Chapter 19 The Interaction Between Selection and Other Forces
THE INTERACTION BETWEEN SELECTION AND OTHER FORCES
*Samantha*
The first thing I noticed when I woke up—before the angle of light cutting through the curtain or the ache in my thighs or the fact that the sheets were twisted around my naked torso—was the absence of his body next to mine.
The space he’d occupied only hours before had cooled, leaving behind the faintest indentation that still smelled like him.
Everything else was generic morning. The city noise beyond the window, the dust motes floating in a sunbeam, my sudden and urgent need to pee.
Surrendering, I rushed into his bathroom, did my business, and then washed my hands.
Eyeballing the mouthwash by the sink, I gave my mouth a quick rinse just to escape the taste of my own morning breath.
Then I returned to the bed and stared up at the ceiling for a long time, searching for cracks in the paint, the slow revolutions of the aforementioned dust motes, the trajectory of my own thoughts as they immediately turned on themselves like a pack of rabid dogs.
Regret was the first to strike. Followed quickly by guilt, then worry, then—just as I was about to slip into a full shame spiral—desire, curling itself around the rest like a python and squeezing until everything else was quiet.
Last night had been perfect, which was the problem.
Not perfect in the Hollywood sense, with slo-mo kisses and roses and orchestral music, but perfect in the sense that it was exactly what I’d wanted, and had been afraid to want for months.
I’d let him in, literally and metaphorically.
I hadn’t tried to self-sabotage. I’d just let go. And in retrospect, it was scary.
In the clean light of morning, I could already feel the cognitive dissonance setting in.
My body was still humming, every nerve ending thrumming with the memory of his hands, his kisses, the way he said, I love you.
But my brain—treacherous evolutionary relic that it was—wanted to know what came next.
Would he act like nothing happened? Would he freak out? Would I?
I pulled the covers up to my chin and stared at the wall, half hoping the answers would be written there in the negative space between the bookshelf and the window. No such luck.
One thing was for certain, we needed to have a serious conversation. In fact, we needed to have a Serious Conversation—proper name—before things between us escalated in any direction.
The sound of approaching footsteps made me freeze.
I was, to put it mildly, not dressed for company.
Shirtless, in my underwear, hair sticking to my cheek in a way that suggested a minor wrestling match with the pillow, I debated whether I had enough time to find my T-shirt before he arrived.
But the footsteps drew closer, and then the door swung open with a small but definite click.
Andreas stood in the doorway holding a tray.
He looked neither sheepish nor awkward. In fact, he looked devastatingly put together. Black pants, olive-green shirt, hair styled to perfection, skin clear and a little glowy. Euro-chic was back with a vengeance.
Andreas balanced utensils, a bowl of fruit, and a toasted bagel with cream cheese on the tray. Incredibly, there was a bright green takeaway cup from Central Grounds, my favorite. The detail made my chest ache.
Smiling slyly, he crossed the room, moving with his usual predatory grace, and set the tray on the nightstand next to me. “I hope you are not awake only because I was too loud in the kitchen.”
My voice came out groggy. “I didn’t hear anything.
I mean, except now.” I pushed myself up on one elbow and immediately regretted it, needing to yank the sheets up to cover myself.
“Did you, uh, make this yourself?” What?
What was I even saying? Did he make a toasted bagel with cream cheese himself? GET IT TOGETHER.
“I know how to toast a bagel,” he said, deadpan. “But I admit, the coffee is not my creation.”
He stood next to the bed, looking down at me, the corners of his mouth clearly suppressing a smile. His eyes roved over my face, my shoulders, the line of my collarbones, and I could feel the blush start at my neck and race upward.
I gave him my very best nonchalant nod, trying to play it cool. “Is this you trying to be the more generous one in this relationship?” This was in reference to Andreas’s list of unattractive qualities about himself, and I hoped he considered it a flirty joke rather than an airing of grievances.
His entire face lit up, giving me the sense he appreciated my callback to our conversation in the hospital’s VIP lounge.
“Even if I wanted to be the more generous one, even if that was a thought in my head about you, I think I would have to spend a lifetime trying to rebalance the equation after what you did to me last night.”
Oh. Well. Ahem.
