Chapter 5 Total Eclipse of the Heart #2
He stops himself.
Eyes sliding back to mine.
Nods once,
trying to beat the ache to the surface.
“Yeah... it’s whatever you want,” he says again. “Even if it’s only tonight. You got me.”
He scoffs, shaking his head.
But it’s not cruel, it’s ruined.
“Everything happens for a reason, right?”
My chest jumps back. My body doesn’t move.
That’s the worst kind of flinch,
when no one can see it but you.
Because we ripped that line apart earlier.
Mocked it. Spit on it. Called it what it was:
a pretty lie people tell themselves
when the truth is too ugly.
And now he’s giving it back to me.
Not to make me feel better or give me an out,
but to say—This fucking sucks.
This is the opposite of what I want,
but you leave me no fuckin’ choice.
He pushes off the shelf,
never letting go of my hand.
“C’mon,” I say,
pulling him down an aisle,
past the rope, where it’s off-limits,
down a narrow flight of spiral stairs,
to the basement,
to the old listening room,
to the nearest wall,
far from prying eyes,
far from reason,
far from anyone who could stop us.
It’s colder in the basement,
where the chill breathes against my skin,
brushes behind my knees,
and sneaks under my dress.
A wall of signatures looms at the back—
black ink, silver paint,
red lipstick smudged across years.
It smells like old vinyl and smoke.
Feels like someone sang into the walls,
and left the emotion behind.
The red exit sign glows above the door,
casting a scrape across the floor.
The crimson glow from it
pools in Andrew’s navy eyes,
the color of blood dripping
into the deepest part of the ocean.
I can see him, but only in pieces.
Cheekbone under red.
Hands in shadow.
Those eyes—here, then gone.
Mouth, throat, nerves—half seen, all felt.
I fall back against the wall.
Andrew follows, falling into me.
No second thoughts, only gravity.
He slides off his jacket. It hits the floor.
Then his palms hit the cold brick,
caging me in.
Arms all lean muscle,
veins crawling up his forearms.
His breath grazes my mouth,
my jaw, my pulse.
He’s waiting me out,
for me to make the first move.
So I look into his eyes when I say it—
“I want you.”
Three words.
Three walls collapsing,
dust and bricks at my feet.
“Andrew, I fuckin’—”
He grabs my jaw,
his mouth’s on mine,
and everything shatters.
His kiss fills me up,
all his pieces raining into me.
The sound of piano keys followed us down here, a Bonnie Tyler record spinning, leaking through the vents.
Grainy. Ghostlike.
Total Eclipse Of The Heart spilling around us.
We don’t notice until the chorus explodes,
and we break from the kiss at the same time.
Laughter cracks us wide open,
then fades fast.
And then we’re staring at each other, grinning.
A smile that says we’re doomed.
He slides a hand to the back of my neck.
“C’mere, angel. We can cry about it later.”
He cuts off my smile with another kiss.
And I thought I was ready for him,
but I wasn’t.
Thought I’d change my mind,
but I haven’t.
Thought I’d tense up,
panic,
bolt,
disappear.
But I don’t. I’m not.
Thought his hands would be selfish,
wild,
reckless.
But they’re not.
He’s a slow, exquisite ache,
desperate to feel every second.
He’s drowning in me,
and I’m drowning in him.
We’re dragging each other under,
and neither of us is fighting it.
I feel every lazy stroke of his tongue.
Not only in my mouth.
I feel every stroke everywhere,
curling inside my ribcage,
winding in the pit of my stomach,
shaking my bones apart—it’s jarring.
His knuckles skim my arms.
His hips lean into my hips.
His palms slide up the curve of my neck.
He cradles my face, pulling me into him—
deep,
deeper,
deepest.
Like he’s still not close enough,
not far enough inside me.
And he kisses me harder,
presses up against me closer,
fuses me to him,
like we clicked back into place.
This is where we were always meant to be.
Whatever this is,
it doesn’t feel like the first time.
It doesn’t hit fresh, it hits deep,
unburying something familiar.
He grabs my hips,
turns me 'til my back hits his chest,
and his fingertips come over the side of my thigh.
Despite me,
my body flinches away from his touch.
I expect him to chase it. Or pull back.
Or—God—do anything but what he does.
Which is nothing.
His hand hangs there,
mid-air, frozen an inch from my skin,
waiting for me to come back to him.
And after a second,
then two,
I do.
I lean into his hand, his fingers brushing,
and his breath shudders out,
as if those two seconds were fucking torture.
He traces circles up my thigh, drifting higher.
I glance over my shoulder,
and his heavy eyes hook into mine,
his breath trailing heat along my cheek.
“I’m gonna touch you,” he whispers.
Wanting. Wasted. Wrecked.
“Then I’m gonna make you come.”
My pulse bangs louder.
Everything inside me twists tighter.
