couch, the kitchen counter, the two doors into separate bedrooms. Stark and plain, like a stage. The shirt I don’t mind someone finding. We, on the other hand, can’t stay here.
I’ve seen him shirtless almost every day of the week for the last six and a half years, but this is different. I press my hands flat against his stomach and he hums against my throat. He kisses me again, rocking his hips against me as my fingers slide from patches of damp skin to dry, starting and stopping, like my heart and my lungs. His tongue slides into my mouth and my hips tilt up toward his, making both of us groan and then press smiles into each other, embarrassed. Like losing yourself in the dance only to land at the end and find yourself in awe that the audience is clapping for you.
His hands slide up my sides, like they have so many times before when I’m covered in spandex and tulle and satin, but this time, they carry my shirt with them, as well. His thumbs count my ribs, his mouth runs down my sternum and I am his, his, his. I’ve seen what his fingers can do on a piano, on a violin. I know the power in his body from watching him in the mirrors and feeling him lift me into the air.
This is what I want, to feel wanted and loved and vulnerable and seen. Without losing myself. I once thought this was impossible, but in his hands, I am strong and fragile, wanted and wanting, seen and revered.
His thumb brushes over the cup of my bra and we both stop for a moment, breathing in deeply, our lips bruised and full. I can’t look at him but he brushes his lips against mine, so painfully sweet, so wonderfully anxious, and my fingers curl into his back. Don’t leave, I want to say, but he doesn’t move, and maybe he isn’t leaving me. To be sure, I hook a finger through his belt loop and pull him flush against me. He groans, ducking his head to my shoulder under the veil of my wet hair.
“What are we doing?”
I don’t like lying to Zed, but I think he knows it’s a lie when I say, “Don’t know, don’t care.” I palm him through his jeans, just to make sure he gets the point. I don’t want words for this. I just want you.
“Aly.” He whispers my name. It isn’t my name, it’s his name for me and suddenly that’s made all the difference. It’s what I needed, right now, a reminder that at least right now, it’s only me. His voice tightens as his hips rock against my hand. “I don’t have any—”
He is my best friend and he’s my other half and he’s the only one I’d ever want in my bed, in me, and still, it’s hard to say the words. It’s hard to tell him that my body’s given up on this particular aspect of what makes me a woman. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t.” I breathe out, inhale his strength. “Zed. I want you.”
“Alyona Miller,” he says, and his voice cracks. He shakes his head, his lips brushing back and forth against mine. He kisses me again, so slowly I think this is the only way he knows how to dismantle me, lay me out with all my parts so he can learn how I tick.
I wait for him to say something else but he doesn’t, just slides his hands down the backs of my thighs, and I take the hint. He carries me back to his room, lays me down on the bed and then asks once more if I am sure.
“Yes.”
* * *
I wake to fingers marching down my spine, kisses pressed to the back of my head where my hairline meets soft skin. I stretch, pointing my toes, testing my arches, rolling my shoulders, the same way I do every morning when I take immediate stock of what will hurt when I dance that day. I close my eyes, memories digging through my hungover mind and pulling at my skin. Zed, sucking one of my breasts. Zed, his head between my legs. Zed, on top of me. Zed, holding me when I fell fell fell from so high. So high.
I am frequently sore when I wake up. I am not frequently sore in the places and ways I am sore this morning.
I roll over and immediately have to bite back a grin. I am unprepared for
I’ve seen him shirtless almost every day of the week for the last six and a half years, but this is different. I press my hands flat against his stomach and he hums against my throat. He kisses me again, rocking his hips against me as my fingers slide from patches of damp skin to dry, starting and stopping, like my heart and my lungs. His tongue slides into my mouth and my hips tilt up toward his, making both of us groan and then press smiles into each other, embarrassed. Like losing yourself in the dance only to land at the end and find yourself in awe that the audience is clapping for you.
His hands slide up my sides, like they have so many times before when I’m covered in spandex and tulle and satin, but this time, they carry my shirt with them, as well. His thumbs count my ribs, his mouth runs down my sternum and I am his, his, his. I’ve seen what his fingers can do on a piano, on a violin. I know the power in his body from watching him in the mirrors and feeling him lift me into the air.
This is what I want, to feel wanted and loved and vulnerable and seen. Without losing myself. I once thought this was impossible, but in his hands, I am strong and fragile, wanted and wanting, seen and revered.
His thumb brushes over the cup of my bra and we both stop for a moment, breathing in deeply, our lips bruised and full. I can’t look at him but he brushes his lips against mine, so painfully sweet, so wonderfully anxious, and my fingers curl into his back. Don’t leave, I want to say, but he doesn’t move, and maybe he isn’t leaving me. To be sure, I hook a finger through his belt loop and pull him flush against me. He groans, ducking his head to my shoulder under the veil of my wet hair.
“What are we doing?”
I don’t like lying to Zed, but I think he knows it’s a lie when I say, “Don’t know, don’t care.” I palm him through his jeans, just to make sure he gets the point. I don’t want words for this. I just want you.
“Aly.” He whispers my name. It isn’t my name, it’s his name for me and suddenly that’s made all the difference. It’s what I needed, right now, a reminder that at least right now, it’s only me. His voice tightens as his hips rock against my hand. “I don’t have any—”
He is my best friend and he’s my other half and he’s the only one I’d ever want in my bed, in me, and still, it’s hard to say the words. It’s hard to tell him that my body’s given up on this particular aspect of what makes me a woman. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t.” I breathe out, inhale his strength. “Zed. I want you.”
“Alyona Miller,” he says, and his voice cracks. He shakes his head, his lips brushing back and forth against mine. He kisses me again, so slowly I think this is the only way he knows how to dismantle me, lay me out with all my parts so he can learn how I tick.
I wait for him to say something else but he doesn’t, just slides his hands down the backs of my thighs, and I take the hint. He carries me back to his room, lays me down on the bed and then asks once more if I am sure.
“Yes.”
* * *
I wake to fingers marching down my spine, kisses pressed to the back of my head where my hairline meets soft skin. I stretch, pointing my toes, testing my arches, rolling my shoulders, the same way I do every morning when I take immediate stock of what will hurt when I dance that day. I close my eyes, memories digging through my hungover mind and pulling at my skin. Zed, sucking one of my breasts. Zed, his head between my legs. Zed, on top of me. Zed, holding me when I fell fell fell from so high. So high.
I am frequently sore when I wake up. I am not frequently sore in the places and ways I am sore this morning.
I roll over and immediately have to bite back a grin. I am unprepared for
Similar Books
