Those last few days before the press members arrive go by in a blur. Mr. Haymore apparently thinks I’m the Energizer Bunny. He has me doing so many things I’m shocked that I’m still standing.
But I like being busy. I feel productive. And that’s a much better alternative than stewing on my problems. I don’t have time to think about the fact that Ian hasn’t responded to my message—whether to worry about how he’s taking the news or to be relieved that he’s accepted my decision. And I don’t have time to think about Ward—to wonder how he’s recovering from his injuries or think about the fact that the impending grand opening means his work here is very close to done. Even if he’s well enough to get back on the job, there’s a chance I’ll never see him again.
By the time the big morning comes, I’m both physically and mentally exhausted. The only reason I’m not in a puddle on the floor is that I’m jacked up on four cups of coffee. If I stand in one place for too long, my entire body starts to tremble and shake.
Unfortunately, as Mr. Haymore’s assistant, I’ve gotten roped into helping him greet all the arriving press members. They intentionally made this week very exclusive, inviting only fifty or so members of various media outlets, and Haymore’s insisting on welcoming every visitor personally. That means spending the better part of the day in the front lobby. I can tell my boss is a nervous wreck because his mustache is twitching even more than usual, but he pulls it together whenever someone walks through the door.
Me? I’m so drained that I’m having trouble standing upright. I, lucky girl that I am, get to check in everyone as they arrive. I mark their names off my list and hand them their name tags and welcome packets (ever a favorite of Mr. Haymore’s) while my boss joyfully babbles on about our fine accommodations. I’m not really cut out for reception duty, but all of the usual Guest Services employees have been asked to help ferry the press members to their respective rooms. Apparently normal baggage boys won’t cut it with this crowd.
I do okay at the beginning. But as the morning drags on and I’ve reached four consecutive hours without a cup of coffee, I’m starting to get a little spazzy. Several times I have to ask for names more than once, and once I even drop one of the welcome packets as I’m passing it across the counter. It falls open on its way down, and papers flutter everywhere.
“Crap.” I rush around the counter, all too aware of Mr. Haymore’s glare. The journalist I was supposed to be helping is already crouched down, gathering things up. I drop to my knees and help. I’m not even sure why I care so much—it’s not like I’m particularly invested in this place’s success—but I still feel bad.
“I’m sorry, Mr.—” And dang, I’ve already forgotten his name. I just marked it off the list about fifteen seconds ago.
“Julian,” he says. “Asher Julian.”
He sounds friendly, not annoyed, so I risk a glance up. He’s youngish—probably late twenties—and not unattractive. Not Ward levels of hot or anything—not that I’m thinking about Ward—but not halfway bad looking. Though he’s got a look about his eyes that makes me suspect this guy has the potential to be a major douche if he wants to.
My eyes drop to the badge I handed him less than a minute ago. Beneath his name it lists the name of the company he’s from, and my stomach clenches with recognition. He’s from Celebrity Spark Magazine, one of the big celebrity news publications. I can imagine which angle of this story he’s covering.
I sit back on my knees, pasting on my practiced smile. It’s only after I’ve finished putting the packet together that I look up and realize that Mr. Julian is looking at me oddly.
“Have we met before?” he says. “You look really familiar.”
I go cold. It hadn’t even crossed my mind that some of our new visitors might recognize me, but that was a careless oversight. Sure, some of these people are from travel and luxury news outlets, but many are from websites or papers that would have closely followed my family’s story. How could I have been so stupid? What if someone figures out who I am? A bad dye-job and extra lipstick aren’t going to protect me from observant people like these guys.
My heart is bouncing against my ribs.
Breathe, I tell myself. Flash him a smile and breathe. Don’t let him see you sweat.
“Oh, I get that a lot,” I say, and thankfully it sounds casual and light. “I guess I just have one of those faces.”
I hold my breath, but he nods and smiles. “I guess you do.”
And then he’s gone, being escorted away by one of the over-eager Guest Services gophers. I try not to look too relieved as I return to my place behind the counter. That was close.
