Beautiful Graves(71)

“And then I decided to go ahead and travel to San Francisco anyway.” Joe smiles grimly, staring at an invisible spot on the floor.

“You did?” My heart jumps to my throat.

He grabs the tequila bottle by the neck and walks inside. I follow him. His back is to me when he speaks. “I went there for two weeks. Loitered around places I thought I might bump into you. The Beat Museum, coffee shops, places you said you liked. I was desperate. My mother was worried for me. She wanted me to see a therapist.”

“Did you?”

He shakes his head as he shoves the tequila back into the cupboard. “There was no point. After San Francisco, I realized there was nothing I could do to win you back. I stopped writing. Started taking odd jobs. A year and a half later, Dom got an offer for a position in Salem and dragged me along. Said a change of scenery would do me good. And here we are.”

He turns to me, smiling humorlessly.

“Here we are,” I echo.

For a moment, we just drink each other in.

He snaps out of it first. “Time to hop into the shower, Stinky Face. I’ll get you a towel.”

Joe brushes past me on his way to the hallway. My hand reaches to grip his wrist. He stops. The air between us is charged. Buzzing with danger, desperation, and angst.

He shakes my hand off him. Gentle, but firm.

“No, thank you. I’m not going down in your history book as another reckless mistake.”

He’s making his way to what I presume is his bedroom when I snatch his hand again. In this moment, I’m so desperate for him I am not above begging.

“Come on,” I coax, feeling particularly destructive. The world is fucked, and unfair, and full of injustices. It is random, it is cruel, and it’s screwed us both over. Nothing matters anymore. Joe is not an author, and I’m not an artist, and Dom is not alive. All our dreams have gone up in flames, and there is nothing left to fight for.

Joe turns to me, looking annoyed. “What are you doing, Ever? I just told you how fucked I was after we broke up. Do I look like a game to you?”

He doesn’t. He looks like the boy I never stopped loving. That boy turned into a man, and I love him too. So I rise on my toes tentatively and press a soft, dry kiss on his lips.

His eyelids fall shut, and he lets out a sigh. “Don’t do this.”

“Don’t do what?”

“Don’t give me unwarranted hope.”

But hope is the only thing that’s keeping me from not taking the next breath. I rise again, this time kissing the tip of his chin.

Joe’s head drops to his chest. “Ever, please.”

I kiss his neck, running my hot tongue over his Adam’s apple.

“Fuck. Here we go,” he moans.

I know it’s wrong. I know it’s disastrous. Most of all, I know I’m going to regret it. And still, I kiss the spot where his neck meets his chest, scraping it with my teeth. Then I wait for a beat before rolling my tongue over that sliver of flesh and sucking it into my mouth, applying pressure.

“I—”

I cup him through his pants and feel his swollen, huge erection pulsating against my palm. Twitching. Daring me to squeeze. I look up at him and blink innocently. “You were saying?”

That’s when he lets go of whatever is left of his tattered self-control. He grabs the back of my hair and walks me backward until my back slams against the wall. He kisses me so hungrily I think he is going to tear a chunk off my face. We’re all teeth and tongues as we frantically push each other’s pants and underwear down in the hallway. We kick them aside. Neither of us makes a move to the bedroom. We both know how fragile this is. How easily one of us can pull away.

I reek, and my legs are unshaven. I know Joe doesn’t care. We’re naked from the waist down but still wearing our sweaters. His hand finds my center as I grip his cock. I start pumping while he plays with my juices. I am so wet I should be embarrassed, but I’m too drunk to care.

“Shit,” he hisses into my mouth, devouring me. “You’re so wet.” He drives two fingers into me, stretching me, preparing me.

I rub my thumb against the head of his penis, moving a pearl of precum over it. “Look who’s talking.”

“Ever?” He stops, pulling away from me as he looks into my eyes seriously.

“Yes?” I ask, panting.

“This is very important.”

“Okay.”

“Can I fuck you?”

“Yes,” I say, relieved. I grab his face and kiss him. “Yes, please. Please fuck me.”

He pins me against the wall and drives into me in one go. He is bare. He nails me against the wall, pounding into me like an animal. It is drunk. It is raw. And there are tears everywhere. We both cry silently as I hold on to him. His head is in the crook of my neck. There is nothing sexy about what we’re doing. We’re two broken people trying to be whole together, knowing it is doomed. That we’ll fail.

“Presley,” I pant, digging my fingernails into the flesh of his neck. “Are you still seeing her?”

He grunts, pushing deeper and harder into me. Shame floods me. My pleasure is so tangible I can taste it in my mouth. The dark tang of him. I’m about to come, and I know exactly what I’m doing.

Yes, I’m drunk. But not drunk enough to forget I’m fucking my dead fiancé’s baby brother while I still wear his ring on my finger.