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And then he’d straightened up and looked away. “Okay, well. I guess I’ll see you there if you go, right?” And he’d turned and walked away, leaving me humiliated. What had I been thinking?
And now, was it just more of the same? I was moving over him, his cock filling me and sending me into a realm of ecstasy I’d never known existed...and as I gazed down into his face, I could see that he wasn’t even here. Not with me.
“Where are you?” I whispered.
The glorious dark eyes squeezed shut. “I’m sorry, Clara.”
I froze. What was happening?
“I just...” He tensed, and then I felt him relax, bowing his head so it rested against my chest. “Fuck,” he growled, his hands digging again into my hips as he began thrusting up into me, harder now. “Fuck,” he said again, sounding like he was in actual pain.
But I’d already tipped over the edge, and was spiraling back down the other side. Only, this time, I was alone there. It wasn’t the same fulfilling togetherness we’d had every other time. It was rote. Physical.
Sly was getting himself off, and I let him. And when he finished, I climbed off and pulled my shorts back on, feeling embarrassed now. Even a little bit used.
“Well,” I said, suddenly eager for him to go. To leave me alone to try to understand what had happened, how everything had changed so quickly.
“Yeah. Okay,” he said, standing. “I’ll see you later.”
He kissed my cheek then, and let himself out the patio door, heading across the dark lawn to his own yard. I watched as his dark shadow headed up the stairs to his apartment.
And then I went inside and cried.
CHAPTER22
SLY
I’M NOT DISAPPOINTED, JUST ANGRY
Ifinished the fence the next morning, beginning work at six-thirty and putting away my tools by noon. The neighbors probably didn’t appreciate it, but I didn’t find that I cared much. There was one neighbor I did care about, but she was the reason I needed to go. And then I packed my bags and left, giving my parents vague excuses about team obligations and hockey.
Those were the only ones they’d probably believe anyway. Or the only ones they wanted to hear.
I needed to get everything back the way it was before I’d come here, before I’d fallen in the trap of trying to relive high school but do it better this time. I was me. Why would I believe doing it as an adult would somehow create different results? I lived in a box created by my own talent for one single thing. And a smart man would get comfortable in there, and realize it was enough.
But that was my whole entire problem. I had a sinking feeling that now that I’d seen outside the box, what was inside it would never satisfy me.
* * *
I got back on the ice every morning with a few guys from the team, and hit the gym every afternoon. I kept my body tired enough that my mind didn’t try to take over.
Which made it pretty fucking hard to study.
I’d only signed on for school twice since I’d bumped into Jason in the restaurant, and my suspicions were confirmed. He’d told my entire cohort exactly who I was.
I got a B in Data Visualization and then emailed the administrator to let him know I was putting the rest of the program on pause. Who knew if I’d ever pick it up again? It’d been a stupid idea in the first place.
“Dude,” Mizzoni pulled me aside one morning, two weeks after I’d gotten home. “We’re having breakfast.”
I shook my head, focusing on tying my sneakers and not meeting his gaze. I’d been skating with the team, working with my teammates to get ready for the season. But I hadn’t really been here, and I knew it. “I ate.”
“I don’t care.” Mizzoni’s voice lowered to the threatening whirr of a saw’s blade. “You’re coming.”
I glanced up at him, and found the same look he gave Gillespie when the guy had accidentally broken one of Mizzoni’s pool chairs. It was dark and glowery, the kind of gaze I thought serial killers had probably perfected.
“Fine,” I said, not really wanting to go, but not wanting whatever weird confrontation Mizzoni was gearing up for either.
Twenty minutes later I sat across from him at the Toasted Toast, a poorly named breakfast joint slash karaoke bar near the arena. It was a far less painful destination for breakfast than it was for a drink, at least.