I’m not sure what I’ll do if people around here figure out who I am. Even if they were okay with overlooking the whole “illegal” side of things, they’d want an explanation, and I’m not sure I can even explain it to myself, let alone come up with a reasonable excuse for someone else. Besides, I’m not ready to leave yet. I still have too many things to figure out.
That means being extra careful.
Unfortunately, since Mr. Haymore’s in charge of making this week run smoothly and I’m in charge of doing whatever Mr. Haymore needs, I can’t just avoid our new visitors. I have to be by my boss’s side for every event. Starting with the welcome reception on the very first night.
In spite of throwing on an extra layer of makeup and running my straightener through my hair three different times, I still feel exposed when I show up at the atrium. They’ve set up tables and chairs among the indoor gardens, and there’s an open bar on the far side of the room. Servers move through the journalists and photographers with trays of appetizers, and Mr. Haymore is already mingling with the guests. I move along the wall, happy to remain hidden until I’m needed. I don’t need any curious pairs of eyes on me tonight.
I made a copy of the sign-in list this afternoon, and I pull it out and study the names, trying to match them with the faces in front of me. If anyone asks, I can just tell them I’m learning who’s who so I can offer the best, most personal service possible. In reality, though, I need to know who I’m up against.
I’ve already marked Asher as one to watch. I’ve kept my eye on him since he walked in, observing him as he moves around the room. I put check marks next to the names of the representatives from magazines and websites I find particularly suspicious—ones I suspect covered my family’s story closely, as opposed to publications about travel or tourism that are here for a first look at the accommodations. And the whole time, I keep an eye out for anyone who looks at me a fraction too long, or who squints and tilts their head as if they’re trying to figure out where they’ve seen me before.
But my “disguise” must be better than I thought, or else everyone’s too focused on the food and sticking their noses up each other’s butts to give me a second glance. It’s just like I felt next to Carolson. I’m essentially the help. Only here when someone needs me.
In spite of myself, this irks me.
Don’t you know who I am?!? I want to scream. My great-great-grandfather built this place! This is my family’s home, and they’re all invaders. Invaders who have no problem gawking at the gardens out the windows or furiously scribbling down notes as if this place were the friggin’ eighth wonder of the world.
It’s worse when Carolson finally shows up. He rolls in at half past eight, and immediately the crowd falls into a strange frenzy; everything is completely silent except for the clicking of camera shutters and the scratch of pens. Some people start typing into their phones, while one or two fish digital recorders out of their pockets.
Carolson gives his usual smile as he walks to the front of the room.
“No questions tonight,” he says, “but I wanted to come welcome you personally to Huntington Manor.” He spreads his arms. “I can’t tell you how excited I am to share this project of mine with the world.”
He goes on, but I don’t hear the words. I’m remembering what Ward said to me about rich people. About how everything they say or do is to make them seem more important. Every gesture, every word of Carolson’s is perfectly calculated. He’s setting himself up as the gracious, generous host of this event. Taking credit for this “project” as if he’s been here all along, working up a sweat with the contractors and the rest of the staff. Maybe he’s manipulative enough to do it on purpose, or maybe it’s just become a habit of his over the years, expanding as his status grows.
This is my family’s house, I want to say. Not yours! It will never really be yours!
If it had been my father up there, or my brother or me, then we would have had the right to say those things. But not Carolson.
I feel the anger starting to build in my chest, and I push it down. Ever since my breakdown in the theater, I feel like my emotions have been too close to the surface, just waiting to break free again. I need to fight them back. Be strong. I can’t lose it here, where there are a dozen cameras to capture every second of Louisa Cunningham’s mental break.
I need air. Fresh air.
Fortunately, Mr. Haymore’s too busy nodding enthusiastically along with Carolson’s spiel to notice me leaving, and I pray that he doesn’t need me again immediately. If he does… well, I’ll worry about coming up with an excuse when the time comes.
