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I skip the post-swim shower, eager more than ever to get back to my new apartment, to get back to her.
We’re meeting this evening. I came here to swim, because I envisioned holding myself under for some clarity. And now I realize, I have clarity without the pain. And I know exactly what I need to do.
I’d say I hate myself more than ever right now, but I can think of a few distinct memories from my past where I definitely hated myself more.
We had a fucking great date. And I fucking freaked out, and I’ve essentially been ghosting her since. It’s only been a few days, but still, I feel like shit.
I’ve tapped on her door, making sure she’s okay, she doesn’t need anything, and asking to hear her lock it. She doesn’t call me on the new distance, and I don’t know if that upsets me as much as it does make me angry. Angry with myself for putting her through additional strife when she’s currently bloody fingered from clawing her way out of a fucking horrendous situation.
I pace back and forth in the small kitchen of my apartment, sweat breaking out along my spine. I couldn’t even focus in the goddamn shower. I got out, water is everywhere, I think there’s soap in my hair, and all I can do is pace and worry.
I’m pacing, worried to fuck that I ruined the best thing to happen to me in years. That before I had her, I lost her; the woman to pull me out of myself, to make me see what my therapist has been telling me—life is worth living, even when it scares you, even when it hurts.
I texted her today, telling herI neededto talk to her. The positive is that she agreed, but she also added,I wanted to talk to you too. I told her I’d come to her place when she got home. I wanted to ask where she was at, since I know she’s not filming at Crave tonight, but I don’t have that right.
Fuck, I may have ruined my chances at having it at all.
Her sandals shuffle against the cement stairs as she climbs up. The gold rings on her left hand clink against the steel railing. My stomach drops.
It's now or never. Live my life or die simply existing. Having to continue existing in a half life is miserable.
I want to live.
I yank the door open, startling her with my suddenness. My chest heaves, water gliding down my shoulders, the chill of the night reminding me I am dripping wet. I step once, then another, and drop to my knees at her feet, not even feeling the scrape of concrete I know is inevitable.
“I don’t know what I can give you,” I breathe, nostrils flaring as I work hard to temper the passion roaring through me. “But I’m selfish and I want you anyway.”
She reaches out, sifting the tips of her lithe fingers through my hair, her nails skimming my scalp. Quickly, she smooths her hand down my cheek, taking me by the chin, squeezing. The intensity of her grip, the way she angles my face up to hers—my cock is throbbing, tenting the damp terry cloth pinched only loosely at my waist.
“I’m fucked up,” I breathe, enamored with the way her gaze pierces mine. “I’ve been celibate for four years. I don’t even know…” I trail off, embarrassed by the words. Embarrassed I’m a man who may not be able todowhat she needs. I’m hard now and of course I want her but when it comes down to it, fuck, it’s been so long.
“Cohen,” she says softly, though her touch is still sharp, gripping my chin tight.
“I’m fucked up, and I’m sorry that I am. But all I want to do is make you happy. And keep you safe.” I swallow on that last one, knowing I will not make the same mistake twice. “I want you to be mine, even though I don’t know what being with me would be like.” There, the honest truth. I gave her all the pieces and now she will decide for herself.
Her thumb drags over my bottom lip. My belly clenches and my cock throbs, precum beading at the tip, smearing against the terry cloth as I inch a little closer on my knees. My face is at her groin, and she’s wearing those gray sweatpants she wore the first night she came to my place. With her hand still in my hair, she nudges me forward, and I press my mouth to her pussy, over her sweats.
Her hand slips to my neck as she squeezes me, moaning my name in the softest tone I’ve ever heard. I close my eyes, nudging her with my nose, inhaling the scent of her aroused, sweet cunt. Before I can bask in it, she’s cradling my jaw, pulling me back.
“Do you trust me, Cohen?” she asks, velvet and smoke. A rumble knocks free from my chest and I roar my response.
“Yes, I trust you.”
She traces my earlobe with the tip of her finger, and my nipples harden. The tucked towel moves a little, reminding me that as I dry, it does too and I’ll likely lose it in a minute.
But she’s my focus.
“Do you know that you can stop me at any time?” she breathes, running the pad of her finger down the bridge of my nose, a line of fire eating up my back in response.
“Yes.”
“If I ask something, if I touch you in any way that feels too soon or not right, or if I do anything—you can always say red.”
She lifts my face, and I see her again, eyes soft, grip firm. It’s a confusing, heady mix, and it makes my blood pump like crazy and my cock hard. It gives me hope.
I know she’s setting parameters, for both of our safety, and I fight the urge to nuzzle into her palm. I keep her safe, but she brings me so much peace, so much fucking comfort.
“I want you Cohen, but before I can have you,I have to know.”
