Chapter Thirty-Four #3
I do as he says, pushing myself up off him.
I rest my free hand on his thigh and kneel, leaning over him slightly as I start stroking myself.
It’s perfect—the buildup of pleasure and heat and pressure, ready to burst as I keep working myself toward that edge.
His hand covers mine on his leg, and I groan and close my eyes again.
I’m so fucking close now.
“Can I come on you?” My voice is rough, and the words sound stilted, but Nico answers immediately with what seems like a greedy hell, yes, and that’s all the permission I need.
I stroke myself just another couple of times, and then I’m there, falling apart over him. I come hard and fast, everything bright and hot and buzzing as my release shoots out onto his stomach.
I’m not sure if I manage to keep my voice down, but I don’t really care much at this point. As the last pulse throbs through me, I fall forward, breathing hard, barely managing to catch myself with one hand. “God. God, wow.”
Nico laughs quietly, and his hand comes up to rub along my forearm. “That good, huh?”
I can only nod this time. My heart’s thrumming in my chest, and I’m trembling slightly, as though my body’s weak from the exertion. Weak but yet completely, utterly, totally sated. And happy.
“God,” I say again. I want to kiss him, and I think he wants the same, because his hands—both of them this time—reach up to frame my face.
His thumbs brush along my cheeks, and he tugs me forward. “Come up here and kiss me,” he begs.
I lift my eyes to his, and a warm rush hits me.
God, I love him so much.
And his eyes, his expression, how he’s looking at me right now—I think . . . I think he loves me, too. And more than that . . . I think he’s happy.
I move, pushing myself over and up along his side, and then I touch his cheek and lower my mouth to his. I kiss him sweetly, tenderly, and with every bit of love I’ve got for him. And my heart nearly bursts with joy as he kisses me back the same way.
We clean up, and Nico puts his briefs back on but forgoes his shirt, which is just fine with me, especially when he frowns and tugs my shirt off as well, complaining that it’s not fair if he doesn’t get to see me too.
I don’t argue—I just laugh and gather him up in my arms and kiss his forehead, and I hold him as he closes his eyes with a deep, contented sigh.
He’s asleep within a few minutes, but I lie there awake, listening to the birds chirping outside and letting myself be distracted by thoughts of the future.
Our future. Together. In California.
Far, far away from—
I screw my eyes shut, but not before they dart to his left shoulder and see the hint of redness and swelling I hadn’t let myself notice earlier.
Had Patrick hurt him?
The thought makes my stomach churn and my blood run hot, and I take a slow breath to keep myself from tensing up too much. Then I turn and press my lips into his hair.
“Never again,” I murmur against him.
I’ll never let that asshole touch him again.
I should have been there on Friday; I shouldn’t have been in Omaha. This shouldn’t have happened.
I know I’m jumping to conclusions and that none of this is my fault, but given everything, it doesn’t seem like too much of a stretch.
It could also explain why he doesn’t have a car anymore and why there’s a large stack of twenty-dollar bills on my nightstand.
And it would explain, almost too well, why he reacted like he did to my touch on Saturday morning—why he flinched away from me, why he had such a difficult time letting me hold him.
Over on the nightstand, my phone chimes quietly. I hesitate, not wanting to wake him, but he must not have been sleeping too deeply anyway, because he groans and burrows into my chest, mumbling something about it being too early to get up.
I laugh lightly. “It’s eight thirty.”
“Too early for a Sunday.”
“I don’t disagree with you.”
“Then why are you still awake?” He slides his leg between mine as though he just needs to be even closer to me. The phone chimes again. “Are you going to check it?”
I sigh. “Well, that depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether me moving is going to hurt you . . .” I say softly.
He tilts his head back to look up at me. His expression is hard to read, but his eyes are dark with shame, and he doesn’t hold my gaze long.
“It won’t,” he says, his voice flat. He rests his head back on my chest and sets his left hand low on my stomach.
I swallow hard, and even though I want to, just to be sure, I manage to keep myself from asking him again.
Instead, I bend down, kiss the top of his head, and then reach over him, as carefully as I can, to get my phone.
When I settle back down, he just snuggles back into his place and closes his eyes.