I march back through the house and out one of the side doors, into the moon garden. Every blossom in this section blooms in the moonlight, and at this hour, the beds I pass are filled with beautiful pale flowers. I consider stopping and sitting here for a while, but I’m afraid I’ll only get restless. And anyway, I desperately need a drink.
I’m across the lawn and at the tasting room in less than five minutes. Another thirty seconds and I’m inside.
This time, I don’t have a particular bottle in mind, so I take my time choosing the wine I want. Not because I have any idea which might be better than any other—honestly, I don’t know a merlot from a pinot noir. I consider picking one based solely on the label, but in the end I decide to be a little bolder and choose something based on price. I grab two bottles that appear to be valued at about $900 each.
And then, sustenance procured, I head to the maze. It’s still probably the safest place to sneak some wine in spite of my slightly complicated experience the other night.
It doesn’t even occur to me that Ward might be out there again. But when I get to my favorite spot, I realize that once again I’ve made a gross oversight.
“You,” I say, seeing the familiar auburn-haired figure reclining against the hedge in the moonlight.
He shifts, pulling himself up into a sitting position. “You.”
I can’t tell from his tone whether he’s happy or disappointed to see me. I’m too focused on his injuries, which are all too obvious, even beneath the silvery light of the moon. Those shadows beneath his eyes are definitely bruises, and his left eye is still puffy and slightly swollen. His left arm is in a sling. His nose is back in a slightly more normal shape, which is good, but I’m sure there are plenty of injuries I can’t see beneath his clothes.
Not that I’m thinking about what’s beneath his clothes. I realize I’m staring, so I quickly say, “Your roommate have a girl over again?”
He shrugs, then winces. “What can I say? He’s a player.”
Well, looks like I’m not going to be alone here tonight. Might as well accept that and make myself comfortable. This time, though, I don’t sit on the ground next to him. Instead, I take a seat on the small stone bench nestled against the leaves.
“I’d hope that your friend would be a little more considerate, considering your condition,” I say.
“My condition? This is nothing.”
“Nothing? Have you seen your face?”
“It’s just a broken nose and a black eye. Not like I’ve never had one of those before.”
“And your arm?”
“A sprain. I’m fine.” He makes an exasperated sound. “I’m not a fucking invalid.”
“I never said you were.”
We’re both silent for a long moment. If he doesn’t want me to show any concern, then fine. Let him hold on to his stupid, mannish pride.
After a couple of minutes, he sighs. He rubs his face with his good arm.
“Why are you out here?” he says.
“Same as before. I wanted to get away for a while.” I hold up one of the bottles. “I’ve brought more wine.” Though after what happened last time, I’m not sure if it’s a good idea.
“Go ahead, drink it,” he says. “And don’t worry. I won’t try to kiss you again.”
I don’t answer. But I do pull out my keys and dig the cork out of the bottle.
“I thought you might be gone already,” I say. “Or at least I thought the main construction projects would be finished before the press got here. Are you still under contract?”
“What? Sad you’re not rid of me yet?” He gives a bitter laugh.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“To answer your question, yeah, the big stuff’s done. But there’s tons of little shit left to do. They’ve got me laying moldings in some rooms in the eastern wing.”
Again, I can’t tell if he’s happy or sad about that. I’ve managed to get the cork out of the bottle, so I raise the wine and take a long sip before holding it out to Ward.
“Peace offering,” I say.
He nods and takes the bottle. He takes a long drink, but I feel his eyes on me the entire time.
And then he coughs.
“Fuck,” he says, laughing. “This shit’s even worse than the last one. How much does this crap cost?”
“More than you want to know.” I steal the bottle back.
“Jesus. They should pay their customers to drink that crap. Not the other way around.”
For a while, we just pass the bottle back and forth, taking swigs and saying nothing. Finally, when the bottle is half empty, I take another shot.
“Why do you do it?”
He shifts slightly. “Do what?”
