“Now, this,” he says. I glance over the arm of the sofa and he smiles as he walks toward me, arms out to grab onto me, “I could most certainly get used to.” He kisses me. And I melt. Figuratively, melt, just like those girls in romance books, I am weakened by his mere touch even though I want to hate him. He pulls away and walks straight to the kitchen, opening the fridge and grabbing a bottle of water. My heartbang, bang, bangsagainst my ribs as I watch him twist the top and turn the bottle up. I watch bubbles travel up the neck. “What’s up with you?” he asks.
I shrug.
“Oh, don’t go getting all weird on me.” He smirks as he crosses the room. “Don’t do that to me. I like you too much to have you going all weird on me.”
“Is that a fact?”
He kisses my neck, his lips cold from the water he’s just drank. “Fact.” And I can’t believe anything that comes from his mouth. I giggle and push him away. He arches a brow before tossing the bottle of water down. “Oh, you didnotjust push me away from you.” He playfully reaches for me. I bob and weave with each attempted grab. He misses. Swears beneath his breath. I take off running around the back of the black and white striped chair, and he chases after me. I squeal. He laughs.
“Come here, babe. I just wanna kiss.”
“Nope.”
“You little shit.” He smiles. “When I get ahold of you... ” He jumps on the chair, one foot lands on the back, which causes it to tip over. In one smooth movement, his arm is around my waist and I’m falling to the floor with him, both of us laughing.
Gently brushing the hair from my face, he studies me. And there is that softness, that bliss I saw in that picture in front of the Rockefeller Center Tree.
“I think you like me, Justin Wild,” I whisper.
“I think that’s obvious.”
“A little.” I shrug and he places his palm on the side of my face, cupping my jaw. And this is that moment where you can feel it—that buzz in your chest, that tugging in your gut, that sensation that this is where you belong. So what if the man I love has a bookcase filled with lies? Don’t we all tell little white lies, embellish things to boost our image? And so what if he smells of another woman’s perfume? This is all part of it, part of the game, the trickery. I pretend I have no idea he’s a little whore, because it’s the innocence and his very own guilt that will get him in the end, and really, if he comes back smelling ofthatparticular perfume again, I’ll just find her and end her.
“What is it about you?” he asks, sweeping his fingers over my cheek, staring into my eyes like the world begins and ends with me. I coyly shrug, but my heart is humming in my chest because this is it.Oh, Justin, I see it in your eyes, I can tell there’s hesitation, but I can feel the words that are on the tip of your tongue.A small smile pulls at his lips before he kisses me, tenderly, reverently. “God, I think I’m crazy.”
“Why?” I whisper, trailing my lips over his neck.
“Because,” he inhales and exhales and the waiting is excruciating, “promise you won’t think I’m crazy?”
“Of course.” I wrap my arms around his broad shoulders and stare up at him.
“I just... ” but he never says it, he simply strips me down and pulls my hair, calls me his dirty little slut. He fucks me until sweat’s dripping down his back, until I’m breathless and my body is sore. And then I lay on his chest, listening to his heart beat as he falls asleep. When the steady breaths become ragged and deep, I lean up by his ear and whisper, “I love you, too.” Because I know that’s what he wanted to say.
