Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Casey
After the dinner party ended, Mark drove me home.
Tommy was staying over at Lina's, so the house felt empty, quiet enough that I could hear the fridge humming.
I took a shower, slipped into my pajamas, and sat on the edge of the bed, towel-drying my hair.
When it was half-dry, I draped the towel over the chair back, switched off the light, and lay down.
I closed my eyes, my mind replaying everything I'd said to Paul on the terrace. I'd unloaded so much, cursed him out hard, and he just stood there, not fighting back. I should've felt satisfied, but I didn't. I just felt restless.
I rolled over, pulled the covers over my head. Outside, the waves crashed in steady rhythms, same as always.
I don't know how long it was, but I was drifting off when urgent knocking rattled the door.
I opened my eyes, stared at the ceiling, and didn't move.
Maybe it was a mistake; they'd stop soon.
But the knocking persisted, erratic—hard thuds, then lighter ones, like someone unsteady, leaning against the door.
I sat up, threw on a robe, walked to the door, and peered through the peephole.
Paul slumped against the frame, all lopsided. His suit jacket was gone, shirt sleeve ripped open, face bruised—eye swollen shut, blood crusted at his mouth, dried to a dark brown. Streetlight hit his face; it was flushed unnaturally, eyes half-lidded, like he might slide down any second.
I hesitated, hand on the knob, frozen. I should ignore him, let him stew; he'd leave eventually. But he knocked again, softer, mumbling something like my name.
I opened the door anyway.
Booze and blood hit me like a wave. He leaned on the frame, saw me, eyes lighting up briefly, then he toppled toward me. I caught him instinctively; his weight slammed into my shoulder, heavy.
"Paul, you're drunk." I braced him, guided him inside. He stumbled, basically dragged.
"I'm not drunk." He buried his head in my shoulder, voice muffled. I ignored it and got him to the couch. He sat, grabbed my wrist, and wouldn't let go. I pried at it. "Let go. I'll get something to clean you up."
He blinked, slowly released, hand dropping to his knee.
I grabbed a towel and a first-aid kit from the bathroom and sat beside him.
He leaned back, eyes closed, breathing heavy.
I wet the towel with warm water, wrung it out, and dabbed at the blood on his mouth.
The scab was dry; he hissed when I pressed, but didn't pull away.
I worked it off bit by bit, revealing a long gash from lip to chin—not deep, but ugly.
"How'd you get this?" I asked.
"Fell."
"Fell?" I pulled his hand over; knuckles scraped raw, dirt and dried blood in the nails. He'd fought someone, but he wasn't saying.
I dipped a cotton swab in iodine and pressed it to the cut. He sucked in air, brows knitting. I switched swabs for his eye; it was puffed high, purple-blue, and squeezing the eye to a slit. I touched it lightly; he tensed, bit down, silent.
"If it hurts, say so."
"Doesn't."
"Liar."
He opened his eyes and looked at me. The good one was bloodshot. "You used to do this. One year, I sprained my wrist playing tennis, and you insisted on rubbing it. I said no, you wouldn't listen, pinned me down for half an hour."
I didn't respond. That was junior year; he'd twisted it in a match, swollen for a week. I'd go to his dorm daily, massage it with liniment. He'd gripe about the pain, but afterward, he'd clutch my hand tight.
We'd been together less than a year then.
I flipped the towel and wiped sweat from his forehead. He stayed still, let me, compliant in a way that wasn't him.
"Casey." His voice was hoarse. I said nothing, stuck a Band-Aid on his hand.
"I heard everything you said." Muffled. "Not just tonight—been thinking about it for days. You said I never asked if you wanted it. You're right."
I packed the kit, set used swabs and towel aside.
"I thought being good to you was respect. Bought you stuff, took you places, fit you into my life—that was my idea of good. Never asked if you wanted it, if you were okay with it. Just thought about me."
I sat there, listened. Not excuses, not apologies—just spilling his guts, messy, rambling, but real.
