Serena

I’m wide awake Thursday night, and it’s a quarter ‘til midnight. Now would be a great time for one of this prescription sleep aids Eudora was shoving down my throat weeks ago, but I know I’m better off without them.

Derek’s been gone all night. He left for a while to meet Royal for a late night burger and beer, and he hasn’t been back since.

Come to think of it, he’s been gone most of the week. Working late. Leaving early. I’m sure he’s put in at least sixty hours this week, and a girl might think he was avoiding her if a girl was a smidge too insecure for her own good.

I refuse to take it personally though. Life’s too short. When I do see him, I pretend like everything’s fine, because if there’s anything we Randalls are good at, it’s pretending everything’s fine when it absolutely isn’t.

Most of the time, anyway.

A stack of books rests neatly on his coffee table. They’re large. Full of pictures of antique cars and planes. Vintage photography. The kinds of things that make a person think too much.

It’s quiet here. Too quiet. And there isn’t a part of me that’s ready to fall asleep yet.

Fifteen minutes ago, I flipped through the channels on Derek’s TV, finding mostly infomercials and Friends reruns, and I opted for the sound of silence instead.

I’ve decided to go home this coming weekend to visit Poppy for a couple of days.

I haven’t told Derek yet.

Out of nowhere, the door swings open and Derek lingers in the doorway. His keys hang loosely in his hands, jingling as he steps out of his shoes. He’s in jeans and a t-shirt, a casual getup for a casual guys’ night out.

“How was dinner?” I ask, paging through an Ansel Adams coffee table book. There I go, sounding like his wife again.

He ambles across the apartment, unloading his pockets of keys and his wallet and charging his phone at the drop zone in the kitchen.

“It was good,” he says.

“How’s Royal?”

“He’s doing well.”

I bite my lip to keep myself from saying something I’ll regret. I don’t understand how he can be so good to me, so nice, and then refuse to engage in simple conversation. It might do me good to give him the benefit of the doubt right now. Maybe it’ll rile me up less. I tell myself he’s tired and to let it go.

“Why are you still up?” he strides across the living room, stopping when he reaches the sofa. “Are you just sitting here in the dark?”

I nod, glancing down at the book covering my lap.

“How can you see?” He reaches over, clicking on a lamp, and soft light floods the space around us.

“Thank you.”

“You want company?”

My gaze meets his. “Oh. Um. Sure.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes.” I study his tragically gorgeous face. If only Derek Rosewood were average and normal—inside and out—then maybe I wouldn’t be staring at him, craving his fingers in my hair and his lips crushing mine.

“You seem unsure.”

“I just don’t want to bore you with piddly conversation,” I quip. Licking my pointer finger, I turn a page.

He takes a seat beside me. “My uncle Edgar gave me this book right before he passed. And then he willed his camera to me. The thing’s been sitting in my closet for years. Can’t bring myself to learn how to use it.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll break it. Maybe I’ll take shitty pictures. That, and it reminds me too much of him.”

“You’re scared.”

“I’m not scared.” He scoffs.

“Oh, my God. I think I’ve finally figured you out.”

“Doubtful.”

I place my hand on my heart and twist my body so I’m facing him. “If something makes you uncomfortable, physically, emotionally, whatever, you box it up and put it on a shelf so you don’t have to look at it again. You pretend it’s not there so you don’t have to feel.”

“How meta.”

I roll my eyes, smacking his hardened chest. The fabric of his jersey t-shirt clings to his muscles, accentuating the peaks and valleys I’ve only recently begun to enjoy.

Without realizing it at first, I find myself grinning. This is the Derek I prefer. Somewhat relaxed. At ease. Willing to converse.

“Why are you smiling like that?” he asks.

“I’m not.” I try and keep a straight face. And fail. “Sorry. I was trying to do what you do.”

“Which is what?”

“Deny everything,” I say. “You deny, deny, deny, even when the truth is staring you blatantly in the face.”

His mouth twists and he shakes his head. “Not really.”

I poke his shoulder. “You’re doing it now.”

“Denying a false accusation is different from denying self-evident truths, Serena.”

“Whatever you say, counselor.”

He cracks a half-smile, and it almost makes up for the rest of this horrid day. “Why do you call me counselor, anyway?”

“Because it’s cheesy and dramatic and you need to take yourself a little less seriously.” I rise, feeling a hint of warm sleepiness rain down upon me, but Derek’s fingers wrap around my wrist, and he pulls me into his lap. “Hello.”

My legs straddle him, and I make myself comfortable. I could ask him what he’s doing. I could pretend to resist. But there’s no point in fighting a losing battle. We both know how this is going to go, intentions be damned.

