So here’s the thing about broken hearts – no matter how hard you try to fit the pieces back together, you’ll never be able to restore it to its original shape.
And so, after a while, you give up trying.
But him and I were different – we were puzzle pieces, made for each other to fit in the most intimate ways.
Sadly, it’s not long before a puzzle is ripped apart and you start over, putting together a new one.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I think he had screamed, but I couldn’t hear him over the loud music.
“What?” I scream back, and his hands grip my hips as I stumble over my own two feet, the drink well in my system at this point.
“I said, what are you doing here?”
When I just giggle and throw my head back, he shakes his head and his eyebrows furrow, and he takes my hand in his, guiding me up the stairs and to the top floor.
Swarms of bodies gathered in large groups here and there in the narrow corridor on this floor of the house. Sometimes I wondered just how many people attended these parties, because the numbers seemed to be in the hundreds – the house wasn’t massive, and only had a ground and top floor. There must’ve been only three bedrooms upstairs, and two bathrooms if that.
There was no way an entire fraternity actually lived here, unless they all camped out downstairs in the living room.
Once he finds the nearest available space, which just so happens to be a bathroom, he pulls me in with him, and goes to lock the door.
“Dove, what the fuck! You run out on me at the game, you disappear for the whole weekend, and then I find you here, wasted and completely out of it!”
His words mix together and his rant comes out in inaudible grunts, which I can’t piece together into real sentences. My head was buzzing, and I couldn’t remember how many cups I had filled up for myself.
“Dove, hello?” He snaps me out of it, and goes to wave his hands like a maniac in front of my face.
“Shhh,” I press my pointer finger to his lips, and go to back him up against the bathroom door. “I’m here to have fun.”
“No, Dove, you can’t -”
But his complaints are cut short when I practically lunge myself at him, and our lips meet for what seems like the first time in forever, even if it’s only been a few days. I move so that I am sucking harshly at his neck, sure to leave marks, but that was the least of my concerns right then.
“Dove, stop -”
“You don’t want me?” I put on an innocent face, and pout my lips, to which he lets out a groan of frustration.
“No, not when you’re like this.”
“Well, too bad,” I chuckle, and go to silence him with my lips again. He gives in, kissing me back with equal force, his tongue tasting of mint and alcohol, but he was surely more sober than I was.
He must’ve hated smelling the alcohol on my breath, because I remember him telling me time and time again how much he loved my innocence, in all aspects of life that is, and how much it turned him on that he was the first guy to be able to make feel the things that he did.
And I guess I too, absolutely loved the idea of him being the only one to have had me in such intimate positions, and given me even more intimate experiences.
Sam was never able to deliver that, and it frustrated me.
And all that sexual frustration had built up, until I could finally release it that evening on the rooftop.
The rooftop.
“I want you to touch me,” I breathe against his lips, and he pulls back, shocked.
“I can’t -”
“Fine,” I smile, and bring his mouth to mine once more. “Then I will.”
My hand reaches down between us and I go to palm him through his jeans, and the most beautiful moan escapes his lips, as his eyes dart down to meet my movements over the fabric.
“Dove -”
“Just stop talking,” I use my free hand to bring it up to his cheek, caressing it softly, mismatching my movements otherwise over his growing bulge.
“I can’t, please,” he begs.
Why couldn’t he just shut his fucking mouth?
I came to realise that he couldn’t help himself, and so I had to keep kissing him. I take his bottom lip between my teeth and bite down harshly, and lower my other hand, my fingers fumbling with the belt holding up his jeans.
“No…” he moaned, but it came out as more of a plea for me to keep going, or at least that’s how I interpreted it.
But when the belt had dropped to the floor, the metal of the buckle making contact with the tiles in a thud, the loud sound caused a ringing in my ears, and I pressed my palms to my temples at the pain.
“Theo,” I slur, and the last thing I see, before my body falls limp as my legs give out, and complete blackness overtakes my vision, is his large arms extending out to catch me into a secure hold.
The tattoo that I still hadn’t gotten around to explore, crying for me, for my misery. How did I not even notice what it was before?
A tattoo of a wolf face, on the back of his hand.
How fitting.