“You’re starting to shake again,” Dorian observed quietly. Beatrice was tucked into his side on the couch—absorbing his heat, his scent, his nearness. Dorian’s tie was loose, and he’d undone the top button of his shirt after finishing a glass of his own. Between the dreamy feel of Beatrice’s mask, the weariness of having her nerves stretched to the breaking point, and the mild buzz of the whiskey, the situation felt terribly surreal.
That feeling of detachment sometimes happened, during her very worst attacks. Her brain became so overwhelmed by the constant, hammering fears of the moment that it fled reality entirely, convincing her she was in some sort of dream state. Her sense of body disconnected. Consequences suddenly felt distant and unimportant. Sometimes, that dreamy feeling lasted for hours—sometimes, it lasted for days.
I’m dissociating, Beatrice thought dimly. That’s... not great.
“I’m about to have a break down,” she informed Dorian calmly. Beatrice took another long swallow of the whiskey in her glass. “I’ve been wearing masks more often than not, the whole time I’ve been in this fucking city. This one’s about to implode.”
Dorian tightened his fingers at her side. “I won’t let you go,” he promised softly.
The words were such a relief, she could have cried. Very few people in this world knew how to handle it when Beatrice had a panic attack in front of them. They’d bombard her with questions about what they should do, or try to reason her out of whatever trigger had caused the meltdown—as though logical thought had anything to do with the matter. But Beatrice had never had to explain to Dorian how to deal with those awful, irrational moments. Somehow, he knew how crucial it was to simply hold onto her and not let go.
Beatrice laid her head on Dorian’s chest and closed her eyes... and let the last shreds of Consummate Professional Trixie melt away.
Every hysterical thought she should have had over the course of the night hit her all at once.
Someone watched me sleep.
They took pictures. They took pictures.
I have to deal with cops again, I can’t do this.
I’m going home with Dorian, and everything is awful.
It did not escape Beatrice’s notice, even as her breathing stopped and her head went dizzy, that she was currently clinging to one of the main sources of her stress—as though Dorian could somehow save her from himself.
“Breathe in, Trix,” Dorian ordered her, in a calm, straightforward tone.
The command in his voice broke through that hideous haze just long enough to remind Beatrice how her lungs were supposed to work. She sucked in a deep, shuddering breath—but now she had no natural sense of when to let it out. How long did people normally take between breaths? The instinct had left her—she didn’t know.
“Now breathe out,” Dorian murmured. “I’m breathing normally right now. Fais comme moi.” Follow my lead.
Relief overwhelmed her, though the wave of the attack had yet to crest. Beatrice didn’t have to beg for answers to stupid questions like how do I breathe? She could just do as she was told, and everything would eventually pass.
She focused on the sound of Dorian’s heartbeat—on the in-and-out of his breath. Her body shook harder; her mind went white with blinding panic. But she was breathing, at least, and Dorian had promised not to let her go.
Isn’t this just an addiction of a different kind? Beatrice thought dimly. She’d been so much more stable when she was dating Dorian—at least until the end. Having him around to make her feel safe had helped Beatrice rebuild her most basic foundations. But then, Dorian had pulled the rug out from underneath her and stolen it all away again. She couldn’t lean on him like this, no matter how willing he seemed at the moment. He’d only remove himself all over again, leaving her worse off than she’d been before coming to the city.
Beatrice jerked awkwardly out of Dorian’s grip—but he recaptured her quickly, steeling them both. He tucked his fingers just beneath her chin, angling her eyes upward. There was a grim expression on his strong features.
“I won’t let you go, Trix,” he repeated seriously.
There were worlds of meaning enfolded into those words. Beatrice’s brain wasn’t coherent enough to parse them, but she knew they were there.
“I don’t trust that,” she whispered, in a choked voice. “I don’t trust you.”
The words hit Dorian with a visible flinch. But his fingers tightened again, and Beatrice saw him accept them for what they were. A weighty decision settled onto his shoulders, and he sighed heavily.
