The Last Person

“What will you do if I kiss you?” He steps closer, putting us toe to toe where I can smell that heady mix of spice and citrus, where I can feel the heat from his bare chest.

“I’d kiss you back,” I say just above a whisper. “And I wouldn’t be able to stop. I’m asking you to not kiss me. If I get lost in you, I will lose myself. I’ll lose a piece of myself.”

“And that’s bad?” He lifts my chin with his finger. It burns my skin, igniting me in a way no one before him has ever done.

“It would be tragic.”

He studies me through narrowed eyes for a few seconds before dropping his finger from my chin and shaking his head. “I don’t understand. If it’s sex, then I’m way off. It feels like more than sex.”

“What if it’s not? What if I like the way you fuck me, and that’s where it ends?”

“Then I’ll take you anyway I can get you.”

Before I can react or show the slightest sign of refusing him, he kisses me. I don’t even fight it. We kiss. We go way too far in the hallway where anyone can see us from their peephole, or open a door, or walk up the stairway. By the time he carries me to his doorway, my shirt is hanging around my neck, and he’s palming my ass with one hand and shoving my bra up over my breasts with his other hand.

Drugs. Only drugs make people this stupid. I need to check into rehab … after one … more … hit.

What’s the best way to redeem myself after reckless, unprotected sex? More reckless, unprotected sex. He’s deep inside of me within seconds of the door closing behind us. We make it no farther than the sofa.

Clothes half on, half off.

“I’m not sharing you,” he whispers in my ear a breath before biting the skin along my neck.

I’ll deal with his desire to turn us into an insta-couple later. Right now, I’m … busy. Opening my heavy eyes, teetering on the edge of an orgasm. My gaze locks onto the pile of books on his coffee table. The Last Person is on the bottom.

I’m on the bottom.

We’re both getting fucked by this man.

“I … I can’t.” I wriggle.

“What?” he asks with a strained voice as he speeds up his motions.

“I said I can’t!” I push at his chest again.

Eric stops and pulls out as I fall to the floor and shoot up to my feet, piecing myself back together.

“Did I hurt you?” Confusion lines his face as he slides up his briefs and jeans while lifting his pelvis from the sofa.

Yes. He hurt me, just not the way he thinks he did. I don’t look at him. My attention stays glued to the book as I thread my arms through my shirt.

His gaze tracks mine. “Please tell me this isn’t about the stupid book.”

That’s it. I’m done.

“Want to talk about it?” Mom asks as she and Dad entertain me while Freya gets physically acquainted with her lover at our loft.

The timing couldn’t be better. The last thing I need after storming out of Eric’s place is to run into him. I’m sure he’s totally confused. One minute we’re having great sex and the next minute I’m shoving him away, throwing on my clothes and running out the door with nothing more than an “it’s over.”

“I had a fight with this guy I like.” Squinting against the sun, I sip my glass of wine while we watch dad turn the chicken on the grill.

Like is a strong word. I like having sex with him. I guess I like his smile and his humor too. He’s friendly … says hi to everyone whether he knows them or not. He clearly likes to read. It’s not that he doesn’t have potential. He does. Just not with me.

“What was the fight about?”

“Just different taste in things.”

“He’s not a climber?”

“Ha! No. That’s not it. He climbs and he’s really good.” Oh yeah. I forgot to mention he’s a phenomenal climber. “It’s his taste in literature.”

“Literature?”

Gah! It sounds ridiculous, but it’s not. “He joined our book club. We’re reading my pick … my favorite book. And he doesn’t like it at all.”

Incredulity lines Mom’s face. “A book?”

“He called it redundant, repetitive, and sophomoric.”

“Is it?”

“What?” I flinch. “No. Of course not.” I rub my temples and shake my head. “How can I make you understand? It’s like …. you have all your rose bushes that you love. What if Dad hates them and—”

“I do hate them,” Dad says.

“Not helping, Dad.” I roll my eyes. “Fine. He doesn’t like them, but he trims them, feeds them, and he’s very careful when he mows the lawn and uses the weed eater to not harm them in any way. What if he trampled them and called them ugly weeds? What if he said anyone who likes roses is stupid? How would that make you feel?”