Page 23 of Past Lives
“Do you ever get the feeling,” she starts, hesitant, “that we…?” She falters, unsure if she dares to voice it.
“Yes,” I say, and stroke a finger down her cheek. “Every minute since we met.”
She lets out a breath, relieved, as if I’ve unlocked some secret code between us. Then she slides her hips down, enveloping my cock in a slow, deliberate roll, her pussy wet and tight and hot as lava. She rises and falls, slow at first, eyes locked on mine, then faster, hungry. I match her rhythm, hands on her hips, letting her drive the tempo.
She leans forward, forearms planted on my chest, eyes fixed and unblinking. Her hair is damp, mouth parted in concentration. She is beautiful—savage, poised on the brink of catastrophe—and I want nothing more than to let her destroy me all over again.
“Don’t let go,” she whispers.
“Never,” I promise.
We move together, friction and heat ratcheting up until my hands slip with sweat. I lock one arm behind her back, anchoring us, the other in her hair, dragging her face to my lips. We kiss, wild and messy, teeth clinking, tongues wrestling for purchase. Her body tenses, thighs quivering, and she comes again, shuddering, her entire body clenching around me. I follow, erupting into her, the world going spare and white for a moment.
We collapse, spent, her cheek pressed to my collarbone, breaths slowing in tandem. Outside, the rain’s stopped. Sun pours through the window, gilding her skin like honey on ivory.
“Hungry?” I ask, stroking the length of her back.
“Starved,” she says. “For more than food.”
Chapter 16
Maya
The rain comesin horizontal sheets at the edge of the earth: Orkney in November. Was this place the inventor of weather, pitching it at the sea? I clutch my fleece-lined collar as the ferry heaves—a battered thing smelling of diesel and kelp. Spray and wind tangle my hair. Behind me stands Heath, his head bristling with wet, his glee the same as when we found that Invergordon bar with rugby fans and jam roly-poly.
He wraps his arms around me from behind. His hands are warm through my sleeves, his chest pressed to my back with a quiet rumble. I sigh, a thin sound the wind steals away. We look out at Longhope, its cluster of roofs washed pale yellow by sodium lamps. The water looks bruised, steel and violet, and broken by the black fin of a loon gliding over the surf. The hotel sits low on the far side of a spit, its windows glowing orange like old teeth. It looks menacing, like a horror-movie set: two Americans—one oversized, one oversharing—vanish at the end of the world. Cue the sad violin.
“We could turn back,” I say, but I know we won’t.
Heath squeezes me tighter, his beard scraping the cold rim of my ear. “Do you regret it?”
I know exactly what 'it' means. There are a thousand small things from the last two days. Letting him kiss me—I felt wanted and nervous. Letting him fuck me—I felt exposed and exhilarated. Letting him see the parts I usually keep hidden, even from Blair—I felt both terrified and relieved. I think about lying. Then I remember the electricity that still sparks, wild and hungry, behind my knees.
“I regret that I wore bad shoes today,” I say, “and that I didn’t pack an umbrella. Everything else is negotiable.”
He kisses my head, a single deliberate press like a stamp. “I can carry you to shore,” he says. “You know I can.”
We both know I’ll let him, which is the worst thing.
There’s no lobby, only a mudroom heavy with cedar and lavender. Then, a hallway lined with maritime paintings in gilded frames. The receptionist, distinguished in a tailored suit, greets us with the practiced warmth of someone used to royalty. He says something in a lilting accent and hands us an antique brass key along with an elegantly folded map—the hotel’s signature welcome.
We climb two flights of a sweeping staircase. The wide hallway and plush carpet soften our steps. Our suite waits at the end, its windows framing the sea. The room is refined: a four-poster bed with crisp linens, a marble fireplace glowing, and crystal lamps casting warm light. Champagne chills next to chocolate-dipped strawberries.
"Well," Heath says, as I slip off my jacket. "This is exactly what I hoped for."
“It’s perfect.”
He kneels in front of the old fireplace and strikes a match, its light bright against the growing darkness. I stand behind him, watching the kindling catch and the flames reach for the bigger logs. He looks over his shoulder at me, then stands up slowly.
"Let me help with those," he says, nodding at my muddy boots.
He kneels, unties my boots carefully, and sets them by the fire. I let my feet dangle in my socks as the warmth comes back. He rubs my arches, bringing them back to life. His hands smell like sandalwood, espresso, and aftershave.
He stays there, looking up at me, hands clasped between his knees, mouth tight like he’s about to apologize again for something that happened so long ago it barely matters now. My heart beats faster as I wait, torn between wanting closure and fearing what he might say.
Instead, he says: "I know this wasn't your plan."
My plan was to see standing stones, try rare cheese, and check off every item in my worn Rick Steves’ Scotland guide. It did not include a man. Especially not this one, with haunted eyes and a way of undoing me in just a few words.
