Elijah’s Will

ELIJAH'S WILL

" L ove is best measured in what we forgive."

My back meets the couch cushions as I lean away from the television.

T would love that Nightcrawler quote. She'd squeeze my hand after hearing it as we watch X-Men '97 , as if it solves every ounce of guilt that still eats at me every time I look into her eyes.

But all that old self-loathing kicks up like dust on a road I no longer travel.

I've never met someone as beautiful as she is, and in a way that makes her ethereal. People like her don't really exist anymore. Unconditional love is no longer the norm. And I'm the villain in a lot of stories because I almost lost her in my own downward spiral. We danced beautifully as we circled the drain. But she woke up one day and left me behind until I could find the courage to climb out of the depths of my addiction.

And somehow, I did.

I hear her footsteps, quiet padding of bare feet on marble that barely echo through this massive apartment we share. She always jokes about how we're so high up, we can't hear the city beneath us. But I love the feeling of being so utterly alone with her.

Maybe I swapped out addictions, but when I glance over in the direction of the hallway and catch sight of her, desire ricochets. I swear it starts in my chest, an ache I've only ever experienced with her. She's wearing her signature color; black little short shorts that sit perfectly on her hips. My favorite pair. When she bends over, I can see more than she'd be comfortable with if she knew. So I don't say anything, simply marveling at the sight of her perfect ass.

Her long, thick curls hang down her back, tickling her waist, and she tucks a few behind her ear as she focuses on her phone. She stops for a moment, and I watch her face morph with concentration, licking her lips before tugging her bottom one between her teeth. I damn near groan at the sight, wishing I could bite into the plumpness myself. Or catch her cries as I'm buried deep inside of her.

She taps at the screen, typing a message to someone. In a rare moment where she doesn't shy away from me when she notices me staring, I drink her in.

And I wish I could stop time and exist in a limbo where the past isn't as bad as it was, and the future doesn't feel as timid as she is in my presence.

That's what pain does, it makes you wary. I know. Pain is what started the darkness that used to suffocate me. Back when Teófila was the only light I ever knew.

"I can feel you staring," she murmurs before looking at me through her lashes. A soft smile curves her lips and before I can stop myself, I crook my finger. My legs are spread where I sit on our sectional and the space there is exactly where I want her.

Everything here is ours. But me? I'm just hers.

"C'mere." I hardly make a sound, but she knows me in a way that is sometimes eerie. To be heard when you haven't uttered a word? Beautiful and terrifying.

She slides her phone into her back pocket, walking over to me, and it isn't lost on me how pliable she is; how easily she comes when I call.

It's something I will never take for granted ever again.

Her body is fluid, lithe in a way I don't think she is aware of. Sexy without ever really trying. She brings her arms together, as if to shield herself from me. I know why, but it still stings.

This woman makes me want to kneel at her feet and worship her for as long as there's breath in my body.

"I'm here," she whispers as she stops just in front of me. My face is in line with her stomach, and I reach out, my hands splaying on her hips, and she yelps as I drag her body forward. Toward me and my greedy desire for her.

"I missed you." I push into her, my face in her flesh. When her fingers stroke my head, I look up, pressing my chin into her.

"I was only gone for a few minutes," she tells me, her smile widening as she shakes her head. Those long, dark curls of hers frame her face like an intricate design. There isn't a piece of her that I don't love.

"The longest few minutes of my life," I say as I slide my hands over to her ass. She giggles and when I reach up to tug at the hem of her shorts, she squeals. Her phone falls from her pocket as I yank her shorts down her legs, smoothing my palms over her round backside.

How could I have ever let her go? How — I feel her hands run down to my jaw and she lifts my head so my eyes meet hers.

A soft smile and the slightest shake of her head.

She knows me better than I know myself.

There's a softness she never lost, even as she protects herself from me and the disaster that I've been. Somewhere, deep inside of her, there's the girl I fell in love with when she was too busy reading about love to experience it for herself.

"I need you," I utter, wading through these feelings that threaten to pull me under. The public knows me as Elijah Williams, talented and rich. But there isn't another person in this world who knows me as intimately as Teófila does.

And right now, I want to know her in a way only I've experienced.

"I'm here," she whispers, crossing her arms over her stomach to lift the hem of her shirt over her head.

There's no bra to hide her mauve nipples, her teardrop breasts, the beauty mark on her stomach that I used to trace when I was younger. She's fully naked and for the first time in a long time, she lets me look at her, at the space between her thighs. The slit there begs for me to trace it with my tongue.

I'm riding on this strange high of desire while being tugged at by guilt. But I push it down as I let lust take over.

My bare palm splays across her lower back as I stand and pull her against me.

"You're never leaving me," I remind her, sliding my fingers through her hair to grip the curls and bring her body impossibly closer.

She shakes her head before pressing her mouth to mine. I swallow her sigh as she jumps to wraps her legs around my waist. I'm about to take her to our bedroom when I stop short. Wordlessly as we kiss fervently, I near one of our massive windows and I can feel her tense.

"Trust me," I murmur, knowing it's something she's still working on. After all, I'd completely obliterated all the trust she once had in me. But if we're moving forward, we should move forward. Even if at a snail's pace.

I owe her my patience. And so much more.

Still, in this instance, trust should come a little easier.

"I'm trying to," she tells me, staring into my eyes in a way that makes me drown in the inky darkness of them. So deep I can see my reflection in them.

That's what she is to me.

