Page 19 of Laced in Longing

“What kinds of things?”

His arm gets heavier by the second. “Just things.” My pace increases as the first dregs of regret seep into my consciousness. I should have at least suggested his place instead of mine; would have allowed for an easier escape.

Why did I do this again? How many times have I done this and hated myself afterwards? I never fucking learn.

“Wow,” he says, dragging out the word, as we ascend the stairs to my apartment. “Nice building. It has such old charm and character.”

I hum noncommittally, my focus on placing one foot in front of the other without tripping. My buzz may have decreased, but the dizziness has yet to subside. By the third floor, a heaviness full of rot settles in my gut—a warning my body sends that my mind refuses to receive. Mistake, it screams. I knew it walking over, I knew it at the bar, and I know it now.

What’s the alternative? Pacing my empty apartment, waiting for he-who-shall-not-be-named to appear?

James chatters all the way up. His words fill the silence with observations about the building, comments about where I used to live, questions regarding my life here. Each sound grates against my nerves like sandpaper, but I force a tight smile and keep climbing.

Finally, I think when my door comes into view. I fumble with the keys and more doubt before waving him inside. The space is different with someone else in it—smaller and less mine. The jar of flowers snags my attention, along with my crystals. Will James comment on their strangeness? Judge me for them?

Would I care?

He doesn’t do either, too busy studying me, his eyes roving over my body with the undisguised interest of someone who believes his moment has arrived.

“Drink?” I offer, now desperate to postpone what comes next.

“I’m good.” He eliminates the space I’d tried to maintain between us. A hand rises to my face, fingertips tracing my jawline as if to memorize its texture. “Unless you need one?”

Yes, I do need one, or a few, to get me through this night.

I keep my thoughts hidden, shaking my head before his mouth descends. This is why I went to the bar. This is what I wanted. This is what I need to silence the yearning for something I can’t name.

His lips press against mine, warm and insistent. The kiss isn’t bad, technically speaking. He clearly knows what he’s doing, applying the right amount of pressure as his tongue seeks entrance in a way that isn’t repulsive.

But something’s wrong.

Instead of warming, my blood ices over. Each point where his skin touches mine sends a wave of nausea through me, my body is rejecting the foreign sensation. His hands slide down my waist, drawing me closer, and bile rises in my throat.

I ignore it. Press into him with deliberate intent. This is just nerves…my body’s typical resistance to human contact. It will pass once things progress and the physical sensation eventually overrides the discomfort. It has to.

His hands become bolder, sliding to grip my breasts through the fabric covering them before squeezing hard. Why am I not responding? There should be some flicker of desire, or pleasure, but there’s nothing. Just a mounting unease that threatens to choke me.

“You’re gorgeous,” James murmurs against my neck, his voice rough. “Been wanting you all night.” I flinch—no, cringe? Gag? I’m not sure at this point, only understanding that this whole situation is gross.

The edge of my bed slams into my legs as he pushes us back before guiding me down. I fall willingly, my eyes remaining closed. I cannot witness this man hovering over me in my safe space.

His weight sinks me into the mattress as each kiss grows more demanding. It’s as if the world rests on me with the way my lungs constrict. This is wrong. Everything about this is wrong. His taste, smell, touch—all of it signals my fight or flight, and for once I’m not enjoying the dose of adrenaline that accompanies it.

Yet I persist, hands fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. For some stupid reason, I’m determined to see this through. To prove that I can still do this; still function as a human being capable of basic intimacy.

His fingers tug the zipper of my dress with impatient jerks. Goosebumps trail along my newly exposed skin as he shoves the dress down, an appreciative hum leaving his throat when he reveals my bra.

“Knew you’d be perfect,” he mumbles, more to himself than me, I think. Hands shift to the clasp, ready to remove the final barrier between my nakedness and his eyes.

That’s when I break.

“Stop,” I gasp, shoving at his chest with a panic-filled strength. “I can’t—this isn’t—I need you to stop.” Move, you asshole!

He doesn’t, freezing as his brows crease. “What’s wrong?”

Everything! Everything is wrong. My skin shrivels where he’s touched it, my stomach churns at a rapid pace, and my heart pounds with alarm rather than passion.

“I’ve changed my mind,” I manage, wriggling out from under him to claim the edge of the bed. “I’m sorry, but I need you to leave.”