I close my eyes, because if I keep them open, I’ll see everything I stand to lose. Gerardo. Greyson. The studio. All of it.
Instead, I let myself just feel him. God help me, I let myselfhavehim.
His hands are on my waist, warm and certain as his mouth moves hungrily against mine. The kisses grow deeper, urgent and full of need, and I can’t stop myself from responding.
Mateo pulls my cardigan up and over my head, casting it aside without a glance, then his lips return to mine instantly, as if the separation had been agony. I can feel the tremble in his fingers, the eagerness in his grip, but there’s still tenderness in every motion, like he’s painting each inch of my skin to memory. My bra is next, the black lace joining my cardigan on the floor at his feet.
He pulls off his own sweater, then we press together, skin to skin, bare and burning. I rake my fingers along his back, relishing the strength there, the way his muscles flex beneath my hands. My skirt pools higher on my thighs as I shift my weight and roll my hips instinctively against him.
We fall deeper into this forbidden space, this heady blend of lust and longing. His mouth finds my neck, my collarbone, and I gasp when his hands slide up my sides. I can’t think. I can’t breathe. All I know is him.
My fingers move to the waistband of his jeans, unfastening the button, slowly tugging at the zipper. My breath hitches as I lean in to kiss his jaw, ready to give in completely.
“When will you leave him?” The words are soft, but earnest, and they rupture the bubble of rapture.
I still as his question slices through the haze of lust. My hands stop moving. My lips freeze against his skin. I feel his heart racing beneath my palm, and for a moment, I swear the whole world holds its breath. I sit back slightly, straddling him still, but all the fire inside my chest has turned to ash.
Mateo looks up at me, his eyes open, vulnerable. He’s not pressuring. Not demanding. Just... hoping. And I can’t answer. My mouth parts, but nothing comes.
His hands, once tight on my hips, loosen their grip. “You won’t,” he says, voice quiet but laced with agony. He nods to himself, almost as if he’d known. As if he’d been bracing for it.
I shift off his lap, hugging my arms around myself as shame curls like smoke in my lungs. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, unable to meet his gaze, though the words feel pathetic. Useless.
Mateo exhales, long and slow. “I don’t want to be someone you come to in the dark and hide from in the light.”
“You’re not,” I protest too quickly, but even I don’t believe it.
He stands, moving around the coffee table to gather his clothing from the floor. “I should go.”
“Please don’t—”
He pulls the sweater over his head and turns to face me. “I would’ve given you anything,” he states. “But not as an illicit secret.”
I nod, swallowing the tears that threaten to spill. “And it would’ve wrecked us both.”
He watches me for a moment longer, then heads for the door. He doesn’t slam it, doesn’t curse. Just quietly walks out, and I’m left in the silence, with the heat of his touch still on my skin, and the ghost of his question echoing in my chest.
NINETEEN
Mateo
The cab’s interior is filled with silence, broken only by the occasional rattle of loose change in the driver’s console. The city blurs past the window, streetlights flickering like dying stars in the heavily falling snow. I lean my head against the glass, still tasting Vaeda on my lips, still feeling the sting of her silence.
She didn’t say it out loud, but she didn’t have to. I already know. She’s never going to leave him.
My chest feels hollow as the weight of that truth settles deep inside me. For a moment, I think about asking the driver to keep going, to take me somewhere away from this part of the city, but I don’t. I’m too tired to run.
The vibration of my phone startles me, and I pull it from my pocket, glancing down and seeing Yvonne’s name. I hesitate, thumb hovering over the answer button, but then I think about her waiting at the club, about the phone call I never returned. She didn’t deserve to be left in the dark like that.
So I answer. “Hey,” I say, my voice flat, empty.
“Mateo? What happened?” Her voice is high-pitched with concern. “You weren’t at Pulse when I got there. I waited for like an hour. Are you okay?”
I close my eyes, exhaustion rolling through me like a tide. “Not really.”
There’s a pause. Then softer, “Where are you now?”
“Heading home.” I swallow. “I know it’s Christmas Eve and you should be with your family, but can you come over for a little bit? I... I need to talk.”
