Fourteen
I know everything is not completely okay the moment I go into the bedroom. And not just because I spent the last hour after our delicious puttanesca dinner avoiding going upstairs, because I knew when I did he would be there, in the bed I have to sleep next to him in, while most likely wearing almost no clothes at all.
No, it’s the fact that when I finally get there, he’s awake.
And fully dressed.
And sitting on the edge of the bed.
And he looks dreadful . He looks as despairing and horrified as I thought he would be, after I almost scaled him like a mountain. So naturally I think that this is the fallout of that. It was just delayed, by having to seem like a normal husband who makes pasta dinners and cheerily eats them with his ordinary wife.
Now he can let the cracks turn into massive fissures.
All of his true feelings are about to come spilling out.
Fuck , I think, and go to apologize. Only inexplicably, he gets there first.
‘I know, I know, I messed things up,’ he sighs. As if he was the one who grabbed me like he couldn’t believe what a mouth felt like. And he carries on, too. ‘I was too wooden, I was too stiff, I didn’t look like I even knew what I was doing. I’m sorry. I really tried.’
He shakes his head despairingly.
Even though I haven’t the foggiest idea what he’s talking about.
‘Why on earth would you think you weren’t convincing, Beck?’ I ask.
But he just stops looking at his hands, and stares at me blankly.
‘Because Doug told me he thought it wasn’t. He joked about it.’
‘When? I was with you the whole time.’
‘You went to the bathroom after we ate.’
‘And he was right on you?’ I do my best not to pace angrily. And fail, obviously. ‘ Man, that dude is sly. Not to mention a fucking coward. Can’t even take the words I’d have for him, if he tried it in front of me.’
‘Okay, I want you to know I appreciate that, but again. Please do not put yourself in the line of fire for me. I do not like that idea. It makes me feel very not like myself, and I am already super far from where I want to be on that score.’
‘Because he’s starting to make you angry? You should be, about his bullshit.’
‘But I hate it. I hate being that way. I want to be calm, and reasonable. I want what he says to not bother me, and I have no idea why it does,’ he says, and just sounds genuinely confused about it. His forehead creases into a frown, he looks away like he’s trying to solve a mystifying puzzle. It’s all right though.
I get it, even if he doesn’t.
‘It’s a sore spot. Something you wish you had that he can mock you for being without. Like having a raw, open wound that someone is constantly rubbing salt in. So instead of just shrugging it off, the way you usually might, you feel stung. You get flummoxed. You end up lying, and then not knowing how to defend the lie,’ I say, after which the crease between his brows lessens. So I press on, even harder. ‘But don’t worry, because we can fix that.’
‘You can’t fix me not knowing how to kiss.’
‘Well, I think it’d probably help if I didn’t grab you.’
‘But the grabbing was the good part,’ he protests – all amazed that I don’t think so, too. Hands gesturing wildly, as if to say come on, you should be able to get this . ‘That was the super-convincing part.’
‘It didn’t seem like you thought it was. It seemed like you found it too much.’
‘Only because I felt like I had already reached the limits of my expertise. And even that level of expertise was not enough for Doug. He said it looked like I was paying respects to my dead grandmother.’
If that’s the case then I’m an incestuous necrophiliac , I find myself thinking. Though of course I can’t say that. Mainly because something is dawning on me. Something that I should have known, but didn’t.
‘Right. But what you mean by limits of your expertise is that you’ve never had someone climb you before. Like, you don’t mean anything else by that. You don’t mean, that, you know. That you, that—’ I say, words punctuated by increasingly nervous laughter. But in the end he just looks up from beneath those thick black brows, his gaze a little sheepish and a little fraught. And I have my answer. ‘Holy crap. You’ve never really kissed anyone, have you.’
‘Well... it depends what you mean by kissed there. Because you know, I have with quite a few people. And it was very nice and enjoyable. But it wasn’t really much beyond what I just about managed then. I wasn’t close enough with any of them for it to be, really. It was always the sort of polite thing you do with someone you hardly know, instead of the real intimacy we have to pretend we have.’
Stay cool , I tell myself.
But I can’t. I have to, at the bare minimum, put my hands on my knees. And take a few deep breaths. ‘Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh no. Oh fuck,’ I say.
Much to his distress.
‘I know. I am such a ridiculous person.’
‘Ridiculous is not the word I was thinking of.’
‘Then what was? Embarrassing? Weird? A poor, unfortunate soul?’
