Meara and Oakley Ch. 05

"So, where were you going?"

I've been honest so far. Why stop now?

"I was going to Denton. To that bar we went a couple months back." I don't have to add that I'd been hoping to run into Oakley.

She nods, understanding, and I'm grateful she doesn't make me say the words out loud. I feel desperate enough as is.

"I wouldn't advise chasing after him."

I blow out a harsh breath. She is right.

"Mainly because he's waiting for you at the bar."

My heart jumps to my throat, excitement and nervousness causing my voice to come out rough and strained. "What the fuck, Ella? Why didn't you say that? You're such an ass!"

She smirks, shrugging as if she doesn't care that I could strangle her and feel no remorse about it.

"You never tell me anything. I have to trick you. And I'm all out of lasagna."

********

Ella offers to show Oakley back to my office. Of course I threaten her first. Wouldn't be right without one good one.

In the short time I'm left alone, I vacillate between an array of different emotions.

It's been two days. Oakley could be here to break things off with me. Or, he could have come to apologize and explain. I don't know for sure. What I do know is that my heart is beating a mile a minute and my stomach feels both hollow and heavy.

If I'm going by my lack of very basic knowledge about him, I should run for the hills. He could be a psychopath. Or a crossdresser. Actually, that's kind of funny to think about.

However, if I'm honest, if I'm really and truly honest... I'm not ready for it to be over. And that feels weird to me.

Maybe I'm crazy. Maybe I'm a sucker for the bad boys. Hell, maybe my ass has just been lonely. Whatever it is, I like him. I fucking like him. I like the way he smells. I like the feel of his hair on my skin. I like the sharp glint in his eyes when I'm being an utter smartass. I like the way my chin fits into the curve of his shoulder when I'm resting against him in the darkness.

I like that he's protected me. I like that he cares about my safety, which is evident in both the Carter Ludlow and Xavier incidents.

But, he's waffling and I don't like that at all.

Easy Sunday mornings have gone the way of the dodo. We're in the muck and grime, now. And I don't know what I'll find, or even if Oakley is ready and willing to reveal any of the answers to all these burning questions I now have bouncing around in my brain.

I don't know what to do. What does it say about me that I want to keep him around so badly? Someone I barely know, but whose presence I've come to crave, and whose absence has already become rooted into my awareness.

The heavy, advancing sound of his boots across the hardwood floors snap me back to the here and now. I lean back against my desk, aiming for aloof and ambivalent, though I'm just trying to keep my legs from shaking.

When he appears in the open doorway, my pulse seems to spike even more. He's dressed in his leather jacket and his dusty boots, hair free-flowing and deliciously tousled. The sight of him always does something to me.

But my attraction to him doesn't equal automatic forgiveness. I'm easy, yeah, but not that easy.

His eyes meet my mine briefly, then shift to take in the layout of the office. It's small, cluttered and slightly cramped. Nothing exciting, though it holds his attention for several long, nearly unbearable seconds.

"What did you mean?" I ask when the silence becomes intolerable.

His eyes flick back to me, his dark brow furrowed.

"When you said you didn't want the way I looked at you to change?"

His eyes soften a bit, his brow smoothing out slowly. He rakes a hand back through his hair and takes a few steps into the office.

Another long moment stretches between us before he breaks it.

"Ryan."

That's all he says. I just stare at him. I don't know what that means. Should I?

"What?"

"Ryan. It's my name. First name, actually."

"Um... ok..."

He slips his hands into his pockets. Shoves his shoulders back a bit as if he's fortifying himself against what will come next.

"When I was 25, I was convicted of aggravated felony assault. I went to prison for 9 years."

Felony assault. Prison. Nine years.

Not at all what I expected to hear.

The words echo and repeat inside my head. They're sharp and heavy. I'm not sure what to make of them. I open my mouth to speak, and nothing comes out. I don't know what to say.

Oakley's eyes grow stormy, a bit of gray bleeding into them spring green. I can see his jaw working beneath the slight shadow of his beard.

"That," he murmurs. "That look right there. That's what I didn't want to see, Meara." He scrubs both hands down his face and angles his big body away from me.

"What a minute! What face did I make?"

He turns, clearly frustrated.

"Horrified."

I throw my hands out. "What did you expect?!? You come in all 'Hi, my name is Ryan. I'm a convicted felon.' No lead in. No warning. Just boom. I mean, you had to have an idea how that was going to play out."

