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fifteen

Ashton

In the aftermath of our lovemaking— Uh, I mean sex —we lay in a mess of intertwined limbs and sweaty bodies on Selma's bed, with her head on my shoulder and her fingers playing with the curls of hair on my chest. I had one hand under my head and the other draped around her middle, pulling her into me because, for some reason, I couldn't seem to get enough of her.

This was new territory for me. I'd never been the type of man to cuddle after a fuck. Hell, I had never thought of it before. Attachments were messy, and it was best to stay completely clear of them.

However, I couldn't find it in me to move right now. I wanted to stay here, with my arms around Selma, and fucking hell, maybe even sleep. That night in my hotel room, when she got dressed after the sex, I laid on the bed and watched her, positively gutted, even though I hadn't shown it. Usually, I was the one dressing up and walking away.

It had opened up something foreign inside me, which may be why I'd searched for her for a week afterward. I'd finally found a woman who couldn't be bothered to ask for seconds, and it was mesmerizing.

My fingers traced circles on her arm. I wondered what she was thinking about as she played with my hair. Earlier this evening, we'd been at each other's throats, and some minutes ago, we'd been inside each other's throats. Was she conflicted? Regretting her actions? I certainly hoped not because I would die if I didn't have her again.

The silence drew on, deafening me. The memory of how forlorn she'd looked this evening when I'd found her outside on the balcony. When I asked if she wanted to talk about it, she'd started to, before I shoved my tongue down her throat.

Now that my appetite for her had been temporarily sated, I wanted to know.

"You were going to tell me what was wrong earlier."

"Huh?" She adjusted her head to look up at me.

"On the balcony."

"Oh," she murmured, resting her head on my shoulder. "I'd just told my mom I was pregnant."

"How did she take it?"

"Not good." Her voice was low and shaky. "She didn't say it directly, but she was extremely disappointed."

I frowned. "Because you're pregnant?"

"And unmarried."

I hummed, trying to understand. It was the twenty-first century. Women weren't shamed for being single mothers anymore. Right? I realized then that the idea of marriage had never occurred to me. Maybe it was because I'd lived more than half my life in an orphanage, and other than Milo, there was no one else I wanted to see every day until the day I died.

And even Milo wasn’t written in the stars, the bastard.

"Is that such a bad thing?" I asked.

Selma hoisted herself up, resting on her elbow and looking me in the eyes. "In my mother's eyes, yes. She also got pregnant out of wedlock, and my father turned out to be an entirely different person than the man she thought she knew. So, she had to raise me alone."

"It makes sense, but how does marriage ensure that the person you marry will still be the same person years later?"

She bit the inside of her cheek, seeming to ponder my question. "I see your point, but at least that person would have a responsibility from which they can't escape. Unlike my father, who didn't care if food was on my table or a roof over my head."

I shrugged, brushing a few strands of her hair to the side of her face. "No offense, but any decent person would know that. Your father most likely wasn't."

She nodded. "Yeah, he wasn't."

Her throat worked as she swallowed, and I could see that the subject was very touchy for her. I wanted to kiss all her worries away, but I was only human and, therefore, limited in my capabilities.

"Give your mother some time. She'll come around."

She nodded again, a small smile touching her lips. "I know. She loves me like crazy."

I chuckled lowly, though a slight sadness enveloped me. I had never known a mother's love. The nuns in the orphanages had tried their best to be affectionate, but there was only so much they could do with more than a hundred kids to attend to.

The foster homes I'd been in had been much worse in terms of affection. There’d been none, and I'd convinced myself I was unlovable because it only happened to me. While Milo preferred to live with me, his foster parents had cared enough to try. They'd only sent him back when he proved to be intolerable.

"What about you? What's your story, Mystery Man?" Selma asked, watching me closely. It was one of the few times she let her guard down with me, and I could only hope it stayed like that. But hope was like a drug. All it did was distract you from reality.

"No story. Just a boring old man who prefers to see the world through a lens," I answered.

"I'd hardly call you old. No old man can move the way you do."

A deep laugh bubbled from my chest. It seemed that with Selma, there were no fake smiles—something that had never happened with other women. I was beginning to learn that Selma wasn't like other women.

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"It was." She licked her lower lip seductively, causing fire to pool in my groin. Fucking hell. I couldn't get enough of this woman. Even though she had white bed sheets tucked under her arms and covering her breasts, the hardened peaks of her nipples poked the flimsy material, and I could feel my cock swelling.

At this rate, I was going to expire from need.

"But tell me more,” she said. “I don't know anything else about you besides what you do for a living."

"There's really not much to know." I wasn't sure how I felt about her knowing about my less-than-deplorable early life.

"I doubt that. Parents, girlfriends, friends?”

