Royal groans, and I take his thick erection in my hands, pumping and bringing my lips to the tip. My tongue swirls his head, and I lower my mouth again and again, fitting as much as I can. The salty sweet taste of pre-cum hits the back of my throat, and I happily swallow, eager for more.
He gathers my hair in a ponytail, keeping it out of my face as I lick and pump and suck.
“Fuck, Demi . . .” He releases a sigh. With my elbows against his thighs, I feel him tense. He pulls me up, vacating my mouth, and lunges for the button of my jeans.
I’m weak.
I’m a mess.
I’m probably going to regret this in the morning.
But I don’t care.
I want to hate him. I should make him stop. But this feels too damn good.
Royal pulls me into his lap as soon as he’s stripped the rest of me. His jeans are tugged down enough that it’s my sensitive flesh against his. I circle against him, feeling his girth pressing against my seam and knowing one quick move is all it would take for him to be inside me.
And fuck, do I want him inside me.
More than I ever thought I would.
His hand grips the base of my neck, and he trails kisses along my shoulder. I sink down, rubbing myself against his shaft, hinting, pushing, persuading for him to make the next move. Royal’s fingers travel between my thighs, slipping between my seam and pushing deep inside me. One, then two. His thumb circles my clit. Just enough pressure.
He was the first boy in high school who ever fingered me, and I press a bitten smile against his neck so he can’t see the giddy nostalgia I’m wearing on my face.
This is living history, he and I.
A faded memory playing in real time.
And it makes me unreasonably happy.
His fingers are buried, curling, gently stroking. But it’s not enough. Once again, I want more.
Our eyes meet in the dim living room.
“You’re so fucking sexy, Demi.” His voice is a growl, coming from deep within.
I blush because he won’t take his eyes off me. He’s feasting on every inch of my body, his gaze dragging from my eyes to my mouth to my breasts as they bounce with each shift of my circling hips.
When he looks at me like he owns me, I forget how to breathe.
Slipping his fingers from me, his hands curl around the curve of my hips. He guides me off his lap and lays me back on the sofa. Kneeling between my thighs, he climbs on top of me.
My heart gallops, pounding so hard that I find myself somewhere between a panic attack and that feeling you get when you’re at the very top of a hill on a rollercoaster.
This is happening.
Oh, God, this is happening.
The head of his cock grazes my inner thigh.
He’s still rock hard.
For me.
Pulling his wallet from his pocket, he produces a gold foil packet. I don’t ask. I don’t want to know if he always carries it or if he brought it here tonight because he knew, in his heart of hearts, that this was going to happen.
I try not to think, because in the end, it doesn’t matter.
Royal Lockhart is going to fuck me.
And I’m going to let him.
I’ll deal with the consequences later.
He sheaths himself and grips the base of his cock, pressing the tip against my clit and sliding down the seam. One solid shove, and he fills me.
My nails dig into the meat of his arms. They fill my palms. I don’t remember his arms being so big before. And his weight on me is heavier. Everything about the way he feels serves to remind me that he’s all man now.
He cups my right ass cheek, his free arm keeping him propped above me, and he pulls me closer, harder into him. Driving into me, he goes deeper with each thrust. I swear my heart hiccups with each insertion. I stare into the familiar eyes of this stranger, this version of Royal I’ve yet to get to know, and I’m briefly washed in peace.
Looking into his eyes, Royal feels like home.
Or maybe this is what closure feels like.
Either way, it doesn’t last long.
I focus on his lips, the dip in his left tricep as it flexes with each thrust, and the intensity of his weighted stare as it helps itself to every exposed inch of my body. But none of it distracts me from the niggling feeling that he’s just going to leave me all over again.
Is this what happens? Is this what other people do? They run into their old flames and have one last run for old times’ sake? And then they move on with their lives?
“You’re going to leave again, aren’t you?” I say.
His face scrunches, and he stops, his cock buried inside me.
“Demi, what the hell are you talking about?”
“After this.” My hands skim down his back, resting just above his perfect, tight ass. “You’re going to disappear again.”
“Never.” He kisses me long. Hard. Our lips dance as his hips thrust again and again. “I’m never leaving you again, Demi. I love you.”
When we were younger, the first time he told me he loved me was the first time he’d ever said it to anyone. It wasn’t easy for him to say then, but I don’t know this Royal.
Royal fucks me, his strokes deeper, harder, like he wants me to feel his love. I cup his face and bring his lips to mine, relishing in his taste.
I’m not going to tell him I love him.
No need to complicate this any further.
Besides, the Royal I loved was nineteen and charismatic and sweet and funny. I’m not entirely convinced that man and this man are even the same people. For all intents and purposes, I’m basically fucking a stranger. A dark, handsome, seductive, tragically sexy stranger with a familiar gaze that makes my stomach somersault.
And the man I love—the one I’ve ruthlessly pined for over the last seven years—he doesn’t exist anymore.
Only the one on top of me, inside me, all over me. Infusing his broken, damaged spirit with mine and weighing me down so I don’t float away.