“Pick fights.” I nod in the direction of his arm. “If you came all the way down here from Chicago for this opportunity, then why are you so determined to get yourself fired?”
“I didn’t get fired.”
“You know what I mean.”
It’s his turn at the bottle, and he takes a long drink. Finally he says, “Have you ever been angry? And I don’t mean pissed about some idiotic thing that someone said or your pizza being late or something. I mean really angry. At the world. At everything.”
His question so closely echoes the mess of emotions that I’ve been dealing with these past few days. I was right, then, back in the theater when I wondered if he was suffering from the same sort of internal madness that I am.
I look at him. He looks exhausted, defeated, but I suspect the upbeat, playful Ward is still in there somewhere.
“Why are you angry?” I say.
He gives a single shake of his head. “I’m not sure it even matters anymore.”
Slowly, I sink down onto the ground in front of him. “Of course it matters.”
One side of his mouth lifts. “When you get to the point that you’re angry at everything, does it really make a difference how or why it started?”
“You’re not angry at everything,” I say after a moment. “If that were true you’d be a lot more serious. You wouldn’t laugh about nasty expensive wine. You wouldn’t continually tease me about the, uh, unusual circumstances that started our little acquaintance.”
That gets a slightly better smile out of him, but no response. I lean toward him.
“You know it’s true,” I say. “There are a few happy places inside your head, aren’t there?”
This is the first time I’ve seen his injuries so close, and even in the moonlight my heart twists. His swollen eye looks so painful that I can’t stop myself from reaching out and touching it gingerly.
His hand flies up and catches mine.
“You don’t want to do that,” he says, his voice breathier than it was a moment ago.
“Are you angry with me?” I ask.
“For poking at my bruise? A little.”
“That’s not what I mean.” I take a deep breath. “I mean about the other night.” For running away from you.
He still hasn’t released my hand, but I can’t bring myself to pull my fingers away. His grip tightens slightly, and a jolt of warmth shoots up my arm.
“Are you angry with me?” he asks.
“I asked you first. And I don’t care if that argument is cliché.”
He smiles at our old joke.
“I’m not mad if you aren’t,” he says finally. Then he drops his hand and sits back against the hedge.
I draw my fingers back, though I want to reach out and touch him again. “I’m not mad.”
“Good.” He nods, but his smile from a moment ago is gone.
“See?” I tell him. “You aren’t angry at everything.”
“It’s a little more complicated than that.”
“Actually,” I say, sitting back on my heels. “I seem to remember you saying that everything was simple. That it was our heads that got in the way.”
He smirks. “That was a very different conversation.”
“The advice still applies. And it’s bad form to give advice that you refuse to take yourself.”
“What about you? Did you take the advice you’re throwing so cheerfully back in my face?”
My gaze drops down to the wine. “As a matter of fact, I did.”
I glance up again just in time to watch that knowledge sink in on his face. My finger dances along the mouth of the wine bottle.
“I called him and made it clear that things were over between us.” Somehow, saying it out loud makes me feel worse, even though I know I did the right thing. I’ve acknowledged it. Now it’s real. Guilt tugs at my stomach.
“If it’s over, then why are you out here with stolen wine again?”
His question catches me by surprise.
“What, aren’t I allowed a mourning period for my…” What? Pseudo-relationship with Ian? I take another drink. “Or maybe I just get off on the risk.”
That gets a chuckle. “Good girls often do.”
“How do you know I’m a good girl?” After all, I did throw myself at him before I even knew his name.
“You’re a good girl. Trust me.”
“But how do you know?” There’s more emotion behind the words than I mean there to be. “You hardly know me. I might look like a ‘good girl’, but maybe I’m a terrible person on the inside.”
“For what? Stealing wine? That doesn’t make you a terrible person.”
He wouldn’t be so flippant if he knew who I really was. If he knew I was one of those self-serving “rich fucks.”