I clicked my tongue against the roof of my mouth. "Okay. I never knew my parents. I grew up in an orphanage. I never had a girlfriend, and I have just one best friend, my buddy Milo."

Her eyes had taken on a concerned sheen. "You never knew your parents?"

I snorted. "Is that pity I see in your eyes, peaches?

She hit me playfully on the chest, and I laughed, catching her hand in mine, and bringing it to my lips.

"Be serious,” she said. “That's sad. I can't imagine living without knowing my mother."

I placed a kiss on her palm, shrugging. "I learned to live with it. Can't miss what you've never had, right?"

"Bullshit. That's when to miss it the most."

I huffed out a smile. "I've made peace with it. It doesn't bother me. Really."

I could tell she didn't believe me. "Did you ever try to look for them?"

"What's the point? They didn't want me in the first place."

"Don't say that. What if it was due to circumstances beyond their control?"

"Fuck that," I growled, feeling the anger eating away at the ragged edges of my control. "You don't give up your child, no matter what."

I certainly would not be giving up mine. But I didn't say that—not out loud, at least—lest she run back into her shell.

Selma sighed defeatedly, cupping my cheek. "I understand. Still, I'm sorry you had to grow up alone. That's a sad fate for a child."

I leaned into her touch. "I didn't grow up alone. I had Milo. We've had each other since we were nine."

"Right. The best friend. He must have a shitload of patience to have been able to put up with you that long."

I rolled my eyes. "I put up with the fucker too, so I guess we're even."

She smiled, and I leaned forward to kiss her softly. God. Selma was intoxicating, and I didn't think I'd ever get over how good she tasted.

"So, no girlfriends, huh?" she commented wryly, her hand dropping. "What's up with that? Is it a thing, or do you just play hard to get? Because I find it extremely odd that women aren't flocking to you."

I gave her my best grin. "I never said they weren't, just that I never dated any of them."

"Why not?"

I shrugged again, blanketing one of her breasts under my palm and giving it a gentle squeeze—I didn't want to hurt her like the last time. "I guess I'm not the dating type."

She sighed in a singsong voice, prompting a chortle out of me. "What?"

"My ex-boyfriend was an ass,” she reminded me, “so yeah, I wish I wasn't the dating type. At least you can't say your girlfriend left you for your cousin."

I allowed my laugh to rumble in the space between us. "First off, I don't have a cousin. Secondly, I have seen your cousin, and she doesn't hold a candle to you. How the fuck did that happen?"

Her face twisted into a mixture of awe and annoyance. "I have no idea!"

I threw my head back and laughed, mostly because her annoyance came from a place of genuine shock—like she couldn't believe something so preposterous had happened to her.

"I don't mean to brag, but I'm older, smarter, refined, and successful,” she said. “Well, at least I was."

"I agree with all of those observations. Here's a thought: What if he was intimidated? Successful women are known for their annoying independence and strong will."

Selma stared at me like I'd suddenly sprouted blue and purple horns from my forehead. "You're saying I was too successful? That scared him away?"

I shrugged. "I'm saying it's a possibility." I reached out a hand to massage away the crease that had formed between her eyebrows. "He was a fucking pussy if that was the case. He who dares not grasp the thorn should never crave the rose."

She smiled heartily. "Anne Bronte."

I paused, shooting her a surprised look. "You know poetry?

"Here and there." Her lips parted in a grin, and her teeth sparkled in the dim light. "Fashion isn't the only thing I fell in love with as a child."

"Who's your favorite poet?"

"Charles Bukowski."

I let my disbelief show. "Shut up. I don't believe you."

Her little giggle was like a fresh wind hitting her face after hours of purgatory. When her tongue slipped out to wet her lips, I watched, utterly entranced, as her gaze dropped down to my lips before lifting to look at me. That tiny action, yet so salacious, was the most provocative thing I'd ever seen in my entire life.

"If something burns your soul with purpose and desire, it's your duty to be reduced to ashes by it," she started, her face hovering over mine. So close that the heat of her breath fanned my jaw.

My voice fell to a whisper as a foreign, intense feeling gripped me. "Any other form of existence will be yet another dull book in the library of life."

Fuck.

I was in way over my fucking head being here with her. Being in her presence was exhilarating and it was with fear that I realized I was in trouble of losing my heart to her. I'd already lost my body as it was. The thought of touching another woman or kissing anyone else paled in comparison to the idea of being able to see her every day for the rest of my life.

And I would look at her like she was art. With a deep appreciation for her vibrant colors and a deeper understanding of the kind of fire she elicited from inside me. The world could crumble around me, and yet I wouldn't blink. I would just stand there and exist, looking at her.

