Page 41 of Sterling Touch
Now I have nothing to quench my thirst, other than the heat of his gaze and the comfort of his shirt and a swirl of emotions buzzing in my belly.
Frustration.
Confusion.
Tension.
Cort clears his throat and leans away from me. He turns down the volume on the radio and flings his arm over the seat, skillfully backing out of the parking spot, completely unaffected by his action toward me.
Meanwhile, I lift my hand covered by his flannel, close my eyes a second, and take a whiff, breathing in his scent embedded in the fabric.
Cort shifts behind the wheel. The movement pulls me from my scent-high, and I straighten in my seat.
My anxiety manifests a little voice in my head suggesting I make small talk. Fill the silence with questions about the concert or his work, but I don’t have the energy. I’m still stung by disappointment.
“We should probably talk,” he interjects into the low hum of classic rock playing from the radio. “About that day.”
“Cortland,” I exhale. “You’ve had the last twelve years to talk to me.”
“You know why I couldn’t,” he says, keeping his focus forward as his hand slips down the steering wheel to clutch it at the base.
“If your reason has to do with Stone,thathad nothing to do with me. With us.”
His head swivels in my direction only momentarily before turning back to the road. “Then we should talk. About us.”
I snort, dismissively. There is no us. There never can be.
“We’ve been quiet about it for a dozen years; we can stay silent for another twelve.”
Cort is silent at first, but then, as if the stillness and quiet makes him edgy, he continues, “I wasn’t myself back then. I had a lot going on.”
I bite the inside of my cheek.Ihad a lot going on. My friends had graduated. I had one more year of college. I was a year out from getting away from Sterling Falls. Still, I hold back my retort.
“So, you were just using me?” I don’t know why I question him. Of course he was. I was using him as well. Using him to fulfill some self-imposed ideal that he’d be the one to save me from myself. He’d be the key to turn me on.
His head whips toward me again. “Is that what you think?” He shouldn’t sound so aghast. He even sounds . . . a little hurt. “Fuck, Vale. I’ve known you all your life. I’d never do that to you.”
I don’t doubt he’d intentionally hurt my feelings. What I question is everything else about that moment.
I huff. “You can’t tell me you honestly remember it, right? That you enjoyed it.” Like it wasn’t casual and random and over within seconds.
“I fucking came like a racehorse. Of course I enjoyed it.” Another glance in my direction is quick.
Then why did he fucking cry afterward? Victory tears? I doubt it. And I don’t ask.
His voice softens. “You didn’t like it?” He hesitates, hurt filling every word once again.
“I didn’t say that.” I can’t say with full assurance that I did like it, though. I don’t remember every detail, other than some of the finer points. Ones I considered intimate, important. His breath against my neck. His hands on my hips. The sharp rush of him entering me.
“You didn’t?—”
“Come like a racehorse?” I cut him off, tossing his crass comparison back at him as I roll my head in his direction.
“Well, maybe not like that, but?—”
“I didn’t,” I respond, although I’d hoped to keep that little nugget to myself. And I quickly glance back toward the windshield.
“What?” His knuckles clutch the steering wheel so tightly I’m surprised they don’t pop and crack.