He shakes his head. Doesn't meet my gaze.

"Oakley, I only have what you've been willing to give so far."

He scoffs, shaking his head wearily. "I could say the same about you."

He's got me there. I've held my own secrets, doling them out only when necessary.

I let out a slow breath. "Show me yours and I'll show you mine?"

This gets a laugh out of him. Rough and half-hearted, but a laugh nonetheless. It makes me want to wrap my arms around him. To scale his big body and bury my nose in his wind-scented hair.

Silence reclaims the space around us, drifting like early morning fog.

He cares what I think about him. Worries that his past will taint what I think of him. How I feel about him. Hell, I don't know if it will, but... I want find out.

I take a small step forward, slowly, carefully and lift my hand to him.

"Hi, my name is Meara Kincaide. Single. Gloriously and happily divorced. Business owner. No kids. And you are?"

His eyes travel from my face then down to my outstretched hand. A best passes. And then another. Finally, he closes his long fingers around mine. Gives it a single small shake. His skin is warm and rough where it connects with mine.

His voice is low when he speaks, softer than I've ever heard from him, and the tension is gone. This makes me happy, fills me with a flickering sort of relief.

"Ryan. Ryan Oakley. 40 years old. Never married. Business owner." He pauses, smoothing the pad of his thumb over the slightly protruding none of my wrist. "Convicted felon."

This is nice. This is the gentle ease I've enjoyed with him. I can't judge him. At least not for what he's done. My mind has already formed my opinion on him, though I'm extremely curious to hear the story.

"So... Ryan, huh?" I ask, quirking an eyebrow at him.

He uses my hand to pull me, step by step, close to him. A thin smile curves one corner of his delicious mouth.

"Yes. Ryan."

It feels so good to be pressed against him like this again. Feeling his strength. His heat.

"Yeah, I'm not calling you that."

******

It's only right that we return to the familiar - sharing cold beers on my front porch.

The sun is setting, bathing the world in swaths of vibrant red and deep purple. The air is warm. It smells like sunshine and earth. It's quiet. Peaceful. Lovely.

We're sitting on the glider. Oakley welcomes my legs thrown carelessly over my lap. He said he likes my boots. His fingers dance over the smooth leather. What is with this man and my shoes?

"So how did you get the busted lip?" I ask. It seems an easier place to start.

Oakley drags his hand through his hair, an amused smirk appearing on his handsome, scruffy face.

"My brother."

I laugh. While I've threatened to maim Ella an innumerable amount of times, outside of childhood spats I haven't done any serious damage. Lately. I know with boys, it's different.

"What for?"

He allows his head to roll on the back of the glider, peering at me from beneath the dark fringe of his lashes.

"You, actually."

I choke on the sip of beer I'm in the process of swallowing. A bit dribbles down my chin and before I can swipe at it with the back of my hand, Oakley uses a long finger to clear it away. He casually sucks it off his finger and I bite down on the groan that rises in the back of my throat, knowing full well of what those lips, that tongue, are capable.

"He'd been hounding me to meet you. Said I was hiding behind my past to keep from... moving forward with you."

"He's known about me for some time, huh?"

"Since the night your window got busted out. He was one of the guys I was with."

I nod, feeling like somewhat of an asshole. I hadn't been very forthcoming about our relationship. It had taken nosey ass Ella to pry the information out of me.

"So, the busted lip..."

Oakley sighs, his eyes moving over my face. They settle briefly on my lips, then flick back up to mine.

"I told him about the invite to your parents' party. The guy nearly ripped my head off when I said I wasn't going."

"Why was it such a big deal?"

Oakley's hand drifts up my shin. His fingers curl beneath my knee, tickling just a bit as they flex and release. He doesn't speak for a long moment. His eyes are downcast. He appears to be concentrating on his task, but I get the feeling he's unwilling to meet my gaze.

"You're out of my league, Meara." His voice is low, tinged with a hint of something I can't quite put my finger on - something that tugs and pulls at a soft spot inside my chest.

Out of his league? I can't imagine what would make him think such a thing. Wonder if I've ever done something to make him feel that way.

He continues before I can ask.

"You're kind. And tough. And beautiful. Smart. Put-together. Nowhere near the mess I'm used to. Me? I almost beat a guy to death."

