The Edge of Us

by Veronica Larsen

  Being here tonight feels different. Intimate.

  I swallow back the contents of the glass and set it down in the sink. With Andrew in the shower, I walk around his apartment, taking in the details of the decor. I wonder how many women he's brought home. It's an odd thought, but just because his last relationship ended months ago doesn't mean he hasn't had female company. I'm sure he spares me the nitty gritty details of his sex life.

  Still, we've both been single for months and if he's made a move, I've missed it.

  I've wondered before if I'm even Andrew's type. After all, I chose him to sleep with and, well, I did come on a bit strong. It's rare I catch his eyes wandering, and moments where a silent suggestion settles between us, like the slightest hint of an opportunity, are even more rare. Those times I get the overwhelming sense the ball is in my court and has been since the night I slammed on the brakes.

  And…I don't know why I'm thinking of this tonight.

  I slide open the glass door of Andrew's balcony. It overlooks the courtyard nestled between this building and the next one over. It's a mild spring evening, and the distant sounds of traffic come in waves and lulls, almost soothing, until someone yells out on the street below and a dog starts barking.

  "There's no furniture out there."

  Andrew's voice comes from behind me. I turn to find him coming out of his room. His hair is still damp but smoothed back, giving his appearance a rejuvenated look. His white t-shirt hugs his chest.

  "You want a drink?" he asks, heading over to the kitchen.

  "I'll have whatever you're having."

  There's a clinking of glasses and the rush of liquid as he fills them. He walks to me, a glass of amber liquid in each hand. He hands both of them to me then grabs a couple of pillows and a throw blanket off the couch. I step out onto the balcony and hang back as he lays the blanket down and props pillows against the outside of the doors for us to lean on. Andrew takes his drink from my hand and sits on the blanket.

  "Are we sitting on the floor like animals?" I ask.

  He peers up at me, his brows rising over his clear blue eyes to form lines on his forehead, but his attempt at a serious glare brings an unexpected flutter to my stomach.

  "My house, my rules."

  "Alright, settle down," I say, suppressing a small smile.

  I lower myself down next to him and fold my legs into a comfortable position. The bars of the balcony railing now splice the view.

  "I feel like I'm in jail," I joke, cradling my drink in my hands.

  "A man was stabbed out here last month."

  "On your balcony?"

  "No, out on the sidewalk."

  "Oh," I say. "But…just one man, right?"

  He laughs with the glass halfway to his mouth. The sight shifts the weight that's been sitting on my chest all day. Andrew will crack the smallest of chuckles at my jokes every once in a while, but very rarely is he forced to admit he thinks I'm funny.

  "What made you decide to come over?"

  I open my mouth to answer then close it again until I bring the drink to my lips and take a sip. I could tell him I sensed he didn't want to be alone, but he'd just deny it.

  "What is this stuff?"

  "Dominican rum."

  "I wouldn't have pegged you for a rum guy."

  "I would hope you never peg me at all."

  I snort.

  "You haven't answered my question about why you decided to come over."

  I sigh, then shrug.

  "It's been a really rough day, and being around you just makes it all suck a little less—don't get a big head about it."

  "Too late." He pauses to take a drink and when he speaks again, his tone grows somber. "Man, you're really taking Kreisler's news pretty hard."

  Of course, that wasn't the only news that rattled me today, but there are things I can't bring myself to talk about either. I change the subject because Andrew's expression grows more and more curious.

  I bait him into arguments to distract him.

  Our glasses get refilled, and we do what we do best—argue about things that don't matter and make bets we'll never follow up on. The night comes to life around us, the creaking of bugs, distant voices, and even fainter sirens.

  Why? Why can't I bring myself to tell Andrew about Cole's invitation? Is it because I'm afraid of what he might say? Am I worried he'd agree with me, or worse, agree with Camille?

  A question slips from my thoughts and out of my lips.

  "What would you do if Amber came looking for you?"

