18 Baz
18
Baz
From the insulated portion of the beach bag, Dorian takes tiny bottles of wine and little containers of nuts, chopped meat, grapes, dates, and cheese cubes. There’s water, too, the kind with electrolytes. I grab a bottle and drink almost half of it without stopping. I also have to pee, and I’m not about to make a twenty-minute trek back to the parking lot, so I find a secluded spot behind some bushes. Thank goddess I have tissues and hand sanitizer in my bag.
“You’re lucky,” I complain, marching back to the blankets where Dorian lies at full length, one hand tucked behind his head. “All you have to do is pull your dick out and point to pee.”
“You’re right. That’s the best thing about having a dick.” Dorian drops a piece of cheese into his mouth. “Eat something, Baz, and then I need to reapply your sunscreen if you want to stay longer.”
“I want to stay forever.” I take a piece of ham and chew slowly, savoring the flavor. “Pretty sure this charcuterie picnic is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
More clouds have gathered across the sky, shielding us from the full glare of the late-afternoon sun. During the past few hours, several people have come and gone along the beach, but there’s no one in sight now.
Sitting cross-legged on the blankets, I nibble at more of the food and drink some of the wine, along with more water, while Dorian tells me about the collection of art back at his house in Nashville. He claims he’s got an original Monet, painted just for him—which blows my mind.
“I can’t believe he made you a painting,” I breathe. “I’d love to see it.”
“I’ll take you home with me sometime.”
A little shock of trepidation and delight runs through me. “But…the two weeks are almost up. We won’t have time—”
“Baz.” Dorian sits up, his eyes piercing mine with an intensity that makes me catch my breath. “Do you really think I’ll be done with you after two weeks?”
“I… Yes?”
“No.” He scoots closer, setting aside one of the food containers. “Two weeks isn’t nearly long enough.” His hand curves around my upper arm, sliding up to my shoulder. His thumb strokes against my collarbone.
“But what if I say no after the two weeks?” I murmur.
“That will put a damper on things. But I don’t think I’ll want to let you go, Basil, even then. Maybe not ever.”
He’s cupping my neck, leaning in, but I pull back, stricken by his use of my whole first name. “You know I’m not your Basil, right? My ancestor is gone for good.”
“I know,” Dorian says softly. “You remind me of him a little sometimes, and maybe that’s part of why I like you—five percent, maybe. The rest is all you. Just you, being your adorable, creative, insightful, stubborn self.”
The salty breeze picks up, swirling between us, tossing my hair and his. I breathe the air in, its wild flavor blended with a familiar hit of sage and cigarettes and delicate sweetness.
I want to say I like him, too. But what I feel for him is more complicated than a “like.” It’s deeper, more twisted and layered, with a base coat of thick darkness and highlights of scintillating, compelling need. I focus on the need part—the bone-wrenching desire to have his hands on me, to have his legs threaded with mine and the hard ridge of him grinding between my thighs.
I drink in the sight of him like wine—the shadow of his lashes on his pale cheeks, the parting of his rosy lips, a glint of white teeth. The smooth angle of his jaw. The flick of his blue eyes up to mine, the catch of his breath. I’ve leaned nearer without realizing it, and we’re hovering, our mouths a whisper apart. The proximity is liquid, dazzling, breathless—a heady temptation.
For a moment, I savor the agony of waiting.
And then I break.
When I kiss him, it’s quick, fierce—abrupt little passionate kisses sown over his mouth, his cheekbone, his jawline. He tips his head back with a soft gasp, giving me access to his throat, and I nibble along it, pressing my lips to his pulse point for a long moment, inhaling the salt heat of his skin.
I love having my mouth on him, being allowed to enjoy him this intimately. I try not to think about all the other mouths that have covered this same ground, but the thought is there, like a green, envious fleck in a swirl of rosy paint.
But I’m blissfully distracted by his fingers reaching in, cupping the inseam of my shorts. The heel of his hand rocks against me, rubbing expertly with just the right amount of pressure.
“Oh god,” I breathe, propping my forearms on Dorian’s shoulders.
