Trashed / Page 37

Page 37


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“Des…” His voice is shaky, low and rumbling.

I keep my eyes on him, and I know that everything I’m feeling is shining out of my eyes. The conflict, the wish that I could say what he wants me to say, that I feel us, that I don’t want him to go, that I want this to last forever, that I wish I could stop time and have this with him for days or weeks or months, that I want this to just last, and last. And I know the fear is there, the fear that I’m already attached and that I know he’s going, and so am I.

I feel us. The thought bubbles at my lips.

He’s arching his back and pushing into my touch ever so subtly. He’s close. I want to watch this happen. I want to see it. His face is strained, his eyes hooded and dark.

He thrusts into my hand, and I feel him thicken and pulse in my palm. I slow my strokes and squeeze. He grunts in the back of his throat, and I feel him tense. I put both hands around his thickness and pump one hand near his base and the other at the head, and his eyes lock on mine and refuse to waver, not even blinking, and his mouth is open and he’s gasping, moving only his hips now.

“Des…”

He’s about to say something I can’t lie to or not respond to, so I lift up and kiss him, but then he breaks it and we both watch as he comes. A stripe of white spurts from him and hits my stomach. He thrusts again, and another jet gushes out of him and this one lands hot and wet between my breasts. I keep stroking him, and more seed spurts out of him, dripping onto my skin.

So…much…come.

I like the way it looks against my skin, the wetness of it on me, the fact that I brought it out of him.

He’s shaking, sucking in deep breaths, and I caress his length a few more times with one hand, and feel a few more drips on my belly, and then he flops onto the bed, gasping.

“Jesus, Des.”

“Same thing,” I say, using his own joke on him.

I glance down at my chest and belly, considering the white pool of Adam’s come glistening and cooling on my skin. God, I wish I could stay. I wish he could stay. I want more of him. I don’t want to be closed off and untrusting. I want to tell him things about myself.

I felt him touching my tattoos, and I feel an explanation in my mouth…

But he’s leaving. He’s going back to his Hollywood life, and if I open up now, it’ll only hurt that much more.

So I get up and move into the bathroom. I feel his seed dripping down my body, and I wonder if I should feel ashamed for what I just did, the whole night, and just now. But I don’t. I turn the water on and step in while it’s still scalding.

I rinse him off me.

When I get out of the shower, he’s dressed in dark blue jeans and a black T-shirt. He hands me a clean, folded pair of gym shorts and a T-shirt. “Figure maybe you’d rather wear these home, instead of the dress.”

Saving me the walk of shame, basically. So fucking considerate. Damn him. I take them, and put on my bra and underwear, then the shorts and T-shirt. He even lets me wear his sports sandals instead of my heels. My dress and shoes go in a bag, and he walks me in silence to the elevator, and we ride down to the lobby. Eyes go to me, and then away. If it’s obvious that I spent the night with him, the gazes don’t give it away. I don’t feel shame. I only feel regret that this had to feel like so much more, when it couldn’t ever be more than just one night.

A carriage taxi waits, and Adam hands me up, and sits beside me. He hands a hundred-dollar bill to the driver. “Another one for you if you take just the two of us.”

“Sounds good,” he says, and snaps the reins. “Where to?”

Adam gives him my address, and the horses start to move forward.

The ride is long, and tense. Neither of us is willing to speak freely, especially not in front of the cab driver. We stop at my building, and Adam gets out, hands me down, walks me to my door.

“I’m leaving in a couple hours,” Adam says. “Probably as soon as I can pack.”

“I know.”

Silence.

“Des….listen,” he starts, then lets out a breath. His fingers touch my chin. “You know, there are so many things I want to say right now, but I’m not sure where to even start.”

“This is what it was always going to be, Adam.” I lean in to kiss him, and feel my heart contract, feel it close and go cold. “You’re amazing. Last night was…and this morning…god. I don’t even have words.”

He seems to be fighting his own emotions, hunting for something to say. He touches his lips to mine, but this is a cold and passionless goodbye. “What’s your number?” he asks.

Such a lie. It’s not cold, or passionless. I’m just refusing to feel anything.

I can’t quite look at him. “I don’t have a number. I don’t own a cell phone.”

He seems puzzled by this. “You don’t have a phone?”

I shake my head. “Nope. No point. No one to call. I see Ruthie every day, and she’s…pretty much it. Plus, cell phones are expensive.”

“So how am I supposed to find you?”

I sigh. “God, Adam…”

He lets out a breath and steps back, accepting that I’m pushing him away. Accepting, but angry. “Okay, Des. Fine. I get it.” He steps backward again, hesitating, as if waiting for me to change my mind. I don’t, and he wipes at his face with a hand. “Goodbye, then.” He says this far too casually.

“’Bye, Adam.”

My heart completes the process of calcification as he turns and climbs into the carriage without a backward glance.

Chapter 8

Adam is gone, long gone. It’s for the best. But god, does it hurt—it never stops hurting. I’ve still got a few days left on Mackinac Island and I can’t wait to leave. I just want to get back to Detroit and to school and to the shit life I’m used to.

I don’t cry, because I don’t do that. And except for that stupid panic attack, I haven’t cried in a long, long time. But that doesn’t mean I’m not all sorts of fucked up. I sit on my bed and try not to think, not to remember, not to dwell. I completely fail at this. I’m still on my bed half an hour later, when I remember that it’s Monday, and I have work in…an hour ago.

Shit.

I scramble into my uniform and run pell-mell across town to the office.

When I stumble, sweating, into Phil’s office, he’s surprised to see me. “Des? Ruth stopped by earlier this morning to say you were sick. What are you doing here?”


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