There you are, I want to say, but I press my lips together, afraid to speak.
As if feeling my hesitation, his eyes pop open and he grabs my wrist, pulling my hand away and pressing it to the wall over my head. Then, he pries my other hand off of my towel, lifting it and pinning them both together with one of his large hands.
He drags his nose along my neck, inhaling sharply. “I can do whatever I want,” he repeats, this time in a whisper that’s warm against my ear.
“Andy,” I say quietly, using the old childhood nickname I gave him when we first met and I told him Andrej was a weird name. Is it Andre? Andrew? An-dredge? He’d called me Val, but he hasn’t called me anything the last few years, like I’m not even worthy of a name.
He looks at me like I slapped him. “Don’t fucking call me that,” he snarls, dropping my wrists and pushing away from me. He stalks back to the bed, collapses onto it, and picks up a glass bottle from the nightstand that I’d missed before, some kind of alcohol that he no doubt swiped from the liquor cart my dad keeps locked up in the parlor.
Part of me tells me to run, but a bigger part of me wants to stay, wants to try to coax my friend out from behind the walls he’s built around himself. This is my last chance—our last chance.
I cross to the bed where he’s sitting and take the bottle from his hand, placing it back on the nightstand. Then, standing between his legs, I press my hands to his cheeks and force his eyes up to mine.
“Andy,” I repeat. My friend, my lover, my tormentor. Tomorrow, he’ll be nothing to me. A memory. A nightmare. But tonight…maybe tonight, we can repair some of what’s broken between us.
He reaches up and tugs the towel. It falls from my body, leaving me naked and exposed, but I make no move to cover myself. He wants me to hide from him, but I have no problem being vulnerable with him. In spite of the fear gnawing at my gut, my core tightens with something like excitement as his midnight blue eyes take in the sight of me. My body has changed a little over the last year, my breasts swelling slightly, my hips widening, my stomach a little softer.
Then, he pulls me down onto the bed and rolls on top of me. I savor the familiar weight of him and the feel of his hard length pressing against my leg through his pants.
He lifts himself on his arms and looks down at me. “Is it true that you fucked Damien West under the bleachers at homecoming?” he asks.
“Your lackeys started that rumor,” I remind him as he trails his lips down my neck and over my chest and stomach, blazing a line of fire that ignites my core. “What do you think?”
“I think you’ve been waiting for me,” he says, looking up at me between the valley of my breasts. “I think you’ve been saving this pussy just for me.”
He sinks his mouth down onto my mound, sucking my clit between his teeth almost violently. I cry out in surprise and pleasure, bucking my hips against him. He presses me down with his hands, his fingers digging into my hips.
“So fucking wet already,” he growls, pulling his mouth away and plunging a finger inside of me. “Was it just the sight of me in your room? Or were you playing with yourself in the shower? Thinking of me, maybe? Or Damien?” Another finger joins the first, and his tongue flicks over my aching clit. His dirty words should repulse me, but they don’t. Instead, they make me ache with desire. “Fucking answer me,” he demands.
“It’s you,” I gasp, writhing beneath him. “It’s always been you.” It’s true. No matter how many rumors he started about me, no matter how often they called me a slut and a whore in the halls, I’ve never even looked at another boy.
“Fuck,” he growls, diving back down, not stopping even as my orgasm crashes over me, drawing a long, loud moan from my lips. I tilt my head back and squeeze my legs around his ears as he laps at my wetness, devouring me and every ounce of self-control I’d built up over the last year.
There’s the jangle of his belt buckle, the sound of a foil wrapper being ripped open. Then, with no preamble, he flips me onto my stomach, spreads my legs with his knee, and plunges inside of me. I thrust back against him, hating how much I love the feel of him inside of me again. My body recognizes his, longs for his punishing touch. Belongs to him.
“Andy,” I gasp as he pounds into me, his hands squeezing my ass as I rock back against him.
“Don’t fucking call me that,” he grits out again, winding his hand in my hair, pressing me forward into the mattress. His balls slap against my already sensitive clit, driving me closer to the edge.
“I’m coming,” I moan.
“I want to see you.” His arm comes around my waist and rolls me over onto my back again. He pulls my legs against his shoulders and leans over, grabbing my face. “I want to watch you fall apart.”
He’s been watching me fall apart for years, over and over again. I pick myself up and put myself back together, only for him to wreck me every time. But not again. This is the last time, I promise myself, even as I relish the feel of him inside of me, his hand on my face, his devastating eyes locked on mine.
“Come for me,” he growls.
As if on command, the orgasm slams into me, taking my breath away as my muscles contract around him. He hugs my legs to him, keeping me still as I writhe against him. He thrusts into me once, twice, and then presses himself deep inside with a low, guttural groan as he finally finds his own release.
After a few seconds, he releases my legs and collapses onto the bed beside me, his chest still heaving. I turn my head to look at him.
“Don’t fucking look at me,” he gripes, using his hand to roll me away from him.
But then, I feel his warm, sweaty body press against mine. His arm wraps around my waist and he buries his face in my hair against the back of my neck. I want desperately to turn around and hold him, to wrap my arms around him and kiss his eyelids, but he holds me firm, making it clear that my affection is not welcome. Instead, I pry his hand open and twine my fingers with his, making a small, gentle connection that for him, at least, is even more intimate than sex.
After a few minutes, his breathing goes even, and I feel myself drifting off, too.
“Goodbye, Andy,” I whisper.
In the morning, he’s gone. The only evidence he was even here is the melted bag of peas on the floor by the door.
And it’s fifteen years before I see him again.
Chapter Two
Valya
Present Day
I wake with a start, clutching my sheet to my chest. My eyes dart to the left, where I expect to see the door to my small bedroom flung wide open. A tall, lean figure in the doorway. Unreadable midnight blue eyes assessing me in the moonlight.
But I’m not there anymore.
I haven’t been there for over a decade.
I haven’t even thought of that place for years. My two-bedroom, new-construction apartment in Sugar Hill is about as different from the Victorian-era mansion I grew up in as it gets. My bedroom is white with a wall of windows and gauzy curtains. The rest of the house is much the same—bright, airy, alive. My happy place.
It’s still dark outside, but I know I won’t get anymore sleep tonight, so I get up and make myself a cup of green tea with lemon. Then, I dress in yoga pants and a sports bra and unroll my yoga mat on the balcony overlooking Sugar Square Park. It’s late summer, and the air is already muggy, but I can’t get started without my morning meditation. For me, this is the most important part of my day. Not my seven o’clock conference call with my staff. Not marketing, not recruiting, not networking. This right here. Clearing my mind. Finding balance, strength, and peace in a world that is often chaotic. Don’t get me wrong, I love the world and the life that I’ve made for myself. But recently, I’ve tried to learn to love myself, too.