Page 75 of Keep Paris

He nips at my neck and says, “Can’t decide if I should punish you for that or enjoy the results of all that practice.”

I stare up at him and realize—in his eyes is the only place I’ve ever truly felt safe.

“How about both?”

HAYDEN

I wake with her arms draped over my chest and her hair everywhere. Her mouth is open and there’s a touch of drool. And it’s so wrong that the sight of her drool is turning me on.

I thought kitchen hate sex was the hottest sex. Turns out, it’s Bette/Lizzie sex. That’s the hottest sex.

We’re healing all the hateful things we’ve said to ourselves over the years and letting go of all the pain. We know each other so well, despite the time lapse, that nothing is off limits. And that makes sex blistering. My dick and I are so happy I skip out of bed and pad to the kitchen.

I have no clue what today will bring, other than a mostly naked morning. We need to figure out how to be with each other again. Because being without her isn’t an option. Seriously, who gets a second shot at their soulmate?

I should’ve married her the moment we hit US soil in New York ten years ago. Sure, we would have been the only married people in our graduating classes, but he couldn’t have pulled us apart that easily. I mess with the tiny coffee packets for the machine in the kitchen. They’re not the cups or anything workable. I end up ripping the tiny little filter bag and grounds go everywhere.

I miss my coffee pot at home. Wow, home, that’s going to be a thing. One of us will have a new job here and the other is supposed to go home.

I’m wiping up the mess and my mind wanders. What if we were meant to be pulled apart and her dad was just fate? I wouldn’t have been there the night my mom almost died if I was with Lizzie. Perhaps we weren’t supposed to be together until now.

I wouldn’t have gone to the house. I might be an orphaned football star about to retire on top. But would we have survived it? If my mother had died, there’s no way I wouldn’t spend my life blaming myself and resenting that I wasn’t there.

And if I was a football star, what would she have done? If Lizzie was happy in my shadow—maybe brave Bette would have stayed hidden and who can say that would have been better? I probably would draw occasionally, but not like I do now. Painting and drawing were my only way through the pain of losing her and football. We’d be different versions of us. I wouldn’t have my studio, which is, other than inside of Lizzie, my favorite place in the world. And I can’t say those versions of us would have been better.

The grounds are sticking to me and I’m trying to rinse them off, but they’re stuck. I slip into her hotel room and jump in the shower for a second. I soap up quickly and remember we need to get more condoms. Last night was a four-time epic marathon. I adjust my dick as he begins to reminisce.

I want to be intimate with her again. Not just sex, but know her noises and routines. I’m an impatient guy so I might need her to write them down so I can study them like a playbook. I toss my shorts back on, run a towel over my head and resume trying to find sustenance.

I open our fridge as if there’s food in there. Just my ever-present Greek yogurt. I wonder if she can cook. I started doing it when Mom’s arms wouldn’t heal, and the physical therapist thought it would be good rehab. I can dice like a mutha. I want to dice for her. Maybe I’ll go get omelet stuff. Then I remember I’d have to leave her and I’m not doing that right now.

She wants to call her mom today and see if we can unravel this further. Sophie and Dax came to town so I’ll grab some Dax time later. I don’t think we’re in a double date kind of place, so we’ll each retreat to our original partners.

I call down and order eggs—hers runny and mine over hard. Sourdough toast, bacon, and sausage—links, not patties. I don’t need to ask her. Those are some of the billion details, I memorize and buried about her. I order her some English breakfast tea with extra lemon and honey. And a pot of coffee. She may like coffee now, that I’m not sure of. I know she liked a white hot chocolate in the afternoon, but who knows her Starbucks order these days? Christ, I want to order it without asking her. Is that the definition of intimacy? I hang up the phone and her voice bellows from the other room.

“Why? Why am I naked and alone?”

I run and jump on the bed. She props herself up on her elbows. The sheet falls precariously low.

She grins. “And why do you have shorts on? And you showered without me?”

I sit back on my heels as she gathers the sheets around her. “Last one without you. I promise.”

She points at me, then flips her hand over and curls her finger to me.

I shake my head slightly and stare at her. “You’re miraculous. You’re no longer that scared, timid girl, huh?” She bites the inside of her cheek. “You’re exactly who I saw that first night, you just didn’t know it yet.”

“Aren’t you fucking clever?” She chides me and I laugh at her. “I wasn’t timid. I was a rule follower,” she says.

“No, you were always a rule bender.”

“And you’re a rule breaker.”

I lie down on top of her and brace my arms on either side of her head. “Yes.” I kiss her gently and drop my lip below hers and suck. “My cock instantly wants you. He’s always been a slave for your pussy.”

“Oh God. I adore adult Hayden’s version of dirty talk.”

“I’ve had some practice. Now, are you going to lower that sheet so I can lick that tasty clit of yours or am I going to have to rip it off?”