by R. J. Lewis
He looks just as confused. “I don’t know, Ivy. I’ve been asking myself that a lot. I know I’m the last thing you need right now.”
My response is fast. “That’s not true. I need friends. I don’t…I don’t have many. We can be friends.” God, I sound desperate. It’s not becoming of me.
“Friends,” he repeats like it’s a dirty word. “Ivy, with the way you’re looking at me right now, I know that hell would have to freeze over twice for us to be friends. Besides, women don’t friend-zone me. That’s a fact.”
I let out my first ever laugh since my downward spiral in the apartment and the sound surprises me. “You’re so fucking cocky, it’s disgusting.”
“Ah, I missed that vulgar mouth. I’ve been thinking about it a lot.”
My cheeks burn. This guy is killing me. “No flirting, Aidan.”
“Not flirting, Ivy. Flirting would be telling you that vulgar mouth would look tasty around my cock.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuuuck.
A shiver runs through me. Lust, hot and heavy, settles in the pit of me. We stare at each other for some time. I’m hardly breathing. Truth is, I want him just as much as I did on that plane, and the way he’s looking at me right now scares me. I’m so goddamn vulnerable, I’m not sure I’d make the right judgment call if he…if he what? Kissed me? Touched me?
“This is wrong,” I whisper, but I don’t feel guilty. “Isn’t it?”
“Define wrong,” he whispers back. “We’re just talking right now. I’m not touching you. I’m not trying to seduce you. This is innocent.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Who will know? Your sort-of husband who is drinking for hours instead of fucking you and doting on you and trying to win you back? You’re fucking gorgeous, Ivy, it’s almost irresponsible leaving you home alone. I’d be showing you off every time I stepped out in public.”
My smile is faint, wistful. “I’m a normal girl, Aidan, that you’ve somehow blown out of proportion inside your head and, see, I’m not being insecure saying that. I’m being legit. I’m normal.”
“Who do you expect me to dribble over?”
“An available woman for starters.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah, and a woman who has her shit together and doesn’t wear two-dollar bangles she bought from a flea market.”
He looks down at them. “They look pretty miserable. How many hands you think went through them?”
I chuckle and shake my wrist, making the bangles clash audibly together. “I’ll have it forensically tested. I predict three missing persons.”
“I think you’re underestimating.”
“I’m trying to be positive.”
He’s smiling, amused. “So, a single woman who doesn’t wear two-dollar bangles from a flea market?”
“Oh, and she has to be a model.”
This time he laughs – it sounds deep and makes my stomach tighten – looking straight into my eyes. “Of course she does. You know, I never understood that.”
“Understood what?”
“The model appeal. They’re just not my thing.”
“They’re gorgeous.”
He nods, looking briefly down at the table thoughtfully tapping his finger on it. “Yeah, they’re gorgeous, but so are you.”
This guy who can have whomever, whenever is telling me I’m gorgeous.
“Thank you,” I quietly say, embracing his compliment. My body feels warm. My shoulders are light. The weight of earlier is gone, and I’m…happy sitting here, under the falling sun, talking to this beautiful man. Is this what Ana feels every time she’s with a guy? This…freedom? If so, it’s…addictive.
He looks entranced. His eyes are taking me in with a depth that steals my breath. I glance down at his hand, at his fingers drumming now along the table. I want to reach over and touch him. The urge is so strong, I don’t think I can fight it.
“Is this real?” I wonder aloud, bewildered at where I am – at who I’m with.
His lips curve up. “What’s so unbelievable?”
I look at him, fascinated, riveted, completely on a high. “You. Us. Eating ice cream. It’s not how I envisioned seeing you again would be like.”
“No, I was wearing a suit.”
I laugh. “Yes.”
He smirks. “Well, what did you envision exactly? Dinner? Candlelight?”
“I’m not a romantic.”
He nods slowly, approvingly. “I believe it. So, you envisioned us in bed, then.”
