or I’m turned on. It’s because I feel nothing.
He shifts on the couch and presses me down on my back. “Are you okay with this?”
I nod. He gives me a small smile and slips his hand under my shirt. It’s all I have on. After all, it’s not like I packed to come here. I close my eyes and try to focus on what he’s doing.
He takes his time exploring my body. His hands and lips are everywhere, and I can’t help but compare him to what I’ve experienced in the past. There’s a hesitancy with Isaiah the others didn’t have. Like he’s waiting for me to stop him.
I won’t, of course. Sex is nothing to me. If he wants it, he can have it. At least he isn’t going to hurt me. I run a hand down his back, and once more I’m shocked by how muscular he is.
“Feels good having your hands on me,” he murmurs against my skin.
He pushes my shirt up, and I lift myself allowing him to take it off completely. Once it falls to the floor, his eyes travel over me. “You’re so damn beautiful.”
I’ve heard it all before. Men tell me I’m beautiful everyday. I suppose I am on the outside. No one ever sees the inside, the not-so-beautiful parts. I steel my body, preparing for what comes next.
“Hey.” His thumb brushes my cheek. “Where did you go?”
“I’m right here.” I smile in a way I hope is seductive but he’s frowning.
“No, you’re not.” He sits up.
It’s ridiculous, but my first thought is, No, don’ t pull away. Mike will kill me. Then it hits me: I’m with Isaiah and I don’t belong to Mike anymore.
“I’m sorry.” This is new for me. Apologizing for not being into sex. “I’m just so tired. I haven’t been to sleep yet.”
“I’m the one who should apologize. After all you’ve been through and I jump all over you like....”
He doesn’t finish his sentence, but sits up and runs his fingers through his hair. “I’m such an ass.”
I don’t know what to say, but I know it’s my fault. Everything was going so well, and then I messed it up. “I didn’t want you to stop.”
“Tonight’s not the right time, Athena. Not like this.”
“Another night?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Maybe.”
“I’ll take that on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“Come to the bedroom with me. I don’t want to sleep alone tonight.”
He finally smiles. “I can do that.”
We walk together to the bedroom, and when he gathers me in his arms, I think this is better than sex ever could be. I fall asleep quickly and sleep better than I have in years.
***
I eye his hair again the next afternoon when he gets home from work. “You need to let me cut that mess.”
I’ve been inside his condo all day, and I’m going slightly stir crazy. Since he’s been home, he’s been in the bedroom making phone calls ,and I’m trying my best to be patient and not be a pain. But seriously? Couldn’t he make the phone calls from the office?
“This?” He’s sitting at the table and he hangs his head slightly. He sticks his fingers in his hair and rubs his scalp with a fury. When he brings his head back up, his hair sticks out everywhere.
I laugh. “That is a sight. It’s also a disgrace.”
“Completely unacceptable.” His chair squeaks as he pushes back from the table. “I’ll get the scissors.”
He walks back into the kitchen moments later. He’s changed into an old T-shirt and has a towel draped over his shoulders. “You sure you can shape this up? I’m not a vain man, but I don’t want to look like I’ve been to a butcher.”
I motion to the chair, and he obediently sits down. “I never had any complaints in the past, Preacher Boy.”
He places a comb on the table. “That’s because you had pointy metal scissors in your hands and they were afraid you’d stab them.”
“Shut up and be still.”
“Only because you’re holding the scissors.”
I straighten the towel around his shoulders, resisting the temptation to rub his back. He fills out the tight shirt and his shoulders move steadily with each breath. Is it my imagination or does a faint shudder run through him?
I close my eyes before touching his hair. Will it be as thick and silky as I think? Can I really do this? While I’ve cut some hair and trimmed a wig or two, I’ve never cut a man’s hair before. Surely, it can’t be that different.
I tentatively touch the top of his head. Run my fingers through the hair there. It’s so much thicker than I imagined. Your average woman would die for such thick hair. My own is long and wavy, not as thick as his, but not thin and brittle either.
“You have nice hair,” I say, all nonchalantly, like I don’t want to spend all afternoon with my fingers buried in it. “You know, for a guy.”
He snorts. “It covers my head. I can’t complain.”
I smack the back of his head. “You have hair like this and that’s all you have to say? It covers your head? You are such a man.”
“I decide to obsess over something on my person, it’s not going to be my hair.”
“Uh.” I pick up the comb and work it through the tangled mess. “Now you sound all eighteenth-century. Your person.”
“I thought you’d appreciate the phrase. I saw you eye my collection of Henry James and Sherlock Holmes.”