52. Forty Nine
Forty Nine
Eden
Candlelight flickers in the center of the grand dining table.
We’ve removed the extra seats, leaving only one for each of us.
Perched on the far end of the table is the old record player, Creed insisting that we play it during our meal.
“Eden likes music,” he told his brother.
The two made quick work of setting it up.
Tomorrow is the day. The day we go into battle. The day I’ll join Mama.
Creed still doesn’t know. It will only distract him, make him worry more than he already is. Besides, no one can change the outcome.
Dinner feels very much like a last meal.
Spread before us is more than we could possibly eat in one night.
Yesterday, Cecil had clambered into the house with bags upon bags of groceries.
Today, he and I played sous chef while Creed ordered us around the kitchen.
It was amusing, but there were a few times that I wanted to throw in the towel.
“I said to soften the butter, not melt it!”
“There’s a difference between sliced onions and diced onions.”
“Fingers out!”
The last remark had been made to Cecil whilst he sampled the mashed potatoes. His finger was halfway to his mouth when Creed caught him, demanding he not taste them until the very end. With a glower that could kill, he wiped the potatoes on a paper towel.
Creed made a point to make all of our favorite foods. Roasted chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, baked carrots, and rolls, for me. There’s even pancake batter in the fridge for dessert.
For Cecil, he made steak stir fry, blueberry muffins, and baked macaroni and cheese.
For himself, he’s prepared a large dish of lasagna, with homemade garlic bread.
It’s ridiculous in the very best way.
After hours of slaving over the meal, it feels overwhelming to finally sit down in front of it. The three of us peer at one another, waiting for someone else to dig in first. There is something unspoken passing around. An urge to do something, say something.
“Should we say grace?” Creed asks, a dimple in his cheek. His brother and I both snort, and that's enough to break the tension.
Plates are passed around until we each have multiple laid out in front of us. The first bite is delicious, which comes as no surprise, but the emotion that follows is.
The music swells, echoing off of the high ceilings.
Every meal that I ate as a child was held in this room, with Papa and I at opposite ends of the table.
I would eat my bland meal and imagine that each chair was filled with people that loved me.
People that didn’t think there was something wrong with me.
They would joke, and I would laugh, and they’d smile at me fondly. Like a family.
“Eden?” The sound of my name has my head jerking up, and I meet two pairs of green eyes, worry etched into each.
A tickle trails down my cheek, and I catch it before it can fall from my chin. A pink streak paints the back of my hand.
“Sorry,” I sign quickly.
Creed sets his fork down. “What is it? Are you scared?”
“No,” I shake my head quickly. A sad smile forms on my lips. “I’m happy.”
And I am. So happy, in fact, that I don’t want to leave.
Creed abandons his chair and rounds the table until he’s standing at my back. Leaning forward, he wraps his arms around my shoulders and presses a kiss just above my ear. I relax into his warmth, swallowing down the swell of sorrow.
Eyes closed, I attempt to memorize the way it feels to be loved. And to be held.
When I open my eyes, Cecil is staring at me, his jaw set firmly. An understanding passes between us, and he looks away first.
This could be my last night alive. All I want is to love and be loved.
Raising Creed’s hand, I press a kiss to the back of his hand.
The house is silent. It’s been hours since dinner and Creed is deep in slumber beside me. The room is pitch black, save for thin slices of moonlight that peek through the heavy curtains. On a typical night, I sink into the sheets and find sleep quickly. But not tonight.
My mind is an endless chasm of thoughts: Fears, regrets, concerns, hopes. Over and over like a chant, the voice in my head keeps me from finding peace. I fight it best I can, until finally I accept defeat and push from the bed.
Slowly, as not to wake the boy beside me, I climb out of the blankets and tiptoe across the room. The house itself seems to have found rest and I don’t want to spoil it.
When the soles of my feet meet the cool hardwood flooring, I venture down the hall. I’ve never sought Cecil out; he usually comes to me. The possibility of regret that swarms my consciousness gives me the courage to twist his doorknob and slip into his room.
