She stumbles backwards. I catch her to keep her from falling, but she pulls away from me. I watch as she climbs out of the arena and rushes back to the bar. Back to Shawn.
His gaze connects with mine. My jaw goes so tight, I’m afraid I might break a tooth.
“Dove.” Dorian’s voice behind me. Calling me back to reality. I turn and I see concern etched into his expression. He shouts over the ruckus: “Are you okay?”
I shake my head. I’m shaking. “No.”
Then he does something crazy. He gets to his knees—which can’t be easy on this bouncy inflatable. Still he kneels in front of me, and says, simply: “Show me.”
It’s all the permission I need.
I take everything inside me—all that rage, anger, and hurt—and I grab the edges of my pillow and hit it across his face as hard as I can.
The pillow explodes.
For a dream-like, surreal moment, everything crystalizes. Colored lights flash around me, blasting through the dark. Everyone turns my way to admire the storm cloud of chaos I’ve created. It’s as though all this heaviness I’ve been carrying around inside of me for the past year is finally out, open and raw for the world to see.
And, right now, my pain is beautiful.
The feathers dance around us like snowflakes. They catch on the light, shimmering and flickering in this heady mixture of glitter and color.
For a second, everyone stops fighting. The entire crowd suddenly bursts into a round of whoops and cheers, like this is a great event. Like they’re cheering for me.
Laughter breaks out of my chest. I feel lighter than I have in years.
For the first time, I’m not riddled with rage and hurt. I’mhappy.
It’s liberating.
Through the constellation of feathers, my eyes connect with Dorian’s.
He stands there, just very…Dorian. To anyone else, he might be another face in the crowd. To me, suddenly, I see him. Every detail. The light sweat dampening those fine curls. The way his face is drawn with a bold hand—strong eyebrows and a tight beard across his jaw. Those curious blue eyes that don’t leave me for a second.
He’s smiling, likehe knows. Like he’s proud of me.
My heart skips, trips over itself, and falls flat on its face in my chest.
I have never fallen in love gracefully.
My love is a messy thing. Bumbling. Full of bruises, missteps, awkward moments, sticky feathers, but…it’s mine. It’s me.
And I’m ready to be completely, unapologetically me.
He looks like he’s about to say something—maybe ask me if I’m okay, or congratulate me on my powerful swing—but before he can make a sound, I grab his face, pull him down, and meet his lips with mine.
We’re experts at pain. Pleasure. And the aching, sexual torment that lies somewhere in between.
But this sweet, sincere intimacy between us is new.
Affection breaks over me like a fever, bursting from my chest. His skin is hot in my hands, his beard pleasantly rough against my palm. But his mouth is a soft, gentle hunger, and he meets me, kissing me back. I open, inviting him in, and I taste his tongue in my mouth, caressing mine in a way that sends a rush of heat tingling through my body, all the way down to my bare toes that curl on the inflatable floor.
We break for a breath, but we don’t part. He pants lightly against my lips, and I hold him here. I don’t want to be apart from him, not even an inch.
“Was that okay?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says.
I nestle my nose to his. I kiss the edge of his mouth. “Do you want to take me home tonight?”
