Invisible Love Letter (8 page)

“Do you mind if I make it?”
Who could say no to brownies?
Not to mention, I wanted to show off my baking skills.

“Be my guest.” He pulled the milk and eggs out of the fridge. Turning toward me, he frowned. “I'm going to run to the corner store. I'll be right back.” Before I could say a word, he gave me a swift kiss and ran past me.

I opened cabinet doors until I found everything I needed. Making myself comfortable, I slipped off my wedges and got to work. Once the batter was in the oven, I set the timer and decided to explore the rest of his house, but I didn’t make it past the living area that connected to the kitchen. Weston had a collection of CDs and vinyl records displayed next to his stereo and turntable. He had every single one of my father’s albums.

Pulling Vengeance’s first album from the stack, I studied the cover. My father and his band mates all looked so young. I held the album close to my chest as though I was giving my father the same hug Margaret had given me. Fifteen minutes later, as I stood in the kitchen drinking my water, Weston hauled in two bags.

“No brownie is complete without the works.” I cocked a brow as he emptied the bags with a smirk. “Now what?”

I giggled. He had bought two pints of Haagen Dazs, whipped cream, caramel sauce, maraschino cherries, and chopped nuts. “I like your style, but we still have twenty minutes.”

“I think I can find something to do.” His hands pushed back my hair to expose my neck. Goose bumps prickled in response. Weston inhaled my scent and whispered in my ear, “Dance with me.” He wrapped his arms around me and began to hum. My head rested on his chest and he began to sing John Legend, “So High.”

You showed me everyday new possibilities.

He twirled me around and pulled me close again. Hitting every note, he continued to sing. I closed my eyes and enjoyed my own private concert.
Ooh, this feels so crazy.
He dipped me in his arms and added his own lyrics, “Emilia, baby.” I threw my head back and laughed. Weston traced his lips down my neck, whispering the rest of the song between open mouth kisses.

When he brought me back up, the sorrow that once flowed through my body had vanished. Weston lifted the back of my hand to his mouth and kissed it before he left me in the middle of his kitchen and took a bow as his grand finish.

“Is this how you charm all the girls?”

“Only you, babe.”

“Weston, come on. I've seen you with at least four different girls.” The seconds the words were out of my mouth, I regretted them.

“And yet…” He strolled to my side and tugged me into his arms. His hands rested on my lower back as I gazed up at him. “You’re the only one who has met my mother.”

“Why's that?”

“You have the fewest number of dents.” He winked.

“Oh, really?”

“And you're yellow gel.”

I shook my head. “There you go with that again. What is that?”

Beep. Beep. Beep.

“Hold that thought.” He brought his lips to mine. “A warm brownie sundae is in my future.”

Weston was like a kid bouncing on his toes waiting for dessert. After retrieving the pan from the oven, he brought out two bowls. Using a butter knife, I sliced the brownies into small squares, then swatted Weston away when he reached across me and tried to remove a hot square with his bare hand.

“It's hot. You'll burn yourself.”

“Woman, give me my brownie.” He stood tall with his hands hugging his chest.

“No.” I stuck my tongue out at him.

“Emilia.”

If I weren’t trying to make a point that he had to wait until they cooled a bit, my body would have melted from the sound of my full name. “Weston.” I mimicked his tone.

He popped open the jar of maraschino cherries and retrieved one with a spoon. Gripping the spoon handle, he pulled the bowl back with his finger and paused as if he was considering whether to fling it at me, but I held my position. He released his hold and the bright red fruit flew through the air and plopped on my dress. His eyebrow angled high.

Not a chance
. I reached for the ice cream and smirked as I repeated his daring move.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

The spoonful of vanilla flew through the air and dropped from his shirt to splatter on the floor. He shook his head playfully and I cocked my head.
Bring it.

Weston popped open the whipped cream. It hissed and spit as he squirted it over my head, and I squealed. I decided to teach him a lesson, so I unscrewed the lid of the caramel sauce and let it fly. The topping dripped from his head to his shoulders, and finally to the floor.

“That's it!”

Weston darted for me and I dashed around the kitchen island. Weston’s footfalls were right behind me when I reached the refrigerator. I yanked open the door, but Weston was faster and reached inside to grab the cold chocolate sauce.

