It isn’t until after I shower and climb in bed, that I decide that I can’t leave it alone. Not this time. I send him a text message and look at my phone until he responds.
I can’t believe you left.
Mia said you needed to talk. I would have stayed if you wanted me to.
I wanted you to.
Why?
I stare at the phone as if it’s going to explain why men are so stupid, and when it doesn’t, I decide that I can’t give him an answer either. I toss it on the nightstand and pull the covers over my head. The sun is just going down, so it’s still early, but I feel drained. I sleep until something wakes me . . . a whisper on my face . . . the caress of a hand on my head. My eyes pop open, and I push myself to sit quickly.
“It’s just me.”
I gasp and look at Oliver beside me.
“What are you doing here?” I whisper, looking from him to my slightly open door. “Where’s Vic?”
He shrugs a shoulder and puts a finger over my lips to silence me. “He passed out already. Can I stay?”
I frown. “What’s wrong with your bed?”
“You’re not in it.”
I push aside the way my heart is thundering inside me. “I’ve never even seen your bed.”
“Would you like to?” he asks, dropping his voice.
“Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what, lovely Elle?” he asks, trying to smother a smile.
“Like you want to swallow me whole.”
“Has it ever occurred to you, that maybe I do?” He moves closer, and I hold my breath. “But no funny business tonight. I promise. Scout’s honor.”
“You were never a Boy Scout.”
He grins. “Okay, but I promise I won’t try anything. I just want to be with you tonight.”
“The last time you said that—”
“I was an idiot.”
I close my eyes. “What about my brother?”
“What about him?”
“What if he comes up here and catches you?”
Oliver’s hand grabs my waist, and he pulls me to him so that we’re nose to nose. “What would you want me to do if he does?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper, my breath catching at the dark look in his eyes.
“Do you want me to tell him that you’re all I think about?” he asks, matching my whisper.
I shake my head, and our noses kiss. I’m not ready for Victor to know about whatever this is yet.
“Tell me why you wanted me to stay.”
“Because we weren’t done with our friend date.”
Oliver chuckles. “That friend date had me going home and taking the longest shower of my life.”
“I took one too,” I say in a whisper, my cheeks burning as I look at him through my lashes. His face turns completely serious, and he groans.
“God, Elle, why’d you have to say that to me?”
I laugh. “Say what? That I touched myself thinking about you?”
His eyes hood a little. “If you want me to keep my word, you need to stop talking about that.”
“Okay.” I grin and turn around so that my back is on his chest. He snuggles me close, creating a nook for my body. “Tell me a story,” I say, yawning.
“About what?” he murmurs, dropping a kiss on my head.
“Anything. Like the ones you used to tell me when we were young.”
“Okay.” He pauses and holds me tighter. “Once upon a time, there was this little girl named Cassia. She used to walk around talking to herself.”
I nudge him. “To the plants, not herself.”
He laughs. “Oh, that’s right. She used to talk to the plants. One day this little boy named Jeter asked her—”
“Jeter?” I ask, looking at him over my shoulder. “Like the baseball player?”
Oliver laughs and shakes his head, snuggling into me. “I forgot how many interruptions these stories lead to,” he says against my neck.
“Well, you’re always talking about how weird I am, but listen to your stories.”
His sigh sends a shiver down my body. “Okay, let’s move on to joke time then.”
I groan. “I hate your jokes.”
“You’re not supposed to tell me that!” he scoffs as his hands trail down my body. “What are you wearing anyway?”
My eyes snap open, and I’m glad we’re cloaked in darkness. “It’s one of Wyatt’s shirts,” I whisper.
Oliver’s hands stop moving over my stomach. “Did you keep a lot of his things?”
I turn around in his arms and prop my elbow up on the pillow. He does the same. “Only his shirts. I gave his parents back his pictures and a couple of other things I didn’t want. But I can’t seem to get rid of the shirts.”
“Is it because you miss him?” he asks.
“Is it bad that I was wondering the same thing the other day? That all these questions are suddenly popping up in my head?”
Oliver brushes my face with the back of his hand. “Like what?”
“You really want to know?”
“Of course. I want to know everything you want to tell me.”
