Chapter 2

The Man Who Kissed Me Like No Tomorrow

Desmond shifted, rolling off her but immediately pulling her into the curve of his arm. He wasn't running, and he wasn't apologizing. 

But he was stroking her hair, his fingers tracing patterns on her sweat-damp skin as if they had all the time in the world.

"Anna," he murmured, his voice now hoarse. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, a gesture that was so tender, so shockingly domestic, it almost hurt.

She couldn't speak. 

What was there to say? 

Thank you? 

Now what? 

Please, never let me go? 

She buried her face in his chest, breathing in the scent of him, trying to memorize this feeling of being held, and of being utterly and completely claimed.

"This changes everything," he said, stating the obvious with a gravity that settled in her stomach like a stone.

"We can't," she finally whispered, the words were a pathetic protest against a truth she had no desire to fight.

"My father…"

"I know," he sighed, a heavy, weary sound.

 "But it's done, we've done it." He tilted her chin up, forcing her to look at him. His eyes were no longer burning with raw lust, but with something deeper, and more complicated. 

A flicker of fear, maybe, or resignation. "I don't regret it, Anna. Do you?"

She searched his face, looking for a trace of the lie she needed to hear, or even a way out. But there was none. 

There was only a stark, terrifying honesty. She shook her head, a tiny, decisive motion. "No."

"Good," he said, and then he kissed her again. But this was different, it wasn't hungry or desperate.

It was slow, deep, and exploratory. A kiss that said, this is ours now.

It was in that moment, her lips soft against his, her body still humming with the aftershocks of their joining, that she heard it.

A floorboard creaked in the hallway.

It was a small sound, almost imperceptible, but in the profound quiet of the house, it was as loud as a gunshot.

They both froze. Desmond's body went rigid beside her. And Anna's breath caught in her throat, her heart seizing in a panic that eclipsed even the pleasure of moments before.

Then, a muffled sound. The distinct jingle of her father's belt buckle as he adjusted his sleep pants.

He was just outside the door.

Time warped and stretched, every second was an eternity. Anna could hear the blood rushing in her ears, a frantic and deafening roar. 

She squeezed her eyes shut, a silent, desperate prayer to any god that would listen. Don't come in, please. 

God, don't let him come in here.

Desmond's arm was still around her, but it was no longer a tender embrace. It was a cage, a cage of their own making. 

His grip on her tightened, a silent command to stay perfectly still. She could feel the frantic, silent race of his heart against her back.

The doorknob rattled.

It was the slightest movement, a mere tremor in the brass fixture, but it was enough. It was the end of the world.

Anna's eyes flew open, wide with terror. She met Desmond's eyes over her shoulder, and in the moonlight, she saw her own fear mirrored in his face. 

The ice in his eyes was back, but now it was the frozen terror of a man cornered.

The footsteps started again, softer this time, moving away from the door down the hall to the master bathroom at the other end of the corridor. 

The sound of the toilet flushing was a reprieve so profound it almost brought her to tears.

Then, footsteps again, returning and pausing right outside her father's bedroom door.

The silence that followed was the most terrifying thing she had ever experienced. It was a listening silence, a thoughtful silence. A silence that felt like judgment.

Then, a soft sigh. The sound of her father's bedroom door opening and closing down the hall.

He had gone into his own room.

They were safe, for now.

The relief was so intense it was painful, a sharp, agonizing release that left her shaking. 

She slumped against Desmond, the fight draining out of her completely. He let out a long, shuddering breath, the sound of a man who had just stared into the abyss and been spared.

Carefully, he disentangled himself from her. And he swung his legs over the side of the bed, his back to her. The muscles in his shoulders were tense, coiled like springs.

"You have to go," he whispered, his voice raw, stripped of all its earlier confidence.

Anna sat up, clutching the sheet to her chest. "Go? Where?"

"To your own room," he said, turning to look at her. His face was a mask of grim reality. 

The dream was over, the stars had fizzled out, leaving only the cold, hard light of dawn waiting on the horizon. 

"Now, while the coast is clear."

The word coast clear was so clinical, so transactional, it was a slap in the face. Minutes ago, he had been calling her a sweet girl, confessing he'd wanted her for years. 

And now she was a problem to be managed, a secret to be disposed of.

"But…" she started, but what could she say? Stay with me? Hold me? 

What about the galaxies you promised? They felt like foolish, childish dreams.

"No buts, Anna," he cut her off, his tone leaving no room for argument. He was already pulling on his discarded trousers, his movements economical and precise.

He was no longer her lover; he was her father's best friend, covering his tracks.

 "This… this can't happen again."

The words were a physical blow. They landed in the center of her chest, a cold, heavy stone. She watched him, her mind refusing to process the sentence. 

This can't happen again, it was the only thing that could happen. It was the only thing that mattered.

"What?" She finally managed, her voice broken. "But you just said…"

"I know what I said," he interrupted, running a hand through his disheveled hair. 

He wouldn't meet her eyes. "I was… caught up. At that moment, it was a mistake, Anna. A terrible and beautiful mistake."

Mistake? The word echoed in the cavernous space between them. Everything they had done, every pulse of pleasure, every shared confession, was reduced to a single, ugly syllable. 

Her body, still humming with the memory of him, felt like a traitor.

"A mistake?" She repeated the words again, tasting like acid. "You told me you wanted me for years."

He finally looked at her then, and the look in his eyes was worse than anger. It was a pity. "And that makes it even more of a mistake.

I'm twice your age. I'm your father's best friend. This… this could destroy everything." 

He gestured around the room, at the pictures of her father, of her mother, of their happy, intact family on the walls. 

Pictures he was in, smiling beside her father, an arm slung around her shoulders when she was ten. 

"I took advantage of you."

"No," she said, shaking her head, a hot surge of anger rising to replace the hurt.

"You didn't, I wanted this and I wanted you."

"You don't know what you want," he said, the words were condescending and paternal. 

"You're nineteen. This was…an infatuation. A fantasy. And now it's over, and we have to go back to how things were."

How things were; the thought was unbearable. Going back to being the invisible girl, the daughter and the child.

Going back to stolen glances and aching silence. He was trying to erase the most profound experience of her life, to file it away as a lapse in judgment.

"I can't," she whispered, clutching the sheet tighter. The fabric still smelled of him and of them.

It was the only proof she had that it hadn't all been a dream. "I won't."