Climbing out of the shower, I grab a thick black towel from a pile beside the sink, and sling it around my hips. A swipe through the steam on the mirror reveals a flushed, strange monster of a man, my dark circles plumped away but the angles of my cheekbones still high and mighty. Stubble peppers the line of my jaw. Maybe I should smile? Ah. Much better.
Ha, as Leo would say.
Back in her bedroom, I rub my aching body with the towel and pull on a pair of track pants. Pat my hair down, run my fingers through it. I'm about to pack my clothes away but then decide I like the idea of my things in her space, smothering little pieces of it. Combined with the intimacy of being barefoot on her carpet, it all makes me feel heavier. Like I could pack more of a punch.
On the way to the kitchen, I spy her older phone on the hall table and swipe it up. Of course it requires a passcode; I'll get it out of her later. Time to eat.
Leo keeps a box of eggs near her stove, so I fix myself an omelette in her battered orange pan. While going through her refrigerator for ingredients, I notice that the chocolates are now stored on the top shelf beside a bottle of good champagne. Isn't that interesting? A quick check inside the box tells me she hasn't eaten any, and then I have to leap back to the stove before my eggs burn, but still. The idea that she decided to preserve them, to put them away for best...I like that. Very much.
Leo isn't due home for a half hour at least, so I make myself comfortable on her couch while I eat. Flick through the cable channels, check my networks. NN24 is running an update report on the next JFK bombing breakthrough. Truth Daily, which is aimed at older viewers, is running a debate on next year's election. Both channels play all day in my office, fading into the background on mute; I almost never put them on at home. Viewing them in this setting is mildly unsettling and I put that down to the anticipation churning in my stomach, despite the eggs. Here I am in Leo's apartment, watching the networks that were probably her first taste of my empire. There's a symmetry there that begs to be explored.
Ah, so much to explore this evening.
The possibilities draw closer as the sun sinks lower through her barred window. It hits the horizon not long before eight, cupping the room in its dissolving hands and spurting burnt orange across the walls. When I finally hear Leo's key in the door, I'm watching a football game which I quickly flick off.
And then I wait.
Heels on her floorboards, first eager but slowing the second she sets foot in the hall. No alarm blares, though I haven't put lights on yet. She'll be antsy. She'll know. Silence soaks through my limbs, prickles along the back of my neck.
More sounds: her bag hitting the floor with a little thud. Keys jangling when they hit the table. Footsteps again, unsure.
"Aeron...?" she calls out in a cracked voice.
Ah, ah. The way she says my name in that accent: Air-un.
She inhales deeply. "A-are you here?"
For another few seconds, I let her simmer alone there in the hallway, let her wonder if she calls to me purely through wishful thinking, rather than logic or fear. Then, when I hear her step to search the bedroom, I spring to my feet and stalk out into the shadows to greet her.
There are no words in my mouth, or my head, or my...other places. Just a crimson sheen to my line of vision, melting sun, fragile girl. When she turns in her bedroom, breath catching in her throat, I pause in the doorway and allow her to just drink in the sight of me. She's only ever seen me clothed, yet here I am, half naked. Bared. I lean on the door frame, a casual smile pulling at my lips.
Leo looks dishevelled, as if her journey home was hard. Wisps of hair fall from her French braid to frame her face; the asphalt eye makeup she favours is feathered out further than usual. As I look her up and down, she stands rigid, clutching the bed frame behind her, and I notice then that though her heels are still on, her legs are bare. Where have those beautiful stockings gone?
"I didn't invite you in," she manages finally.
I say nothing. I'd rather watch her struggle to understand the situation we find ourselves in, let her tie a noose of frayed thread as she feels around for words.
"I told you no, Aeron." Her voice is quiet, pleading. "I said I couldn't."
I bite my lip in response.
"I'd like you to leave. Please. I won't tell, I just...please leave."
"You didn't change your locks," I say.
She drops her gaze.
