Even now, six hours after waking up, I can remember the dreams as vividly as I remember the real thing. Perhaps my dreams and my memory have merged into one, into something more intense and beyond reality.
Or perhaps I’m just thinking of that freakin’ crazy orgasm again.
“Shit!” I knock my coffee mug off the counter and jump to the side to avoid the hot splash. Angus does what I assume is the cat version of a shriek and leaps up onto the table. The water is kind of close to the food bowl. “Sorry, buddy,” I mutter, grabbing a cloth and throwing it on the puddle.
What a waste of good coffee.
I dump the cloth in the laundry basket in the bathroom and walk back through to the kitchen. I’ve never had a problem with no-strings relationships or the up-and-leave thing. With Ross, my “ex,” it was a common thing. We’d see each other three or four times a week, have sex, then one of us would leave depending where we were.
We grabbed dinner maybe once or twice a month depending on our work hours. If I worked in the afternoon and didn’t have time to eat before we met up, one of us would grab takeout. It was always prearranged and, in the end, half eaten. There’s no fun in sitting with someone you don’t know a lot about.
Of course, maybe if I’d gotten to know him, I would have realized he was fucking another girl at the same time. Not that I’d ever demanded monogamy; I’d simply—and stupidly—assumed we were only sleeping with each other. Needless to say, turning up at his apartment and finding him with his face between someone else’s legs was a bit of a shock.
But it didn’t hurt. It pissed me off, but it didn’t hurt me. We weren’t in a relationship. I didn’t crave his touch or need him around. It truly was casual sex. My addiction never reared its ugly head. It never nudged at the back of my mind or tingled in my fingers when he was near.
Not the way it does with Tyler. I’m trying to convince myself that it’s just sex. Casual. Fuck buddies. Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am. But I know it’s more than that.
Whatever we have won’t be the standard no-strings relationship. I’m kidding myself if I think that it will be, because there are already strings. Our lives are already intertwined through his cousin and my best friend. Our paths will cross on occasion, perhaps more than I’d like them to.
They’re small strings. Tiny, microscopic strings no stronger than a spider’s web, but they’re there. And that’s enough to scare me.
What I should do is text Tyler and tell him that I don’t know what I was thinking. That a no-strings relationship will never work with us, because I love the strings. I hate them and I love them. They’re my downfall, my temptation.
I should tell him that I’m in love with love, and that’s why our matching outlooks on no-strings relationships will eventually fall apart. Eventually, I will want more than he can give.
Eventually, I will want all of him. Every little inch of his body and his mind will be needed by me. More than that, I’ll want his heart and his soul. I’ll crave it.
That fear, of needing someone so badly you’re blinded by it, floods through my body. It’s strong, all-encompassing, and I wrap my arms around myself. My hands are shaking.
I can see it. Of all my triggers, Tyler is my biggest one yet. He knows what I want in bed. He knows how to work my body, and as soon as I get addicted to that, the rest will follow. It’ll follow in a wild burst of temptation and obsession that I won’t be able to resist.
So I do what I should have done days ago, and I grab my phone, still trembling.
Last night was a mistake. I shouldn’t have agreed with you. I’m sorry. I can’t see you this way.
“Yeah, yeah.” I put Old Dill’s pint in front of him and hold out my hand. “Come on. Your tab is at the limit, and if you’re to be believed, you got paid on Friday.”
He grins, crow’s-feet appearing by his eyes, and digs into his pocket. He pulls out his wallet and dumps two hundred dollars in twenties on the bar. “Here you go, darlin’. That’ll keep Donny off your back.”
“Thank you.” I sweep the bills up and ring it up on the register. “Now you’re clean again.”
“Ready to start the next one,” he chuckles, taking a long drink from his pint.
I roll my eyes and walk to the middle of the bar to serve the people waiting. Friday nights are always hell, especially around this time. Everyone’s done with dinner and they’ve decided that, instead of staying in their pretty, little restaurant, they’ll hit the bars.
The sudden rush eases off, leaving the bar blissfully empty. I hand a pair of college girls their bottle of wine and two glasses and they take a seat at the table in the corner. But they’re not the only ones sitting there.