I stretch my limbs, hips, and stomach muscles aching in that beautiful, well-used way. Grinning, I roll to my side, one of my legs and hands already seeking heat from the body of the man who is sleeping soundly next to me.
Jonas’s lips are parted, and like he always sleeps, he has my sheets pushed down to his waist. One leg is bent, exposed, and one of his hands is shoved beneath his head. His other hand rests on his abdomen, covering his beautiful planes and ridges. His mess of dark hair brushes his shoulders. I brush the edges of them, smiling at the reminder of my fingers digging into his hair tie and yanking it out as his mouth brought me to climax for the first time.
He showed up at my place last night after work, like he’s done so many times over the last two years, after I had lunch with my friend Teagan at Jonas’s bar, Dirty Martini’s. And just like so many other times when he arrived, we wasted little time before clothes were stripped, leaving a trail across my apartment, stopping at my couch, then the hallway, before we finally succumbed to my bedroom.
My fingers at the tips of his hair brush along his shoulder, down his arm, veined with trim and firm muscles, to his hand at his abdomen. I’m lost in my lazy exploration of him, eyes on what my fingers are doing, casually dropping to his waist, where at least one part of him is aware of my touch. I don’t realize he’s awake and watching me with a sleepy smile on his face until I brush my hand back up to his chest.
“Good morning.” Jonas rolls toward me, trapping one of my legs beneath his, tangling us together as his arm slides across my body.
“Mmhmm.” His arm drapes over my back and slides down to cup my backside. It takes the smallest touch from Jonas to awaken my body, and his fingers brushing against the top of my crease are like touching my on switch. It’s one of the reasons why after almost two years, I still welcome him to my bed. “Sleep well?”
The scruff from his unshaven jaw scrapes against my chin as he presses his lips to my throat. “Always do with you.”
He peppers my throat with kisses, dropping to my collarbone and to my shoulder, and my hips arch, seeking him as they’re trained so well to do.
It’s early, the sun just beginning to peek above the horizon, and soon I will need to start getting ready for work, but kicking Jonas out of my bed is always a difficult task.
His lips brush against my jaw, back to my ear, and I press against him, seeking the kiss I know is coming, closing my eyes, reveling in the sensation of what his touch and scent do to me, when he whispers, “Go on a date with me. A real one.”
His request comes as a surprise, and I flinch, unable to smother my reaction before my back tenses beneath his hand and my head jolts away from him. It’s minuscule, but so obvious the room temperature drops ten degrees.
“Damn it, Caitlin.” He groans and the heat from his body disappears.
Crap. My eyes close and my heart races. Why would he ask me this?
“Jonas—” I reach for him, but he slides to the edge of the bed. His feet thump to the carpeted floor.
My heart makes the same sound as it drops to my stomach.
He’s naked and beautiful, and the sight of him that always sends my pulse into overdrive still reacts even as he hunches over and grabs his boxers from the floor. “Please.”
He can’t be upset with me. This is what we agreed to years ago. I’m busy and uninterested in commitment. He’s been working his ass off to someday buy Dirty Martini’s from the current owner, who’s made several statements of wanting to retire to Arizona soon. What we have works.
And damn it. He’s ruining it.
Or maybe I am. What is wrong with me? This is Jonas. The man I’ve spent more time with for the last two years than even my best friends. Sure, ninety percent of that time is naked and sweaty, but that’s one of the many reasons why I like him so much.
Jonas shoves his hands through his hair and reaches for an elastic on the nightstand. Quickly wrestling his hair up and into a bun, he stands and turns to me. Hands on his hips, my gaze stops at his chest, his muscles contracting as he breathes heavily.
“It’s been two years,” he says, and I can barely bring my gaze to meet his.
By the tone in his voice, thick with disappointment and frustration, I will see nothing good. The scowl on his face as I force myself to look him in the eye confirms it.
I pull the sheet up to my chest, covering myself. For two years I’ve felt no shame or embarrassment or need to protect any part of myself in front of him, but now it’s necessary. The sheet is a flimsy excuse for armor.
“It’s been two years,” he repeats, and his hands slide to his hips. “I want more, Caitlin. Go on a date with me.”
I want more. It rattles around in my brain and I can’t answer. At least not quickly enough for him to catch the fear that must slide across my face.
He huffs and his head drops, inhaling a deep breath and blowing it out. It cuts through the air like a gunshot at point-blank range, sending a flash of pain to my heart.
“Okay,” he says, nodding. His eyes scan the room, avoiding me, dropping to the floor, and he swivels on his heels, leaving me alone. I’m too stunned at his sudden departure to move.
This is how it ends? After two years? Not even a conversation? I shift to the edge of the bed, my arm braced against my chest holding the sheet in place, when he returns.
He already has his jeans on, the top button undone, and he’s shoving his arms through his short sleeves.
“Can I talk you into thinking about it?” he asks, tugging down the hem of his shirt.
A sudden sense of loss rolls through me, as if my body knows it’s the last time I’ll see his.
We’ve always been honest with each other. Frequently we’ve fallen into bed together—sometimes once a week, sometimes once a month. Sometimes so often we’ve spent entire weekends together, only coming up for air when our stomachs rumbled in a way we couldn’t ignore. He’s never approached the subject of wanting more, and his sudden attempt to do so makes my head spin.
My skin burns hot and my hair swishes across my cheek, into my face, as my head shakes. “I don’t need to. But Jonas—”
“I met someone.” His gaze pierces mine. All the air in my stomach plummets to my toes. “I like her. And I haven’t been with her yet. I can’t…it’s not right when…” His hand slashes out toward my messed-up sheets and my still-naked-yet-covered body. “I also want you, but I want more than just this.”
I scramble for words. Rearrange letters in my brain until I find something to say that won’t hurt him any more than the pain already tightening around the edges of his lips and his eyes.
I press the sheets harder to my aching chest. I can barely look at him, and my chin is trembling. This hurts. Him leaving. Him wanting someone. Him wanting what I can’t give him.
I don’t know what to say. “I hope it works out.”
He flinches like I’ve struck him. Obviously they’re not the words he was hoping for.
He nods abruptly. Just once, and all his emotion, all his pain is tossed into the air like a physical thing that I could probably reach out and touch.
He stares out my window and his shoulders drop. Turning back to me he nods one more time, and a mask slides down over his face. I see it drop one brief moment at a time, until his pain is gone and there’s a cocky grin on his face and a sparkle in his eyes.
“We’ll still be friends though, right?” I imagine my returning smile mirrors his own along with my expression. “Would hate for Dirty’s to lose their best customer.”
It’s an attempt at something. Salvaging our friendship? Do we even have one without the benefits I at least have grown so accustomed to? “I’ll see you there, sometime. Definitely.”
“Take care, then, Caitlin.” He slaps his hand to the doorframe. Turning and putting his back to me, he pauses for a moment. A part of me urges me to call out to him, to run to him and tell him I have changed my mind. I can take this chance. I want more, too. But none of the pleas sound right so I stay silent. And just when I think, or hope, he’ll turn around and tell me never mind, he’s okay with what we have, what I have to give, he takes a step away.
And he leaves without a goodbye, without a glance back at me, and I stay in my bed for what feels like hours, sheet clinging to my chest, feet on the floor, staring at the doorway.
How did a beautiful night, a sweet morning, end up going so horribly, hurtfully sideways?