International Player(50)

I stroked my thumb over her cheek and she began to pull away.

Spotting something out of the corner of my eye, I released her and stalked behind the sofa. She still had it. The turntable I’d bought her. I peered behind it. And the record. “Shit, Truly.”

She looked away. “What?”

“You still have this?” Every memory I had of the accident came swooshing back at once. I pulled out the white sleeve from the cover and peered at the transparent, circular window. The Unforgettable Fire. The last time I’d heard this, I’d been here. With Truly. Tipping the black vinyl from the sleeve, I lifted the lid of the turntable and placed it on the metal spike with a satisfying squeak.

“Noah,” Truly whispered. “Don’t.”

Ignoring her, I clicked and pressed until the record spun. I nudged the arm onto the first track. Crackles and hisses rang out, followed by tinny, rapid drumbeats.

“My dad loved U2.”

“I remember,” she replied.

I’d forgotten. As a kid, I’d listened to this album over and over in hospital. Played it nonstop for days on my headphones after I’d been told I’d never walk again.

At first it had covered my misery, wrapped around me like a warm blanket until it had morphed and changed and became the fire underneath me—a soundtrack to my motivation to prove everyone wrong, to have a different kind of life than the one I’d been told was my fate. I’d left it behind with the therapy. Until I’d found it in that secondhand store and bought it as well as a turntable and brought it back to Truly’s.

We’d listened to it together silently, side by side.

Something had shifted that night. I’d wordlessly shared something with her that I’d buried deep down inside me. Fear. Sadness. A determination to fight for what I wanted.

She was the only person I’d ever shared this music with. And she was now entwined with all those bad memories, pulling them into the light. Instead of fear and sadness, all I felt now was hope and happiness.

She’d seen every part of me and she was still here.

She knew everything there was to know about me, and I couldn’t think of anything better than that.

She knew my past, and I knew I wanted her to be part of my future. But was that as a lover or a friend?

The first track faded away into the next. She topped up our wine, and I pulled her closer. Our breathing synchronized and then the gritty, sexy pulse of the bass and the crash of the drums in “Bad” trickled through the speakers.

“I love this one,” she whispered.

“Me too,” I replied.

“I play it on a loop sometimes.”

She still listened to this? Even all these years later? Did she think about me when she did? “You do?” I asked, gently crawling over her so she lay flat on the sofa. Was this record and our history as important to her as I was beginning to realize it was for me? It was just a record, but it was also far more than that. It was about something painful for me that she’d made better by sharing it with me. And now it felt as if our memories and our past were inextricably mixed together. Perhaps our future was too.

“When I don’t want to feel alone,” she replied, dusting my jawline with her fingertips.

“You’re not alone,” I whispered and buried my head in her neck, tasting my favorite part of her. I never wanted her to be anywhere I wasn’t.

I settled between her legs as she brought her knees up to either side of my hips. We fit perfectly like this.

“Casual,” she whispered as if half asleep, her hands sliding my shirt up my stomach.

“So beautiful,” I said, unable to take my eyes off her as she undid the buttons of my jeans and wrapped her hand around the base of my cock. I closed my eyes in a long blink. All these thoughts and feelings, about her, the accident, what was next for me. Everything was colliding all at once and yet it all made sense when I was with Truly. My past, my future, my fears, my hopes—everything seemed to be culminating, and at the center was the woman who knew me best, looking back at me with her amber eyes and well-worn yoga pants.

She pressed her fingertips into the flesh just above my hips, and I kicked off my jeans, getting rid of any barrier between me and her touch. She got to touch me anywhere, and I wanted her touch everywhere.

She made everything better. She made me better.

Part of me seemed to belong to her. Did she know? Did she feel the same?

I pulled back and looked her in the eye, trying to communicate how much she meant to me but unable to find the words.

She unfurled a sexy, secret smile and I growled. I wanted to devour her.

I pulled at her top and she pushed away my hands. “This is new. And I like it.” She lifted her t-shirt over her head and dropped it beside the sofa. I’d never seen the black lace bra underneath but it was perfect and showed off her smooth skin, tempting me with what it hid.

I yanked down one cup and took a nipple in my mouth as Truly threaded her hands into my hair. She arched against me, making my heart race and my cock throb. I wanted to feel all of her all at once. Slipping my hand underneath her, I unclasped her bra and pulled it off, her heavy, delicious breasts spilling out from under the lace.

Shit, this girl.

I filled my hands with her, rubbing my thumbs over her nipples, relishing the softness in my palms, enjoying her.

She wriggled, trying to free herself of her yoga pants and underwear, which were the only things that remained between us. It was too much. I was so desperate, so needy for her that I didn’t want to waste time with all these clothes. We should just stay naked forever. The desire to have her soft flesh pressed against mine without interruption took over, and I pulled back and tore off the rest of my clothes. “You’re so fucking beautiful I don’t know if I should just stare at you or fuck you.”