Page 68 of If I Were Yours

Exhaustion hits me over the head at the thought of the party. Or maybe it’s the thought of losing Grigory’s voice. “I just want to sleep.”

“Can you sleep with the apartment full of people?”

“I don’t know,” I drawl. “I’ll just sleep here.”

“Do you have earplugs?”

“Think so.” My voice is getting slurred as I’m slowly drifting off.

“Good. Use them. Brush your teeth when we hang up, then go drink a glass of water, and say good night to Markus.”

Markus.His name sobers me somewhat, and I push up to sit. I was supposed to be with him tonight. But now I’m here, having phone sex with Grigory and letting him take charge. “We shouldn’t have done this,” I murmur, the alcohol having messed with my filter.

There’s a tense pause. Grigory knows what I mean, and he knows it’s wrong too. But instead of feeding my guilt, he gives me the stability I need more than anything. “Do as you’re told, Clara. Teeth, water, bed. I’ll see you in a few days.”

We say good night and hang up, then I brush my teeth, stagger to the kitchen to get a glass of water, then back to the living room to say good night to Markus.

“Can you sleep in all this noise?” he asks, as considerate as Grigory. “I can send people home.”

“Earplugs,” I explain, pointing to my ears.

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” I say. And it actually works. The moment I hit the mattress, I start drifting off with the gentle lull of Grigory’s voice lingering in my ear.

— CHAPTER 23 —

CLARA

My head is pounding, my stomach roiling, when I wake up in the morning. The blinds shut out all light, blocking all sense of time. I reach for my phone, and a sharp pain bursts through my head at the movement, nausea building at the back of my throat. I have to lie completely still for a moment before I can lift the phone without risking my stomach expelling its contents.

Eleven fifteen the clock says.

Carefully turning around, I find the bed empty beside me.

Memories of last night pass through my mind like a flickering movie. The girly chatter with Lucia; Markus’s ravenous kiss in the crowded room; clinking glasses and the promise to spend another year together. And finally, my little trip to the bathroom.

Flutters erupt in my belly at the memory of Grigory’s deep voice. He seemed happy I called and even said he missed me. And that orgasm… God, it was dirty, the way he made me lick my fingers clean and then gave me the first orgasm of the year.

The thought makes me heave a regretful sigh. The first orgasm of the year belonged to Markus. If not because we’d been building toward it all night, then because it’s his by right. He’s the one I belong to, the one I should have spent the night with. Instead, I walked out on him and gave what was his to someone else.

Guilt churns in my unsettled stomach. I sprint to the bathroom, slam up the toilet seat, and retch into the bowl. But it’s just coughing and dry heaving, over and over. Nothing will come out—not the alcohol, not the butterflies, not the guilt. It’s all stuck down there, twisting together, tying my stomach into a tangled-up heap of knots.

Ten minutes pass before I give up and crumble on the bath mat—the same mat I lay on when I came for Grigory last night. He’s given me plenty of orgasms over the last months, so why does this one feel wrong? Does it really matter who gave me the first orgasm? Markus got the first kiss, after all, and Grigory didn’t even touch me. It was just phone sex, so does it even count?

I groan through another roll of nausea. It doesn’t matter which way I look at it. What we did last night was wrong. I knew it; Grigory knew it. It’s not as much about the orgasm itself as what it meant.

Everything.

If I were yours; if you were mine.The words start pounding in my mind with a vengeance after having been quiet for days, and I clutch my throbbing head.

In an effort to expel the words, I push up from the mat and sit on the toilet to empty my bladder. At least that part of me cooperates. Then I brush my teeth and make my way to the kitchen.

“You went out like a light last night.” Markus lifts his gaze from his computer and takes a swig of coffee. He shows surprisingly few signs of having partied all night. His hair is a bit disheveled, his jaw covered in stubble. That’s about it. “I came in to say good night five minutes after you’d gone to bed, and you were already fast asleep.”

“Wow, that was fast.”

“Yeah, maybe I should ask Lucia how she made those pink cocktails. Then I could make them as a little nightcap for you.”

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