I grab the end of my ponytail. “Sometimes people look like they’re good from the outside, but on the inside they’re actually selfish assholes.” Like heiresses who volunteer in the name of “activism” and “generosity” when they’re really more concerned with assuaging a guilty conscience or putting on a good face for the tabloids. Or people who claim to be ashamed of their ridiculously large house, only to have a complete breakdown the minute it’s taken away from them.
Ward gently pulls the wine out of my hand.
“It’s easy to get screwed up after losing a parent,” he says after a moment.
I shake my head. “This isn’t about my father.” No, I was screwed up even before his death. I’ve spent the better part of my life trying to figure out how I felt about my family’s money. Trying to figure out one poor, spoiled rich girl’s place in the larger world.
“Confusion is a normal part of the grieving process,” he says. “Christ knows I’m still figuring shit out.”
“It’s not about my father,” I tell him again, getting annoyed. “I know how I feel about that.”
“Addi—”
“Please. Please, I don’t want to talk about it.”
I must sound pretty pathetic because he drops the subject. I’m not here for a therapy session. I just want some time to think. Some time away from all those stupid press people. I don’t need any life lessons from self-righteous, hypocritical Ward. Honestly, there’s only one thing he can offer me right now that I’d actually want.
I glance over at him. He’s looking at me—into me—and I wonder how much of the truth he sees in there. How much of the real Louisa Cunningham. I can tell he doesn’t know what to say from here, how to comfort me or convince me to open up to him. But that’s okay. I can show him what I need.
I lean forward again and gently brush my lips against the purpled skin beneath his eye. I hear the sharp intake of his breath, but he doesn’t move, even when I move to the other eye. I go to his nose next, kissing the place where it was broken.
When I sit back on my heels again, his eyes have darkened. The intensity of his gaze sends alternating waves of heat and ice down my spine. All the nerves in my body seem to have woken at once. But he doesn’t move toward me.
“What?” I tease. “Not enough wine tonight?”
He just keeps looking at me. “Are you sure about this?”
“Do I seem unsure?” Right now, it doesn’t matter what he thinks my name is. It doesn’t matter whether he understands me or not. It doesn’t matter why I’m upset or why he hates Carolson or any of the rest of it. I’m exhausted and there are strangers all over my house and he’s here, looking perfectly tempting in the moonlight.
He reaches out and touches my cheek. Fire races across my skin.
“You’re too good for this,” he says softly.
This time I can’t refrain from laughing out loud. “We’re not having this argument again. I promise, I’m not half as good as you think I am.”
“And as I’ve told you, stealing the occasional bottle of wine isn’t exactly a ticket straight to Hell.”
“Is that the worst you think I’ve done?” I ask lightly. “What, should I pick a fight with one of the housekeepers in order to prove myself? Sleep with one of their boyfriends and then throw them through a window?”
It’s supposed to be a joke, but I can tell right away that it hits him the wrong way. He pulls back from me and pushes to his feet.
“You should go,” he says.
I scramble up beside him. “I didn’t mean anything by that.”
“It doesn’t change anything.”
I cross my arms. “I don’t get it. Are you mad at me?”
“Of course not. Not at all.” He rubs his face. “Listen. You’re too good for me, okay?”
“So this some sort of self-punishment thing?”
That hits a little closer to home. Something tender flashes in his eyes before it’s replaced by an emotion closer to annoyance.
“Look,” he says. “I’m doing you a favor here.”
“I get it.” I reach down and grab the wine. “You’ve changed your mind about me. That’s fine. But I wish you had the balls to just come out and say it rather than giving me this crap.”
“That’s not…” He makes an exasperated sound. “Is this what you want? An angry asshole who fights and fucks and will take advantage of some chick who’s clearly going through some shit?”
“You’re not taking advantage of me,” I insist.
“That’s not the point. The point is that this is a bad idea. And not just because of…”—He waves his hand—“whatever you’ve got going on. Because of my shit, too. You’re not the only one with problems, you know.”
That stings, but mainly because it’s the truth.
“I tried to talk to you about Carolson,” I say. “But you told me to drop it.”
