Mad Valentine: A Bad Boy Romance (Mad Valentine Trilogy Book 1) (13 page)

I was wet—so wet—and I wanted him now because I knew I wouldn’t last long. I rose on my knees, pulling my dress up my thighs.

“Victor,” I said breathlessly, “I want you. I want you now.”

Wordlessly, he reached under my dress and looked up at me for permission. I nodded once, then closed my eyes as his hands left trails of fire down my thighs. He pulled my thong down to my knees and guided them over my leg as I shifted, leaving me bare, throbbing, and waiting for him.

Victor began to unbuckle his belt but I pushed his hands gently aside. I kissed him as I undid the belt myself. He acquiesced, giving me all control. When I unzipped him, I realized with shock and pleasure that he wasn’t wearing underwear, just like in my dream. Eagerly, I took his cock in my hand and stroked the length of it—it was huge, just like in my dream.

Finally,
I thought.
I’ve been wanting this for so long.

“Wait,” he said, his voice raspy. He reached into his pocket and produced a condom. At the sight of it, I couldn’t help but tease.

“Came prepared, did we?”

“A guy can always hope,” he said with a grin.

I rolled the condom onto his hard, hot shaft, using just the right amount of pressure to make him moan. I was so wet and ready I knew I didn’t need any further stimulation. Victor caressed the backs of my legs, and as I held him firmly in my hand, I lowered myself onto him, feeling the entire length of his shaft enter me.

“Oh, god!” I gasped as I felt how deep he was inside me. Victor groaned and tightened his grip on my ass. His hips slowly moved with mine, and I began to ride him, feeling his cock wake sensations deep inside of me as I moved my body up and down.

With my dress a pool of satin around my hips, I began to ride faster. Victor wrapped one arm around my waist and grasped my breast with his other hand.

“Ellen,” he groaned. I felt urgency in his hip movements and his undulations turned into grinding thrusts. Gripping the back of his neck and riding the motions, I pressed my body to his, bare skin to bare skin. As I felt myself throbbing and pulsating around his cock, I knew I was close. He thrust harder, pushing deeper inside of me and I felt like a dam about to break. As I arched my back, he held me with a vice-like grip, and with a final, massive thrust, we both crashed into blinding orgasms.

I panted, recovering, my eyes closed and my body sweaty. When I finally looked down at Victor, he reached for my face and kissed me.

“You take my breath away,” he said.

*

That night, I broke the seatbelt law of the state of Oregon. As Victor drove me home, I nestled next to him on the bench seat, resting my head on his broad chest and loving the weight of his arm around my shoulders. I wore his tuxedo jacket and breathed in his clean, woodsy scent. I felt perfectly happy.

At my apartment, Victor agreed to stay the night with me. I undressed in front of him and lay down on the bed, my eyes begging him to touch me again. He slowly took off his shirt, then his pants, and I breathed in sharply at the sight of his naked body. Every one of his muscles was defined; he was the perfect male form. As he lay next to me, he slowly ran his hand down my body, his hand stopping finally where my thighs met. I spread my legs a little wider, waiting for him and wanting him.

Maybe it was because of his hurt rib, or maybe it was because of something else, but he made love to me so tenderly that night. As we caught our breath again after our final throes, his eyes shone with a look other than affection. Was it…melancholy? It was as if we were experiencing the end of something, instead of just the beginning.

XXIX. The Morning After

I rolled over, still half asleep and murmuring happily. I reached out, expecting to drape my arm over Victor’s warm chest. Instead, my arm met cold, empty air.

I blinked my eyes open. In the bright morning light, I saw that my bed was empty. I turned to look around the tiny studio. The bathroom door was ajar; nobody was in there. The kitchen was dark and lifeless. Slowly, in layered stages of recognition, I realized Victor was gone.

Then my eyes caught sight of his tuxedo jacket hanging on the back of a chair at the dining table. Clumsily, my limbs still heavy with sleep, I got out of bed and wrapped my bathrobe around me. I went to the jacket and saw a note on the table. Victor’s clean handwriting spelled out these words:

Last night meant more to me than you’ll ever know. But please go live your life. I’ll never be the man I want to be for you. You’ll always have me as a friend, but please, Ellen. Find a more deserving man to love you.