I kiss his forehead and then unlock my phone to check my messages. Jenna’s is first, and I grimace as I read it.
Jenna (8:32 a.m.): It’s been two days. Should I be worrying? Everything ok? Plz let me know
“What is it?” Nico asks quietly.
I turn the phone to show him, explaining, “I was worried about you on Friday night. Jenna was, too, when I told her you weren’t answering my texts.”
“Oh.”
I tilt my head to rest against the top of his. “Can I tell her that, um, everything’s fine?”
He nods, and so I type a quick response, apologizing for not replying earlier and telling her Nico’s okay. Then I click back to the other text, which is from my mom.
Mom (8:34 a.m.): Are you free to pick up a few things for me later today?
That one’s easy.
Alex (8:40 a.m.): yep!
Her response pops up immediately, like she already had it typed and was waiting for me to respond so she could send it.
Mom (8:40 a.m.): Thanks! I’m going to be working all morning, but I’ll write a list and leave it on the table. I need a new apron and a tarp for the floor. Both things are available at the art supply place in Omaha. No rush, but they close at 3 today.
Alex (8:41 a.m.): got it!
“You up for a shopping trip with me today?” I ask Nico as I shut off my phone and toss it on the bed behind me.
“Where to?”
“Omaha, for my mom.”
He doesn’t answer right away, and I’m about to tell him he doesn’t have to come when he tilts his head back again and mumbles, “Can we stop at the T-Mobile store also? And then maybe, um, if there’s a secondhand clothing place?
Or something. I, um . . .” He drops his chin and settles his cheek on my chest. “I need to get my phone working and buy some new clothes for work since I, um, have money now.”
“Of course, yeah,” I answer quickly. I lift my hand to his cheek and brush along his jaw with the back of my knuckles. “Actually, I know just the place. My mom took me a few weeks ago to get clothes for graduation. They have a bunch of nice clothes, and everything’s pretty cheap.”
“Cool. Thanks.” He seems to shudder a little, and then his shoulders tense. “I . . . I should tell you what happened on Friday.”
“Only if you want to,” I say as my hand settles on the middle of his chest.
He looks up at me, and he’s frowning, though he seems to be trying to hide it. “I don’t want to.”
“Then you don’t—”
“You’re telling me you don’t want to know?
” This time, he does manage a snarky expression, though it fades almost immediately into something much more serious, and he looks away again.
“You . . . you should know. I definitely don’t want to talk about it, but I do want to be honest with you.
I-I’m sorry it’s taken me so long. It’s .
. . hard, this, um, communication thing. ”
My chest feels tight, so I just hold him, lower my head to rest on top of his, and listen.
He doesn’t go into much detail, but what he does tell me is chilling.
How he showed up, expecting to meet with his mom.
How his mom wasn’t there. How Patrick was waiting instead.
His voice wavers as he tells me how Patrick turned on him, how his mom had apparently more than doubled the price of the car without even letting him know, and then how that asshole threatened him, shoved him into a wall, and yanked him up by his arm, injuring his shoulder.
He was forced to leave the keys to the car; something that had been his birthday gift when he turned sixteen had been weaponized and used against him.
It’s awful. It’s wrong and awful and manipulative. And it must have been worse than terrifying for him.
I bury my face into his hair and wrap my arms around him gently, carefully pulling him up against me. “That’s horrible. I hate that you went through that.” I stop myself from apologizing, because he wouldn’t want me to, and instead, I just hold him.
He doesn’t cry, and he doesn’t pull away or try to retreat, though I’m not sure how. He’s shaking, however, and he stops talking altogether for several minutes.
Finally, he takes a long, slow breath, and he says, “I keep trying to figure out where I fucked up so badly that she . . . that she would do this to me.”
“No.” I shake my head. “No, this isn’t on you. You didn’t do anything wrong. This is her. This is—”
“But why, Alex? Why the fuck doesn’t she—” He stops himself, and then, very quietly, he says, “Why doesn’t she love me anymore?”
My heart crumbles as I hold him tighter. I don’t know what the answer is. I don’t know what to say or what to do. All I know is that it’s not right or fair, and he deserves much better.
He deserves it all.
I pull back just enough to kiss his forehead. And then I hold him as his body starts to shake with quiet sobs.