You can't sleep. You don't know why you need him so much now. It's been seventeen years. Suddenly, he's all you can think about. Well, maybe it isn't so sudden. Maybe it never really stopped at all. For some reason you've gotten worse at distracting yourself over the years.
You crushed him when you sent him away. You knew he was wrecked - so were you. But you were both older now. It didn't make sense to take him away from what he'd ways wanted. You'd waited too long. You made different decisions and life got in the way and things couldn't go according to your plan. You couldn't give him what she could. It wasn't fair to him or to that baby to keep him to yourself.
Sure, he'd protested. Loudly. You fought and screamed for months - the wound was deep. Maybe he hadn't forgiven you yet. Maybe he never would. You knew the risk when you said the words. "Go to her, Lindsey."
God, you were stupid.
That was when you'd made the agreement. You couldn't be together. There would be no sunset years in a nursing home. You wouldn't get your happy ending with him, or with anyone else. You swore he'd never be in your bed again, and he swore the same. Hating him was the only way you could cope.
For years you just tried to hate him. One miserable tour made it a little easier to leave him, but eventually you realized that you were alone again. It hurt like hell. You called him and tried to be friends again. The minute you let him in again he stole your heart. You know you had his at that moment, too, and probably still did. The way he looked at you every night onstage after that tore your heart out, and you fell for him. Hard.
Then it all fell apart again. It always did. This time you managed to destroy it without drugs or affairs or even sex. He loved you more than he should have. He held you a little too close, he was a little to free with how much you meant to him. People noticed. His wife noticed. That was when he broke your heart again and you both swore it was over for good. And it was. Until you realized that you "for good" was never an option for the two of you.
You lay in the giant white bed, your hand running over your hip bone, remembering exactly where he touched you tonight. It's been so long since anyone really touched you that you can't even remember when the last time was. There had been one or two since him, but they're long forgotten. They didn't matter. No one ever really had. Your hand slips into your underwear and you realize that they're already drenched.
Your other hand frees your breasts and just as you let out your first moan, desperate for whatever release you can get, there's a knock at the door. Fuck.
You freeze for a minute, gasping for air, in an even worse mood than you were when you crawled into bed two hours ago. You adjust your nightie, not bothering to find your robe before you fling the door open, scowling at whoever thought it was a good idea to disturb you.
He stands there in front of you in a white tee shirt and sweat pants, his hair completely disheveled, his eyes shamelessly scanning your figure.
"Did I wake you?"
"It's almost five o'clock in the morning, Lindsey. Even I'm in bed at this hour."
He doesn't apologize, pushing past you and pulling the bottle of bourbon from the bar. You watch, slightly in shock as he makes himself a drink and comes back over to you, studying you. You feel incredibly exposed and your heart races as you struggle for words. Fortunately, he finds some first. "What were you doing?"
"I was in bed, Lindsey..."
He grabs your hand and brings it to his lips. He sucks your fingers, and raises an eyebrow. You know he can taste you. "Mmhmm."
"Why are you here?" You yank your hand away from him indignantly, trying to ignore the rush of arousal that just hit your entire body.
"I couldn't sleep."
"Bullshit. You don't come here when you can't sleep."
"Well, that doesn't make the fact that I couldn't sleep less true."
"What do you want?"
"A distraction."
He cannot seriously be suggesting what you think he's suggesting. You decide to play dumb. "You have a TV in your room."
"Not good enough."
"Tell me what's going on or I'm throwing you out," you threaten, not sure if you could actually follow through. If he touches you you'll lose it.
"Drink with me."
"Lindsey, we have a show tomorrow."
"So?" He makes you a drink, and you curse his ability to remember exactly how you like it. You take it from him, sipping slowly.
His eyes ravage you again and you resist the urge to hide from him. You study him, trying desperately to figure out what he wants. "You're freaking me out right now."
"Why?"
"Because I don't know what to say. I always know what to say, but..."
"Stevie." He cuts you off quickly. His patience is wearing thin.
"What?"
"I need you."
"No. Don't do this. We swore..."
"I don't give a shit."
"You couldn't get away from me fast enough two hours ago."
"Maybe I changed my mind."
"About what?"
"I thought I cared about your fucking boundaries. Then I decided that I don't."
"You came here to fuck me?" He shrugs, closing the space between you. "No."
"No?" He raises an eyebrow and the look in his eye scares you. You've given him a challenge. He kneels in front of you, yanking your underwear down to your ankles in one swift motion. His tongue instantly plunges between your legs and your knees go out, forcing you to collapse onto the chair. He works quickly, thrusting his fingers into you and you yelp loudly, an orgasm already building.
Suddenly, it stops and he stands up, looking down at your heaving chest and spread legs. "What are you doing?"
"No sex," he says, turning and striding to the door. Before you can even formulate a response he's gone.
