15. Willa
15
willa
This man is insatiable.
After the third orgasm, I lost track of how many he coerced.
Yes, coerced.
I swear, he looked at me with those hooded eyes, and my body gave him what he wanted.
He played my body like he was a conductor and I was his instruments. All different ones. Woodwinds, strings, brass, percussion. All of them.
And when I thought I was tired, he convinced me I had one more orgasm in me. And damn it, he was right.
If it weren’t so pleasureful, I’d hate him on principle for being so pliable, so yielding to his every command.
My mind’s a little hazy on all the details, but I don’t think he slept on the couch last night. I remember drifting to sleep in his arms, waking once when he pried my eye open.
Did I tell him to fuck off and let me sleep?
Of course not. Hopped up on my knees and let him take me from behind.
He’s unleashed this side of me I never knew existed.
It’s not like my past sex life was bad, either. Elias and I had our share of playing with different positions, spicing it up. But last night’s sex was on an entirely other level. A level I didn’t realize was a possibility. For me, at least.
Now, it’s half past dawn, or some crazy-ass time, and the man’s disappeared from the bed. When the outside door slams, he’s leaving or returning. Either way, I decide to investigate.
Pit stopping into the bathroom, all I can do is cackle at my flushed face and ratty hair. Attempting to corral it into even a messy bun proves fruitless, so I leave it down, running my fingers through it to tame some of the wildness.
Beckett’s in the kitchen, his back to me while he stands at the counter. He wears a hoodie and gray sweatpants, and I can’t resist the urge to wrap my arms around his front, laying my head against his back. If he’s bothered by it, he doesn’t show it.
It’s strange how comforting it is, how familiar he feels after such a short time. I’m done questioning it, instead letting everything ride out until it’s time for me to pack up and leave.
Which is something I’m not thinking about.
Elias would be so proud of me for living in the moment.
“Morning. I got donuts. Wasn’t sure which were your favorites, but hopefully there’s something you’ll enjoy.”
“Any combination of flour, sugar, and yeast will do. Add in some chocolate, even better.”
He stops whatever he’s doing and shimmies in my arms so we’re face-to-face. His lips meet the top of my head, lingering before dropping a kiss. At least I showered yesterday, so the smell shouldn’t match the mussed appearance.
“Should you leave the house today, it’s cold out. Definitely can’t skip a jacket.”
Warmth infuses my body and soul. It’s only been so long, and this man reads me like a book, offering advice before I even ask for it.
“Good thing I don’t plan on leaving. What did you say you had to do today?” His expression sours, but I’ve let him beat around the bush for too long. I’m a big girl. I can pull up my panties. “Don’t filter on my account.”
“Gotta set up for the Christmas Eve parade. It’s kinda an all-day project. I hate to leave you all alone again . . .” he trails off, his words somber.
“Don’t feel bad. This week was for me to be alone. Granted, I’m not complaining about the orgasms, the food, the company, and if there’s time later to get back to any of it, spending the day on my own will be well worth it.” I smile, but it’s half-hearted. I have an inkling why, but I’m not currently prepared to tackle it.
Beckett pushes a wayward strand off my face, his touch so gentle in contrast to him. I’m coming to appreciate all his sides, not being able to choose which one I enjoy most.
The one who gives you orgasms, an inner voice shouts. Can’t say I disagree.
“What would it take for you to join me?”
I don’t even think. “Nothing. Not happening.” No way in hell am I that compliant.
He shrugs, not bothered by my response. “Had to try.”
“When do you have to leave?”
“An hour or so. Why, did you have something in mind?” A twinkle gleams in his eye.
Fuck me.
And aloud I confirm, “Fuck me.”
Had you asked me last week if I would agree to sex when my vagina already took a pounding, my answer would have been hell no.
However, despite already feeling sore, I let Beckett have his wicked way with me before he departs for the day.
But hey, nothing a long soak in his tub won’t help ease.
While I’m in here, Clem calls .
“Any word on your car?”
“Still not ready. Won’t be fixed until after the holiday.”
“And you’re okay with that?” Disbelief shrouds her tone.
“What other choice do I have?”
“I could fly to get you, drop you to the cabin, and bring you back after the holiday.”
“Sweet of you, but I won’t be the one to take away your kids’ joy so close to the holiday. You know how I felt last year. That was the purpose of this trip. To not ruin the holidays for others.”
And yet, here I am. Squashing Beckett’s joy and fun.
Some houseguest I am.
“You can’t let this get to you every year. It’s not healthy.”
I don’t justify her response with one of my own.
I’m not saying she’s wrong. It’s just that I’m not prepared to deal with it, to face the emotions head-on.
My sigh echoes around the silent bathroom. “This isn’t my year to do that.” I close my eyes, deflecting the memories of my nephews’ past celebrations. Their smiles, their excitement.
Am I prepared to give that all up forever?
“I can’t talk about this, Clem.” It’s my go-to answer for when I don’t want to deal with something I can’t face. I shut down, run away, take the scaredy-cat route.
“Willafred. You can’t forever run away from your problems.” She sounds exactly like our mother. She gets a pass because she’s my twin. Coming from her, it’s not as derisive.
“I don’t run away from all my problems.”
A half-lie because running away from this one impacts so many aspects of my life.
