What I want is to get on my knees and ask you to bless my soulless body, to let me find salvation in yours, but I know it’s of no use. “You thought wrong. Now go.”
She takes a step forward, seemingly not caring that I want her out of my apartment. “But—”
“Don’t come in,” I warn her. “Unless you’re looking for a fuck.”
She flinches at the cruelty of my words, but the soft light in her eyes doesn’t disappear. If anything it shines brighter, like a lone star trying to show me the way. She extends a hand to touch me, and I move back as though the contact was poisoning. “Don’t.”
“You’re shaking, Sébastien.” Valentina places a palm on my chest, and it’s like I’m being branded with a hot iron, her fingers burned into my skin. I want to move, but I don’t—I can’t. “What’s the matter? Please talk to me.”
“I don’t want to talk.” I shake my head. There’s a deranged monster inside me who wants blood. The bastard wants to hurt as much as he’s hurting. Maybe then the pain will stop.
Cursing, I reach for Valentina and pull her in my arms. “What I want is my cock deep inside you.” I dig my fingers into her skin, and run my lips on her shoulder, the elegant line of her neck, filling my mouth to the brim with her taste—to remember or to forget. It’s all the same. “Fucking that sweet cunt of yours.” My touch turns painful, but Valentina doesn’t fight me. I let go of her and cup her perfect tits, sullying her skin with my filthy hands. I want to punish and scare her. And while I’m at it, punish myself too.
“Stop, Sébastien. This isn’t like you.” She wraps her arms around me, holding on. I try to push her away, but she won’t let me go. “Talk to me,” she entreats soothingly. “Hey.” Her eyes find and hold mine prisoner. “Hey. Come back to me.”
Come back. Come back. She pulls me slowly out of the abyss until I’m no longer in the past but here in front of her. And the realization of what I was about to do is a visceral punch to the gut. Head hung low. An earthquake of shame spreads under my skin, leaving destruction behind. I struggle to meet her eyes. “I’m so fucking sorry, ma petite chouette. So damn sorry—”
“Shh … it’s okay.” She runs a hand over the back of my skull again and again. Slowly the noises fade to a faint echo with each stroke of hers. “It’s okay.”
“It’s the—” I close my eyes. Feel her around me. She brings me comfort like a shot of whiskey. I forget to measure my words and confine my emotions. I let them escape out of me, unfiltered and illogical. And through it all Valentina—this almost stranger who should be running for the hills instead of remaining here—holds me close. “Storms like this … they bring it all back.” I envelop her in a tight embrace and bury my face in her neck. Needing to feel her, to know she’s real when nothing else seems to be. “Don’t leave.”
They say time heals all wounds, but I disagree. Grief never ends, it just changes. You learn how to live with it, rebuild yourself from the shattered pieces around you until you’re whole again, but you will never be the same. The light is gone. The flavors. The laughter. You become a stranger who you used to know. But then one day you wake up, and you find the dark has been penetrated by a spark in the shape of a slip of woman with brown eyes that could drive a man to perdition.
“I won’t.”
I shudder in relief. My mind shuts down. She’s here, I tell myself. And for now that’s more than enough. It’s everything.
I BLINK A COUPLE of times and notice that it’s morning already, the sunlight filtering through the curtains, warm on my face. I reach for my phone on the nightstand, blindly grabbing item after item until locating it, and look at the time. My eyes widen in surprise. No shit. Well, this is a first. 10:40 a.m. I slept. A smile tugs the corners of my mouth. And like a damn baby, too. I’m rested—relaxed. There’s a new, strange feeling, though. One I had forgotten all about, and that is of being at peace.
Then I remember.
Valentina. Her softness. I wanted to hold her close to me for as long as I could. Cling to her sweet words. Sink my claws into her as she told me everything would be all right.
She took me to my bedroom, helped me out of my soaked shirt, and went in search of a new one for me to wear. There were no more words spoken. Silence and her presence were all I needed, and she knew it. Her fingers grazed my skin as she helped me into a clean tee, her touch tender, giving—asking for nothing in return. I wanted to weep at her feet.
Suddenly bone tired, I fell flat on my stomach on the bed. For a moment, I was afraid that she would leave, but I should have known better. This was Valentina, and she was brave and kind. She sat next to me with her back reclined against the wall, her bare thigh so close to my lips it would have been easy to reach for her and bury my face between her legs. And by God, I wanted to. But I didn’t. Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with the smell of woman and Valentina. It would have to do. She reached for my hand then, holding the shattered pieces of me without being afraid to be cut by them, and sleep finally came.
Sitting up on the bed, I scratch the back of my neck and glance around the room. The door to the bathroom is closed, and my clothes from last night lay in a neat pile on the brown leather seat by the door—Valentina’s doing, I’m sure. Everything appears as it should.
Did she leave?
The thought fills me with disappointment. Man, you’ve got it bad. Shaking my head, I chuckle sheepishly, push the sheets to the side, and get out of bed. I’m stretching when the smell of coffee drifts into the room. I open the door and stop as my eyes greedily take in the scene unfolding in my kitchen. Frozen. Mouth on the floor. Feeling like a kid in a candy shop.
Completely unaware of me, I watch Valentina slow dance as she cooks something on the stove while humming a familiar tune, but the food is the last thing on my mind. I grin like a son of a bitch, reclining on the doorframe, cross my arms, and enjoy the show. Thank you, baby Jesus. I owe you one, man. My eyes are glued to her slim hips swaying from side to side, pleasure and decadence in her every move. Her whole body curves and bends to the rhythm of the music in her head, and I see no traces of the stuck-up, standoffish woman from the gallery. No, this woman is wild, untamed, passionate, and so damn sexy—the one I see glimpses of once in a while in the way she laughs, the way she stares at me when she thinks I’m not paying attention, and, goddamn, in the way she kisses.
Snap out of it, loser, I tell myself. But then the cardigan slips down her arm to reveal the soft skin of her shoulder. An unbidden image of her straddling my lap flashes before my eyes. She would roll her hips on my cock, my fingers digging in the soft skin of her ass while my tongue finds that same spot on her shoulder where I would discover what sin tastes like.