Page 25 of Broken Desires
Finally dressed and somewhat calmer, I check my phone again. Her reply is there, simple and promising.
Nessa: 8 is perfect. I’ll meet you there.
The apprehension lifts, replaced by an unfamiliar excitement.
“Shit, I’m in trouble,” I whisper to myself, the reality of my situation settling in. Tonight is happening, and there’s no turning back.
By seven thirty, I’m a bundle of nerves, half tempted to crack my skull against the marble counter just to distract me from the incessant fidgeting. It feels as though I’m a kid again, jittery with anticipation for a trip to Disneyland, but I’m well aware that what awaits with Vanessa Caldwell promises a far more exhilarating ride.
I groan, surveying my room for the umpteenth time. It’s spotless, evidence of my restless attempts to channel the nervous energy. The bed is freshly made, the aftermath of my second, entirely unnecessary shower, and an outfit chosen with such painstaking care it borders on the absurd, considering its destiny to end on the floor should the evening proceed as we both hope.
I’ve rehearsed my no-commitment speech so many times that by the time eight hits, I’m not even sure I’ll know what I want to say anymore. All I know is that before anything happens between us, she needs to know that no matter the circumstances, a future is not possible.
I find distractions in the details: the precise placement of my phone, the alignment of books, the rhythm of my pacing as the clock ticks closer to eight. Every glance at my phone, every adjustment of my clothes, is a step in a dance of anticipation, a mix of eagerness and anxiety.
Opening the window to let in the evening air, I try to calm the storm inside, grounding myself in the moment.
As eight approaches, my rehearsed indifference battles with the reality of my excitement. The vibration of my phone cuts through the tension, anchoring me back to the present—ready or not, here she is.
When I open the door, my breath catches in my throat. Vanessa is always stunning, but tonight, she’s a vision of ethereal beauty. Her skintight dress accentuates every curve, and her long silver-and-purple hair cascades down her back like a waterfall of moonlight. For a moment, I’m struck speechless, grateful for her deafness so she can’t hear the rapid thud of my heart or the rasp in my voice as I manage to croak out, “You’re stunning,” as I step back to let her in.
It must show on my face the effect she has on me because her smile brightens despite her nervousness. I’ve learned to read her, to spot her tells—the way she brushes her fingers against the stretchy material of her dress, betraying her anxiety. It was my first mission when I met this beautiful enigma, and I see it now, a subtle sign of vulnerability beneath her confident exterior.
“You’re quite a vision yourself,” she says, her voice soft and melodic, breaking the silence. “As impressive on the pitch as in person.”
I nod, my nervousness manifesting in the habitual gesture of brushing my neck. “Do you want something to drink?” I offer, my words coming out in a rush as I try to steady my racing thoughts and pounding heart.
“What are you offering?” she inquires, shedding her high heels to reveal her natural height, still notably shorter than my six-four stance.
“We’re a posh house. We have it all,” I jest lightly.
She nods, brushing her dress again. “I think I want to keep my head for this. A Coke will do.”
Grateful for her choice, I fetch a Coke for her and a beer for myself from the fridge. Settling on the sofa, I gesture for her to join me, the air between us charged with anticipation.
“What made you change your mind?” she inquires, taking a sip of her drink.
I don’t feign misunderstanding. “It was always going to happen,” I admit, the weight of certainty in my voice.
As she leans back, the slit of her dress parts slightly to reveal a long slender leg, and my dick turns into a semi at the thought of touching her skin. I press my lips. I don’t have long before any rationality vanishes completely.
“We need to talk.”
She tilts her head, a playful challenge in her eyes. “I’m not a virgin, Liam.”
“No, I—” I shake my head; I’m making a mess already. “This can’t be more than this.” I point to her and then to myself. “I can’t offer you a future or a relationship. All I can do is friendship and fun.”
“Orgasms?” she teases, one eyebrow arched in challenge.
“Many,” I confirm, the promise hanging between us, laden with desire and an unspoken agreement to the terms of our connection.
She smiles. A hint of mischief in her gaze. “I’m only eighteen, Liam, and I’ve just truly started to live. No offense, you’re picture perfect, but I’m not here to get chained to the first man I hook up with. I don’t want more than friends with benefits.”
Her words are exactly what I thought I wanted, what I believed I needed to hear, yet there’s an unexpected sting in her detachment. It bothers me, unsettling something I hadn’t realized was there.
“And I want you.” It’s the truth, I can’t deny it. Not when the evidence is starting to tent my pants, not when I’m breaking every single rule I’ve imposed myself.
Her expression lights up with genuine surprise, as if genuine admiration is a rarity for her. It’s ludicrous—someone like her must be adored. Celebrated.