—Victor

P.S. Keep the tuxedo jacket. It looked better on you than it did on me.

“No.” I shook my head. “No.”

I read the entire note again three or four times. Then, with a growing sense of dread, I repeated, “No, no, no!” I glanced desperately all around for my phone.

This is just a joke. Or a misunderstanding. He doesn’t really mean in. God damn it, where is my phone?!

Finally, I realized I didn’t have my phone because it had been in my clutch, which I had thoughtlessly left behind at the gala. Frantically, I got dressed, grabbed the note, and ran out the door to Maggie’s.

I ran all the way to Maggie’s apartment, almost a mile away. I pounded on her door.

“Mags, do you have my phone?” I demanded when she answered, sleepy-eyed. She rolled her eyes and shuffled back into her apartment, which she shared with two other girls. I followed her in, panting and trying to catch my breath. “Mags? Mags!”

“Yes, I have your phone,” she said, sounding exasperated. “Look, I could rip into you for so many reasons right now, but I’ll just limit myself to one question: what the fuck happened to you last night?”

I struggled with the myriad answers I could give. But my eyes welled with tears as I landed on the only real answer to it all.

“I love him, Maggie,” I said.

“Who? Let me guess, Victor Valentine?”

I nodded, standing my ground. She could sass and judge and try to rationalize my feelings as a silly crush as much as she wanted. But I needed my best friend to understand the truth.

“I love him, and he loves me. But this morning, he left me.” A single, wet tear slid down my face, and I handed Maggie the note. Perplexed, Maggie took the note and read it, a shadow crossing her face as her eyes moved over the words. And for the first time ever in a conversation about Victor Valentine, she seemed to show some compassion.

“Oh, Ellen,” she said with a sigh as she sat heavily onto the couch.

“He left me,” I repeated, my heart breaking all over again at the words.

“El, come here. Sit down.” She patted the couch and I went to her and sank into the cushions. “I’m sorry, hon, but he’s right. You’re going to New York, and you have a bright future with lots of new guys—
great
guys—waiting to meet you. Don’t hold out for Victor. He already knows it’s hopeless.”

I gasped for air, disbelieving and angry. “Why does everybody think that? Just because Victor has a broken family and some tattoos? I’m sick of hearing that!”

Maggie sighed again. “Ellen, I know you’re going to do what you want. But please let me say this for your sake: let him go.”

I looked at my friend, who returned my gaze with a look of compassion. I wrapped my arms around her and cried.

Later, after I had calmed down, Maggie gave me my black satin clutch. I dug my phone out and called Victor. I let myself hope that he would pick up. He didn’t.

I left a message and resolved to try again later. Maggie was sweet enough to spend the whole day with me. She told me about Warren after I had left the party—apparently he had apologized and drunkenly asked if I would be mad at him forever. She told him she didn’t know. I told Maggie then that I honestly didn’t know either.

Maggie suggested a trip to the bowling alley to lift our spirits, and when I didn’t respond to that, she suggested lunch and a movie with Archie. That sounded good to me—Archie was an excellent cheerer-upper, and a movie might distract me from my thoughts. So we headed out, Maggie chatting lightly to brighten the mood, and me dragging a heavy heart around wherever I went. And this is how it went for many weeks.

XXX. Silence

During the first week, I called Victor frequently and stopped by his apartment, the hope of him picking up the phone or buzzing me in still foremost in my mind. By the second week, I started to feel like a stalker, so I stopped going to his apartment and only called every once in a while. Only when I saw or did something memorable did I leave him a message. Like in late February, when I found out my Stu profile got placed as the Person of the Year feature, I called to share the good news.

“Victor, Stu officially got The Merritt Daily’s Person of the Year! Isn’t that great? Please tell Stu for me. I miss you. Please call me.”

The next week, after what had literally been a decade of patient coaching from Maggie, I bowled my first game over 180.

“Hi, friend. I bowled my highest score today. A whopping 181. I wish you were there to see it. I’ll never be as good as Maggie, but I bet I can kick your ass. Call me, okay?”

I tried to avoid calling and leaving a message for no good reason, but it happened sometimes.

