by Leia Stone
"I suppose so." I look at my wine. It's half empty but I don't remember drinking it.
“You ghosted me.” His voice is small. “We promised to go to college and meet back here. I … waited for you.”
My heart breaks in that moment and I reach across the table to squeeze his hand.
"I’m sorry.” I meet his gaze. “Every day after the abortion, we chose not to acknowledge it. We buried it alongside our grief and pretended we weren't heartbroken. We lied to each other, and the whole time we were slipping further and further from one another. Then, when you came to see me at Santa Clara, you exploded."
His head hangs in shame. “I know. I’m sorry.”
I shrug, pulling my hand back. “It’s okay, but it’s the reason I ghosted you.”
There, I said it. I admitted he was to blame for some of this whole thing and it felt good.
He nods. "The entire time, the only thing I wanted was to take you into my arms and hold you." Owen struggles to get control of his voice.
I push away the burning in my throat. "And I thought you were disgusted by me. By my body and my choice."
"Never." Owen's denial is delivered on a fervent whisper. "I felt so far removed from you. I didn't know how to help you, when I couldn't even help myself. And to make it all that much more fucked up, I couldn't even identify why I felt the way I did. We only had each other to turn to, and instead we turned away."
"I couldn't look at you," I choke out, my eyes watering. "I couldn't even stand looking at myself."
Our server approaches, ill-timed, to drop off the check. I use the break in intense conversation to look off to the side, surreptitiously wiping my eyes and checking the moisture on my fingers for runaway mascara.
Owen pays the bill, and this time I don't argue.
On the way out the door, I thank him.
"Would you like to walk around?" he asks. Behind him, the courtyard has come alive with strings of white lights, and somewhere nearby I hear the strains of live music. He offers me a hand, waiting for my answer. I’m not ready for the night to end.
I nod, slipping my warm palm into his. We walk along, admiring the many artist galleries, the boutiques, the store that sells only gemstones and minerals.
As we walk on through the village, the pedestrian traffic is moderate. Tlaquepaque is so beautiful it draws locals and tourists alike. One visit provides a taste of what it has to offer, but I could never tire of its unique beauty.
"Are you ready for dessert?" Owen asks, pointing to an ice cream shop.
"Most definitely," I say with more exuberance than intended, making Owen laugh at me. On the way in, I notice the storefront beside the ice cream shop is dark, and for a quick second I wonder what used to be there. The thought is quickly replaced by the smell of sugar.
Owen scoffs when I order. "I can't believe you still order peanut butter chocolate."
I frown as they hand him his cone over the case. "Says the guy who ordered vanilla."
"It's classic," he argues, head bent to lick the side.
“It’s boring.”
I'm handed my cone, and this time I pay.
Finally, I win the argument.
We take our treats outside, seeking out a bench near yet another water fountain.
"I love that sound," I say, tipping my head back and closing my eyes, a bite of ice cream melting on my tongue. When I open my eyes, I find Owen's gaze piercing into me, leaving no room for me to wonder what he's thinking.
"I wish you'd gotten ugly," he whispers.
"What? Why?" I ask, my tongue coming out to lick at the corners of my lips. There isn't any ice cream there; it's anticipation I feel.
"Because now I have to do this." He tosses his half-eaten cone into a nearby trash can and gently cups my cheeks with his palms.
His lips are soft, searching, and I yield to him automatically, offering myself without reservation. As our tongues sweep against each other, heat pools between my legs. Our kiss is cold, and tastes like sugar and absolution.
When Owen pulls away, he drags his lips across my skin. "Do you want to come home with me?" His invitation, his smell, his tone of voice, they are enough for me to get drunk on.
"Yes," I murmur into the summer air.
Hopefully, this chastity jumper is about to get torn off me.
Owen kisses me again, stealing all my breath, until my hand turns into a sticky mess from melting ice cream.
"I feel like you're a real adult,” I muse, looking out the car window at Owen’s house.