He lifted the plastic bottle over my head. “Don't,” I warned him.

“Watch me.”

He squeezed the plastic Hershey's sauce and it oozed over my hair and down the side of my neck. I laughed and I screamed. I didn’t know if I was angry or if this was the most fun I'd had in a long time. As he continued to pour the remnants of the chocolate sauce over me, I reached for the caramel sauce and followed suit. It was a battle between chocolate and caramel.

It was every woman’s fantasy.

Lifting my face, I let him pour chocolate in my mouth. I tossed the caramel jar aside, swiped at the chocolate that covered my cheeks, then flung it at his face. He didn’t laugh, grimace . . . He didn’t even move. His breathing grew heavy and his eyes turned hungry as they stared at me.

Weston tossed the empty container aside and in one swift movement, lifted me up by my thighs. My legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. He held my bottom with one hand, my neck with the other as he lowered us to the floor. Two deep breaths and his mouth collided with mine. The taste of chocolate and caramel entwined us as one.

My cotton boy shorts were no barrier when I pushed down on his arousal. A euphoric moan escaped my lips. The sudden ache of desire wound through my body. I wanted this. I wanted him.

My arms wove tighter around Weston’s neck, deepening our kiss. His hand tangled through my hair. Pulling away from my lips, his tongue slid down my chin, taking a trail of chocolate in his mouth. He licked the hollow of my neck.

I wanted to feel him.

I wanted to be under him.

Weston’s tongue continued to trickle down the sensitive skin of my throat, lapping up every drop of chocolate he had poured over me. His hot breath teased the skin of my collarbone. “Better than any sundae,” he moaned against me.

I pushed down on his erection. I needed to feel his hard on under me. His hands moved up my back to untie my dress. He hesitated for a second before I moaned. “Just take it off.”

He tugged at the strings to my dress and exposed my breasts. When I got dressed that morning, I’d contemplated wearing a bra, but at that moment I knew I’d made the right decision to go without. Weston continued his path down my chest. Each lick was mesmerizing, captivating, drawing out my pleasures, one at a time. He cupped both of my heavy breasts in his hands and licked the chocolate off my nipples. An electric shock zinged through my body. The cold chocolate combined with the warmth of his breath was pure agonizing torture. I whimpered, and grew wetter with each passing second.

It was now or never.

I could have him right this second. I could beg him to take me. I wanted it, but I had a flash of hesitation. I didn't know where the resistance came from, but it was there. My body froze. My heart didn’t know what to do next.

Weston pulled away to gaze at me. His eyes scanned mine; I didn't know what he was searching for. My breath was labored as if I had run for hours. I couldn't think. Everything was in a fog.

“We can stop.”

“No.” I wanted this. The aching pain between my legs told me how badly I wanted this.

“Emilia, I don't want to rush you. I don't want this to be a quick fuck on my kitchen floor, and I can see in your eyes that you have reservations.” He pulled my dress up to cover my breasts. “I'm not going anywhere.” Exhaling, I shrugged. My voice lodged behind my arousal.

“I don't know what came over me.” His laughter eased the awkward moment. “Having you covered in chocolate became a new fantasy of mine and I had to have a taste. I didn't mean to take it that far.”

I cupped his cheeks. “No, I loved it. It was . . . I don't know what happened. I don't know where the hesitation came from.”

“I don’t want you until you’re one hundred percent sure.” Weston helped me off the floor. Chocolate and caramel covered our bodies. “Why don't you go take a shower and I'll get this all cleaned up.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. You’re the best sundae I've ever had.” I giggled. “Seriously, Emilia, I don't want to pressure you. I don't want to rush this. When I do take you, I’ll kiss every inch of your body. I’ll hold you and feel you and learn every single crevice. You were delicious covered in chocolate, and the moment I have you in my bed, you will taste even sweeter.”

My doubt was gone. I craved exactly what he wanted.

T
he chocolate sauce
took three washes with Weston’s two in one shampoo. My hair would look like a troll from the lack of good conditioner. Draped in a soft cotton towel, I walked to Weston’s room and sat on his half-made bed. I leaned into his pillow and inhaled the most intoxicating scent. His scent.

