Chapter Fifteen
For a second, he couldn’t believe that he’d heard Poppy correctly.
He’d just told her that he had ordered a drink. And her response was to have faith in him. To believe that he hadn’t taken a drink. That he hadn’t fucked up his sobriety.
The fact that she was right, that he had left that bar completely stone-cold sober and headed straight here, mattered less than the look on her face. Less than the fact that she believed in him when she had no reason to.
For a moment, the little baggie of heroin in his pocket weighed heavy on him. Much, much heavier than the three grams it was measured out to be. He hadn’t touched the stuff since Rollo had handed it to him. Hadn’t even gone looking for a head shop to buy needles and a new kit.
Oh, he’d thought about it. Of course he’d thought about it.
He’d thought about the anticipation he felt when he was heating the powder on the spoon.
He’d thought about the sharp prick of the needle in his vein.
He sure as hell had thought about the sweet lassitude that came after he shot up, the slow burn followed by the bliss that came from nodding out. He’d thought about that a lot.
But in the end, he’d shoved the bag deep in his pocket and driven in the opposite direction from his apartment. He’d driven here, to the label’s apartment, because his need to hold Poppy, to kiss her and feel her come, was even greater than his need for the drugs.
From one addiction to another, he thought wryly. And how ironic was it that her name was Poppy, when for years that little red flower had been the biggest nemesis in his life. And now there was her. Somehow, after only a few days, what she thought of him—how she looked at him—was more important than being numb.
He didn’t get it, would probably never get it, but for now he was going with it. It was so much better than the alternative, after all.
“How’d you know?” he asked hoarsely, his hand shoved deep in his pocket where he could feel the cool plastic of the heroin baggie. “I could have chewed gum before I got here.”
“Because I’m getting to know you,” she answered, crossing the room until she was only a few scant inches from him. “And no matter what you tell yourself, no matter how bad the cravings get, I know you’re so much stronger than that.”
“Just because you believe that doesn’t make it true.”
“Sure it does. That’s the power of positive thinking.” She reached for him then, wrapped her arms around his waist and pulled his body flush against hers. “Besides, it’s not whether I believe it that matters. It’s whether you believe it.”
Her hand slipped under his T-shirt, her fingers dancing lightly up his spine as she pressed her breasts against his chest, her sex against his thigh.
And just that easily, she had him. Just that easily, the edges dulled on the craving that had been riding him hard ever since he’d woken up that morning, replaced by the desperate need for her currently pounding through his blood. Through his brain.
Through his dick.
“Fuck,” he told her on a groan. “You feel good.”
“So do you,” she said, her
voice just a little breathier than it had been mere moments before. “So, so good.”
She slid a hand into his hair, pulled his face down to hers. And then her mouth was on his, her tongue licking its way along the seam of his lips. He opened to her because he had to, because he couldn’t not let her in when she was holding him so carefully. Kissing him so tenderly. Making him feel so much—and so good—when earlier all he’d wanted was to be numb.
But standing here with her right now—breathing in the sweet strawberry scent of her breath, feeling the way her soft breasts rose with each jagged inhalation, hearing the broken little cries she made as her body strained against his—he wouldn’t trade this feeling for all the numbness in the world. Wouldn’t trade Poppy in his arms for any amount of heroin.
It was a terrifying thought—and a tantalizing one. This idea that with her he could find surcease from the torment that had ridden him for far too long.
With a groan, he pulled her closer. Held her tighter. Kissed her harder, until she was moaning, too, her hands clutching desperately at his hair as she nipped and sucked and licked at his lips, his tongue, the corner of his mouth.
“Fuck.” It was as much a prayer as it was a curse as he slid his hands down her long, slender back to cup her ass. And then he was lifting her against him, wrapping her legs around his waist as he turned them around and pressed her up against the sliding glass door that led to the balcony.
Below her, Austin’s lights glittered like stars and for a second—just a second—he was spellbound by the beauty of them. Of her. Of this moment, when for so long he’d been unable to appreciate the beauty in anything.
He shuddered at the realization, buried his face in the curve where her neck met her shoulder. And breathed. Just breathed.
She held him for long seconds, her arms and legs wrapped tightly around him as she whispered soft words in his ear, loving words that somehow made it both easier and harder for him to breathe. To think. To just be.