Love on the Rise: Book Two of The Against All Odds Series

by Gemini Jensen

  But fucking hell, the thought of her with that Pierce prick is tormenting me. All I can see is her standing there as he opens the limo door for her, eyes alight with a knowing excitement—the way she used to look at me just before we made love.

  This girl here with me now, she’s less angelic than my V, and more like a woman who knows what she wants and just how to get it. Anger surges like hellfire in my veins as I wonder how many times she’s done that since we parted ways.

  How many other men have touched what’s mine?

  Reaching up, I entwine her silky auburn locks around my hand, forming a fist as I jerk back just enough to expose the creamy flesh of her neck. Not so much that it’s painful or interferes with her current rhythm as she moves on top of me, but enough to exert some dominance.

  Which she apparently needs reminding of.

  Gasping from the shock of my abrupt actions, V remains resilient, increasing her pace instead of halting.

  I knew that would get her.

  She smells of nectar, honey, and wildflowers. Untamed and free and so fucking lovely. I trail my tongue along the contour of her shoulder, stopping every few inches to drop a kiss until I reach the curve between her jaw and collarbone. There, I alternate between kissing and sucking, branding her with my mark. It’s not my style at all, and it’s definitely not hers. I know she’ll be pissed once she realizes, but I could care less. The savage need to claim her is all-consuming and overpowering all sense of reason.

  Come tomorrow, everyone will see my mark on her skin. Everyone will know she belongs to someone…even if it only lasts a few days.

  That’s right Pierce, FUCK YOU.

  The tension starts to climb, building rapidly from her wicked, hedonistic ways. I dig my fingers into her hips in an attempt to slow her down for a few minutes, allowing time for me to recover. I’m far from ready for this to be finished. I’ve always had this thing with Valley where I’m in competition with myself; it’s like I want each time we make love to surpass the last. If she doesn’t say “oh my God, that was the best ever,” every single time, then I’m not doing something right.

  This time when she slams down to meet me, I hold her there, flipping so that we’ve switched positions. Positioning myself so that I’m standing on my knees, I seize her hips and slide her body down the back of the couch until her pelvis is on the edge. Her eyes, eager and frenzied, find mine. Drunk with lust, she draws her bottom lip into her mouth, her demeanor wrought with anticipation.

  “I love how much you want me,” I confess, powering into her, creating the perfect angle to caress that sensitive spot deep inside.

  Nothing is more of a turn on than seeing her this way; the evidence that she craves me and only me is written all over her face, demonstrated by her touch and manifested in her every reaction. All of that almost makes me believe her craving for me is unmovable, but because of what I witnessed tonight, I now know that isn’t always going to be the case.

  I’m in love with a girl who may or may not love me back. I don’t expect the same amount of love because that wouldn’t be possible. Not when what I feel for her is comprised of the true scientific make-up for crazy. Born in madness and forged in the winds of a fucked up moral compass, fighting the tides of my inner-turmoil for what was wrong and what was more wrong, it was erected in the nucleus of my heart where it forever solidified. Insanely poetic, or just insane? Nevertheless, that type of love cannot be mimicked, copied, or matched. It cannot be bought, sold, or borrowed. It’s a sickness; a disease with no known cures.

  The thought that she might not love me at all though, not even a little, that’s terrifying. My life is devoted to her and she isn’t even my wife. She’s made no declaration of her feelings. I know she cares, I’m not that foolish…just desperate to hear those three words, that’s all. I need some driving reassurance to cling to. Proof that everything I’m doing is for a reason—for more than just a charitable cause.

  This is more than donating an organ to save someone else’s life, or feeding a homeless person on the street corner. Both of those are acts of kindness with no expectation of something in return. Call me a selfish bastard, but I want compensation in the form of trade. My time—spent in this period of my life, doing things I loathe and never would have agreed to had I never met her—for hers; the rest of her life. Fair and reasonable, in my opinion considering I’ll probably be going to Hell for half the shit I’ve done in her name. I just hope it’s a swap she’s willing to make.

