Beauty Mark

Chapter 7

Between Hayden, Davis, and the pending release of Torn, my days were jam-packed. My book came out in two days, Hayden had her first ultrasound this week, and I saw Davis as often as I could.

I would spend every free moment I had with him if it were a possibility. There was nothing about him I didn't adore. And while he seemed to have brought me into his fold, for some reason, I had kept him on the outskirts of mine.

Davis knew Hayden was pregnant, but I hadn't let them meet yet. I couldn't explain my need to keep them separate. Well, I could, but I sounded bad in that explanation, so I kept it to myself. Davis was my sounding board for all things Tad related, who might I add was indeed a prick. I'd begged Hayden to make her pregnancy public knowledge, but she'd refused, hoping he'd come around. Davis just listened, not really offering any advice.

A huge part of me wondered what life would be like as a mother, but another part of me was in awe of the lifestyle Davis had without children. He lived well, did what he wanted without limitation, had a beautiful home, and nothing held him back.

The first time Davis had taken me to his house, I was awestruck. It was nice, nothing ostentatious in the structure, but the library-holy s**t. There was a vast open space-technically the living room-and it had unusually high ceilings. The walls were lined in books-hundreds, maybe thousands of them. I'd never seen anything like it, much less in a middle-class home. Bookcases stretched from floor to ceiling, lights hung from the shelves to illuminate the titles, and the ladder moved around the room on rails to accommodate the height. I was still amped up by the diversity of his collection. I could have spent weeks in that space and never have read all he had to offer.

Taking in the details of his space and comparing them to those of my own, I wondered if I ever wanted anything other than just a partner. Hell, Hayden hadn't even had the baby; she was barely through her first trimester, and her entire life had flipped upside down. She was home more than I was, and her social life was non-existent. She still hadn't told anyone other than her parents and me that she was pregnant, and I was starting to worry about what her plans were for work. People would begin to notice the little bulge in her tummy. She was too thin to be able to hide it long.

The thought of enjoying life with a partner who wrote and understood the life of an author excited me. I'd always been drawn to people-male or female-who loved the arts: visual, written, performing, I had no preference. I loved them all and the people who enjoyed them. I identified with artistic types. It was what I missed most about Sarah Lawrence and that phase of my life. Davis brought so much of that back to me in our discussions, the political debates, and his overall ability to challenge me to see life from a different perspective.

I wished Hayden had a Davis in her life. Someone to keep her company, encourage her, support her. Here I sat with two days before my debut novel released with the most amazing man I'd ever known by my side, and my best friend was pregnant with the father continuing to deny any liability.

"Penny for your thoughts." Davis brushed the hair from my face as I sat next to him on his couch. His words drew my attention. "You haven't turned a page in the last thirty minutes. You're obviously not reading."

"Just thinking," I said.

"Anything you want to talk about?" Most men would be too oblivious to even notice.

I had bothered him with more than my fair share of friend issues, but I figured if he asked then he wanted an answer. "Hayden goes for her ultrasound this week. I just can't get over this asshole not wanting any part of it."

"Some men don't want to be fathers, Callie. I don't." His proclamation caught me off guard.

"Really? Never?"

"You seem surprised. I'm forty. I'm content with my life the way it is." He said the words with a grin as he pulled me to him, encouraging me to straddle his lap. Now able to see every detail of my expression, he asked, "Is that an issue for you?"

My eyebrows arched in question as I gave him an exaggerated shrug. "I don't know. I haven't thought much about children. I've never really even dated, so it's hard to imagine a life filled with a husband and family." Somehow, I'd thought saying those words would be painful, but their truth didn't sting.

"How's that?"

I looked at him confused, not sure I understood his question.

"That you're twenty-nine and never been in a relationship."

The age-old question everyone asked at family gatherings. My answer was well rehearsed. "My education was always more important, and I found greater comfort in books than boys."

He rolled me onto my back on the couch, nestling between my legs. "Is that so?" His hips rotated just slightly, pressing his girth into me. "Books over boys?"

I nodded with a smile as he used his foot, planted on the floor for leverage, to send another wave of pleasure through me.

"What about you, Mr. Inman? How are you forty years old and never been married?" I couldn't have killed the mood faster if I had thrown a bucket of ice water in his face.

He pulled back like a snake had bitten him, completely removing himself from my body.

"Davis, what's wrong?" I asked, grabbing at his arm-needing the security of his touch.

As he ran his fingers through his hair, his expression changed. Finally, he looked to me for what I assumed was about to be a confession I wasn't interested in hearing. Part of me wanted to stop him before he tarnished the image I had of him in my mind, but a larger part wanted full disclosure so I didn't end up like Hayden.

"I had planned to tell you, but the timing hasn't been right, and with everything going on with Hayden and your book release, it just seemed better to wait."