We've just pulled into the half-circle driveway and he’s cut the car’s engine. He owns his own house, a nice house in the good part of town, and it’s weird to think of Owen with a mortgage.
Owen throws a smile at me. "And you're not? You moved to Manhattan. You stayed in Manhattan. Until now."
I guess that does seem pretty adult-ish of me. I certainly felt like an adult striding around the office, working late hours, climbing the ladder. But then I come back to Sedona, jobless, and back to square one. Owen has a career and a house. What's next? A family? Judging by the size of this place, that's the next step in a natural direction.
"True," I agree, peering out the windshield at Owen's house. It's a beautiful home in uptown, close enough to the shops and Main Street, but not too close. Like Goldilocks, it's just right.
"Do you want to come inside? I have wine. Or not. Whatever you want." Owen's hands splay the air between us. "Shit, I’m nervous," he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Hey." My fingers find his thigh, pushing down until he looks over at me. "I want a glass of wine. Inside. Preferably with a view of the stars, if you have it."
Preferably with you naked and doing that yummy finger stuff from before.
His face softens, his frustration melting away. “I can do all that.”
He climbs from his car, and as he’s rounding the back, I flip open the visor mirror and do a quick check. My door opens and Owen's palm hangs in the open space, offering to help me out. Grabbing my purse, I take his offered hand.
He pulls me from the open door and closes it behind me, spinning me around once, slowly.
"Were you always such a gentleman?" I tease.
He was. Always. But I’d forgotten.
I let go of his hand, only to loop my arm through his, and we walk up the steps to his front door.
"I don't think so," he replies, pulling his keys from his pocket. "I was a horny teenager who only wanted one thing."
My shoulders shake with quiet laughter. "How is that different from right now?"
The lock slides out of its spot, and the sound is thunderous. Or is it my heart that I hear, beating away furiously in my chest?
Owen's eyes find mine, and they are so full. Of longing, concern, and a primal hunger. We are stuck here on the threshold, balancing on a precipice, dangerously close to falling over.
I don't know what tomorrow will bring. I don't have next steps. I've left behind my job and my life in NYC to come home and care for my mother, and instead I’ve found my old life waiting right where I left it.
But I do know what I want tonight.
Owen.
So I'm the one who turns the doorknob and the first to step into the dark house. And Owen follows behind me.
He understands what I've done, the statement I've made, and takes over. He steps around me in the entryway, flipping a switch. Light floods the living room. This place may have been built thirty-plus years ago, but the inside is recently remodeled. The floor is a ruddy reddish color, the tiles enormous. The walls are light, the furniture contemporary. The cathedral ceiling with exposed beams is the perfect complement to the style of the home.
"It's gorgeous," I tell him, impressed.
"Thanks. I can't take the credit though. Not really. I had help."
My stomach seizes. I nod, but don't ask. I don't want to know who has been beside him during the years I've been gone.
Owen leads me deeper into the house, and I fo
llow. He steps into another room and turns on another light. The kitchen.
There is a large, butcher-block island, and the cabinets are navy blue with copper-colored handles. I hate how much I like what she picked out, whoever she was.
"Red or white?" Owen asks from where he stands beside the stainless-steel fridge.
"White," I answer. I'm feeling warm. I need something cool.
He opens the fridge, and I watch him reach in, all the way to the back. His shirt pulls up, revealing just a peek of skin, only a few inches, but what I see is tan and toned. My tongue sweeps through my mouth, moistening the sudden dryness.
He pulls away from the fridge, bottle in hand, and walks to a cabinet. After opening it, he selects two stemless white wine glasses and pours us each a drink.
Walking over to me slowly, he hands it to me. "I believe the stars were your next request?"
I swallow the lump in my throat and nod. I was the brave one, taking the first step, the biggest step, over the threshold and into his house. Now he's the one taking over. And I like it. I need it.