  Andrew's demeanor changes in an instant. His arm is stiff as it raises the glass to his lips. He takes a large drink but is slow to swallow it, unconcerned I'm waiting for his answer.

  "I told you," he says. "I don't want to talk about her. And she wouldn't come looking for me. You know that. You know what I did."

  We grow quiet for several seconds and for the first time, an uncomfortable silence creeps between us, making me aware of every nuance of the night around us.

  In the flash of an instant, I see it. I see Andrew through Amber's perspective. It's jarring. And yet, even knowing what he did, even understanding why she could never forgive him, I can't wrap my head around the Andrew I know, with his big heart and sometimes charming personality, being the bad guy.

  With Cole, I was kept in the dark in such a cruel way. But Amber has always had all the answers, known all the reasons, seen the whole picture.

  Is that why she's been able to move on?

  I let pain solidify into hatred until I could convince myself I didn't want answers anymore. It never mattered, though, because I didn't have a choice but to remain in the dark.

  I look over at Andrew, who's still tense from the mention of his ex. Why haven't we moved on—Andrew and I? Why have we allowed relationship after relationship to slip through our hands?

  I drink some more and breathe in deeply, seeking relief, but the night air goes down like sandpaper.

  "I'm sorry I brought her up," I say. "I wasn't thinking."

  "It's fine."

  "No, I hate seeing how angry you get with yourself."

  "I know. Me too."

  A realization settles over me, elusive like a feather, teasing at the corners of my mind. We take a drink in unison.

  "Drew? Can the rum ask a lame question—but not about exes?"

  He eyes me in a careful way he never has before. I can feel the intensity in my own stare, my head abuzz with questions. It can't be the drink that's plunging my thoughts into a fog.

  He sighs. "Fine."

  "If we met today, do you think we'd be friends?"

  Andrew stares at me for a moment, then scratches his brow and laughs. "No, I don't think we would."

  I sit up, taking offense. "No?"

  "Let's be honest, Mila, if we met today—and I'm talking right now at this point in our lives—we would've fucked once, maybe twice, and never seen each other again."

  My mouth falls open. I shake my head and let out a low whistle, which comes out broken because I can't actually whistle.

  "Andrew Pearson. You'd hit it and quit it? You're stone cold."

  "Me?" Andrew's hand flies to his chest and now he's the one who's offended. "No, I say that because of you. You're the one who doesn't keep a guy around if there's even the smallest chance of something real."

  I tilt my head, my brows furrowing. These words are even harder to process.

  "Sorry, what? The guys who didn't stick around weren't worth my time. Am I supposed to settle?"

  "No, that's not what I meant."

  I think back to what he said, my head fuzzy from the rum.

  "Wait, you're saying I'm commitment phobic? Fine, but then, what are you? Why haven't you been able to keep a serious relationship either?"

  Setting his drink down, he leans back, biceps flexing as he crosses his arms behind his head.

  "I don't see a reason to."

  "Why can't that be my excuse too? Hmm? Oh, that's right, because my vagina
can't possibly see the point in sex unless it's with a man who can agree to take care of me."

  "I don't make the rules."

  I snatch the pillow from behind my back and hold it up over my head. "Do you want to die? Because I will smother you to death right now for that sexist bullshit."

  He brings his hands around to hover at his sides, ready to react.

  "You're adorable when you're angry, Mila. I think you actually grow a few inches when steam comes out of your head."

  "You're dead."

  I draw up to my knees and swing the pillow with all my strength, but he's too quick. He grabs it from my hand and flings it aside. I flail around trying to reach it, but he wraps an arm around my middle, trapping me on top of him. At first I'm too busy struggling to notice my real predicament but once he loosens his hold, our laughter dies away in unison.

  Andrew's pulled me right onto his lap, our faces inches apart. My breath catches for a second and he seems caught in a trance, his eyes softening as he takes in my features.

  Him eyeing me this way, it feels good, fills me with a giddiness beyond the reach of the alcohol. Like the first taste of something you never realized you craved.