“I’m lying in bed and thinking of you. I haven’t seen or talked to you in almost four weeks, but it feels so much longer. I—I still think we can work things out, Victor. Maybe you’ll change your mind. Please call me if you do.”

But I got no call. Eventually, I stopped leaving messages.

It was around this time that I got an email answer from Edwin Jackson, Stu’s friend at
Esquire
. He said he’d be happy to point me in the right direction for an internship, and we emailed back in forth. I submitted my application, résumé, transcript, and three writing samples (I included Stu’s profile), and soon I was scheduling a phone interview with Regina Black, the features editor at
Esquire.

The interview happened on a Thursday morning, before my Gothic Literature class. I dressed professionally to get myself in the right headspace, even though it was only a phone interview. I had already interviewed with the
Village Voice
but hadn’t heard back from them yet, and I had to admit
Esquire
was a more pedigreed publication than the funky, counterculture
Voice
. I would have gladly taken positions at either publication, but I wanted to prove to myself that I could get into the big leagues if I tried.

The interview with Regina went well—in fact, I thought I hit it out of the ballpark. She told me they would review my application and be in touch in about two weeks. I went off to class slightly jittery. I thought about calling Victor and leaving a message, but I opted against it. It was only an interview, after all. Nothing was set in stone.

But the following week, as I was stepping out of the apartment for a day at the library, I got a call from a New York number. My heart skipped a beat. I picked up. It was Regina.

“Sorry to call out of the blue, Ellen, but we’re close to making a decision and we’re wondering if you could chat quickly with Galvin. It won’t take long at all, just a few questions.”

“Uh—Galvin? You mean Galvin Rousseau, the editor-in-chief of
Esquire
?”

“That’s right, Ellen. He’s very involved with our internship program and likes to get a feel for our candidates before making a final decision,” Regina replied glibly. “Can you hold?”

“Uh, sure?” I said uncertainly, seeing stars.

There was a blip on the phone, then a moment of silence, another blip, then a smooth, authoritative voice came over the phone.

“Good afternoon, Ellen. This is Galvin Rousseau. How are you today?”

“H—Hello, Mr. Rousseau. I’m doing very well, thank you. How are you?”

“Excellent, thanks. Ellen, I want to tell you I’m very impressed with your clips. You write with a kind of insight and lyricism we don’t usually see from a person your age.”

“Thank you, Mr. Rousseau,” I said breathlessly.

“Now, I’d like to welcome you to our internship program, but first can you tell me about why you’d like to work at our features desk over all the others?”

“Well, sir—” I started, but he cut me off.

“Please, call me Galvin.”

“Um, well, Galvin, I prefer feature writing because I’m interested in people. I’ve always best understood big issues, national trends, and even breaking news through stories of personal struggle.” I recalled explaining this to Victor as we sat over ribs that one night. I remembered how he had said I had a rare talent, that I was the best profile writer he’d ever read. It felt so long ago and I felt a tug at my heart as the weight of how much I missed him hit me. “I think struggle is something we all relate to, and I know how to capture struggle and how to explain issues through profiles of people. I know I’m good at it,” I said, thinking of Victor’s words. “In fact, I’m excellent.”

“Well, that is a very self-assured answer, Ellen.” There was a moment of silence and my stomach dropped, fearing I had come off as too arrogant and boastful.

“And that is exactly the kind of attitude we need our writers and editors to have. I like your confidence and your keen sense of place in the world and in the newsroom. I’d like to offer you the summer internship with the features desk at
Esquire
, effective this June. How does that sound?”

“It sounds perfect, sir! I mean, Galvin. Thank you very much, Galvin!”

The smooth voice gave a deep laugh. “You’re welcome, Ellen. I look forward to seeing you on staff. I’ll have HR send you the necessary forms. Have a great day, Ellen.”

“You too, thank you!”

I hung up the phone in a daze, then let out a loud stream of elated expletives. “Holy mother of Christ! I got a fucking internship at mother fucking
Esquire
!” I jumped with a whoop and did a pirouette.
Fuck the library,
I thought.
I have to tell Maggie I’m going to New York!

As I rushed out of the house to share my happy news, I tried to ignore the part of me that wasn’t happy at all—the part of me that knew once I left Merritt, I would never see Victor again.