Page 69 of Without You

He doesn’t argue, and I’m grateful for the momentary distance.

I find my way around the kitchen pretty easily, disposing of our scraps and refrigerating the leftovers. After rinsing the plates, I look over to Julian, who’s now moved to his two-seater couch, picking at a beer label, while lost in thought.

Drying my hands on my sweats, I lean back on the kitchen counter and just watch him. It’s creepy and weird, but I don’t stop. I stare at him long and hard. He’s got his back to me, his shoulders hunched in defeat; one leg stretched out across the couch, and the other hanging over the edge.

He’s carrying the world on his shoulders, and no matter what he says or how cool he plays it, his body gives him away. I don’t want to be the one who adds to that, do I?

He must notice I haven’t returned, because he spins his head around to look for me. His gaze lands on me, and I don’t make an effort to move. I don’t know why, but my stubborn streak decides to appear, and I don’t want to be the one who initiates what little or big move comes next.

When the silence becomes deafening, I hear him say. “Are you going to stand there all night?”

I stay quiet.

He sighs at my defiance. “Can you come here, please?”

Swallowing hard, I bite the bullet and stride over to him. When I reach the couch, he grabs my hand and pulls me down to sit.

With his legs open wide, I find myself situated between them. It’s close, so I attempt to shift myself back, so I’m facing him, but it does little to counter the proximity.

Bent at the knee, one of my legs rests on top of his. My body doesn’t jerk at the small contact. Come to think of it, I don’t know if it ever did. But I’m slowly learning, it doesn’t matter how little or how much, it always wants more.

He releases my hand, only to place both of hison my cheeks. He holds me still, so I have nowhere else to look.

Pools of raw, unfiltered, anguish stare back at me, and it feels like a razor blade to the heart.

“Whatever explanation you think you owe me, you don’t,” I say forcefully.

He vehemently shakes his head, and I see the determination harden his gaze. He’s going to slice himself open regardless of what I say.

“Never in a million years did I ever think I would kiss you.” His eyes drop down to my lips. “Or that I would even want to.” He looks back up at me, offering up the saddest smile. “Or thatyouwould want to be kissing me.”

I want to interject and say the joke’s on both of us, but I know this monologue is more about Julian getting it off his chest than him needing reassurance from me.

“You’re a great kisser,” he compliments, and I don’t even bother holding back my laugh. “But afterward,” he clears his throat. “Afterward, I just feel so—”

“Guilty,” I finish off for him.

His hands drop into his lap in defeat. I catch them, give them a squeeze and bring them up to my lips. My movements are based on instinct, and instinct alone, as I hold his examining gaze, and kiss each of his fingers, before lowering them between us.

“You have nothing to feel guilty for,” I say, wringing his fingers between mine. “I know you’re his. I know you’re still mourning. Iknowbetter,” I persist. “So, let me wear that guilt, okay?”

“And what if I want more?” he asks. “You going to blame yourself for that too?”

“Julian,” I huff. “I’m trying here.”

Uncurling my fingers from his, I try to pull my hands away, but he clutches on to them, his eyes daring me to pull away.“You don’t think I’m trying?” His voice is like lava, nothing but thick heat. He leans in, his hands trailing up my arms as he moves closer.

“You don’t think I’m trying to forget how you feel against me? How you taste? How perfect your goddamn mouth is?”

My body burns with every confession he sets free, and I hate him for it. I hate him for feeling the same and I hate him for making it almost impossible to walk away. I hate him as I throw myself at him, because I know with absolute certainty I don’t hate him at all.

His mouth captures mine, as if he’s done nothing but wait for me to kiss him. I swallow his low groan as his hands circle my biceps, and he begins pushing me back down onto the couch. I fall with abandon, taking him with me, wanting to feel the heavy weight of his body pressed into mine.

Hands slip under my t-shirt, and the skin to skin contact makes me gasp.

“Is that okay?” Julian asks. My tongue is thick, my voice is tight, so I just grab the back of his head and slam his lips to mine once more.

The kiss is fueled with pain and passion as he spills his secrets into my mouth, and my tongue greedily hoards them for safekeeping.

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