"Oh, no."
"Yeah." Linden bobbed his head, his gaze fixed on the ground. "He was on life support for months. His family was convinced he'd pull out of it. He was young, he was healthy. All those things. And there was always a story about some other young, healthy guy coming out of a coma. Seemed like it was possible. Like we weren't hanging on to empty hope." He sighed, stayed silent a moment. Then, "They let him go about six months after the accident. They told everyone when they were doing it, in case people wanted to say goodbye before they took him off life support."
"Oh my god. Linden. I'm so sorry."
"I could've gone to the hospital. The whole group from school went out to Idaho. I should've, actually. But it just felt like I'd have to tell him I'd had all these feelings and that seemed like opening one door while closing another. At the time, it didn't seem right. It didn't seem fair—to me, to him, I don't know."
All I could say, again, was, "I'm so sorry."
He continued as if I hadn't spoken. "Altogether, it was five, six years of my life spent getting close and losing him over and over, each time worse than the one before. After he died"—he stopped, pushed his fingers through his hair—"I just didn't want to go through that ever again. I didn't want to invest all that energy into hoping and wanting. I didn't want to watch while someone slips out of my fingers and I didn't want to wish I'd figured out my shit sooner."
I took his hand in mine, squeezed. We walked without speaking. He stopped every so often to make notes in his book, other times to push fallen branches out of the trail.
After about ten minutes of heavy silence, I asked, "How long ago was this?"
Linden glanced to the side, almost as if he was surprised to find me there. "Right before I turned twenty-seven, so, nine years ago."
"That's more than a couple of years, you know."
"Yep."
"And the casual thing has been working for you since then?"
Again— "Yep."
He sounded as confident about that as I did about my career prospects, and that was why I let him get away without pushing on that response. He didn't have all the answers and neither did I.
21
Jasper
"You're sure you won't let me drive you?"
I glanced at Linden in the bathroom mirror before returning to my makeup. "Positive."
"I have visions of you calling me from Providence or Springfield because you missed an exit or something."
He dragged his gaze over my denim shirtdress, his eyes narrowed in a manner that suggested he either loved it or hated it. Even if he hated it, I wasn't changing. This dress was my casual weekend girls' lunch go-to. Denim was never appropriate at the Capitol so I didn't have much of it, and while this dress looked like a boring blue sack on the hanger, the right belt made it magical on me. In my last life, I very much resented that I couldn't wear it to work.
"That probably won't happen. Your sister gave me very explicit directions and told me exactly where to park too. I'll be fine."
"What about a car service? Uber or something like that."
I twisted open the mascara. "Your concern is unnecessary."
"My concern is founded upon you getting lost in a small town on multiple occasions."
"I've survived the traffic circles. I will be quite fine on my own, thank you."
"Rotaries." He peered at me as I fluttered my lashes against the wand. "How old is that car of yours?"
"I bought it used when I finished college but it runs like new."
"Do you even know what new runs like?"
I capped the mascara and went for the eyebrow pencil next. "It runs like it did when it was new to me, which is good enough. I've never had any trouble."
"Why would you buy a used station wagon when you were just out of college?"
"Because they were fresh out of cute little BMWs and white Jettas at my price point, okay?"
He crossed his thick forearms over his chest. "I still don't like the idea of you driving into the city. I'll take you."
"Really not necessary."
I dropped the pencil into my makeup bag and reached for my perfume. I ran the rollerball behind my ears and down the line of my decolletage. Linden watched closely, momentarily distracted from this little disagreement of ours. In truth, I had some hesitation about driving into Boston for lunch-and-shopping event but I wasn't admitting that to him.
"Okay. That's it," he said, stepping forward. He flipped my skirt up over my waist and pushed my panties down to my knees as I fumbled to close the perfume pen. He pressed his hand to my back, between my shoulder blades, forcing me to bend forward. "Hands on the sink. I've had enough of this."
"Enough of what?"
The hiss of his zipper sounded and then I felt the heavy heat of his shaft as he dropped it on the curve of my ass. "Enough watching you. Enough of this dress. Enough arguing with you. Just…enough."
Watching Linden snatch a condom from the cabinet and quickly sheathing himself had my blood whomping in my veins and my core aching. At the same time— "I just spent ten minutes on my face."
"It's not your face I plan on fucking."
He ran his hand between my legs in a rough, demanding pass before fisting his cock and pushing inside me. Any words I might've had gusted out of me as my hands scrabbled to grip the edges of the vanity countertop.
"I told you to hold on," he growled, his hips thrusting in a slow, relentless rhythm.
"I-I'm—trying," I stammered.
With one hand on my waist, he twisted my hair around his palm. "Try harder."
"Do not ruin my hair," I warned.
"I couldn't if I tried," he rumbled. "Even when you're wrecked, you're perfect to me. You're always perfect the way you are."
I couldn't explain why those words hit me so hard but they knocked everything out of me. All I could do was watch Linden in the mirror, watch the wrinkle of concentration between his brows and the stiff set of his jaw as he drove into me.
"Get there, Peach. I'm not waiting for you."
He'd wait. He'd definitely wait. But it was fun to pretend he wouldn't. It was fun to hand over that power and let him demand something of me that we both knew he'd provide.
"Almost," I managed. I couldn't say anything else. I could barely breathe. He was always thick but in this position, he was impossibly, ridiculously thick. I was certain he was tearing me apart.
I felt him everywhere. That fullness, that pressure—it sent prickles racing across my shoulders, over my scalp, through my cheeks. I felt tiny electric vibrations down to the tips of my fingers and along the backs of my thighs. My entire body was wired to go off and all it really took to get me here was some coarse, selfish thrusting and a growled demand. I couldn't decide if that was a credit to me or Linden.
He shifted the hand stationed on my waist to my backside, saying, "I love your ass like this. It makes the sweetest heart shape."
He dug his fingers into my skin, holding me hard enough to sting, to leave marks. Honestly, it was rude how comfortable he was using my body in whichever way he wanted. Completely rude.