“Good?” I guess. He’s a boneless sprawl on the covers, his expression dazed.

“Damn good,” he clarifies, and grins at me.

It’s beautiful. He’s beautiful, and that grin is like the sun coming up over the clouds.

“Do you want to taste him?” I hear Cassie’s voice in my head. “Touch him everywhere?”

God help me, I do.

But I still want to be with Fred. What does that say about me? Am I turning into Cassie? Is it possible that my body wants one man and my mind another? What am I supposed to do?

I release Seth’s cock from my hand, scooting back, a tremor going through me. Crap. I kissed Seth—again—and I masturbated in front of him. And then I asked to touch him and get him off, too.

What the hell am I doing?

My vision blurs. I climb off the bed, straightening my clothes, trying to keep from looking at Seth’s long, strong form on the bed, the evidence of his pleasure all over his chest, his eyes half-lidded.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper as he sits up, opening his mouth to say something.

“Are you?”

“This was a bad idea.” I retreat away from him, unable to tell what he’s thinking. His face is blank. “I shouldn’t have done this.”

He reaches for his discarded T-shirt, wipes down his chest, and my eyes are helplessly drawn back to his firm pecs, his rippling abs, the dark ink covering them.

I should turn around, walk out. Why aren’t I doing it already?

He throws the T-shirt aside and gets to his feet. Slowly. I’d have thought it for my benefit hadn’t I known of his bad knee—but jeez, from the muscles rolling in his powerful thighs to his bulging biceps as he pushes himself off the bed, all the while completely naked and unselfconscious, giving me another good look of his crotch, his half-hard cock and heavy sack…

Too hot. I’d fan myself, but by then he’s standing right in front of me, gloriously naked where I’m still fully dressed.

Dressed but bared under his dark gaze.

“You liked it,” he says, thick lashes lowered, almost brushing those broad cheekbones. “Admit it.”

The words won’t come. I should deny it. Lie about it.

I can’t.

“Think that I haven’t even put my hands on you yet. Haven’t put my mouth on your skin, on your tits, between your legs. Haven’t fucked you yet. Imagine how fucking good that would feel, how hard you’d come. If you’d let me show you how a boyfriend should treat you.”

I gasp, heat pooling between my legs. How is he doing this? I might come just from listening to him, picturing what he might do.

If I let him. If I stay.

“Manon…” He reaches for me, and I take another step back. Can’t think with him so close. Always a losing battle.

“I really should be going,” I say.

His beautiful mouth tightens. “You still want him, huh? This Fred.”

I nod. My eyes sting.

“Then go. Don’t let me keep you.”

My feet won’t move.

“You said it,” he says. “It was a bad idea.”

And hearing him repeat my words shouldn’t hurt. What’s wrong with me? What do I really want?

“I’m sorry,” I say again, turn and leave his bedroom, leave his apartment, not sure why I feel like crying.

***

“Is he really your boyfriend?”

Seth’s voice echoes in my head. Saturday afternoon and I’m still in bed, curled under the covers, my ereader on, although I can’t focus on the words. Can’t even remember anything I’ve read so far, so I turn it off and sigh.

I should be thinking of my fascinating new classes, the start of my new life. Of the job I landed at a gym not far from Damage Control, teaching belly dancing and Pilates.

Instead, I think about boys. Two specific boys, and what I’m going to do about them.

I’ve been meaning to call Fred, call until he picks up and we can talk. I need to hear his voice, be reassured about what—who—I want, and why. I mean, we share so much. What other guy can I talk about ballet with? And classical music?

We spent hours debating whether Marius Petipa’s classical ballet choreographies are better than his contemporary’s Sergei Diaghilev’s. Whether Tchaikovsky’s music was a better fit than Stravinsky’s. About Fred’s preference for contemporary dance, and what kind of music he’d use for the piece I was working on.

Over our long talks, it was as if we were setting the foundations for something. An implicit promise. He’d compose the music. I’d make the choreography. He’d play. I’d dance.

Unless it was all in my mind. And besides, I’ve broken my half of the promise, haven’t I? Didn’t fight to stay in the dance school – which makes me wonder if the dream of becoming a ballet dancer was really mine, or my mom’s. Wouldn’t I have fought more if I really wanted it?

In any case, would good conversation be enough reason to be with someone? Really be with someone, sleep with him, date him?

God, I need to see Fred.

And yet I don’t call him. My phone is right here, on the nightstand, within reach, and I make no move to reach for it.

I close my eyes and remember Seth. The way his dark eyes crinkle at the corner when he grins, his naked, powerful body, his ink. How sexy he looks with his hair falling over his eyes, how vulnerable he looks when that shadow passes over his expression.

How kind he is. How he gives me exactly what I need when I need it: acting gentle when I feel fragile. Overpowering me when I’m not sure how to ask for his touch. Stepping back when I’m confused.

But he’s been clear about this strange thing going on between us: he’s helping me win over Fred.

He’d obviously like to do more with me, and his suggestions make me curl up tighter, the blood burning in my veins. The thought of him going down on me makes me moan. The thought of his big cock filling me make me squirm.

If I let him show me, like he says, what it’d feel like—what then? What will he do afterward? Will he walk away? Is that all he wants?

And what do I want from him?

I lift my fingers to my mouth, recalling how he kissed me both times—like a man starving for this kiss—and I know my heart is tangled up. Can’t mistake the way my chest tightens when I think he’s sad, the way it flutters when he looks happy.

The way it threatens to burst when his eyes darken with desire.

No, no way. I’m not falling for Seth. I can’t be. That would be stupid—letting my heart dictate what I’ll do, change my plans of being with Fred.

As if love can be planned…

Shit. I bury my face in the pillow and tell my brain to shut up. Plans change, anyway. Everything changes. Right when you start feeling happy, safe in your decisions, a wave comes in and turns everything upside down.

Like with ballet.

Like when Mom left us.

Like when Dad decided to move to another city. Every time I found people I cared about, life delivered a perfect roundhouse kick and sent me spinning.

I screw my eyes shut, punch my pillow. This isn’t helping. I don’t care about Seth. Truth is, I don’t know how I feel about him.

Or Fred, for that matter. Not anymore.

All I want is to lie low and let life roll over me for a while, close over my head like the sea, and pretend I know nothing about the mess in my head—and in my heart.

Pretend everything’s crystal clear.

***

My phone ringing wakes me up much later. I recognize the ring tone immediately, even though I can’t have heard it more than once in this past month.

The opening notes of Debussy’s “Clair de Lune”, performed by Luka Sulic of 2Cellos.

It’s the one I’ve set for Fred.

Couldn’t I have picked a sadder piece? Yawning, still half-asleep, I make a grab for my phone.

“Yeah?”

“Madeline. Are you okay? I was calling you earlier, too.”

Figures the one time he decides to finally call me I’d be in such deep sleep I missed it.

“I’m fine.” I twist around so I’m lying on my back, staring up at the ceiling. It’s a light blue, like the morning sky. “Fell asleep while reading in my bed, that’s all. What’s up?”