I stay silent a moment longer, and once again wonder why he really took Marlon’s spot in the photo shoot. Maybe he was just protecting me from a creeper, and it wasn’t really his way of marking his territory. This is Oliver, after all. He doesn’t really mark territory; he just goes over it on a bulldozer and leaves before he can even notice the damage.
“Okay. Well, when he first died, I felt like I couldn’t breathe—especially at night when I was alone—but as time went on, it got better . . .”
“And now?”
“And now sometimes I don’t miss him at all,” I whisper. I feel ungrateful . . . un-loyal. Like it’s a disgrace for thinking it, let alone voicing it aloud, especially to Oliver. I turn back around and settle into Oliver’s warmth again.
“It’s okay for you to find happiness after him. You know that, right?” he says, his voice on my neck again.
I swallow. “I guess so. Sometimes I feel guilty about it though. We lived together. We were engaged. It was a big commitment.”
Oliver stays quiet for a long time before speaking up. “For a long time, I couldn’t imagine myself ever getting married. It’s no secret that I’ve always had an aversion to commitment,” he says quietly. “Unless you count school and work—those things I can commit to—but women . . . growing up, I never found one I wanted to commit to.” He whispers the last part, and my heart lodges in my throat before he continues. “Except this one girl. She always looked at me like I was somebody, even though I wasn’t. And of course, my luck would have it that the one person I feel like I can actually commit to is the one person I can’t have. I tried so hard to stay away from her.” He drops a kiss on my shoulder. “I kept reminding myself what would happen if my best friend were to find out about my feelings. I kept them to myself for so long, even after the girl asked me to kiss her. And after I asked the girl to let me kiss her. And after she let me touch her in the bathroom of a party. And after she touched me in a stranger’s bedroom.”
“Why didn’t you ever tell her how you felt?” I whisper. He tucks his face into my neck, and I close my eyes when I feel his breath on me.
“Because I was an idiot.”
“Hey, Oliver?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think I can sleep with your shirt tonight?” I whisper.
If possible, he squeezes me tighter and buries his head further into me. I’m about to take the words back and say I was just kidding or something, when he pulls his arms away and sits up. I follow his movement and watch through the darkness as he pulls his shirt over his head. I do the same, slowly pulling mine over my head and tossing it to the furthest corner of the room, by the closet.
“Hey, Oliver,” I whisper again.
“Yes, Elle?” he whispers back. I can make out the way his chest rises and falls, but not much else, so I inch closer.
“I want you to touch me.” I screw my eyes shut. Not because I’m shy by any means, but because I haven’t had this in so long. So, so long. And I’m scared at what his reaction will be. Worse, I’m scared of what mine will be if he gives in.
He throws his head back and exhales. Just when I think he’s going to tell me he can’t, or that my brother will wake up at any moment, or that he needs to go, his hands reach out and graze my arms.
“Only if you want to,” I add when his hands stop moving.
His deep chuckle vibrates the bed. “Only if I want to,” he repeats, leaning closer, his hands splaying over my ribcage on either side. “God, Estelle, you don’t know how bad I want to.”
Pushing my body forward, I brace myself on his shoulders. His thumbs brush just under my breasts, so I lean in a little more, hoping he gets the hint. His laugh lets me know he totally gets the hint and is purposely ignoring it.
“Bean, please,” I whisper-pant as my hands grip him tighter.
“Bean isn’t in right now,” he whispers, dipping his head and plucking tender kisses from my neck to my clavicle, over my shoulder and back in.
“Oliver, please,” I say, throwing my head back when his lips reach the hollow of my throat.
“Tell me what you want, baby. Tell me where you want me to touch you,” he murmurs against me in a voice that sets me on fire.
“Everywhere. Just . . . anywhere.”
His hands finally move up so that his thumbs brush over my nipples slowly, causing a shiver of pleasure to rock through me.
“More,” I say, pulling him down on the bed so I can straddle his legs. I rock against him as I bring my lips to his. He groans against my mouth, plunging his tongue into it and exploring like a starved man looking for his next meal. The pressure on his hands doesn’t increase though. He just continues to softly explore my body as if I’m made of glass. His fingers feather up and down my sides, over my breasts, along my neck, down my stomach, and stop right above the elastic of my panties.