I don’t respond straight away. I hesitate because I’ve drawn some imaginary line I don’t want to cross. But I think I’m crossing a million other ones I don’t want to confront.
“You’ve been thinking about what I said on the plane, haven’t you?” he then asks, curious.
“You said a lot of things on the plane.”
“About fucking you.”
My heart skips a beat. How does he do that so easily? Say shit like that like it’s nothing. I purse my lips. “You said I was a quest. You know, maybe this is what this is, then. Your intrigue is driven by the fact I walked away. You need to see me to get over what happened.”
“No.” He shakes his head, his face straight. “See, I wondered that. I thought maybe all I needed to do to get you out of my system is see you one more time, but…I’m still as entranced. My body is wound up. I’ve got this…ache inside me. I felt it when we talked on the phone. It’s deep, like an itch I can’t scratch. I want you even more now. I know you want the same thing.”
“I can’t talk the way you do.”
“You mean, you can’t tell me you want me.”
“Aidan –”
“Don’t say anything,” he interrupts sharply, suddenly solemn. “Let’s just get to the point of all this. I’m not going to put you in the position of saying anything back and make you feel guilty about it afterwards. Let me do the talking because I know that’s what you want, isn’t it? You want me to talk dirty to you, but you don’t want to participate. Because participating is stepping over that invisible boundary. This is just like the plane and the phone. This is me telling you I can blow your fucking mind in the bedroom, give your body the attention it deserves. You want me to tell you how much I’ve been thinking about it, how hard I get just thinking about it. Do you like hearing me say that? Just nod. Don’t speak.”
I’m breathless, my eyes are shining, and my body is shaking. I’m dangling over a line, tempted to tell him he can talk to me any way he likes, that it’s okay to, that it’s not wrong, but I’m scared of taking that step. I prefer him to think the boundaries between us still exist.
I mute my mind and nod.
He looks pleased by it. His mouth is parted, and he’s staring at me with a face that speaks of his desire. I feel satisfaction with that look. I feel…wanted. So damn wanted. It’s so alien of a feeling, it’s an addiction I want to feel over and over again.
“Good,” he replies quietly. “We got to the point quickly. Let’s not get caught up in denial. We’re better than that. Smarter. Let’s just…accept we both want each other. Nod if I’m right.”
I nod.
He smiles softly. “Okay. I won’t rush this. I don’t want to, either. You’re worth being patient for.”
So…
“Now what?” I ask quietly.
“Now we talk about other things. Get this friendship bullshit happening, make you feel comfortable, and then later when you’re alone, when you’re staring at the ceiling and thinking of me, about us, I’ll tell you how much more I want to fuck you. Okay?”
I nod, my lower half throbbing.
“Tell me about your day, Ivy.”
*
We talk about everything. They’re safe topics. He purposely dodges the heavy stuff, and I’m grateful. I don’t want to talk about Derek or my failed marriage, especially the reason behind it. And he doesn’t ask. He doesn’t want to know. The slightest mention of Derek makes his jaw clench with displeasure.
We ta
lk music, and we share no similar taste.
We talk movies, but he hasn’t watched one in years and can’t remember what the last one was. It’s a disaster, but we make light of it and keep trying. He’s so laid back and witty, and when I laugh or blush, it just fuels his cockiness. He’s got this look of certainty. The world is his oyster kind of thing. A man like him is in control of everything around him, and it shows, because I get pulled in and lost in his orbit.
When it’s my turn to talk, he studies me intently, his eyes never straying from mine. He invests all his attention into me, and I can’t remember a time I had the complete attention of another man. Maybe never.
When the conversation finally slows, we end up staring at each other. Our gazes are trapped to one another; our intense connection is impossible to ignore. I feel more in our stares than in our talks. It’s bizarre having a conversation with someone without saying a word. His eyes are warm, lustful. His wicked lips are pulled up just enough to let me know what he’s thinking, and it’s far from decent. I wonder what he sees when he looks at me. Conflict? Lust? Intense need? It takes everything in me to tear my eyes away. I pull out the phone from my pocket and check the time. It’s nearly eleven. We’ve been talking for over two and a half hours.
