Eunoia, noun
Beautiful thinking.
My teeth were chattering, even though my most intimate parts were stinging from the bleach and from the pounding he gave me.
Miles wrapped a towel around me, and his eyes lingered on mine for a long second before he moved away, smirking to himself. His cock hung between his legs, still semi-hard and dripping.
He was at his most vulnerable in that moment, and he’d let me see him. He’d let me see the side of him he was afraid of showing the most.
He drained the bath, and I tossed the white plastic container into the trash. He didn’t comment on it, and I didn’t say a word either. But I was absolutely determined I wouldn’t let him close to it ever again. And if he did, I’d stay true to my word and get in the bath with him.
We settled on the sofa, and through the wall-to-ceiling windows of his apartment, we watched the sun rise over the city.
I had seen the sunrise many times before, but that day it felt especially significant. It was the dawn of a new day, the start of something special. And I was going to make sure this day was the first of many when both Miles and I would get better, slowly but surely on our path to recovery.
Me, from being a fucking mess, and him, from whatever inner demons he had haunting him all these years.
I was desperate to know more. I wanted to find out every little detail that made him the man I knew, eager to find out what had shaped him. But he didn’t seem willing to share, not until that morning when I gasped as the sun colored his apartment in so many hues it felt like we were sitting inside a beautiful rainbow.
“It’s stunning, isn’t it,” Miles said softly. “All the colors in the world in one fucking room.”
“It’s incredible,” I admitted.
“The realtor told me about it,” he said with a grin. “Said I was paying for the view. I complained for weeks until I fucking saw it. And now, I would be happy to pay double the price to see this every morning.”
I settled into the crook of his arm, cuddling close as he held onto me.
“It’s why the apartment is white,” he said, and I looked up at him. “I wanted the sunrise to color it.”
It was a small offering, a glimpse into the way his curious mind worked, and I loved him for letting me be a part of it.
“Thank you,” I whispered, and he grinned down at me. “For telling me. For including me.”
“I want you to know everything,” he told me gently. “Everything that makes me… me.”
“Really?” I asked eagerly, and he laughed at me, making me blush. “Sorry, it’s just… You haven’t seemed very eager to divulge any kind of information about yourself, and I’m so desperate to know more…”
“I’ll tell you,” he said softly. “You’re the only person I’m willing to tell. Ask what you want to know, sugar. But please don’t be disappointed by my answers, okay?”
I nodded and found a comfortable spot underneath his arm. We watched as the sun turned the room the most brilliant of colors, and I fell in love with his apartment, which I’d always thought was a little lifeless and impersonal. But now I understood it, from the stark, undecorated walls to the all-white furniture. He was an artist. An artist through and through. And he preferred the play of nature to whatever he could have done to the place himself. I loved that about him.
“Tell me,” I asked softly. “I want to know everything there is to know about Miles Reilly.”
“Where do I start?” he asked, and now, it was my turn to grin at him.
“Start at the beginning,” I said simply. “Tell me about your childhood.”
Immediately, I felt like I’d said something wrong. His face darkened, his expression fell, and the walls went back up.
“Or not,” I was quick to say. “You could tell me about something else, anything. Tell me about your job. I’d love to know more about it.”
“Okay,” he said, seemingly perking up at the opportunity to speak about his work. “You know I’m a photographer.”
“I could tell you were into it,” I said cheekily and he tickled me under my chin, making me giggle. “But tell me more. What kind of stuff? What are you into? What kind of art do you like? Is it a hobby or do you make a living from it?”
He laughed and shook his head at my curiosity, and for a second I was worried his walls would go back up again. But then he started talking, his voice deep and kind as he filled me in on the details.
“I like watching people,” he said, and I watched the sunrise through half-open eyes as I listened to him. “I like their expressions, the way I make them feel. Women, especially. I like their reactions to stimulation. Any kind. Music, sex, things that make them feel.”
“Do you take photos of them?” I asked, trying to fight back the jealousy that was spiking my heart into a faster beat. “Of women?”
