by Leisa Rayven
The urge to touch him again is swelling like the tide under a full moon. It’s ridiculous.
“I’d better go.”
“Yeah.”
He doesn’t move. Neither do I. We know we have to. We can’t do it again. I hurt everywhere. He’s given me scruff-rash on every inch of exposed skin, as well as some that isn’t so exposed. Fifteen minutes earlier we were fitting together in the very definition of rightness, gripping each other through countless layers of pleasure. But here comes the awkward. The separation.
Tectonic plates of emotion slide back into safe formations. Stand us on our feet. Tilt us away from each other once more.
He opens the door and then pauses. “So is it going to be weird between us now?”
“You mean more weird? No.”
He nods. “No. Exactly. I mean, it was just breakup sex, right?”
“Right.” Just sex. “We might have waited a little longer than most, but it’s totally normal.”
“It’s out of our systems now, so, we can, you know, move on.”
“Yeah. Absolutely. Move on.”
He inhales and stares at the exposed flesh my robe reveals. He talks to my boobs. “See you Monday?” At last he makes it up to my face.
I want to tell him to stop it. The longing that’s peeking out. It’s too much. “Yep. See you then.”
He hesitates, and for a moment I think he’s going to kiss me, but instead he hugs me and buries his head in my neck. I’m not sure what he’s thinking, but it feels like thank you and I’m sorry all wrapped up in one. It makes me feel things. Bound and buried things.
I push him away. I don’t want him to go, but I need him to.
He seems to understand. Shoves his hands in his pockets and lets out a disbelieving sigh. “You smell like me and . . . sex.” He fingers the tie of my robe. “Like the very definition of incredible, earth-moving, seeing-the-face-of-God sex.”
This man. Forever stealing my breath.
I push him out the door. “Get out while you can. Thanks for all the sex.”
All the just-sex.
“Bye.”
After I close the door, I collapse against it, breathless and aching. I expect the regret to swallow me, but strangely, it doesn’t. Instead, I’m smiling.
I did it. I fucked Ethan Holt and survived. And now I’m too filled with satisfaction to regret what we did.
Later, I do feel bad when I take a shower and change my sheets, but it’s only because I can’t smell him on me anymore.
It’s at that moment a dull ticking starts up inside me. It pulses in my blood and keeps time with my heart. Pendulous and inevitable. When I think of Ethan, it speeds up.
A slow detonator, counting down the seconds until he makes me explode again.
*
When Ruby arrives home mid-afternoon, she flops down next to me on the couch.
“Hey.”
She also has Hagrid-hair and a satisfied smile. Seems good sex looks the same on everyone.
My hair’s washed. I’ve untangled the sex-knots.
No one would ever know that just five hours ago, Ethan had it wrapped around his hands as he took me from behind.
“Hey,” I say and push the image away. “Have a good night?”
She stretches. “Oh, yeah. God, there is nothing . . . and I mean nothing to relieve tension like riding a hot piece of man-meat all night. It’s like a full-body massage from the inside out. You really need to try it one of these days. I know you think Buzz is all you need right now, but honey . . . there’s only so much fake dick a girl can take before she needs to rumble with the real deal.”
He tugs my head back and grips my hip to hold me in place as he thrusts, strong and deep. He hits unexpected places inside me. Kisses my shoulder as I swear and call out his name.
I eat a spoonful of yogurt and try to keep my face impassive. “Uh-huh.”
She leans against me. “So, what did you get up to after the party? The usual? Book and bed?”
I nod. “Yep. You know me. Boring old Cassie.”
I lower myself onto him, prideful as I watch his eyes roll back into his head. My body trembles with the effort of containing this power. This magnificent, confident version of myself. Sex-Goddess Cassie. I ride him slowly, drag him to the edge of climax so often he starts to beg. Punish him by weaponizing his pleasure. Reward him by letting him see mine. Time and again.
Ruby snuggles into my side. “Poor baby. You need sex.”
I fan myself. My blood is pumping way too fast.
“Yeah, well. Maybe one day.”
I don’t know why I don’t tell her. Maybe because she’d take it the wrong way and think Ethan and I are getting back together when we’re absolutely not. Or maybe because she’d confirm it was the worst thing I could have done.
Whatever her reaction might be, I don’t want it right now. I just want to enjoy this feeling of relative bliss. Before Ethan drove me home last night, I was miserable and lonely, and today I feel . . . empowered. Like a sexual genius. I did things to Ethan I’d only ever dreamed about. I made him shudder, groan, and plead. I dominated him and let him dominate me in return. I was able to give him pleasure like no one else ever has. Then I made him admit it and brought him completely undone.
After being powerless for so long, I finally feel like I have some control.
And what’s more, I managed to have him without drowning in unwanted emotion. I kept myself shielded and protected, even while he filled me in ways no other man ever will.
Is there such a thing as sexual catharsis? If so, that’s what Ethan and I shared.
I just wonder how long it will be until we both need to be purged again.