He shifts his hand to my waistband and wriggles those long fingers underneath, into the heated, damp space between my legs. But he can’t get the angle he wants, so he pulls his hand out and moves me, setting my back to his chest, my ass nestled between his thighs.
With a hum of satisfaction, he nuzzles against my cheekbone, kisses my temple, while his fingers make quick work of the button on my shorts. He draws down the zipper slowly, sliding one finger over my damp panties.
Every other guy I’ve been with, when we got to third base, has grunted something like “Damn, you’re wet for me, baby,” and while that’s hot, I like it better when Dorian just kisses my cheek again and strokes that same finger slowly, slowly over the damp material until it’s thoroughly soaked.
Then his fingertips tease the waistband of the panties away from my lower belly. He massages the soft flesh, working his way down with leisurely little circles, until I’m panting, almost whimpering.
This is what it’s like to be helpless in the hands of someone who really knows what they’re doing.
When his index finger finds my clit, I whine softly.
Dorian gives a low hum of triumph, his other hand gliding from my waist up to my chest. He nudges beneath the tank top and the thin bra, sliding his warm hand over my whole left breast.
Meanwhile, his fingertip is circling, tantalizing the delicate bud under those wet panties. He slides lower, tracing the seam of me, and the ripples of pleasure grow wider and deeper.
Two fingers, gliding in deep, thrusting into the wetness with a sound that makes me tense with embarrassment. His fingers pause inside me.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “That sound means I’m doing my job well. Relax for me, Baz.”
Taking a deep, shivering breath, I obey, and he moves into a steady rhythm, his central two fingers slightly curled, the heel of his hand hitting just right with every thrust.
I can’t believe this is happening. Can’t believe I’m sitting on a beach with my pants open, staring with pleasure-glazed eyes at the wild beauty of the sea and the tree graveyard, while Dorian Gray finger-fucks me, kisses my cheek, and fondles my breasts like he can’t get enough of me.
My pelvis tilts instinctively, helping him achieve the right angle. My belly is tensing, my arms rigid as I clutch his thighs. He compresses my breast, speeds his fingers into a frenzied rhythm—and I crash into violent bliss, bucking into the friction while he holds me, crushes his arm across my chest, clamps his hand against my sex. I’m writhing, helpless to that hand hooked between my legs, gasping, whimpering.
He gives me all the pressure I need to finish it, to be fully satisfied. Finally I relax, still captive to the band of sinewy forearm across my breasts.
Dorian takes his fingers out of me. And licks them.
“Goddamn you,” I whisper. “You’re a magician.”
“I’ve spent years teasing pleasure out of many different bodies,” he says. “Like anything else, doing it well is a blend of natural talent and learned skill. Once you know what to do, it becomes habit.”
He says it so casually, with a cocky smile I can hear in his voice even though I’ve still got my back to him. I freeze, chilled by the way he so easily reduced me to just another human body, another instrument he has learned to play.
I clench my teeth, trying not to be angry, because he did bring me here, bought the supplies, arranged the picnic…but still…
I pull away from him, climbing to my feet and refastening my pants. Then I walk away, straight toward the sea, until the powdery dry sand turns to squishy and wet under my feet, until the thin veils of the water deepen to knee-high surf.
Dorian calls my name, but I keep walking until I’m waist deep, my shorts and underwear thoroughly drenched, salt and sand swirling around my legs, bathing the parts of me that are still quivering from his touch.
Deeper I walk, until the sea covers my chest, rinsing the heat of his hands from my skin.
“Baz!” His voice is closer now, intense, stricken. He grabs my shoulder, turns me around. “Baz, I was an idiot. I didn’t mean… You know I’ve had—”
“Lovers? Orgies? Yeah, I know. You’ve done everyone and everything.”
“It’s not the same with you. You’re—”
“Different? Is that what you were going to say?” I stare up at him, furious. “How exactly am I different, Dorian?”
“I…” His handsome face wrenches with pained emotion. “I can’t describe it…”
“Because I’m not different. If it wasn’t for this stupid ability of mine, passed down by my fucking ancestors, I’d be just another girl to you. Nobody special, nobody interesting.”
“That’s not true.” His voice cracks, and he seizes my shoulders. “Damn it, Baz.”
