Zoë
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WHEN MY MOTHER died, it was the bleakness of her death that saddened me more than the loss of her life. Her death made her too-short life meaningless. She lived an unfulfilled existence, married and pregnant with me before she ever got her shot at becoming a professional dancer, doomed to almost two decades with a man who never loved her the way she deserved. A man who left us and came back, who cheated on her—and then, in the surprise of all surprises, couldn’t live without her, it turned out, and died only two weeks after her, abandoning me again.
What was it all for?
I don’t want to live the same unrealized life. Even though ballet was always more my mother’s dream than mine, I vowed to see it through, to audition for the Regency Ballet Company and to make something of myself.
And I resolved to steer clear of men like my father—cold, distant men, incapable of real intimacy or closeness.
It feels like irony that Tate turned out to be just that, but it’s not, of course. It’s patterns repeating themselves, subconscious patterns I need to be aware of. And now, sitting across the table from his father, I find myself thinking about them again.
But Nick is different, I tell myself.
There are two Nicks. Stern, intimidating Nick Rivera—slow to smile, somewhat menacing in size and stature, that arch way of speaking like he will brook no argument. And then there’s the private, silly, passionate Nick I discovered underneath. The one who teases me. The one who loses himself in me. Beneath his cool exterior is a molten core, and showing that core to me means he loves me.
I think.
We’re sitting in the dining room, where I’ve served dinner—a little homemaking ritual I’ve been performing all week—but Nick isn’t eating, just pushing the food around on his plate. He’s quiet, and it makes me nervous, reminding me too much of the tension around the dinner table I grew up with.
When he finally speaks, his voice is leaden, like he can barely bring himself to say the words.
“We need to get realistic about what this is, Bean,” he grits out, lifting troubled eyes to mine.
In the week since our relationship turned physical, we’ve gone down this road a few times. Nick reiterates that nothing can come of this, my heart shatters, and then Nick breaks down and realizes he needs me. Relief comes in his arms—when he moves over me, when he’s inside of me, when he holds me.
But tonight, his regret feels heavier than usual. He’s been quiet all afternoon and barely meeting my eyes.
“I wish you’d never met Tate.”
His words pierce like an icepick to the heart . “But then I’d never have met you ,” I point out.
He sighs and pokes at a potato. “Did you hear from him?”
Did I hear from him, not have I heard from him. “No.”
“He texted me this afternoon. Finally. He apologized. I thought he might have texted you as well.”
I’m surprised to hear that Tate apologized to his father. And a little annoyed, if I’m being honest. Unlike Nick, I never texted Tate after he left, never pursued him, but don’t I deserve an apology for what he did?
Although, truthfully, I don’t care that much. All I really want is for Tate to evaporate into thin air, to disappear, to not be a factor. I don’t want to think about Tate. I want to be with Nick without the specter of Tate hanging over us for once.
No such luck tonight, though. Nick’s energy is dampened and low. I hate seeing him this way. And I hate feeling this way.
Like those times at home when my father would withdraw, and my mother would, too—pulling her love away from him punishingly because she knew he’d already taken his away from her.
I don’t want to be like that. That’s why, when I feel like pulling away, I try to reach out instead. I don’t want to not try with Nick. I put my fork down, get up and walk over to him, and touch his shoulder.
“Hey.”
He gives me a resigned smile.
I lift a leg over his chair to straddle him, and he turns his head to the side, stiffening as if the way I lower myself between him and the table is awkward. I want to end this wallowing and call him back from this ledge. I settle my weight onto his thighs and gently cup his face with my hands, pressing my lips to his in a soft kiss. But he only kisses me back perfunctorily. His dark brown eyes, when they lock on mine, aren’t flashing with mischief and fire.
“If he wants to come back… this is his home. He’s my son.”
I kiss his forehead then, without saying anything, then his eyelids, then his lips.
Please let’s not think about this now .
If Tate is coming back we can cross that road when we come to it. We can deal with it then.
This relationship has repercussions for me, too. Eyebrows will rise when people discover that I moved from the son to the father. But this thing between Nick and I… I guess it feels like we have to find a way. We have to, because it’s real.
I don’t know what else to do with the truth that lives in my heart except to say it.
“I’m in love with you.”
It comes out as a whisper.
But the effect is like throwing a match on a puddle of lighter fluid. His dark eyes flare and widen. I can’t tell if he’s alarmed or thrilled, and the anxious beating of my heart triples in time. It’s a crazy thing to say. A reckless thing to say. But I can’t help it. It’s damn true.