“You know I do,” he said simply. Of course I knew. I’d Googled him, saw the photos of girls, overlaid with this and that. The very thought sent a wave of jealousy through my body, but confusing me further when he laughed lightly. “Maybe I should say I did. Before a certain someone came along.”
I beamed up at him and he flicked my nipple with his long, strong fingers. I gripped his arm and made him wrap it around me, hugged into him.
“Go on,” I whispered. “I want to know more. So much more. I want to know everything.”
“Everything, huh?” he asked, chuckling. “There’s a lot to tell. You sure you wanna stick around for it?”
“Yes,” I whispered, giving him a vehement stare. “There’s no place I’d rather be, actually.”
“Good,” he growled, an edge I couldn’t interpret present in his voice. “Do you know what double exposure is?”
I nodded. “You overlaid their pictures with another picture.”
“Yes, I take most of my photos on film and then develop them. After, I alter them digitally, creating a double exposure. It basically means joining together two photographs into one, overlaying one on top of the other. I pick whatever I think is fitting for the woman in the picture. I’ve done an innocent girl with church candles, her dad was a minister. I had a hippie chick with flowers blooming in a field. And so on and so on.”
“What about me?” I asked impulsively. “What would you pair me with?”
He laughed and ruffled my hair and I made a show of sticking my tongue out at him.
“I guess you’ll just have to wait and see,” he said, and I furrowed my brow at him, prompting him to explain. “I have an exhibition at La Gallerie in about a month. I’d love for you to come and see the photos.”
I stared at him, and wondered out loud, “Will you be there?”
“I hope so,” he said simply. “I really would love to be. It’s my first big exhibition. Most of my work is sold online as prints.”
“Do you make good money?” I asked him, and he laughed at my honesty. “Sorry, I’m just curious. I don’t know anything about this stuff.”
“I do,” he admitted. “Enough to live on. But I inherited some money, which made this apartment happen.”
I looked around his place one more time. We lived on the same street, in an upscale part of town, but now that I was finally here, I knew his apartment must’ve cost at least half a million more than mine. It was truly exquisite. I would’ve loved sharing it with him…
I blushed at the thought, averting my eyes and burrowing my face into his shoulder.
As if sensing my discomfort, Miles tickled me and I giggled against his skin.
“What about your family?” I muttered, half mumbling because I wasn’t sure whether he’d dodge the question or answer it truthfully.
“My family?” he repeated, and I nodded against him, still trying to hide my face. “Are you sure you want to know?”
“I do… please,” I begged, and he sighed heavily before starting to talk again.
“I had a family,” he said. “Parents. My father was an investment banker, my mom a housewife. We lived in a little suburban house until my father got laid off at work. Then, the rumors started spreading.”
“What rumors?” I asked gently, looking up at him.
My fingers were exploring his face, the stubble on his chin, the firm line of his jaw. I was falling more and more in love with him as the minutes passed. I was falling for him so impossibly hard I could almost feel the impact physically.
“About my father,” he replied stiffly, his eyes on the sun now fully above the horizon. “That he’d committed fraud, that he was the one who’d driven the whole bank into the ground. There was a whole bunch of layoffs after he left, and rumors like that spread quickly. Dad was fucking crucified. Blamed for everything. It made everything hellish. I was only three years old at the time.”
“What happened?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
His story was building up to a crescendo, and I was starting to get nervous, even though all of it was in the past. I wanted him to be okay, I wanted his father to be alright. But a voice in the back of my mind was telling me this story didn’t have a happy ending.
“He killed himself,” Miles said simply, his voice barely even breaking. He held a hand up when I tried to speak. “Please don’t worry, sugar. It was a long time ago, and I was just a kid. I barely remember him.”
“But you still lost him,” I protested. “You still lost a parent. A father. I’m so sorry, Miles. I’m so sorry you had to suffer through that.”
He gave me a strange look, and in that moment we connected on a level we hadn’t before, seeing the loss of our friends and family in each other’s eyes and suddenly understanding we really did know what it was like, what it meant to lose someone like that, so suddenly, so final.
“Thank you,” he said softly, then switched his gaze back to the window. “Would you like to know more, sugar?”
“Yes,” I whispered without hesitation. “Please…”