Weston had left a white T-shirt and a pair of boxers for me. I changed, then tossed the towel in the hamper and ran my fingers through my curly hair. I smelled like Weston. Pure heaven.

I found Weston laying on the couch, one arm tucked behind his head as a pillow. He flicked through channels, looking for something to watch. He had showered in the other bathroom and changed into basketball shorts and a white T-shirt. The brownie pan was half empty on the coffee table, and the empty mixing bowl with a spoon sat next to it.

I shook my head slightly and joined Weston. “Good?” I asked.

“You tasted better, but it was delicious.” He scooted back on the couch and patted the cushion. I curled up next to him, but the majority of my body hung off the couch. “Come on.” He sat up. “This couch clearly was made for sitting and not cuddling.”

Weston shut off the TV and led me back to his room. His bed sat in front of a dresser that held a large flat screen TV where a mirror belonged. Cradling my body, he lay me on his bed with my head resting on his pillows. Weston turned on his TV to HBO.

Oblivious to what was playing on the screen, I rested my head on his chest. My fingertips brushed against the grain of his beard. “What's yellow gel?”

“It's like a characteristic.” He brushed my hair behind my ear. “When I was almost two, my father left us. For a long time, it was just my mother and me. At first, she was able to keep up with the bills, but her job relocated and she was laid off. She fell behind and had to work two jobs to keep this house. Since she couldn’t afford daycare, Mama came to live with us from Trinidad. I love my mother very much, but Mama is different. The way she spoke was softer, and she went out of her way to do things for me. Those were things my mom couldn’t do because she was working, and I don’t blame her for that. My mother had to love me as a mother and a father, but the love Mama gave me was unconditional, altruistic.

“I remember sitting in Mama’s room every morning as she brushed her hair. She used a yellow gel in her hair, and for whatever reason, I associated her loving way with that gel.” Weston threaded my hand with his. “I get that same feeling when I'm with you. You remind me of her. You’re caring, and you wear your emotions on your sleeve. When you smile, it’s as though the universe has given me a gift. I feel you can see into my soul and touch it.”

That was the deepest and most sincere compliment I had ever received. “I guess you can read people after all.”

“You have the least number of dents.”

I giggled and snuggled closer to his body. “And you never heard from your father again?”

“I don't even consider him my father anymore. Manuel walked out on us and never looked back. When I turned eighteen, I legally changed my last name. Joseph’s my father.”

“I'm sorry you had a crappy childhood.” I brought our joined hands to my lips and brushed a kiss over each of his knuckles.

“I'm sorry you lost your parents young.” He turned on his side and kissed my forehead. “Do you remember them? Were they nice to you?”

I had stopped talking about my parents a long time ago, but Weston had just shared his baggage. “I had the best mother. She had chocolate brown curly hair.” My smile beamed as I remembered her. “She did everything for me. She let me play dress up with her clothes and makeup. Since we never had a steady home, she homeschooled me. She had the patience of a saint.

“I was daddy’s girl, though. I get my hair from him.” My voice cracked as I remembered how my father tucked me into bed every night. “He devoted his life to us when my mother got sick. Quit Vengeance and bought an apartment in New York City so my mother would have the best care while she had her treatments.” My eyes pooled with tears. He became so distant after my mother passed, I recalled. “My father loved my mother more than he loved me. He couldn't live in a world where she didn't exist. That was hard to accept at the time, but I understand it now.” Knowing that love could be that powerful had embedded fear inside my soul. It was the sole reason I had avoided relationships.

Weston and I lay quietly in each other’s arms for a few minutes, the sound of the television filling the room. His hand lifted my shirt and exposed my hip. As though he was scribbling on my skin, he eloquently moved his hand slow and steadily across my back.

Reaching for the remote, I muted the television and gazed up at him. “What are you doing?” I had felt him do this exact same thing in the past.

“I'm writing you a love letter.” His lips pressed to the tip of my nose.

For months I’d assumed Weston was a womanizer, but I had been dead fucking wrong. Now sated with his tenderness, I felt my heart would explode from my chest. “A love letter?”