"These six years, I've thought about you nonstop." Voice dropping. "But it was all about me. Wondered if you were okay, if you missed me, if you regretted leaving."
"Same here in Hawaii. Delivering lunches, fixing the slide, learning to surf—I thought I'd changed. But I hadn't. I figured you should forgive me, so I pushed for it. Figured you owed me a chance, so I waited. Never asked if you wanted to see me, eat my food, have me in your life."
He turned and looked at me. Good eye red, tears welling, lips trembling. The bruises made him look wrecked, but his gaze was sharp, earnest.
He took my hand, pressed it to his face, eyes closing, lashes wet. "If you don't push me away, I'll take it as yes."
I watched him, silent. I knew I should shove him off, make him leave, slam the door. But I didn't. His hand slid from my hem to my waist, tightened, pulled me close.
He lifted his head, so close I saw tears on his lashes.
"Casey." Then he kissed me. I should've pushed, but I closed my eyes.
His hand moved to the back of my head, fingers threading my hair.
My own tears fell; six years, I'd thought I'd forgotten this, but his lips on mine—my body remembered before my mind.
He stood, towering over me; I tilted my head up. He cupped my face, thumb wiping my tears, then lifted me. I wrapped arms around his neck, face in his shoulder.
He laid me on the bed gently, but it tugged his wound; he hissed. Eyes red, nose too, shirt a wrinkled mess, collar open, face mottled purple. This Paul—I'd never seen him like this. Always polished, composed. Now kneeling before me, bruised, dusty, wrecked, vulnerable, tentative.
He leaned down, kissed my forehead, eyes, and nose tip. Lips at my ear, voice a raspy whisper. "Casey, I'm sorry. I'm sorry." Over and over, each kiss punctuated. My tears flooded; six years' emotions crashing in.
Paul drew me into his arms with a tenderness that shattered me, his hold firm yet soft, like he was afraid I'd vanish. Our bodies pressed close, the heat of him seeping through my pajamas.
He tilted my chin up, his gaze locking onto mine—raw, pleading, stripped of all the walls he'd built.
Slowly, deliberately, his fingertips traced the curve of my cheek, feather-light, sending shivers racing down my spine.
He followed the path with his lips, brushing soft kisses along my jaw, down the sensitive line of my neck, lingering at the hollow where my pulse hammered wildly.
I arched into him without thinking, my breath catching as his mouth found my collarbone, nipping gently, tasting my skin like it was something sacred.
His hands slid under my top, palms warm against my bare back, pulling me flush against him.
Our lips met again, slow at first—a gentle press that deepened into something hungry.
His tongue slipped past my lips, tangling with mine in a dance that was both familiar and electric.
Six years of longing poured into every swirl and suck.
I moaned softly into his mouth, my fingers clutching his shirt, feeling the rapid beat of his heart matching mine.
He broke the kiss only to trail his lips lower, but his hands stayed busy, gliding from my shoulders to cup my full, round breasts.
God, the way he held them—palms kneading the soft flesh, thumbs circling my areolas in lazy, teasing loops.
My nipples hardened under his touch, peaking into stiff points that he rolled between his fingers, pinching just enough to make me gasp, my body trembling as pleasure shot straight to my core.
He didn't rush. His mouth followed south, kissing a path down my sternum, over the flat plane of my stomach, his breath hot against my skin. I squirmed, anticipation building as he hooked fingers into my pajama bottoms, sliding them down with agonizing slowness, exposing me inch by inch.
He paused, eyes dark with want as he looked at me, spread out before him.
Then his head dipped, lips brushing my inner thighs, teasing closer to where I ached.
When his tongue finally met my folds, it was pure bliss—soft, wet laps over my already slick lips, circling my clit with exquisite precision.
He sucked gently, tongue flicking and curling around the sensitive nub, delving into the entrance with slow, probing thrusts.
I relaxed into it, my legs parting wider on instinct, toes curling, arches of my feet bowing as waves of heat built low in my belly. Every lick, every suck drew me deeper, my hips lifting slightly, chasing more.
