No Tomorrow

We kiss like two people who have been doing nothing but thinking about kissing each other for the past five years—rough, wild, desperate and wet. We’re a tangle of lips and tongue and hands yanking off clothes.

In the midst of it all I manage to gather my wits and separate my lips from his long enough to attempt to tell him what I came here for.

“Blue, we should talk….”

He hovers above me with his messy hair hanging down into my face and stares at me with a veil of denial already in his eyes.

“Don’t say it, whatever it is, Piper. I don’t want to hear it if you have a boyfriend or a husband—”

I reach up to stroke his stubbled cheek. “No. Not at all. It’s not that—”

His lips touch mine again, soft now, almost pleading. “Good. Me either. We’ll talk later….”

“But—”

His warm lips slip across my throat, and his teeth nip a trail, leaving his mark. “Shh….”

I shouldn’t give in to his shushing me, no matter how much we want each other. I should sit up and force him to listen to me so I can tell him about our daughter before we go any further physically or emotionally. And if the realization that he has a child doesn’t wreck him and cause him to have a meltdown, then we can ravish each other all night long, and hopefully move forward.

I open my mouth to protest, but he moves his lips back up to mine, kisses me in that desperate way that weakens me.

“I can’t talk, Piper. Or think,” he says softly, then brushes his lips across mine again. “Just let me get lost in you… please.”

I’ve never been able to resist or deny him. My body craves his. My heart beats in perfect tune with his. My soul meshed with his the day we met. I need and want to get lost in him, too. More than anything.

So I give in, and I shush.

For now.

My silence doesn’t last long. Faint sighs and throaty moans soon drift from my lips in response to his hands and mouth reclaiming every inch of my body. Each time I reach for him, he pins my hands back down on the bed and immobilizes me with deeper kisses, imprisoning me between his strong thighs. I ache to touch him, dig my nails into him, to feel that he’s real and not another one of my many dreams.

“Don’t move,” he says gruffly, climbing off the bed. I’m all eyes and quivers watching him unbuckle his leather belt and kicking off his black combat boots to step out of his jeans.

“Do these expire?” he asks, holding up a crumpled foil condom he just pulled from his wallet. The same wallet he had when we first met.

“I’m not sure. How long has it been in there?”

“Years. Since us.”

I lean up on my elbows. “You haven’t used it?”

“For what?”

“Um, for safe sex?”

He grabs my foot, lifts it up to his bare chest, and removes the strappy heel. Heat floods between my thighs when he bends down to plant an open kiss at the arch of my foot.

“I haven’t touched anyone,” he says, repeating the same erotic actions with my other foot. “Don’t you get it, Piper? You’re it.” Placing the condom between his teeth, he hooks his fingers in the waistband of my jeans and yanks them over my ankles.

I blink at him, disbelieving. It’s been easy for me to not be with another man. I’ve dated very little over the past few years and none of those dates ever led to sex. Sure, a few guys tried, but I always sabotaged the moment. Besides, I work long hours and spend all my free time with my daughter or walking Acorn. I don’t have time to start a serious relationship. As unconventional as it is, Josh and I have a friend-lationship that works for us on a non-physical level.

But how could Blue possibly be celibate for so long? It’s unthinkable. He’s a guy. A very good-looking and extremely sensual one. And he’s a musician. Women love musicians, especially sexy, dark, brooding ones like him. We’re inexplicably drawn to them, like chocolate or coffee or diamonds. We want to fix them. We want to be the one. The one to change them, the one to win their hearts and stop their wandering ways. The one who makes them forget all other women. We want to be the it, as he said.

I have no idea how four-foot-eleven, one-hundred-pound, boring me could possibly be anyone’s it.

“You’re serious?” I ask.

Standing at the foot of the bed, he tears open the foil and rolls the latex over his shaft with the city lights from the window behind him illuminating his shape in the dark room. Wild and wavy hair tumbles over his shoulders and the feather catches the light, glinting with iridescence. Such a bittersweet symbol of his beloved bird, tethered to him, without the freedom to soar.