Falling into You [COMPLETED]✓

Silencing the Ghosts

Things returned to something like normal, except Colton would come over and hang out. Things reverted to a less physical stage, although I felt just as much attraction to him, if not more, and I felt his eyes on me frequently. We kissed a few times, but we seemed to have put an unspoken hold on physical affection. I’m not sure why this is. I’m not sure if I like it. I want him. I need his touch.  I attend classes at NYU, I run, I work my shifts as a cocktail waitress, and I play music. And I see Colton, but not nearly enough. Above all, I try not to freak out about my impending acceptance or rejection to the college of performing arts. In all the craziness of meeting Colton in the park and the subsequent events, I managed to actually forget the letter was coming.  The letter comes, finally, brought in along with all my other mail by Colton. I’m sitting on my kitchen counter, feet on a chair, practicing a song when Colton knocks on my door, entering even as he knocks. He hands me the stack of envelopes, which I sort through. The letter from NYU is on the bottom, of course. When I get to it, my heart starts pounding, and I drop all the other mail. “What is it?” Colton asks, seeing my reaction. “I applied to the college of performing arts at the university. It’s not a guaranteed acceptance thing, and this letter tells me if I got in or not.” I slide my finger under the flap and pull out the single sheet of paper. At which point my courage fails me and I wig out, flapping my hands and shrieking like a teenager. “I can’t look! You read it to me,” I say, handing it to him. Colton takes it, glances at it, then hands it back. “No, it’s yours. You read it.” There’s an odd expression on his face that I can’t interpret. “I’m too nervous,” I say. “Please? Read it to me?” “You should read it yourself, Nelly-baby. It won’t be the same as you reading the acceptance yourself.” “You don’t know I got in,” I say, shoving it at him, curious and irritated now. “Please? Please read it to me?” I shouldn’t push this, I know. I can see by the hardening of his features that this is an issue. A button. But now I have it in my teeth, and I’m not letting go. “No, Nell. I’m not reading it to you. It’s your acceptance letter, not mine.” He turns away, digging a fist into his pocket and rattling loose change.  He’s staring out the window, his shoulders hunched, his jaw tensed.  “Come on, Colton. What’s the big deal? I want to share this moment with you.” He whirls on me, eyes hot and pained and angry. “You want to know the big deal? I can’t fucking read! Okay? That’s the big deal. I can’t fucking read.” He turns back to the window, fists curled at his sides. I’m stunned. “Wha-what? You can’t read? Like…at all? How—how is that possible?” I approach him from behind and tentatively, gingerly, lay a hand on his shoulder. His muscular shoulder is a rock beneath my hand. He doesn’t turn when he speaks, and his voice is pitched so low I have to strain to hear him.  “I’m dyslexic. Like, severely. I can read, but really, really bad, and it takes me fucking forever to get through even the simplest sentences. A goddamned first-grader can read better than me, okay? If I sit in an absolutely silent room with no distractions and focus really hard for an hour or two, I might be able to puzzle out one full article in a newspaper, which is written at a fifth-grade level or some shit.” So much clicks into place now. “That’s part of why you’re here in New York, isn’t it? Part of the issue with your parents.” He bobs his head twice, a short, sharp jerk of acknowledgement. “Yeah. It’s been a problem my whole life. Back when I was a kid, shit was less figured out than it is now. Nowadays, you got all sorts of resources for ‘learning disabled’ kids like me.” He uses air quotes around the phrase. “They got IEDs and learning labs and tutors and all sorts of nifty shit. When I was a kid, in a rural district like where we grew up, I didn’t have none of that. They just thought I was stupid. So did my parents. They had me tested and stuff, but dyslexia wasn’t a huge thing on people’s radar, or whatever, so they didn’t know what to look for, and I didn’t know how to explain what my deal was.” “All I really know about dyslexia is that it’s got something to do with difficulty reading.” I rub my hand in circles on his granite shoulder He nods and finally turns to me. I swallow hard and decide to push past the barrier between us. I close in against him, push my body flush with his, slide my hands up underneath his arms and clutch his back. I tilt my head up to look at him, resting my chin on his chest. His scent and his heat and his hardness intoxicate me, a heady rush of need bolting through me. “Yeah, basically, but it’s more than that,” he says. “It’s…nothing written down makes any sense to me. Letters, numbers, sentences, math equations…everything. I can do a shitload of fairly advanced math in my head, I’ve got a good vocabulary, I understand grammar, but it all has to be orally communicated to me. Tell me a word, what it means, and it’s mine. Explain a mathematical idea to me, I got it, no fucking problem. Write it down? Nothing. It’s like things just jumble up, rearrange into nonsense. I look at this paper here,” he taps the page in my hand with a forefinger, “and I see the letters. I know the alphabet, I can technically read, I can do ‘run spot run.’ But when I look at the paper, I swear it’s all bullshit, just letters that make no sense. I have to focus on each letter at a time, each word, sound it out, figure it out. And then I have to go back and put the sentence all together and the paragraph and the page, and that usually means I have to work it all out all over again. It’s fucking laborious as all hell.” “All the songs you write, the lyrics—” “All in here.” He taps his head. “I compose the lyrics, the music, everything, in my head.” I’m stunned. “You don’t have any of it written down anywhere?” He laughs, a harsh cough. “No, baby. Not being able to read is bad enough. I can’t write for shit, either. It’s just as hard. Harder, actually, because I start out writing what’s in my head, but other shit comes out, like random gibberish.” “So you just have it all memorized?” He shrugs. “It’s just how I am. I have a great memory, and musically, I have one of those perfect ears. I hear a piece of music, I can play it. The notes, the chords, it all just makes sense to me as soon as I hear it. Mechanical stuff is the same way. I just get it, instinctively. I mean, I had to learn how to do it, just like I had to learn how to play the guitar and use my voice right, but it comes naturally to me.” “And your parents didn’t understand any of this?” I ask. He sighs, and it’s laced with a growl. “God, I hate talking about this shit.” He absently brushes my hair back. “No, they really didn’t. I was their first kid. They made mistakes. I get that. Doesn’t make how it all happened less shitty.” “What happened?” He looks down into my eyes, and seems to draw strength from something he sees there. “Like I said, they couldn’t really understand what my problem was. I clearly wasn’t, like, slow or anything. I could talk fine, I could interact socially and tie my shoes and identify colors and patterns and all that, but when the lessons in kindergarten started requiring me to look at things on the written page, I just couldn’t grasp it. It frustrated everyone. My dad was on the rise back then, and he had big aspirations. Big plans for me, his firstborn son. I’d be his successor, a doctor or a lawyer or something great like that. He’d decided that’s what my destiny was, and nothing could change his mind. It kept getting harder and harder, because my comprehension of reading and writing was just…nil. I never progressed past the first grade, really. I had to work three times as hard as everyone else to get my homework done, to pass tests, all that. I was barely scraping by, all the way through school. Dad just thought I was lazy. He’d tell me to work harder, to not let anything stop me. He pushed and pushed and pushed, and never really saw how hard I was working just to get by. I barely passed middle school, and I mean barely, and that was with me studying and doing homework for literally four or five hours every night. Because everything is centered around writing the answers, reading the textbooks. Like I said, I can do it, it’s just…so hard as to be nearly impossible, and it takes forever. I was just a fucking kid. I wanted to play football and play with my friends, hang out, all that normal shit. I couldn’t, because I was always in my goddamned room, trying to finish reading the ten pages of history or The Giver.” I rest my forehead against his chest, aching for him. “God, Colton.” “Yeah, it sucked. And Dad just didn’t understand. He’s not a bad person. He’s great, he really is. When it wasn’t all about school, he was great with me. But that began to overshadow everything else as I got older. By high school, I was just angry. All the time. I hated school, I hated the teachers and the principal and my parents and everything. It didn’t help that by the time I was fifteen, Kyle was already this golden boy, perfectly behaved, athletic, all the friends and charming and shit. And I had to study for six hours a day just to get Cs and Ds. And the fucking worst part is that I knew I understood the basic concepts. I knew I wasn’t stupid. I could listen and understand what the lecture was about. I could listen to the lecture and probably recite the damn thing back to the teacher verbatim. If I’d been able to take tests orally, I probably would have been a straight-A student. But that just wasn’t an option back then.” He traces the line of my jaw with a fingertip, down behind my ear, down my neck, and across my collarbone; I shiver under the heat of his touch. “I got in a lot of trouble at school because I was just so fucking angry, so frustrated. And kids made fun of me, of course, because I was always in trouble and barely passing, so I got in a lot of fights.” “Kids are awful in high school.” “No kidding,” he says with a bitter laugh. “I didn’t really mind them, honestly. It was the shit with my