17. Evangeline
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
evangeline
W ilder sits back on his heels and wipes his face on his sleeve. His cheekbones are flushed, a grin teasing his lips as he peers up at me.
“I think I’ll take a shower, after all.”
I’m so wrecked from that second orgasm, it takes a few beats for me to register the wet spot near the fly of his jeans. I bite my lips but it’s no use—a giggle slips free.
He climbs to his feet, his grin lighting up his eyes. Warm hands slip around my back, tugging me against his front. His nose nuzzles mine.
“Go ahead and laugh. We both know you’d be just as big of a mess if I hadn’t licked it all up.”
My already flushed skin burns. He chuckles and gives me a brief, wicked kiss, then moves to the shower and turns it back on. His shoes come off. Then his socks and shirt. A belt buckle clanks. Jeans and boxer briefs hit the floor. I ogle his perfect ass and muscled back as he steps into the tub and pulls the glass door closed.
His head tilts back. Water cascades over his face, misting above his open mouth, running down his chest and rippling abs to his half-hard cock.
“If you’re going to stare, you might as well do it from in here.”
My eyes flash up to his playful smile.
Am I dreaming?
I almost say it out loud. Maybe Wilder senses the words because he says, “This is really happening, Evangeline. You and me. Come on.”
He opens the shower door. Steam billows out, stirring air and making me shiver.
My feet carry me toward him.
Like they always do.
* * *
The remains of a pizza sit on my kitchen table, half-eaten. We each managed a slice and a half before gravity forced a collision of our mouths.
We’re on the couch now. I rock in his lap, the position both torturous and exquisite, his cock so deep inside me it passes the line of intimacy into possession.
Making the moment even more intense is the fact he won’t let me break eye contact. His hands frame my face, fingers in my hair, gentle pressure holding me still or adjusting my head when I try to look away. Between consuming kisses, his freckled eyes stay on mine, penetrating me as deeply as his body.
I’ve never felt so safe and threatened at the same time. He’s familiar and new. A fantasy I’m not completely convinced has become real. Our history melts around us, viscous and powerful as it reshapes everything I know about my own heart.
There are no clothes between us. No condom, either. He didn’t bring any and Lily stole the last of mine a few weeks ago. When Wilder and I surfaced from lust long enough to realize what was missing, it was already too late. At least for me. He tried to stop me from sliding down his length, but my rational brain was offline. The second my body took an inch of him, his brain likewise ejected reason.
I shift from grinding to lifting slowly and dropping back down. Every time his piercing hits a spot inside me, scorching heat flashes through my entire body.
“Holy fuck,” he groans, neck arching and eyes closing. “Slow down, baby, or I’m not going to last.”
My heart thuds at the endearment. I don’t slow down. The sight of him beneath me, all flushed skin and clenched muscles, his abs flexing as he struggles not to take control, makes me feel like a goddess.
“Does it feel good?” I ask breathlessly.
“Better than anything.”
His hands sink further into my drying hair. Calluses snag on strands, igniting pinpricks of sensation that make me pant harder. He pulls my head back, bowing my spine, and his tongue laves my nipples.
I whimper and move even faster.
“You’re so wet. Hot. Soft.” He yanks my face back down, his tongue diving between my lips. “I’m so fucking glad you’re the first person I’ve felt without a rubber. Worth. The. Wait.” He punctures the words with bites on my lips.
“Same,” I whisper. “This first is yours.”
His cock throbs inside me, turning to steel. A hiss whistles through his clenched teeth. “I’m super close.” He tries to lift me off him, but I sit fast and clamp my knees on his hips.
His eyes widen with panic. “Evangeline?—”
“I’m on the pill. Fill me up, Wilder.”
His eyes darken, features tightening. Releasing my hair, one arm snakes around my back. He presses his other thumb to my clit.
“You’re coming with me,” is all the warning I have before he takes over from below, rolling his hips into mine with deep, devastating precision. Those flashes of heat from his piercing build and compound until they become an inferno that swallows me whole.
“I’m—” The rest of my words are a stuttering cry.
He groans. “Oh, fuck yes.” His hips lose their rhythm, jerking hard against me as his body goes taut. The sound he makes—the feel of him pulsing inside me—heightens my orgasm to catastrophic levels. The feeling is so intense reality slips away.
“Hey,” he whispers, “it’s okay. I’ve got you.”
My senses return and provide context for his low, tender tone. I’m cradled in his arms and sobbing into his neck.
Shit.
I sit up fast and wipe my face, sucking back the next sob before it can release. “Sorry. I, uh… Need to pee.”
Avoiding his searching eyes, I shift my legs to climb off him.
“Not so fast.” His arms flex and I fall back against his chest. “Tell me what’s going through your head.”
This is a dream.
A huge mistake.
You’ll hurt me.
Turn on me.
Leave me broken again.
“Nothing,” I mumble.
