“You all right?” she’d asked me after I returned from showing Wilder the unit on 86th Street. “You don’t seem like yourself lately.”
I peered up into her round, doe eyes, the eyes of a fresh college graduate who probably lived her life one selfie and social engagement at a time, and I longed for an ounce of her naïveté.
“I’m fine,” I lied, sweeping the chocolates off my desk and into the palm of my hand where they began to melt. “Just tired.” That part was true. I hadn’t been sleeping well the last couple weeks. Cold bed sheets and an ache in my heart that couldn’t be ignored made it impossible. I popped a couple pieces of the candy into my mouth, but I couldn’t taste them.
I cut out of the office early and headed straight home, fully intending on drowning my pain in an overflowing glass of red wine and the hottest bubble bath I could possibly stand; the kind I’d have to slowly lower myself into one inch at a time; the kind that scalded my skin into a painful shade of raw pink. I needed to hurt on the outside to numb the hurt on the inside.
But no sooner had I kicked off my heels than there was a knock on my door. I glanced at my watch. It was maybe three o’clock, and I wasn’t expecting a delivery. Standing up on my toes, I squinted through the peephole.
Wilder.
He must have seen me walking home.
I smoothed my hair flat and pulled the door open. He was still in the suit from that morning, the one with the angry red tie.
“Hi?”
“Did you mean it?”
“Mean what?”
“You think about me every moment of every day?”
I nodded, shrinking half my body behind the door. Our eyes met, and I couldn’t look away no matter how hard I tried. Before I realized what I was saying, I found myself muttering, “You can come in, if you want.”
He brushed past me, our shoulders grazing just enough to send a current of livewire down my side, and I shut the door behind him.
“I meant all of it,” I said, clasping my hand across my chest and digging my fingers into the flesh of my neck. “It’s not the same since…”
“Since you walked away.” He finished my sentence in such a way that I knew he was still the Wilder from that morning, the one still so ripe with hurt he could hardly look at me without flaring his nostrils. His hands rested on his hips, and the glint of his belt buckle caught the late afternoon sun that trickled through the curtains of my dim apartment. It was still daylight outside, but inside we stood in a whole different world, a darker world where we weren’t supposed to be together. But being together was the only thing that might save us.
“I don’t know what to do.” My voice broke and my mind was a flurry of all the thoughts I’d been thinking the last two weeks. I imagined the look on Coco’s face if we were to get back together. I imagined the heartbreak it would cause my mother. I imagined my reputation as a realtor crumbling to rubble as my competitors flung ruthless nicknames and rumors in my direction.
Wilder lunged at me, pinning me against the door with the magnitude of his intense stare. Hot tears stung my eyes, blurring my vision as I attempted to fight them off. All I wanted was for him to kiss me. I remembered what it felt like, but I was beginning to forget. Each day that passed pushed that sensory memory further and further away, like a dream I’d had weeks ago and I was beginning to forget the details. I needed him to look at me the way he used to and not like I was some kind of horrible monster. I was falling apart, and only his love would save me.
“Stop talking,” he commanded. His hands found my hips, and his fingers dug into my skin as if he were holding tight and incapable of letting me go. My eyes closed. Tears streamed down my cheeks. A warmth against my lips, like the kind I dreamt of every night, ignited a spark inside me.
He kissed me.
And the kiss was soft and tender, not angry or bitter. His right hand left my side and trailed up to the side of my cheek, delicately cupping my face as his lips worked mine apart. Our tongues danced, and the taste of him set me on fire. I’d craved him; his touch, his taste, his scent. Convinced that I was dreaming it all up, I refused to open my eyes.
His left hand traveled down my side until it found the hem of my skirt. He hiked it up to the top of my thighs before slipping his hand between them and tugging my silk panties to the side. One finger passed between my folds as he found the innermost part of me. Wilder slipped one finger inside, followed by a second, curling them toward him and stroking me, long and gentle, slow and meaningful, as if he were trying to savor our time together. His fingers filled me while his lips worked mine.
I didn’t even try to stop it. I’d willed this. I’d fantasized about it every single night for two weeks. I’d dreamt of him nightly and cried myself awake from a deep slumber more times than I cared to admit.
Wilder removed his hand from my wetness and ripped my panties off. Soft, lace-covered shreds tickled my skin as he tugged them down, but I didn’t care. With my eyes still clenched tight, I heard the clinking of his belt buckle. My heart pounded hard in my chest. I just wanted the emptiness to go away. I wanted to feel every inch of him inside me.
The sensation of his hand freeing his erection from his pants and positioning it at my entrance as my legs gripped his sides sent an ache straight to my core. But the second he entered me, the heavy, burdening pain dissipated into thin air. Like it was never there in the first place. With my arms draped over his shoulders, I gave myself to him.