parents that killed me. They just thought I wasn’t trying hard enough, that I was exaggerating my problems to get out of school or something. And they expected me to toe their line, follow their plan. And that plan included college. All I wanted was to work in a garage, build cars. Play my guitar. That wasn’t acceptable.” I’m starting to understand. “So when graduation came…” “My dad was insisting I had to apply to all these colleges, Ivy League and everything.” He laughs, and this laugh is mirthless, full of bitterness and old rage. “Fucking college? I barely graduated high school. I could barely read. I hated school. I was fucking done. I told him this, and he just didn’t care. He’d pull strings so my bad grades wouldn’t matter. Finally, I knew I had to make him understand. I remember the day like it was yesterday. Clear, sunny, beautiful day in June. I’d been graduated for a couple months and was spending all my time in the garage, working on my Camaro. He wanted me to be applying to Harvard and Columbia and Brown, and I wasn’t doing it. It was a constant fight. I finally hashed it out with him on the dock. I told him I wasn’t going to college, not ever. And Dad’s reply? ‘Then you’re on your own.’ He’d pay my way, support me, rent me an apartment and all that, if I went to college. If not, he wouldn’t give me a red cent.” Colton pauses, and I can see this is the hardest part. “It got ugly. He…we fought, like bad. He called me names, told me I was just stupid and lazy. He was angry, I get that, but…it still fucking scarred me for me life. All I ever wanted was his approval, for him to see that I had other skills, that I was smart in other ways. He just couldn’t. Like I said, the fight got ugly. Turned physical. He hit me, I hit him. I ran. Left my car, my Camaro I’d spent fucking years building from scratch. Left all my shit. Grabbed a backpack and some clothes and all the money I had. Bought a bus ticket to New York. Never looked back. Of course, the bus cost pretty much every dollar I had, so by the time I got to the city, I was flat broke, a basically illiterate seventeen-year-old kid with anger problems and no plan, no money, no friends, no car, no apartment, nothing. Just a backpack with some crackers and a change of clothes.” The pain in his voice is heartbreaking. I see him in my mind’s eye, a scared, angry, lonely kid forced to fight just to survive. Too proud to go back home, even if he could have. Hungry, cold, alone, living on the streets.  “Colton…I’m so sorry you had to go through that.” I hear my voice crack.  He lifts my chin. “Hey. No tears. Not for me. I made it, didn’t I?” “Yeah, but you shouldn’t have had to suffer like that.” He just shrugs dismissively, and I push back to glare at him. “No, don’t shrug it off. You’ve accomplished so much. You survived. You got yourself off the street. You built a successful business from nothing. You did all that on your own, despite your learning disability. I think it’s incredible. I think you’re incredible.” He shrugs again, rolling his eyes, clearly uncomfortable. I put my hands on his face, loving the feel of his rough stubble under my palms.  “You’re smart, Colton. You are. You’re talented. I’m amazed by who you are.” “You’re fucking embarrassing me, Nelly.” Colton wraps his arms around me and pulls me roughly against his chest. “But thanks for saying so. It means more than you know. Now. Did you get in or not? I’m sick of talking about my shit.” I hold the letter up behind his back, reading it over his shoulder. “Yeah. I got in.” “There was never a question. Proud of you, Nelly-baby.” I smile into his chest, breathing in his scent.  * * * I swallow hard. I’m not sure if I can do this. I clutch the neck of my guitar and try not to panic.  “Ready?” Colton’s voice comes from beside me. His knee nudges mine. I nod my head. “Yeah. Yeah. I can do this.” “You can do this. Just follow my lead and sing the harmony, okay? Just strum the rhythm like we practiced and let everyone hear that angel voice of yours, okay?” I nod again, and flex my fingers. I’ve never performed in public before. I mean, I’ve busked a few times, alone and with Colton, but that’s different. This…this is terrifying. We’re on a stage in a bar, and there’s close to a hundred people all watching, waiting for us to start. They know Colton, they’re here for him, and intrigued as to who I am. No pressure. “Hey, everybody. I’m Colt, and this is Nell. We’re gonna play some music for you, is that all right?” There’s applause and some catcalls. Colton glances at me and then back to the crowd. “Yeah, I know she’s gorgeous, boys, but she’s off limits. We’re gonna play some Avett Brothers to start, I think. This is ‘I Would Be Sad.’” He starts off with a complex string-picking arrangement that echoes the banjo of the original. I come in on cue with a simple rhythm-strum and wait for the harmony cue. The rhythm is easy, and I’ve practiced it so many times I don’t even have to think about it, so I hit my cue no problem. They’re floored. My voice provides a perfect counterpoint to Colton’s, my clear alto weaving around his rough rasp, and together I know we have them in a spell.  