Smiling softly, eyes dancing, Andreas sat on the edge of the bed, leaned in, and pressed a kiss to the side of my neck. The contact was brief but devastating, a spark that lit up every nerve ending beneath every inch of my skin.
He lingered, lips just barely grazing my skin, sending another series of sparks through my body, then whispered in my ear, “I think I am addicted to you.”
The way he said it—dead serious, like he’d spent the entire morning contemplating it—made me freeze.
The silence stretched for a second, and then he leaned back and studied me. Andreas’s smile grew the longer he looked, teeth bright and sharp, and before I understood his intentions, he lifted the covers to peek underneath.
“What are you doing?” I said, reflexively grabbing for the comforter and yanking it back.
He cocked an eyebrow. “I want to see where else you’re blushing.”
I snorted, but the blush got worse, which he obviously noticed.
He slid his hand under the covers, dragging them down to my waist, and ran his palm over my bare stomach, fingers tracing the line of my ribs.
I shivered. Andreas leaned over me, bracing himself on one arm.
The other hand continued to stroke my skin, mapping out the landscape of me like he was committing it to memory.
I tried to summon the resolve I’d felt just minutes earlier, the part of me that had sworn up and down to myself that we would have a Serious Conversation before any further escalation.
But that part was nowhere to be found. It had been vaporized by the touch of his hand and the scent of coffee and the relentless, idiotic pounding of my own heart.
He slipped his fingers under the waistband of my underwear and tugged gently.
“What are you doing?” I said, voice barely above a whisper.
He looked me dead in the eye. “I want to taste you.”
I gaped at him, caught between arousal and surprise. “That’s not a very vegan breakfast,” I said. Apparently, the only words available to me were snarky.
He smiled, slow and dangerous, and cupped me firmly over my underwear. “I will always make an exception for this.”
Once more, he hooked his fingers around the elastic and pulled. Not hard, but with enough conviction that my hips lifted off the mattress, surrendering. He dragged the underwear down and off, tossing it aside. Then he pushed my knees apart, climbing on to the bed and settling between them.
Immediately, Andreas ducked his head and ran his tongue over me, slow and deliberate. I grabbed a fistful of the comforter he’d removed, white-knuckled, and arched my back slightly. He took his time, alternating between gentle licks and firm pressure, teasing and retreating until I was panting.
And I watched him between my legs. Andreas in his button-down designer suit shirt, perfect hair, glowing skin, and heavily lidded green eyes.
The dichotomy of his perfectly put-together veneer licking me beyond the expanse of my naked breasts and stomach, paired with the wet, sloppy, hungry sounds he made, felt overwhelming. It was too much. He was too much.
Abruptly, he pushed two fingers inside, curling them just so, and my stomach tensed even as my legs fell open wider, as though he’d found the hidden override switch in my brain, a button he could press which made me a brainless sex toy for his use and pleasure.
Gradually, I became aware of my own noises—high-pitched, breathless, desperate—but I had zero control over them. Andreas played my body like a damn instrument, and I happily moaned along to his tune.
He looked up, eyes dark and hot, and he lifted his lips just enough to say, “I missed this.” His gaze lowered to my open legs and he watched his fingers disappear inside my body. Then he bent and sucked my clit into his mouth.
If last night had been a revelation, this was a religious experience. I lost all sense of time, space, self. I was a single point of sensation, suspended in the air, every muscle locked and trembling. And when I came, it was all at once. Sharp and loud and messy.
He licked and loved and held me through it, mouth never leaving me, fingers still working inside. When it was finally too much, I grabbed his hair and tried to push him away, but he only laughed and licked me again, slow and soft, until I gasped.
Only then did he crawl back up the bed, kissing my stomach, my ribs, my collarbone, and then lay beside me, burying his face in the crook of my neck and inhaling deeply.
We lay like that for a long time, neither of us saying anything. I stared at the ceiling, waiting for my breathing to return to normal, and wondered how it was possible that this person, who, at one time, had been the most infuriating force in my life, was now the only thing I wanted.
Yet, I knew things were still left unsaid between us. The Serious Conversation had been neglected. In the back of my mind, I knew I should be worried. He could hurt me again.
Just as this thought entered my consciousness, Andreas lifted his head from my neck, eyes fixed on me, and said, “You are so beautiful, it hurts sometimes to look at you.”