  Her lip begins to tremble, her legs quaking violently from a particularly skilled move on my part. When a delicate, keening cry escapes her lips, the hairs rise on the back of my neck. A frenetic pulse thrums through me as I lose all focus aside from chasing ecstasy.

  My thrusts become unremitting and untamed, the primal side of me taking over. She claws at my biceps with one hand. The other grips the cushion beside her ass, bracing herself against the onslaught when I slam into her savagely and we both cry out at the same time.

  Chapter Five

  SHE CURLS INTO my torso suspended in my arms, my shoulder providing a pillow for her head as I carry her sagged, exhausted body to bed.

  Two rounds later.

  Three intense, desperate forays of passion.

  Pulling back the luxuriously soft sheets, I lay her out across the bed. I tuck a pillow neatly under her head, drawing the blankets snugly over her. From my peripheral vision, moonlight glints on something in her window and a part of me knows exactly what it is even before my sight hones in on it. The crystal I had given her from my hometown’s Fall Festival hangs there, still chasing away her bad dreams. Strange how something so small can be such a comforting realization. I glance back down at her, a smile tugging at my lips. Dragging my hand across the satiny fabric, I splay her hair out over the pillow so that it’s not tucked under her neck all night. I’m not a chick, so I wouldn’t know, but it seems like it would be irritating and hard to sleep that way.

  Gently, ever so cautiously, I crawl onto the mattress and lay at her side, and a memory stirs.

  ~XoXo~

  I’ve just finished grabbing what I can of my belongings. I chose to pack light. There’s enough in savings to float me for a while without having to dip into more of the life insurance money, and my new employer ensured me I would want for nothing. I believe him; he can afford to pay me well. And he will, per our agreement. New clothes are easily obtainable; it’s the things that we grow attached to that are hard to get rid of. Case in point, I packed three outfits and the rest of my possessions are comprised of things like framed photos, my journal, and even Princess Frou Frou.

  Damn that poor dog that I can’t seem to leave behind. Damn her for choosing to give it such a hideous name. I both hate it and love it. Thinking back to the day when she finally settled on the name, I smile at how I reminded her of her initial idea to wait until the dog showed her personality so we could choose a name that suited her.

  V’s response?

  Well, it turns out Princess Frou Frou is what suits her.

  So, here I am…a man with a dog named something feminine as fuck, making my sexual orientation very questionable—if we were going on pet names alone that is.

  I’m sure my sister would pick up my slack and take over in caring for her when I leave. I just can’t risk it. She’s going to be angry and hurt all over again. Lyra may even grow to hate me, especially after I bailed on the family when Mom died. Even now, she’s both upset and confused over everything that went down with Valley; with the relationship we were carrying on right underneath her nose. Needless to say, my choice to up and leave isn’t going to go over too well with her. Doing this might even burn the bridge to ever repairing our relationship to what it once was.

  But it’s not like I have much choice.

  I’ve worked out everything in regards to taking care of her and Dad. I’ve hired someone to help around the house, doing things like cooking and cleaning, and then assisting with driving Dad to appointments and such
. I combed through various applicants before settling on someone; I purposefully chose someone easy on the eyes, kind, and likeable by Lyra. I’ve tried to make this transition as smooth as possible for my loved ones, but I can’t fix everything. Some things just take time and acceptance.

  Zipping up my suitcase, I collapse back onto my bed for the last time. I’m about to leave my family and the home I grew up in for the second time in my life. I already have an inkling of what that’s like. I’ll miss home once I’m gone, that’s a given. There’s just nowhere else in the world that compares to the place I grew up.

  I roll over, reaching for a pillow—the one V left behind when she packed up and left in the middle of the night.

  “V is one of the least common letters in the alphabet.” My mother’s voice comes to me from an old childhood memory. A humorless laugh echoes off the bedroom walls. It’s crazy how pain opens up the avenue to so many vague and benign facts I never noticed before.

