Chapter 16

Paul:

My bed is empty. The first conscious thought I had this morning was a replay of Abby hovering over me, lost in rapture last night. My second was that I definitely wanted an early morning repeat of that exact moment. My third… She’s gone. When I reached out for her, my hand landed on nothing but tangled sheet and crumpled comforter.

Opening my eyes, proves that Abby is, in fact, not in my bed with me like I expected her to be. At first, I think maybe she’s just gone to the bathroom. Or slipped out to the kitchen for something to eat. But my apartment is small, just barely over eight hundred square feet, and it only takes me a few minutes of searching to realize that she’s not here. Her clothes are gone, and so is her purse. She must have slipped out while I was sleeping. What I can’t figure out is why.

What happened last night was incredible. Does she regret it? Do I?

I grab my phone to see if she’s texted, but I have no new messages. So, I take the initiative and send her one.

Me: Missed you this morning. Where’d you go?

I wait for several long minutes for a response, but none comes. Maybe she’s still sleeping.

I try hard to be the optimist, but sitting here waiting for her to answer is causing my brain to conjure up all the possible reasons she might have left. Not to mention the reasons why she might be avoiding me now. I resolve to give her the benefit of the doubt and move on with my day. I’ll just talk to her at work tonight, I tell myself. Until I remember that it’s midterms week, and she arranged with John to work a lighter schedule this week. So, I won’t be seeing her at work again until Monday.

I wait all day for her to text back, then all day Thursday. By Friday morning, I finally give up and admit the truth to myself. She’s ghosting me.

I struggle through my day, striving for normalcy when my emotions are in turmoil. I’m a pendulum swinging from Self-flagellation to anger at Abby and back again. I need to pull myself together. My band is playing a show tonight, and I need to bring my A game. As the drummer, if I’m off beat, the whole vibe will be ruined.

Intent on not letting the situation with Abby drag me down, I get to the club early and spend the hour or so before I need to leave the show in deep meditation. And by meditation, I mean drinking beer and listening to the opening band’s set while trying to forget that Abby even exists.

Until she walks in the damn door. What the hell is she doing here? I polish off the last of my beer—my second beer actually—and bolstered by liquid courage, I march up to her where she sits alone at a table near the dance floor.

“So, you are alive.” My tone sounds way more accusatory than I intended it to, and she reels back as if I’ve slapped her.

Then she lowers her face and says, “I should have called.”

“Or at least texted,” I agree.

She nods. “Or that.”

“So, what happened to you?” I’m out of my comfort zone, challenging her like this. I’m not usually the type to make a big deal about… well… anything. But I’m too hurt right now to rein in my temper.

“I just needed some space. To clear my head.”

I laugh bitterly. “You never used to be the fuck ‘em and run type.”

“And what if I am?” She meets my gaze, and there’s anger in her eyes. Maybe it’s my imagination, but it almost seems like the anger is underpinned by… sadness? Hurt? I can’t tell exactly, but it cools my ire a little.

I take a softer approach. “What’s going on Abby?”

She opens her mouth to answer, but then darts a look around at all the other club goers in close proximity, close enough to hear everything we say. I didn’t even register that we had an audience until this moment, but I’m suddenly feeling the need for more privacy.

“Come on,” I motion for her to follow me and am a little surprised when she actually does. I take her through the door marked Employees Only next to the stage and lead her down a long hallway to the private lounge where the band usually hangs before our set.

Two cracked and faded black leather couches face each other across a black lacquer table that’s probably been here since the 90s. I motion for her to sit on one, and then I sit across from her.

I don’t press her for answers right away. Instead, I decide to let her speak when she’s ready. Judging from her scrunched eyebrows and the pained expression on her face, I’d say she has a lot on her mind right now. We both do.

“I’m sorry I left,” she finally says.

“Why’d you go?” I keep my voice soft. I feel like if I make any sudden moves or speak too loudly, Abby will spook and run.

She looks me dead in the eye and says exactly what I’ve been feeling since we first hooked up at the frat party. “It was too fast.”

“Since when do you care about taking it slow?” Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. What the fuck is wrong with me? I have no idea why I said that. I didn’t even mean it. Sure, Abby and I had slept together pretty early on in our relationship when we dated before, and she was definitely no virgin by any stretch of the imagination. But that had never bothered me. I’m not the type to care about who a person has had sex with or when. So why did I just insinuate that she’s loose now?

Because I’m a dumb ass, that’s why.