“And you don’t want to talk about your father. I get it. You don’t know me. And I can’t imagine the impression you have of me right now is very good. So just trust me. I’m an asshole.”
I scoff. “I think I can decide that for myself.”
“Just like you let me decide whether or not you’re a terrible person?” He shakes his head. “Let’s just stop this now, okay?” Apparently he’s not willing to wait for me to go. As soon as the final word leaves his lips, he turns and stalks away.
But I guess I’ve completely cracked because I can’t just leave it at that. I’m angry and it all just bubbles out of me.
“So that’s what this is now?” I call after him. “A competition of ‘who’s the worst’?”
He stops but doesn’t turn around.
But I’m not done. “You think you can just call yourself an asshole and that excuses everything. Well, guess what? I’m an asshole, too. I let a sweet, trusting guy believe I had feelings for him because I was afraid to be alone. I’m estranged from my only living relative because I’m too ashamed of the mess I’ve become to speak to him anymore. I’ve spent most of my life pretending to be this selfless, generous person when in reality it was all just a show. I don’t look at anything or anyone except to figure out how I might use them to make myself feel better.” I throw my arms wide. “So there you have it. I’m just a selfish bitch.”
He’s finally turning back toward me, but I can’t bear to look at his face. I don’t want to see his reaction to my words. It’s too late to stop them. Everything that’s been lingering just beneath the surface of my skin these past few days comes rushing forward—the guilt, the pain, the anger.
“It’s all a lie,” I say. “All of this. Everything I do. It’s all a lie. And I’m alone at the center of it. So don’t you dare act like you the only one who—”
Suddenly his hand is on my cheek, tilting my face upward, and before I have the chance to say another word, he’s kissing me.
Heat explodes through me even as my mind struggles to shift gears. But it doesn’t matter. A hot, wild energy pulses in me, and all the anger and pain I was finally expressing rushes toward this new outlet. My fingers clutch at Ward’s shirt and my mouth, hungry and eager, falls open beneath his.
For a moment, our lips grapple with each other, and then I wrench my head away.
“Asshole,” I breathe into the night air.
Something flashes in his eyes, but I tighten my grip on his shirt and pull him down to me.
“You horrible… despicable… asshole…” I say between my attacks on his mouth.
His hand slides to the back of my head and twists almost painfully in my hair. His lips are just as aggressive, his body responding to the energy of my own.
“You terrible… selfish… bitch,” he murmurs against my lips.
His words awaken a strange, mad joy in me. I press against him, and it’s not until he groans that I remember his injuries. I jerk back.
“Are you…? I didn’t mean to…” My hand flutters toward his nose, but he catches me by the wrist.
“Fuck it,” he says.
And then his mouth is on mine again, just as eager as before. His tongue slips between my lips, and a moan escapes my throat. And then we’re moving backward until I’m pressed up against the wall of leaves and branches. He tugs at my blouse with his good hand, and I help pull it over my head. I claw at his T-shirt, but with his sling it’s too hard to pull it off. We only manage to get his good arm free before he curses and attacks my mouth again. I don’t care either way. My hands grab at the exposed part of his chest, my fingers aching to touch every hard muscle. Meanwhile, he makes easy work of my bra, unclasping it with one hand. The straps fall from my shoulders and I toss the garment aside.
His lips move from my mouth to my neck, and every kiss is desperate, ravenous. His teeth catch at the tender skin of my throat as his fingers dig into my bare back. I arch against him, throwing my head back to encourage him along his hungry path. One of my hands clutches at his shoulder and the other buries itself in his hair. My body burns with sensation. Every nip of his teeth or touch of his lips brings my nerves to life in ways I never thought possible.
His mouth moves along my collarbone, and I dig my fingers into his scalp. I’m intoxicated by the smell of him, the feel of him in my arms.
He seems intoxicated by me as well. Just when I think his face is about to dip down to my breast, he tilts his head up and takes my mouth again. He kisses me as if he can’t get enough of the taste of me.
