The clock next to my bed reads 2:36 a.m. Sleep escapes me. I imagine his full lips on every inch of my body. I feel him in my bones.

I toss.

I turn.

The unbearable yearning escalates.

Soft breathing startles me, a painful reminder of where I am … of who I am. It’s a familiar sound I’ve heard for more than a decade. Slowly and with care, I turn to face him. His eyes flutter, lost in a reverie. What is he dreaming of? He remains in the same pose since falling asleep a few hours ago. I love you. Yet emptiness manages to surround me. My chest tightens, slowly taunting my heart. My forefinger traces his bottom lip out of habit. Guilt and desolation sweep over me because it’s not his lips I want on mine. It’s not his body I want inside me. He’s not the man who has me … crazy with desire in the middle of the night, begging to be taken, craving just for a taste of him.

My own confused thoughts continue to weigh me down.

My body is alive, but I am barely living. A part of me somehow died yesterday when I left him. The short time with Julian Caine changed my life. My own breathing slows down, and all I want to do is crawl under a rock. Imploring my body to succumb to sleep, I try to forget how alive he made me feel. Sexual excitement. Jealousy. Anger. Hurt. Happiness.

Go to sleep. Count to one hundred. Take a deep breath. Get him out of your head.

He will never be yours.

You will never be his.

At this realization, I will myself to sleep.

It’s been almost twenty-four hours since I left San Francisco. I didn’t even have the courage to properly say goodbye to my hosts. Right before I boarded the plane, I left a message for Marcel and apologized for my sudden departure. I figured I could blame it on my need to return to Andrew but I know deep down inside that was a lie. I could blame it on work, but that didn’t need immediate attention either. Or I can be honest with myself. I was feeling something I never thought I would feel for someone else other than Andrew. I’ve actually never felt this intensity toward the man I’ve loved half of my life.

The attraction I have for Julian is inexplicable. My body was on fire with him, but he’d never touched me sexually. His voice burned into me, yet he had never uttered ‘I want you.’ I feel him under my skin. With one look, with one smile, he set my heart racing. My nights have become troublesome and restless with only thoughts of a man I can’t stop obsessing over. I am living in a state of suspended desire, and at times, I wonder if I occupy his mind the way he does mine?

Over the next few days, I become an emotional mess. Sexual scenarios constantly fill my head, and I’m unable to do anything. I imagine Julian with me, kissing me, on top of me, inside me. I can actually smell his scent in the room although he’s never been inside my house. Mundane things become something new when it features him. I prepare evening meals, and I picture what it would be like to feed him. When I shower, I imagine what it would feel like to have his naked body brushed up against mine with water pouring over us. I listen to music curious to know if the song is something he would like. Strolling through my neighborhood seems more interesting when I search for him and anticipate running into him, despite the fact he lives in another city. Even though Andrew is physically with me twenty-four hours a day, nursing a nasty cold, my thoughts are of another man.

I was never jealous when it came to my fiancé. Beautiful and intelligent college girls flocked to him. Colleagues, like Janice, were infatuated with him. But with Julian, I became a person I never thought I would become. The thought of him with other women infuriated me and it wasn’t fair. He and I are old friends who recently reconnected.

Five days have passed since I last saw Julian. I haven’t slept since I left San Francisco because all thoughts of this Englishman invade my dreams.

Moreover, our time on the boat became a constant reminder of what I’m missing with Andrew. Julian was wonderful, sweet, and sexy. The dinner he arranged was romantic, but the notion of Julian trying to romance me was out of the question. We are old friends trying to reacquaint ourselves after more than a decade apart. When we last saw each other, we were still kids−well, at least he was. I was on the verge of becoming a woman.

Stop thinking about him.

We are not lovers. We were never lovers. He and I will never be lovers.

He’s made contact via calls and texts, but with the exception of informing him that I landed in LA safely, I haven’t responded to any of them. I fool myself into believing that not responding to his calls and texts would help erase him from my thoughts. But the heart is a funny thing. It possesses what it yearns to cherish. Logic tells me to stop thinking of him, obsessing over him but my thoughts of him escalate.

Andrew returned to work yesterday, and I spend my day and night idly. Nothing’s changed. I’m still consumed by my childhood friend. I force myself to come back to reality. It’s late Thursday afternoon, and Andrew returned early from work only to spend time in his home office. The vegan lasagna we are having for dinner is in the oven, and I am once again binge-watching AMC’s Walking Dead. I must be on my fifth episode today, and I only have three left on my DVR. I lie on the couch, barely watching the show. I almost fall asleep when the doorbell rings. It’s such an unfamiliar sound that I ignore it. It’s not until it rings for the second time that I finally tear myself away from the couch. While rubbing my eyes, I haphazardly trip on one of Andrew’s brown leather shoes in the entryway. “Ouch,” I yell and rather than look through the peephole, I open the door hastily.

Julian Caine.

Fuck Me.

No.

Fuck.

Me.

He is standing in front of me.

The Englishman I can’t stop obsessing over. The man I fantasized about last night while Andrew made love to me. The man I masturbated to this morning.

Dumbfounded. I glare at him, and it’s quite obvious that he caught me off guard.

“Hello, there,” he greets me warmly with that devilish smile of his.

Nothing comes out of my mouth. The dreams I’ve had of him the past few nights pale in comparison to the man in front of me. The view is a spectacular one. His black hair is gloriously disheveled and has that just fucked look. Dammit, did he just fuck someone? His grin is so bright that it blinds me. His large hands remain in his pockets. Oh, how I long to feel them on me, in me, everywhere.

“Are you going to let me in?” He studies my face before planting a kiss on my cheek.

“Julian, what are you doing here?” I am still by the door, his smile and kiss distracting me. His body. His presence. And definitely the dirty, filthy images I had of him earlier.

“Let me in and I’ll explain. It’s getting a bit chilly out here.” And although it’s almost seventy-five degrees out there, he brings both of his hands to his mouth and pretends to warm them with his lips.

How cute.

How about warming me up?

“Oh, I’m sorry. Yes, please come in. My place is a mess.” My head is a mess. Somehow, I manage to be an idiot and not open the door wide enough to allow him to come in freely. Moving by me, Julian’s arm brushes against my breast and my nipples instantly erect. I inhale his scent, and my eyes roll to the back of my head.

Breathe, Lina. Breathe.