  He moves his hand from where it had landed on my leg down to his side. Maybe it's the alcohol or the insane pounding of my heart, but I take his hand in mine and put it back on my thigh. He glances down at it, but doesn't say anything.

  "Drew?"

  "Yeah?"

  Something lights up behind his eyes. Our entire friendship has walked a tightrope, hinging on a silent understanding, so confusing I've never been brave enough to question it. Until now.

  "How come we've never…?"

  "How come we've never what?" he asks.

  I swallow at the sound of his voice. It's different from the one he normally uses with me. Lower, feral at the edges. Every second I'm on his lap heat pools between my thighs, suffocating my thoughts.

  "How come we've never…done anything?"

  Andrew's gaze slides down to my lips. He wets his own. And I can't come up with a reason for why our faces shouldn't be this close.

  "You know why," he says, "you were there. I didn't want to be that guy, trying to get with you when you were vulnerable."

  He tucks my hair behind my ear then softly grazes the side of my face with his knuckles.

  "What about now?"

  He breathes out a small breath, so slight I'd miss it if my face wasn't right in front of his, and says, "You tell me."

  Neither of us moves and gravity works to pull our faces closer, millimeter by millimeter. I turn my face from his. The spell that held our lips a breath apart breaks, but I'm still tingling all over even when I slide off Andrew's lap and get to my feet. He doesn't look up at me. His shoulders sag a fraction, and he scrubs a hand across his face.

  It's the rum. It's the rum. It's the rum.

  But I don't care. My body moves as though controlled by an instinct I've kept caged for years. I come down over him, setting a knee down on either side of him. His wide eyes stare up at me, hovering overhead. I take his face into my hands. His mouth parts on an intake of air when I press my lips to his and kiss him.

  Our mouths move with a wicked slowness, both succulent and agonizing. Each caress of his tongue sends a pulse through me. My hair falls over one side of our faces and his hands rub up my legs, settling at my hips. And with each second, the kiss rages deeper until I'm unable to catch my breath.

  I pull back, enough for our lips to graze and our foreheads to touch. His breath brushes against my lips, awakening a desire to have his mouth on mine again.

  He kisses me first this time. And it builds into a frenzy in seconds until I'm throbbing all over. I'm still kneeling over him, too aware of the space between my lower body and his. I start to sink down onto his lap, but his hands tighten over my hips, holding them where they are.

  "Wait. I don't want to fuck this up."

  At first, I don't understand what he means, but when I ignore his warning and bring my body flush with his, I understand. Somehow, this, more than the kiss, changes everything. There's no denying how turned on he is, rock hard and pushing back against me in just the right spot. The effect is immediate, a sudden shiver runs up my spine, and I suck in a breath against his lips right before he speaks again.

  "We're in trouble now."

  NINE

  ANDREW

  I HADN'T FELT THE rum until the moment she crashed down on me. I'm buried under an avalanche of need eight years tall. I never expected this to happen. How could I ever imagine she'd climb over me like this? So bold. So fucking sexy.

  Her forearms rest on my shoulders, her hands in my hair. My dick is rigid in my pants and she drags her weight up and down my lap like she enjoys discovering the outline through my pants.

  And fuck if it doesn't feel good as hell.

  "Should I stop?" she asks against my mouth.

  "Abso-fucking-lutely not."

  My hands ache to tear off her clothes and run down her bare skin. If she were any other woman I'd get impatient. I'd want her naked already, flat on her back with her legs around my neck. I'd want her screaming nice and loud for the whole damn neighborhood to hear.

  But this is Mila. How many times have I seen her walking in front of me with that tight little ass and imagined what it would be like to bury myself inside of her? No way I'm rushing a second of this. A part of me thinks this might be all in my head. The moment seems fragile, wrapped in a bubble of lust and on the cusp of breaking at any moment.

