At Any Moment (Gaming The System Book 3)

by Brenna Aubrey

  “I know you said you wanted to go slow but I didn’t think that meant at a glacial pace…”

  A smile tugged at his mouth and he ran the back of his finger across my cheek. I swallowed and closed my eyes. “I’m sorry, Mia. I promise we’ll hang out all day tomorrow. I’m not going in to work again until next week.”

  I blew out a breath and he bent and kissed me again, this time on the mouth, as if that would appease me. I almost—almost—grabbed his head and forced the issue. He had to be at least a little horny, tired or no.

  I had no idea and no clue how to even go about finding out what his basic issue was. I could ask him, of course. But would I get the truth or some bullshit answer about how he was too tired to answer me? I let out a small sigh and pulled away, planting a brave smile on my face. “I’m sorry about the long work days. I know you were just trying to get over those and it seems like with the time you take with me while I’m sick, you have to work twice as hard when I’m feeling okay.”

  “I don’t mind. I want to be here for you.”

  “Kat can be with me now, on those days. It can’t be pleasant listening to me puke my guts up all day.” And probably the biggest turnoff ever. How could I possibly expect him to desire me after that?

  He frowned. “She can be here for you, too. But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to be. You are my top priority.”

  “I love you,” I said, my voice growing more and more quiet as the conversation continued.

  He leaned in and kissed my forehead, the tip of my nose, my chin. “I love you, too. Goodnight, sweet Mia.”

  I slumped into my room but didn’t close the door. I didn’t close the door these days, full of the hope that he’d be tempted to slip inside. There were enough barriers between us. I didn’t need the physical ones. I knew that if I lay down on the bed now, I’d be tied up in my own sexual frustration for hours. So instead, I went into the bathroom—leaving that door open too—and filled up the large overflow bathtub with hot water.

  After a few minutes of soaking, I fantasized about him coming into the bathroom, pulling his clothes (for some reason they were wet and clinging to his muscular frame) from his body and sinking into the bathtub with me. He’d rub me down with his soapy hands until every inch of me was tingling and screaming for his touch. And then he’d pull me on top of him, enter me while putting his mouth on my breasts.

  I moaned and put my hand between my legs, picturing his beautiful body. The last time I’d seen him naked was when we’d been together in Vegas. But that time, it hadn’t been about making love. There’d been very little love that night. That had been us coming together because we couldn’t stay away. It had been explosive and erotic and utterly intoxicating. But it had resulted in disaster. A moment that had forever changed our lives and that had possibly broken us. And that, at least, had been all my fault.

  Getting myself off these days was always tinged with that guilt—as if some part of myself didn’t believe I deserved to feel sexual pleasure ever again. I still did it but I couldn’t enjoy it the way I had before. The way we had enjoyed each other. And it occurred to me then that this might be the real reason that Adam couldn’t touch me. Because of that last time.

  And now it was occurring to me that that last time might possibly have been our last time ever.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Adam

  After brushing my teeth and changing into my pajamas, my thoughts roiling with our conversation over and over again, I’d decided to go back into Emilia’s room, just for a little while. I hadn’t touched her in any sort of erotic way for over three months. Sure, I was starved for it, and apparently she was too. I’d been keeping her at arm’s length but I could tell she was growing exasperated.

  We’d have to have a talk about it sometime soon. But for now, I trusted myself to give her what she needed without allowing it to go too far. We weren’t ready for that yet. I wasn’t ready. And fuck what my body wanted because I knew the rest of me wasn’t there yet.

  I padded down the hallway and slipped into her dim room, glancing at her empty bed. The light was on in the bathroom and I could hear the sound of splashes from the bathtub. I took a step toward the bathroom before I remembered how shy she was about me seeing her altered body now. I froze next to the doorway, pausing with indecision until I heard the sigh. I took a step back but didn’t move again when she let out a very quiet moan. I closed my eyes, well familiar with those sounds.