A quick twitch of his hips makes me gasp. He’s still inside me, hard enough that his thrust triggers an aftershock. I screw my eyes shut, fighting the instant rise of desire.
“Let me see those fairy eyes.”
The words trigger a three-year-old memory. A frisson of old hurt follows, tumbling fast into anger. When I look at him, his eyes widen, shoulders stiffening.
“What’s wrong?”
“We need to talk,” I say with forced calm. “But I can’t have this conversation with your dick in me. And I actually do need to pee. I don’t want a UTI.”
He studies my face another moment, then closes his eyes. When they open, they’re full of resignation. “I’ll get dressed and make us tea.”
He lets me go. I scramble off him, wincing as he slips out of me, and escape to my bathroom. After peeing, I use a washcloth to clean my wet thighs, then splash cold water on my face and study the woman in the mirror. I barely recognize her beneath a glowing complexion, swollen lips, love-marked skin, and tangled hair.
“What are you doing?” I whisper to her.
Her eyes hold no answers, only naive hopes. She wants nothing more than to fall back into the fantasy, the pretend world where Wilder has never hurt me, where his offer backstage at Cathedral came with no strings, no history, no fears.
The woman in the mirror has been in control the last few hours, but the real me is back in the driver’s seat. Ironically, I have that brain-melting orgasm to thank. It broke my delusional bubble, reminding me of the many tears I’ve spilled over him.
I reach for my robe, then decide I need more than terrycloth between us for this conversation. A minute later, I’m armored in leggings, a sports bra, and a sweatshirt I stole from Rye that covers me to mid-thigh.
I find Wilder in the kitchen, sweatpants riding low on his hips. To my relief, he also pulled on a T-shirt. When he hears the creak of my footsteps on old floorboards, he glances over his shoulder.
His jaw clenches, nostrils flaring. “Please tell me that’s Rye’s sweatshirt.”
I love his jealousy.
I hate that I love it.
“It is.”
He blows out a breath, turning back to the counter. “Go have a seat. I’ll bring your tea. Two spoonfuls of honey still?”
“Yes,” I say weakly, then retreat to the living room.
My steps slow and stop when I see the couch, specifically the lack of cushion where we’d been sitting. The cushion itself sits near the slider, stripped of its casing. I’m still staring at the empty space when Wilder comes up behind me.
“I put the cover in the washer. The cushion should be fine.”
There’s something in his voice that brings my head around. Amusement mingled with… pride ? I squint at him, growing more confused by the second. We couldn’t have made that big of a mess. Could we have?
“Thanks,” I say uncertainly.
He hands me a mug. I wrap my hands around the warm ceramic as he takes a sip of his tea to hide a smile.
“What are you not telling me?”
Twinkling eyes snap to mine. “Have you ever squirted before?”
I almost drop my tea. “ What ?”
He grins. “I didn’t notice until I stood up, probably because that was the most intense orgasm of my life.” His smile turns smug. “Apparently it was good for you, too.”
Closing my eyes, I will the heat crawling up my neck to recede. It doesn’t work. Warmth eclipses my entire face. How did I not notice? My thighs had been excessively wet, but I’d thought it was sweat.
“That’s definitely never happened before.”
“Hey.” His thumb stokes my jaw and my eyes pop open. “It was a first for me, too, and I’m not even remotely weirded out. There’s nothing your body could ever do that would make me not want to worship it.” He pauses, then smiles slightly. “Remember that night on tour when you did too many tequila shots and spent an hour puking in the hotel parking lot and I held your hair back for you?”
I grimace. “Yes. Why?”
His smile widens. “I still wanted to fuck you.”
A startled laugh escapes me. “Ew.”
He chuckles and heads for the other end of the couch, then flops onto one of the two remaining cushions. I follow slowly, my thoughts bouncing between gratitude for how fast he normalized what happened and trepidation for the conversation we need to have.
A few steps from the couch, I realize that sitting next to him will be too much of a distraction. And if he touches me, I’ll forget everything I need to say. So I veer to an adjacent armchair and sit, tucking my feet under me.
Wilder sips his tea and watches me with a cocked eyebrow. “What’s on your mind?” he asks, a note of wryness in his tone.
I swallow the sudden lump in my throat. “I’m not sure how to start.”
He puts his mug on the coffee table, sinking back into the couch and crossing his arms over his chest. While the position is defensive, his expression remains easy to read. Resigned. A little wary.
“I bet I can guess at least one thought banging around in that beautiful head.” When I don’t say anything, he continues, “Since you’re close with your parents and hate keeping anything from them, you told them we hooked up last month and your dad flipped out. He probably reminded you what a piece of shit I am. And now that the orgasm endorphins are wearing off, you’re remembering I’m a piece of shit, too.”
I stare at him, my vocal cords paralyzed. I shouldn’t be surprised by how well he can read me, but I am.