I have to squint to make out his figure. Feeling blindly, I reach for the wall to steady myself as I take a step forward.
Golden light flashes, and my arms swing up to shield my eyes.
“Are you alright?” Cecil’s voice is groggy, but he’s already on his feet by the time I look at him.
His stomach and chest are bare, as they usually are when he’s dressed for sleep, but it's somehow more scandalous when we’re alone in his room. The light only grants me his silhouette, and I watch the rise and fall of each breath as he stands before me. His hair is a mess of haphazard curls.
In a moment that I would surely look back on with embarrassment with the coming dawn, I quickly sign, “I want to be with you.”
He grunts in the back of his throat. “You can sleep in here.”
“Not sleep. I want to…” I trail off, swallowing thickly. “I want you.” With the last word, I press my palm firmly to his chest. Underneath warm skin, I can feel the heavy beat of life.
It gains speed.
“Eden,” he says on a sigh.
“If you don’t want to, it’s okay,” I’m quick to add. The burn of rejection starts at my toes and worms its way up into my face. A part of me wishes I could speak so the light could remain off. I don’t want him to see the desperation in my eyes.
“It’s not that. You know it’s not that.” His hand comes to my bare upper arm. Goosebumps rise on my flesh. “I’m not sure that I’m the right choice for that. Your first time should be with someone you…” His voice cracks, and he doesn’t speak the last word.
Love.
“I do.”
And I know it’s true. There is no level of confidence, or experience, or wisdom that one must reach to be sure of love. I can feel him there, in my heart, as if he was always meant for it.
Creed, too, but different. My love for him is pure, light, golden. Like the sun.
My love for Cecil is heavy, unabashed, all consuming. Like the roll of thunder or a crashing wave.
Even in the dark, I feel his eyes on my face. Searching for uncertainty.
He won’t find an ounce of it.
“You shouldn’t,” he hedges.
My lips lift into a small grin. “It’s not up to you.”
Tentatively, giving him time to object, I step back and steel my nerves. With trembling fingers, I push the strap of my nightgown from my right shoulder. So soft I can’t be sure I heard it, a whimper sounds from the hulking man in front of me.
The second strap falls, and with the drop of my arms, the cotton falls to my feet.
With nothing underneath, I lay myself bare.
My loose hair tickles the low of my back, and I fight the urge to cover myself.
Cecil’s arm rises from his side, hovering midair like he isn’t sure what to do with himself. What to do with me.
Something takes over, something primal, and my brain quiets. It’s as natural as anything, the way I step into him. Taking mercy on his indecisiveness, I take his hand and place it against my cheek. With the turn of my head, I press my lips to the center of his palm.
“Wait,” he rasps out. “I want you to know… I just, I—” His stammering only gets worse the more he speaks, and he lets out a heavy sigh. “I can’t say the words, but I want to. I—”
My finger rests on his lips, and I look into shimmering eyes. “I know.” His throat bobs. “It’s okay, I know.”
That’s all it takes, and then he surrounds me. The pressure of his mouth tethers me to the moment, and I wrap my arms around his neck. The feel of our bare chests pressed together robs me of breath.
Nothing could ever feel better.
His muscles are tense, each movement more desperate than the last. I’m no better, my frantic breaths intermingling with his own.
The faintest brush travels up my spine, winding around my hair and giving a firm tug.
It’s not painful, but it’s enough for me to release his mouth and let my head fall back on a gasp.
The loss of lips on mine is mourned only for a heartbeat. The sensation of petal softness and sandpapery cheeks against my throat slips me into a delicious delirium.
All I can do is cling to the man in front of me as he works his kiss over my flesh. There’s a mirror on the far side of the room, and I’m able to make out the faint outline of our bodies. Him, cast in the golden glow, and I, in darkness as he consumes me. I can’t tear my eyes away.
