Melanie Harlow

I was half drunk, totally frustrated, seriously angry, and I wanted to be alone so I could hate myself in peace. (And probably jerk off while I did it.)

I had a piece of him no one else had. I had a truth about him no one else knew. I had one of his secrets.
I wanted them all.
For the first time, I wanted to know every dark corner of someone’s mind. I wanted to taste every hidden place on his body. I wanted to stay with him.
I wanted not just more, but all.
Frankly, it was a little terrifying.

How was it possible, in a city of millions, to feel so achingly alone?

I was aware that he had chosen me not just over another man, but over himself.
I wanted to be worth it.

My heart was pounding. I couldn’t breathe. Maxim’s sweet, low voice in the dark was like a secret I wanted to keep forever.

“What will you do tonight?”
“Nothing much.” Think about you. Feel sorry for myself. Wallow.

“Stand up,” I said, sliding my lips down the warm, wet arc of his neck. “Let me.”
“Let you what?” His voice was low, a little playful.
Let me make your heart beat faster. Let me make you come. Let me make you feel so good you never want to leave me. Because I don’t want you to go, but I can’t ask you to stay. “Let me do what I want.”
He rose to his feet and tipped my chin up, forcing me to look at him. “I’m all yours.”

For a moment, we were still. Our eyes locked. I couldn’t breathe. He was everywhere inside me—everywhere. My mind, my heart, my body, my soul. I gave everything over to him. I was his, exactly the way I’d wanted to be, and it was perfect.

I loved the abandonment of everything but him—of right and wrong, of good and evil, of rules and religion.
Nothing mattered but us. No one existed but us. Time itself was irrelevant.

He wanted to feel worthy of being loved. I wanted to know what it would be like to be yours. To belong to you, he’d said.
Acceptance.
He wanted to be accepted. The trouble was, it wasn’t my acceptance he needed.
It was his own.