Page 122 of Never Let You Go

“No, don’t buy anything,” I order her. No way is she spending money on me.

I’ve been wanting to spoil her, and she’s just given me an excuse.

thirty-four

Alexandra

Afew days later, I find several packages on my bed, all wrapped and tied with ribbons.

There’s a note attached to it:

Be you

C.

I unwrap the packages, and my heart fills with something new. Gratitude. Gratitude for being seen. Heard.

Understood.

Inside the small box is a clip-on lens for a camera, to take close-ups. The larger boxes hold two ring lights, a tripod, and a mike.

This means the world to me.

It means he cares about what I do, he sees me for who I am, and he’s not trying to force me into a mold I’m not cut for.

He’s encouraging me to do what I like.

Allowing me to be me.

No one has ever done that for me.

I’m not sure how to thank him, so I write a thank-you note and sneak into his bedroom to tuck it under his pillow.

I’ve never been inside Christopher’s bedroom. It’s large, simply furnished. Masculine. There’s a king-size bed with a mahogany headboard and a navy-blue comforter. The furniture matches the headboard. The room is bare, with no decorations or objects, except for a photo of Skye when she must have been about two years old, all round cheeks, large dark eyes, and curly hair flying in the wind.

Apart from the picture, the only sign that this is Christopher’s room is a low armchair with his dark gray cable-knit sweater swung over it.

I trail my hand on the edge of the bed as I silently make my way to the head. I was planning on dashing in and out of the room, tucking my note on or under the pillow for him to find tonight, but I’m hypnotized and can’t pull myself away.

This is where Christopher sleeps, where his body lays at night, right below my own bedroom. Where his dreams take place, and his hopes carry him and unravel. I imagine his body splayed across the bed, tangled in the sheets. I run a finger on the pillow and tuck my note under it, leaning in to inhale the scent of his sheets.

“Find something you like?”

His voice startles me. “I—I just came to say thank you,” I say, straightening myself. He’s still adamant about me never being in his room, and I feel like I’m trespassing. “I left you something,” I say, blushing as I make my way to the door.

He kicks the door closed and pulls me against him. Trailing his hands lightly up and down my back, he breathes in my hair. His erection, now familiar to my body, finds its habitual place against my belly, its pulsing unraveling an urgent desire I didn’t feel moments ago.

My heart stutters at the knowledge that we’re in his bedroom.

And I’ve gone from emotionally overwhelmed to sexually crazed in less than sixty seconds.

“Thank you for what?” he says, his voice raw.

The bakery is quiet, and there’s still at least a half hour before he needs to go pick up Skye from school.

I reach behind him to lock the deadbolt, pull him by his belt hooks, push him into the armchair, and kneel between his legs.

He groans and fists my hair while I get to work on his zipper and boxer shorts. “Fuck, Alexandra, it was only a small lens.” He smirks and then shuts up with a hiss when I pull out his heavy cock. I twirl my tongue on the tip, my gaze on his. His hooded eyelids are heavy with desire, and I tether myself to them. Never breaking eye contact, I take him in my mouth, inch by inch, teasing and licking and sucking. His hand is light in my hair. “Fuck, Alexandra,” he whispers, petting me.

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