“Can we talk about this next week when I’m home? You’re stealing all the joy from my bath.” I slink down lower in the water and rest my head against the back of the tub, fluttering my eyes shut.
“How’s the book coming?”
“Fuck off, Clementine. ”
“Love you, too, Willa. Enjoy your bath. Talk soon.”
The line goes dead. I’m grateful for the technology of the iPhone to hang my side up once the call disconnects. I’m too relaxed to move.
I soak for a good thirty minutes, my mind vacillating between replaying my conversation with Clem and my night with Beckett. Those memories are more fun, and because I’m apparently a woman possessed, my fingers make their way under the water. At home, I’d use the handheld shower for situations like this, but Beckett’s bathroom only has the one on the wall.
It’s Beckett’s name on my lips when I work myself over, crashing down hard after the fall. So hard, a well opens up, a dam unleashed, spilling devastation everywhere.
A slew of memories pummel me.
The last time Elias and I were intimate.
The text messages.
The phone calls.
The realization he was gone and never coming back.
The seal broken, I can’t control the tears. Ugly, snot-inducing tears cascade down my cheeks. A cry so hard, I can’t catch my breath. My lungs seize, my chest constricting and heaving with the sobs wracking my body. I don’t know how I’ll stop, how to let go of this crippling emotion trying to drag me under.
I push to sit up, trying to stop the intense feelings, to catch my breath, but nothing works.
Not telling myself to breathe.
Not demanding I stop crying.
Not pushing away the onslaught of memories.
Until someone calls my name.
“Willafred.”
It’s Elias’s voice, yet it sounds so real. So earthly. So in the room.
“Open your eyes.” So close, so demanding. “Willa, honey. Let me see those pretty blues.” A hand on my arm rattles me, and I gulp for fresh air, dragging it into my lungs.
My eyes fly open, but it’s not Elias staring back at me. It’s Beckett, his eyes wild, terrified, a storm brewing in the wild blue.
Without another word, he lifts me from the bath like I weigh nothing. Not caring about how wet I am, the mess we’re making on the way to his bedroom, he holds me close. The tears fall faster, but they’re silent now.
When he sits on the bed, he doesn’t let me go. He wraps me in the blanket, whispering, “It’s gonna be okay. Shh. Don’t cry. Try and relax,” and other calming words into my ears. With one hand, I search for purpose on his hoodie, holding on tighter, afraid to let go. With the other, I rub my earlobe, searching for any small sliver of comfort.
I can’t speak, can’t explain what’s happening, can’t pull away so he doesn’t get more soaked.
And I can’t stop crying. The tears won’t dry up.
My body’s fraught with sentiment that has been holed up inside for the better part of two years. It’s all coming to a head. Here, of all places.
If I were thinking clearly, I’d blame Beckett for doing this to me. For unlocking the key to a chest I’ve kept locked since that fateful day.
But it’s not really his fault. It’s mine.
It’s mine for not confronting my issues two years ago.
It’s mine for shoving down every ounce of feeling.
It’s mine for running away from life, for shutting down, for blaming Elias for dying.
My body quakes, but Beckett squeezes me tighter.
I can’t contemplate what he must be thinking, the thoughts consuming his head at what’s going on. It’s too much to focus on regulating my breathing and stopping the tears.
I rest my head against his chest, not caring how wet he’s going to be when this passes.
If this passes. At this rate, it feels like it won’t end .
I’m not sure how long we sit in his bed, me crying in his arms, him offering nothing but comfort and soothing. His hand trails up and down my back, tracing the same pattern.
Up and down.
Up and down.
Up and down.
Centering on his movements helps relieve some of the ache, some of the angst tormenting my body. But my body’s stubborn, not ready to give up the fight. I’m too weak to mount a defense.
After what feels like hours, the tears dry up, but the emotions don’t stop their assault. Beckett’s comfort seeps into me, fighting my battles I’m too worn out to tackle on my own.
Though I’m still naked, the blanket’s dried and warmed me up. Or maybe that’s the warmth wafting off Beckett.
From my position in his lap, I peer up at him. Worry lines outline his face, his expression a mask of concern. His fingers trail along the edges of my jaw, big hands cupping my face.
“We’re talking about it,” he growls. “All of it. The only choice you get is here or the living room. Nothing else is up for negotiation.”
His demands are so impossible to combat. As much as I don’t want to talk about it, arguing isn’t an option. But I can’t help but refute, “I need to get dressed. Dry my hair.”
He blows out a long-winded captured breath. “I’ll allow you ten minutes. Bed or the couch? Coffee or tea?”
“Coffee. In the living room. Will you start a fire?”
“Absolutely, Bundy.” He slips his mouth over mine. The kiss is chaste, a way of showing he cares.
As if I needed more evidence.
“If you’re not on the couch in ten minutes, I’m coming for you.”
“Right. I understand.” When he stands up, I notice his entire outfit is soaked. I point to his front and sheepishly add, “Sorry.” Except I’m not the one who pulled me from the bath soaking wet .
He glances down to assess it. Instead of addressing it, he stammers, “Ten minutes.” He stalks to his dresser, ripping open the drawer and wrenching clothes out. He disappears from sight, holing up in the bathroom.
I don’t dare think he won’t follow through on his “ten-minute” order, so I follow his lead and get dressed.