“Good picture, right?” she continues, bending down to reach into a paper grocery bag at her feet. “I found it on Google. There’s not many of him out there, but this one’s a doozy.” She comes up with a single sheet, handing it to me, a reprint of the poster in flyer form. “I can’twaitto meet him. You want to take a few with you, hand them out to friends and family?”
I’m still blinking down at the one in my hand when I answer her. “No,” I say finally. “No, I think one’senough for me.”
* * * *
I walk five blocks to the address Alex texted me yesterday. I recognize the building, an old wholesale textile factory that was converted a few years ago into trendy, loft-style condos. When I get to the entrance, I stand and look up to my left and in the distance see the white neon cross of the hospital; to my right I can see the clocktower from the campus quad. Tucked right between two places that are sending meon to freedom.
I take the stairs, three flights, all the while conscious of the flyer I folded in half and tucked inside my bag, the picture of Alex living behind my eyelids like a double exposure—his silhouette stuffed full with images from the last month, of the two of us together. When I get close to the door I hear the sound of music, Spanish guitar again, and I’m already taking a deep breath, knowing another metaphorical punch to the center of me is coming.
Inside the unlocked door it smells like basil and lemon, the light low and a set of candles lined up on a narrow strip of polished concrete that serves as the studio’s only eat-in space. Alex stands in a tiny galley kitchen, a white towel over the shoulder of his black T-shirt, his hair messy and his stubble thick like it always is by the end of the day. Another silhouette that makes my heart seize. Big print above:ALEX, THE LOVE OF YOUR LIFE. Small print below, Kit’s words:He won’t behere long term.
I think, briefly, about backing out and running right back down the stairs.
But then he turns and sees me, his eyes light, his mouth curving into a smile, the set of his shoulders looser than it’s been for all the week we’ve been kept apart.
“How was it?” He takes the towel and wipes his hands as he crosses to me, leaning down for a kiss—awelcome home, how wasyour daykiss.
But just now, with those twin silhouettes behind my eyes, it’s the kind of kiss I’m afraid of, the kind of kiss I don’t want to get used to. As soon as his lips touch mine, I curl my hands into his T-shirt, pulling him closer to me, opening my mouth and tracing my tongue over the curve of his bottom lip, a move he answers with a soft, surprised grunt of pleasure. Within seconds his arms are around my waist, lifting me from the ground so I don’t have to tip my head back to kiss him the way I want, hungry and open mouthed and hurrying. He starts walking toward the bed but pauses, pulling his mouth from mine briefly. “The dinner,” he says, and I like the way his voice is, slightly breathless, needy in sound the way Iam in my heart.
“Will it keep?”
He doesn’t answer right away, licking into my mouth again, taking another step toward the bed. “I guess I don’t care.” The quiet laugh that follows rumbles against my chest.
I wriggle away from him, turn us so I’m pushing him toward the bed until the backs of his calves tap the mattress and he sits, his hands going back to brace himself, his knees spread wide apart, making a space for me. I could lift the fabric of my skirt, tuck my hands beneath and shimmy out of my underwear. I could get a condom while he unzips his pants, takes himself out, waits for me to straddle him in the way I know he likes so he can guide himself into me, so he can grab my hips and feel the rhythm I set forthe both of us.
But I want something different, something new between us, something I’ve never—maybe surprisingly, maybe not—done before. Not with Alex, and not with any of the few men I’ve been with before him.
I kneel between his legs.
“Oh,Christ,” he whispers, shifting his hips even as I’m reaching for his belt buckle. This part is familiar from the days and nights we’ve been together—the way he lifts his hips to make it easier, the way he’s hard and hot already in my hand, the way he likes a tight, rough stroke. When I lean in, moving one of my hands to tuck under his shirt, stroking the skin along his side, he shifts forward, bringing himself closer to me. It was this part, always, that kept me from trying this before—my head bent like this, the nape of my neck exposed, the white line of my scar visible and the threat of pain if it went on too long, if I couldn’t shift and move the way I needed to.
“Greer, you don’t have—”
But the rest of it is lost on a groaning exhale as I cover him with my mouth. For the first few seconds, I feel awkward, unsure of the best way to move, what to do with all the parts of myself involved with this—my hand, my tongue, the suction of my cheeks. But even this, the simple act of the attempt, seems wildly arousing to Alex, who thickens in my mouth and grunts out an expletive. Within seconds he guides his hand to that soft vulnerable place on my neck. “Okay?” he asks, because healwaysasks, every time we’re together, every time he touches or moves me in a new way, and it’s never about condescension or knee-jerk concern.
It’s always only about consent—perfect, adult, decide-for-yourself consent, and that alone makes me hot enough, confident enough to keep going with a briefnod of my head.
He shows me with gentle pressure on my neck, with the sounds he makes, with quiet instructions to do itharderorfaster, and within minutes he seems to have lost all the slow control he clings to when he’s inside of me, waiting for me to come. He gently squeezes my neck once, a warning, whispers my name. “I’m close,” he says, but I stay where I am, taking him as deep as I can. When he stiffens and takes his hand from my skin, moving it to grip the covers in his fist, I feel his release pulse onto my tongue, the taste new and unforgettable, the most intimate thing I’ve ever done with this man,anyman.
“Holy shit.” His chest is heaving, his hand shaking as he reaches out, pulls me from the floor, and gathers me onto his lap. He laughs softly into my neck, his breath warm and arousing against my skin. “Give me one second, sweetheart. I think you made me forget my own name there.”
I wrap my arms tight around him, press my forehead hard into his shoulder, my eyes shut tight against that big, bold font, probably all over campus by now.ALEKSANDR AVERIN.
ALEX, THE LOVEOF YOUR LIFE.
Chapter 16
Alex
She’s trying to kill me.
The dress is blue, waiting-for-midnight-on-the-beach blue, so unlike the delicate pale blue of her bridesmaid’s dress from a month ago. It’s also polished and professional and modest in cut—sleeveless, but with a high neck that covers the pale line of her throat, form fitting, but with a low hemline that stops just beneath her knees.
When she turns, though, everything about this dress feels like sin to me—the slit that’s barely visible at the back of the skirt until she takes a step forward in the silver heels she’s wearing, the same ones she wore at the wedding, the close fit that hugs the curve of her ass, the keyhole cutout that starts beneath the closure at her neck and fans out slightly, like a teardrop, to the middle of her back, showing the gorgeous, strong column of her spine.
If she’d let me get close to her, I’d set my hand right there. I’d place my fingertips on the tiny map-marks I’ve been studying for weeks, feel steady in the way I haven’t been able to in days.
“Aleksandr,” says Peter, for probably the thirtieth time tonight. I turn to the latest guest he’s brought to me here at the showcase, a tall, white-haired woman who has the same moneyed look as most of the people I’ve spoken to. Donors, I’m sure, every one, and Hiltunen is using me like a carrot on a stick. “This is Kazuyo Segawa. She’s on the university’s board ofcultural arts.”
