Page 41 of Those Two Words

“That makes me happy.”

She looks puzzled for a second. “What does?”

“Seeing that smile again.”

I register the candidness in my words too late, because the smile slips from her lips. It wasn’t my intention to make her feel bad, but as I watch regret contort her features, I wonder if she thinks the same. That our chance has passed, and perhaps that one night was all we were meant to have.

I’ll be her friend, the person she can lean on in tough times like today, and I’ll find peace with it. Eventually.I have to; for Lottie, for my own sake, and hers.

Pulling the comforter up around us, I stroke my fingers across her cheek, before joining our hands together. I’ve gone from wanting to build a pillow fort to needing her touch. “C’mon, YoYo, let’s get some sleep.”

As I watch her eyes close and hear her breathing even out, I think back to that night together. I’ll savor that night for the both of us, knowing we’ll never get another. I take comfort in the fact that I know of the pillowy softness of her lips. That we spent so many summers together collecting new freckles. That hundreds of her smiles were put on her face because of me.

That for even a fraction of our life, she was mine.

nineteen

JOHANNA

My body and mind float in that space between sleep and consciousness. The downy weight of my comforter and the cloud-like texture of the pillow hold me in that limbo, and I’m almost tempted to let myself be pulled under and sleep for the rest of the day.

Almost.

Because something about the texture of the comforter and the height of the pillow doesn’t feel right.

Cracking open one eye, I see the sun pouring through the gaps in my curtains.

But I don’t have curtains and suddenly I’m barraged with flashbacks. Losing my phone. The photograph. The panic. The darkness.

Patrick.

Carrying me to his house. Finding me in the shower. Holding me. Braiding my hair. Staying with me all night.

My heart aches at the memories.

Opening both eyes, they feel puffy and raw. I stroke the braid hanging over my shoulder, feeling grateful it isn’t a mess thanks to Patrick’s gentle braiding. As my morning fog clears, I stretch my arms out and arch my back. A moan almost slips free with the movement, but when my butt brushes against something hard, it gets cut short.

I forgot this isn’t my bed, and the owner of said bed currently has his arm slung over my waist and is now dragging me toward him. A small squeak escapes me once my back is flush to his chest, every curve of my body pressed against the hard planes of his.

And other hard things.

Thinking I can wiggle my way out of his hold is quickly disproven, because it only causes him to tug me in closer, and my ass is now nestled nicely into his lap. The layer of clothes between us does little to hide his erection.

He’s still asleep, but it doesn’t stop my body from heating up all over and my mind from thinking very indecent things. Mumbling something incoherent, he nuzzles his face into my hair, and his hand drifts under my borrowed T-shirt until it lies flat against my stomach, fingers splayed against my heated skin. I suck in a breath at the contact and look at where his strong forearm disappears underneath the gray bedding. I’ve always found the darker hairs on his arms oddly attractive. Throw in the sinewy muscles running down his arms and wrists—well, it does a lot.

My mind is wandering into dangerous territory. I lie as still as possible, hoping he loosens his grip. But he doesn’t, and before I’ve even finished that thought, the hand that was resting on my stomach ventures to my breasts, which have been heavy from the moment he pulled me into him. My nipples are painfully hard and sensitive, aching for a touch that I shouldn’t want to chase.

I squeeze my thighs together when his thumb brushes along the underside of my breast. Biting my lip to muffle my light whimper, I hungrily lean into his touch, delirious that he’s inches from my peaked nipples.

I’m desperate. It’s been so long since someone made me feel like this, and it’s almost laughable that he was the last one to do it.

I didn’t plan for it to be this long, but when depression and anxiety are your companions, those types of needs take the back burner.

Under Patrick’s caress? Those desires come roaring to life.

His rough fingertips run across the curve of my breast, trailing higher and higher. I should wake him and not let this get any further.

The wetness between my thighs can’t be ignored now, and I rub them together to ease the slightest bit of pressure. That only forces Patrick’s hand to travel farther north. My eyes close at the feel of his warm hand now cupping my breast. His fingers gently toy and squeeze, sending a zap of pleasure to where I crave him most.

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