Stained Glass Shards

4.

I'd never wanted another man. The way he looked at me was like no other—strong and sure that I was the only one in his sight. And when he wanted me, his look turned feral and dangerous. In an instant, I was no longer his friend, but his lover, held underneath his lithe body and taken fully by him. As he craved. I was his lover, crying out for him to make love to me. Watching his fingers run down my chest, scrape my beaded, pink buds, tug the pebbled nubs until I cried out his name—Frost—befitting a man who could be so cold when not pinning me with his ardent body. I was his lover, gazing at him as he smirked and bit his lip, thrusting within me and rubbing my sheathed pearl until I turned as savage as him.

--Iliana Gardner, Stained Glass Shards

ELYCE

When your heart is shattered, the hardest thing to do is lie in complete darkness, thinking of your first love while beside you, another man lies naked in repose after making love. It had been more than fucking, but less than love. Sex with Ritter was fiery and meaningful—and I willed myself to feel more.

But how could I?

Griffin's presence had always loomed large. Larger now that I knew he was in town.

A couple of weeks before my LA trip, I checked his schedule. The dailies had said he was in Vancouver filming a TV show. I had hesitated to create a search alert for his name. If I'd done so, I would have received an email warning me that he was back in LA. A pinging sound might have alerted me to him being at the Blue Pearl.

At the restaurant, Griffin had stood awkwardly, watching us—me, as if he were trying to confirm my identity. My overall appearance must have confounded him, coupled with the fact that I was in California. I could see the gears turning in his head and the moment it registered—the instance of recognition and resignation at my presence and status.

He was wondering who I was with.

The truth was undeniable. I was in California with another man. My first time in California should have been with Griffin, except I was with Ritter, meeting industry people. It was because of him—because of my semi-fictional tale and real-life history with Griffin.

And he didn't know. At least I hoped he hadn't learned the truth.

If it hadn't been for his friend ushering him out, Griffin would have confronted me. Ritter would have been completely taken aback by the encounter. As it was, my pallor and silence revealed that something was wrong with me. Ritter had been so attentive, jumping to discover what troubled me. I had felt as green as he told me I looked. He'd thought the seafood had made me ill.

Once Griffin left the restaurant, I'd excused myself to the ladies' room, where I dry-heaved all the barely contained emotions.

Would it have been better to speak to Griffin and introduce him to Ritter?

The resounding answer—no—echoed in my mind as I listened to Ritter's slumbered breathing. The introduction would have required a lot of explanation—not just to Griffin, but to Ritter, regarding my entire career. I would've had to expose my book as semi-autobiographical, rather than fiction.

What would Ritter think of me?

The story I'd written was far too raw to reveal its truth. Worse, I'd be the brunt of jokes, that I had allowed myself to be used for countless years by a man who would never give me what I wanted.

Ritter had remained concerned when I returned from the restroom. The redness in my eyes from wretching was impossible to hide. He blamed himself, claiming he'd forced me to do too much too soon. I had to reassure him that he hadn't overwhelmed me. Finally, convinced that I was merely worried about the next day's meeting, Ritter drove us to the hotel.