Nerves are creeping in, poking at me like little cactus needles. It's been a long time since we were together. What if it's a letdown? What if our memories have built up something that's impossible to reach?
"Come," Owen says, walking from the kitchen and motioning for me to follow. We walk through another room, but Owen doesn't turn on the light. In the soft glow cast by the kitchen I make out the shape of a pool table and I smile. Bachelor move.
Owen slides open a door and we step outside.
"Oh," I say without thinking, my voice a low, surprised moan. The sky is inky black, shot through with twinkling stars. Of course I knew it would be, but still, it's breathtaking.
"I know," Owen says, not needing an explanation. He settles into a seat on the outdoor couch, placing his drink on the table in front of him. I sit down beside him, close enough that we're separated by only a few inches, but I can feel the heat from his body. I lean back, and Owen tucks an arm over my shoulders.
I can’t believe I’m at Owen’s house, snuggling on his couch and watching the stars with a glass of wine. What that actual fuck is happening? I like it. I like grown-up Owen and I like grown-up us. His fingers graze my arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
His hand falls from my shoulder and touches my lower back, slowly stroking my skin through my clothes. The sensation of his fingers, even through the fabric, sends tremors down my spine. I snuggle deeper into him and his eyes darken, and when he speaks, his voice is deeper, huskier, causing my toes to curl.
"That’s Venus,” he points to a star in the sky, “the goddess of love, beauty … and sex."
My heart hammers in my chest, an unsteady and irregular beat.
I place my glass on the table beside Owen's, and when I look back at him, what I see in his eyes steals my breath.
Unconcealed lust, curling through his brown eyes, darkening them to nearly black.
"Owen…" I murmur his name, one word meant to convey so many. I've missed you. I'm sorry we messed up.
With the hand he still has on my back, he urges me forward. I comply; he grips my hip with his other hand, guiding me onto his lap so that I can straddle him.
I sink down onto him, feeling his bulk even through his jeans, a low, distorted moan slipping between my teeth.
"Autumn," he growls, cupping my neck and trailing his hand over my collarbone, down across my chest and into the chasm between my breasts. "So fucking beautiful."
My back arches and I push down harder onto him. His hand drops lower, winding its way around my back and stomach, his fingers searching for an opening in my romper.
"Can't get in," he grits, and it makes me smile.
"I wore it to prevent this from happening," I admit, biting the side of my lip and raising my eyebrows. I don't stop pushing down on his length, grinding against him as if we're fifteen again.
He crooks a grin. "How do I get you out of it?"
"Top down," I breathe.
His hands are at my shoulders, wasting no time. His fingers slip beneath the fabric and I gasp. His touch is searing, and I know, somehow I know, that this is dangerous.
To my heart.
To my head.
The threat is not enough to stop me. I want Owen. I want this night. I want to make up for all our long-ago wrongs.
The thousand cuts that took us down.
Chapter 15
Owen
She's stunning, sitting on top of me like this.
Her mouth opens and she sucks in a breath as my fingers dip under the fabric at her shoulders, tugging it down. For an article of clothing worn specifically to keep her bottom half out of reach, it gives surprisingly easy access to her top half.
The cloth slips over soft skin.
Down.
Down.
Down, until it rests in the crook of her bent elbows. Her bra is white lace, see-through. Her hardened nipples strain against the material. She doesn't lean forward to kiss me, just continues to sit where she is, pushing against the strain in my jeans. She is not shy like she once was, back when we were fumbling hands trying to work out where to put what.
Autumn pulls her arms through the romper and it falls to her waist, exposing her taut, lean stomach. She reaches behind herself, unclasping her bra and pulling it away from her body, dropping it on the couch beside us.
I'm confronted with more beauty than I remember. Her dark hair spills over shoulders, cascading in soft waves down to her breasts. Pert, pink nipples become even stiffer in the open air. My eyes travel lower, down to her bellybutton. There is a small, round scar in the place where a piercing used to be.