I was wet, so wet, and he groaned against me, the vibration making me shudder.
But he pulled back, shedding his clothes with hurried tugs, revealing his hard, straining cock, thick and veined, pulsing with need.
He positioned himself over me, traditional and intimate, bodies aligned.
The head nudged my entrance, hot and insistent, and I nodded, wrapping my legs around his waist. He pushed in slowly, inch by torturous inch, filling my tight heat until he was buried deep.
Our fingers laced tight, eyes locked—his filled with apology and fire, mine with a storm of emotions I couldn't name.
He started moving, gentle thrusts that rocked us together, each one twisting slightly, grinding against my inner walls, the crown rubbing that sweet spot inside me perfectly.
Pleasure bloomed, full and swelling, and I met him halfway, lifting my hips to take him deeper, my nails raking lightly over his muscled back, leaving faint trails.
But the gentleness cracked as passion surged.
Paul's rhythm picked up, breaths coming faster, rougher.
He hooked my legs over his shoulders, folding me beneath him, the angle letting him plunge deeper, harder.
Every thrust slammed home, powerful and precise, making my breasts bounce wildly, nipples grazing his chest. His cock pistoned in and out of my soaked pussy, pulling slick trails of my arousal down my thighs, the wet sounds filling the room.
I melted under him, body going boneless yet clinging, legs locking around his waist, ankles crossed to pull him in tighter. The impacts jarred me, sparks of ecstasy exploding with each hit, our sweat mingling, skin slapping.
He flipped me then, onto my side in a spooning hold, his body curving behind mine like a shield.
One hand reached around to grope my bouncing breast, fingers tugging hard on the nipple, twisting until I cried out, the mix of pain and pleasure blurring.
His other hand dipped forward, fingers finding my swollen clit, rubbing firm circles that had me bucking back against him.
His cock drove into me from behind, fast and relentless, the head grinding my G-spot over and over, building that coil inside tighter.
I lost it, twisting my hips, fucking back onto him wildly, our breaths a tangled mess of pants and moans. We fused, bodies slamming in perfect sync, no space between us.
Finally, he rolled me back under him, face to face, pinning my hands above my head, fingers intertwined in a death grip.
His thrusts turned frantic, pounding deep, chasing the edge.
I wrapped around him, heels digging into his ass, urging him on as the pressure built to breaking.
He came with a guttural groan, hot spurts flooding my depths, filling me completely.
My own orgasm crashed over me, body convulsing, pussy clenching around him in spasms that milked every drop.
We shook together, lost in the abyss of it, limbs entangled, hearts pounding as one.
Afterward, he held me, chin on my head, fingers combing my hair stroke by stroke. We didn't talk. Outside, waves surged and retreated, over and over.
"How've you been these six years?" he asked suddenly. I didn't answer.
"Sorry," he buried his face in my hair, voice muffled. I stayed quiet, drifting off to his breathing. I hadn't slept that deep in ages.
Morning sun woke me, slipping through the curtain gap, hitting my pillow. I rolled over, hand reaching—sheets cold. He'd been gone for a while.
Room was quiet. Couch cushions straightened, teacup cleared from the table, blood spots wiped from the floor.
On the dining table, a white box with a note pinned under it.
I walked over and opened the box. Mango crepe inside, neatly arranged—cream flowers intact, mango slices even. Looked handmade with care. Ice pack and insulation underneath.
I picked up the note: "Casey. I won't come looking for you. When you want to see me, come find me. I'll wait forever. Paul."
I stared at those words for a long time, remembering last night.
I took a bite of the mango crepe; sweetness melted in my mouth. Mango fresh, cream not too rich, crepe thinner than before—clear he'd practiced a lot. Six years ago in Boston, he couldn't even boil ramen. Now this.
Tears fell again, splashing the box, the note. I wiped my face. I'd said all those harsh things, but seeing him melted me. In his arms, I forgot everything. I still loved him—no matter the cursing, the pushing away. Since that day at nineteen in the coffee shop, that hadn't changed.