His breath smells of whisky and he tastes of it, too. The stone wall is a little rough behind my back, I can feel its coolness through the slinky shirt, but he's so hot against me, one hand squeezing my butt and the other cupping my face. He growls under his breath as I suck on his tongue, thrusts it deeper into my mouth.

He's rough, he wants me, and heaven help me but I want him too. Never stopped wanting. For years it's been memories of him that have made me go hard, now the real thing is here and bites my neck and I want him now, quickly, just this once more. Please. Fuck me. Let me feel your hands and teeth and arms and cock and lips and everything I've been missing. I've missed you, I want you, I – yes, please, give me more to remember.

That dark hair is rough and familiar between my fingers, I clench my fist around it and gasp for breath when I'm squeezed between him and the wall, try to spread my legs so I could hump against his thigh. Gods, he's hard as he presses against me, rubs it into my stomach and I can't help mewling aloud. Yes, fuck me, please, fuck me.

Somehow the evening has passed us by, he's been sitting and chatting and drinking with me all the while and not once said anything about what must be equally plain to both of us. There's no way he couldn't see and know what I am, but he's chosen not to say a thing. I'm grateful for that, really am. Now I can at least imagine afterwards that he didn't know and everything was all right, because there are no words to remember and be hurt by. He's looked into my eyes, talked, told me how his family is, he's laughed and somehow made me laugh too. He's made me feel like just anyone else, like I was still pure, and I'm grateful.

I've seen how the whisky has lit that glow in his eyes, made his tanned face flush just a little, made him shift to sit a little closer to me. I wish I knew how that works, but it has warmed me as well and brought back that persistent ache in the pit of my stomach, the throbbing of desire. It has forced me to sit with my legs open and let him see what he's done to me, it's brought that mischievous, knowing smile to tickle the corners of his mouth. It's finally made us finish our drinks and get up and head to the men's room to do what we both want so damn badly that we can barely walk that far.

I'm begging him now, I know it and am not even ashamed for it, please fuck me, open my pants and touch me and fuck me already, but all of a sudden he freezes and pulls back even though his breath is coming in gasps as well and his hands are shaking. My fingers dig into his shoulders and side, I swear aloud but he shakes his head. That big hand presses against the side of my face, thumb rubs my lower lip and evades when I try to suck on it. What're you saying? You can't mean no, you just fucking can't, not now –

"Listen to me, Nash, please, Nash! Listen!"

Don't shake me, your hands are hard now and they hurt me a bit – not much though, you're so strong you could easily hurt me bad though you never ever even tried. I try to focus on your eyes but my brain is still fuzzy with desire. It's so strong that I'm reeling.

"Fuck me, Fordan," I whisper. "Please. Do it. Just this once."

"Not here," he repeats more forcefully. "C'mon, I know a better place."

"No better place than right here, right now," I insist. I can't take this, just can't wait, but he looks me up and down and takes my hand. My fingers entwine with his and he squeezes them, pulls me along. I take a reluctant step and my eyes almost roll over; there's no fucking way I can walk twenty steps without coming in my pants, and I tell him as much. Fordan flashes me a pained smirk.

"Believe me, I know how you're feeling," he murmurs. "But if I can take it, so can you. Come, let's get out of here."

I let him drag me out of the restaurant and into the street, like I always let him. Never say no to him. We're not hurrying, no way we could, but the ache subsides a little and several times I almost close my eyes. I had no idea that it's so late. If I squint and use some imagination it's almost possible to detect the first faint glow of sunrise over the sea, but the stars are still bright as we pass by all the lights of the Beach Boulevard and go down to walk on the sand. It's wet, the tide is going down. Fordan kicks off his shoes and so do I.

We walk along the deserted beach hand in hand, carrying our shoes, side by side, arms pressing together. He's tall and warm and so familiar that I'm gulping even though I'm not looking at him. The figure I can see in the corner of my eye is enough to bring back so many memories. Too many memories. I don't want to think of them. This'll be a new memory. Us, here, on this beach, together. Like back when we were still in our teens and he used to kiss me and say that he –

No. Let's not go there. We're here now, tonight, and he wants me. But, as a matter of fact, why the hell are we walking here? That's what I'd like to know, not that I'll ask. No, not a word. I want to listen to the swishing sound of his steps on the sand, to the warmth that radiates from his arm to mine, to the long fingers that engulf my hand between them. There's all sorts of trash that the sea has left in its wake, Fordan steers us past the bigger piles and further away. Further away from the lights and the people and the city, towards the shadow of the rocks that loom ahead, closer with every step. He leads me on and I follow, listening to the sigh of the water creeping further from us. It's taking a breath before it comes back again and this is the lull. This is silence underlined.

We have to walk cautiously, the sand is far coarser here and riddled with small, sharp stones. There was a time when the soles of my feet were so hardened from all those hours and days spent on the beach that I'd hardly feel them, but now they prickle nastily and make me wince. This is crazy, to be walking here barefoot in our pants and shirts designed for an evening in town. Slowly, still further we pick our way, between the rocks that stick out of the sand, until he stops and sighs. His fingers clasp my hand tighter, and that is good because otherwise I'm not sure if I'd still be standing here.