Selma was a masterpiece, a tapestry of beauty and complexity that filled me with awe.

I studied her face as she smiled down at me, my gaze settling on her with a tenderness that bordered on reverence. I committed to memory every curve of her smile, every speck of color in her eyes, the creamy paleness of her skin, suddenly wishing I had brought my camera so I could take a picture—or a thousand—that I knew I would spend days, fuck, years staring at.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked softly. "You suddenly went quiet."

I couldn't tell her that I was thinking about how I would love to worship her body for the rest of my life. If she didn't believe me, she would be running for the hills, and I'd never see her again.

"Did you love him?" It was the first thing that came to mind, but I did want to know. What was this Alex person like? How had he captured Selma's heart so fiercely?

She nodded, her eyes taking on a distant look.

Is she thinking about him? I wondered.

Why did that piss me off?

"I did," she said. "Too much, it seemed."

God. So many fucking questions. What did it feel like to be loved by Selma? Was she softer and affectionate? Did her kisses feel different? Were her touches more intimate? And why the fuck did I feel the inclination to find out?

I placed my hand on her lower back, wanting to touch her so I could distract myself from harboring such stupid thoughts. "And did he love you?"

She shrugged. "I'd like to think so. Otherwise, two years of my life have gone down the drain." Then she chuckled humorlessly. "Though I guess it's still wasted even if he did love me. When I needed him the most, he wasn't there. In fact, I'm pretty sure he was the reason Volkov fell apart."

"How so? When the media began peddling those false rumors?"

Her gaze snapped to mine, narrowing into slits. "What makes you say that? I thought you believed I was toxic."

"Maybe. At one point. But I've been around you for almost two weeks now, and I've come to understand that you don't have a toxic bone in your body."

She smiled, and it was warm and deep. "That's…very nice of you to say."

We held each other's gazes for what seemed like an hour when, in truth, it couldn't have been more than thirty seconds. Brown to green. Green to brown. An electrifying sense of intimacy passed between us.

Then she pulled away—or rather, I felt her pull away, clear her throat, and tuck a strand of hair behind her left ear.

"Yeah, uh…I realized a bit late that Alex never cared about me. He probably loved the thrill of being called Selma Volkov's man, or maybe it sliced at his masculinity. Either way, I'll never know. Before he walked away from me, he said I was difficult to love. Too hard-headed. Iris was more malleable. Maybe that's why he fell for her."

"That doesn't make it okay to betray you like that, and with your cousin, no less. Sounds to me like he's prone to stupidity." From what I'd heard, that Alex person was a fool. You don't have a woman like Selma in your life and fumble it so fucking terribly. He was either not man enough to handle her fire, or he just didn't know what he had.

Either way, good riddance. How did the saying go again? One man's meat is another man's poison, right? Selma was mine now. I would make sure of it.

"It took me a long time, but I'm over it,” she said. “He doesn't deserve anything from me. Not even regret. If leaving me for my cousin hadn't been enough, he'd stolen my designs, too, and they'd started their own company together. With my fucking designs."

Her voice held a sad twinge, and her smile was even sadder. I didn't like it.

I wanted to tell her that she was strong. Not everyone who had been knocked down so painfully would even think about getting up again. It refueled my resolve to help her. I wanted to do more than help her; I wanted to save her.

Burying my hand in her hair, I brought her head down for a kiss. I didn't want her to think about Alex or what she had once felt for him. Not while I was here with her. I rimmed my tongue across her lips, begging for permission, and she gave it, allowing my tongue to slip past her lips and into her mouth.

This kiss oddly felt like a pivotal moment. It was almost as if a new dawn had broken, and light finally appeared after hours of wandering and meandering in the dark. It was as though a dam had burst inside my chest, and every single emotion I'd stopped myself from feeling all these years suddenly came rushing forth.

Selma straddled me, pushing backward as she lifted her hip, grabbed my already hard cock by the base, and sunk down onto me slowly until I was completely buried inside her.

She moaned, throwing her head back. A sheen of sweat trailed down her neck to the crevice between her full breasts, and I followed the tiny bead with my eyes, groaning at the sight, my gaze zeroing in on her dark nipples. She lifted her hips again with a deep groan until I was only an inch inside her before pushing back down, taking me all the way in.

I moaned, the sound foreign to my ears. Nobody could make me feel the way Selma did, and no one would ever get the chance to try. Her hips began to move faster, back and forth, sending all coherent thoughts flying out the window.

Intertwining my fingers, I tucked them behind my head, staring up at her. She was magnificence personified. There were no words. I bit my bottom lip when she let out a meow, watching as she chased her own pleasure. And because her pleasure was my pleasure, I knew there was no denying it anymore.

I'd fallen in love with Selma Volkov.