“I want you to trust me, Trix,” Dorian said. “But I don’t remember enough to make you trust me. I don’t remember... all manner of things.” He closed his eyes. “There are holes in my memories of our relationship—of our last argument. Every time I try to focus on the details, my head begins to hurt.”
Beatrice stared at him. Her mind still whirled with panic—but the seriousness of the revelation had punched through that fear, sinking into the part of her mind that handled logical puzzles every day. “How can you not remember?” she whispered. Beatrice had spent years going back to that last day again and again, wondering what had gone so abruptly wrong. But Dorian hadn’t obsessed. Somehow, he’d simply... forgotten.
“I didn’t even notice anything missing until you showed up again,” Dorian said. “Everything seemed normal, as long as I wasn’t looking too hard.” He took in a shivering breath. “The only thing I remember is that you’re not supposed to be here. It’s—” He cut himself off abruptly and opened his eyes again. “We can talk about that later. All you need to know is that I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Beatrice didn’t have the energy to resist again. The next wave of fear swept over her, slithering through her veins like a malevolent serpent. She’d lost control of her breath. She had to bury her face against him, searching out the rise and fall of his chest with the last shreds of her sanity.
Dorian stroked lightly at her hair—murmured comforting things in her ear. The low timbre of his voice soaked into Beatrice’s bones, settling back into all the places where she’d once torn it violently out by the roots.
Moment by moment, Dorian reminded her how much she needed him... and this time, she was helpless to stop him.
Reality ebbed away from her fingertips like a low tide. The sickening dream began again. I can’t win this time, Beatrice thought tiredly. No matter what I do, I lose something.
Consequences ceased to matter.
Beatrice turned her face up and caught Dorian’s lips against hers.
Dorian stiffened in surprise. He tasted like chocolate and whiskey now, with that sharp, smoky edge. Beatrice slid her tongue between his lips, considering the flavor with detached appreciation. It was a good taste on him. And the half-loosened tie, the undone top button—those were good on him, too. Beatrice trailed her fingers up the line of his shirt, dipping them beneath the fabric to touch the skin of his chest. Dorian sucked in his breath.
He was shivering now, too. There was such a craving between them. It wasn’t right, it wasn’t healthy—but it was an itch that begged so hard to be scratched anyway. Beatrice knew somehow that if she did scratch that itch, it would drag her back to herself. Visceral, physical pain or pleasure both worked to chase away the fugue from her anxiety. Sex was probably the more enjoyable option of the two.
Dorian’s breath came ragged now, instead of hers. “Trix,” he rasped. “You’re upset—”
“And you can help,” Beatrice mumbled distantly. “I’m trusting you tonight. That’s what you wanted.”
She slid into his lap again—straddling him, picking up where they’d left off in the car. Beatrice took her time, relishing the way Dorian’s tongue slid against hers, the way his stubbled chin rasped against her skin. Each little sensation reminded her that she was still real, still present. She didn’t just need him in order to feel whole—she needed him in order to exist.
Maybe Dorian knew. Maybe he was just too tired, too st
ressed, too tempted. Either way, his palms pressed to either side of Beatrice’s face, forcing her mouth harder against his. His teeth closed on her lower lip, and she moaned in appreciation at the soft spike of pain. I felt that, she thought. That was real, too. Beatrice shifted in his lap, aware of the hardness pressing against her there. She was already so wet, there was little point in any sort of preamble. She wondered if he’d noticed.
Dorian turned and shoved her beneath him. Beatrice whimpered at the hard, unyielding press of his body against hers. Everything was so confusing, so unstable, that being trapped was a comfort. She wanted Dorian in control—making decisions, forcing her in the right direction. But mostly, god damn it all, she wanted him inside her again.
Dorian’s hands roamed down her body, savoring every inch as he tried to rememorize the feel of her. Everything fit so well, clicked so instantly, that it seemed insane that she’d ever tried to fight this. Beatrice arched up against him, whimpering his name into his mouth—but his body pressed her back down, sending another bolt of delirious pleasure straight to her brain.
