by Leisa Rayven
He takes his time. Mouth follows fingers. Lighting fires all over me. I have to grip his shoulders to stay upright. He takes the hint, picking me up and laying me on the bed and continuing what he’s doing without missing a beat. He kisses across my chest, then down my stomach as his hands keep my breasts warm.
Hot breath sparks across everything it touches, and he moves lower. Pushes at my knees. Opens me up to him and moans as he puts his mouth on me. Muffled whispers tell me how much he’s been fantasizing about this. I arch into him as he shows me what he’s been dreaming about. All the ways he knows he can speak to my body.
Before long, I’m panting, trying to keep myself together even as he’s determined to make me fall apart. I squeeze my eyes shut and gasp. I’ve been dreaming about this, but the reality is so much more powerful. I grip his hair. Clench and release. Faster and harder, in time with his rhythm.
This is different to how we usually are. I want to keep my eyes closed and pretend nothing has to change, but he doesn’t let me. I’m arching so hard I’m nearly levitating, when he stops.
I try to grab him. To make him finish.
The bed dips as he stands.
I open my eyes as panic tightens my chest.
But he’s just removing his shoes, dropping them heavily on the floor, followed by socks.
He clears his throat. I think it’s nerves, but no. He wants my attention on his face. When I’m looking at him, he undresses slowly, first pulling off his shirt. When it slips to the floor, he pauses. Now he’s nervous. He’s never done this before. Become voluntarily bare.
I watch in awe. He keeps looking at me, as if he’s trying to prove himself.
He unbuttons his jeans and pushes them down then shakes his head like he can’t believe he’s stripping for me. He’s just in his boxer- briefs. They hug every long inch.
I realize just how little I’ve looked at him during our sexual encounters. Watching him like this seems almost wrong. Like I shouldn’t because he’s not mine. Every feature is so familiar, but it’s like a work of art I’ve admired from afar, knowing it will never hang on my wall.
And yet, this little display is telling me he wants me to own him.
He pushes down his underwear, and then it’s just him. Gloriously naked. He’s self-conscious, but he lets me stare. Does he see the heat crawling all over my body? How totally ill-equipped I am to deal with how much I want him?
Every part of him.
The silence stretches around us. He’s standing there, asking permission to be more, and I don’t have the courage to answer him.
My heart rate escalates, and I lie back on the bed. Within seconds, he’s there, warm and comforting. He kisses my face. Pulls my hand away from my eyes.
“It’s late,” he says. “You’re tired. Tell me if you want me to go.”
I don’t want him to go. “It’s not that late.”
“Is it too late?”
He’s looking down at me, vulnerable and intense, and he’s not asking about numbers on a clock.
My mind races as I try to figure out what to say.
I don’t want to be this confused, but our relationship is like a Chinese rope puzzle, and every strand that pulls us closer together also pulls us apart. Will there ever be a time when we have the forward without the back?
He kisses me, and only his sharp inhale tells me he’s anything but completely calm.
“Tell me it’s not too late,” he whispers into my lips, as if he can will me to say the words. “I need it to not be too late for us.”
He kisses my neck, and I close my eyes to think.
This is the moment. The one where I get to choose. From here, my future branches into two timelines. In one, I pull him on top of me and let him show me the difference between fucking and making love. In the other, I push him away and resign myself to forever wondering, “what if ?”
I’m not the gambling type. I’ve never understood how some people can get addicted to games in which the probability of losing is so high. They’re not stupid people. They know the odds aren’t in their favor, yet they risk more than they can possibly afford to lose.
Right now, I think I finally get it.
Losing isn’t what drives them. It’s the glimmer of that one spectacular win. The jackpot that’s painted with bright lights and a giant check from The Bank of Happily Ever After. That’s the rush that keeps them putting their hands in their pockets. The thrilling, heart-pounding moment the second before the ball drops, or the card turns, or the tumbler falls into place.
“Cassie?”
A thousand to one. Two thousand. Seventy thousand. The first number is almost irrelevant. It’s the one that makes people take the risk. That elusive, magical one.
“Please, look at me.”
I do. I look and I see him. The well-meaning heart of him. The damaged and skittish ego.
I kiss him, hard. He grunts in surprise before kissing me back.
I kiss and tug at him. Pull him on top of me. Try to step back over the “just fucking” line and see if I feel safer there. I grab at his hips and attempt to pull him to where I want him. He tries to resist, but I’m insistent, and I lift my hips and slide against him until he’s breathing so hard, he sounds stricken.
“Fuck, Cassie, wait . . .”
He drops his head as I stroke him and wind his body so tight he has no choice but to ease into me to relieve the burn.
The second he enters me, I realize I’m not remotely prepared for how good he feels. How my body sings as it swells around him. How somewhere between the last time we fucked and our endless text conversations, I lost the ability to compartmentalize my feelings, and now “just fucking” isn’t even an option anymore.