*
Monday morning. I walk to class feeling a thousand feet tall. I still hurt, but it only serves to remind me of my power. I feel like Aphrodite, ready to be worshipped.
I should be nervous about seeing Ethan, but I’m not. Whatever happens, I can deal with it. I’ll smile if he shuts me down, because I’ll know he won’t be able to resist me for long. I own him. And he knows it.
I walk into class and immediately feel him staring at me. He looks angry.
Wait, not angry. Hungry.
He glances away, but it’s only a few seconds before he’s back. Surprised. Awed.
The tick-tock inside me speeds up. It gives me a powerful thrill.
With only a trace of his trademark fear, he gives me a lusty half-smile. I give one back. I feel like we’re collaborators in a private joke. No one else has any idea what happened between us, but if he keeps looking at me like that, they’re going to realize pretty damn quickly.
I walk past him and whisper, “Stop undressing me with your eyes.”
He whispers back, “Would you rather I do it with my hands? Or teeth?”
Oh, this is interesting. He wants to play? Fine. For once, I’m confident I’ll win.
“How’s your penis?”
“You don’t know by now? It’s magnificent.”
“So conceited. I meant, are you sore?”
“Oh. Yeah. There’s definite . . . chafing. And I doubt I’ll ever be hard again.”
I give him a slow smile. “That sounds like a challenge.”
“It’s really not.”
I accidentally on purpose drop my book and bend over in front of him to pick it up. Then I glance behind me to see him wincing and adjusting himself.
My work here is done.
The rest of the class chatters and moves around us, oblivious. We barely register on their radar anymore. We’re old news.
If only they knew.
I sit down next to Ethan, and when I turn back to him, he’s crossed his legs and is staring at his shoes, his face still painted with discomfort. And arousal.
It looks good on him.
<
br /> “I thought we agreed it was a mistake,” he says, not looking at me.
“We did.”
“Then why do I get the impression you’d like to do it again? Right now.”
I lean over and whisper, “Even if I do, it doesn’t mean I’m going to. I’m not that stupid.”
“Oh.”
“You look disappointed.”
“Nope. Just, you know . . . relieved.”
I lean in closer so my mouth is right next to his ear. I know what I’m doing. If this were chess, I’d be demolishing his queen right about now. “Relieved I won’t be taking you in my mouth again? Riding you? Scraping my nails down your back as I come?”
In the past, I never really understood why girls play games, and use their gender and sex appeal to get what they want. I understand it now.
After seeing how affected Ethan is by my words, I sit back, triumphant.
He closes his eyes. “Yep. Definitely relieved none of that is going to happen again. So very . . . happy about that.”
“Good.” Checkmate.
It doesn’t escape my attention that he’s hard for nearly the entire lecture.
SIXTEEN
LITTLE ACHE
Present Day
New York City, New York
The Apartment of Cassandra Taylor
I sit up and clutch my chest.
It’s the memory of him that really sets my nerve endings to overdrive. The phantom brush of his fingers. The ghostly weight of his hips pressing against my thighs. The soft noises as he rocked, and filled, and exploded me.
Is it any wonder I have trouble taking things slow with him when he affects me like this?
After a quick shower to cool myself down, I pull out another of his journals. I’m tired and my eyes are gritty, but I can’t seem to stop reading. Getting inside his head is like a drug.
I spoke to him on the phone last night. It’s easier to deal with him when we’re not face to face. When we’re together, he has this way of staring at me that almost has me convinced he can melt my clothing with the power of his mind. It drives me crazy. At least on the phone, I have some insulation. Plus, if his voice gets too much, I can always hump my pillow, and he’s none the wiser. Not that I’d do that.
Much.
We didn’t talk for long. He wanted to check how I was and apologized for molesting me at dinner on Saturday night. I told him it wasn’t entirely his fault. He promised to try to keep his hands to himself. Certain parts of me booed.
When he asked about the journals, I told him I’d almost reached the end of our first year at The Grove, then we both went quiet as if caught up in our own thoughts of that time.
An hour after we hung up, there was a knock at my door. When I opened it, I found all of his journals from our second and third years waiting on my doorstep, along with a bottle of Valium. I think it was his idea of a joke. If I hadn’t felt so nauseated, I might have laughed. As it is, I’m wading through entries that make me simultaneously weepy and horny. I may have thrown something at a wall about an hour ago. Tristan has understandably been avoiding me.
So far, entries from our second year have been few and far between. Curt. Almost boring. I’d expected long prose passages about how much he missed me while we were apart, but I got the opposite. Like he’d shut down.
Then, I see the entry for the day after the night that changed everything.
February 11th
Last night. Jesus. Stupid? Yeah. The best night of my life? Absolutely.
I’d like to say I have no idea how it happened, but that’s not true. I was drunk, but not that drunk. I knew when I sat next to her what I was doing. I knew when I touched her face. When I leaned in to taste those fucking amazing lips I’d been staring at all night.
When she started kissing me back? That’s when I knew I couldn’t stop. The tequila was a good excuse, but the truth is I wanted it. More than anything in my entire life.