Whatever else he’d apparently forgotten, Dorian still knew exactly how to drive her wild.
His fingers slid between them, flicking open the front button of Beatrice’s slacks and dipping beneath the already-soaked fabric of her panties. His fingertip pressed directly into her, and she choked on a cry somewhere between surprise and relief. That finger caressed her with purpose, searching out those spots that only Dorian remembered. Beatrice bucked and moaned beneath him, writhing as he stroked inside her.
“It’s still so easy to get you hot,” Dorian breathed; his lips were still ruthlessly pressed to hers. “How long since someone made you come properly, Trix?”
Beatrice didn’t answer. She knew he didn’t expect her to. But the answer flickered across her mind anyway. Never. No one else had ever made her come like Dorian did. No one ever would.
Dorian’s thumb rubbed across her clit, and she whimpered into his mouth. There was no teasing here, no frustrating games or delayed gratification. He was right where she needed him—stoking the fire in her body, stealing the fuel from her fears and feeding her mindless desire instead.
Another finger joined the first. Her breathing hitched again. The manic energy inside her was reaching a fever pitch, getting ready to spill over. She needed it to spill over.
“Regarde-moi,” Dorian murmured against her lips. “I want to see it when you come, Trix.” It was an order, no matter how softly he said it. But Beatrice didn’t want to disobey that order. He was looking down at her with those deep gray eyes, drinking in the sight of her as though he owned her again, and it was everything she needed.
Dorian’s fingers hit that perfect spot inside her, and she shattered apart.
He kissed her again as she gasped beneath him, clinging to his shoulders. It was a surprisingly gentle kiss—it spread like balm over the worst of her doubts and fears, smoothing them away.
Tension drained away, replaced with a bone-deep weariness. Dorian pulled his fingers free, but he continued to hold her as she came back to herself. The world felt real again, thank god. His body was a reassuring anchor—and in the moment, she was grateful for it.
As that kiss lingered, Beatrice found herself toying with the buttons of Dorian’s shirt, flicking them open one by one. Probably, he hadn’t intended on doing anything further—as hard as he was, he still had some shred of gentlemanly instinct holding him back. But she slipped her hands through his open shirt, gliding her palms along the hot skin of his chest, and he groaned into her mouth.
This, Beatrice thought, was a mistake worth making properly.
Dorian shifted off her abruptly. At first, Beatrice thought he might repeat his assertion from the other night—that this was a mistake, that they shouldn’t have started, and that they definitely shouldn’t finish. But Dorian hauled her up with him as he stood, tossing her over his shoulder, and she let out a squeak of surprise.
The next thing she knew, he was striding through the door of the bedroom, throwing her down onto the bed. It was darker in here, with the lights still off, but Beatrice could just make him out using a sliver of light from the living area. Dorian shrugged off his tie, and a fresh shot of hunger buzzed through her.
Beatrice slipped out of her blouse, revealing the pink lace bra beneath it. It was all she had time to do before Dorian’s mouth was on hers again—but he clearly appreciated the gesture, given the way that his hands skimmed over her lace-covered breasts.
Beatrice moaned, arcing up into his touch. That touch satisfied a deep longing inside her, even as it reminded her how much more she still needed. She fumbled with the button on Dorian’s slacks, sliding them off his hips. His boxers went with them, and his cock sprang free, already hard and erect. Beatrice reached down to grasp him firmly, and he hissed in pleasure, jerking into her hand. All hints of his carefully-controlled demeanor were gone, swept away beneath her touch. Dorian Moreau, defeated by an old flame, Beatrice thought with a hazy smile. What a secret this would be.
Dorian shoved her bra roughly out of the way, palming her bare breasts in his hands. Beatrice moaned impatiently into his mouth, wriggling out of her pants with the use of her one free hand, guiding his hardness to the place where she still ached for him. It was a good thing at least one of them was still thinking coherently; he jerked back just long enough to search out a condom and pull it on. Beatrice whimpered in impatience—but finally, the tip of his cock nudged inside her, and she let out a deeply satisfied moan.