Now I can straighten. I can breathe normally.
Only because I have to gesture at him insistently, however.
‘I am not a sea witch trying to steal your voice, Beck. I am just someone who wishes you had told me you’ve only ever kissed anyone in the politest manner possible, so I could take even more care than I’m already really trying to. I swear to god, I’m trying,’ I tell him. But he just looks even more mystified by this than he was about everything else.
‘My goodness. You took all the care in the world. You always take all the care in the world. My only qualm was about getting it right. Not about how or with whom it was happening.’
‘But I could be better. I could be practical. I could explain—’
‘Hazy, I don’t need explanations. I completely understand the mechanics of making out in a far more passionate manner. And I would be unafraid to put the theory into practice, in any normal circumstances. But these circumstances aren’t normal. It has to look real, right out the gate. I have to put on a show, and I don’t know how to make sure the show is accurate.’
He looks away in the middle of all that. And I’m glad, because god only knows what I look like throughout. I mean, he called me Hazy. It’s not even just a secret name between us now, it’s a secret nickname between us. A little endearment, of the sort that makes my heart do things I didn’t know it could.
Plus he’s spelling out exactly what he needs.
How can I really resist giving it to him?
‘Well, okay, so maybe we can just rehearse,’ I blurt out, before I’ve even had a chance to think. But oh, fuck, the hopefulness he tries to hide when he looks back at me.
‘You don’t mean that.’
‘I don’t if you hate the idea.’
‘But I didn’t say I hated it. I just can’t believe you want to.’
I actually don’t, but I’m trying to pretend it will work out fine for me , I think. Then somehow manage to make a pffffft sound, and roll my eyes. For him. For what has to be, so he will be okay.
‘Why would I? I’ve kissed a million guys. And almost all of them were less pleasant than you. One of them tasted like a butthole. Mostly because he put his mouth on some other woman’s butthole, right before he put it on me. I found out later that he was known for doing that. By the police, ’ I say, in as jokey and cynical-sounding a way as I can manage.
But in response his eyes widen. Then narrow. ‘And after that he went to jail for one thousand years, right.’
‘I don’t even think he went to jail at all. He’s still at large, as far as I know.’
‘Okay, but can you just pretend, because I think I might lose it otherwise.’
‘Well, in that case, he is currently in Alcatraz for all eternity.’
‘Thank goodness there is justice in the world.’
‘There sure is, Cap.’
I joke salute on the end. Mostly to disguise the fact that everything he’s said just makes me want to throw myself at him like a bug against an extremely kind and protective windshield. It doesn’t help, however. Now he’s looking at me all pleased and soft.
And the reason makes him even more delicious to me.
‘You liked that I called you that, didn’t you. In those emails,’ I say.
‘I like that you’re doing it now, too. But especially then.’
‘Find it easier to say things when they’re written down, huh.’
‘Oh, noticed that, did you,’ he says, in an almost sardonic sort of way. Like gee, you think . Though he’s kind of undermined by that spark of delight in his gaze. The one that I now know so well. The one that tells me he’s glad that I did, because apparently he enjoys feeling seen as much as I do.
‘So much that I’m thinking of suggesting we have this discussion via text,’ I say, and there it is again. The flicker of light in those gorgeous eyes. Greedy to do just that, at first. But then clearly realizing that this is ridiculous.
‘I don’t need to. I know you’re right about what we should do here. I’m just trying to stall until you get so tired you table this idea for the morning, and I can pretend for a little longer that this is not a thing we definitely have to do,’ he says, with enough trepidation that I feel mine lessening.
Or at least, I understand I have to be the strong one here.
‘Well, good luck with that, bub, because my usual bedtime is two A.M .’
‘Oh, good golly, I am never going to make it to that. Even on New Year’s I barely get past midnight. The ball drops and I just slump into a slumber, like someone pricked my finger with an evil spindle.’
‘Right. And then someone kisses you to wake you up.’
He snaps his fingers, like, darn it .
And practically mouths the word shoot .
‘Well, jeepers, I walked directly into that one,’ he says, half laughing. Which feels like a victory at first. But then less like one, when I realize this now means I have to actually do this. It’s fine, it’s fine, this is just theory into practice, it’s going to be mechanical and boring , I tell myself.
Yet still end up walking over to the bed like I’m going to my doom.