  Take for instance the letter V. Now, every time I see or hear anything having to do with that letter, it reminds me of my V. It may be one of the least common letters of the alphabet, but trust me, it pops up more often than other people realize. In the past few weeks, I’ve learned there are many words beginning with that specific letter; most of them befitting of my feelings or situation in some way.

  A good example would be the one I feel abundantly: Void. The one I now live in is all-encompassing. There was always a sliver of one hanging out in the shadows, in the outliers of my subconscious ever since Mom died. But when Valley and I were done, for good, it stretched and expanded like the universe during the big bang theory.

  Soon, it became a looming presence.

  Before I could even blink, I had become just a molecule floating through its vast expanse. The void became bigger than I was, and eventually, it was hard to remember what my life had been like before it existed.

  Then there’s the string of other relatable ‘V’ words. Virgin, for obvious reasons. She not only gifted me with her virginity—like I wasn’t the perverted older brother of her best friend, but like I was worthy and deserved the fucking prize—she also took mine. Maybe not sexually, but she was my first love. That in and of itself is an even bigger deal than having sex for the first time.

  Vigor.

  Vitality.

  Vivacity. She’s so lovely and so full of life, now that she’s not in mine, it’s like I’m a walking dead man.

  Venom. She flows through my veins like the substance, and with each pump of my heart, she expands into my entire being.

  I slam her pillow over my face, suffocating myself as I try to inhale any bit of her fragrance that might be leftover, hiding deep within the threads. After two months, it’s just not there anymore.

  But I already knew that.

  I really might be going crazy.

  You’re already there, my conscience whispers as I’m reminded of the other day inside the grocery store. I had gone down the personal hygiene aisle, popping the lids open and sniffing all the shampoos and body washes in an attempt to find the one she uses, or anything similar.

  It didn’t work. She’s too fucking unique.

  The action of pulling the pillow away causes a crinkling sound to emerge. Consequently, my pulse picks up speed. Taking a deep breath, I slide away the case. I don’t see anything tucked inside, but then again, that would be too easy to find. I know how she thinks. She’d try to hide whatever it is so that it wouldn’t be easily found.

  Since the pillow is made of down-feathers, there are two layers not counting the case, helping to prevent the spiny ends from jabbing out. Unzipping the outer layer and reaching in, my hand finally lands on a piece of paper.

  I’ve had this stupid pillow for weeks, and it never occurred to me that she left it for a specific reason. Of course she did; it was the one and only belonging that remained in the house when she moved out. I was so torn up, it just never occurred to me.

  Pulling the folded piece of paper out, I eagerly open it. A tingling sensation hums over my skin as I read the four words she had written on the night it all ended.

  I love you too

  ~XoXo~

  Carefully, I rise slowly from the mattress, cautious not to allow the coils to groan as they release my weight. Reaching up to pull the chain of the antique bedside lamp, I begin to retreat from the darkened room.

  “Gray,” her voice is suddenly marked with fear, her eyes wide and alert, “please don’t go.”

  My steps falter. I stand here feeling like Atlas as the heaviness of her words come crashing down on me.

  “Please,” she repeats, softer and less sure this time.

  Before I can even make the decision, my feet are already striding back to the bed, climbing beneath the covers and drawing her to me. Using just the tips of my fingers, I lightly skim along her spine for what feels like hours. She sighs, slowly drifting back to sleep.

  I breathe in her sweet aroma. I listen to each intake and release of air. I observe each rise and fall of her chest. Moonlight streams across her peaceful face. She’s smiling even in her sleep, and I try to memorize it all.

  What feels like eons later, when she’s finally deep in her REM cycle, I retract my arms from around her. Slowly pulling away, I slide off the bed and onto the floor, remaining watchful for any signs that she’s waking, but stupid me can’t take full satisfaction from breaking the rules and making contact with her tonight instead of just standing back and observing from afar like I was supposed to do. Nope, my dumbass isn’t fulfilled by having her three times in one night, or even holding her as she sleeps in my arms.

  I lean down to give her one last kiss before I go. As I pull away, she stirs a bit, and it looks like her lips are moving. When I lean in closer, I realize she’s still asleep, and I can faintly make out my name in a pained timbre, followed by “You’re my home, too.”

