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PRESENT
I lay very still in my old room, but I wasn’t sleeping.
I was battling with myself, beating back all the memories this house, this town, and particularly this room brought back.
I was especially vulnerable to distraction just then, because I needed it. Anything was better than the old memories, even if it meant making new ones to torture myself with.
And so when a quiet Dante came creeping into my room, I did the foolish thing.
I should have turned him away.
I did not do that. I did the other thing. The foolish one. I let him have me again.
And again.
In my defense, I was unutterably weak at that moment, too desperately in need of not just distraction but comfort.
And Dante came in the form of both.
So what if it came with a price?
A heavy price. Of torment. Regret. Bitter nostalgia.
I just chalked it up to my self-destructive streak taking its obligatory pound of flesh. My flesh was so weak; it always paid the price with little to no hesitation.
Just the opposite. My weak flesh paid it eagerly.
This wretched night was no different.
He was a large man, but he’d always had an uncanny ability to move with quiet grace, and so the sound of the door shutting and locking behind him was louder than the quiet shuffle of his feet.
My first reaction was fury. Of course it was. He was such a presumptuous bastard. The sheer, brazen nerve of him coming to me, here, like this?
But he knew me so well. This entire day had been an ordeal for me. Perhaps he sensed my weakness, the lengths I would go to just then for a powerful diversion. For a few guaranteed moments of blessed oblivion.
And also, though this reason was harder to admit, it was just as significant. If he was with me tonight, in this room, that meant he wasn’t in another room . . . with her.
He didn’t say a word as he quietly shed his clothes, but I could feel his eyes burning into me, could tell he knew I was awake though I kept my eyes closed and my mouth shut.
Neither of us needed words to sense the other’s avid attention.
When he was done, he put one knee on the bed, and then the other, crawling over me.
Still silent, brazen as hell, with no hesitation at all, he began to strip me.
Hating myself, hating him, needing him, despising that need, but still helpless against it, I didn’t stop him.
I was panting now in my fury, in my runaway, out of control lust.
He tugged my shirt impatiently over my head, tossing it aside, his hands going to my skin. I could feel his thick, bare member poking into my leg.
With a stifled groan, he ran his hungry fingers down my body, from my jaw, over each bone of my collar to the tops of my breasts, across each pebbled nipple, slowly, reverently along every bone of my ribs, down to my naval, until he reached my hipbones, where he unerringly found the top of my panties and slipped them off with one smooth pull.
We weren’t quiet by then, we were both making noises we couldn’t hide, gasping, panting loud enough to fill the quiet, but still we didn’t speak.
Without even one kiss, he turned me on my side, straddled one thigh and raised the other high over his shoulder, and pushed his pulsing, engorged length against my entrance.
Foreplay or no, it didn’t matter. I was wet and pliant, slick, steady beats of arousal pulsing between my thighs. I was already beyond ready for him, and he hadn’t even had to check. He’d just known, damn him.
