Sometimes, he’d lie beside me afterward, kissing me softly and stroking my chest, helping my pounding heart settle down to a more reasonable pace. Those were the times I felt closest to him. Despite the fierce, astonishing delirium of the s*x, when he had time to relax beside me, we were two young men, alone together. We acted like we were in love. We laughed at our antics, stroked each other’s hair, admired each other, coveted each other.
Did I love him? I’d never loved anyone in my life before, or at least I had no memory of this strangely obsessive, all-consuming need. But that was the way I felt for Eliot. It was all I could think of. Most of the time, it was all that I needed.
It wasn’t as much love, as my very life.
“What’s happened to me?” I sighed. It was another day, another ni
