Exhausted by the weight of my thoughts and feelings, I toe off my heels and head straight to the bedroom. "My love!" I gasp as a dark figure surges toward me. His crushing embrace makes my heartbeat thunder in my chest, matching the rapid pounding of his. A heady aroma of earthy tones and sweet, smoky notes of aged whiskey blends with the woodsy, spicy amber of his cologne, a scent that brings back memories of our countless impassioned encounters at the club. It envelops me as his lips descend upon mine with heated urgency.
In an instant, he wipes away all my thoughts as we tumble onto the bed. I struggle to breathe as his arms constrict around me, his fingers digging in as if he can somehow hold me closer even though I'm flash against him. His breathing is erratic and shallow as his hands gather my wrists and pin them above my head. His lips crash against my skin, frantic and hungry, pressing feverishly onto every bare inch they find, from my face down to my chest.
"Where were you?" His voice trembles, a raw mix of growl and plea, whispered against my ear.
Before I can reply, his hands wrench my legs apart, shoving up my dress, and he takes my breath away as he swiftly enters me. I gasp and clutch at the sheets. He moves with raw, unrestrained intensity, each thrust deep and deliberate, his breaths ragged and uneven. Low groans rumble from his throat, building into guttural moans that fill the room. I press my lips into a thin line so no sound escapes—I want to hear him.
"Hnn—ah—hah… fuck—ahhh—ngh–"
His voice is hoarse, growling out gasps of pleasure and unfiltered need, as if he's completely lost in the primal rhythm of his body, unashamed of the sounds tearing from him with every movement. His arms get under my shoulders gripping my shoulders. He moves with a kind of hysterical affection, as if trying to hold on to something slipping away. Each movement feels like a question he's too afraid to ask, and I answer with my body, giving him what words can't. His body presses closer, gripping me as though I'm the only thing anchoring him, his breaths harsh and labored against my cheek and nape. His desperation building with every second, consuming him completely.
For the first time, I resist my body while we have sex. I block out the heat of his still-knotted tie, tucked under his vest, brushing my chest and the friction of his slacks dragging against the insides of my legs with every quick, rhythmic motion. I ignore the heaviness and heat of his bulky body. I close my eyes and press my lips tightly shut against the insistent pleasure radiating from our connection. Instead, I listen to him, feel his emotions, and lean into him by disconnecting from my body.
His desperation is intoxicating, even as a voice in the back of my mind warns me: this isn't love—it's fear. But I silence that voice, letting his need for me fill the spaces where my doubts linger. I've never felt him like this. He's never been this loud, this starving for me.
"Ah—ngh—hah... shit... ahh—fuu—hah!" He explodes inside me, his desperation erupts in a release that fills me with a fleeting warmth, momentarily soothing a sadness buried in the corner of my mind—the constant reminder of our inevitable ending. Then he collapses, his bulky body pressing down as his ragged gasps tickle my neck.
Eyes wide open, I try to push him off, but his arms push under and hugs me. "No," he pleads, determined to stay attached to me.
I struggle to breathe within the confines of his unyielding embrace, wildly gasping for air. "You're–heavy."
Immediately, he props himself up, still maintaining our intimate connection. "I'm sorry..."
The red lighting along our bedroom walls switches on, filling the room with a soft, romantic glow, perfectly timed. His handsome, angular face with those sultry eyes becomes visible.
I caress his cheek. "My love, what's—"
He cradles my face with one hand. "I searched for you everywhere at the club." His voice cracks, unsteady, as if he's holding back tears, his watery eyes gazing down at me. It's the same expression he wore when he stood frozen in the middle of the street before the accident.
I've always loved his drunken state. He's at his most vulnerable like this. "I'm here, my love."
"Tell me you love me," he implores in a soft, begging tone I've never heard from him before.
"I love you," I proclaim with unwavering conviction.
"Say it again," his voice quivers.
Stroking his cheek, I look into his eyes and declare, "I love you. I love you."
"Promise me you'll always love me," he pleads.
