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That was Julissa’s voice telling me I’m a good man as I was throwing myself a pity party of epic proportions while my tongue was down another woman’s throat.
“Sorry, did I do something?” Confusion bleeds across Giana’s features, and I want to make it go away.
Make all of this go the fuck away.
“No.” I’m honest. “No. You didn’t.”
Fuck it. She wants memorable. I’ll give her memorable. The man she picked to take her virginity is fucking nuts.
“My wife is dead.”
She shakes her head, the confusion not wavering. Not even a little bit.
“I don’t know how to do this, Ms. Carey.” I revert to formalities, but she quickly brings a hand up and shoves my chest.
Surprisingly hard.
“Don’t you dare do that. You don’t get toMs. Careyme when your tongue was just down my throat. Don’t ruin what we’re sharing.”
Well, fuck me, then.
“A year ago. That’s when it happened. I’ve had sexual encounters in the club since… Mostly just trying to get my mind off everything that’s happened. Get my mind off the fact that I couldn’t protect two people I should’ve been able to protect.” I sigh, deciding to just come out with it. “My wife is dead, and I swear to fucking God, when I was just kissing you, I could hear her voice, and it fucked me up.”
She adjusts herself, climbing out of my lap and sitting in front of me. She’s still facing me, but there’s a clear divide and definitive distance between us now.
I look at her, and she looks away. I fucked this up royally. That’s what I get for being honest with a woman I’m not meant to let in, isn’t it?
Her hands hesitantly find mine, and she traces circles over the backs of my hands, her touch as light as a whisper as it floats over my skin. This woman can make even the simplest of things sexy, and it feels so impossible—otherworldly.
“What happened to your hands?” she asks, and I try not to react to how close she is to finding out that I’m probably not worthy enough to take her virginity.
“I play rough” is all I can muster in response, wishing I’d known she was coming.
Wishing I could pretend to be someone of worth, even if itisjust sex.
We’re quiet as she continues to caress my hands, mesmerizing me, calming me.
“A circle,” she says, looking at my hand, the scars on my knuckles. “We can pretend circles go on forever, too. No end and no beginning. Just this constant repetition. An innumerable distance.” She pauses, stops making circles, and instead, takes both of my hands in her own. “I’m not a godly woman, but I still like to believe in things. That both endings and beginnings have meanings. That each person serves a purpose, no matter how small. And I’m still looking for mine. Can I ask you a question?”
I nod.
“Your wife…” She places my hands on her thighs and begins drawing tiny circles again.
It’s somehow soothing. A simple touch, a pattern with no end. Just as she said. It’s as if this mystery woman is engraving me, leaving her mark on my skin. Invisible but burning.
“Do you think she would want you to be happy? To continue living? To form real, genuine, raw connections? Or do you think she would want you to drown your sorrows in as many women as you can while trying to escape her ghost?”
I knew she was made out of poems from the moment I laid my eyes on her.
Knew she was poetry in human form.
Even her words are laced with a magnetism beyond compare.
I fucking hate it.
How can I be so drawn to something—someone—I don’t know?
“You make words beautiful.” I tell her a truth because I feel like she needs one.