I’ve known it all along, that this is where we’ve been headed, it’s just that my brain’s refused to take the fact in, but now it has to because we’re here. This is the place. The very same hidden cranny where we crept that afternoon, after we had been sunbathing and swimming and just lying there, on our straw mats, side by side. Arm brushing against arm, belly down, because otherwise someone would certainly have noticed how aroused we were. Peering at each other over a shoulder, grinning, teasing. I remember the glitter of his eyes when he winked and raised his head from the cradle of his arms, just enough to let me see how he slowly let the tip of his tongue glide along his lips. Those soft young lips, and mine were so soft too, young and pure and untainted by the kisses and cocks of customers.

This is where we walked, deigning to look casual, towels wrapped around our waist to try and hide what we didn't want to deny any longer. We didn't do it on the sand, no way, neither of us wanted any sand in awkward places; against the rock, right over there, where it's almost smooth to touch and not edged like a razor.

"Nash." He turns to face me, pulls me close and just holds me there. I can feel his heartbeat, his breathing, the way his hands slowly rub circles on my back and one of them climbs to sink into my hair. I breathe in his scent, his warmth, realize that my arms are around Fordan, that I'm clinging to him tight. I want him more than ever and I don't want to let go, no, please no.

"Nash," he says again, and there is wonder in his voice as he cups my face with one hand and looks at me through the darkness. "That I should find you here."

I smile a little. This is where I'm from. This is where we first met. Is it really such a wonder that he finds me here once more? But then maybe it is. I could’ve stayed anywhere in between, chosen any place, except that I didn’t. I gravitated here, because where else could I stay?

"You're more beautiful than ever," Fordan whispers and kisses my nose. "How do you do it, Nash?"

"I'm not," I somehow manage without choking. How can you say so? As if you didn't see the dirtied, jaded thing that I've become?

That’s when an ugly thought stabs through me. Maybe he's come back to his senses, at the last possible moment, back in that restaurant's men's room, and realized that he's about to fuck a whore whose health might be anybody's guess? Yes, that must be it. Reality has caught up with him at last.

"Yes you are," he insists, and now it’s him who’s leaning back against hard stone. Only this time it’s not a wall but the sloping side of a rock that rises way above our heads, and I feel his body relax against it, underneath me. His long arms are still around me, the fingers of one hand locked around the other wrist on the small of my back. Comfortably. I can see his smile, feel him sigh deep. "I’m so glad we’ve met again."

My eyes tear up but I just nod. Maybe he won’t notice, it’s so dark here and my hair’s grown long enough to hang almost to the bridge of my nose. Oh, I’m not sorry for seeing him once more; but I’m sorry because he had to see what’s become of me. And then he lifts my chin, bows closer, kisses me. Very softly, like someone precious.

"I’ve missed you, Nash," Fordan murmurs.

That’s when something breaks. I press my face into his shirt, clutch him, try to gasp some air in. There’s a sticky, tough, rough clot swelling in my throat and I can’t breathe, try to speak but no words come out. I choke on it and it hurts, it fucking hurts. I want to hit him for leaving me, for ever meeting me, for saying all those things to me and then leaving me behind, for holding me and fucking me and kissing me so that I have never been able to forget what it felt like. I want to tell him I hate him, but I can’t say one coherent word and his shirt is getting wet from tears and snot as I rub my face into his shoulder and fucking sob like a baby. Like the immature thing I am. Because isn’t that what happened? He grew up and moved on, whereas I’m the one stuck to the past and to what once was. How pathetic I am, and the final proof of it is that he should’ve found me back here. Where else would I have gone, except back to square one?

But Fordan just holds me tight, cradles me with his whole body and hums something under his breath, waits patiently until I can so-so breathe once more. His gaze is serious as he looks into my eyes and shakes his head a bit.

"Good gods how much I’ve hurt you," he says. "Can you ever forgive me, Nash?"

"You’ve done nothing wrong." My voice is not too steady but it’ll have to do. "Sorry. I’m sorry for this. I – I guess I’m a bit drunk. I’m fine, Fordan, really I am."

Fordan sighs and purses his lips. "Let’s fight about that later, who did wrong and to whom, okay? Right now, we’re here. Together, you and me. What’d you like us to do?"

My heart compresses into a painful knot. I still want him, and I should be clean too. It’s only a week since I last visited a doctor, it’s weird how particular I’ve been about my health although it’s really been for the customers’ sake and not myself, but I don’t want to tell that to him. It’s something too close to the ugly reality.

"You know what I’d like to do?" Fordan asks quietly. "I want to kiss you, right now. Then I want to walk to my hotel with you, and hold you until you fall asleep, and wake up with you in the morning. And at some point, if you feel like it, I’d very much want to have sex with you. How does that sound to you, Nash?"

I sag against him, empty like an old bundle of rags except for my longing for him.

"It sounds like heaven," I breathe and close my eyes when his lips press once more to my neck, so tender that I almost feel like crying again. The ridge of his erection is hard through the cloth, but this time his hands are gentle, not desperate, when they find their way under my clothes and touch me. Like something precious.