In the glow of the setting sun, he’s flushed, bright-eyed, beautiful. He’s not like the florid, puffy-faced men who look as if they’ve experienced every debauchery known to man. He looks absolutely innocent, almost virginal. As fresh and young as the day my ancestor painted him.
But I know the truth.
I know it, and if I want him, I’ve got to be able to deal with it. I have to find a way to be okay with all the mouths that have traveled his skin before mine, all the fingers that have swept over his perfect body, all the climaxes that have happened for him and because of him.
If it was a few dozen or so, it would be easier. But he has a hundred-plus years of lechery behind him, so much that he tends to dehumanize people, treat them as merely bodies or objects. I can’t imagine being enough for him, after all the things he’s done. And though I don’t judge him for it, I need him to know that I’m not “open relationship girl.” If he’s going to let me have him, even for a little while, it has to be only us. I won’t share.
And I can’t demand that of him, not with our situation the way it is. All he did was have fun with me today, and I’m being overly sensitive about it.
“I’m sorry.” I force the words out. “I just… I’m tired, and I overreacted. This day has been so amazing, and I don’t want to ruin it with drama. Can we pretend I didn’t storm off into the ocean?”
“Done. If you’ll pretend I didn’t say what I said.”
“Deal.”
We head back to the beach together, our hands swinging close but never quite touching. We pack up the painting supplies, unclip the half-finished paintings from the branches where we hung them, and stack them up. Thanks to the wind, they’re pretty much dry.
Several gulls have strutted onto our blankets to steal food. Since they’ve already had their beaks in the leftovers, I scatter the biodegradables on the beach while Dorian puts all our plastic and paper trash back in the bag. I’ve always loathed the particular kind of asshole who litters while at the beach, and I’m pleased that whatever his faults may be, he’s not that type.
Surprisingly, we’re able to stack my paintings and fit everything back in the bag except for the two blankets. I shake them as hard as I can, but they’re still full of sand.
“I’ll carry these separately,” I tell Dorian. “But before we leave, I want to take a few more photos of these trees silhouetted against the sunset.”
“Go for it.” He reaches into the bag, retrieving a lighter and a pack of cigarettes.
While he stands on the beach, smoking, I wander the tree graveyard in the fading orange glow, capturing images of stark black branches against a pink-and-gold sky. Thick clouds stray across it, as if a giant’s been pulling apart wads of smoky-blue cotton. My mind is brimming with beauty and ideas, which is exactly what Dorian intended.
There’s a particularly cool piece of driftwood I didn’t see before—dark in color, covered with starry little barnacles. I have just enough light to capture a couple photos of it.
I turn then, aiming the phone’s camera at Dorian, a tall dark figure unconsciously, elegantly posed, a speck of fire glowing at the tip of his cigarette as he inhales.
Just as I’m about to take the photo, something cracks behind me.
I whirl around.
Nothing. Just black branches crisscrossed like a spiderweb against the deep orange near the horizon. The rest of the sky is washed with clear blue, deepening to indigo overhead. I’m sure lots of branches shift and crack out here every day. Nothing to worry about. But I turn back to the dunes and head toward Dorian anyway.
Another loud crack, and then a creaking, popping, groaning sound. Terror shears straight through my body, and for a second, I’m paralyzed.
More low groaning and creaking, like huge pieces of wood shifting their shape. Rustling, clicking, and the squelch of wet sand.
Oh shit.
My pace quickens to a frantic dash, a headlong rush toward Dorian. I already know what’s making that sound, and I don’t want to see it. I don’t want to have to face it, to understand that it’s real— no, no, no —
Dorian tucks his cigarette between his lips, leans down, and takes another lighter and the two large cans of enamel spray paint out of the beach bag. He tosses one of the cans and the second lighter to me, then slings the bag over his shoulder.
“What are these for?” I stare at the items he tossed to me.
“You’ll see.” Coolly, he grips his can of spray paint in one hand. With the other hand, he holds his lighter just beneath the paint can’s nozzle.
I’ve reached him now. I snatch my smaller bag from the ground, toss my phone into it, and loop the strap across my body.