At that act of defiance, I step closer. Can't help it—her refusal sucks me in, practically goads me to test it. "Or your alarm code. You didn't change that. Did you bring home your third gift?"
"I couldn't leave that at work," she says feebly.
"Of course not."
"Because if somebody found it—even in the bin, I—"
"No gun this time, either. Honestly, sweetheart. It's like you've just given up." Three more steps and I'm right in front of her. Peering down. I don't know whether I can smell her...or me. "You're home later than usual."
She bleats out a sardonic laugh. "Because you know when I get home, hmm?"
"I know a lot of things about you." I reach up to smooth the hair from her face. Such a small act, but every time I find myself close to her, I'm drawn to do it—like I'm putting the finishing touches to a masterpiece, cheesy as fuck as that sounds. "But there are some things...I need to experience them for myself."
"I said no, I said—"
"Leo." I cup her chin, tip her gaze to meet mine. Her eyes are glassy with tears. "I just want a kiss. You can do that for me, can't you?" I tease my thumb along her lower lip. "Just a kiss."
She nods. Says nothing.
I dip my forehead and press it to hers. Breathe with her. Run my free hand along the back of her neck, tug her braid lightly, stroke her nape. I can't remember the last time I petted a kitten but I'm guessing it's a lot like this.
"I won't do anything else," I murmur against her mouth. "I just want to taste you. For you to taste me. Haven't you ever thought about what that would be like?"
She gives a slight nod, her nose brushing mine. "Sometimes."
"Mmm."
I make her wait a few seconds longer. I love the feel of her breasts rising and falling; they rub along my forearm every time, just near the elbow, and her nipples get harder with each sweep. When I can't stand the snare of my own heartbeat any longer, I plant the softest of kisses at the edge of her upper lip. Oh, she trembles. It's gorgeous. Another and another—just vague suggestions of kisses, each barely landing, until she snaps and whimpers and lurches up on her toes, opening her mouth in time to fully catch mine.
Leo moans; I curse; both sounds are lost somewhere in our mash of lips and tongue. She goes limp against the bed frame, and I drop my hand from her chin to scoop her up at the waist. Her arms come up—half defence, half desperation—and she drags crooked fingers along my shoulders, ushering fresh blood to the muscles that have ached for this for so long.
The taste of her...Jesus. Her lips are sweet, as if she had soda or candy not long ago, and her breath is tart, like the soda was laced with liquor. Sounds spill from the apex of our kiss: muffled yelps as I nip at her, low grunts I can't help but loose when her tongue rubs over mine.
It's not even a kiss anymore. It's jumping off a building. It's a coke binge. A single slash to the throat. Kissing Leo is like perpetual suicide; I die in her mouth over and over, my hips smacking into hers with all the force of the fall.
When I pull away, her lips are swollen and pink, the skin around her mouth rubbed sore from my stubble. Too busy just looking at her, I loosen my hold on her braid. She hunches forward and hides her face in my shoulder; there, she takes slow breaths and murmurs to herself, trying to come back from an edge she didn't know was there.
"I didn't think it would be like that," she whispers.
"It never has been," I tell her, my voice hoarse. "It never is."
It's starting. That feeling I've missed, the one that has deserted me for so long, the one that first whispered Leo could give me all I wanted; it boils at the base of my spine. Once it grips me, there's no resistance. No return. And if it woke for the most chaste of kisses, God help her when I do anything else.
I pull her braid again to lift her mouth, to take kisses she hasn't offered yet but gives up regardless. Only a little force, to begin with. I need her pliable enough to be stripped and tied, and then...then I indulge myself. It takes all the willpower I possess to keep from throwing her down, from squeezing the flesh of her thighs through my fingers like bread dough...because God, sweetheart. I've waited.
For a while, I gave up wanting Leo to trust me. Seemed pointless. Now I need just a few seconds of it, to be let in, acquiesced to. Then I'll go full throttle and claim her like the fucking virus I am.