I adjust the rhythm as we transition into the next song, which Colton introduces.  “Anybody here like City and Colour?” There’s riotous applause of approval, and he grins at them. “Good! Then hopefully you’ll like our take on ‘Hello, I’m Delaware.’” I’m strumming as he does the intro and playing it cool, but inside I’m squeeing with excitement. In the back of my head I’m running back to the beginning, when Colton basically announced that I’m his. I like that. Plus, he told them I’m gorgeous. I’m all a-shiver. I really get into the City and Colour song, because Dallas Green is incredible. I let my voice go; I don’t hold anything back. I sing and let the words roll over me, through me. My nerves are gone, and all I know is the music rushing in my veins, the pure beauty of the song and the adrenaline high of knowing I’m killing it. The next song is all Colton. I’ve heard him practice it, so I’m looking forward to hearing him perform it live. Our guitars go quiet, and Colton adjusts the tuning on his while he does the next intro. “Okay, so this one I’m doing solo. You’ve probably heard the song before, but not like this. It’s ‘’99 Problems,’ originally by the one and only Jay-Z. This arrangement that I’m doing, though, was put together by an artist named Hugo. I wish I could take the credit for the arrangement, honestly, because it’s fucking genius. So yeah. Hope you like it.” There’s some applause, which fades when he starts a choppy, drum-like sequence of chords. I’m giddy with excitement and pride when he brings in the verse. The first time I heard him play the song, I wasn’t sure what I was hearing, because it was so unique, but then I recognized it and was totally wowed. He’s right about the arrangement being brilliant, because it is, completely.  All too soon it’s my turn. “You guys are awesome. The rest of Hugo’s stuff is pretty killer, too, but that’s my favorite piece by him. So anyway, Nell’s gonna do a solo for you next.” He insisted I intro my own piece, so I adjust the mic closer and strum the opening chords as warm-up. “Hey, guys. I’ve never sung solo like this before, so be nice, huh? I’m doing ‘It’s Time’ by Imagine Dragons.” I turn to look at Colton. “I’m dedicating this to you, because it reminds me so much of you.” When I was jogging and listening to my playlist, trying to figure out what song I wanted to cover for tonight’s solo, I came across this song. It’s an awesome song that seems almost eighties pop-inspired to me, which I knew would make for an interesting indie-folk cover. But it was the lyrics that struck me, the emphasis on never changing, on being who you are. Colton had been through so much and had stayed true to who he was, refusing to change or give in simply because of the expectations of others.  I struggled with that for a long time. I had chosen schools and career paths based on what others wanted for me, what my parents wanted for me. After Kyle’s death, I couldn’t choose, couldn’t think, couldn’t feel any desire for anything. I worked for my dad and went to community college simply because it was the path of least resistance. My dad had always sort of expected I would major in business and work for him. I’d never considered anything else. I’d never thought of my talents or desires—I just went along with their plan without question.  Then Kyle died, and after a few months, I realized I needed an outlet. I needed something to distract me from my guilt and pain. The guitar came along almost as a fluke. I saw a flier stapled to a wooden power line pole advertising guitar lessons. The teacher was an older guy, gray-haired and potbellied and genial. He was a talented teacher, patient and understanding. Best of all, he seemed to understand that I wanted a couple hours a week away from everything. He never asked any questions, just drilled me hard, pushed me, kept me busy, leaving me no time for anything but the chord progressions. He gave me an aggressive practice schedule and rode my ass if I didn’t keep up with it.  The singing seemed to be a natural extension of playing the guitar. I’d always loved singing, grew up listening to my mom singing. I never took singing seriously, though. It was just something I did in the car and the shower. And then I started taking guitar lessons and music became an obsession, a release, a way of feeling something besides pain. I’d learn a song, and of course I’d sing along with it. Eventually I realized I enjoyed the singing more than the guitar playing, and then the music itself became the outlet. I’d spend hours and hours playing, singing, sitting on the dock, watching the sun set and the stars come out and playing, refusing to think of Kyle, refusing to miss him, refusing to cry for him. I’d play until my fingers bled, sing until my throat hurt.  Now the music is a thread binding me to Colton. The songs we sing to each other are statements. An ongoing discussion in music notes.  