Page 82 of Modern Romance September 2025 5-8
I reach up and grab the edges of those lace cups, pull them down so that I can see her bare breasts. I reach up and cup one, squeeze, and look at my dark, ink-covered hand on her soft pale skin.
She begins to breathe hard, fractured, as I can feel her get wetter, closer to climax.
“Yes,” I growl, unable to help myself now. I thrust up inside of her, taking over. I begin to bring her down hard against me, setting the pace now where before I was content to let her have control. But we are both lost now. We need release. More than either of us need to breathe.
This is fucking as only we can. I don’t need memories of other partners or other times to know that. That this is us, and it could never be anyone else.
I realize that this is always where I have known her. Where I have tried to let her know me.
I understand her body. It’s like we’re one person in this moment. As if her pleasure fuels mine. As if what she wants drives me.
I know it so beautifully and perfectly as I thrust up inside of her, as I bring my thumb to the center of her body, to that bundle of nerves right there, and begin to stroke her as we continue to race toward release.
And when she throws her head back and shouts my name, I thrust up one last time and empty myself inside of her.
Only then do I become aware of how uncomfortable the steps are as they dig into my back. Only then do I become aware that she has actually drawn blood on my chest with her fingernails.
I smile.
This is happiness.
It is the only version of it I know now, and the only version of it that I have ever known.
Something I realize then, as clear as I ever have, is that I have never been happy a single moment in my life before Cassandra.
That thing that I felt the first time I saw her was happiness. It was like I felt her happiness inside of me as she laughed and smiled, wearing yellow, bathed in the sun.
I knew that I could never let that leave me.
Because I had tasted joy. I could feel it now.
She won’t believe me. She doesn’t believe me.
I already know that. But I also know that it’s true. More than I know anything else.
I cup her face. I bring her down and kiss her. She stays on me, keeps me inside of her. And I simply hold her for the moment. Then I feel tears on her cheeks. She moves off of me, but not away, curled into a ball on the stairs. She lets out a watery laugh. “This is really uncomfortable. Why are you still laying here?”
“I don’t care that it’s uncomfortable.”
“Of course not. You’re probably used to it. You probably trained to be uncomfortable.”
“I think I did,” I say.
“Dragos…”
“No,” I say. “Don’t turn away from me. I’m sorry. I got angry, because I remember the feeling I had when you left me. It broke me, Cassandra. Whatever you think about me, losing you broke me.”
“I don’t understand why.”
“Find out who I am with me. Because when we find out, then we’ll know. I won’t hide it from you. Not anything. And if the man that you uncover is still a man you want to leave, then leave. I won’t come after you. I promise you that. I will let you have the life that you want.”
I mean this. From the very bottom of my soul. My soul. Do I even have one?
I must. Because without memories, I want her to be happy. And with them, I know I didn’t want her own happiness more than I wanted my own. I know that because of the blinding, red rage I felt when I realized she was no longer there.
“I will be honest with you,” I say. “When I found out that you had left me, I was determined to bring you back to me even if you didn’t want to come. I would have taken you prisoner. I was intent on doing so.”
“Haven’t you done that?”
