Page 16 of Absinthe Dreams
Part of me hopes he is. The other part wants him to crack the door open and step through it. I want him to catch me. I want him to wreck me. I don't want to touch myself. I want his hands all over me, and his voice in my ear.
I let myself imagine the same thing he said he was today…me on my knees, him thrusting into my mouth. I fuck my fingers, thinking about his eyes on me, watching me…losing it little by little every time I moan around his length.
"Trystan," I sob, pinching my nipple. "God, yes!"
I hear a curse outside the door—faint, low, growled. The same damn way he growled in the bathroom today.
My hips lift from the bed, his name cracking on my lips as I fly apart. My heart pounds, waves of pleasure wracking my body. I work myself through it, eking out every last shiver of ecstasy.
By the time I slip my hand from between my legs, I'm a panting, sweaty mess. I suck in a deep breath and then hold it, listening intently for any hint that he's still out there, but it's dead silent.
Did he leave already?
"Chloe," he moans softly, and my damn heart nearly bursts. He's still out there. Jesus. He really was listening.
I'm halfway out of bed—ninety percent sure I'm on my way to fling the door open and drag him inside—when I hear him walking away.
He. Actually. Walks. Away.
"Are you kidding me right now?" I groan, flopping back down in the bed. I snatch a pillow up, burying my face in it to mute my growl. It's part sexual frustration, part confusion, part unhinged fury.
He is so damn infuriating!
"Screw it," I mutter, yanking the pillow off before dragging the blankets up over me. "I hope his dick chafes."
It's what he deserves for the emotional rollercoaster I've been on today. I'm not sure what I expected, though. His life is taking care of his family and the vineyard. There's no room for me.
Why would I ever let myself believe there could be?
He may want me, but like I told him this morning, he doesn't color outside the lines. Certainly not for me.
Itoss and turnfor half the night, unable to shut my mind off. Every time I think I've exorcised him from my mind, an old memory of him will pop up, and I'm falling down another Trystan-sized rabbit hole.
There are so damn many memories of him. He's been a sunspot in my life from the very beginning. I knew him before I even knew how to walk. There was no Before Trystan. There's only ever been Trystan. And I run into the same problem in this bed that I do every single time I vow never to speak to him again.
He's everywhere. Memories of him litter my past, eclipsing all the others. I barely remember what I did last week, let alone most things from my childhood. But I remember the way I felt so safe when he taught me how to swim in the pond when I was nine and he was eleven. I remember how I felt invincible holding his hand as we chased fireflies when I was ten. I remember the way my heart skipped a beat when I saw him waiting outside the winery in faded jeans and an old ballcap the summer I turned thirteen.
And I remember the way he scowled when I stepped out of the car that day, too. I remember the first thing he said to me. Itwasn't hello or that he'd missed me. It was, "What's all over your face?"
We'd argued before, but that was the first day he made me cry.
It certainly wasn't the last. That was prom. I wanted him to take me so badly. I don't think I've ever really forgiven him for breaking my heart the night I called him. Mostly because he doesn't even know he did it. He was oblivious.
He still is. But he still keeps showing up. As soon as I think maybe I can relax, he reappears, as bossy and infuriating as ever, as beautiful as ever, and my head and heart get all twisted up again. Just like they are right now.
I sigh heavily, staring up at the ceiling as shadows crawl across the room. It's nearly three in the morning, but I haven't slept at all. I'm ready to give up entirely when I hear a floorboard creak outside my door.
I turn my head, glancing in that direction, but everything goes silent. For a long moment, I think I'm just imagining things.
And then I hear it again, followed by my doorknob turning.
I slam my eyes closed, my heart thundering against my breastbone.
The door clicks open, the floorboards creaking again.
I feel him standing in the doorway, watching me. I hear him breathing. But he doesn't say anything. He doesn't come any closer. He just stands there.
I crack my eyes open, peeking at him from beneath my lashes.
