Page 78 of 6 Clues Your Nemesis Loves You

“You’re about to feel better.”

I circle my hips, rubbing against her most sensitive areas. I shift my attention to her face. Wait for her to open her eyes. Connect with me before we fall apart. She does, and she’s gloriously unguarded. A stolen moment when her lips quiver and her eyes get bottomless, locked on mine. A river of emotion flows between us, then it’s gone. She squeezes her eyes shut again, severing our connection.

Something in my chest pinches, but I’m too dismantled to dwell. An inferno gathers at the base of my spine, so fucking hot and torturous in the best way. I drag against her tight inner walls, thrusting harder, faster. When she cries my name and contracts around me, I lose control, coming in endless streams.

I splay on top of her afterward, letting my full weight hold her down. “Are you warm now?”

“I can barely breathe now. God, you’re heavy.” She tries to push me off.

I don’t budge. “You’re stuck here for the day. You’re not going anywhere. Call in sick at work.” I suck lightly on her neck. “We can finger paint each other.”

Her throaty moan is a delicious reward, then she stiffens. “Shit. Oh fuck. Shit, shit, shit.”

She shoves at me, and I move this time, my satiated limbs tensing for battle. “What happened?”

“Painting—I’m supposed to meet my mother before work.” She’s up and moving, looking bewildered as she glances wildly around the room. “She’s surprising my dad by repainting his study, and I’m supposed to help her move the furniture. I just…I don’t know how I forgot.”

Shit. Oh fuck. Shit, shit, shit is right. It took weeks for Maggie to build up the courage to sleep over. To trust me and trust she wouldn’t get so consumed with us she’d neglect other aspects of her life. Now she’s a wild woman, stumbling over herself as she snatches up her bra and underwear. It takes several tries for her to get them on.

Unsure how to stem her panic, I pull on my sweatpants and stand at a distance. “If you’re a bit late, I doubt your mom will be mad.”

Without glancing at me, she mumbles under her breath, then storms into the bathroom and knocks the toothpaste and her bottle of moisturizer on the floor. A few swears later, she grips the sink edge and drops her head forward.

Tentatively, I follow her trail of wreckage and run my hand down her back. “I’m sorry I kept you in bed.”

She slumps. “It’s not your fault. It’s mine. I forget things easily and am usually on top of writing myself notes—reminders so I don’t lose track of my to-do list. And I set alarms on my phone.” She glances at me over her shoulder, her features tight. “My phone’s downstairs in my purse and my written calendar is at home, so I’m having a freak-out. I’m sorry. I’m feeling panicky and angry at myself, and I’m taking it out on you. Just give me some space, okay?”

Her intense reaction isn’t so different from my claustrophobia. Fears and freaking out when outsiders can’t see the walls closing in. It’s a shitty way to feel, and I hate this for her.

I nod and do as she asked—head downstairs to give her space, when all I want is to help her somehow. Last night, talking about our future goals, challenging each other, making love, and waking up to her wrapped in my arms cemented how vital Maggie has become to my life. But her fears are obviously still alive and well.

Feeling tense, I move stiffly around my kitchen, fill my teakettle, plunk down a mug, and rummage noisily for a spoon. I hear Maggie before I see her, rushing down my stairs. I meet her by my front door, ready to haul her against my chest and give her a reassuring hug, but she doesn’t look at me or pause.

She grabs her jacket and purse and calls a quick, “Talk later.”

The door slams in my face.

“Thanks for sleeping over,” I mutter. “I had a great time too.”

I walk back into my kitchen and shove a tea bag in my mug, hating the prickly sensation at the base of my skull. The sharp stabs firing in my gut. I’m annoyed with Maggie. I feel badly that she struggles with her focus and almost missed meeting her mother, but she all but brushed me off. The irritable sensations remind me of my edginess in high school, my resentment at her dismissals.

I glance at my phone, debate calling or texting her. Explaining that she needs to consider my feelings too, but my face goes hot. A hint of anxiety pitches in my stomach. I swallow hard.

I don’t want to make this about me, which must be why I feel off. Maggie asked for space. Disregarding her needs would be disrespectful. Avoiding a confrontation with her is a kindness on my part.

Forcing a slower breath, I settle at my kitchen table and inhale the sweet, grassy scents of my fair-trade green tea. I recall what a great night we had together. Surely the good will outweigh the bad in Maggie’s mind.

My phone pings with a text, cutting through my thoughts. When I see Nemesis, I freeze. If she’s already backpedaling, deciding being unhappy on her own is easier than being happy with me, I’m not sure how I’ll return to kissing her goodnight at my door. Or even worse, to her fighting harder against our connection.

Stretching my tense jaw, I read her message.

Nemesis: Will you meet me for lunch?

I narrow my eyes and scratch my chest. She hasn’t dismissed me with “Bye, Lennon,” like after our first kiss. Still, there’s no warmth or affection in the perfunctory text.

Me: I was planning a hunger strike, but I’ll put it off. What’s the dress code? Black tie?

Nemesis: No dress code. Meet me at 12.