Chapter 1: The Illusion of Delusion

I pulled into the parking space of my condo complex just after one in the morning, the engine ticking as it cooled under the faint orange glow of the streetlamp. My hands were still resting on the steering wheel, fingers loosely curled, and for a long moment I sat there breathing. The residual heat from Tyler’s body seemed to cling to my skin even through the cool night air that slipped in when I cracked the window. Every time I shifted in the seat, a fresh, delicious ache reminded me of how thoroughly he had taken me. The kitchen counter, against the wall, in his bed, the slow grinding second round, the way he had fed me the mixed taste of us from his fingers before the final, deliberate use of my mouth. My lips still felt swollen. My throat still carried the memory of him holding me down while he finished. And yet the only thing that filled my head was the sound of his voice afterward: You’re amazing. The sexiest woman alive. No one has ever made me feel the way you just did.

I killed the engine, gathered my purse, and walked up the short path to the front door on legs that still felt unsteady. The hitch in my step made me smile privately. I unlocked the deadbolt as quietly as I could, expecting darkness and silence, and instead found the living-room lamp on. Amber curled on the couch in an oversized hoodie and sleep shorts, phone face-down on her chest, eyes open like a nervous mother waiting for her daughter who snuck out earlier in the night to return to the scene of the crime. Amber stared at me, mouth agape and disbelief on her face, which soon morphed into a wicked grin, while an old episode of Love Island played softly on the TV in the background.

“Jesus Christ, what happened to you?” she exclaimed before proceeding, “Scratch that, I know what fucking happened to you, but get your ass in here and tell me all about it. I assume your attempt to find closure didn’t quite go as planned? Sit. Talk. Now.”

A sheepish grin settled on my face, which, given its current condition, probably made me look like a crazy witch or the possessed girl from the Exorcist. I dropped my purse on the side table and sank onto the opposite end of the couch, tucking one leg under me. The movement pulled at the bruises already forming on my hips, and I had to bite back a soft sound. “It was ... intense.”

“Intense,” she repeated flatly. “You look like you got run over by a semitruck, and that’s the word you’re going with?”

I laughed, a little giddy, and leaned my head back against the cushion. “Amber, I don’t even know how to start. He’s just ... God. The way he looks at me. The way he touches me. The way he makes me feel alive. The way he talks to me while it’s happening. He makes me feel like I’m the only person on the planet who matters. I’ve never had anyone make me come like that. Not even close. And afterward he holds me like I’m the most valuable thing that exists ... It’s not just sex. It’s ... It’s ... fuck I don’t know what it is!”

Amber muted the television with a sharp click of the remote and turned her whole body toward me, one eyebrow arched so high it nearly disappeared into her hairline. She had clearly been waiting a while; her hair was in a messy bun, she was wearing the faded university hoodie she always stole from me, and an empty bag of microwave popcorn sat on the coffee table. The soft glow of the paused Love Island contestants lit half her face. She looked equal parts concerned and delighted, the exact expression she had worn the night I confessed to sleeping with my first boyfriend at seventeen.

“OK, start from the beginning,” her voice softer now but still firm. “And I mean the actual beginning, not the highlight reel you’re already spinning in that sex-drunk head of yours. You went over there to get closure. You told me that. So how the hell did you end up looking like you got thoroughly and repeatedly rearranged?”

I let out a long breath that turned into another soft laugh. My body still hummed. Every shift of my weight sent little aftershocks through places that had been stretched and filled and used until I had forgotten my own name. The memory of Tyler’s voice ... low and steady, rolled through me, and I had to press my thighs together.

“Okay. Fine. I got there a little early. He was just out of the shower and opened the door in just a towel. The water was still running down his chest. I nearly swallowed my tongue. He went to put clothes on and I ... I looked around his place. It’s weirdly tidy. There’s this weird carved wooden fork thing on a shelf and these terrible paintings he kept from high school because he says they remind him not to let failure define him. And then he came back, and we started talking and it just ... escalated.”