Chapter 18
Demi
I clean up in the bathroom, staring in the mirror at a version of myself I don’t quite recognize.
My body’s reeling, and if I’m being honest, I could run right back downstairs and climb on top of Royal and go another round.
Guilt rests at my surface, but I’m choosing to ignore it. At least for now.
I wash my face and mentally list all the reasons why fucking Royal was a perfectly justified thing to do.
I’m single. Technically.
Brooks is a cheater.
Brooks is a fraud.
Brooks is a liar. And an asshole. And a control freak. And a pretentious son of a bitch.
I take back that last part. Brenda’s not a bitch. Far from it. She’s the only good thing about Brooks.
A little voice in the back of my mind shames me for seeking quiet vengeance on a comatose man, but I shut it down. Just because someone’s not conscious does not mean they’re immune to all the ways they’ve fucked people over when they were conscious.
Giving myself a once-over, I consider brushing my hair into a topknot, but I kind of like this lived-in, sex-hair look going on. It’s almost cute. And I don’t want to make it super obvious that I did anything to my hair, because then Royal might get the wrong idea.
As of now, it was only sex. It was only one time. And I don’t have the energy to try and figure out if it meant anything.
“Hey,” I say when I return to the living room.
He sits on the edge of a sofa cushion, all dressed, and flipping through a classic car coffee table book of Brooks’s.
Royal’s lips pull at one corner when he sees me, and I’m relieved when I realize this doesn’t have to be awkward. I take a seat next to him and fold my legs beneath me. His hand goes to my knee.
“God, I missed you, Demi. I missed fucking you and kissing you and being with you and . . .” he leans in, sweeping my hair from my face and cupping my cheek. His lips fin
d mine, and once again, I find it hard to breathe.
“Let’s not complicate things.” I come up for air, gasping. “You shouldn’t have any expectations.”
“I don’t.”
“And I’m still mad at you for everything.”
“You have every right.”
“I’m not in a position to be with anyone right now.”
“Of course.”
I check out his hair. It’s all mussed up from running my fingers through it, but damn, is it sexy. It’s short on the sides and long on top, thick and lush. He always had the best hair.
“I don’t think you should stay over,” I say, not wanting to set a precedent. Last thing I need is some nosy neighbor telling everyone I’m entertaining gentlemen every night.
“Didn’t plan on it.”
His fingertips trail my arm, leaving a path of goosebumps. I shiver the moment they overpower me. Funny how much power this man still wields over me.
A knock at the door sends my heart into a freefall, and a quick glance at the grandfather clock in the corner tells me it’s almost ten o’clock at night.
Royal rises, and I fly to the door, my mouth dry and heart pounding in my ears.
On my toes, I peer through the peephole, take a deep breath, and pull the door open a few inches.
“Brenda,” I say. “What’s going on? What’s wrong?”
Her curious, green gaze falls on my disheveled hair, then the healthy flush on my cheeks, and then she glances over my shoulder.
“Is everything okay with Brooks?” I ask.
“Sweetie, I’ve been trying to call you for the past ninety minutes.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“Brooks’s latest EEG came back. They’re going to start the process of waking him up. I didn’t think you’d want to miss it, you know, in case he wakes up tonight.” Her brows lift, but she’s not smiling. This isn’t like her.
God, I really hope I don’t smell like sex.
Okay. Now I feel guilty.
Now I feel like a shitty human being.
Not once while Royal was deep inside me was I thinking about how this would affect Brenda if she ever found out.
“I’ll pack an overnight bag and meet you down there soon, okay?” I offer a smile and try my damnedest to act elated about all of this. “And I’ll call my family and let them know. I’m sure they’ll want to be there when he wakes up.”
Brenda still won’t smile, and it makes me feel about this big.
I can’t hurt her.
I’ll deal with Brooks and the consequences of what just happened as soon as he’s healthy and well, but the last thing I want is for Brenda to look at me like that again. Like I’ve crushed her sweet soul.
She turns to leave, and I spy her looking at the parked Challenger across the street. Her heels click along the sidewalk until she reaches her Audi, and I give her a wave and close my door.
Royal’s waiting around the corner of the foyer, and he comes to my side.
“Did you hear that?” I ask.
He takes my cheek in his hand, and I place my palm over it. Now’s not the time to let myself enjoy how good it feels to be touched by him again, but God, does it feel good.
“I did.” His jaw sets, his gaze narrowing. “They’re waking him up. Good. He can pay off all those fucking credit cards now.”
“I don’t think this is a good idea.” I blurt my words before I have a chance to change my mind.
“Demi, what are you talking about?”
“You coming around,” I say. “With everything going on . . .”
“Wait.” He pushes a forced breath through flared nostrils. “So now that Brooks is going to wake up, you want to try and make it work with him again? Is that what this is?”
“No.” I wave my hands. “God. No.”
“Then what’s the issue? Because last I knew, you were single. Once he wakes up, he can confirm that, and then I’m pretty sure you can do whatever the hell you want.”