So I sing, and I let everything out. I feel the eyes on me, feel Colton’s gaze devouring me. I finish the song, and the last note quavers in the air, and my hands tremble, my heart thuds in my chest. There’s a moment of silence, all eyes on me, faces shocked. I’m about to freak, since no one’s clapping, but then they explode, shrieking, whistling, applauding, and I realize they were stunned silent. Guess that’s a good thing. When the noise fades a bit, Colton draws his mic down to his lips and speaks facing me but looking at the audience. “Goddamn, Nell. That was incredible. Seriously.” I hear the tension in his voice, see the emotion in his eyes. He’s hiding it well, but I know him by now, and I can feel it radiating off him. We both let a tense moment pass in silence then. We both know what song is next, and we’re both nervous. “I’ve never played this song for anyone before,” Colton says, clipping a capo to his strings. “It’s…a deeply personal song that I wrote a long, long time ago. Nell’s been badgering me—I mean, encouraging me—to play this song live for weeks now, and I finally gave in. So…yeah. Here it is. I never gave this a title, but I guess we can call it…‘One More Hour.’ I hope you like it.” I can see how hard this is for him. The melody he plays on the guitar is slow and heavy and rolling, melancholy. Then he sings the lullaby, and god, the bar goes so silent you could hear a pin drop in between chords and sung notes. No one is moving, no one is even breathing. We practiced this together. He would only play it if I’d do backup and harmony, so that’s what I’m doing. I sing some backup vocals for him and play a basic rhythm, but I keep it low and quiet so he’s the focus. And he is. Totally. I see eyes shifting, throats constricting. There are tears. You can hear how intensely personal this song is to Colton; it’s clear in the passion of his voice. He’s singing to himself again. He’s the lost boy again, alone on the streets of New York. I ache for him all over again. I want to hold him, kiss him, tell him he’s not alone. Again, the bar is absolutely silent and still when the last note hangs in the air, and then it goes wild. A few more popular songs Colton taught me, and then we do “Barton Hollow” together, our last number for the set. I’m exhilarated, shaking with excitement. I applied to the college of performing arts on a whim, as an act of rebellion, communicating to my parents that I was going to do things my own way. I’d never actually performed before.  Now…I’m hooked. Colton gets our payment and hurries us out. I can’t read the look on his face, but I can see tension in his body language. I’m nervous as we stand side by side on the subway, guitars in soft cases slung on our backs, hands holding the rail by our heads. He’s silent, and I’m not sure if he’s upset, angry about something, jazzed from the show. I just can’t read him, and it’s making me nervous.  I reach out and take his hand in mine, threading our fingers together. He glances at me, at our joined hands, and then back at me. His face softens. “Sorry, I’m just…playing that song was rough. I’m distracted, I guess. Not very good company.” I sidle closer to him, pressing myself into his side. “I know it was, Colton. I’m proud of you. You were seriously incredible. People were crying.” He lets go of my hand and wraps his arm around my waist, tugging me even closer. His palm rests on the swell of my hip, and suddenly the subway car falls away, replaced by lightning awareness of him, of his heat, his muscle. His touch is fire, singeing away the layers of clothes between us until I can almost feel his skin on mine. I need that. I need flesh to flesh, heat to heat. We’ve been dancing around it for too long now, and the slight taste I had of him wasn’t enough. I need more. I don’t know why he’s been keeping distance between us, but I’m done with it. I’ve been playing along, slowing down in our kiss when he does, not pushing it. The kisses have all been nearly platonic recently, quick touches of our lips only occasionally pushing into more, into the realm of heat and need. Now, my body singing from his nearness, my mind and heart buzzing from the post-show high, all I can think of, all I can feel is him, and my desire for him. His fingers dig into the flesh of my hip, and his eyes burn into mine, cobalt flames locked on me. I know he feels it, too. I bite my lip, knowing what it does to him. His eyes go half-lidded and his chest swells. His finger tightens on me even more until it’s almost painful, thrillingly so.  “You’re coming over,” he says. It’s an order, not a question. I nod, never taking my eyes from him. “I’m coming over,” I affirm. I lean in close, pressing my lips to the shell of his ear. “No holding back tonight.” I hear him hiss, a sucked-in breath. “You’re sure?” His voice is a rumble felt in my chest. “God, yes.” I need him to understand. “Please.” He laughs, but it’s not a humorous laugh. It’s a predatory sound, full of erotic promise. “Nelly-baby…you don’t need to beg.” I flush with something like shame. “I am begging, though. You’ve been making me wait for so long now. And I need this.” His eyes are so fiery, so piercingly blue it takes my breath away. “I was giving you space and time. I didn’t think you were ready. I wasn’t myself, not entirely.” “I get that, and I appreciate it. But now I’m saying…no more space. No more time.” His hand descends, slides around just slightly, and now he’s almost but not quite cupping my ass. “I just want you to be sure. No questions, no hesitations. I want it to be right.” I rest my forehead against his shoulder, then lift my face to look up at him. “I’m ready. So ready. Scared, yes. But ready.” He laughs again. “You think you’re ready. You’re not.” His voice goes husky. “But you will be, baby. I’ll make sure of that.”  