Infini (Aerial Ethereal #2)(38)

I’m motionless.

There he is.

Cotton towel tied low around his waist, his sculpted, partially naked body is in my direct view. He doesn’t notice me yet.

I slowly skim him from head-to-toe. My lips part in heady desire that heats my skin more than the steam. I haven’t felt this ache since we split up. I take a shallow breath, and I actually clench between my legs. Pulsating some.

I can’t close my lips together. The instant arousal stuns me, but more than that, I’m hypnotized. By him. Beads of water roll down the ridges of his abs, his biceps cut without flexing.

His right leg is inked fully, more tattoos than I remember. And the muscles along his waist create a V-shape, pointing towards his package that’s hidden behind a thin towel.

I can confidently say that he’s not only attractive but that I’m extremely attracted to him. That hasn’t changed. In fact, it feels stronger.

Just before I call out his name, Luka turns his head.

He catches my gaze, and he solidifies, his brows furrowing. His eyes flit to the envelope.

I say, “Can I…” talk to you about non-work things? I don’t have to finish because he already nears me.

Pushing his wet hair out of his face, he nods to the envelope. “That’s yours, Bay.”

Bay. It’s like no time has passed, but then it’s like forever spans between us. Look at his body. It’s changed. He’s clearly physically different.

I’m different.

We’ve been separated for years.

I fight the emotion that tries to surge again, and I swallow hard. “It’s yours.” I hold the envelope out. “You know I can’t accept it.”

Predictably, Luka raises his hands. “I’m not taking it back.”

“Yeah you are,” I whisper since his group of cousins have quieted by the wall. “I’m returning it.”

Luka crosses his arms, further proving that he won’t reclaim the envelope.

For some reason, my lips start pulling upwards. “Stop.”

He begins to smile off mine, and he nods at me again. “Stop what?”

“Stop being stubborn or I’ll just throw this at your feet.”

Luka stares intensely at me. Into me. Lightness, happiness floods my soul so abruptly, so quickly that I become overwhelmed.

I breathe, “Luka.”

Love me.

His chest rises in a deep inhale, and then he reaches out and takes the envelope. During the exchange, his fingers stroke my hand, lovingly. Affectionately.

My neck warms, and much further down—I’m wet.

I know I’m wet.

Suddenly Matvei rips the towel off Luka’s waist and snaps it against his toned ass. Buck-naked.

My eyes grow, mouth slowly dropping, and Luka, hardly surprised, flips off his snickering cousins with one hand and uses his other to barely shield his dick.

Luka catches me staring, and he laughs into a wide smile.

It’s infectious, and my lips begin stretching again. We’re allowed to chat. Professionally, but that word could be expanded to other topics. If I take the risk.

So I say, “Nice tattoos.” His ink only reached his knee before, but now the new designs rise all the way up his right thigh.

It’s incredibly hot.

“That’s what you were staring at?” he teases.

I’d shove his arm if I could touch him. In the past, he’d probably pull me into his chest right after and squeeze me in the tightest, warmest hug.

Tension keeps us apart. “Mmhmm,” I say, not able to play into his words as much as I want to.

His smile vanishes, and he nods understandingly. We’re both frowning now, and it hurts. God, it hurts so badly.

I start walking backwards to the exit, and I say, “I’ll see you around…co-worker.”

His eyes smile more than his lips. “See you, Bay.”

We can do this.

I hope.





Act Thirteen Baylee Wright

54 Days to Infini’s Premiere

I finally have a use for my floral-patterned, blank journal, a well-meaning 19th birthday present from my grandparents. Maybe they figured I’d take after my dad, but I couldn’t think of anything to write until now.

I make a list.

And I write slowly like the ink is made of my blood and these words are oath. Shedding my feelings on paper kind of feels that permanent.

“How’s the dating going?” my aunt asks via video chat. My laptop is propped on my pillow, and I sit cross-legged on my bottom bunk, journal on my thigh.

I talk to Aunt Lucy about three times a week, and I’ve kept her in the loop about my dating life and about me trying not to close myself off to guys.

I pause writing at her question, and immediately, I think of Luka. We’ve kept it professional in the gym, but every single day, the underlying tension mounts greater and stronger. And it was already unbearable to begin with.

“At the moment,” I say, “dating is non-existent. I barely have time to eat lunch on weekdays.”

In the square video box, Aunt Lucy lounges on her suede couch, already in white designer pajamas, makeup off, and her hair is in beautiful micro braids splayed on her shoulder. It’s late Saturday night for her, but evening in Vegas. She may be an on-the-go, thirty-five-year-old New Yorker, but she relaxes better than me.