He presses his forehead to mine. “We don’t have to do anything else if you don’t want to.”
“I do want to. I really want to,” I whisper, meeting his eyes with urgency.
His gaze searches mine for any sign of doubt. When he fails to find any, he shifts me aside to retrieve a condom from his wallet in his pants pocket. I watch as he rolls it on with ease, quick to resettle us exactly as we were.
He allows me to set the pace, taking his size in gradually, inch by inch. Halfway, I pause, shuddering at the overwhelming feeling of him stretching me, filling me. “I don’t know if this is going to work,” I manage.
He cups my cheek, pressing a soft kiss into my neck. “It’s okay. Just go slow.” A low groan escapes him as I lower myself, his voice driving me wild with need. “You can take it, baby. That’s it.”
“Fuck,” I moan, tipping my head back as I fully sink onto him, feeling him hit me exactly where I want it. When we find the perfect rhythm, chests melding together, I can’t believe we’ve wasted so many months.
“God, you feel . . . I never knew it could be this good,” he whispers against my lips, giving my bottom lip the softest bite as I rock against him, increasing my speed.
I’m surely a broken record of cries as he moves his hand between my legs, thumb swiping exactly where I crave the pressure. I curl my nails into his neck, his hard back, his shoulders. Everywhere I can reach.
We watch each other climb higher and higher, exchanging slow, shallow breaths. We’re in our own strange bubble. We’re floating above earth, away from all reality, intrinsically connected.
His rough free hand works its way over my waist, setting the pace in the final stretch, flexing and working against me. His eyes pin me in place when he finally detonates in me, sending me plunging into another dimension along with him.
When it’s all over, I’m not even sure I have control over my own body. The aftershocks rip through me, rendering my limbs Jell-O. Our eyes snag in the dark, and he holds my gaze. All the seemingly insignificant strips of him I’ve banked slowly, one by one, in my memories make up the man right here, holding on to me like I’m about to disappear. The tiny arch of his brow when he looks at me. The way he looks to the ceiling, pretending to be hopelessly annoyed with me when I know he isn’t. The way he’ll go out of his way to help me in all my ridiculous situations. And the way he cares for Angie. The way he cares for her so much that he can’t fathom losing anyone else in his life.
“You have to leave in a few hours,” I whisper, collapsing over his chest. “I don’t want you to.”
He squeezes me tighter, melding us together, savoring the moment. “I don’t want to leave you, either.”
“Will you wake me up before you go?” I plead. “I don’t want to wake up alone.”
He responds by kissing the top of my head. I burrow into his neck, taking in his scent, fighting to stay awake in the darkness, wishing I could slow down time. Maybe stop it altogether.
Before I fall asleep, holding on to him for dear life, the realization pours over me like a bucket of cold water. There’s no coming back from this.
? chapter twenty-nine
TREVOR RUNS TOWARD me through a lush, green, tranquil field. The sleeves of his white Flynn Rider dress shirt billow in the breeze with each strong yet graceful slow-motion stride. Sunlight bathes his skin in liquid gold.
He’s half a football field length away and it might as well be a continent. The sun doesn’t extend to my half of the field, which is cold, slate-gray, and shrouded in miserable decay. A cruel cloud hangs directly above me, ominous, inky, and full, threatening to burst at any moment to drench me in an icy sheet of rain.
Desperate to sprint into the warm safety of Trevor’s arms, I ready myself for the first stride. But my limbs refuse to budge. I’m stuck. Immobile. I can barely even exhale a breath.
The more I struggle, the more pressure builds against my ribs. Something black, shiny, and thick has coiled itself around my entire body, squeezing tighter and tighter, intent on sucking the life out of me. Strangely, it smells like a mixture of sweet and soothing, like my White Strawberry Herbal Essences shampoo.
It’s my own hair. I’m being strangled to death by my own Rapunzel-like hair.
A gray, frizzy-haired Mother Gothel–like figure with Seth’s shark face transplanted over the top looms behind me, running its bony, shriveled hands over my shoulders. Her villainous eyes glint, delighting in my distress, jagged yellow fingernails scraping my skin.
“Let me go. I think he likes me,” I rasp, my throat as dry as the Sahara, staring longingly at sunlit Trevor. He’s still running, but somehow, he’s not getting any closer.
Mother Gothel releases a witchy cackle into the shell of my ear. “Likes you? Please, Tara, that’s demented!”
* * *
? ? ?
MY CHEERFUL, CHIRPING bird alarm snaps me to a welcome consciousness. Yellow strands of light poke through the slats in my blinds, confirming I am indeed safe in my bed, not in a sketchy field.
That enthralling cinnamon scent—Trevor’s scent—grounds me with the comfort of home. Like a drug addict, I attempt to flop onto my side toward the source, craving more, but I’m still stuck.
Unlike in my dream, my limbs are not bound by my own hair, which is both relieving and disappointing. Having lusciously thick, long, glossy shampoo-commercial-worthy hair a la Mel’s wouldn’t be too shabby, so long as it doesn’t try to strangle me to death.
In reality, it’s my sheets that have cocooned me like an Egyptian mummy in an ancient tomb. They’re pulled tight all around me, military-style. The other pillow is smoothed and plumped. For the first time in years, my bed is made . . . with me in it.
This is a surefire sign that Trevor Metcalfe was here. That last night wasn’t another one of my elaborate, R-rated dreams.
My alarm is still going off. Bleary-eyed, I struggle to free myself from the tightly wound sheets to hit Stop.
It’s eight thirty. Trevor’s flight was at six forty-five.
I lug myself out of bed and tiptoe across the hall to check his bedroom. Just as I suspected, his bed is made. Everything is in its place. Except for him, of course.
He’s gone. He left without saying goodbye.
I return to bed, smoothing my hand over the empty space where he fell asleep next to me, replaying everything he said to me yesterday about how he wanted to try. How he was going to give this relationship his all. How I agreed to take things slow with him, emotionally at least.
I wish I could magically summon him back to talk through it all again in more detail. To confirm it was all real. I wish I could summon the feeling of the pads of his fingers hypnotizing me with small circular strokes. The tingle of my skin as his lips danced over me in an intricate, private show. The feeling of being more in sync with another human being than I ever thought possible.
I fall back asleep, my heart filled with hope but also fear.
DANIEL: Please call me. I’m so sorry about Friday night.
This is Daniel’s third apology.
I haven’t responded yet.
As Mel leads us through the mall in search of a dress for the gala in two days, Crystal lectures me on the art of forgiveness. “I know you hold a mean grudge. But Daniel’s only human. He’s obviously really sorry.”