Whether it’s him or I that moves first, I’m unsure, and I don’t realize we’ve made our way toward his bed until he sits down.
At this angle, his face is level with my chest, and I struggle to keep my composure.
Idle hands searching, my fingers end up wound in the thick waves of his hair.
The tips of my nails scratch along his scalp, and his whole being shudders.
The light illuminates both of us now, and it takes everything in me not to feel shame. It was easier in the shadows, but a niggle of doubt begins to creep into the forefront of my mind. That is until he murmurs,
“You are undeniably perfect.”
I blush and shake my head in disagreement. His grip on my hips tightens, and my whole body thrums with the intensity of his gaze.
“For me, you are.”
No words spoken have ever made me so lightheaded.
I could pass away right here.
Lifting me like I weigh nothing at all, he positions me on his lap so that my thighs hug his. The contact that occurs is nothing short of divine.
“Can I touch you?” There’s a tremble to his voice. An edge.
“You are,” I answer, breathless and confused. My hands instantly return to his skin. I couldn’t stop touching him if I wanted to.
“Not how I’d like to.”
Realization dawns on me. I muster a meek nod.
Curiosity victors over any embarrassment. Eyes wide with wonder, I watch the ascent of his hands as they slide up and over my rib cage, settling over my chest. My head falls back, and if it weren’t for his grip on me, I would be in a heap on the floor.
His ministrations are slow in discovery, tracing valleys while I memorize his calloused touch.
It might be seconds, minutes, hours before I have the wherewithal to lift my head and seek out his lips once more.
His mouth tastes of cinnamon and heat, and it’s sweeter than any chocolate or syrup.
It’s personal, one of a kind, and absolutely intoxicating. I see now how addiction begins.
The room spins, and I’m suddenly staring up at the ceiling.
Cecil holds himself above me, using one hand to brush my hair back from my forehead.
The heaviness of the moment settles over me like a thick blanket.
The silence of the room is somehow roaring, and a fire burns in my veins.
Even my heartbeat is amplified—each beat thumping in my face, my hands, my… everything. Everywhere.
Cecil peers down at me with an expression I can’t place. It’s torn somewhere between hunger and fear.
“You’ll tell me to stop,” he whispers. It’s not a question, but a command. My thoughts have to travel through the haze of lust, but once they do, a weight settles on my chest. He’s worried for me.
“I’ll tell you to stop,” I repeat.
Still, he hesitates, his thick brows pulled low over his eyes.
With one finger, I explore the planes of his stomach, dipping lower until I reach the proof of his arousal.
His breath hitches, and pride heats my cheeks.
The rest of my fingers join in until I’m cupping the front of his sleep pants, daring myself to continue the exploration.
With a gasp, he snags my hand and stops my movements.
“You first.” His voice is husky, low—the timbre flitting over my skin like a caress of its own.
Giving myself over to him, I hold tightly to trust and quiet the rest of my thoughts. As he makes his way down my body, I relax into the sheets, allowing my eyes to close.
There’s movement, and warmth, and an otherworldly amount of pleasure.
His touch is precise, drawing out ecstasy from the depths of my soul.
Breathing becomes more and more difficult as an urgency builds low in my stomach.
Gasps get caught in the back of my throat, and I throw a hand over my mouth to stifle the sound.
Teeth bared, I bite into the flesh on the side of my palm.
The pressure leaves, and a frustration I’ve never known has my eyes flying open and peering down.
His lips glisten in the lamp light. I can hardly look him in the eye.
“I want to hear you,” he says.
My head cocks in bewilderment.
He reaches for my hand, pulling it into the light and examining the imprint of my teeth. He presses his lips to them before humming.
“Your sounds. Let me hear them.”
My gut somersaults, and I blink dumbly. He continues to watch me, waiting for a response.
“Okay,” I choke, scratchy and low.
His eyes flare at the sound of my voice, and he’s quick to return to the apex of my thighs.
Once more, the world is lost to me, and I fall back into the pillows.