Chapter 27 Tyler #2
"You’ve always been a cocky asshole, thinking the world revolves around you," she starts, but it’s not mean. It sounds more like a compliment. She never finishes the sentence. She steps forward, closing the distance that words can’t. Her lips brush mine, soft and quick. Like a challenge.
We pull apart for a second, stare at each other, then our mouths meet again, clashing in a fiery kiss. Like we’ve been truly starved for this for seventeen years. And perhaps that’s the truth.
Before I know it, she's breaking away, taking my hand. "So you coming?" She pulls me down the hallway, past the old memories and half-formed fears, past the lockers and the regrets.
"Right behind you," I say, and for the first time in a long time, I actually believe it.
We reach the end of the hallway, a place that forces us to turn around.
I look at her, waiting for the moment to hit.
She stands against the wall, her arms crossed, years of expectation etched into her features.
The weight of what I have to say feels enormous.
I take a breath to be taken, but my chest is too tight.
"Is that a yes?" I finally manage.
"It’s a maybe, I’ll think about it," she whispers. She tilts her head, and the loose strands of her hair spill over one shoulder. "You were supposed to love me forever."
"I did," I choke out. "I do."
"Funny way of showing it." She doesn't sound angry, just sad.
I look at my boots, then at the pattern of old tiles. "I was afraid, Nomes." My fingers twitch at my sides. "I thought I was doing the right thing."
Her eyes flash. "You didn’t think at all, Ty."
I swallow and try again. "I thought you'd be better off."
Naomi pushes off the wall, her face inches from mine. "You don't get to decide that."
"I screwed up."
Naomi stares at me, deep into my soul. "Why did you really leave?" Her voice cracks on the last word. "And don’t give me that bullshit about wanting what’s best for me. You were the best for me. And you disappeared."
I wish I could say it was simple. But it never is. "I thought I was saving you," I blurt out, and it sounds so hollow.
She laughs, a sharp, brittle sound. "From what?"
"From me." The answer tastes bitter. I shove my hands into my pockets again.
"But you didn’t," she fires back, no hesitation.
"I wanted you to have a chance at your dreams." I close my eyes, trying to find the courage to say more, to tell her what truly happened. But my tongue won’t move. What’s the point of unraveling the past that’s better staying buried?
"I never meant to hurt you," I add, but it sounds so lame, even to my own ears.
Naomi watches me for a long moment, the longest of my life. Then she takes a step, then another, until we're close enough to count heartbeats.
The air shifts. I see something change in her eyes, something I don't dare name.
It clicks, like two magnets would. My lips crash into hers, sudden and fierce. A storm of emotion that I've waited years to feel again. It's like waking up, like being alive in ways I forgot were possible.
The kiss deepens, years of distance and mistakes evaporating between us, fading into nothingness, becoming meaningless.
My hands find her face, cup her cheeks. She kisses me harder, and my mind goes blank with the intensity of it, with the rightness.
It’s different from that drunken night of sex.
We’re both sober, clear-minded. We’re going into this knowing what we both want, knowing what this could be. There's no pretense and no lying.
We stumble against the lockers on the way out, a tangle of arms and knees, and I don't want it to end. My chest swells with something I barely recognize, something terrifying and wonderful. Hope.
Her lips move against mine, a murmured sound that might be my name or a moan. Her fingers run through my hair, tugging and sure, and I've wanted it for so long that it scares the hell out of me.
She pulls back, breathless and dark-eyed, the world spinning in new directions. "You're insane," she says, but there's a lightness to it that lifts my heart.
"Insane about you."
Naomi shakes her head. "Don't make me regret this."
"Won't," I promise.
I know it's fragile, and I know it's huge, but it feels right. So right.
Her hand finds mine again, her fingers twining like they're made to fit. "Let's get out of here," she says.
"Where to?" I ask, a million possibilities sparking to life.
"My place, of course," she says. "Sneaking out of your parents’ house at thirty-five was embarrassing enough after we did nothing but sleep."
I laugh, feeling the joy burst through me like fireworks, like an encore at the end of a killer show. "I can totally relate."
And we're off, running past the ghosts of our younger selves, out the doors, into the night, into whatever comes next.
We rush into the parking lot and head over to her car.
"I’ll take you to pick yours up in the morning," she says, starting the engine. "And you better be there when I wake up."