  Emilia was getting herself off, likely out of desperation because I wouldn’t touch her. And though it felt like an invasion of privacy to listen at the doorway, I didn’t move, transfixed, my own body reacting to her sighs and moans, remembering how it felt to be the one to evoke that pleasure in her. I loved being in control of her body, being the one responsible for those sounds, that gratification. Was she fantasizing about me while she touched herself?

  I got hard, remembering that it had been just as long for me as it had been for her. And every bit of me wanted to march into that bathroom, pull her wet, naked body against me and do deliciously dirty things to her. But I didn’t move. Instead I leaned against the wall and listened like a perv voyeur. It didn’t take her long before she was gasping quietly with her release. There was nothing explosive or overwhelming about it. Just a natural expression, probably little more exciting than a sneeze or a cough. I went to leave, to give her back her privacy but couldn’t move a muscle when I heard the first sob.

  Her crying was louder than her orgasm had been. I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling an inexplicable tightening in my chest. She sniffed and sniveled and sobbed and I felt sick inside. Because I was powerless to change what she was feeling

  Was it rejection? Was it loneliness? Was I confirming for her that I found her ugly? She was likely running every scenario inside her head but the real one—the deep, bone-wracking guilt that permeated every breath, every heartbeat. The real reason I couldn’t look her in the eyes. Because the last time we’d been together had not been an act of love on my part, but an act of possession. Like a caveman, I’d staked my claim, declared her mine over and over again and taken her. Even the memory of it made my body flush with arousal but my gut writhe in disgust. The things that night had led to had threatened to take her life.

  I stepped quietly out of her room and receded back to my own like a whipped dog. If I’d had a tail, it would likely have been wedged firmly between my legs.

  Needless to say I didn’t sleep very well, but I was determined that we would make it through this. We could talk about it. So the next day I asked chef to pack us a picnic lunch that Emilia could manage to keep down. Simple, organic foods and the requisite ginger chips which, together with the anti-nausea medicine, worked well in keeping her from being too miserable in between her rounds of chemotherapy.

  We’d go out on the Duffy boat, putter around the Back Bay, eat a bit of lunch, maybe get a famed frozen banana at the Balboa Fun Zone before heading back home. With a cheerful smile, Emilia donned a knit cap, wearing her hooded sweatshirt over some jeans, though it was not that cool. She had to be warm but there was no way she was exposing her bald head to the world. Even out here where no one would really notice.

  We passed numerous boats docked in their slips, sea lions lazing in the sun on top of the buoy at the entrance to the ocean. Emilia watched the stretch of mansions go by, remarking on the different, lavish homes belonging to the rich or famous of Southern California.

  And we talked about everything. It was like old times. And she smiled and laughed like nothing wrong or awkward had passed between us the night before.

  “So Heath was telling me about this new thing… about the Star Wars movies.”

  I cocked an eyebrow at her. “What, about the new one coming out next year?”

  “Not really. But, the good news is that after the prequels, it probably can’t suck any worse, so there’s that. And even though all the original actors are pretty old, at least they’ll be in it. So we get to see what Han Solo w
ill be like as a grandpa.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Sounds exciting.”

  “Heath was telling me that there’s a new canon among the first six films. That people should be watching them in what he called ‘machete order.’”

  “Machete order? What the hell is that?”

  “It means you behave as if Episode One had never been made.”

  I raised my brows. “Well, that sounds promising. And does this machete order involve hacking out Jar Jar Binks from the other episodes with a machete?”

  She laughed. “Sometimes the way your mind works really disturbs me.”

  I nodded. “Thank you.”

  “No, machete order states that the Star Wars saga, instead of being about Anakin Skywalker’s rise and fall, as George Lucas would have us believe, is actually about Luke Skywalker.”

  I frowned. “Okay. I’d buy that with Episodes Four, Five and Six, but what about the other two? He’s not even born until the last five minutes of Episode Three.”