I wonder why it feels like he's begging for my love when I've already given it to him. "I'll always love you," I reassure him.
His thumb brushes my cheek. "I couldn't find you at the club... When I got home, I looked everywhere—I don't know what I'd do if you—" His words trail off as he gags, suddenly disentangles himself from me, leans over the bedside, vomiting uncontrollably. I pat his back, waiting patiently for him to finish.
As he experiences another release, a realization sinks in: he likes the way I love him. So much so that he wants it forever. That's good, right? Doesn't that mean we'll last a bit longer?
Once he's done, he slumps onto the bed, panting with exhaustion, his eyes closed. I go to the bathroom and come back with a warm, damp towel. I wipe his mouth and neck as he lies there, motionless. Carefully, I remove his tie, undress him, and start tidying up. As his breathing gradually steadies, I sense him succumbing to a deep slumber.
While cleaning the marble floor, I admire his peaceful sleeping face. A new layer of sadness forms, creating a tiny crack in my heart. I let the tears fall. Loving him is heartbreaking. What an odd interesting feeling. He enjoys the love I give him but doesn't return it. Wasn't it always this way between us? Still, at least I get to be with him for now—until someone else comes along and does a better job. She'll give him the security and the kind of love he wants and needs. The kind he's familiar with. I should be happy that he doesn't love me.
Was this how Roberto felt toward the end? Was his heart breaking too, knowing he'd have to leave me? I guess it didn't break enough for him to stay—or to take me with him. I'm not sure what hurts more: the undeniable truth that Roberto loved me until the end, leaving no room for doubt, or the undeniable truth now of how much I love Mr. Silence. Roberto loved me enough to believe he had to leave to protect me, just as I love Mr. Silence enough to know that I'll have to stay.
Finishing the cleanup, I wipe my tears. For now, we'll share beautiful memories, and I'll be his distraction. Isn't that what he always tells me? "Don't distract me." Maybe with enough memories, it'll hurt less when we finally end.
Memories. Weren't there a lot with Roberto toward the end? A lot had faded with every tear I shed. I should stop crying.
Warmth blossoms within me, and a surge of happiness sweeps through my being as I recall the tremor in his voice and his heartfelt plea. I got to see another side of him tonight. In that moment, my friends' opinions fade into insignificance. All that matters is enjoying being with him. Setting the alarm, I get naked, crawl under the blanket, and onto his warm body.
The next morning his phone rings incessantly, with Jason's name repeatedly appearing on the screen even before my alarm goes off. Resolute in allowing him to rest, I smile and continue to add the final touches of carrots to the freshly made chicken soup. As Jason's name surfaces once more on the phone, I decide to send him a message. Once Jason grasps the situation, he stops calling.
Soon after, Mr. Silence emerges in the kitchen, rubbing his eyes and looking like a sculpted Greek god in his naked state. Sitting at the kitchen table, he cradles his head in his left hand, eyes closed.
I set a tall glass of warm water before him and place the steaming bowl of chicken soup beside it. "Drink and eat this. It'll make you feel better, my love." Standing closer, I press his head against me, soothingly massaging his forehead and scalp.
"How drunk was I?" He furrows his brows before relaxing into my massage, eyes still closed.
"What do you remember?" The part my memory emphasizes are the happy ones.
"Nothing after those men left. How did I get home?" He stares up at me, curiosity evident in his eyes. Letting out an amused laugh, my eyes motion toward the water. He downs the water and starts to drink the soup. My hands massage his shoulders.
"What time is it?" he asks between sips.
"You're definitely late for something. Jason's been calling."
He gulps down the soup, popping a generous piece of chicken into his mouth as he rises from his seat. I help him get dressed. He gives me a peck and rushes away but stops. "I didn't do... or say anything..." He frowns.
I grin and brush my lips against his. "You told me you missed me," I say. He lets out a sigh of relief before he bestows a loving smile on me, cupping my cheek with his left hand while dabbing his lips on my other cheek before departing. Happiness overtakes me as the birds sing under the morning sun.