Cruel Lover

“No,” he says again, softer this time, eyes fixed on mine. “You’re staying here.”

I laugh at that. “Forever?”

He lets a breath out through his nose, then turns and walks back to the end of the bed, picking up the tray. I can see now that there are two dishes on it, and a vase with a single red rose. On the dishes I can see slices of what looks like a kind of lasagna, layers of tubular pasta and meat, topped with a white cheese sauce.

“I want to apologize,” he says as he brings the tray closer, then places it in front of me, sitting on the edge of the bed and meeting my eyes. The darkness I see in his gaze almost makes me flinch. “I hurt you and I’m sorry. I said things I didn’t mean. Cruel things. I insulted you. I felt sick every time I saw you being bullied. If you’re wondering why people stopped speaking to you, that’s why. I warned them off. If I couldn’t have you, I didn’t want anyone else going near you. I don’t deserve to be forgiven, but I’m asking you anyway. Can you forgive me?”

“It was a long time ago,” I tell him, sitting up in the bed, letting the sheets fall away, aware that my nipples are betraying the way I feel about him.

“Not for me,” he says. “I’ve lived with the guilt every day.”

“Really?”

He nods. “Malta. Angel. Please can you forgive me?”

Thinking back to that time, I know it wasn’t all one-sided. Sure, he went from being my protector to being just another tormentor overnight, but I knew the reasons. I know the reasons. My father turned him away, and when he tried to speak to me about it I ignored him. I walked away. I told him I never wanted him to come near me again. How must he have felt?

“I forgive you,” I say. “And… I need to apologize too. After your father attacked my dad—”

“What?”

I meet his eyes. “That night your father came round and…you didn’t know? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t say anything.”

“What did he do, angel?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

There’s a little growl from his chest and I hear the click of his teeth clamping together. “It was my father who gave your dad the bloody nose. The bruised eye. Of course it was. That’s why your dad turned me away. Jesus, all these years I blamed Winston, and all along it was the man I’ve given my loyalty to. I knew he used people, but this?”

I take his hand in mine and he falls silent, looking my way. “Oz, my father hated your family long before that night. You know the history. The Greens tried to drive the Voloses out of Detroit from the day they arrived. The Volos Bar nearly burned to the ground in the fifties, thanks to my grandfather and his brothers. If he’d known, Winston would never have let me go out with you. A Volos boy?” I laugh, shaking my head. “We were like Romeo and Juliet.”

I stare into his eyes, nearly falling deep into them. My breath halts in my throat, my heart pounding.

“But Romeo and Juliet ends badly,” he says, squeezing my hand. “I don’t want that for us.”

What does he want from me? What’s happening here?

So much has happened between us. So much water under the bridge. I feel like I know him, but that was the boy. Do I know this man?

I want to kiss him. I want to throw myself into his arms and feel the hardness of his chest against my soft curves. I want to feel him grip me tight and force me down onto the bed, holding me in place while he ruts into me. I want to scream his name.

But can I trust him not to break my heart?

I turn, looking at the tray, and regain some measure of control. “This looks delicious. Pastitsio.”

After a pause, he hands me one of the dishes, and a fork. “It’s an old family recipe. From my mother’s side. She taught me to make it before she…well, you know what happened. Kind of a Greek lasagna. Plenty of carbs for the diabetic recovering from a hypo.”

I laugh, nodding, and take a bite. “Heavenly,” I say, closing my eyes in appreciation.

“You would know, angel. You would know.”

Chapter Four

Oz

I can’t sleep.

Knowing she’s just down the hall is killing me.

Malta Green. The only girl I’ve ever wanted, my first love, my obsession. She’s in my bed and I’m here on the couch. Part of me wants to jerk off to the thought of her, it certainly wouldn’t be the first time, but another part of me knows that’s not enough. Not now. My dick is hard with the image, but any fantasy would be a pale imitation of the real thing just a few yards away.