  “Yeah, so machete order states that you should start watching the saga with Episode Four, A New Hope, then Episode Five, The Empire Strikes Back.”

  “Okay. I’m with you so far. Those two are my favorites of all of them. Then you stop there, I take it?”

  She frowned at me. “How can you stop there? Empire ends with Han frozen inside carbonite and a prisoner of Boba Fett.”

  I shrugged. “I could live with that mystery if it means I don’t have to sit through three hours of Ewoks in Return of the Jedi to discover how it resolves.”

  “Well, machete order doesn’t involve editing out Jar Jar or the Ewoks. It just states that since the saga is about Luke, you watch A New Hope and Empire Strikes Back first, and then treat Episode Two, Attack of the Clones, and Episode Three, Revenge of the Sith, as flashbacks. Then conclude with Jedi.”

  “So the only thing machete order does is eliminate the existence of The Phantom Menace.”

  “Yep. But it’s worth it, isn’t it?”

  “Hmm. Would be more worth it if someone pulled out a machete and hacked Jar Jar’s head off in the first scene. That’s what I’d call ‘machete order.’”

  She giggled, nibbling on one of her ginger chips. I watched her, a gray knit cap pulled tightly over her head, her beautiful brown eyes peeking out just under the edge. “So how are you feeling?”

  Her mouth twisted and she gave me a look.

  “Yeah, I know I ask you that a lot but I still want to know.”

  “I’m fine. Just great. For a few more days, until the next dose of death.”

  I frowned. “Just means we need to enjoy these days even more, then, don’t we?” She darted an unreadable look at me and turned. Grabbing her glass of ginger ale, she sipped, looking out over the harbor as we puttered along at a measly three knots in the little electric boat. The sea air was bringing a healthy pink flush to her cheeks.

  I took the opportunity of her distraction to admire her. She was lovely, even when obviously ill. And she kept her head up. She was braver than anyone else I knew. My heart swelled with pride to recognize that in her. I just wished I knew what monologue was going on inside that head of hers when I saw those flashes of pure sadness pass like a ghost through her eyes.

  I wished we could do things over, apply a brand of machete order to our own lives. There was a lot about how I’d handled things between us that I wish I could just cut out. But there was no way out of this Hell but straight through it, with the dogged hope that our love would still be intact on the other side.

  “Emilia…”

  She turned, her eyebrows drawing together in a tight frown. I opened my mouth to continue but the way she was watching me caused me to pause. “What’s wrong?”

  “You don’t call me that anymore…or at least you haven’t. You’ve been calling me Mia like everyone else.”

  “Oh. Yeah…”

  “I liked it. I was wondering why you’d stopped.”

  I opened my mouth and then closed it. The reason I’d stopped calling her by her full name had everything to do with the reason I’d started. When we’d first met, it had been a way to verbally intimidate her. Then it had grown into a habit. Her name, her full name, to me, was a term of endearment. The name that no one but me called her. But I couldn’t help but remember that every time I’d tried to claim her, to pull her into my orbit, I’d changed her life irrevocably and not always for the better.

  I took a deep breath. “I wasn’t sure you liked it…you didn’t, at first.”

  She looked at me, her face very serious. “You’re right. I didn’t like it…at all.” She turned and gazed out over the bay again, a small smile on her lips. “But I was determined I would never give you the satisfaction of letting you know that.”

  “But…that changed?”

  She reached up and tucked her hand under her hat, rubbing her scalp. ‘Yeah…I started liking it. A lot. I think sometime around the first night we spent on your yacht. It’s not like I’ve hated my full name…it was just never…me. But that night…” She took a deep breath and then let it go shakily. “I began to realize it was the way you thought of me. Of who I was to you…the way you said my name sounded so right.” She glanced at me shyly and then away, smiling.

  That pride I’d felt earlier was morphing into something else—this muted joy of just being in her presence, of enjoying every moment with her. But we had things to discuss…

  “So I was thinking that maybe we needed to talk,” I began.

