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I woke up like I had so many times before, with the sunlight across my covers, and Pierre at my side.
He was still sleeping by the time I had gotten up, and I took the precious period of time to look at him as he breathed, stroking his dark hair, twirling the silky strands between my fingers.
“I didn’t do it.”
His voice startled me, and the hand I was using to fondle his locks of hair flew to my chest.
He opened his eyes, and looked up at me. “I didn’t do it,” he whispered again, his voice slightly hoarse. “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”
I nodded, even though I wished with every fiber of my being that I didn’t. Ignorance—that’s what I needed in my life. Just some blissful ignorance.
“We don’t have to talk about it, but …” Pierre continued, “I think we should.”
I felt his body shift beside me, and watched as he sat up in my bed, shirt off, his pearly white skin glowing in the heat of the sun. He was wearing the same pair of pants that he was last night, and I was still clothed just the same. We hadn’t done anything. We had gone to sleep beside each other, like good friends forced into the same bed of a hotel room. Innocent.
I pushed myself up beside him, turning my torso to face him. Looking past his shoulder at my alarm clock, I saw the time. 10 AM.
My mom had let us sleep in, just like that one night in that final week of high school. After Pierre had almost killed himself—for the first time.
Again, it wasn’t because he saw me with Leo. Or Elliot. Or Felix.
It was because Elliot had tricked him into gambling his own life just so he could have a shot to improve it. It was money. It was always the money. It was power, it was a drug, it was black magic with the capacity to murder.
And Pierre wanted it. Needed it.
Elliot had it.
“I was gonna do it,” Pierre murmured, his warm, tawny eyes meeting mine, melting my heart. “Last night. I was gonna take that stupid gift card and go back to the restaurant, ask to go see Felix’s dad, just like we did the night you arrived in London. I could’ve done it.”
“But you didn’t,” I whispered scooting closer to him so that I could feel his warmth, feel his flesh, as if to make sure he was real, that this wasn’t just a dream. “You’re here. With me. You’re safe.”
“And so are you,” he replied, his voice as quiet as mine. His lips drifted apart as if to let out a sigh rather than speak a single syllable. “That’s all I care about.”
I leaned in toward him, my hand skimming his smooth back, feeling the slight soar of his shoulder blade, the curve of his spine. Instead of kissing him, I rested my cheek against his, and my fingers toyed with the small, mossy hairs on the back of his neck.
We breathed against each other, and I felt his breathe slide down the slide of my neck like water, like wind, and down past my collarbone, toward my breasts, which were still constricted beneath a bra and the fabric of my shirt.
“I’m sorry,” I said, feeling the pinch of tears behind my eyes. “I’m so sorry.”
I pulled away from him, and sat up straight, gazing at him dead in the eyes. If they were the windows to the soul, I wanted him in mine. He was the only one who deserved it.
“I want you…” I started, but then my voice choked on the words, and I had to pause to wipe away the tears beading at my eyes. “I want you to be in control.”
Pierre narrowed his eyes at me.
“Do what you want,” I continued, my voice shaking. There was a volcano of emotion inside of me—mostly, it was regret that was pushing its limits. “Do anything you want to me. Everything you want.”
He looked at me as if I was crazy, stupid, anything but honest.
“Please,” I whispered.
Pierre leaned in toward me, and I was sure he was going to kiss me, tell me that he loved me, that he forgave me for all my sins. He was my god, and I was lamenting everything I had let happen to him. Everything in my control, and everything out of it.
He didn’t deserve me, because he deserved better.
His lips moved to my ear, and I closed my eyes at the sensation of his lips brushing against my skin.
“Turn around.”