“We’ll have to leave the blankets behind,” he says around the cigarette. “Ready to run, Baz?”
I still don’t want to look back, but I can’t ignore the sounds—huge, impossible sounds.
So I risk a glance.
A few of the splintered trees have dislodged themselves from the sludgy sand and assembled into something massive—a towering, spiny, bowlegged beast with ragged driftwood jaws.
“Not here,” I say. “Oh god, why are the skriken here, too?”
The giant skriken is three times Dorian’s height, with spiky ends to its legs. As Dorian and I start backing away, toward the spot by the bridge where we left our shoes, it voices a telltale shriek, like the scrape of nails on a chalkboard. The sound judders through my body, and I fight the urge to cover my ears.
“Keep going.” Dorian’s voice is thin, as if the screech fractured his calm a little. “Grab your shoes. Otherwise this rough ground will tear up your feet. You’ll run faster with them on.”
“What about your shoes?”
“My feet will be fine. Go.”
I dive for my shoes, jamming my feet into the sandals. I hop on one foot, holding the lighter and paint can in one hand and trying to hook the little sandal strap around my heel with the other.
And of course I fall.
The tree-monster rearranges itself with heart-stopping swiftness, creating a long arm of interlaced branches that stretches out toward me, broken fingers unfurling, ready to close around my body.
But Dorian steps between me and the hand, squeezing the trigger of the paint can and thumbing his lighter at the same time.
A stream of yellow flame erupts, catching the driftwood fingers of the skriken. It recoils, screaming and flaming, rearing high into the darkening sky.
“Run, Baz!” Dorian yells.
I take off, pelting across the bridge, reassured by the hollow thump of his running footsteps behind me.
But as I near the end of the bridge, my heart lurches into my throat, my breath chopped short.
There’s something tall and mangled waiting for me on the gravel path. Something assembled from palmetto fronds, rotten logs, and sticks, shaggy with Spanish moss. It’s nearly as tall as I am. Two long arms are pushing outward from the place where its head should be.
I scream this time, and I hold the lighter and the paint can in front of me, just like Dorian did. When I squeeze the can and thumb the lighter, fire spews out in a five-foot-long arc, engulfing the creature. Bits of flaming paint splatter my hand, and I scream again, partly from the pain, partly because of the monster, and partly because I’m terrified the burning skriken is going to set the forest on fire. Luckily it heads straight for the water under the bridge to douse its tortured limbs.
I’ve stopped spraying the flames, and Dorian is rushing past me, yelling, “Go, go!”
We race along the path. He stays a step or two ahead, though I’m sure he could outdistance me easily. He scans the darkening path, glancing behind us now and then.
Even with my sandals, running on this gravel is painful. I can’t imagine the torture Dorian is enduring as tiny sharp rocks cut the soles of his feet apart. Even if they heal almost immediately, he must be in terrible pain. No use pushing the agony into the portrait, because every step brings a fresh wave. And every slash to his body is another slash in the painting, another wound carved into a thing that’s already fragile. Any second now, it could all be too much. The portrait could disintegrate, and he could die.
“Are you all right?” I shout to him as we run.
“Don’t worry about me.”
“I can’t help it.”
“Just focus on—” He glances back, his eyes widening. “Shit. Keep going, Baz! Don’t argue!”
“Fuck that,” I yell, and I turn with him, ready to face whatever is coming out of the dark.
The monster I sprayed has joined up with the bigger skriken, merging their bodies into a titanic monstrosity crashing along the path after us, tearing up bushes and undergrowth, bending and cracking saplings as they go.
This is more than a “manifestation” of cosmic energy. It’s a half-conscious entity reaching out, clawing at another power source that might help them achieve greater consciousness. I’m the living battery they want. Lucky for me and Dorian, it seems these spurts of cosmic force aren’t limitless. They can only power so many monsters at once.
“It wants you, Baz!” Dorian yells at me. “I said ‘run,’ so you better fucking run!”
“But—”
“Go!” he roars—and I run. Behind me, I hear the hissing crackle of Dorian’s flamethrower. The yellow light flashes weirdly through the forest, fading as I put distance between me and the skriken.