“I—”
“It’s okay,” he says quietly. “You don’t need to say anything. Just tell me if I need to stop.”
He tests the waters, exploring while I discover what feels okay, what’s more than sublime, what I never want to do again. In the whirlwind of pleasure, I am oblivious to the dizziness settling in, and the heat amplifying it. I tell Conin and he smiles, then we wash each other of the dirt, blood, and grime from yesterday. He’s tender and I reciprocate his attentiveness. Conin’s all smiles, barely able to hold his glee. Once we’re toweled off,naked and bare, Conin laces his fingers with mine and leads me to the bed.
We are canvases—our hands, the paint. In flushed pink strokes, we trail and brush in technicolor. Our hearts beat like metronomes, a rhythm that far outpaces any possible tempo: Vivaldi’sThe Four Seasons, calm then abruptly chaotic the next. I hear the trill of vibrato. The echoes of strings. The beginnings of a symphony. Call me dramatic, but I know the lyrics to my song now. I know what needs to be said. It’s there, tipped on my tongue, ready to be sung.
Does he know? Can he hear them already?
We resume our expeditions across the planes of our figures. The sunlight wanes in the sky. Golden hour is upon us. The city, the Vegas lights. As the day transitions into night, I feel everything in me relax, and a sense of safety takes shape. The world around us falls asleep. We’re masked in the dark and seen only by the eyes that matter. My heart thrums excitedly. The subtle luminescence from afar glows. It surges, flashes, and casts kaleidoscopic colors onto the sea of white and the paleness of our skin.
Conin traces a thin scar. He plants a kiss on my lips, displaying love along the laceration. I freeze as a phantom pain jerks awake a ghost of the past. Lukeman Gray’s brutal hands and his belligerent stare. The insults rolled off his tongue as each became more natural than the last. Years and years of practice were evident in their creativity. They were the precursors of what came after. Thax’s cruel blade and its unrelenting nature—the planes he destroyed—the innocence snatched and the sacrifices it had cost.
“Ezra? Do I need to stop?”
I blink.
“I can stop,” Conin whispers in the dark.
I see his dull outline, the bleak edges, and make eyes only for Conin.
“Where are you?” he asks because he would know.
He always does.
“I was lost there . . . for a moment,” I answer truthfully.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters. The apology is sincere, broken with guilt. “I went too far, with your—”
“I’m happy you did,” I say. The truth, again. “I never loved that part of myself. It feels ugly. Wrong. You made me feelgood.”
The pain or hatred might never go away, but right now, this is okay.
“I will never forgive them for what they did,” Conin says, “and if I hurt you in any way—”
“You’re not them. You’re you. You love me and I . . . I love you, too.”
His irises are glassy. He blinks the tears away and digs his nose against my flat chest. Conin plants his cheek there and a solitary drop splatters my tattered skin. I caress my hand through his wet hair, trying to exude every bit of love I can. There’s that smile again. Progress.
“Fuck. I love you—”
And for a moment . . . for the briefest moment, all is right in the world.
How did we get here, Conin?From childhood friends to . . . what does this make us? Boyfriends? Are me and Conin boyfriends?
“Come here.” He listens.
I find his mouth. He meets me halfway. For our first time, it’s better than I could have ever hoped for. It’s later in the night when we finally succumb to sleep. His heart is quiet underneath all this muscled flesh. Our limbs tangle. I dream of a boy with wild hair. I dream of his effervescent smile, the swing set in thesweltering sun, sweating ice cream cones in hand, and a future of limitless possibilities. Conin Bresshet—I dream of you.
Chapter 48
Conin
Nausea pins me to the slick chair I find myself in when the world takes shape. I’m pulled from the recesses of a pitch-black dark—my head pounding so excruciatingly tight, it’s like I’ve been drugged.
I blink away the bright flash of a floodlight that overstimulates my senses. The beam forces my eyes closed; all I see is red. They sting every time I attempt to open them. The tap of boots sounds from a concrete floor, approaching, an ominous noise that makes my heart race. I try to break free. It’s a futile attempt. Rope binds my hands to the chair frame and my ankles to the legs. Naturally, panic sets in.
“They’re coming to,” says a gruff, unfamiliar voice.