He lets out a long moan as his hips finally rest against mine. Then he stops and breathes shallowly for a few seconds.
Is it just as scary for him? Or does he feel that small thrill of possibility?
I try to move against him, but he holds me down.
“Stop. Wait.”
He takes a deep breath and pulls back, then presses in again. Slow and determined. He’s not fucking me. He wants me to feel it. The way his whole body is trying to tell me his intentions.
“Cassie, open your eyes.”
I do. Every tender thrust shows in the way his mouth moves without making noise. He’s not even trying to hide how he’s feeling.
“I want to be with you. Please. Don’t make me beg, because I’m desperate enough to do it, and I swear to God, it won’t be pretty.”
He moves faster. Lifts my leg to his hip. Slides deeper and watches my reaction. Holds my gaze. Silently begs me not to look away.
“Please say something.”
His voice is tight. Low and rumbling. Punctuated by his movements.
“Just say ‘Yes’,” he says, breathy and panting. “I’m so fucking tired of trying to live without you. Aren’t you tired of pretending you don’t want it all? I really think I can do it this time. Us. Please, I want to try.”
His movements are becoming erratic, but he still doesn’t look away. I dig my fingernails into his back, tug on his hair, grab his hip as I arch and crest.
“Cassie, please.” He’s barely hanging on. I’m the same. I can’t say “No” to him. He might be the worst gamble I’ll ever make, but he also might be my one. The one. How can I not take a chance on that?
“Yes.”
I hold on long enough to see the exquisite relief in his smile, then I can’t keep my eyes open anymore, and I’m flying high and fast. I repeat the word “Yes” over and over again into his shoulder. Hold my breath as my whole world spasms in perfect unison with my orgasm.
I’ve never felt anything like it. Even at our hottest and most desperate.
I’m still reeling when he buries his head into my neck and groans.
“Cassie—I . . . God I love you. I love you.”
I grip him as he shudders. I stroke his hair and hold him as I wait for us both to stop shaking.
So many emotions twist and rage in my veins, sparking and pounding in a rush that seems like it’s never going to end. When it finally ebbs away, he’s still wrapped around me. Still inside.
I don’t let him go. I’m incapable.
For so long, I’ve tainted my vision against him. Closed my eyes to his beauty and my ears to his charm. But my heart . . . I tried to harden it against the things I didn’t want to feel, and yet, here I am, feeling them anyway.
For all their amazing strength, our hearts are made of eggshells, and sometimes all it takes is someone you’ve almost given up on declaring their love for them to crack wide open.
TWENTY
NOW AND THEN
Present Day
New York City, New York
Graumann Theater
I splash warm water on my face to wash off the last of my stage makeup. After I pat myself dry, I look at the stranger in the mirror.
No extra-long lashes, fake-pinked cheeks, or Lolita-red lips. Just me. Pale, splotchy skin. Olive eyes too world-weary to sparkle. Brown hair too coated in hairspray to shine.
I don’t dislike how I look. Everything is in proportion.
And yet this girl staring back at me? Somewhere along the way, I lost track of how much I like her.
My new therapist is helping. In four sessions we’ve covered a lot of ground. We’ve talked about a wide range of topics: my childhood, my overly critical mother, my emotionally distant father, my need to please people, my parents’ divorce and, of course, Ethan.
Always Ethan.
She’s made me describe how we met. Our first kiss. The moment I realized I was in love with him. Making me remember all the ways he lit me up.
I know we have to talk about the bad times, too. I’m just hesitant to relive it.
There’s a knock on the door.
“Come in.”
I don’t even have to turn around to know it’s him.
He stands behind me, and his chest radiates warmth, even though he’s not touching me. I watch him in the mirror as he studies me. The expression on his face makes me wonder what he’s seeing that I don’t.
“You were amazing tonight,” he says.
I shake my head. “No, you were. I just got infected by it.”
“That’s not how I recall it.”
“That’s because you know all the right things to say to make me feel good.”
“Oh, really? I make you feel good?”
He steps closer but doesn’t embrace me. He just presses, barely there. He’s so much taller than I am my head brushes his chin.
“All I want to do these days is make you feel good,” he says, his voice low. “However you need me to do it.”
I’m sure he doesn’t mean that statement to be incredibly arousing, but it is. I can’t help thinking that having him make love to me would make me feel pretty damn good, and God knows I could use the tension relief. But my sessions with Dr. Kate have made me realize that would be a monumental step in the wrong direction. At least for now.
He knows it, too. He’s been very careful to keep our offstage contact as platonic as possible. It’s torture. Understanding why it’s a good idea doesn’t make it any less of a struggle.
Even now, I see him fighting to not touch me.
“You realize you’re stunning, right?” he says to my reflection, and I lean back into him.
“I’m getting wrinkles.”
He wraps his arms around me. “Bullshit.”
“My skin’s breaking out from the stage makeup.”
I wind my fingers between his as he rests his chin on my shoulder. “Mine, too. So what?”
