by Leisa Rayven
Then he’s kissing me again, and everything I thought I knew about kissing is obliterated by his lips. His tongue. His small groaning noises. His hands and arms are everywhere and nowhere. I rake my fingers across his scalp while moaning into his mouth, trying to get enough of him and failing miserably.
“Oh, God.” I gasp as he moves to my neck, his mouth open and sucking. Driving me insane.
He walks me backward until my ass hits the bench in front of the mirrors. He hoists me onto it and pushes his hips between my legs. My skirt rides up as his swollen crotch presses against me.
We kiss, and grind, and tangle together, desperate for more. There’s too much fabric and not enough air. His hard is pressing against my soft, and I never knew anything in the world could feel so damn good.
“Jesus.” He groans, one hand grasping my hair as he uses the other one to find my breast. “This is just … Goddammit, Taylor. I’m so fucking stupid, because I knew you’d ruin me, and I let it happen anyway. I’m so screwed.”
“We both are.” I grab his head and make him kiss me more, because I’m addicted to the taste of his lips and tongue, but my hands need more, so they push under his T-shirt and find his stomach, flat and warm, trembling under my touch.
He grunts into my mouth and kisses me deeper. Then his hands are under my shirt and on top of my bra, caressing and fondling. Making the ache inside me so hungry, it’s painful.
He presses against me harder, but it’s not enough. I’m winding tighter and tighter, and nothing he’s doing is enough. I need more. All of him.
“Please.” I don’t even know what I’m asking for. For him to have sex with me? Here? Is that what I want?
“We shouldn’t.” He pants as he leaves my lips and kisses down past my ear, his breath hot and shallow on my skin. “This is fucking insane. Tell me to stop.”
“I can’t.”
He sucks hard where my shoulder and neck meet. I know he’s leaving a mark, but the pain doesn’t matter as much as him claiming me in that way.
He lifts me, then turns to press me against the wall, and when he grinds between my legs, I cry out with pleasure.
God, he’s so hard. I want him inside me, quieting the ache. Feeding the hunger.
“Jesus.” He rocks his hips faster as he cups my ass. “Cassie, if you
don’t tell me to stop right now, I swear to God, I’m going to fuck you against this wall. You feel so good. I knew it. I knew you would.”
I writhe against him. I couldn’t tell him to stop right now if I had a gun pointed at my head. He rocks against me, and all I can do is hold on and pray for him to keep moving. Everything inside me is drawing up, contracting, tightening with unbelievable pleasure. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before, and I never want it to end. I feel like I’m climbing to the top of a mountain. If he just keeps moving, I’m going to launch into space.
“Cassie, I can’t … I shouldn’t.” He pants in rhythm with his hips. He has to keep going. He has to.
I bury my head in his neck and suck on the sweet skin there, marking him the way he marked me, the tang of his cologne tingling on my tongue as we both groan and curse. I hold my breath, waiting to fly.
“Ethan …”
“Jesus. Cassie …”
“Mr. Holt? Miss Taylor?”
We freeze as we hear Erika’s voice. He stops moving. Stops breathing. The tension inside me unwinds and dissolves.
No, no, no, no, no!
I hear footsteps, then her voice. “There you are. I was wondering if I’d lost my lead actors, but it seems you’re actually doing some character work. How dedicated of you.”
She’s right behind us.
Inside the room.
I detach myself from Holt’s neck, and he looks at me, panic filling his eyes. We’re both panting. Our lips are swollen and red.
Erika clears her throat as I unwrap my legs from Holt’s waist, so he can lower me to the floor.
I push down my T-shirt and skirt, and I see Holt run his hand through his hair before shoving his hands in his pockets and exhaling.
I glance over at Erika. She’s assessing us calmly.
“So, it looks like you two have had an interesting … discussion. I take it you’ve worked through your issues about kissing Miss Taylor, Mr. Holt?”
Holt clears his throat. “Well, I was just getting to the … crux of the issue when you found us.”
Erika smirks. “So I heard.”
A nervous giggle escapes me, and I cover my mouth because I think I’m about to lose it in a big way. My body is still pounding and throbbing, my heart is beating out of my chest, and just feeling Holt behind me is doing nothing to help matters.
“So, can I assume that you won’t be quitting the show, Mr. Holt?” Erika asks.
Holt shifts his weight. “Doesn’t look like it.”
Erika nods and smiles. “Excellent. In that case, we have a lot of work to do. I’ll see you onstage in five minutes.”
She turns and leaves the room. It’s just Holt and me again, wrapped in layers of sexual tension so thick they could insulate a house.
I glance at him. He looks like a prisoner plotting an elaborate escape.
“Listen, Taylor …” He rubs his eyes. “That kiss was …”
Amazing? Stupendous? Earth shattering?
Because I know he’s not going to use any of my adjectives, I say, “It was stupid, I know. I also know you want to try and pretend it never happened, so sure, let’s do that. Solid plan.”
I can’t believe one kiss has turned my world upside down. I used to think I wanted him, but now what I’m feeling isn’t even in the same universe as want. It’s compulsion. Powerful and hungry. I wish I could go back to the vague yearning I used to feel.
