Page 87 of Kismet

“You want to fuckingtalk?” He says the word like it’s poison dripping from his tongue. “Fuck you, Stone! Fuck you for being a goddamn coward. Fuck you for making me fall for you all those fucking years ago, when you never had any intention of sticking around. And fuck you for leaving without so much as a goodbye. I fucking hate you so much. I hope you’re fucking happy with yourself. Proud you had the ability to hurt me as much as you did. You’ll never get that chance again. Fuck y—”

I don’t think, just act. My body crowds him, slamming his back against the elevator wall as my lips crash down on his in a whirl of mixed emotions and what could’ve been. His body freezes for a moment before his hands fly up, fisting the lapels of my jacket, and hauling me to the other side of the elevator. My back hits with a hardthud, the breath knocked right out of me, as a growl tears from his lips.

His mouth descends on mine, and as his tongue thrusts into my mouth, I can feel the years of hurt, anger, and confusion poured into this kiss. His tongue strokes over mine and I shudder against him. My body finally catches up to what’s happening, and my hands fly up to cup the back of his head, holding him close as I too pour years of emotion into this moment.

Years of torturous yearning and longing.

Years of needing him but not knowing how to get back to him.

Years of replaying each and every moment we spent together. Every touch, every word shared, and knowing I will probably never have that again. I’ll probably never know what it feels like to have him underneath me, writhing and moaning in ecstasy again. Never get to live out the dream of our future—the dream that kept me going for so long. The dream that helped open my eyes.

The elevator dings, and as the doors glide open, he jumps back from me. His fingers come up to his glistening, swollen lips, his brows scrunch together, and as he shakes his head, he storms out of the elevator.

I follow after him, surprised to see him not going toward the exit, but instead, an empty room. The lights are off, but the moonlight outside is shining through the large windows, illuminating his silhouette. His shoulders are heaving, and his head is hung low. Even with his back to me, I can feel the internal turmoil pouring out of him.

With the door shut, I rest my back against it, not saying anything. Whatever’s going through his head, whatever’s going to happen… it has to come from him. I don’t know how long we stay there like that—his back to me, neither of us saying a word—but he eventually turns to face me, agony written clear as day on his face.

“I hate you for what you did to me.” His voice is rough, gravelly.

I tip my head, my heart in my throat. “I know.”

“I shouldn’t still want you as much as I do.” He takes one single step toward me.

“I shouldn’t think about you day in and day fucking out.” Another step that halts my breathing.

“My body shouldn’t be able to sense your presence.” Another step.

“I shouldn’t crave your touch, or fantasize about your taste, or even miss your gaze on my body.” With one final step, he’s directly in front of me. So close, I can taste the champagne he’s been drinking as his breath fans my face.

My head’s light as my heart beats wildly in my chest. I’m holding on to his every word, desperate to hear what comes next.

When he speaks again, it’s barely above a whisper, almost like if he says it quietly enough, it won’t be true. “But I do.God,I fucking do.”

He plants his hands on the door beside my head. His gaze falls from my eyes down to my mouth. On instinct, my tongue swipes across my lips, wetting them. When he peers back up into my eyes, his are full of unbridled hunger. Hunger he clearly doesn’t want to have.

“What is it about you that I just can’t get over? Why do I feel this overwhelming, undeniable pull toward you?” I’m not even sure if he’s talking to me, or to himself, but I reply anyway.

“I don’t know, but I feel it too.”

His eyes close and he hangs his head between his shoulders, hands still on either side of my head. I wish I knew what was going through his mind.

“Goddamnit, Stone,” he growls, his palm slapping the wall. He lifts his head, studying me for a single moment before his resolve snaps. His lips crash against mine like a chaotic tornado—rough, unpredictable, and all-consuming. The fervor behind his kiss would knock me off my feet if I wasn’t backed up against this wall.

His tongue dives between my lips, licking every corner of my mouth as his right hand drops to my neck, holding me in place with his grip. His lips on mine, and his tongue inside my mouth, it’s nostalgic.

Kissing him is like coming home after too long. It’s the feeling of sleeping in your bed for the first time after being exhausted and worn down. It’s when it rains for weeks at a time, then you go outside, and that first ray of sunshine hits your face, and you feel warmth deep in your bones.

He’s sunshine after a storm.

As quickly as it started, though, it’s over. He rips his body from mine with a snarl and storms out of the room, and this time, I don’t follow him. I have no right to. Because as great as the sunshine feels, it never lasts. The rain always comes back, washing away the remnants of the warmth.

I allow my back to slide down the wall until my ass hits the cold, hard floor. Dragging my knees up, I rest my forearms on them as my head hangs. My mind drifts back to that night five years ago that put me in this mess to begin with. The one I try to avoid thinking about. The night everything changed.

“Stone, please!” Aida’s voice is shrill and full of pleading.

“Aida, we’ve talked about this.” I pinch the bridge of my nose between my thumb and index finger. “In great detail. We aren’t working anymore, and we haven’t for many, many years. There’s no saving us—you agreed—so, I don’t know where this is coming from.”

She downs the rest of her wine, pouring another glass. I can’t tell if she’s this worked up because she’s drunk, or if she’s drinking because she’s this worked up, but either way, it’s not good. Nothing good ever comes from drunken arguments, even if one of us is sober. It’s like talking to a brick wall—a loud, stubborn brick wall. Her emotions have been all over the place lately. First, she agrees that we should get a divorce, next she’s heartbroken and inconsolable, then she’s angry and raging. She’s been drinking more and more, and I never know which version of her I’m going to come home to.

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