Chapter 11 Selene #2
We hadn’t spoken any more about my lying to her and going to see Neil, but her frosty looks were more than sufficient to tell me she was still upset with me.
Suddenly, the doorbell rang and pulled me out of my thoughts.
I reluctantly left Peter and Wendy on my bed and hurried downstairs to the door.
When I flung the door open, I found the object of my obsession standing on my front porch in all his glory.
He looked like he’d come to haunt me with his stern frown and diabolical beauty.
My breath caught at the sight of his nose, tip reddened in the cold, and his lush mouth cracked down the middle.
That cut on his lower lip seemed like it might have been from someone biting him… the way I did.
“Hey, Tinkerbell,” he said in his baritone, and I blinked in surprise. It felt like New York was no further than the next block for him—he just showed up here like it was nothing, completely disarming me with his enthralling appeal.
“What…what are you doing here?” I adjusted my glasses, and he took notice, smiling. It was the first time he’d ever caught me looking so dressed down. Good thing I had at least taken a shower because I was otherwise a hot mess.
“Are you alone?” he asked, not answering my question.
“Yeah, my mother won’t be back until dinner.” I shrugged as he walked proprietarily inside, shutting the door behind him. I took a step back and tilted my head to get a good look at him, feeling small and awkward.
As always, Neil was magnificent.
“I texted you these past few days, but you disappeared,” I said, only after he’d spent a moment looking around without noting anything in particular.
He made me wait before deigning to give me his attention.
The smell of musky bath gel filled the air.
It had only been a minute, and he was already invading my space with his essence.
“I’ve been working on my application for my internship,” he explained, looking down at me.
He lingered over the long sweater I wore before moving on to my light pants and fuzzy slippers.
With an amused look on his face, he looked up into my eyes.
“Since when do you wear glasses?” he asked, and I reddened. I knew he was going to say that.
“When I read,” I answered, staring at the tiny cut on his lower lip.
“And how come I never noticed?” he asked, cutting the distance between us. The closer he got, the more I felt crushed, disintegrated, scattered to pieces, and absorbed into his soul.
“Maybe you were distracted,” I whispered. Neil lifted up a hand to stroke my cheek and graze my chin with his thumb without ever taking his eyes off me.
“You think so?” he asked, smiling wickedly. “I bet you were reading one of your dull books. Maybe something by Nabokov?” he said in a sensual murmur.
“No, Peter and Wendy by J.M. Barrie.” I blushed again, preparing myself for whatever snarky remark he had for me. Instead, he just furrowed his brow, and with a rough chuckle, he kept caressing my cheek.
“You really are a kid at heart.” He leaned down and dropped a chaste kiss on my lips. I marveled at the delicate movement. He lingered a few more seconds against my mouth, but it was not one of his passionate, devouring kisses. It was a kiss hello, a show of affection.
As soft as it was powerful.
A few moments later, he pulled away and looked into my eyes, sensing the enveloping warmth there. He seemed pleased to see me. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to just enjoy the moment.
How many days had he avoided me?
Neil wasn’t capable of suppressing his urges for long, and the mark on his lip made me think he’d run straight into the arms of one of his other lovers.
“What happened to your lip?” I asked him suspiciously.
I felt like peeling off his clothes and examining every inch of him for marks that didn’t belong to me. He came back to earth and turned serious, shutting himself back up in his darkness.
“It’s from the cold. My lips get dry, and I get these little cracks,” he explained with his usual cool. He seemed sincere enough, but I couldn’t be entirely sure.
“Are you still sleeping with other people?” I blurted out, my possessive urges getting the better of me.
“Even if I did, it wouldn’t mean anything to me,” he answered honestly, a hint of shame in his voice. He looked up over my shoulder so I wouldn’t see the hurt on his face.
It was useless, though, for him to try to hide from me: His brilliant eyes told me everything.
By that time, I had realized what sex was for him; it was like a chess game against himself, an addiction, a panacea that made him feel better, and a way to keep a hold on this world and to process, in his own way, what he’d gone through as a child.