More. God, more. She couldn’t get the words out, but it didn’t matter—from the hitch in his breath, it was clear that he was thinking the same thing.
Dorian pressed inside her, slowly but surely—fitting back into the place where he belonged. Beatrice slid her arms around his back, holding onto him while her world rearranged itself to make room for him again. Finally, he slid all the way home, and she let out a sigh of unutterable relief.
They stayed like that for a long moment, soaking up the feeling of reconnection. Dorian’s lips brushed tenderly against the place just beneath her ear, and Beatrice sighed in pleasure. He murmured her name with a hint of reverence. The sound of it satisfied some unnamed yearning within her.
Slowly, Beatrice slid her legs up around his waist—pulling him closer, deeper inside her. Dorian groaned just next to her ear, and she lifted her hips against him, searching out more movement, more friction. He responded with a slow, satisfying stroke that made her moan in approval.
It had occurred to Beatrice before, but now it truly hit home—Dorian wanted her. This whole time, he’d been every bit as confused, every bit as desperate. After this, there would be no pretending otherwise—not in any believable way, anyway.
Dorian’s fingers threaded in her hair, holding on as he took another harder, faster stroke. Beatrice matched his pace, bringing her mouth to his. There was no more talking now, no uncertainty or confusion—there was just the feeling of him sliding inside her, and the taste of him against her tongue.
Heat rose inside her again, slow and lazy. Dorian groaned into her mouth. She could feel him trembling now, on the edge of a precipice. More than anything, she wanted him to fall from that height, to lose that last bit of control. Beatrice twisted her hips against him, and he caught his breath with a strangled noise. His fingers dug into her hair—and then, she felt him lose that last inch with a long, satisfied moan.
Beatrice’s body responded to that moan. She tightened her legs around him, pulling him deeper as he came. The slow, molten heat inside her twinged into another languid peak. Beatrice sighed in ecstasy, running her fingers along the hard plane of his back. The wash of pleasure tingled across her skin, calming the worst of her nerves.
Dorian kissed her again. For some reason, she found that unexpected—they’d worked off their sexual tension, after all, and the heat of the moment was gone. But his fingers brushed against her cheek, and his forehead pressed to hers, and everything was suddenly
as it had been, all those years ago.
“Je t’aime, Trix,” he whispered softly.
I love you.
Beatrice froze. Her heart quickened in her chest, shocked from its lazy relief.
He’s saying it out of habit, she told herself. We’re both high on hormones right now.
Beatrice closed her eyes against him, shivering. The words still struck directly past all of her defenses. She played them back in her mind again and again, in spite of herself.
I loved you too, once, she thought.
But as Dorian pulled her into his arms and held her close, she couldn’t help wondering whether she could bring herself to love him again.
Chapter 8
TEN YEARS AGO
“I’ve been trying to call you all day,” Beatrice said, as she let herself into Dorian’s apartment. “I thought we were meeting for breakfast? I sat at a table like a moron for a whole hour.”
Dorian paused in the middle of pacing the very small living area of his apartment. He tended to walk up and down the small space in front of the window when he was working on a particularly frustrating problem. His normally-pristine hair was mussed. His brow was knitted, and his eyes looked bloodshot, as though he hadn’t slept.
Dorian glanced toward his phone on the kitchen table. The light blinked softly on and off, suggesting a voicemail. He frowned deeply. “I didn’t notice,” he said. “I was... distracted.”
Beatrice paused in the doorway. Her frustration melted away, replaced by concern. “Is something wrong?” she asked.
Dorian sucked in a breath. For just a second, Beatrice thought she saw a hint of uncertainty in his face—but shortly, he squared his shoulders and turned to meet her eyes.
“I have gotten what I wanted out of this relationship,” Dorian told her evenly. “I think it’s time we parted ways.”
Beatrice stared at him, uncomprehending. She had to turn the words over in her mind more than once just to pry some meaning from them.
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