And oh, god, ohmigod, the threat, the promise in his voice is enough to have me clenching my thighs together to keep the dampness in. I know my eyes are wide, my breath coming in deep gasps. “Quit biting your goddamn lip before I fucking lose it right here on the train,” Colton growls. I slowly slide my lip out from between my teeth, teasing him with my compliance. “Why the fuck is that so hot?” He seems genuinely confused by his own reaction. I arch my back and take a deep breath, crushing my breasts against him. We’re on a subway surrounded by people, but they’re oblivious, and I just don’t care. I’m caught up in my own need, burning with the fires of desire. My sense is gone, my restraint burnt away.  “Knock it off, Nell.” Colton jerks me against him, and now I’m crashed front to front with him. I can feel his desire against my belly, hard and huge. “Quit fucking with me. You’re sexy, and I want you. Point made.” I make innocent eyes at him. “I’m not making a point, Colton.” I lean in close, whisper it into his ear, my breath soft. “I’m horny.” I feel cheesy and ridiculous saying that, but it’s what comes out, and it’s true. Colton doesn’t laugh like I thought he would have. “Fuck, Nell. You’re seriously tempting my control. I’m about to shove my tongue down your throat right here on the train.” Wide, innocent eyes again. “You wouldn’t hear me complaining.” And I bite my lip, just to hammer it home. His jaw clenches, and both hands come around my waist to clutch my ass. Oh, god, I like that. I love his hands on my ass. My ankle-length black pencil skirt is thin cotton, and I can feel the rough calluses on his hands scratching the fabric. I can feel the raw power in his grip as he grasps me, holds me against his hard body.  His mouth descends on mine, hard and rough, and his teeth take my lower lip, biting, ravenous, devouring. His tongue slides between my teeth, his lips move on mine. I whimper softly, and then I’m alight with lust. I kiss him back, but ‘kiss’ isn’t really the right word. A kiss is lips touching, tongues playing. This… This is fucking, but with our mouths. It’s raw and primal and hungry.  “Get a room, goddammit,” an exasperated female voice says from behind us, and it’s a testament to the eroticism of the moment that a New Yorker is willing to say something in protest. Not much fazes New Yorkers, I’ve discovered. The train stops, and Colton’s hand is on the small of my back, propelling me forward. We climb the stairs to street level, and his arm clutches me close to his body. He hustles me down the street and into his darkened shop. On the way through the garage, I’m briefly assaulted by the smell of grease and cigarettes and sweat and all things Colton. It’s a wonderful smell, a scent that somehow is beginning to mean home to me. The thought is frightening but exhilarating at the same time. Up the narrow stairwell, his hand on the no-man’s-land of the swell of my hip, not quite on my ass, not quite on my waist. His hard heat is close behind me, and my blood is pounding loud in my ear. The stairs seem endless. I’m a heartbeat away from spinning in place and tackling him here on the stairs.  This lust is overwhelming.  It’s a starvation, a need thrumming in every pore of my being. I need his body, his hands, his mouth, his lips. I need my fingers in his hair, tracing the contours of his huge, solid body, luxuriating in the contrasts that make him up, hard muscles, silky skin, rough calluses, down-soft hair, wet lips and jutting manhood and roaming hands. I need all of him, and I need it now.  I’m wet and trembling between my thighs, aching, throbbing. Thank god, finally we’re through the door and the latch is catching with a definitive snick and I’m caught in his arms, spun, pressed back against the door, crushed between the rough, hard wood of the door and the harder muscle of Colton. Exactly where I want to be.  I wrap my legs around his waist, take his stubble-rough face in my hands, and marry my mouth to his, delve into a feverish kiss.  I still feel Kyle’s ghost banging against my soul, the spirit of my guilt and pain. I ignore it, let it haunt me. Let it rage.  Colton’s hands smooth over my back, under my ass, threading through my hair, and the ghost is quieted. Colton pulls back and searches my eyes with his glittering sapphire eyes, and I see his own ghosts trying to push through.  We’re both haunted by the specters of our pasts, but we have to move on sometime and force the voice of our guilt to be silent. Now is that time.