Dylan just saw me in the mirror. I caught him red-handed. Or blue-balled. Either way, he was totally sneaking a peek at the girls.

Well, who cares? No fucks given, right? Let him look if it gives him pleasure. Actually, I kind of like the idea. Despite the fact that I’m supposed to be indifferent towards him now, I’ll admit that some part of me is aroused by the thought of him eyeing my semi-naked body.

I’m not naive enough to think any woman is ever a hundred percent satisfied with what the good lord gave her, but I have to admit, I do like my breasts. And if Dylan wants to get an eyeful of what he’ll never have, I’m okay with torturing him. We can call it payback for what he did to me. He teased me years ago with the promise of a night with him; I’ll tease him with nipples that he’ll never get to suck.

Quid pro quo.

By the time I head back into the living room, I’m wearing a t-shirt that smells of laundry detergent, but also vaguely of him. I always loved his scent when we were younger; it reminded me of the beach, of home. I suppose it’s been long enough now that I don’t associate it entirely with the heartbreak of youth and dreams that have exploded in a nauseating mess of stupid girl-emotions.

Besides, he did apologize for what happened that night, and even if he didn’t get into specifics, it’s high time I let it go. I don’t particularly want to let him know how much it hurt me. I never want to admit that I was in love with him all those years ago. Besides, it’s all in the past, in the days when my emotions were amplified and ridiculous. Maybe I didn’t really know what love was, anyhow. Maybe Dylan was a fantasy, nothing more. A guy I wanted because deep down, I knew I could never have him.

Seeing him again has taught me how different we both are now, how much we’ve evolved. I know I’ve changed. I’ve moved on, and so has he. That’s not to say that he’s not the same handsome, smooth-talking guy as he always was, but he’s not a child anymore, either. Chances are pretty good that he wouldn’t pull the same crap on me or anyone that he did then. I get the sense that he’s more open, more honest. More grown up.

It doesn’t matter, anyhow, because I’m not in love with him anymore, right? We’re not dating, nor will we ever. He’s nothing more to me than someone I vaguely know in a city full of strangers. He’s a convenience. A friend who might take me around to see some sights one day, before we each return to our respective abodes and part ways.

Maybe my mother was right. A young woman alone in a strange city could use a male companion, even if he’s to be a purely platonic one.

I walk out of the bedroom, triumphant in my resolve not to be attracted to the most attractive man I’ve ever known. I’m totally aware of my lack of a bra as I make my way across the floor towards him; aware, too, of his fascination with my breasts. For some reason I’m intent on making him want me, even if I don’t want anything to happen between us.

“Drink?” he asks me, his hands cupped over his groin region, possibly to conceal a hard-on. Okay, he definitely saw the girls, and I’m loving how infatuated he seems with them. I am the Torture Queen, and I’m enjoying every second of it.

Of course, the thought of it gets me aroused too, even though I’d never admit it. It’s not that I’m attracted to him, of course. It’s just my hormones going nuts again.

Damn you, sexual peak.

“No thanks,” I say as I hand him my damp garments. “I’m going to head over and get some clean clothes from my place.”

“Okay. But then I’m taking you out, right?”

“Yes, fine,” I reply, chancing a smile. For some reason I feel liberated from my former crankiness. Maybe it’s that I have the upper hand now. I know he wants me, which means that I have all the power.

She who controls erections controls the world.

“Good.” He puts the clothes on the counter and steps towards me. For a moment it looks like he might put his hands on my waist, but at the last second he thinks better of it. Good. I’m not sure I could handle his touch; it might set off old feelings and make me go weak again. It’s best to keep our distance. We’re friends. Buddies. Chums. Pals. Even though I totally want to have sex with him so badly that it’s making my core ache with the thought of it.

Okay, fine. I guess I’m not as over him as I thought.

“I’ll be right back,” I blurt out, pulling away as the word sex springs cruelly into my mind.

“Okay.”

I head out onto the balcony that edges around to my apartment and dash around to unlock my door, slipping inside with a smile on my face. The ugliness that’s been lingering on my soul for years has finally begun to wash itself away. I feel like the world is starting over again. Rome, me, Dylan. Everything is new again.

This is good.

I slide into my bedroom and pick out a nice little dress, something dark green with spaghetti straps. After throwing it on over a clean strapless bra, I’m sorted and ready to go. I’ll even admit that I’m excited to have someone show me around the city.

I tell myself that I’m not excited that the someone I’m about to spend time with is Dylan. But it’s possible that I’m lying to myself just a little bit. The truth is that somewhere inside me, old feelings have begun sprouting like weeds and I’m not entirely sure that I want to fight them back. Katherine was right about a lot of things, but maybe the most important one was what she said about not holding the past against someone.

She also said something about fucking, and I have to admit that I’m starting to see her point. Every time I set eyes on Dylan I go weak and horny at the same time. I want him. I want to make up for everything that went wrong between us.

Only I’m torn. It’s not like he’s just some guy I met at a bar. He’s a guy I used to care about so much that it nearly ruined me.

I’m still staring at myself in the mirror when I remember that he’s waiting for me, which means that I need to get back to his place, whether I know what I’m doing or not.

A moment later I’m hopping over to his flat again, a manufactured smile on my face. I don’t want him to see how confused I am.

“Ready,” I tell him as I slip in through the door. He’s changed too, into a white cotton shirt and a slightly dressier pair of shorts.

“Yes, you are,” he says, eyeing me up and down. I don’t know if I’m imagining it, but he looks a little like he wants to eat me. “God, Lucy, you really look great,” he breathes, and I’m not sure if he’s even aware of how much sex there is in his voice.

“Thanks. You look good too,” I reply.

Bullshit. He looks amazing, but I’m not going to flatter him. Some part of me still wants to punish him for everything. I’m enjoying being just slightly cruel, playing femme fatale to this horny, sexy, desirable man.

The only problem is that there’s something I’d enjoy even more. A sudden urge to kiss him has assaulted me. My lips are tingling, as are other bits of my body. It would be the easiest thing right now to step forward, slip a hand around his neck and press my lips to his. To take up exactly where we left off that night seven years ago. I’ll bet I could get everything I wanted and then some. I may be a little shy, a little insecure, but do I know how to seduce a man.

Fuck, no. Don’t even think about it.

The thing is, I don’t want to seduce Dylan. I want to get to know him again. To spend time with him, develop a friendship, if that’s even possible for us. The last thing I want is to lose him again the moment one of us does something dumb.

I pull my eyes away from his and look towards the door, clenching my hands into fists at my sides, my determination forcing my fingernails to dig into my palms.

“Now, as for dinner…?” I ask. If I can’t eat him, we’d better find something else to satisfy me, stat.

“There’s a little restaurant around the corner that serves up some great wild boar bolognese,” he tells me, though I get the distinct impression from his tone of voice that it’s not food he wants to eat, either.

“You had me at wild boar,” I reply.

Except you can’t have me. Ever. That would be seriously bad. Or seriously good.

Which is even worse.

“Good. Let’s go, then,” he replies. His voice is still tight, and I can all but see him trying to be a gentleman despite the sexual tension between us. I get it. If I had any less self-control, I’d be straddling his gorgeous face by now.

Damn, that would be amazing.

But it’s not going to happen. Our relationship is too fucked up. We might find our way to being friends—if he’s lucky.

If he’s not so lucky, he might end up with a hard slap across the face. That is, if I don’t run away again.