But even though I understood the way he was and his reasons, I couldn’t stand the thought of sharing him with anyone else.
“I know you can’t understand that and—” he began, but I just shook my head, deciding not to ask him any more questions.
“I’m going to try.” I smiled at him, inescapably drawn to the fragility that I could now glimpse behind the facade of the immovable and inflexible man. “How long are you here for?” I asked, deciding to show him kindness instead. After all, I was pleased to see him, and I wanted him to know it.
“A few hours. I’ll be gone before your mother comes back,” he said softly, as though already aware that she wouldn’t approve of him being there.
“Okay. So what do you want to do?” I asked naively, and he shot me such a wicked look that I immediately realized what he intended to “do.”
It was me. Obviously.
Was there any occasion when he didn’t want to tear off all my clothes?
I gulped and cleared my throat in a way that made it obvious I was embarrassed.
“Go back to your reading; I won’t bother you,” he said instead, knocking me for a loop.
I’d been expecting him to lead off with one of his dirty comments or a peremptory instruction like “get naked” or “get on your knees and suck me off, Babygirl.” Instead, he seemed interested in actually spending time with me. I was surprised.
“Oh, okay,” I said hesitatingly.
I led him up to my room, and once we got inside, I sat down on the bed and watched him wander inquisitively around.
He still wore his black coat, his gloomy figure contrasting sharply with the soft, bright colors of my decor.
He stopped abruptly in front of my desk and reached out to stroke the glass cube with the pearl inside, which was sitting next to a photo of me with my grandma.
He appeared lost in thought for a few moments, staring vacantly at the precious object, and let his mind drift far away from me.
That happened to him regularly, and I usually tried to respect those moments when he turned inward.
“You kept it…” he noted, breaking the silence.
He turned around to look at me, and I just nodded.
Why would I throw out something I cared so much about?
Despite the fact that his very presence had been blowing up my life for months, I felt alive with him.
I should have been thanking him every day for sparking emotions in me that I’d thought nonexistent, like love.
Before I knew him, I had never realized how powerful and all-encompassing it could be between a man and a woman.
“You are important to me,” I allowed myself to tell him, and he raised his eyebrows in shock.
I’d caught him by surprise.
I liked this disarmed version of Neil. I loved to see him without his defensive walls, though he only rarely allowed me to do so.
He cleared his throat, and I was satisfied.
Had I made Neil Miller uncomfortable? This was a one-time event.
He resumed his investigation of my desk, pausing on a book lying near the cube. It was a philosophy text by Nietzsche.
“The Birth of Tragedy…” he read in a thoughtful murmur, grazing the cover with one hand. “A subject that I also find very interesting,” he told me, still not turning in my direction.
“You like philosophy?” I asked with obvious enthusiasm. He’d already demonstrated a love for Bukowski and a familiarity with the work of René Magritte; was Neil about to dazzle me with his understanding of philosophy?
“I find Freud and Schopenhauer a lot more compelling,” he answered, picking up the book to page through it slowly.
“Is this a strategy for luring in women? Showing off how cultured you are?” I teased.
I could feel a comfortable understanding between us, and it made me happy.
I’d thought that he’d ignored my texts for days because he regretted telling me about the clinic and his conditions. Instead, he seemed placid and easy.
I felt gratified.
“No. Women, in general, can’t tell you whether or not I am literate,” he answered flatly, putting the book back down where it had been. He turned toward me, and the sadness I saw in his face made me want to put my arms around him.
Neil was all alone, after all. Just like me. He had built up a suit of armor to protect him from everyone; he had isolated himself and frozen all his feelings, and no one was able to look past his appearance.
His other lovers wanted to compel him, to strip him down and own him, if only for an hour.
But I wanted more.
“Talk to me about Schopenhauer. What about his work appeals to you?” I pulled off my reading glasses and arranged myself cross-legged, ready to listen.
Neil frowned and leaned back against the desk, narrowing his eyes at me.
He was trying to decide if I was messing with him, but I wasn’t.
Everything about him interested me. “Come on, I want to know. Seriously,” I prompted him, and after a moment’s hesitation, he agreed.