I hadn't missed his refusal to make eye contact. I sat up, straightening my slightly disheveled clothes. "Tell me what?"

His lips pursed as though the words on his tongue were so sour he couldn't manage to utter them, their taste so vile he dreaded them crossing his lips. "I'm married."

What. The. f**k.

Both my mind and body were paralyzed by those two little words, three syllables.

"Separated," he rushed out. "I've been separated for almost two years, but we aren't divorced. She lives in Oregon and has since she moved out." My groan escaped and bounced off the walls, echoing from the floors and ceiling. "Callie, please let me explain before you draw conclusions."

I needed an escape plan. I had to get out of his house. The door, where was the door? I did not date married men. My eyes darted everywhere, making sense of nothing. Panic infiltrated my brain, sending me into fight or flight-I chose flight.

His hands captured my face, and I closed my eyes in an effort to avoid his stare. "Open your eyes, baby."

My anxiety melted at the use of a pet name. The way the word flowed from his mouth, the tone of his voice trying to reassure me, the hold he had on me was unbelievable. I did as he told me and received the reward of his beautiful pastel eyes staring back at me.

"I was married for eight years. I've been separated for two." He dropped his hands to my lap, now knowing I wasn't going to flee the scene. "About five years into the marriage, I realized the emotional distance between us was getting greater. We used to go out a lot and do the downtown scene, drinking, dinner, whatever. I tried to scale that back, reel in the relationship, but she wouldn't have any part of it. The harder I tried to save it, the further away she pulled." He paused, closing his eyes, maybe to remember when things changed or possibly how he'd fought for them; I'd never know. When he opened them again, the pain was evident. The torment, the sadness, it was all right there on the surface. "She was a drunk. She chose the bottle over me. I fought it for a few years, but when it started to affect my health, I let her go."

I should have had tons of questions. I should have wanted to know every detail of the failure. But somehow, it seemed insignificant in who he was now, even though it was likely the sole reason for his character. I didn't care about his ex-wife or the nuances of their marriage. I'd never been drawn to another human the way I was to Davis. He calmed my spirit, soothed my soul, and fueled my creativity. It was evident there was pain in his story, but I wasn't sure it was my job to dredge that up.

Instead of responding to his revelation, I leaned into him, pressing my lips to his, expressing my faithfulness-my desire to pursue him. He read my intentions loud and clear. His hand found the back of my neck as he deepened the kiss, parting my lips for his desperate tongue. In a breathy move, he pulled away, taking my hand in his, and lead me to his bedroom.

Davis didn't rush his pursuit; instead, he savored it the way I would imagine an artist would, committing every detail to memory. I'd never shared this experience with someone I had an emotional involvement with. I waited for him with bated breath, allowing him to lead, and time stood still as I anticipated his touch. His thumb found my cheekbone, stroking it, lovingly.

I wanted to reach out, to touch him, but was too unsure of how to make that happen naturally.

"Relax, baby," he whispered as he leaned into my neck. The warmth of his breath on my skin sent chills down my spine. "I'll take care of you." The sensation of his kiss caused my head to fall to the side, exposing my neck.

The man moved like a dancer, softly, quietly, setting the scene he craved. He undressed us both, and then as he climbed onto the mattress after me, I watched his naked form edge toward me. It was then I noticed the size of his manhood, and a smile crossed my lips. He caught me looking and grinning, and he released a melodic laugh.

"Like what you see, Callie?"

It was apparent I liked what I saw. He was thick and all man. I was like a lost teenager who didn't have a clue what she was doing, but he was so carefree and easy-going about it all. Davis welcomed my inexperience like a gift.

He leaned over to the nightstand, reaching into the drawer to pull out a condom. Quickly sheathing his d**k in latex, he instructed me as he moved my leg. "Spread for me, love."

Love.

He didn't say he loved me, but the sentiment was the same to my ears. The way he sang the word, his voice was lyrical, and my heart soared in song.

When I opened for him, he became the first lover I'd ever had. He was generous, lavishing attention on my body, exploring every inch, ensuring everything he did brought me pleasure. Every time I looked at him, his eyes were intently focused on me until I relented and closed mine again. The ability to feel, to just be, to allow him to show me what he wanted me to experience was freeing. I'd never been so at peace or so connected to another human being. It went so far beyond intimacy-it was spiritual.

As the sensations that ran rampant inside began to peak, he brought me impossibly close, my arms clutching his back. He rolled into me, undulating like the waves, the tide drawing in and out as I crashed. When the ocean calmed and the storm passed, he gingerly disconnected from me before going to the bathroom to clean up. With a warm washcloth in hand, he returned, ensuring my comfort, and then laid down beside me.

The arms I loved to have wrapped around me pulled me into his chest, making me the little spoon. I tossed a blanket over us before I drifted off, completely sated.