What am I doing?
My body moved on its own, and I can feel Grant stiffening beneath my hands, his hands on my shoulders as though he isn’t sure whether or not to push me away. Pull away, my mind screams at me. I’ve already ruined things enough. I shouldn’t make this any worse than it already is.
I really hate myself right at this moment.
Touching Grant gives me such a thrill. It shouldn’t, because I left him, I kept his son from him, I did everything in my power to stay away from him. I have no right to touch him.
But it’s addictive.
Not once, in these three years, have I forgotten the feeling of Grant’s hands on me. His face was always in my mind. My mother once asked me, when I told her this, if I regretted leaving Grant the way I did.
I lied and told her I’ve never regretted it. She never asked me again, and I think she knows I wasn’t being truthful. But I didn’t want to regret it. If I regretted leaving Grant, all it would do was bring me pain. So I threw him out of my mind and focused on raising Owen.
Owen, who Grant now knows about. I remember the look in his eyes when he realized the full truth, and something in me withers at the pain that had been etched onto his face. I know, in my more honest moments, that I had no right to keep Grant from his son.
But I had been scared and alone. Part of me had grown paranoid about what Grant was doing, or how he would react if I let on that I knew his secret. Was he a criminal? Was I safe with him? So I ran, and then Owen was all I have left of Grant. So I clung to him; I couldn’t lose him, not even to his father.
I can still hear Grant asking me why. I’m not going to answer that. I can’t answer that. If I bring up all those thoughts and feelings again, I might just try and flee once more. This time, now that Grant knows about his son, it would be unforgivable.
But aren’t I fleeing, anyway? What I’m doing now... I’m just trying to avoid answering any of the hard questions. I’m desperately trying to pretend that nothing changed between us.
But everything did.
Suddenly, Grant pulls back. His breath is ragged and his eyes are wild. I can see the effect I’ve had on him, and I hate myself just a little more, because I know that it’s only his body that wants this.
“We…” He’s struggling to get out the words. “We need to stop. We can’t do this.”
I let out a choked laugh and bend my head forward so that my forehead touches his shoulder. My body is already trembling with need, in the same way his is. I know he’s right.
“I’ll step away if you can,” I say.
His breath catches. He can’t, not any more than I can. God, I’m a terrible person. But I can’t help but wind my arms around his neck and kiss him once more. This time, his lips move against mine, and I can feel his fierce anger and hate for this situation. It makes me want to cry.
“Stop.” The voice is weak. I’m not going to obey it.
I lay a palm on his chest and push Grant back, separating us once more. His ankles hit the couch behind him and he sits before he falls over.
“Shit,” I say. I reach out and my hands cup his cheeks gently. “Why is it so hard to forget you?”
He laughs. It’s a hollow sound that makes me cringe.
“Fuck if I know,” he tells me. “I’ve been asking myself that for years.”
I flinch, not wanting to hear about how the last few years have gone for him. I don’t want to know that he spent the last three years thinking about me, unable to stop wondering where I was and what I was doing while I was out here, raising his son and keeping it a secret from him.
For a moment, reason catches up and I almost pull back, caught in the realization that this is not something that should be happening when we’re both so bitter about how our relationship ended. His hands are on her hips, and my arms tighten, prepared to push him away.
Then my fingers relax and the moment is lost. His eyes blaze as I lean in, my breath hot and heavy against his lips. He shudders, pain and
desire warring in his eyes, but he leans back toward me.
“Fuck you,” he says quietly.
An apology gurgles on my lips again. But what’s the point? He doesn’t want to hear it. I don’t deserve to say it or be forgiven for what I’ve done. So I’ll just keep touching him so that none of it matters.
My fingers find the buttons on his shirt and begin undoing them, my skin brushing his chest every now and then. I’m moving quickly, impatient to get the shirt off, as though I’m scared to slow down and face the consequences of what we’re doing. When I slide it off, over his shoulders, I throw it somewhere. I run my hands over his smooth chest, tracing the outline of his muscles and stomach. He wraps his arms around me and pulls me in closer, Grant’s legs falling open so I can step in between them. Just like me, he’s surrendered to the inevitable.
“Fuck, keep touching me,” I groan.