“I just feel guilty about this. Something about it doesn’t feel right,” I say.
“You’re such a fucking Rosewood.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“You have no reason to feel guilty. Brooks was a horrible person. He left you with a huge mess to clean up. He only ever thought about himself. You owe him nothing, especially not your loyalty. Don’t sacrifice your happiness for him.”
“It’s not him. I don’t want to hurt Brenda. She’s been so good to me, and we’ve become close over the years. She needs to hear it from Brooks. Once he tells her he left me, maybe we can move forward, but for the time being, I think we should step away from this for a bit.”
He says nothing, but his lips form a straight line. The hollow of his jaw flexes. I know he’s not satisfied with my proposal, but it doesn’t matter. This is how it has to be.
“You just show up at my door after all this time and expect me to run into your arms and throw the rest of my life—my obligations, my responsibilities—out the window. You can’t possibly be that delusional, right?” My arms fold, and I take a step back. “Just because we fucked doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten how badly you screwed me over. It doesn’t change anything. It was just sex.”
“I can’t walk away from you again, and I’m not going to sit around and wait for you to call.”
“Sucks when the shoe’s on the other foot, huh?”
“It’s not that,” he says. “We wasted almost an entire decade apart. I don’t want to go another day without you in my life. I’ve had a life without you. I don’t want to go back to that.”
“It’s not about what you want, Royal. It’s about doing the right thing.” I can’t believe I’m pushing him away like this. I waited and waited and waited for him to come back, and now I’m kicking him to the curb, despite the fact that he still very much loves me. Am I testing him? Am I doing this out of fear?
“What’s the right thing in this situation? Push away the only man you ever loved because you can’t stand to lose that pillar-of-the-community reputation of yours?”
“This is not about my reputation.”
“Damn right it is. You don’t want people to judge you and talk about you.”
“I don’t want to hurt Brenda Abbott. She’s been a second mother to me.”
“Don’t use Brenda as an excuse. She’s a sixty-year-old, grown woman. She’ll get over you. She’ll move on, trust me.”
“You still haven’t told me why you left.”
Royal groans, slamming a balled fist against the wall to his right. “Are we really having this conversation all over again? Right now?”
My face pinches, stubborn written all over it.
“I told you. Let’s get to know each other again, and I’ll tell you when I’m ready. And when you’re ready.”
“I am ready.”
“No, you’re not.” He grabs his jacket off a nearby coat rack and slips it over his shoulders.
The fact that he’s suddenly leaving on his own accord makes me want him to stay. Just a little.
I pushed and pushed and pushed, and now I’m getting what I wanted.
He’s leaving.
“All right,” he says, jaw clenched. He pulls in a deep breath and stares above my head. “I’m leaving. Because that’s what you want. And you have my number, so . . . guess I’ll wait until you’re ready.”
His hand grips the doorknob before I can protest. But why would I? I asked him to leave. The second he steps foot outside, the ball is in my court.
“I just need some time,” I say, as if seven years apart wasn’t enough time to figure shit out. The only thing I’m absolutely, one hundred percent sure of is that as much as I hate it, I still love this man. And that love is so deep, so much a part of me that I don’t think it’ll ever go anywhere.
I can’t deny it. Can’t ignore it. Can’t hide it. Can’t stuff it into the deep, dark crevices of my heart. His name is permanently tattooed on my soul.
Just like that.
All the things I was thinking about saying in this moment will never see the light of day.
I watch him drive away, and then I pack my bag and head to the hospital.
Chapter 19
Royal
“The fuck you doing here?” I tense up the second I see my younger sister, Misty, leaning against my apartment doors. Her pock-marked face is covered in soggy tears, and her baggy eyes are bloodshot.
When she stands, the stench of unwashed hair and day-old alcohol breath fills the space around us.
“Royal.” She cries, wiping her eyes with the back of her hands like a toddler. “Rick died. He overdosed.”
Fuck.
There goes one of the only two people who know the truth about what happened that night.
“I have no sympathy for you.” I motion for her to move and slide my key in the door. “Leave.”
“I’m sorry, Royal,” she sobs. “For everything.”
“Little late for that.”
“You’re the only brother I have. I need you in my life.” She places a hand on my shoulder, and I brush it off.
“Heard that before.” I snap at her. “And we all know how that turned out.”
“I was just a kid,” she says. “You have to let it go at some point. You have to forgive us and move on from that. We did.”
The fact that my little sister and her forty-year-old boyfriend so casually moved on from the most pivotal event in my young adult life only serves to infuriate me even further.
“You can’t just apologize for something like that,” I say. “What you two did goes beyond apologies.”
“We’re family,” she says. “You can’t hate me forever.”
“Like hell. I can, and I will.”
“I wish I could change what happened.” Her frizzy blonde hair highlights three greasy inches of dark brown roots at the top. The sweater hanging off her bony shoulder has what appear to be moth holes, and her jeans are barely held up by a skinny belt using its last hole.
She’s using again.
Though I’m not sure she ever stopped.
Haven’t seen her in seven years.
Since that night.
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