“Wow,” I whisper on a small laugh. “I really have to get back, Aidan.”
“Let me walk you home,” he urges. “I need to know you make it back alright.”
His concern is sweet. “Sure.”
We don’t say anything on our way to my apartment building. He doesn’t get close to me, but a part of me wants him to. I’m glad he has more restraint than me. I don’t think I’d have moved away if he were nearer.
By the time we reach my building, the silence is unbearable. I turn to him and he’s already looking down at me. I don’t know what to say, but all at once I’m panicked that our special moment has come and gone. That I won’t be seeing him, and it’s like a knife in the chest if I don’t. Fuck, I’m hesitating and moving closer to him, and I shouldn’t but I am. His eyes come alive as I near, and he’s still, frozen to the concrete, giving me the control. I stop when I’m inches from his body and feeling the heat of him. I’m burning. I want to say I want to do this again, but the words are stuck in my throat.
“Aidan,” I start. My voice is tiny and foreign to me.
His chest is moving faster, and before I can say another word, his arm wraps around my waist and he’s pushing me back. My back hits the wall of the building and he’s over me, enveloping me in his strong arms. My eyes are wide, and his are pinned to my face. He looks torn and uncertain.
“I want to kiss you,” he says. I can feel his breaths against my mouth, he’s that close. If I move an inch our noses will touch, so I remain still, holding my breath to keep from panting. “Do you want that, Ivy?”
I nod and say nothing.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “I knew you would. You’re so fucking sweet.”
I’m hardly blinking. My focus is on him solely. His arm is still around me, his chest nearly touching mine. His other arm comes up and rests against the wall. He’s looking at my mouth more than anywhere else. He wants to kiss me. I can see the war inside of him. He’s losing and drawing closer to me. The second I feel his nose against mine, I shut my eyes and wait. My entire body tenses, my heart hammers, my mouth parts. Our breaths mingle, and the anticipation makes my sex throb harder. I wait for the taste of him on my tongue. I don’t care about anything else but what it would be like to have our mouths crashing together, our tongues swirling without rhythm, his chest pressed against mine, his hand between my legs.
I wait, and I want, and I’m needy, but nothing happens. When I open my eyes again, he’s pulling away and running a hand through his hair, a look of frustration in his eyes.
“Are you okay?” My voice is small.
He looks at me and his face is hard. The warmth from before is gone and I’m startled by the contrast.
“I rushed it, Ivy. I have to go,” he tells me abruptly. “Good night.”
He turns without another word and walks away. I watch him for some time until he disappears. Feelings of embarrassment and rejection swirl inside of me. I hurry back inside, in my beer-smelling apartment, to the mess in the lounge room, to the despair that is my home. I sit down on the couch and cover my face with my hands.
Aidan
Temptation is a new sort of cruelty I do not recognize.
My body is hot. My mind is blazing. I make it to my car and slip inside, and then I just sit there for minutes on end. I’m pulsing with need, panting for the warmth of her sweet little body. My heart hasn’t stopped beating out of its chest.
I don’t know what it is about Ivy that sends me over the edge. She’s addictive and sexy and so fucking witty. She’s not the hollow kind of girl I’m used to. She’s beauty and fire and depth.
She makes my soul sing.
What’s startling the most about our dynamic is she thinks I’m respecting her boundaries. She doesn’t know that I wouldn’t have fought taking her against that wall if she were anyone else. But she’s not anyone else. I won’t be able to shut off after I have her. I won’t be able to let her go, and that’s a problem.
That’s a very big problem for me.
Because it means I’ll be slipping back into a state I don’t long to be in. A state I’ve been running from for a couple years now. It means opening that door again and letting myself feel, but it’s already too late to stop myself.
