I snatch the wine from between us and guzzle a quarter of the bottle in one shot. The warmth in my stomach spreads through my body until I feel tingles in my fingers and toes.
I’m comfortably numb in our shared silence.
But my mouth isn’t. “It’s just so confusing. The first experience I ever had with a man felt like it was the best thing ever. He made me feel loved, and special, and that’s a rare thing, I think.” I pause a second and continue a on a hush, “but it was all bullshit, Marco, and it f**king hurt. It hurt so much I thought I’d never recover. And that feeling part of my brain broke. I felt cold for a long time. Until just recently.” I breathe deeply and close my eyes as my head swims in a happy haze. “First, James, then this thing with Clark, and the dream I had about you, and I’m thinking men are just trouble and I should think seriously about turning lesbian.”
Marco’s gravelly chuckle warms me. He pries the wine bottle away from my tight grip, gently running his thumb over the back of my hand.
This silence feels safe.
I feel safe here with Marco.
His rough voice breaks through my pleasant buzz. “What dream?”
Chapter Fourteen
“What dream?” I repeat stupidly.
Marco turns to eye me. “The dream you had about me.”
I backtrack. What the heck did I just say? “I didn’t have a dream about you.”
Crap.
There’s no way he believed that. I didn’t believe that. I’m such a bad liar when I’m drunk.
His body shakes in silent laughter, and he shakes his head, smiling. “Yeah, you did, sweetheart. And now my interest is piqued. You can’t say something like that, then leave me hanging. I want to know what I said and did in this dream to have you swearing off men and turning into a rug-muncher,” he pauses, “not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
Still fairly buzzed, the words slip out of my overactive mouth. “You didn’t do anything. It wasn’t you. It was my subconscious. And it wasn’t a bad dream, really. It was just surprising, I guess.”
We don’t talk for a minute. Or two. Maybe it’s three—I’m not sure.
I can hear the amusement in his voice when he asks, “Why, Cat—you didn’t have a dirty dream about me, did you?”
“It wasn’t all dirty.” Someone staple my mouth shut. “I just don’t understand why it was you and not Clark I dreamt about.” Marco makes a noise low in his throat in offense, and I quickly soothe his pride with a slap to his thigh. “Oh, shut it. You know you’re attractive.”
Marco grunts his approval. “I think it makes sense.”
I can’t help it. Laughter bursts out of me, hearty and loud. “Oh, man, you’re all ego.” Straightening my face, I turn to him and utter deadpanned, “Careful. Your ginormous head may not fit through the door on your way out.”
His grin is so beautiful; I want to lick him. “Fuck, you’re adorable when you’re drinking. But that’s not what I meant.” He quickly sobers. “Your mind protects you in ways you can’t even imagine. Your subconscious plays a huge part in that, and it would make sense for you to dream about me and not Clark. Although we’re both a part of your everyday world now, in your mind’s eye, I’m the safer bet.” He lifts the bottle of wine and takes a small sip. “You could fall in love with Clark. That’s not an option with me,” he winks at me, “and that’s what makes me dream-worthy.”
I suppose that makes sense. But then, things that don’t make sense normally do when you’ve downed three-quarters of a bottle of wine on a near-empty stomach.
Something about what he just said bothers me though. “Why is falling in love with you not an option?”
His face voids of expression and he shrugs. “Because I’m an ass**le.”
He says this so seriously—so matter-of-factly—my heart squeezes. I’m sad for him.
Everyone deserves love.
“I don’t think you can help who you fall in love with.” I paste on a small smile. “Even ass**les need love.”
He eyes my smile. “I hope you never meet an ass**le who changes your mind about that. Really, I do.”
Good Lord. Get a load of Debbie Downer. “Why are you such a cynic?”
He sighs, “Because I was that guy who changed the good girl’s mind about loving an ass**le. And now, she’s a cynic too.”
I want to be surprised by this morsel of information. Sadly, I’m not. “I bet she thought you were worth it,” I whisper. My body betrays me when my tongue darts out to lick my lips. “I bet when you were with her, you made it worth it.”
Marco groans while running a hand down his face. “You can’t say shit like that to me, pu**y cat.”
Confusion clouds my mind. “Why not?”
Leaning towards me, his eyes flash. “Because when you say shit like that, it makes me want to kiss you. And if I kiss you, I won’t stop at your mouth. I probably won’t stop ‘til you’re in my bed, under me, moaning my name while I watch you come. And then Bob will cut off my dick. Literally.”
I want that. Not his dick getting cut off, but the under him part.
Oh, God. Why do I want that?
My body instinctively leans closer to him. His eyes search me, eyeing my body language. They blaze with an emotion I can’t quite put my finger on. He reaches up to cup my cheek, his hooded eyes on mine. “You sure you don’t love Clark?”
I lean into his touch and rasp, “Yeah, I’m sure. Why?”
“’Cause then I won’t feel bad about doing this.” He leans down and slowly runs his nose along mine in a touchingly intimate gesture.
My stomach knots in anticipation. Placing his other hand on my opposite cheek, he gently pulls me to him. His breath warms my lips, and I suddenly want this more than anything. Our lips meet in a sweet kiss that is gentle, yet firm. This kiss is confident and wanting.
This kiss is amazing.
My eyes flutter closed as I reach up to grip his shoulders, grounding myself.
Zing.
Oh, shit.
Zing. Zing.
My eyes fly open, and I tell myself to pull away. Instead, I sit up on my knees and—lips still attached—crawl over to be closer to Marco. His strong arms band around my waist, pulling me closer into him, and although we’re chest-to-chest now, it still doesn’t feel close enough.
My hands move of their own accord from his shoulders and slide up to his neck. Without meaning to, I pull him deeper into me.