  If this is all I'll ever get of her, I need to enjoy the hell out of it. I take her mouth with mine and savor the taste of rum on her tongue. I'm already drunk off her. She grinds on me like a fucking dream, mindless and delicious, like she's got an itch she's been dying to scratch. She does it again and again¸ until we've forgotten our kiss and enjoy just the pressure her body places on my cock. I'm losing my mind here, so hard I might burst through my pants.

  "Oh," she breathes out, so low I'm not sure she meant for me to hear.

  I steal a glance at her beautiful face, eyes closed, lips parted just enough for the faintest moans to drift from them. She's really into it, she's got to be so fucking wet.

  Don't ask. Don't ask.

  "Do you know what would feel even better?" my dick asks.

  My fingers slip under the hem of her shirt, grazing the skin of her stomach as I reach the front of her pants. She lets out a sudden breath and freezes. I shut my eyes. I've just tipped the house of cards. The delicate set of elusive circumstances that somehow led us to this moment.

  "Wait," she says, her voice small. "What are we doing?"

  "This…" I close my hands over her ass and urge her even closer, holding her tight against the tent in my pants. "We're doing what feels good. And fuck, Mila. This feels so good."

  She buries her face in my neck and the movement brings her hair by my cheek. The scent of her shampoo washes over me. Sweet, subtle, intoxicating. I breathe it in. She goes still, too still.

  "Mila?"

  "Oh my God," she says. "Oh my God, what am I doing?"

  Her voice is muffled, but she sounds mortified.

  "Mila, look at me."

  She shakes her head, keeping her face hidden in my neck. I shut my eyes and hold her. The situation in my pants is now an awkward intrusion, and she's still sitting squarely on top of it. Damn it. I was slow, so careful not to ruin the moment, I allowed bullshit thoughts to slip into her head. If I'd done my job right she wouldn't be thinking about anything else but how good I felt inside her right now.

  Seconds creep past, each one sobering me up, but I can't form coherent thoughts with her on top of me like this. I slide her off to sit beside me. She stares straight ahead.

  "Drew, I'm so sorry."

  "Don't apologize to me. I enjoyed that very much. We can pick it back up anytime, no problem."

  She laughs, shakes her head, then rubs her face with her hands.

  "No, it's just…everything to
day just fucked with my head."

  "Did something else happen?"

  She gets to her feet, still not looking at me. I stand up too, and turn to face her. Taking her chin in between loose fingers, I nudge her face upward until her eyes meet mine.

  "Mila, don't go. Everything's fine. Look, what happened just now, it doesn't have to be anything you don't want it to be."

  "No, Drew," she says, frowning. "It was impulsive and reckless. It was a mistake, and I'm sorry."

  She turns away, slides open the door, and walks back into the living room. I stare after her, like I'm seeing her for the first time since the moment we met. What we did just now? It wasn't a mistake. It was the realization of something so obvious, I don't know why it took this long to hit us in the face.

  Mila and I, we make sense together.

  We make so much fucking sense, and I'm going to prove it to her.

  TEN

  MILA

  I ONLY HOPE THE weekend was enough time to flush away the awkwardness of the situation. Being around Andrew has always felt good in a way I can't describe, but climbing on top of him was like realizing I've had a ticket to a rocket that could shoot me right out of this world.

  I'd been too comfortable with my surroundings to anticipate falling under a spell of longing. Our proximity dragged me into a haze and I couldn't stop long enough to think. It's been a while since I've been turned on like that. I led with secret urges and relished the confirmation Andrew felt the same. But now, the encounter is just another layer of mindfuck on top of everything I'm still trying to wrap my head around.

  That kiss, it was the most incredible kiss I've had since—

  "Stop it," I scold myself, aloud.

  But it's too late.

  A different memory slams into me, materializing in my mind's eye too fast for me to push it away. It's from a long time ago, yet the details are as clear as if it'd been last night.

  I stood in the middle of Tobias's New Year's Eve party, growing impossibly warm in my cardigan and sweater dress as I flirted with the most intriguing man I'd ever met. We talked and talked for what seemed like forever, and I was surprised at how much I enjoyed our conversation.