For a second I can’t even sit down next to him. I catch a glimpse of those thighs, and that siren goes off in my head. So I look up at his face, and somehow it gets even louder. He’s just looking up at me too expectantly. Almost eagerly, I think, and have no way of telling myself that this is definitely not true.
All I can do is force myself to sit down, with that thought in my head.
Head swimming because of it. Heart beating too long and heavy.
‘So my first suggestion would be that you try not to go so slowly,’ I start, proud that my voice doesn’t waver. Tortured by the fact that I have to continue. ‘It took you about a thousand years to get to me, which would not normally be a bad thing. But probably is when it’s supposed to be something you do constantly. And when you also probably don’t want loads of time to agonize over, before it actually happens.’
He nods, regretfully. ‘I did agonize a lot as it was going on.’
‘Right. So don’t think. Just go for it.’
‘Okay, but what if I go for it wrong?’
‘You won’t. You just have to do what I know you’ve thought about.’
I feel him tense next to me for that. Like I’ve accused him of something, even though that wasn’t my intention. It didn’t even cross my mind that those words could suggest he wants to screw my brains out – and I go to clarify.
But he gets there first.
‘And by that you mean just generally. Generally I’ve thought about it,’ he says, in a way that isn’t designed to sting me. It just weirdly sort of does, anyway. Yes, I get it, I’m not your type, I think, with an internal eye roll.
Then have to act cool about it.
‘Exactly. So, like, when you did, what did you imagine doing?’ I ask.
All business. No feelings. Not even when he looks at me.
Even though he looks at me like he’s considering. That gaze turns inward, in this wistful way. And I can almost feel his longing for a thousand different things when it does. I imagine him turning each sweet desire over in his mind, and then suddenly all of that is focused back at me.
His eyes trail over my face, as if he can really find what he wants there.
As if I match whatever special someone he’s held in his head for so long.
And in the moment, I could almost believe I do.
‘I don’t know. I guess I’ve always imagined touching someone’s hair, if I were to go a little further than where I’ve been,’ he says, as he runs his gaze over a lock of it that’s fallen over my shoulder, softly and so full of real-seeming yearning that it flips my stomach. I have to clench my fists and count to ten, just to not let my internal reaction show,
‘That sounds nice. That sounds good. And it’s a good way to ease into it, without making it look like you’re nervously hesitating. You just, you know, reach up like this, and—’ I start to say, as calmly as I can.
But all the words die away when I feel him make contact. Because he takes that one wavy lock of my hair in his hand so gently, so reverently. Like it’s something precious, instead of barely styled, and losing the pink on the ends, and starting to look sort of drab.
Or at least, I used to think that would be drab.
Now I don’t feel so sure.
And I feel even less sure when he touches me like that. And keeps touching me like that, long past the point I should tell him to stop. He starts stroking it back from my face, and every time he does it feels like he’s trying to see me better, that he wants more of me to drink in with those suddenly so dark eyes.
None of which I can really cope with.
I find myself whispering, ‘What comes next?’ to him. As if what comes next is going to be super less sensuous. Instead of what it actually is: more, oh god, it’s so much more, oh man, he actually tells me that he always wanted to lean in, and whisper in someone’s ear that they are so beautiful.
Then he does .
I feel the brush of his cheek against mine, the heat of his breath as he slowly eases words into my already addled mind. Better ones than he claimed, too, hotter ones than he claimed. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen a lovelier woman than you,’ he says. And yes, I know he’s only doing what he would want to, with somebody he was really trying to seduce.
But even so, it turns me inside out.
My eyes roll closed. My breath stutters in my throat.
I can’t help snapping a hand up to hold the nape of his neck.
To keep him close, I know. To try to draw this out a little longer, even though I shouldn’t want it to be happening at all. Though truthfully, I don’t expect it to work. I imagine him jerking away, and blessedly freeing me from an agony I have no bloody clue how to free myself from.
But instead he keeps talking.
He says: ‘Is kissing you now the right thing to do?’
And it’s all I can do to not gasp please, now, yes . I have to tell myself it’s just going to be like before – barely anything, a press of the lips – to keep my reaction to a nod. Then I sit as still as I can, as he turns his head and touches his mouth to mine.
And I was right, too, it is the same as last time.
In fact, if anything, it’s softer.
But the problem is, he doesn’t stop . He just stays like that, lips pushed against mine, until it starts to feel like something else. Savouring it , I think, and get a streak of heat through my body. Then another one, when he moves just the tiniest bit. He sort of leans toward me in this strange, intense sort of way.
