Chapter VIII - Aurora
962 Words
This morning I woke up with a whirlwind in my head and a knot in my stomach.
My brain keeps insisting Tom won't get on that bus.
It's ridiculous: we didn't even agree on a time, I don't know where he lives or which stop he uses. And if he's always taken this route, how is it possible we've never crossed paths?
Enough.
I force myself to shove the thoughts away as I pick out an outfit with embarrassing care: a red wrap top that shows a hint of skin and ruthlessly boosts my cleavage, and high-waisted black skinny jeans so tight they look painted on. In the mirror, my reflection stares back as if asking whether that's really me. I feel ridiculous, like I'm wearing a costume. But time is running out, and it's too late to rethink everything.
I skip breakfast.
My stomach is too tight, and honestly, throwing up in front of him doesn't sound like the ideal start to the day.
I leave the house with my headphones in, audiobook on, desperately trying to mute the chaos in my head.
But fate clearly wants to mess with me.
I hang up just as the protagonists give in to passion.
And God, did the author really need to be that explicit?
His strong hands travel down her body, undressing her slowly—painfully slowly—with such precise detail that heat curls up my spine. His fingers skim every sensitive spot with almost cruel accuracy; she gasps, moaning in a sound so deep it drills right into my bones.
And suddenly, it's no longer them.
It's me. And... Thomas.
He's the one touching me, sliding his fingertips over my bare skin, exploring every inch with that deliberate slowness that drives me insane.
His breath wraps around me—hot, uneven—while the tension grows, knots, tightens.
His hands grip my hips, digging into my skin as if he wants to leave a mark.
I feel his chest pressed to my back: warm, solid, unyielding. Every breath, every touch hits like a jolt.
And then there's his mouth.
God. His mouth on mine. And not gently.
The way he kisses me tastes like hunger, like possession—like it's the only thing keeping him alive. His lips drag along my skin, tasting, claiming—moving up from my neck to my jaw, and then—
«No!»
I rip off my headphones as if they're burning me, shove them into their case with so much force they almost fly out of my hand.
Screw audiobooks—I need a fire extinguisher.
I focus on the noise of the city, definitely less dangerous, trying to ignore my heart hammering in the worst possible moment.
I get on the bus, stomach twisted even tighter, eyes scanning the seats for him. Nothing.
I drop into an empty seat and let out a small sigh.
Disappointed.
Even though I was expecting it.
«It's not very polite to ignore your chaperone, young lady.»
The warm voice reaches me from behind, sliding down my spine like a current. All the heat and tension I had just forced down come roaring back.
«I might have to punish you... perhaps by taking you somewhere highly inappropriate from a manners perspective.»
He's so close I can feel his breath on my neck, that minty scent curling into my senses.
My stomach twists—and something in me ignites, reckless and sharp.
A sudden wave of courage crashes through me, as if every cell in my body is begging me to turn fantasy into reality.
«What if that's exactly what I want?»
The words slip out before I can stop them. I should regret it. I don't.
Behind me, a low, rough laugh. Then his voice brushes my ear again, deeper now:
«Careful, young lady... Wanting is the easy part.»
His hand trails along my arm and stops at my hip. My heart takes off.
«Handling what comes next... that's an entirely different story.»
And then, because he's infuriating, he pokes a finger into that damn spot on my side that always makes me jump.
«Tom!» I yelp, springing to my feet and spinning around.
«Aurora.»
He lights up with a devastating smile, dips his head in an exaggerated bow, then circles the seat and drops beside me.
«I was looking for you... I checked everywhere but couldn't see you.»
His laugh vibrates against me, and with a quick, infuriating gesture, he presses a kiss to my cheek.
Again.
And my heart detonates in my chest. Again.
«I was in the back.» He points at the last row—what everyone calls the pigeon loft. «I was waiting for you.»
«So you were already here... do you live farther than I do?»
Something in his expression tightens, but he nods. «Yeah. Something like that.»
A second later, the tension melts from his shoulders beneath the petrol-colored sweater, and his smile returns.
«Ready for another boring day?»
But nothing was boring that day. Or the days after.
Even the lessons felt lighter, because at the end of each one, he was waiting for me by the door.
The thought alone kept me going: a quiet mix of anxiety and excitement warming my stomach.
I still felt awkward about needing a chaperone, but he kept insisting it wasn't a burden.
«You keep me company,» he'd say with a shrug, in that disarming way that left no room for argument.
So he kept walking me around—day after day—turning the campus into a map of silly instructions.
«Count the columns, the fifth one has a scratch—that's where you turn.»
Or: «Follow the black tiles, they'll take you to chemistry.»
Within a week, I could already navigate by myself.
- Writer