"Of course I will be. It's my house."
She hesitates for a moment before exiting the lot. Then we’re on the road in no time.
There’s a rock tune softly humming in the background, filling up the stillness between us. As we stop at a light, I reach out and wrap my fingers around hers. She gives my hand a gentle squeeze.
The drive doesn’t take long, maybe just shy of fifteen minutes. Her street is quiet, draped in darkness with not a soul in sight. Nestled between two larger homes is hers—small, painted white and gray, with flowerpots adding pops of color to the facade.
She pulls into the driveway, and I glance around. The view from here showcases the mountains majestically silhouetted against the night sky—it’s stunning.
I’ve always been curious about where she lives and how she builds her world. This place? It screams Naomi Medina: unassuming yet pristine and cozy, or at least, from what I can see on the outside.
She shuts off the engine and climbs out first.
I follow.
On the steps leading up to the front door, I draw her to me, press myself up against her, unable to wait, and kiss her silly, like I need her to breathe. And maybe I do.
"Come on, Ty." She pushes me back slightly. "I don’t want my neighbors to talk."
"I don’t care."
"I do. I don’t need TMZ harassing me at my place of work tomorrow because someone recognized you."
"You think someone’s stalking your place at this hour?" I laugh a little.
"You never know." She moves to open the door while I hug her from behind. Her hands tremble when she tries to slip the key into the keyhole. That’s how I know she’s nervous.
I press another kiss to the back of her neck. She shivers. The door finally gives in, and we step inside.
Here, under the cover of complete darkness, it feels different. Safe and secure but also substantial.
The sound of the door shutting behind us is like a punctuation mark at the end of a very long sentence.
Our lips collide again, a fast-moving train with no plans to slow down. Her place blurs around us—intimate, eclectic, as wild and lovely as she is.
She backs me against the wall, brushes her index finger over my jaw, and says, "Tonight, I’m in charge, Ty."
Hell, she’s always been in charge. "Yes, ma’am," I choke out. My cock swells in my jeans, and there's a roaring current of lust rushing beneath my skin, drowning out the last of my common sense.
Before I can process what's happening to me, she takes my hand and pulls me down the dark hallway, then into the bedroom. The curtains on the windows are closed only halfway, and there’s moonlight streaming in and painting the floor and the furniture silver.
Without further ado, Naomi steps closer and goes for my T-shirt, then pulls it up and over my head. She doesn't hesitate even for a second. That's the Naomi Medina I remember from high school. Decisive, fierce, straightforward. No games.
A few seconds tick by as we stare at each other.
"You're so bad, Ty," she coos, cupping my aching cock through the rough fabric of my jeans. There's smirk on her lips I rarely see. It's almost evil.
"You expect me to be good in this situation?" I ask, gesticulating wildly just to give my hands something to do.
She stretches up on her tiptoes to bring her face level with mine. Her breath fans over my cheeks as she murmurs, "You've never been good, Ty."
"Guilty."
She reaches for my fly, lowering it. Then she shoves my jeans down.
I lose my cool. My need to have her here and now is beyond simple temptation.
It's almost like an animalistic reflex now, after I had a taste of her.
I yanks at her dress, pushing the straps off her shoulders.
With a single move of her hand, she unties the sash keeping the dress in place around her waist and the fabric loosens, then slips to the floor and pools around her feet.
I take a moment to drink her in—all the seductive curves and the dark lace of her bra and panties.
My cock jerks at the sight of the tight, barely hidden nipples.
I push my jeans all the way down along with my boxers.
The rest of our clothes scatter like my unfinished songs. We’re both naked before we know it.
My heart is a chaotic chorus, pounding loud enough to drown out the world. We're the only thing that matters, raw and urgent and impossibly alive.
Naomi doesn't waste any time. She shoves me onto the bed, her mouth hot and insistent on mine. Her hands roam over my body, touching the skin, tracing the ink designs, teasing my aching cock.
Then she grabs my left arm and lifts it above my head, pinning it to the mattress.
I freeze, watch her watch me. She’s reading the faded letters on my skin, letters hidden among the fresher designs.
"What are you doing?" I ask, knowing the answer.
"Checking if you’re telling the truth, Tyler Brady," she whispers back, then kisses the exact spot on my inner bicep where I inked her name at eighteen. It was my first tat. It's still there, untouched.
"And?"