Lucky for me, she wanted it too.
I can’t put into words how it felt to finally touch her again. I’ve fantasized about it too many times to count, and then it happened, and I got lost in sensation after not feeling anything for way too long. Nothing has ever felt as right as being inside her. The moment I sank into her . . . fuck. Too much emotion. Too much love.
I tried to tell myself it was just fucking, but I knew it wasn’t. It never could be with her. As much as I like to think I’m getting desensitized to how she affects me, I know it’s bullshit. Every time I look at her, I want to launch myself across the room. Kiss her until she can’t stand up. Make love to her until she can’t sit down.
Pretty sure I achieved those things on Friday night. And again this morning.
The bastard part of me hopes she’s sore and that every time she winces, she remembers the feel of me deep inside her.
Fuck.
Now I’m hard again.
I know we agreed it was stupid and that we shouldn’t, but if I wasn’t such a pussy, I’d ask her if we could try again. Realistically, I know that’s not an option. I’ve screwed things up so badly with us, I don’t think they’ll ever be right. Plus, despite how amazing our sex marathon was, it doesn’t change how my brain works. It just gave it something more pleasurable to focus on.
Still, the distraction is addictive. If I have sex often enough with her, would it make me feel like I could make things work between us?
It’s so tempting to find out.
February 13th
Yeah, I’m in trouble. I’m not sure what I thought would happen but she walked into class today like she owned it and fixed me with a look that was so sexy I don’t think I’ll ever be flaccid again. I mean, she’s always been fiery, but as soon as she stepped into the room I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She was thrumming with energy. Sexual confidence.
It was fucking mesmerizing.
She flirted with me, and even stranger, I flirted back. What the fuck is going on?
I think we’re just both a little high from the experience, but I’m sure when that wears off, I’ll realize she’s too good for me, and she’ll remember she hates me, and we’ll go back to being dysfunctional and distant.
To be honest, I hope that’s what happens, because this new Cassie? If I’m not careful, she’s going to fucking ruin me. And God help me, I’d enjoy every second of it.
I caught her staring at me today, and I could tell she knew. It’s like a game to her, and like it or not, I’m letting her win. Seeing her like that almost makes the massive ache in my balls worthwhile.
Actually, no. It really doesn’t. I need to have sex with her again. Now.
I laugh.
Back then, teasing him had always been one of my favorite ways to exert control. It wasn’t something I was proud of, but it was addictive. The power. The temporary intimacy.
I put down the journal and ignore the tingling between my legs. That hungry little ache was the cause of so much trouble at that time. It convinced me I could have him physically without wanting more. Demanded him time and time again. Shushed my heart when it complained we were getting too close.
It just wanted and didn’t care how many lines became blurred in the process.
I close my eyes and ignore it while I cuddle my pillow and resist the hypnotic whispers of my stupid, power-hungry libido.
SEVENTEEN
COLLISION COURSE
Five Years Earlier
Westchester, New York
The Grove
As winter melts into spring, the distant orbits in which Ethan and I circle each other change, and morph into something new. A spiraling ellipse of heat and sexual frustration that has definite overtones of catastrophe, but which neither of us seems inclined to avoid.
In fact, Ethan has been actively seeking me out.
In the past few weeks, he’s been ar
ound more. Instead of going off by himself, he’s been loitering, occasionally joining in with banter and conversations, not only with me, but with the rest of our friends. When he started joining us for lunch, Avery gave him shit for deigning to chow down with the peasants. Ethan told him to fuck off but cracked a smile while doing it.
He’s even tolerating Connor. Well, except when Connor touches me. Then Ethan looks like he’s trying to figure out how to murder him and stash his body where it’ll never be found.
His jealousy is strangely reassuring.
Every now and then, I stare at him and fantasize. Replay all the ways he lit me up on that incredible night.
At those times, I think it’s a tragedy it won’t happen again.
When he catches me staring, I know he feels it, too. My countdown clock gets louder. It makes me restless and impatient. Horny.
Oh, so very horny.
Would it matter if we did it again? We survived it once. In the big scheme of things, it’s just sex.
Right?
*
I jiggle my leg as I watch Ethan and Avery argue across the table in the cafeteria. He’s so freaking hot when he argues, I want to suck on his acid tongue.
“Fuck off, Avery. In 2006, Crash deserved to win Best Picture. No doubt.”
“That’s bullshit, man. Brokeback Mountain should have won. Are you kidding me? Two straight guys playing queer? You only had to hear Erika gushing over you and Connor to know how much people eat that shit up.”
“Erika loved us because we were fucking flawless. It’s not my fault you couldn’t fake enjoying being sodomized. Maybe you need to practice that.”
“Why don’t you teach me, sweetheart? Connor said you’re a sensitive lover. Best he’s ever had.”
“That’s true. Even used the warming lube.”
He’s talking about sex. Why does he think this is acceptable? Even though he’s joking, my imagination is exploding with scenarios. In all of them, lube is redundant.
“Care to comment, Taylor?”
