I always listened to Luca’s commands. My body does too. Like a siren’s song, I rise up again.
He thrusts harder. My nails dig into his back. "Em!" he yells, and with one final push, he releases inside me.
My own climax follows, curling around his until we both come down, shaking.
Luca, breathless and undone, stays on top of me for a moment. Then he lifts his head and looks at me.
I want to smile. I want to tell him I missed him every second of every year. I want to tell him I love him.
But instead, I bite my lip and watch.
His eyes, still hungry, scan my face. I brace for panic. For flight. But something’s different. The storm outside softens. And Luca... Luca smiles. He leans down and kisses me—soft, reverent.
I smile back, but say nothing.
"Stop overthinking," he whispers.
"I can’t."
A deep laugh rumbles from his chest. He kisses the tip of my nose and slowly pulls out.
"Come on," he says, offering his hand. "We need a shower."
"Too bad the ocean’s going wild—I’d kill to dive in right now."
"Don’t worry," he says, lacing our fingers. "We’ll have plenty of chances later."
Ibathed her, made love to her again, and then made us dinner.
Emma’s sitting on the couch, eating fried rice out of a bowl—Ana María makes it every Friday. The TV’s on; we picked a movie together, but neither of us is actually watching it.
We’re just talking.
I want to know what happened in her life after we went our separate ways. I want to know every minute I missed and make up for all the time we lost.
“Honestly,” I say, “I think youcanmake your art and work at the same time.”
Emma answers mid-bite, holding the spoon because she says she never learned how to eat with chopsticks. “I’m not good enough, Luke.”
“You are. I saw?—”
Shit.
She frowns, catching the slip. “Yousawmy work?”
I set the bowl and chopsticks on the coffee table and rest my hand on her thigh. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to sound like a stalker. But yeah, I saw your art. It’s incredible.”
Emma locks eyes with me—right eye, then left—and I can see her putting the pieces together. “Gargoth?”
Fuck. “Yeah.”
Emma bolts upright. “Youwere him?!”
Stay calm, Luca. “Yes, it was me,” I say, looking up at her pissed-off face. “I’m sorry.”
She paces around the other side of the coffee table. “Why are you sorry?”
“Because I wasn’t honest with you when we were talking.”