Wilder’s smile is a sardonic twist of lips. “We may not know all the boring little details about each other’s lives these days, but don’t forget I’ve known you since before you could walk.” The smile dies. “I know I’ve hurt you. I wish I could undo the past, but I can’t.”
I find my voice. “I don’t think you’re a piece of shit. I think you’ve made mistakes. We both have.”
Dark eyebrows lift. “But?”
My stomach clenches with unease as words rush to the tip of my tongue. Words that might send him out the door—words that still need to be said.
“If this is going to work, if you really want a…” My throat closes.
“Relationship with you,” he supplies, eyes steady on mine. “Yes, I want it. I’ve been obsessed with you for years, but I was a fucking coward. I’m not saying I deserve your forgiveness or even that I want you to forget what a shithead I was. But I hope you’ll give me a chance to be the man I know some part of you believes I can be.”
My chest tightens; my eyes sting. Fear and hope seesaw.
“What is it?” he asks softly. “I’m a big boy. Just say it.”
The words finally pour out of me. “You were pretty close—about my dad’s reaction. But he also said you’re an addict. And my mom said your parents suspect you’ve been using opiates since you started having panic attacks at nineteen. Is it true?”
His body stills, expression going eerily blank. My heart pounds like a drum. Tea sloshes in my mug as a tremor moves through my body. It’s warm in the house, but I’m suddenly freezing.
“Were you high two months ago, Wilder? When we had sex the first time? Are you… are you on drugs right now?”
A bit of life, of hurt , returns to his face. “You really can’t tell if I’m high?”
I study his clear eyes. “I don’t think you are,” I begin hesitantly, “but honestly? I don’t trust my own ability to tell. I also know my dad wouldn’t have said that without reason. And your parents…” I shake my head helplessly.
He makes a rough noise, his gaze falling to his lap. “No wonder you’re freaked out.” He sighs heavily. “It’s my fault. I don’t return their calls enough and ignore most invites to the house. It makes sense that they’d think I’m fucked up. I’ve been so focused on the band for the last two years, I didn’t realize they were so worried.”
His gaze lifts to me. “It’s not an excuse, but I don’t have the kind of relationship with my parents that you have with yours. You know it’s always been hard for me to open up to people. Even them. You’re the only—” He cuts himself off with a grimace. “To answer your question: no, I wasn’t high when we hooked up last month. I’m not high right now. Have I used drugs? Obviously you know the answer to that. But I’m not a fucking junkie.”
The beginnings of relief tingle in my body. “And the panic attacks?”
His eyelashes flicker; discomfort radiates from the tense line of his shoulders. “I get them. Have since I was little. They became intense in my late teens. I don’t have them too often anymore, but I still get anxious. Usually in social situations or around strangers. The only place I’m truly comfortable is onstage.” He pauses. “And with you.”
More hope rises in me, carried on a wave of sympathy and affection. He’s being honest. Opening up to me. It feels precious, like a new beginning.
My voice softens. “Do the guys know?”
He shrugs a shoulder. “They know I have limits on how long I can handle fan meets and press stuff. They’re used to my weirdness by now.”
“I don’t think it’s weird to have boundaries to protect your peace.”
His lips quirk. “You’re giving me too much credit. Most days, I’m winging it and hoping for the best.”
Flashes of memory pass through my mind, years and years’ worth, building a picture of Wilder I never fully saw until this moment. How he always stayed on the edges of gatherings, outside the raucous mingling of our families. Disappearing often to sit alone with headphones on. His dislike of casual touch. Shadows under haunted eyes. How he did shots right when we stepped offstage before we were swarmed. His lyrics, which have always shown a mind that experiences the world differently than me—than most.
My heart fractures at the thought of his long, silent struggle.
I shake my head slowly. “I wish I’d known. I wish you’d told me. I could have supported you better. Maybe what happened three years ago?—”
“No,” he interjects gently. “Nothing that went down is on you. You were right to cut me out of your life.”
I almost contradict him but pause and acknowledge that who he was—the things he did and said—still hurt. Not like they once did, but regardless, even if I understand him better now, how he treated me back then wasn’t my fault.
Wilder leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His head hangs down for a few moments. When he looks up, the raw, glassy-eyed expression on his face steals the air from my chest.
“Can I be real with you?”
“Of course.”
He holds up his hands; the strong, graceful fingers visibly tremble. “My heart is going a mile a minute right now. I’m fighting the urge to bolt. It’s not you—I don’t want to feel like this. But talking about this, letting you finally see how fucked up my head was, still is…” His voice drops to a whisper. “Please, please don’t regret me.”
My mug meets the coffee table and then I’m climbing into his lap and wrapping my arms around him. A shuddering breath leaves him before his arms squeeze me in return. His head drops to my shoulder, warm breath showering my collarbone.
My heart is a furnace inside me, its fiery glare dissolving the stains of our past.
There is only now and a future so bright it stings.
“Never,” I swear.