Autumn arches her back again, grinding against me, offering her chest. "Touch me, Owen."
I don't need the direction. I'd only been admiring her alarming beauty and my luck at having her here again, but it's good to know how much she wants this. Wants me.
I reach up, cupping my hands around her full breasts, brushing my thumbs across her nipples.
A whimper slides from her. "More," she gasps.
My hand runs the length of her back, and in the same way I urged her closer to me when she was seated beside me, I urge her body into the space between us. At the same time, I lean forward, gripping tightly to her waist, softly sucking the bud of her breast into my mouth. First one, then the other, and Autumn's hands are in my hair, fingernails dragging.
We are in the cover of darkness out here, nobody to see us except the stars overhead, but I want to take her inside to my bed. As difficult as it is, I wrest my mouth from her skin and wrap my arms beneath her ass, hoisting her into the air as I stand.
"Oh," she says, surprised, her legs tightening around me.
"Bed," I grunt.
"Yes," she whispers, pressing her mouth to my neck as I walk to the back door and into the house. I use my foot to close the door behind me, capturing her mouth with mine at the same time. Our wet tongues clash with urgency as I walk, and more than once we bump into the wall. Each time makes us laugh, but not for long. This hunger, this thirst, is too needy.
Finally, we make it my bedroom. I set Autumn on the edge of my bed and take a step back. She watches, halfway undressed, as I reach behind me and pull my shirt over my head. Her eyes travel over my skin and she reaches out, beckoning me closer. As I step into her reach, she grasps my jeans, unbuttoning, then unzipping, sliding them down my body.
She sticks out a bent leg, using her foot to push my jeans all the way to the ground. Reaching down, I remove my underwear, and here I am, standing in front of her fully in the knowledge that, just like me, she's seeing the person I've become since we've been apart. I'm not just bigger, stronger, tattooed. I've had experiences, grown, learned lessons. Just as she has.
Leaning over, I push gently against Autumn's shoulders until she is lying down in the center of the bed. My hand glides up the inside of her leg, and when I get to the apex, still sheathed in clothing, her muscles tighten. I cross
over, dragging my hand down the inseam of her other thigh.
Autumn's hands fist my sheets. "I can't take it," she says, her tone pleading.
A sly grin crosses my face as I bend, placing my lips at the inside crease of her knee, feathering kisses up her thigh. Heat radiates from her center, and when my lips reach that part of her, I breathe deeply, adding my own hot breath. Her hips lift, the fabric of what's left of her outfit pressing against my mouth.
I grasp the bottom half of her outfit in two hands and swiftly pull it down over her hips, taking her matching white thong along with it.
After discarding them, I stare down at her. She is naked, gloriously naked, and in my bed. How many times have I envisioned this, only to be overtaken by reality, a reminder that my chance at my greatest love had passed me by?
Reaching out, she grabs my hardness and starts to softly stroke it up and down, making me lose all train of thought. Autumn's tongue darts out to wet her lips, and she bites the bottom one gently. As new as this grown-up version of Autumn is to me, I know what this means. She is done talking.
Well, good. So am I.
I lean forward, one knee coming to rest on the edge of the bed. Both hands scrape across Autumn's smooth skin, riding up her thighs, gliding over her hips and into the middle of her body. My eyes on hers so I can watch her, my fingers drift down lower, dragging through her wet heat. Her legs splay open wider, her gaze urging me on. Soft mewls drip from her mouth, and when I can't take it anymore, can't go another moment without feeling her, I sit back, reaching into my nightstand and grabbing a condom.
Autumn lifts her head, watching me roll it on. A memory creeps in, reminding me of before, of how she always looked away at this part.
The memory disappears as swiftly as it appeared.
I hover over Autumn, hands on either side of her head, pressing into the mattress. We are nose to nose, pounding heart to pounding heart.
Autumn's fingernails dig into my shoulders.
"Are you ready?" I ask, lightly nudging her nose with the tip of my own.