Amour Amour (Aerial Ethereal #1)(80)

Act Thirty



I lost.

I can handle my liquor now. But I still can’t beat him. My arms gave out, and I had to drop. I picked a piercing. He picked my other nipple.

Thankfully, though, he buttoned his black shirt on me before doing anything. I could tell it wasn’t just for my benefit. He didn’t want any of them to see my boobs as much as I didn’t want them to be seen.

The Red Death shuts off the sprinklers about ten minutes before we head out, his hand on the small of my back, weaving through dancers.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay longer?” I ask him, my boob throbbing. He only did the bet with me. “I can wait at the bar—”

“I’m positive.” He wraps his arm around my shoulders, as though to say I just want to be with you. I inhale a heady breath, his soaked button-down suctioning to parts of my body. I shiver, and we’re not even out in the cold yet.

The red strobe lights stroke us, and as we near a staircase to the VIP area, I spot John. And Timo. I zero in on them, and my mouth instantly drops. John has Timo pressed against the wall, their lips touching, their tongues—it’s a make-out session that brings the heat back to this club. No parting, eyes closed, like no one is watching. Timo clutches John’s hair, their bodies welded together. And John drives the kiss deeper, more skilled than he lets on. They fit perfectly: their heights, their builds. On equal territory and footing.

Nikolai abruptly stops, causing me to stumble back into his chest. He places his hands on my shoulders, steadying me, and I follow his gaze back to his brother. Nikolai wavers uncertainly behind me.

If he could, he’d accompany his brother through every minor and major wreck of his life. But he can’t. Timo will fall whether or not Nikolai is there. But he has so many people that’ll help him stand back up if he struggles. That’s what matters.

“He’s okay,” I tell Nik. If what John says is right—about Timo being promiscuous—then it’s probably better that he’s with John. And if Nikolai tries to split them apart right now, Timo will just run to someone else—someone not worthy of his attention.

Nikolai stays quiet, contemplating the situation. Whether or not he should intervene. “The hardest part is not knowing,” he says lowly to me. I think I understand.

There are moments that do not belong to us.

Lives that we can only see fragments of, and as painful as it is to say goodbye to the whole picture, we’re not supposed to have it anymore.

I imagine, for my parents, it was harder on them when I left for college. But it must’ve been so much worse when I moved across the country. It hurts them more than me. Just as this hurts Nikolai more than Timo.

“Can you imagine that wherever he is, he’s happy?” I ask Nikolai.

He nods a few times. “I’m going to try. I have to try,” he realizes. After another moment, he leads me away from them, through the club, towards the exit.

And he lets his brother go.





Act Thirty-One



“Who is she?” I ask aloud, surprising myself. I snap off the green necklace, my bare feet cold on the bathroom tiles. He runs the tub while I tremble from the sopping button-down and chilled air.

“Who are we talking about?” He unbuttons his slacks, distracting me as he steps out of them. Wearing only charcoal gray boxer-briefs.

I train my eyes on his tattoo, the inked lines along the inside of his bicep that create trees. It distracts me from his cock.

I open my mouth to say your ex-girlfriend. But the words stick. And I end up waving the green glow necklace in response.

He nears me and I back up into the sink counter, aware of my littleness to his largeness. It’s not just the fact that he’s taller than me. It’s his broad build, his muscular frame. If he was Timo’s size—lean, less muscle mass, a bit wiry—I would feel like we went together better.

But I’m very attracted to this, right here. In front of me. My speeding pulse, the tingles that prick along my arms, down my legs—it tells me so.

He begins to unbutton his shirt that’s on my body. He’s already examined my movements, reading me. “It’s in the past,” he says, realizing what I’m speaking of.

The gush of hot water, filling the tub, cuts through some of the silence. I press my palms flat on his hard chest. “But you know my past.”

He consumes me with those grays eyes. “I’m older than you, myshka.”

I believe it. I see it. But I don’t want that to matter, on any account. “And…?”

“And I have five years of history on you. I’m not discounting your own experiences. I know for a fact that your first couple of times in bed left a mark on you.” He lifts my chin, so that my eyes rise off the bathroom tiles. He is full of warmth. And light. “There’s just more in my past.”

“More,” I whisper. What more? I ask through my soft eyes.

His chest rises and falls.

We’re quiet for a moment, and I watch him unbutton the last of my shirt. He takes a couple steps back from me, my spine digging into the sink’s lip.

Standing still, my black shirt is partially open, revealing the sides of my breasts and my wet orange panties. He has trouble focusing on my face and not my body, his concentration on more pleasurable things than this talk.