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Tristan
“It’s okay,Remi. Wendy’s fine—no harm was done.” I’m trying my best to comfort him, but my attempts are futile. It’s as if he doesn’t want to be comforted.
“The car missed her by two fucking feet.” Remi lies beside me on his bed—flat on his back and stiff as a board. I’ve never seen him so pale. And I’ve seen him tremble before—many times, in fact—but never so violently.
“It missed her… The only thing wrong with her now is her attitude.” I smooth back his hair, and he shuts his eyes. “Wendy is pissed off to the max that you didn’t stop for cookies.”
“I couldn’t stop to buy her cookies when I kept tossing mine.”
“You keep getting sick because you’re freaking out. And that’s normal—but you need to relax. Calm down—it’s over now.”
It’s natural for him to be this upset,I assure myself. This afternoon rocked Remi’s world in the worst way possible. On their walk home from the library, Wendy ran out onto the street and came close to getting hit by a car. But nobody blames Remi for the close call.
Nobody except Remi.
He’s inconsolable, but not in a sobbing, hysterical way. His mood is black. He’s uncommunicative. And he’s furious… at himself.
“It’s not over—I nearly got Wendy killed. I… I… can’t live with it.” He turns onto his belly and drags a pillow over his head. “Leave me alone, Tristan. Take the SUV and go home. I’m not decent company.”
I need to change his mood. “I’m not leaving you.” Echoes of unpredictable interactions with my mother ring in my mind. And of my assurances as I watched her walk out the door so many times. “No matter where you go, Mom, I’ll always be here when you come home.”
“I can’t think this through with you here,” he growls.
Undeterred, I rise from the bed and pull off my T-shirt, joggers, and briefs. And then, kneeling beside him, I shove away the pillow and yank his jeans down his legs. “Turn over.”
“Go home, Tristan. Please…”
I sigh and push him onto his back. “Let me get these things off you.” I pull down his boxers, and he doesn’t try to stop me. “Now sit up.” Eyes closed, he does as I say. I unbutton his shirt and push it from his lax shoulders.
“I’m gonna be sick,” Remi barks and scrambles from the bed, and then from the room.
When he returns a few minutes later, naked and shaking, he smells like mouthwash.
“Let me take your mind off it,” I say as I press him down onto the bed and climb on top of him, stretching my body over his. He constantly tells me that he loves the feeling of my silky skin on his, so I give him as much of the sensation as possible.
“Tristan, I’m so sorry.”
“You have no reason to be sorry.” I push myself from his chest and look down into his eyes. They’re darker than ever—two murky pools of anguish.
“People you care for—they’re here one minute but can be gone the n-next.” His voice breaks, and he shudders.
“We’re all still here. Everybody’s okay.” I’m starting to doubt my words.
He shakes his head repeatedly. “The world as you know it can change, Tristan—in one split second.”
I press my lips to his. At first, it’s like kissing the back of my hand, but then suddenly, he’s responsive. Almost as if he’s starving for me.
Remi grabs my hips and flips us, so I’m beneath him. Settled on top of me, he grinds his dick against mine before covering my lips with his and devouring my mouth.
“Need you so much…” he murmurs between possessive kisses.
I’ve never heard him utter such a confession. I’m comfortable with the sentiment—I need Remi too—but not with the raw desperation in his tone.
He crouches between my legs and scatters ravenous kisses over my chest, as if he needs to do it now or will forever lose his chance. Soon, his kisses amble lower; without fanfare, he sucks my ready dick into his mouth, all the way to the back of his throat in a single swallow.
“Oh, God…” I utter.
When he pulls his mouth from me a few moments later, his words surprise me. “I didn’t mean to hurt Wendy.”
“You didn’t hurt her.” I can’t believe we’re still discussing this—while making love.
Next thing I know, the tube of lubricant is in his hand, and he’s rolling on a condom. “Gotta get you ready.” This isn’t the usual order of things—today’s lovemaking is a bizarre frenzy of mixed-up pieces.
Despite his frantic motion, though, he’s careful as he opens my body.
“I’d never hurt you,” he whispers as he inserts a second finger. “Don’t worry.”
“Look at me, please.” I need to see his face—his eyes—so I can read his mood.
Remi’s feral gaze penetrates mine as a third finger presses inside. I can’t make sense of his expression, his words, or his actions.
“Now,” he says and lifts my legs to his shoulders.
When he pushes his dick into me, it’s with a stabbing motion rather than his usual gently probing slide. Something inside my heart, maybe my last shred of hope, shrivels and dies. But hope is renewable, and as it rekindles, I reach for his face and clutch it between my damp palms.
I need to do something—to say something—so I can let him know he’s not alone. That he’s safe with me and always will be. And that no moment of carelessness, no unavoidable accident—not even his paralyzing fear—will turn me away from him.
“I love you, Remi… I’ve loved you for so long.” The truth is what I offer him.
The expression in his eyes shifts from frenzied to feverish. It’s as if my words have melted the shell of ice that guards his heart. I see a tiny flicker of I love you too. And then, it’s gone.
His passion mounts more quickly than I’m used to, and soon, he’s stabbing into my ass, his rhythm steady and relentless. The warmth in his eyes from a moment ago—like the brief flicker of love—has been replaced by a piercing stare of simple desire. Greed for physical fulfillment. Urgency that has no relationship to tenderness.