I’m fighting a losing battle because I crave her already.
Twelve
Ivy
The bang is what wakes me up. I open my tired eyes and leap to my feet. I’m confused and disoriented for a moment, glancing around the room, realizing I’d fallen asleep on the couch with the phone in my lap. I’m still in the clothes I left to see Aidan in.
When I hear groaning, my blurry vision zeroes in on the entrance. Derek’s on the floor – on his stomach to be exact – barely moving. The front door is wide open, the knob against the wall, and it’s then I know he must have kicked it open.
I smell him before I’m even near him. A horrid alcoholic stench mixed with vomit and sweat. My stomach roils and my chest tightens in disgust. I put a hand over my nose as if that will help stop the stench from clawing its way inside my nostrils.
“Not one phone call,” I say, feeling completely defeated. “Not even one text to let me know you’re okay.”
His head pops up, and those half open eyes regard me. “It was an accident, darling. I swear. The boys… They fucking kept me back and back and…” I can barely understand the rest of the gibberish that comes pouring out of his mouth. It’s sluggish and slurred. Except for the apology, of course. “I’m sorry, Ivy. So sorry.”
Ana said it to me once, a line that fits this moment to a tee: It’s easier to beg for forgiveness than ask for permission.
And how absolutely true is that? I’ve told Derek no matter how things are between us to let me know he’s okay if he’s out. To stop getting so drunk and putting himself in dangerous situations. When he drinks, he gets aggressive and fights. I see the bruises along his arm right now. I see some cuts along his neck.
So, he’s done the crime then. Done what he’s vowed he wouldn’t do knowing I’ll have no choice but to forgive him. His body is tense, though. He’s waiting for my lash-out. But I just stand there. I don’t… feel anger. I don’t even feel anything, really. I’m just tired. Of everything. I don’t have it in me to argue, or shout, or even make a snide remark.
After almost kissing Aidan, I don’t even have a leg to stand on anymore.
“Go to bed,” I demand.
Even in his drunken stupor his surprise is inescapable. He stands up, and takes an eternity making his way to the bedroom. He bumps into the walls and uses them for support along the way. Just before he reaches the door, he hovers unsteadily on his feet, saying, “You want to climb into bed with me?”
“No.”
�
�Wish you were a little looser,” he slurs. “You used to jump into bed with me –”
“When I used to drink with you.” When I used to act a fucking fool with you.
“Well, I miss that.”
“I don’t.”
He swings his gaze to me. His eyes are bloodshot, his eyelids heavy. “You’re not angry.”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Are you going to flee again? Is that why you don’t care?”
I don’t answer. I just stand there, mute.
He lets out a long exhale. “When you came back, you never acknowledged us.”
“Acknowledged what?”
“That you came back to be with me. Are we…are we even together, Ivy? I’m confused.”
“I’ve already made that clear.”
“Be clear with me now.”
I sigh. “We’ll talk about it in the morning.”
“Why not now?”
“You’re drunk?”
“So?”
“You get angry when you’re drunk, Derek.”
“You’re dodging the question.”
“You can’t hear the answer right now. Not when you’re like this.”
His face darkens. “What the fuck does that even mean?”
“Things aren’t the same. You know that.”
He swallows, frowning. “I don’t even remember fucking that girl, just so you know…”
My shoulders slump and I turn away. “Go to bed, Derek.”
“I don’t remember it.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“How could I have cheated if I don’t even remember it?”
I’m not going to encourage this conversation from continuing. It’s so fucking absurd, I’d be wasting my breath. I simply look away from him, dismissing him. He’s pretty fucking cheeky for trying to remove fault about it, like not remembering makes any bit of difference. I remember those photos that girl posted – she was an acquaintance, too; she’d even said, “Sorry for your loss, Ivy” in a message – and Derek didn’t look drunk out of his mind. His eyes weren’t bloodshot like they are now. They were clear and excited, and I’m a fucking idiot for coming back to this apartment.