“Addis—”
I bite down on his lip. I don’t want to hear that name right now.
He doesn’t seem to mind my objection. He growls and moves his mouth more forcefully against mine. I dig my fingers into his shoulders. It feels like we’re fighting against each other, the way our hands and lips struggle, but we’re both ultimately after the same goal.
After a moment, I can’t take it anymore, and my hands fall to his belt. If I can’t remove his shirt, then I want to see the rest of him. It only takes me a moment to loosen the buckle, and then I’m reaching for his fly.
Ward has a similar goal. Rather than fish for the tiny zipper at the back of my skirt, however, he’s tugging the fabric up around my hips. When it’s high enough, he slips his hand beneath and hooks a finger around the waistband of my panties.
I’ve pushed his jeans down his legs at this point. He’s wearing boxers underneath, and the thin cotton does little to hide his body’s reaction to me. I run my hand over him through the fabric, and he moans. He jerks his hand, yanking my panties down in one motion. And then his fingers are on me—teasing, stroking, exploring. I was already aroused before he touched me, but now I’m dizzy with it. My legs begin to shake and I’m grateful for the hedge at my back.
His boxers move easily at the insistence of my hands. I push them down around his knees, then close my hand around his hard length.
He growls and bites down on my lip. His finger presses deeper between my legs, sliding inside of me.
“Asshole…” I say, the word a moan.
He moves his finger deeper, and I throw my head back against the hedge. My hand tightens around his shaft, and when I’ve regained motor function, I twist my grip and begin stroking him.
It gives me no small amount of satisfaction to see that his body’s responding to me as eagerly as mine’s responding to him. He drops his face once more to my neck and his teeth lock around the exposed skin. His finger continues its explorations, and I squirm, trying to handle the sensations coursing through me. My entire body is aching.
But I want more.
I twist, pulling away from him slightly. His glazed eyes follow me, and I grab the T-shirt dangling from his arm and pull him after me. When the back of my legs hit the bench, I gently lower myself down.
He braces himself on his good arm, slowly settling his weight on top of me. He dips his head, kissing me again, and I feel his arousal throb between my legs. I spread my thighs and hook my knees around his hips, pulling him down closer.
His breath is ragged, his mouth even more aggressive than before. I feel like he’s going to devour me whole—and there’s nothing in this moment that I want more. I cross my ankles above his thighs and raise my hips to meet him.
He groans, but what starts as a sound of hunger and pleasure turns quickly into a sound of frustration. He pushes himself up off of me.
I lie there on the bench, breathless and confused. Why did he stop? I cross my arms across my chest, feeling exposed.
The look on his face, just visible in the moonlight, is still full of desire.
“I don’t have a condom,” he says. He gives a small, bitter laugh. “I didn’t realize I’d need one.”
I close my eyes, relief warring with disappointment in my chest. On the one hand, I’m pleased to know that he wasn’t having second thoughts about this. On the other, I’m ashamed to admit that protection was the last thing on my mind, that if he hadn’t had the presence of mind to pause, I wouldn’t have stopped him from doing anything he wanted with me, with or without a condom.
I prop myself up on the bench, one arm still across my chest. “I guess we got a little carried away.”
He leans over and lifts my chin.
“There are still plenty of other things we can do,” he says, his voice husky. “Lie back down.”
I don’t question him and lower myself back onto the bench. He kneels, and my legs part at his touch.
I know what he’s going to do, and yet it’s still a shock when his tongue meets my bare flesh. I suck in a breath as a burst of flame shoots up through my belly, and he takes to his task as hungrily as he took to my lips. My hands fly down to his head, my fingers twining in his hair, and my head tilts back. Above me, the moon and stars shine brightly in the dark sky. I stare at them as the muscles tighten in my core, and the lights dance and twinkle in time with the sensations pulsing through my body. Only when the pleasure finally overtakes me do I shut my eyes. With the pleasure comes the peace, and I give it all up to the sky.