Fallon by Jessica Gadziala

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Thirteen

Danny

 

 

 

 

Did Fallon just ask me to spend the night?

Was I going to do it?

I hadn't been thinking clearly when I'd shown up at his back door. Hell, I hadn't been thinking much at all. I'd walked there in a stupor.

I don't think a single clear thought crossed my mind until after I cried all over him, purged all the ugly I'd been holding inside for far too long.

Then, though, it all came rushing back.

Like how I shouldn't have been crawling up on his lap and clinging to him like I belonged there.

Like how I damn sure shouldn't have been filling up his fancy deep soaking tub and stripping out of my clothes while he cooked me food.

Like you'd do for a guest.

Or a girlfriend.

Neither of which I was.

I had no business invading his life, barging into his home, and making him feel like he had to take care of me.

To what end?

Nothing good could come from it.

Nothing good had up to that point.

I'd already lost everything.

I didn't want him to suffer the same fate.

I very much doubted his club would be happy about us hooking up either.

I needed to get my clothes back on and leave.

Yet, I found myself sinking into the slightly too hot water, letting it ease the aches in my body, maybe even some of the ones in my heart, in my soul.

I pulled myself out of the water what felt like ages later—and yet, somehow, still not long enough—toweling off with the blanket-sized towels that must have been a gift from his mom or one of his aunts or cousins. From my experience with men—which was extensive by most standards—none of them would look for super soft bath blankets instead of the cheap towels you could find on any big box store shelf.

Making my way back into the bedroom, I went to his dresser to find the tee he'd offered me. I'd just dropped the towel when the door opened.

And there was Fallon with a long, low, moving box where I imagined he stashed the food.

"Fuck," he hissed, leaning back against the door after he kicked it closed, eyes roaming over my bare body, making it warm up under his hungry inspection.

"Okay," I said, closing the dresser, turning slowly to fully face him.

"Danny..."

"Mmhnmm?" I asked, running a hand down between my breasts, over my belly.

"The food."

"Is hot as hell," I supplied, remembering how many times I'd burned my mouth on that microwave mac & cheese as a teen.

"That's true," he agreed, pushing off the door, moving forward, and placing the box on the dresser.

His arm shot out, his hand grabbing me at the back of the neck, yanking me forward by it as his lips crashed down on mine.

The kiss started hard and hungry, but gradually softened bit by bit until it was slow and deep.

Passionate.

That was the right word.

I'd lived my entire goddamn life without knowing what a passionate kiss felt like.

It had always been hard and hungry, maybe even a little possessive. But never passionate. Never, well, intimate.

But there was no denying that was what this was as Fallon's lips slanted over mine time and again until every inch of me started to feel almost oxygen-starved and tingly.

My hands rose, sliding up his strong arms, then encircling the back of his neck, pressing our bodies more closely together.

His free hand moved up the side of my thigh, over my butt, my hip, then gently teasing up my spine. The feather-light touch made a shiver rack my system as my lips fell open on a whimper.

Taking advantage, his tongue moved inside to claim mine as he turned us, started walking me backward toward the bed.

When the backs of my legs hit the edge of the mattress, his arm anchored around my hips, dragging me up, then lowering me onto the mattress, his weight pressing me down into it as his lips slid from mine, trailing down my jaw, the side of my neck, between my breasts.

Goosebumps spread across my skin as a strange, fluttering sensation moved through my chest and belly. Foreign, yet intoxicating. Scary, yet comforting.

His head shifted, and I could feel the slight scruff on his face brushing against my soft, sensitive skin as his tongue traced around the hardened peak of my nipple for a long moment before his lips closed around it, sucking, making me arch up into his mouth as a fresh wave of need coursed through my body.

At the sound of my soft cry, a humming noise moved through Fallon as he released me, then moved across my chest to continue the torment until I was writhing, until my fingers were clawing at his shirt.

Only then did he release me, his head moving between my breasts, his tongue tracing a path down my belly, the crease of my thigh, then, as my legs slid wide for him, up my slick cleft, and circling my throbbing clit.

He worked me achingly slowly, getting me close, then denying me the orgasm at the very last second.

"Please," I cried, my hands grabbing his head as my hips circled against his mouth.

"No, I want to feel you come," he said, voice soft as he pressed kisses over my inner thigh, up my stomach, my chest, my neck, then, finally, my lips.

He let my impatient hands roam, pulling off his shirt, working his pants free, but he continued to be slow with me, soft with me.

Even when he slid on a condom and slipped inside me inch by perfect inch, he did it like we had all the time in the world, like his body wasn't as desperate for release as mine was.

He made a low, groaning sound when his cock settled deep, a sound that moved through him, and vibrated into my own chest as my legs lifted, wrapping around his lower back as my arms rested at his shoulders.

Everything about it felt so new, so uncharted. I might as well have been a virgin for how foreign and exciting and scary and exhilarating as this felt.

As his body gently started to rock into mine, I understood a phrase that had always evaded me in the past, something that felt outdated and cringe.

Making love.

It wasn't outdated, something lost in time. Rather, it was something people never slowed down to enjoy anymore. It was something that our hook-up culture would never abide by.

It was sex that was somehow more than sex.

I felt more naked than I ever had been before, stripped bare, right down to my heart, my soul, as he looked down at me, as our bodies moved together, slowly moving toward that perfect catalyst.