He knew this would happen. I should have listened.
He shuffles nervously. “I’ll do the show and whatever that involves, but offstage, we’re just—”
“Friends. Yep. I get it.” We should avoid the train wreck we’d no doubt make of each other.
Keep our distance and try to not become obsessed.
Except, I’m afraid I already am.
EIGHT
EMAILS AND ZEN
Present Day
New York City
End of Day Four of Rehearsal
When I enter my apartment, I’m met by rainforest noises. Goddamn running water and birds calls with some annoying melodic/electronic crap that makes me want to tear my hair out.
“Fuck.”
“I heard that,” says a very relaxed voice from the living room. “Please don’t pollute our sanctuary with aggressive language. You’re harshing my calm.”
My emotional exhaustion weighs on me like a blanket of lead. I drop my bag in the hall before zombie-walking into the living room and collapsing onto the couch.
“Please turn off this crap.” I sigh as I tilt my head back and look at the ceiling. “It’s not relaxing. It makes me want to torture puppies. And you.”
My roommate, Tristan, is sitting on the large rug in front of me, legs crossed, hands on his knees. His eyes are closed, and his breathing is even and measured. He’s wearing tiny shorts. Nothing else. I take a moment to reflect on how years of yoga have sculpted all six-foot-four of him into the pinnacle of masculine perfection. His long black hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and his face is smooth and free of tension. Having a Japanese mother and a Malaysian father has given him the sort of exotic good looks that should be immortalized by an artist. He’d make a great statue.
Hot Buddha.
Unlike me, he’s the epitome of goddamn Zen.
“Bad day?” he asks.
I spent most of the day making out with my very attractive ex-lover who I’m not even remotely over. Bad doesn’t cover it. “You have no idea.”
Tristan opens his eyes and assesses me with a glance. “Oh, God, Cass. Your chakras are all over the place. What the hell happened?”
“Holt and I kissed.” My voice is tired and c
roaky. My brain is muddy. I’m so turned around, I can barely speak.
Tristan sighs and shakes his head. “Cassie, after everything we talked about. After you swore to me you wouldn’t jump back into something with him. After you wrote the Oath of Self Preservation!”
“It wasn’t spontaneous, Tris. It was part of the scene.”
He turns off the stereo. Thank God.
“Oh. And?”
“And …”
He waits for me, but I can’t speak. If I open my mouth, a storm of bitterness will swirl out of me and strip the skin from my bones.
“Cassie?”
I shake my head. He knows.
He sits beside me and wraps me in his giant arms.
“Sweet girl.” He sighs as I hug him like he’s the only thing anchoring me to reality.
“Tris, I’m so screwed.”
“You knew this would be hard.”
“Not this hard.”
“What about him? How’s he dealing with things?”
“He’s being a prick.”
“Really?”
I sigh again. “No, not really. Mostly he’s being kind of semi-decent and concerned, but that’s almost worse. I don’t know how to deal with him like that.”
“Maybe he’s changed.”
“I doubt it.”
“Has he apologized?”
“Of course not.”
“What if he did?”
I thought about it. Would I accept it? Could he ever apologize enough for me to forgive him?
“Cassie?”
“Let’s say he did apologize, which is about as likely as small, furry animals flying out of your butt. It wouldn’t change anything. He’s still him, and I’m still me. We’re like these giant magnets that keep flipping over and over again, pulling each other in, then pushing away, and I just— I …”
I deflate and go still.
I can’t say it. I can’t admit that the first time I’ve felt whole in years was when he was kissing me today. It makes me crazy to realize he’s the only one who can make me feel that way.
I rub my face. “I don’t know what to do.”
“You need to talk to him.”
“And say what? ‘Gee, Ethan, even though you completely destroyed me when you left, I still want you, because I’m the world’s biggest glutton for punishment’? I can’t give him that kind of ammunition.”
“You two aren’t at war.”
“Yes, we are.”
“Does he know that?”
“He should. He started it.”
Tristan gives me a look. I know he’s about to say something profound, enlightened, and thoroughly freaking annoying. Whatever he says will be right. He’s always right. I hate that about him.
I also love that about him.
Ever since the night he waited for me at the stage door to tell me how amazing I was in the off-Broadway version of Portrait, we’ve had a connection. I felt like he was meant to be in my life, and I hadn’t had that since Ruby moved overseas in our senior year.
He needed a place to stay, so when my roommate turned out to be a compulsive shoe-napper and fled in the middle of the night with my entire footwear collection, I didn’t think twice about asking him to move in.
We’ve been best friends ever since, and over the past three years, he’s seen me in every stage of my “I Hate Holt” evolution. He’s helped me overcome many of my destructive tendencies, but today is a definite setback.
“Cassie, what do you want?”
It seems like a deceptively easy question, but I know better. Tristan doesn’t ask easy questions.
“I don’t want him to make me feel these things anymore.”
“I didn’t ask what you didn’t want, I asked what you want. If you could have anything, regardless of present, past, and future, what would it be?”
I think hard. The answer is simple. And impossible.
“I want to be happy again.”
“And what’s going to make you happy?”
Ethan.
No.