His tone was almost clinical, like he’d just discovered a new mathematical constant and wanted to make sure I understood its significance.
I stared at him, feeling too many things, and therefore unable to name any one of them individually.
* * *
This particular Mexican restaurant, where Kaitlyn and I often met for drinks and amazing food, went hard for California cantina meets Brooklyn chic. Exposed brick, succulents in recycled mason jars, tables made out of repurposed gymnasium floors.
And the drinks didn’t pretend. The tequila to mixer ratio was legit. Our server had already delivered two margaritas the size of human skulls, sugar crusting the rim in lieu of salt.
Kaitlyn watched me over her glass, eyes sharp with cross-examining energy. “Let me get this straight. You didn’t have the serious conversation?”
We’d arrived just ten minutes ago, but I’d already filled her in on all the need-to-know details. And since she was my BFF, she needed to know all details.
I sipped my drink. The margarita tasted like lime and I didn’t at all mind. “No, I didn’t.”
She set her glass down so decisively it thudded. “You just let him go down on you and then you ate breakfast, flirted, gave him a hand job in the shower, and then went to work?”
I didn’t even have the decency to blush. “Why am I so weak for this man?” It was a serious question.
“It sounds like he’s good at giving head.” Kaitlyn, ever the queen of deadpan, took another swig through her straw.
Our chips and salsa arrived, set down with a flourish by our waiter, who glanced between us. “Your mains will be out soon. Can I get you two ladies anything else?”
We both shook our heads, mumbled thanks, and he was off.
I picked up a chip, snapped it in two, and said, “He’s just .
. . so fucking good at it. It’s like, it feels like he enjoys it more than I do.
He said he’s addicted to me, but I think it’s the opposite.
” Thinking about it now, I nearly shorted out my own brain.
The memory was so vivid—Andreas’s mouth, his hands, the way he operated like a very patient, very determined scientist, mapping out my pleasure centers.
Except, he clearly was already in possession of the blueprints and was simply showing off.
Kaitlyn gave me a sly side-eye. “Maybe you’re addicted to each other.”
I tossed my hands up without dropping the chip, then let them thump on the table. “What am I going to do?” I wanted to laugh at myself, but it came out as a groan.
“That’s easy,” Kaitlyn said. “Take him to a place where you can’t get naked and then have the serious talk.”
I blinked at her. “That’s genius. Why didn’t I think of that?”
“You’re in it, you know? It’s hard to see solutions when you’re deep in the love pit.”
“Love pit? More like the sex dungeon.” I lifted my eyes to the ceiling, as if divine intervention might drift down through the ductwork. “I can’t talk about this anymore. I am so disappointed in myself. No matter how deep I am, I should be more responsible than this.”
Kaitlyn reached across the table and nudged my hand. “Sex complicates everything. Don’t be so hard on yourself. Just, have the talk sooner rather than later.”
I nodded. “I can’t believe this is all I can think about given what happened with my legal team yesterday.”
I’d already told Kaitlyn about the phone call—the one where my lawyer laid out, in their signature giddy-dour affect, how they now had not just circumstantial, but smoking-gun evidence of Henrik’s guilt framing my father.
The news had been like a shot of dopamine and bleach at the same time.
I was elated, but also hollowed out. There’s only so many events you can metabolize before you become numb.
Kaitlyn wiped salsa from her lip. “What are you going to do? I mean, now that you have proof it was Andreas’s brother.”
I didn’t answer right away. I loaded a chip with salsa, too much, so it collapsed in my hand.
“Well, with the affidavit and sworn statement of Dr. Gounter—you know, the doctor who faked my father’s cause of death on the certificate?
With his testimony and this proof, my legal team thinks it’s more than enough to open a murder investigation.
It’s also plenty to contest the civil suit Oskar Kristiansen won against my father’s estate after my dad died. ”
Kaitlyn furrowed her brow. “But, if you contest the civil suit, doesn’t that mean your father’s estate will have ownership of his shares again?”
“Yes.”
She gave me a look as though to say, And you don’t see the problem?
Narrowing her eyes, she spelled it out. “But you’re no longer your father’s daughter. You signed away those rights when you let Andreas adopt you. Since Andreas adopted you, you no longer have a right to those shares.”