Free Varian Krylov by Hurt

perceived my life—the things that make up my life—differently.
    Things I'd thought were little problems, things I could live with, were suddenly thrown into relief, and I saw how big they were. And other things, that had seemed big, overwhelming, just didn't matter anymore."
    "So you left him?"
    "I knew that if I told him what was going on, he'd need to stay with me. Take care of me. I couldn't have stood that. I don't love him anymore. So I told him that. Told him I'd stay at a hotel until he finds a place."
    "How long were you with him?"
    70

    "Almost two years."
    "And you're not going to tell him?"
    "No."
    The guilt she'd been feeling for days, ever since she'd decided, welled up fast and hard. She suddenly felt anxious. Nauseous. She stared off into the city-melting sunset, willing herself to calm. It was the right thing. It was.
    When she turned away from the horizon, back to Galen, he was gazing at her.
    Assessing. Pondering. Working her out. And she didn't care. Another thing she'd let go—not wanting people to look inside of her.

    * * * *
Galen didn't seem to want her to leave. Every time she made a move to go he gave her a reason to stay. First the coffee. Then he lured her into the hot tub, where she thought he'd surely fuck her again, but where, instead, he gave her the best foot massage she could remember ever getting. Then, apparently, it was necessary that they both have showers, but separately. She was shown to the guest bath, for that. And then, long after it had gone dark, he made dinner. They'd passed hour after hour together, in tense quiet. Except for the coffee klatch, they'd hardly talked.
    And through it all she was dying for him to touch her, to kiss her. To fuck her. Not like that afternoon, on the couch. Like that first night. She fixated on parts of him: his mouth as he took a drink of water, his lips pressed to the clear glass, imagining them touching her lips, her neck, her sex; his hands as he kneaded the arches and balls of her feet, remembering the feel of his grip on her wrists, the contrast of the delicate way he'd touched her nipples, her cunt. His smile. Prickles danced between her shoulder 71

    blades at the memory of his teasing grin as he'd taunted her, even scared her the other night. Even the sound of his voice shaping mundane phrases—telling her where she'd find clean towels, asking her if she'd like wine with dinner—reminded her of the deep, low growl he made when he felt pleasure, when he was close to climax. By the time they'd finished eating, she was a nervous mass of need. When he asked her to go for a drive with him, she almost came back with, “Jesus, Galen. Aren't you ever going to fuck me?' But, frustrated and wanting as she was, she just said, “Sure.”
    When Galen pulled the car alongside the curb in front of Toys in Babeland, and she saw dildos and vibrators arrayed in rows spreading across the expanse of storefront window like some surreal Technicolor mountain range, she felt an unsettling confluence of relief and apprehension trickling into her hot, pulsing veins. She looked over. There was that grin. She was in.
    They stepped inside. Galen drew her over to a corner at the front of the store and stood behind her, so they both had a view of the venue and all the toys on offer. Her focus flitted around the room, from display to display, locking onto a swirly glass dildo one moment, a frighteningly enormous red rubbery-looking thing the next, as she tried to take it all in. His hands resting on her shoulders, Galen kissed her neck, then mouthed her earlobe, making all her skin feel tight and tickly, then biting it so hard she almost yelped out loud and her eyes suddenly felt wet and stinging before an incredible cascade of tingles washed down her entire body. It was at that moment she realized he was the best lover she'd had.
    "Vanka," he sighed near her ear, his voice and his warm breath prolonging the tingling sensation cloaking her body, "we're going to get