  Releasing a shaky breath, I stare longingly at her one last time before leaving the room.

  Not exactly what I’ve always wanted, but definitely enough to make my heart soar and hold me over for a while longer.

  Chapter Six

  Valley

  AS LONG AS I’m with you, I feel at home, at peace. You are my home. The words he whispered to me, what now feels like a lifetime ago, echo through my head as I sluggishly return to reality. Peeling my eyes open, I sit up in a rush once I realize the sun is out and shining brightly.

  What time is it? It looks and feels fairly late in the day. Especially when I don’t ever sleep past eight in the morning and even that would be sleeping in for me. Glancing over, I notice my alarm clock has been unplugged so I grab my phone from the nightstand.

  I unlock it to find it’s already eleven-fifteen AM.

  Shit! I was supposed to volunteer at the library today.

  I begin to dial the number to tell Carol, the head librarian, I’m running late but still plan to come in, when I see both my missed call, text message, and voicemail indicators are all at the top of my screen. Clearing out the digits I’ve already entered, the first thing I pull up are my texts. There’s one from Carol at about eight this morning.

  Carol: Your friend Gray just called. So sorry you’re feeling bad. You take the day to sleep and rest, hopefully we’ll see you on Thursday.

  What the hell?

  I quickly type out a message in response.

  Me: Thanks Carol. See you then.

  God, I forgot about last night. No wonder I dreamed of him right up until the moment I woke up. Gushing with excitement as I recall the details of what happened the prior evening, I call out for him. We never got to the talking aspect of things last night once we got physical. I know Gray. He wouldn’t leave me with so many unanswered questions and with all our conflict unresolved.

  “Gray,” I call again, hoping he’s in the kitchen or passed out on the couch and didn’t hear me the first time.

  I quickly realize that aside from myself, the tiny apartment is empty. If it weren’t for the tota
l disarray of the couch cushions and scraped hardwood floor where we got a little too into it last night, I’d think it was all just a really good dream. Strolling dejectedly back into my room, I freefall onto my bed.

  How could he share those moments with me last night, and then just disappear without a word? I ignore the burning sensation as I fight back the tears attempting to breach the corner of my eyes. When my vision blurs, I know it’s no use, they’ve beaten me.

  I sniff, rolling onto my side away from the blinding sunlight, and just as I do, my eyes land on an envelope propped up on my dresser. Hope blooms in my chest once more. Sitting up, I drop my feet back onto the floor and stand quickly to erase the space between myself and the envelope that wasn’t there yesterday.

  My fingers hover hesitantly over the potential letter. Is it from him or is it just wishful thinking? Maybe Mom crept in and put it there for some curious and unknown reason. I’d almost rather walk out of the room and carry out my day knowing there may be a letter from Gray waiting on me at home than to know for sure he left without a word.

  What if it is from him, but it’s not what I want to hear?

  My hand drops back to my side.

  Or it could be from him to you just saying he went out and would be over later! Stop being such a wussy, Valley.

  I snatch it up before I can chicken out again. I’ve never been one to lack courage, but everything about my feelings for Gray is terrifying, alarming me on a daily basis. Sliding my finger into the small space that isn’t sealed all the way, I tear a slit in the top and lift out the contents.

  From the backside of the paper, I can tell there are letters on the other side due to the heavy handwriting. Slumping to the floor onto my knees, I drop the paper into my lap. I bow my head and close my eyes, trying to steady my shaking hands and the beat of my galloping heart. I practice a breathing exercise of taking a deep breath, holding it for a few moments, and then releasing it slowly. Opening my eyes once more, I mechanically flip the page face up. A familiar writing is revealed once I do, along with a quick sketch at the bottom corner. The sketch depicts a girl curled up asleep on her bed, hair spilling over the pillow beneath her. No secret at all that it’s me in the drawing, or that it was created in haste as I lay there dreaming about him. My eyes scroll up the page to where his words begin.