Page 63 of The Other Side

Ever.

Our throats roll in tandem, eyes glued to each other when he nudges my legs closed. I gently clear my throat, drifting my legs inward.

Realization dawns on the bliss.

A torturous reality that neither of us want to face.

We’re locked in a staring contest, only for Brant to turn and sit with his back against the chaise. He’s on the floor, and I’m still lying on the cushion.

We occupy the same room, but we’re worlds apart.

I tug my bra over my breasts, staring at the ceiling as our breathing mellows simultaneously. The lust-filled fog dissipates, and I gulp tightly.

Out of my periphery, his head tips back to rest on the chaise cushion. He sits with one knee bent up, his naked chest pumping deeply. Then his fingers greet his belt, undoing the buckle when he asks, “You make a pretty mess like that with all the guys you’re with? You show them that?”

At first, his question bothers me.

I think he’s guilting me for a bodily response that I have no control over. But then I realize the actual purpose of the inquiry.

He’s afraid.

Fearful that I’ve given that to someone else.

Frightened that he isn’t the first who’s seen this side of me.

I rest my fingertips on my mouth, my skin heating as I prepare to answer him. My eyes skim the ivory ceiling, tracing horizontal lines back and forth.

I feel numb and alive at the same time.

“Never,” I whisper.

He drops his hand from his unfastened belt. “That’s good, Cal,” he sighs, a breathy laugh following his comment. “Really good.”

The crook of my lip flinches, a smile emerging across my face. He’s fully grown, but somehow, I hear that teenage boy I fell in love with all those years ago. The boy who never shied away from hitting me with a blunt truth. Or wearing his heart on his sleeve.

We’re not over.

I tentatively lift, rotating my body so I’m on my stomach. He pivots his head toward me just as I reach over to grab his right hand.

That’s when I hold his eyes.

I rest his damp fingers on my mouth, and the tang of my orgasm coats my lips. Brant’s face is unmoved; his eyes parked on my lips. There’s a subtle tick in his jaw, but he refuses to give me anything more.

Rightfully so in this fucked up scenario.

I plant a kiss on the tip of his fingers, releasing his hand right after. My cheek rests on my crossed forearms when he finally speaks.

“You should get going.”

My throat bobs. I hesitate for a few beats when he directs his attention away from me.

“You’re not getting my body while you’re with him, Cal,” he asserts lowly.

I still, internally shuddering when I envision a life where I never get Brant’s body again. I never feel him inside of me again. A life where we never make love again.

It’s utterly cruel.

Inhumane.