"I want to love your body in front of the world."

"But—" she sputters, clinging to me as we near the wall of glass.

"I'll shield you," I reassure her as I turn her nakedness away from the window and walk backward until it's me against the glass. My eyes stare into hers, waiting to see that she's comfortable.

Because I'm not making love to her until I know she's right here with me.

Her lips part as she runs her hands over my cheeks before bringing my face toward hers for a kiss. I'm already hard, ready, but I fall into the slow kiss she's introduced. I wish I took my fucking shirt off before I picked her up, hating that I can't feel her skin, her heartbeat battering against mine.

Desperate to feel more, I bend forward, letting her fall back a little as I swipe my tongue over the perfect peak of her nipple. Her whimper has me repeating the action before pulling it into my mouth and releasing it with a slight pop.

When I glance down at my erection in these shorts, I notice the wet spot she left on them, having ground her pussy against one of my thighs.

"Want me to take care of you, baby?" I ask before licking my fingers. I hoist her so she's leaning to one side and rub at her clit with my thumb. Her grunt mixed with her slickness lets me know she's ready for more. I press my middle and ring fingers inside of her before continuing to rub her clit with my thumb.

Cheap tricks I'd picked up on the way back to her have finally found significance in her presence. There isn't a part of her body I wouldn't touch, taste, take care of.

It doesn't take her long to orgasm, contracting around my fingers. And it makes her greedy for more as she reaches into my basketball shorts, gripping my dick. I wince as she squeezes, knowing that if she keeps it up, I'll come quick.

But the deep sigh of relaxation when I enter her slowly reminds me of the sound of contentment, like I'm putting out a fire within her. Impossible. She's just ignited mine further and I grip her as tightly as I can as I flex my hips at an impossible pace. She's wrapped around me like she was made for me, and I pull back to look at her. To witness what I do to her.

Her face morphs with pleasure, eyes closed, lips parted, as she comes around my dick, pulsing and squeezing me. I can feel the beginnings of my own orgasm as it tingles through me. She slaps her hand onto the window behind me and as my legs start to weaken, we slide down to the floor. I lean my head back as the last waves of pleasure subside, holding her hips flush against mine.

We're silent for a moment, ragged breaths shared between us, and when I open my eyes, she's staring at me.

I can't read her, but she brings her hand to my chest and my heartbeat thumps under her palm. I ache to tell her that it belongs to her, but how many more ways can I reassure her?

"Still trying to get me to do things I'm scared of?" She smiles around her question, and I'm brought back to her seventeenth birthday, to every milestone we've shared, every version of her that I loved along the way.

I want more than anything to continue loving every evolution of Teófila, to be worthy of her every day of my life.

"Marry me," I whisper, her eyes widening at the question in a way that makes me think she's never heard me ask it before. We both know that isn't true.

She presses her lips together before leaning forward. Her forehead meets mine as she whispers, "You're not ready yet, amor ."

Hurt lances through my chest but I try hard to hide it. I know T. I know she still struggles with living authentically when faced with potential discomfort. And I only want her if she undoubtedly wants me, even when the truth hurts.

"I don't understand," is all I can mutter after blinking a few times. I'm still holding her like a life preserver, and I pull away a little so she doesn't feel crowded.

"I need to know that you can live without me." Her eyes are misty, and she swallows before she continues. "Your sobriety can't be incumbent on my presence. I need you to love yourself and choose yourself. I need that in order to be your wife."

She sits on my lap, naked, with me still inside of her, offering me her vulnerability. I try to take my feelings out of the equation, seeing her valid perspective.

I'd give this woman the world…but she doesn't want it.

She just wants me to be healthy and sober.

And if that's the only gift I can give her, so be it. It's the least I can do; find a way to get to a place where I'm no longer the person I was after that night years ago.

I nod, pulling her hand from my chest and pressing a kiss to her wrist before placing her palm on my cheek. I lean into it, and she leans forward, placing her face against my neck. We sit like this for a while, relishing the rare silence of my life. No assistants, no manager, no housekeeper, no one blowing up my phone.

I made a deal when I came back completely sober: one day a week where no one calls me unless there's an emergency. I need it to feel human, to attend therapy, and for my N.A. meetings.

And I devote the rest of those days to making sure T can feel my love for her. Sometimes I take her out, but mostly she likes to stay in and avoid the paparazzi.

Even after all these years of being a celebrity, it still shocks me sometimes. T hates the lack of privacy, the loud fans screaming our names, the way women grab me inappropriately. Most of all, she hates the easy and inevitable access to drugs, the things I used to lean on when I didn't know what to do with the pain inside.

She doesn't know but I don't even miss the high anymore. A dangerous high that merely deepened my sober low until I was on life support.

Because sadness and shame will kill you if you don't address it. But back then I didn't want to appear weak.

So I hid from my best friend, the love of my life, because I didn't know how to be worthy of her anymore. She nearly drowned with me, but in her true fashion, managed to save us both. She became my beacon of hope.

Only, now she wants me to learn how to save myself.

For her, I would do so much more. For her, I'll spend the rest of my life kissing the emotional scars I covered her in. For her, I would heal.

"I love you," I breathe, and for once I'm not internally pleading with her to say it back. To soothe my ache and to chase my fears. She's done enough. It's my turn to take on the labor of love.

But this time when she does say it back, I have no choice but to believe her.

"I love you , Elijah. Thank you for always finding your way back to me."