“Fuck you.” Abby starts to stand up from the couch.

I hold out a staying hand and say, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean it, or mean anything by it.”

She looks unconvinced, but she sits back on the couch.

I lean forward and set my elbows on my knees, steeple my fingers together in front of my chin. I’m buying time, trying to think of something to say. I come up with nothing.

“Look, Paul,” Abby begins after an almost unbearable length of silence. “Last night was great. You were great.”

There’s something she’s not saying. “But…?”

“But…” She looks away, avoiding my gaze as she prepares to drop a bomb on this conversation. “It brought up a lot of unresolved feelings for me.”

I nod. I can understand that. “For me, too,” I admit.

That seems to be the encouragement she needs to continue. “Our breakup was really hard. I’m not sure I could go through that again.”

Same. “So, are you saying we should just forget about what happened last night?” That’s not what I want at all.

She shakes her head and meets my gaze. I could almost swear there are tears glistening in the corners of her eyes. “I don’t think I can forget.”

It isn’t until my body sags with relief that I realize how tensely I’ve been holding myself, waiting for her response. I stand up and move around the coffee table so I can sit next to Abby on her couch. She eyes me like I’m a cobra about to strike but doesn’t move away. “So, what do we do?” I sotto whisper into the space between us.

“I don’t know.”

She bites her lip, and the action draws my attention to her plump lips. She’s not wearing lipstick or gloss or whatever women wear these days. Her mouth is a natural deep pink color, full and vibrant, and begging to be kissed.

I try to shake the thought away. Here we are agreeing that jumping into bed last night was a mistake and all I can think about is getting my mouth on hers again, wrapping my body around her again, sliding inside her again. Fuck.

Before I can move away, Abby closes the distance between us and presses her lips against mine. I freeze, wanting desperately to kiss her back, but knowing deep down that it won’t end there. I have no willpower where she is concerned. I could have my way with her a thousand times and still be as hungry for her as the first time.

With a groan, I give in to my base instincts and capture her face in my hands as I slide my tongue into her mouth. I don’t know who moves after that, me or her or both, but before I know it, she’s in my lap, straddling me, and I’m leaning back on the couch as far as possible so that I can grind myself against her.

She rolls her hips against me, and my eyes roll back in my head. I set my hands on her hips and slide them up under her shirt. She’s not wearing a bra, and I reach her bare breasts easily, cupping them. They’re heavy and full in my hands, and never have I been more grateful for a woman’s curves than I am in this moment.

Abby’s hands rove over me until she reaches my belt buckle. She undoes it in record time and pops the button on my jeans with the flick of her thumb. She doesn’t even bother to unzip my pants before sliding her hand inside the waistband of my boxer briefs. Then she’s holding me, squeezing me, stroking me. Leading me straight to my demise.

Unwilling to go alone, I let go of her breasts and slide one hand up her thigh, under her skirt. There’s nothing more than a scrap of flimsy lace where her panties should be, and I push it aside, delving my fingers between her folds. I find her clit with my thumb and begin the circular motion I know while bring her off quickly. We might have spent three years apart, but muscle memory is a very real thing. I got her off thousands of times while we were together, and my hands know exactly what to do now. Just like I did at the party the other night. Only this time, I’m all in, I’m not second guessing whether or not this is a bad idea—I already know it is—and I don’t care. All I want is Abby. Abby in my life, Abby in my bed. Abby coming apart in my hands.

And she does. In the next instant, she shatters in the most erotic display I think I’ve ever seen in my entire life. She breaks our kiss to throw her head back on a cry of pleasure. I don’t care that if anyone is out in the hall, they definitely heard it. The only thing I care about is watching her shudder and shake in my arms.

And then it’s too much. My own orgasm hits me almost by surprise. One minute, I’m rapt, watching Abby deep in the throes of ecstasy, and the next minute, that familiar tingle starts at the base of my cock and spreads like a tidal wave taking over my body. Helpless to stop myself, I thrust wildly into the air and shoot my load into Abby’s hand as her own orgasm subsides.

When I still and collapse against the cushion behind me, she climbs off me with an airy giggle. “Oops.”

Oops is right. “What are we doing, Abby?” I ask, watching as she looks around for something to clean her hand off with. She finds a stack of cocktail napkins on top of a shelf in the corner.

“I don’t know,” she answers in a serious tone. “But you touch me, and I lose all common sense.”

“I know the feeling.” Boy do I.