Page 76 of Was I Ever Here

OnThursdaymorning,Byzantinecurls behind me in bed and gently presses himself against me. I burn for him, even in this semi-lucid state. I hum my satisfaction and sigh heavily as he explores my body with his hands, his mouth, his touch.

No words are spoken as he pulls my leg over his thigh. There’s no rush to his movements while he pushes my underwear aside and slides a finger inside of me, his cock hard against my back.

He breaks the silence just to murmur into my ear, “Always so wet for me.”

I moan in response as he drags his hand up my stomach, palming my breast, and pushing himself inside of me. His breath catches in his throat as he slowly pulls out and then back in again.

The sex is slow, unhurried, my limbs soft and pliable under his touch. Like being wrapped in cotton wool, a daydream filled with desire. Even my climax is quiet but powerful as Byzantine follows shortly after, throbbing inside of me and whispering praise like a morning prayer on his tongue.

Fuck. Why was that so intense?

My anxiety carves its way into this perfect moment, ruining it by my constant need to over-analyze. It felt different than the other times. Surely Byzantine felt it too. But by the look of him he’s not rattled like I am as I leave him dozing in bed, slinking off to the bathroom to wash off and pee.

When I walk back into the bedroom, he’s sitting up, the sheets down near his hips and I take a moment to soak up the view, his chiseled tattooed chest a stark contrast against the white hotel sheets. Fuck me. No wonder I can’t keep my hands off him.

He’s busy answering emails on his phone—or whatever illegal activity I’m not privy to—when I slide back into bed beside him. Without looking up he says, “You should pack.”

“Pack? But we’re not leaving until Sunday night.”

He gives me one of his classic side grins. “I know.”

I blink back at him and raise my arms in irritation.

“Oh my god, why do I even bother.” Of course, he’s not going to tell me. “I swear you get off on this,” I snap as I climb back out of bed and start repatriating all my stuff back into my suitcase.

Byzantine just snickers, clearly very pleased with himself as he continues to type away on his phone.

Byzantine rented a car for the rest of our time here, and so we’re back in our familiar places, driving down Highway 1 as he takes us to places I know nothing about. I daydream out the passenger window watching the small coastal towns pass us by.

Still, I wonder where we’re headed, knowing full well Byzantine won’t tell me even if I ask very,verynicely.

The drive reminds me of the time Byzantine drove us to the secluded beach in Noxport and my mind drifts back to that day. Of how wanted I had felt under his dexterous hands, the sound of the ocean lulling me into a dreamy in-between state. Heat drifts low in my stomach and I can’t help but to squeeze my thighs together, turned on by the mere thought of Byzantine’s tongue.

I lean over and turn the music a little louder just to have something to do and then resume my position. My elbow on the window ledge, my head resting against my closed fist, watching the scenery pass by.

That’s when it hits me.

This overwhelming sense of dread so sudden it almost leaves me lightheaded.

But is it dread?

The feeling is evasive as I try to hold on to it but it lingers right at the edge of my consciousness. I jerk my head up, trying to find the reason why I’m feeling like this, awareness pricking my skin.

Byzantine notices and reaches over to turn the volume down. “You okay?”

“Uh, yeah,” I say distractedly, still looking around. “Just suddenly started feeling weird…like a strange sense of déjà vu or something.”

I notice Byzantine’s shoulders tighten, his brows furrowed as he keeps his eyes on the road, his thumb tapping on the steering wheel.

“Hmm,” he mutters and then falls silent as if lost in thought. “Anyway, we’re almost there.”

I sink back in my seat, wondering if I’m reading into Byzantine’s subtle shift in mood. I’m probably being paranoid, maybe it’s just my own fear rubbing off on him.

Ten minutes later, Byzantine turns off the main road and onto a small trail that leads to a quaint cottage near the water. When he finally parks the car, I don’t wait for him to open the door and jump out, eager to see the house up close.

“You rented this place?” I ask him, my smile wide as I head for the wrap-around porch. “This is so cute.”

But when I glance back to Byzantine, he almost looks uncomfortable, his hand reaching up to the back of his neck as if to self-soothe. “I own it actually.”

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