He takes my left hand,
interlocks our fingers together,
lifts them,
pins them to the wall.
His other hand drifts slow,
teasingly higher up my thigh.
“Okay?”
I swallow.
I want this. I want him.
But my body is on fire, my mind is in pieces.
The anticipation shreds through me,
squeezes my muscles.
My heart is pacing the walls of its cage.
It’s itching to break through spine and flesh to get to him.
Andrew’s heart’s slamming against my back,
a mirror of mine.
Waiting, waiting, waiting.
I can’t think. I can’t get the word out.
Yes.
No.
His breath is hot on my neck.
I’m throbbing between my thighs.
But before I can stop myself,
I’m shaking my head.
No.
And I swear to God, my heart takes a knife to its throat to kill me.
My body wants this.
My brain doesn’t trust it.
My heart is scared to feel anything.
I lay my hand over his, on my thigh.
Touch doesn’t scare me.
It’s what happens after I give permission.
Because, then what?
Then it’s their hands,
creeping and crawling from place to place.
It’s their choices. Not mine.
I don’t know where they’ll go or what they’ll take. Or how fast they’ll move before it’s too late. And if I miscalculate, misjudge, and they go too far? I don’t trust myself to stop it fast enough, in time before my body locks up, when my voice gets stuck somewhere between fear and silence.
So we stand there, suspended in time,
his hand on my thigh, my hand on his,
waiting in the silence, stillness, the seconds.
His breath skips,
his jaw flexing against my temple.
But he doesn’t push.
As if he’d rather wait than risk losing me,
all night if he has to.
We hold both our words and breath,
hovering inside the same pause.
Until fear blinks first.
And then I move.
Breathing out slow, I guide him,
dragging his hand up my thigh,
slipping us under my dress.
Air spills from his lips in one long pull,
and his fingers tremble under mine as we drift over my hip, smothering the chill, leaving a hot trail in their wake.
Goosebumps fan out across my skin.
He notices.
I know in the way his hand lifts a hair under mine,
enough to brush my skin gently.
As if he needs to feel what he’s doing to me.
Then when we glide across my stomach,
I curl into his fingers—a ticklish reflex.
He notices.
I know in the way his grin presses against my cheek, slow and wicked.
When he dips into the hollow of my sternum,
I hold my breath.
He notices, and lingers there,
fingers tracing the ridge of bone.
And when he reaches my ribs,
he holds me closer,
his thumb gently brushing over each one,
unhurried.
Inch by inch,
he’s learning me,
mapping me,
reading me,
taking his time.
Then I realize…
I’m letting him touch me.
And I don’t want him to stop.
I drag his hand higher.
And higher.
His head rolls against my temple,
his breath mixing with mine
as we keep inching higher.
And higher.
Then his fingers reach the underside of my breast.
His thumb slips first,
one soft sweep across my nipple.
Heat pours out from between his lips,
crashing into the tender spot beneath my ear.
A warm tingle pools between my thighs.
His mouth drags along my throat
as his hand slides up,
then spreads hot over my breast.
And it’s so light—
so maddeningly light—
that his palm grazes the peak.
My breath stumbles. His lungs empty.
Then he squeezes gently,
a touch that lands everywhere.
He turns into me, his open mouth pressing against my temple, his warm palm spreading wider, gripping a little tighter, pulling me into him, molding me against his body.
And I sink until surrounded.
My next breath rises.
His falls heavy in my ear.
“God, Sonny…”
His voice cracks, lips brushing my jaw.
“Non voglio… solo una notte. Non stavolta.”
I don’t know. I don’t understand.
But I can feel the ache in his voice.
I turn my head, searching.
His lips find mine first, needing me.
We sink into the kiss,
his mouth warm, his tongue slow.
Everything so
God-achingly
Slow.
Our hands fall down my body together.
Over my racing heart,
down my heaving, ticklish stomach,
the dip of my navel,
until his fingers slip inside
the front of my panties,
fingertips drifting across my skin.
Then his warm words spill over my lips,
sending a shiver down my spine.
“I’m yours tonight.
“Take whatever you want.
“Do whatever the hell you want with me.”
He presses into the soft flesh of my pelvis,
anchoring me, dragging me back into him,
nailing me between his hips,
making sure I feel all of him.
“You got me,” he says. “And I ain’t even fightin’ it.”
I try to breathe,
but my lungs don’t work. So I try again.
It comes out shaking.
I bite my lip.
Then let go of his hand before doubt sneaks in.
I convince myself it’s only a fantasy.
A night I’ll wake up from.
Believing it’s not real?
That’s control, not chaos—a ghost of something that feels a lot like the real thing.
This night will haunt him long after I’m gone,
but I refuse for it to haunt me.
Mine to conjure, his to carry.
This is me, setting myself on fire before he ever gets the chance to pour the gasoline.
A floorboard creaks upstairs,