Fallon's hand reached for mine, pinning it up near my ear, fingers interlocking with mine.

"Come for me," he murmured, voice soft as his hips rocked.

And not a moment later, I did.

Fallon's mouth covered mine, muffling the sound of my release.

He worked me through mine before finding his own with my name on his lips.

I don't know how long we stayed there after, but I was glad for the weight of him, for his head buried in my neck, not looking down at me, not seeing how affected I felt.

My body felt heavy and sated, yet buzzing and more alive than I'd ever experienced before. There was a warm, floating sensation in my chest as my heartbeat slowed, as my breathing evened out.

As we recovered together, I knew that I'd never felt so vulnerable before, that nothing had ever come close in terms of intimacy.

I should have rebelled against the sensations. I didn't like feeling vulnerable. I didn't want to share that.

But, somehow, I did.

With Fallon.

It made no sense, and I knew it would be useless to try to understand it.

So I didn't.

I just let myself get lost in it, enjoy it, for a few moments.

Until Fallon finally pushed up, looking down at me with heavy-lidded eyes. I knew in that one glance that he was experiencing something similar to what I was.

There was something comforting in that fact, that this was new to both of us, that we were both trying to understand it.

"I'll be right back," he said, voice still soft.

And this man, this surprising man, leaned down to press a kiss to my forehead before moving away from me, and going into the bathroom.

Alone, I folded upward, slipping under the blankets and sheets, feeling the need to have some sort of cover after being so exposed.

Before I could get to thinking too much, though, Fallon was walking back in the room, giving me a boyish smile before grabbing the box.

"Food?" he asked, making his way back to the bed.

"Should be at an edible temperature now," I agreed as he moved in at my side.

"We got our mac & cheese, dinosaur nuggets, and I found some frozen mini tacos. Which we didn't discuss, but..."

"But tacos are always a good idea," I finished for him.

"Exactly," he agreed, passing me a fork.

"You have four dips," I realized aloud, raising my brows.

"Well, I like barbecue on my nuggets. My brother likes ketchup. And my sister likes honey mustard. Don't know what kind of person you are yet." Yet. He said it like he intended to find out all those little things about me. "And sour cream for the tacos. Obviously. I'd have put salsa too if I had it. What?" he asked when I shot him a smile.

"You know how you're kind of an asshole a lot of the time?" I asked.

"Sure," he agreed, unoffended, as he picked up a lump that supposedly looked like some sort of dinosaur.

"Well, because of that, I didn't realize you were a man of many dips."

"A man of many dips," he repeated, letting out a surprised laugh. "I guess I am," he agreed, shooting me a smile. The big kind. And I felt myself momentarily hypnotized by it. "Alright. So you seem to be the movie fanatic."

"I am?" I asked, surprised.

"Twice when I've run into you, you've been on the way back from movies. And since I'm a little indifferent, why don't you pick?" he suggested, reaching to hand me the remote.

"You don't like movies?"

"I like some movies. I don't tend to go out of my way to watch 'em, though."

"Well, surely, you've seen the greats."

"Which are?"

"Oh, you know. Goodfellas, The Godfather, Die Hard, Pulp Fiction," I kept rattling them off to the blank expression on his face. "The Shawshank Redemption? The Usual Suspects? Fight Club?"

"I've seen Fight Club," Fallon said, nodding.

"Only Fight Club? Out of that whole list?" It wasn't even an exhaustive list. I had hundreds of 'greats.'

"Yeah."

"How is that even possible?"

"Dunno," he said, reaching for a semi-soggy mini taco. "But I have you here to educate me now," he added. "Pick something you like and I'll watch it."

That was a hell of a lot of pressure, wasn't it?

Movies were so subjective. Without knowing someone really well, it was difficult to know what kind of movie they might get something out of.

I guess out of that list, though, it had to be The Shawshank Redemption, right? It wasn't as re-watchable as the likes of Die Hard, Goodfellas, The Godfather, or Pulp Fiction, but the first watch had a huge impact. I wasn't sure I had met anyone who hadn't experienced a visceral reaction to certain scenes with Andy and Red.

"Alright, here we go," I said when I'd found it.

We watched that one, then moved onto Die Hard while we finished off the rest of the food.

"Are all of the 'greats' action-based?" he asked as we both slumped down in bed later, full, exhausted. The sun was starting to come up.

"No. I just kind of went with what I figured was in your wheelhouse. There are a lot of different 'greats.' Some are sad, some are mind-bendy, some just get you in the feels."

"Well, you'll have to show me sometime," Fallon invited, going flat, then curling a hand under my pillow, curling into me, then yanking me up onto his chest.

"I'd like that," I admitted.

"Good. And now we sleep."

Shortly after, he did.

I was awake for a couple moments longer, enjoying the feel of him, the smell of him, the strange, warm, floating sensation I felt inside at being near him.

I'd set out to hate the man.

He'd had everything handed to him that I'd needed to fight tooth and nail for.

He was cocky and too comfortable in his skin.

I meant to dislike him.

But over time, he'd forced me to begrudgingly respect him.

Then, maybe even like him a little.

Then, somehow, he made the worst night of my life one of the best.

And I was starting to think I could do a lot more than just like the man.

Like maybe I could even love him someday.

And on that thought, I slept.