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Then I finally see her.
River.
The only time in my miserable fucking life where I wished not to find her.
Wished she was far, far away from here. And maybe she already is.
I must have screamed her name. Maybe I never stopped. I don’t remember. All I remember is slumping beside her body. River’s clothes soaking wet, blue-lipped and waxy skin. Voices telling me she was found face down in the pool. I numbly hear the ambulance wailing in the distance.
But everything is muted as if I’m drowning myself. As if I’m being swallowed up and suffocated. I fist her shirt into my cold hands and lift her into my arms. She’s so heavy, so fucking heavy. I can’t help but to shake her. It’s like shaking a doll. My reaction is distressed like I could shake her soul back inside her body.
“River,” I plead. “Don’t do this to me,” I sob into her soaking wet chest. “Don’t leave me here. You promised. You fucking promised me,” I choke out. I’m emptied out. I can’t catch my breath as I fight against arms stronger than mine. They pull me away from her and I try to resist but I’m fucking drowning. I’m drowning. I’m drowning. “River!”
I blink against the bathroom light, padding across the floor towards the sink. I need to drink water before I turn to dust. I don’t know what’s worse, my hangover or the shame I’m feeling about last night, while still fighting off the memories of that dreadful night years ago.
This isn’t how I wanted to tell Byzantine about River—or anyone for that matter. I teeter between guilt, full blown embarrassment and gratitude, remembering our conversation.
Not even Lenix knows about my sister. Realizing that I told Byzantine before my best friend, I try not to add more weight atop the existing guilt. I had my reasons not to tell her. Noxport was my clean slate. A place I could become another version of myself. Someone else other than the girl whose twin died.
I splash water against my face, find a towel and rummage through his vanity looking for some pain relievers for my pounding headache. Finding some mouthwash, I gargle some for good measure.
Before walking back into the bedroom, I take a quick detour to snoop around, since I was in no state to take in my surroundings last night and I’m too curious not to. His loft seems to sprawl the entire floor of the building, perched high up from the city below, the view overlooking the ocean.
The entire condo is decorated in muted tones of brown, black and gray. Very Byzantine, and verynotsurprising. God forbid he owned anything with a pop of color.
It feels cozier than I expected. Honestly, I don’t know what I imagined. Something colder maybe. Instead, this looks lived in, traces of him everywhere I look. From a large bookcase in the corner of the living room to the framed art on the walls. A perverse thrill takes over me from just being here. I try not to peer too closely as to why I’m feeling this way.
Byzantine is still sleeping when I sneak back into the room and into bed. I lay on my side watching his chest rise and fall, and despite the hangover, heat envelops my body as I recall how he took care of me last night.
I place my hand on his torso, trailing through his chest hair, following the path downwards to his boxers. I hear Byzantine’s breath hitch and I glance up. His eyes are still closed but a subtle crook of his lip lets me know he’s awake, when my palm grazes over his crotch. His cock stiffens under my touch, my fingers gently curling around his length through the fabric while I begin to stroke him.
Lust dips low in my stomach and I swallow hard, licking my lips in anticipation. I disappear under the covers only to reappear in between his legs eager to continue what I started. Byzantine lets out a low grunt when I give his balls a slow squeeze, my mouth hot against the cotton. I reach over to pull his boxers down but his hand locks on my wrist.
His eyes are open, piercing and serious.
“You don’t have to,” he grits out, sounding breathlessly tentative and my heart squeezes. His abs are tight, seeming to hold himself back while his breath continues to quicken.
I tug on his boxers again. “Iwantto,” I assure.
I don’t want him to take pity on me after last night. I don’t want last night to define me or us. I want to feel something other than all-consuming sadness for a change. He takes a second to study my features, seeking my open willingness to continue. Eventually, his eyes soften and he lets go of my wrist.
A small victorious smile crosses my lips, finally pulling his boxers down and then off. The covers slip down, uncovering Byzantine’s toned body, his leg bent to the side, open and ready for me, his arm tucked behind his head, stretching him into the most mouth-watering position.
His cock lays hard and heavy on his taut stomach while I pull myself closer.
“Did those hurt?” I can’t help but ask, referring to the tattoos along his shaft as I wrap my hand around him and gingerly drag my tongue along the length of him.
He groans, his eyes closing but still answers with a smirk, “What do you think?”
I smile, circling his broad head with my tongue but don’t bother answering. I give him a few long strokes with my hand until I can’t wait any longer and wrap my mouth around the tip, my tongue trailing smoothly over the slit.
“Fuck…” His hips buck, pushing further into my mouth and I eagerly swallow around him. “That’s it, little sun, just like that.”
I hum my satisfaction, my mouth chasing the taste of him on my tongue while I reach down and stroke his balls, massaging them in my palm. His hand falls to my head, tightening in my hair while his cock throbs deeper into my mouth. I can tell he wants to set the pace and I let him, relaxing my jaw as he starts thrusting into me.
“You’re such a good little slut, aren’t you? So fucking perfect,” he purrs.
My thighs clench at the sound of his voice, his words igniting a fire inside me, his words so filthy all I want is to hear more and more and more.