“Please keep going,” I say in a voice that’s not mine. My legs are quivering, and he hasn’t even really touched me where I need him to. Oliver moves his head back and pulls my face into the moonlight coming through the window. He searches my face, and I nod frantically as he smiles.
“If I do this, are we still on a friends date?” he asks. The fact that he can make jokes when I feel like I’m falling apart is a little infuriating, so instead of answering, I grab his hands and push them down so that he gets the hint. Oliver shakes his head. “Is this still a friends date?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper, rather loudly, my impatience beginning to get the best of me. “I don’t care. Just touch me!”
He grins and moves a hand into my panties, his moan matching mine when he finds how wet I am already. “You’re hazardous to my health. You know that?”
“It’s a good thing you’re a doctor then,” I whimper when he plunges his finger inside me. He does a little hook with it that makes my eyes roll back.
“You like that?” he asks against my neck. He increases his tempo when I nod against him.
My hands move from his shoulders down his chest and into his boxers. Before he has a chance to say anything, I close my hand over his length and squeeze.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Estelle,” he groans, shifting his weight to give me better access.
“You’re so hard,” I whisper, leaning forward to kiss him again.
“You’re so wet,” he says against my lips.
“You’re so big,” I say. I had forgotten how he looked, how he felt. He chuckles breathlessly, as I continue to move my hand to match the rhythm he’s making with his.
“You’re so tight,” he groans, his thumb circling over my clit as he moves his other fingers inside me.
“I’m going to . . . I’m going to . . .” I pant just before my vision becomes bright lights. I keep moving my hand over him until he’s grunting, and I feel hot liquid over my hand.
We sit there for a moment, wordlessly, only the sounds of our heavy breaths audible in the room. Finally, he drops a kiss on my forehead and gets up to go clean himself. I don’t know if he expects me to follow, but as I look at his broad shoulders walking out of the room, I can’t help but wonder if that was a mistake. He brings back a wet towel and wipes my hands thoroughly, and when he comes back again, he takes the place he had before.
Neither of us says a word as we settle down again, his arms around me as I lay in the little cocoon that might as well have been carved out and made for my body to fit in.
“I like you in my arms,” he says, finally, his breath against my ear.
My eyes close. “I do too.” Too much. Way too much.
“We broke a lot of your rules today.”
“We did. Too many of them,” I say, smiling into the darkness.
“When do we go on our next friends date?”
“You’re sleeping in my bed tonight,” I remind him.
“You wore red lipstick.”
I laugh. “You and the stupid lipstick.”
“I’m just saying—a woman only wears that color on dates when she wants to get laid.”
I shake my head, laughing, and he laughs along, holding me tighter. We’re quiet for a while, and I think maybe he’s fallen asleep. I feel myself relax, and sleep begins to drag me under again. When I wake up the next day, to the sun blasting in my face, I realize I’m alone in bed. A sense of sadness threatens to wash over me, but I push it aside. This was my own doing. I asked for it. I pushed him for it. Those thoughts don’t alleviate the pain I feel though. I close my eyes again and exhale. When I open them back up, I spot Wyatt’s discarded shirt, thrown in a corner like some washed up memory, and suddenly I get even sadder. He may not have been the perfect man, and we may have had a lot of differences, but Wyatt never made me feel like I wasn’t special to him. He never walked out after sex without giving me a kiss or telling me how lovely I was. He would have never, ever just left me alone in bed without acknowledging that we shared something special.
Tears brim in my eyes as I stagger to the closet and pick up the shirt. I hug it to me, asking it for forgiveness, because that was a total dick move on my part. Then I start crying because I’m talking to a shirt while wearing another man’s shirt. A man I let touch me, a man that once again left me without a goodbye. The door opens suddenly, and I look up just in time to see Oliver walk in. The smile on his face instantly drops when he takes me in—the crying face . . . me clutching my dead fiancé’s shirt for dear life . . .
“I thought you left,” I say in a hoarse whisper.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak . . . just stares for a moment longer. Finally, he walks over to me and wraps his arms around my head, pulling me into his hard chest.