Then I realize what that intense lean is:
He’s starting to sink into this, one unbearably slow, agonizing increment at a time. First with his shoulders, sort of dropping. Then with his body tilting toward me. And finally with the pressure of his mouth against mine. It goes from barely there to sort of insinuating against me, deliciously. Almost rolling, so slow and sort of like he’s giving in that I can’t stand it. The heat inside me immediately intensifies, just at the very idea.
Give us an hour and he might even part his lips , I think, and I swear just the idea of something so small is electrifying. For a second it’s all I can think about or feel. So of course the moment he pulls back, breathless and a little dazed, I say anything I can to get him back. I say, ‘Like this, like this.’ Then I stroke my thumb over that soft lower lip, until he can’t stop it from dropping. Until he looks at me with wide and wondering eyes, and a sound of the sweetest shock comes out of him.
And I catch those parted lips with my own.
Too hungry, too greedy about it.
God, I know I do too much.
But too much apparently makes him groan. All low and heavy, directly into my mouth. I actually feel it vibrate right down to the place between my legs, and that place aches in response. It thrums, until all I can think about is alleviating that feeling. Just slip your hand under the waistband of your shorts , I think, as I rock my mouth against his.
But just as I’m telling myself that’s terrible, he rocks back .
Hesitantly, at first. Hardly anything, really. He just follows the way I move, and how I part my lips. Presses back against me, when I press into him. Sweet, but not so hugely exciting that I cross that line. That I have to do something as lewd as touching myself, over nothing more than a kiss. I can cope, I think.
Only he doesn’t stop there.
He seems to get the hang of it, like some quick study going from simple sums to something like sexual algebra. That slow, hesitant rock turns into him urging himself against me, all hot and open and good. And when he can’t quite get enough from that, his hand slides round to the nape of my neck. He holds me, like that, to kiss me more deeply. More passionately. More believably .
God, I could drown in every one of his moans.
In the sigh he gives me, when he feels something he likes.
He gets the soft stroke of my lower lip over his, and he just lets that heavy sound out. Feels the slickness of my greedy mouth, and gives me more, more. Then right as I’m thinking this must be his limit, right as I’m thinking there must be no more, I feel it. Oh god I feel it, all filthy and lewd and like he just can’t help himself.
He has to taste me.
And so he does, he does. He lets his tongue flicker over my upper lip, at the tail end of one languid kiss. Then when I let out a little sound in response, he seems to know what it means. He guesses just like that, and does it again. Slower, this time. More like a caress, in a way that strongly reminds me of how you would lick something else.
He would do that over your clit , my mind murmurs.
But that’s because my mind is drunk on lust. There isn’t a bit of sense left in it, and even less of any after he seems to realize he doesn’t have to stop there. I’m practically urging him closer, deeper; I know I let myself lick him in return. I slip my tongue into his mouth, somewhere in the middle of this feverish madness.
So of course he does it back.
For one glorious second, I get him fucking my mouth.
Or at least, it feels like fucking, with someone like him. That tongue eases over mine and it’s like anyone else having me, on all fours. Like a hand in my hair, as they work their cock into the place he’s only licking over. It’s nothing , I tell myself. Nothing nothing nothing .
But my hand is now almost between my legs.
And I know that everything there is very wet. I squirm a little on the bed, and suddenly I can feel it. The slick slide of one thing over another; the strong sense that my panties are soaked. Like I’ve been coming for an hour, somehow, without really getting the payoff.
And god I need that payoff.
I need it so badly that I briefly lose my mind. I actually push my body against his, one hand on his thigh. Then I just kiss him like I’d kiss anyone who makes me feel this way, all hot and wet and full of desperate sounds.
Really, it’s no wonder he pulls away.
I mean, I was practically fucking his mouth. And he’s barely used to a peck on the lips. This must have gone way, way too far for him, and now he’s going to tell me. He’s going to look at me with those big, round, innocent eyes, and gasp why did you do that .
Only he doesn’t. He makes a sound like phew .
Then he shakes his head.
‘Think that’ll do it,’ he says.
And I’m relieved, until he gets up and goes to the bathroom, and I hear the sound of an electric toothbrush, and I know. It doesn’t matter that the kiss from sex hell is over, and no damage was done. Because now I’m going to sleep in the same bed as a man who just accidentally almost made me come.