I lay my hand over his. Give it a gentle, reassuring squeeze to show him that I'm neither afraid nor disgusted by his admission.

He lifts his eyes to mine finally, and the pain is so strong, so deep, and flares so bright and clear in their beautiful spring green depths, that my breath stalls in my throat.

"I nearly killed a guy because a pretty girl broke my heart, and the guy she used to do it thought it was funny."

He laughs shortly, low and bitter. "And the worst part is, I never regretted it. Until now. Until you. You deserve so much better than a guy like me. But, damn it, you've gotten under my skin and I can't fucking shake you loose."

This is probably the sweetest, most heartbreaking confession I've ever heard. I should probably feel some measure of concern or alarm. Something.

I don't.

I can't pinpoint the exact moment I fell for him, when his presence became more than just sex and the merging of flesh. But, somehow, some way, it has. I've grown accustomed to the sound of his voice in those early morning hours, the weight of his arm over my hip, and the warm tickle of his breath on the back of my neck.

I like that he rarely smiles, but when he does, it's like sunshine after a storm, clear and startling bright, filling me with warmth and light. I like the smell of his skin, the mixture of leather and earth that clings to him. I like the way his big body seems to take up so much space, and the way I seem to fit perfectly against it.

I like that he makes me feel safe and protected, warm and wanted despite of, or in spite of, my big mouth and my stupid temper; how he can tell me to shut the fuck up with nothing more than the quirk of one dark eyebrow.

In all this time, the only anger I've seen from Oakley is when he'd been ready to maul Xavier for calling me a 'bitch'. In hindsight, I definitely shouldn't have laughed, knowing what I know now.

Oakley has protected me since the moment he met me - first by tossing Carter out when he'd gotten too aggressive; then, by seeing me home almost every night after; and, finally, by removing my ex-husband from my front lawn. I have never felt unsafe with him. I don't think I ever could. It's crazy, but I can feel it in my gut. It's knowledge. It's a soft of certainty that pulses thinly inside me.

And, that's what he's afraid of. That I'll fear him. Fear him enough to push him away. That I'll see a brute instead of the big bodyguard I've held in my arms so many nights.

I wrap my fingers around the wrist at my knee and pull him toward me. He resists at first, but I tug again and again until he gives in. I press my lips lightly to his.

"I would never hurt you, Meara," he murmurs softly, though no less urgently. "I need you to know that."

"I trust you, Oakley," I say. "I trust you more than I've ever trusted anyone in my life. I don't care what came before. I don't know that guy. He's a stranger. Who I know is this guy in front of me." I trail the backs of my fingers down his cheek. Smile as he leans slightly into my touch. "I like him. I like who you are now. With me."

There's more, yes, more that I need to know, but I'm ok with this for now. We've talked enough.

He releases a heavy, relieved breath, warmth fluttering over my skin across the short distance separating us. He tilts his head to the side, and presses his mouth firmly against mine. It's a chaste kiss. Just the lingering pressure of our lips. Touching. Caressing. He's gentle. Perhaps, trying to prove a point. To reassure me that I have nothing to fear from him.

But I need more. Harder. Hungrier.

As gracefully as I can manage, I raise up and shift my body until I'm straddling his hips. His hands automatically go to my thighs. His strong fingers knead the soft flesh, causing me to moan and grind over him, pleased to find him already hard beneath me. He opens to the slick slide of my tongue, suckling briefly. I catch his bottom lip between my teeth and give it playful nip.

"Meara," he moans. And I love the way my name sounds wrapped up in his rough basso. The edges of it aren't so smooth and pretty now. Somehow he manages to fill each syllable with his need and desire.

"Let's go inside," I say. "I think we've talked enough for now."

His hands slip behind me. He gives my ass a firm squeeze.

"You sure?"

My response is another winding roll of my hips. I'm done talking. I want this man inside me. Above me. Behind me.

"Don't make me repeat myself."

He growls, the sound seeming to echo in the warm evening air. "Mmm... but you sound so good when you beg."

"Asshole." But there's neither bite, nor venom in the epithet.

He wraps his arms around my waist and, once I'm pressed securely against him, surges to his feet. A startled yelp slips past my lips and I circle my arms around his neck. I shouldn't be surprised by his speed and strength. In fact, it excites me.

