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I’m a hot air balloon drifting to the ground at record speed, and even though I know Corvin is a safe place to land, his touch isn’t the one I need.
Sadness creeps in and demolishes my post-orgasm bliss.
Why can’t I be happy with what I have? Why can’t it just be good that Atlas will sling his arm over my shoulder while Noah sprawls across our laps during a movie? Why can’t I be okay with him disappearing halfway through because Blair came back exhausted and they need some time together to unwind?
Why can’t all these gross tangled up feelings just sort themselves out and stop making my life a living hell?
I realize I’m crying when Corvin’s hand in my hair becomes a gentle caress and the hand on my ass is now wrapped around my waist. It’s an ugly, snotty, my-throat-hurts-from-screaming cry, but Corvin just guides my face to his shoulder, letting me sob and soak his shirt without a word.
He doesn’t tell me it’ll be alright.
He doesn’t ask me what’s wrong.
He just holds me. Silently. Protectively.
The same way he held me when I fell into that ravine.
The same way he held me in that hospital room while I had flashes of disembodied hands on my body that didn’t belong.
Instead of relief, all I feel is more pain. I don’t want to go back to that night. I don’t want to remember.
But every time Corvin holds me, the memories come flooding back.
One day, I’m sure I’ll drown in them.
Chapter 8
Corvin
The first time I tasted Shiloh Novak’s mouth was at a party my sophomore year. He was an energetic freshman I’d seen around campus who I had been keeping a special eye on per his brother’s request.
He was an enigma to watch, all laughter and good vibes, and I can’t say that a part of me didn’t want him from the start. Blair pointed him out once across the quad—the guy was getting a piggyback ride from his friend—and I was enraptured.
So when he plopped beside me at that party with a wide grin and playful eyes, I was prepared to humor whatever request he could throw at me. We’d never talked before aside from the occasional pleasantries while his brother and I worked on projects for the dorm together.
“I was dared to come flirt with you, but I don’t really know how to hit on guys,” he said with his mouth next to my ear to be heard above the loud music.
I was hardly sober, and my inhibitions got the best of me.
“Want me to give you some pointers?” I turned to face him and rest a hand on his hip, to which his eyes widened but he didn’t pull away.
The way he giggled told me he was at least a little tipsy himself. I tugged on his hip and guided his leg over my lap.
I can’t say I remember the course of events with much clarity. One moment we were laughing as I positioned him so it appears he’d completed his dare. The next my fingers are tangled in his curls and his mouth lands on top of mine.
It’s messy, uncoordinated, and enough to feed my fantasies for a lifetime.
Shiloh Novak tasted like surrender and desperation.
I doubt he remembers, given the events that followed: The ‘friend’ who spiked his drink and whisked him away to a part of the house without prying eyes.
We don’t talk about that night in so many words, but somehow it exists as one of the best and worst memories of my college life. In saying that, I’d give up that kiss in a heartbeat if it could erase the scars around Shiloh’s heart now.
Insanity is the only plea I can make for doing what I did to Shiloh in that alley. For needing to taste him again without that soured feeling in my mouth.
I’d wanted to take him back to the room, strip him down, and cover his entire trembling body in kisses and affirmations that I won’t let another soul harm him again.
But one grinding session in an alleyway isn’t Shiloh giving me permission to lay claim to his body, as much as I want to do exactly that.