“I found a hair on my chin the other day, poking out of a freckle. I’m officially turning into a witch. Run while you can.”
He chuckles and presses his nose against my cheek. “I’m never running again. And please stop trying to convince me you’re anything but absolutely gorgeous, because it ain’t gonna happen. You’re perfect. Always have been. Always will be. Breakouts, wrinkles, witchy chin hairs and all.”
And just like that, he makes those imagined flaws disappear.
“You’re biased,” I say as I step away from him and brush on some powder.
He leans against the bench and watches. “Biased and proud of it. Put on some lip gloss.”
I turn to him. “What? You just told me you like me au naturel.”
“I do. I also like watching that pouty thing you do when you put on lipstick. It’s sexy as hell.” He pulls out a chair and sits down. “Actually, put it on then wipe it off. Then just keep repeating the process until I say stop. FYI, we could be here a while.”
I smile and pick up my lip gloss. Then I pull out the wand and hold it toward him.
“Is this what you want, big boy? This spongy, moist tip dragging across my lips? Does that turn you on?”
His whole body seizes as he digs his fingers into his thighs.
“You tease me with mental images you know I have zero defence against. Does ‘three-year dry spell’ mean nothing to you, woman? I’m working with a very short fuse here.”
“I’ve seen your fuse. It’s really not short.”
He makes a noise and strides into my bathroom. “Wait here. This won’t take long.”
I laugh as he slams the door.
Approximately three minutes later, he’s back.
He sits on the couch as I finish packing up.
“So, how are you liking Dr. Kate?” he asks, taking our conversation back to being G-rated.
“She’s great. Although, it’s a bit weird calling her ‘Dr. Kate’. I kind of feel like she should have her own talk show, like Dr. Drew.”
“Yeah, but unlike Dr. Drew, Kate is her last name.”
I stop and turn to him. “I thought it was her first name.”
“It is.”
“But . . . that would mean her name is—”
“Kate Kate. Yep. She married some big property developer. William Kate.”
“Huh. I guess it would be the same thing if I married Taylor Swift. She’d be Taylor Taylor.”
His eyes glaze over. “Uh, so let’s run with that idea. What would that wedding night be like?”
I slap his leg.
“No, seriously,” he says and sits forward. “I really want to know. Start from where you kiss passionately and remove each other’s clothing.”
I laugh and continue packing up.
He watches me in silence for a few minutes, then says, “So, if you and I got married, would you take my name? Or would you expect me to be Ethan Taylor-Holt?”
And just like that, all the blood drains from my face.
He laughs. “Cassie, relax. I’m not asking you to marry me.”
“Oh. Okay.” I feel less faint.
He gives me a half-smile. “Yet.”
My heart doesn’t care if he’s joking or not. It kicks into overdrive and stays there for the rest of the night.
*
I settle into the oversized leather chair as Dr. Kate crosses her legs. She looks like she belongs in an advertisement for sexy horn-rimmed glasses. All perfect blondness and designer shoes.
“Hi, Cassie. How are you?”
“I’m fine.”
Dr. Kate gives me a look. I’m not supposed to resort to automated responses. I’m supposed to describe my feelings as honestly as possible. Identify and confront.
“Um okay, I’m . . . nervous. Conflicted. A little nauseated.”
“Uh-huh.” My self-awareness is rewarded with a smile. “How’s the show? Opening night is tonight, yes? What are your expectations?”
“I’ll ma
ke myself sick with nerves. Then I’ll do some focusing exercises and try to convince myself I can transform into someone else so completely, no one will notice my rampant insecurities.”
“Well, that sounds exhausting.” She gives me another smile. “How’s Ethan?”
“Irritatingly patient. Understanding. Perfectly calm. About us, anyway. Nervous about the show, of course.”
“It sounds like his patience frustrates you.”
“It does. He makes it look so freaking easy.”
“I’m sure it’s not, but he’s been working on it for a long time. This is only your fifth session. I think you’re doing remarkably well.”
“You do?”
“Yes. I’m impressed with how you’re embracing this process.”
“I want to get better.”
“I know. And that’s a fantastic platform upon which to build your recovery.”
I smooth down my skirt for the tenth time. It doesn’t ease my tension. Dr. Kate waits patiently. She knows I’ll start when I’m ready.
“So,” I say, “I dreamed about him again last night. How he used to be. I can see so many parallels to how he was back then to how I am now.”
“How do you see yourself now?”
“Guarded. Desperate to protect myself.”
“Was there a time when you felt you were successful in protecting yourself?”
“After our first breakup, yes. For a while.”
She writes something on her book before looking at me again. “If you were to conjure a mental image of yourself from that time, what would it be?”
I think for a few seconds. “The first time he broke my heart, I tried to make myself into a fortress. A castle with high, impenetrable walls.”
“And what was Ethan in this scenario?”
“He was this . . . irresistible force, and no matter how high I built my walls, he still managed to find a way in.”
“So you fought to keep him out.”