We're moving suddenly, Oakley's long strides carrying us across the porch. He opens the door without having to look. Steps past the threshold. Paces swiftly, surely, down the short front hall. I figure he'll head for the living room, more accurately the couch, but he heads up the stairs and to the bedroom.

He drops me on the bed and I flounder on my back while I begin to strip out of my clothes. He stares down at me as he toes off his boots, then unclasps his belt. His eyes are almost glowing with his desire as they drink in the steady rise and fall of my breasts and, once I've toed off my boots and shimmied out of my jeans, the wide swell of my hips and the curve of my thighs.

Fuck, do I like the way he looks at me, as if he's a hairsbreadth away from losing full control and devouring me whole. I wonder if my own face reflects his hunger, though I'm certain it does.

The removal of his shirt reveals the swirls and slashes of ink adorning his strong arms and the broad expanse of his chest. I want to taste him, to run my tongue over each intricate, looping pattern. He is beautiful in the lowering light, a dark and towering work of art that leaves me breathless and shaking slightly.

I swallow and rise up on my knees.

"I win," I say, referring to the fact that I'm bare ass naked and he's still almost completely dressed. I unbutton his black jeans and shove them over his hips. His cock springs up, tall and smooth and, still on My hands and knees, I take him in my mouth, drawing him in and sucking deeply.

His hips rock, shoving him to the back of my throat, and he lets out a long hiss.

"Shit, Meara," he sighs.

I pull back, trailing my tongue along his length, leaving him slick and straining.

I graze my teeth over his stomach and smile into his skin. Dipping low, I take the head of him between my lips and tease.

"Fuck my mouth," I murmur, before swallowing him down again.

He wastes no time. One hand curls over the back of my neck, the other cups my chin. He strokes long and smooth, grunting when he hits the back of my throat. I allow him to use me, to control the rhythm and the depth. My pussy drips, tightening in anticipation. When he releases his hold long enough to drag his blunt nails up my spine, I hum around his thrusting cock, arching my back for more.

"Look at you. My beautiful, dirty girl," he says, and the way he whispers it heightens my arousal, as if it's a secret that only we share.

A shiver races through me and I lift a hand to cover his, lace my fingers through his, urging him to move faster, to use his cock to brand me as his. He begins to move faster, rougher, and I flatten my tongue, moaning as he bobs me over his dick.

I want to see his face, to see the desire etched on it, to watch his mouth as they form those filthy words, but I concentrate on breathing, on the throbbing of my clit in time with his thrusts. My moaning becomes high and frantic, full of lust and need. I want him to come in my mouth; I want him to come in my cunt, to bury himself deep, to fill me to bursting.

Perhaps sensing this, he pulls away and I'm left panting for only a few brief moments before he turns me toward the head of the bed. I feel the roughness of his jeans against the back of my thighs as he moves in behind me. One large hand snakes over my hip, then roughly cups my pussy. An arm slung around my shoulders pulls me upward.

"You're mine, Meara," he says harshly, urgently, in my ear. Two fingers slip into my cunt, and I cry out as I grasp at his forearm. His fingers plunge deeply, spearing into me, then curling as they retreat. It feels so fucking good but it's not nearly enough and I grind my ass into him.

"Is that what you want, baby," he asks. "To be mine?"

"Yes," I gasp out. There is no hesitation in me, only need for the only man at my back, his cock pressed hot and hard against the top of my ass. I nod wildly, sucking in a sharp breath. "I want to be yours, Oakley," I sigh.

With a growl he releases me and I fall forward, bracing myself on my forearms. His hands circle my hips and he drives into me in one sharp thrust.

There is pain, but it's nothing compared to the pleasure, so sharp and complete that it seizes the air in my lungs. My back bows inward, forcing my tits into the mattress and my ass even higher and, when the air comes back to me I wail loudly, "Fuck, Oakley!"

And he isn't playing around. He fucks me hard and deep, pushing my body forward until he's almost completely left me, then pulling me back with rough tugs on my hips. He is fucking himself with my entire body, and it's so damn hot.

I can hear him over my own needy moans, chanting a gruff string of filth that has me clenching and squeezing around him.

"Fuck, yes... Meara... You always feel so fucking good. So fucking perfect."

I dig the heels of my hands into the mattress and push back into him, and his rhythm falters. I take advantage of it and turn the tables, using him now as he had just done me, showing him with my body just how much I want and need him.