I’m crazy for the absolute power and presence of him, the way he seems to fill every room. And for the complete and utter vulnerability in his eyes when he fucks me, the hidden well of his emotions just under the surface. His protectiveness, his fierce defense of me. Even to his own son.
I love Nick Rivera with my whole heart, and when you feel that way, you just can’t keep it inside.
“,” he rasps, his voice low and raw, the despair of a moment ago transformed into something wilder. His eyes flick back and forth between mine, searching and conflicted, and then he wraps a hand around my neck and kisses me fiercely, the vehemence of his actions speaking the words he does not say.
I meet his passion with my own, my anxiety melting away with the relief that courses through my veins.
We’re fine. No matter what, we’ll always find our way back to each other. I’m sure of it.
Kissing has never been like this—the desperation, Nick’s sheer hunger—and I let myself get swept up in it. It feels so good to sense his power shifting like this. To be needed by him.
With our bodies pressed together, he pushes his plate out of the way and scoops me up by my ass before lifting me onto the table. He kicks his chair back and leans over me, kissing me with a savage fervor as he undoes his pants with one hand.
I’m panting for air as he pulls my leggings off and then drags my hips towards him. His huge cock, already hard, throbs between us, pressing against my slit. He fists my hair and roughly breathes against my ear.
“You’re mine,” he growls. “Say it.”
“I’m yours,” I huff breathlessly.
“I fucking own you.”
“You own me.”
He nips at my ear, trails his mouth down my neck, and then pulls my t-shirt up to my armpits and slides the cups of my bra down, exposing each breast. He bends to take one nipple in his mouth, sucking the hard nub through his teeth and making me hiss.
“Tell me you want this,” he says as he pulls back, wraps his hand around his shaft, and lines the head of his cock up against my entrance. “Tell me you want to get fucked by the big, bad man, little girl.”
“Yes, Daddy,” I say with a smile. “I want you to fuck me hard with that big cock like I’m your good little slut.”
“Ah, fuck ,” he groans, undone by my dirty talk, and drives into me with a helpless moan.
I gasp. Even though we’ve had sex probably twenty times this week, the size of him is impossible to get used to, but the pain quickly morphs into pleasure as he moves inside of me, every one of my nerve endings stroked by his girth.
“Nick…” I murmur, just because saying his name makes my skin tingle.
“You’re fucking mine,” he bites out. A quaver to his voice. A fury.
“I’m yours. I’m yours.”
His hand loosens from my hair and cups the back of my head. His mouth travels across my jaw and my cheeks until he finds my lips, and he kisses me with a devouring hunger as he fucks me.
I don’t close my eyes, and when he pulls away for breath, pressing his forehead to mine, his black eyes bore into me with a desperate intensity.
“.” His voice shakes, all his control ebbing away, only the rawness of his needs left, and heat blossoms in my chest, spreading out to my fingers.
“I love you,” I whisper as the heat enfolds me and bursts into starlight. “I love you.”
He doesn’t reply, but he never looks away, a stormy agony transforming his features as he explodes inside of me.
For a moment, we stay just like that. Suspended in perfect unity, breathing in each other’s mouths, hearts hammering in sync. And while I wish he would say the same words back to me, the unflinching way he looks at me seems good enough for now. I know he feels the same.
And then his gaze drops.
He takes a deep breath, planting his palms on the table and dipping his head, and then he straightens up and pulls out.
He tucks himself back into his pants without looking at me. He fetches me a Kleenex box from the living room and stands, hovering, while I wipe his cum from between my legs and pull down my shirt and pick my leggings up from the floor. Suddenly, the room feels very quiet.
“Nick,” I say to get his attention. I touch his arm.
When he looks at me, everything has changed again. The wildness is erased from his eyes, the intensity gone. He looks distant again, a million miles away.
My lips twitch in a confused, involuntary smile. It feels like he’s hiding the man I know. Where’s Nick?
“I’m sorry, ,” he finally says.
I stare back at him, not comprehending. We were just so close. How can he have pulled away again so quickly? What is he sorry for?
“We have to stop.”
My heart squeezes tight, one singular palpitation.
We have to stop?
Did he actually just say this to me only seconds after having what was probably the most intimate sex of my life with me? After coming inside me? After I told him that I loved him?
“Your cum is running down my leg.” I say it like an accusation. I can’t think of anything else to say. It is an accusation.
He sighs, drops back into his seat and leans his forehead into his hand.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, staring at the table. “I’m sorry.” As if that makes up for anything.