  She turned to me, her eyebrows raised, and I patted the seat next to me. I couldn’t move to her because I was seated behind the steering wheel of the boat. She frowned, scooting down the bench to sit beside me.

  “We have been talking,” she said, glancing up at me a little nervously.

  “Sure…but I thought maybe…about last night?”

  Her mouth fell open and she looked away. “What’s to talk about?”

  I drew in a long breath and then let it go. “Well, I get the feeling that you’re not so keen on the ‘going slow’ plan.”

  She closed her mouth and then, without looking at me, shrugged. “I’m just not sure what it’s supposed to accomplish.”

  I turned, suddenly uncomfortable, focusing on the polished wood of the steering wheel, running my thumb over the smooth surface. “It’s not because I don’t want to. You understand that, right?”

  She looked down, clasping her hands together in her lap. “It’s hard to understand what’s going through your head regarding sex these days…”

  “I just want to do things right this time. I’m…I’m scared of screwing up again.”

  “I thought—” she said, and cut herself off, shaking her head.

  “What?” I prodded. “Tell me what you thought.”

  “I thought it was because you resented me.”

  I frowned, watching her. She still couldn’t meet my eyes so I reached out, took her chin and lifted her eyes to mine. “I admit that…I still have some issues about your keeping this from me when it all started. It…makes it hard…” My voice died out before I let myself complete the thought.

  But she understood perfectly what I’d been getting at. “You don’t trust me.”

  I swallowed. Yes, it was true. I didn’t trust her—not fully, not after last time. But I was determined to find that trust again. And I would.

  We still had a long road to her recovery—she had months more of chemo treatments in front of her. We had time. “I think we both need time…to learn to trust each other again. To learn how to be healthy—not just physically but in our relationship, too. I believe that we need to be slow and rational about this.”

  Her eyes looked slightly haunted as she nodded. “Rational. Right. So until we figure that out, we’re just…roommates.”

  Navigating this conversation was beginning to feel like walking a minefield. I took a deep breath, dropped my hand from her chin. “If being deeply in love with someone but not having sex with them counts as roommates…
”

  Her brow furrowed but a small smile played about her mouth. Something in what I’d said had pleased her. Perhaps it was the reassurance that I loved her. Perhaps that was what she sought whenever she pressed me for intimacy. I resolved to reassure her more often that I did love her. Very much.

  “Come here,” I said.

  And she leaned forward. I kissed her and felt no fear that she would attempt to pull me into something deeper like she often had tried, of late. I tasted her lips—with that hint of ginger chips—as always just as sweet as I remembered. When I pulled away, she was smiling. That smile did amazing things to me—made me slightly disoriented. That magical moment, those few split seconds after our lips left each other, contained all of the thrill and excitement of those first days we had spent together, quickly—if reluctantly—falling in love.

  I opened my mouth to tell her again that I loved her. But she held her hand up and turned her head away, looking as if she was trying to fend off a sneeze.

  “Just a min,” she said, her eyes half closed, and then she let loose with the most violent chain of sneezes I’d ever seen from her. People in nearby boats looked over, shocked by the loud sounds coming from our boat.

  At one point I thought I’d have to grab her to prevent her from falling into the water. She’d sneezed a grand total of five times in a row and had to hold still afterward, convinced that she’d start again in seconds if not.

  But she didn’t, thank God. I handed her a wad of tissues and she blew her nose a few times and then sat back with relief on her flushed features. “Wow…where the hell did that come from?”

  But I could only stare, because I just realized that something was very, very wrong. She frowned at me but only one of her eyebrows lowered—because the other one had, it appeared, been completely blown off by all the sneezing.

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, to say something or allow her to keep the illusion for a short while longer—until her next glimpse in the mirror, anyway—that she still had her brows and lashes. Because it appeared that they were not long for the world. They’d finally succumbed, also, to the chemo.