Page 16 of The Masks We Break

NINE

Too many times have I looked forward to something to be let down. To feel as though all the hype behind it is overexaggerated, and I’m left disappointed. I heard about kissing at a young age. About how first base is the best thing since sliced bread, leading into a home run. So naturally, I wanted to try it.

I wanted to know if it felt as good as everyone made it out to be.

Spoiler alert. It wasn’t.

I made the mistake of kissing a girl when I was ten, and I quickly learned that the act serves no purpose whatsoever other than making a girl grow invisible feelings. Absurd attachments to nothing. It takes away from the entire experience, forcing people to be intimate before getting to the part theyreallywant.

The entire idea is juvenile. Which is why I decided then, I’d never kiss a girl or fuck one without a condom. I’d prevent the woman’s inevitable desire to want something more than what I’m willing to offer.

And that worked. Combined with the fact I’m candid, ladies leave our interactions feeling more than satisfied and understand that as long as it remains about our pleasure, we’ll continue.

It wasn’t until freshman year of high school, when I saw Remy Solace for the first time, that Iwantedto kiss someone. Her lips were something you see photoshopped on women in magazines. Something that I usually looked forward to being wrapped around my cock. But I didn’t think of that with Remy.

I wanted to feel them against my lips. And that was dangerous.

For six years, I’ve managed to satiate my thirst for her, with the same notion I’ve had since my youth, knowing no matter what I might fantasize about, I would be let down in the end.

But standing so close, after years away…I was a moth to a flame, and it lit my fucking body up like New Year’s. There was no tongue involved, merely her insanely soft lips pressed against mine, and yet, I felt her everywhere. The top of my head to the soles of my fucking feet.

I shouldn’t have done it.

I should have turned her away as soon as I opened my door.

Because now that I’ve felt her…tasted her, I know my dumb ass is going to do it again.

TEN

I’ve had my fair share of hangovers. Well, three to be exact. And each one, I wish more than anything I could take back. Not because of the agonizing ailments that come crashing down the next morning, but the actions that happened beforehand.

And for me, it has always involved Blaze.

No matter what, my chest aches, a sharp pain radiating around my heart, and my muscles feel tighter than they should. It’s worse than the liquor-induced headaches, plus the added emotional turmoil, which is precisely what I feel right now.

The memories of last night...the kiss, how my body felt alive with every nerve on fire, trickle back in one by one.

Until I remember the end.

The part where Blaze’s face was scrunched up as if he was holding back vomit. How he had to peel me from his body. And how could I forget when he didn’t let me walk the few yards back home, probably deeming me incompetent. Then to seal the coffin of my ideocracy, he put me to sleep, which I’m sure was to put himself out of misery.

Pathetic.

Hopefully, he’s still in his room, and I can sneak out.

I sigh, finally peeling my eyes open when I realize I’m not on his couch. Nope. I’m surrounded by the fluffiest down pillows I’ve ever seen in my life and wrapped in something dark and soft.

Of course, Blaze’s bed is fit for the likes of a Greek god. And judging from the continued theme of dark wood, gray, and lack of light, I would say he sleeps like Hades.

Inwardly, I scold myself at the looming wish that maybe I could be his Persephone. You’d think after last night, I learned my lesson for the dozenth time, yet that stupid piece of hope just won’t vanish.

I let myself stretch, slowly pulling the tendons in my calves and flexing my toes. There’s no sound coming from the rest of his apartment, and from the chirps of crickets outside his window, I wonder if I’ve only been asleep a couple of hours. Maybe I can sneak back without the girls noticing.

My eyes flick to the only light in the room, to the smart hub resting on his nightstand.

6:23 a.m.

Crap.

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