“I’m not ready for you to go yet.” His voice is low, throaty, and our eyes are locked.

“I was just going to bed . . .”

“Yeah.” His hands slide up my thighs, slow and intentional, and he cups my ass as he hoists me up. “But you were headed the wrong way.”

My arms rest on his shoulders, and he carries me to his room, depositing me on the edge of his king-sized bed. His hands work his belt and his gaze drinks me in. He crawls over top of me, and I breathe in the scent of cologne and expensive beer.

His arms cage me in, and I feel safe. Sectioned off. Protected.

When his body lies on mine, I absorb the weight of him, my hands greedily tugging the hem of his shirt until it’s over his head. His delicious, dark hair is mussed, and I run my fingers through it as his lips come down upon my lips.

Derek’s hands slip between my belly and his, working at the band of my leggings and tugging them down my thighs as he lifts himself over me. On his knees, he runs a finger under the waistband of my lace panties, snapping them against my skin before working them down my hips.

He slides everything down my legs, tossing them aside and coming back for more. My hands work his jeans, brushing against the outline of the hardness trapped behind silk boxers. He springs to life when I finally free him, and I press my hands against his chest, silently urging him to lie on his back.

Straddling his thighs, I lean down and take his hardness in my grip, bringing the tip of his cock to my lips and gifting him with feathery strokes, my tongue glazing his length.

His hands are in my hair, pulling, tugging, guiding as I find a rhythm that seems to suit him best. I pause for a moment, pumping him in my hands, and glance into his hypnotic dark gaze.

My heart skips a beat in the cheesiest of ways, and I try to focus on the fire burning in my core instead.

This is physical. Not emotional.

My mouth returns to his throbbing girth, but he slips his hand under my arm and pulls me over top of him. I straddle him, my aching pussy grazing his cock, tortuously skin to skin. He’s focused completely on me, his hands cupping my breasts and moving to my ass before teasingly dragging down my thighs.

I’m not sure how we went from barely speaking, to discussing photography, to winding up naked in his bed, but I suppose the answer is irrelevant.

Here we are.

We’re doing this.

Nothing in the world could stop us tonight.

His left hand lifts to my chin, cupping my jaw. His thumb traces my lower lip, and he brings my mouth to his.

“Left nightstand. Top drawer,” he whispers.

I lean over him, tugging the drawer and expecting to find a stash of condoms. Instead, I find toys. Adult toys. Galore.

“Oh.” I pause. It’s dark, but these things are staring back at me plain as day.

“There should be a box . . .” he says. “It’s purple . . .”

“I’m looking for condoms, right?”

“Yes.”

I finally spot the purple box and tear a packet from the strip. “Here.”

He rips the foil between his teeth, and I move aside as he sheaths himself. I counted no fewer than two pairs of handcuffs. A tangled mess of leather. Several blindfolds. Otherworldly-looking dildos, and a few neon vibrators for good measure.

“Do—do you use those?” I ask as he pulls me back into his lap.

His lips pull up at the side, his perfect teeth lighting up the dark. “Serena.”

Derek’s hands grip my hips, and he guides me onto him. I slide down the length of his shaft, exhaling as he fills me.

With his hand at the base of my neck, he pulls my mouth to his, depositing a single kiss. “I don’t use those with you because I don’t need to. You’re enough. You’re all I need.”

I let a curtain of hair hide my relieved smile as my hips rock back and forth against his thick cock.

No one’s ever told me I was enough.

No one’s ever made me feel like I was enough.

I rise and bounce, creating friction and heat, losing myself in the darkness of his room and the security of his arms and the temporary sanctuary I never thought I’d find in the small town of Rixton Falls.

His greedy mouth is only rivaled by greedier hands, and he owns every inch of me as I focus on the sensation of his hard flesh entering and flooding me over and over again. He takes a swollen breast, lifting the nipple to his mouth and flicking it with his tongue before his teeth rake across the sensitive nub.

We don’t need piddly conversation when our bodies can do all the talking.

My hips grind, slowly, provocatively. I want this to last. I want this to go on forever. But my body is making a frenzied race to the finish line.

I press my lips into the hot flesh of his smooth chest, tasting him. Devouring him. Wanting to forever remember everything about this moment, because somewhere inside, I’m convinced this is going to be the last time.

We’re too different.

We’re headed on two completely different paths.

Living on two completely different planets.

And one of these days, if we’re not careful, we’re going to collide.

He says he’s not the settling type. But I don’t believe him.

He can deny, deny, deny.

But I know.

He’s falling for me.

And this isn’t going to end well.