Yes. Ethan holding me and kissing me.
Don’t. You can’t. He won’t.
Ethan. Running his hands over my body as he undresses me.
God, no.
Ethan groaning my name as he moves inside me and declares his undying love.
Oh, Jesus.
I stand and stride into the kitchen. My hands tremble as I grab the nearest bottle of wine, tear off the cap, and pour a huge glass. Tristan leans against the doorframe. I feel his disapproval as I drink too much, too fast.
“Cassie—”
“Don’t wanna hear it.”
“I’m going to take you out.”
“No.”
“Yes. You need to chill and stop obsessing over the gorgeous Mr. Holt.”
“Please don’t refer to him as ‘gorgeous.’ Or ‘Mr. Holt.’ In fact, don’t mention him at all. That’d be great.”
“Let me take you to the Zoo. It’s straight night. You can ogle to your heart’s content.”
I drain the rest of the glass. “Tristan, what I need tonight is to drink myself into a semiconscious stupor at home, alone. If I go out, you know that I’ll end up fucking a stranger who’ll make me forget all about the asshole-who-shall-not-be-named for a few short hours. Then you’ll give me a lecture in the morning about meaningless one-night stands and how I use them to desensitize myself to the pain of my past rejections by His Royal Assholeness, and how eventually I’m going to have to treat the cause of the gaping hole in my heart and not just the symptoms.”
He exhales and blinks. “Well, you’ve just packed more self-awareness into that mini rant than you’ve shown in the entire time I’ve known you. I was beginning to think you didn’t listen when I talked.”
“I do listen. And maybe I’m learning.” I refill my glass.
“Thank the ever-loving Sun God,” he says, and walks over to hug me. “Now, when are you going to talk to him?”
I sigh and shake my head. “I don’t know. When I can manage it without falling apart?”
“That would be never.”
“Tristan …”
“Cass, stop procrastinating. The sooner you do it, the sooner you can start planning how to purge all the bad energy between you two.”
“I don’t even know if that’s what he wants.”
He rolls his eyes. “Even I know that’s what he wants, and I’ve never met the man. I’ve read his e-mails, remember? When are you going to stop hiding and let him talk? If you can find a way to forgive him, then maybe … just maybe … you can figure out how to be happy again. With or without him in your life.”
He’s right. As usual.
“You know I hate you, right?”
“No, you don’t.”
I take a giant swig of wine. “Just let me get through the next few days, then … I’ll talk to him.”
He hugs me again. “Good. I love you.”
“Love you, too. Have a good time at the club.”
“You know I will. See you tomorrow.”
I kiss him on the cheek before taking the wine into my bedroom and closing the door.
After I put on some music, I open my laptop and spend a few minutes checking e-mails. There’s one from Ruby that makes me laugh, as well as several from very helpful companies telling me how to improve my penis size. I delete the junk and switch to my desktop.
There it is.
The little icon that forever taunts me. It’s labeled Asshole’s E-mails. I sip my wine and stare at it, with my finger hovering over the mouse button.
I’ve read them all before. Dozens of times. Always with eyes clouded by bitterness and pain.
I wonder what I’d see if I tried to get past all that. Would they portray a different Holt than the one I’d spent so many hours cursing?
“Fucking fucking fuck.”
I open the file.
The familiar words fill the screen, and I take a deep breath.
The first one is dated t
hree months after he left me.
…
From: EthanHolt
To: CassandraTaylor
Subject:
Date: Fri, July 16, at 9:16p.m.
Cassie,
I’ve been sitting here looking at my screen for two hours trying to get up the courage to e-mail you, and now that I’m typing, I have no fucking idea what I’m going to say.
Should I apologize to you? Of course.
Should I beg for your forgiveness? Absolutely.
Will you give it to me? I doubt it.
But even though I hurt you, I still think I did the right thing by leaving. I needed to go while one of us still had a chance to be whole.
Now I’m smiling, because I can imagine you rolling your eyes and calling me an asshole. You’d be right. I warned you on the first day we met, remember? I was so damned frightened of you, I said we shouldn’t be friends, but you made us friends anyway.
You wound up being the best friend I’ve ever had.
I miss our friendship.
I miss you.
I guess that’s all I wanted to say.
Ethan.
…
The next one is a month later.
From: EthanHolt
To: CassandraTaylor
Subject:
Date: Fri, Aug 13, at 7:46p.m.
Cassie,
I’ve decided to keep writing to you, even if you never reply, because I’m going to pretend you read these and think of me. You know how good I am at pretending.
The show’s going well. The cast is good, and I’m glad I’m back playing Mercutio instead of Romeo. Playing the romantic lead was never my strong suit, as you know.
I often get chest pains when I think of you. It’s not fun. I’m too young to have a heart condition, but I’m afraid to get it checked out in case they tell me what I already know: that it’s defective and can’t be fixed.
I sometimes wonder what you’re doing and hope you’re moving on. That’s what you deserve, but there’s a part of me that hopes you’re miserable I’m gone.
I miss you.
Ethan.
…
And the next one. The one I’ve read more than any other. The one I read when I miss him so much I can almost feel his hands on my body.
