Letter Twenty-Three #7
“The part of you that thinks about sex. The part of you that…wants it. Or wants anything, for that matter. Like, what gets you all tingly and hot?” I asked, fisting your jacket with both hands and pulling you closer, trapping your hips between my knees.
“What do you crave? What makes you feel like your skin is on fire? And what’s the one thing capable of putting that fire out? ”
Your gaze swept over my face, snagging on my mouth. When you licked your lips, heat flickered low in my stomach.
“Sienna, for instance,” I said, slowly dragging the zipper down on your jacket. I slipped my hand inside, sliding my fingers over hard muscle. Your breathing accelerated, your heart beating fast. “She’s seen a secret part of you I’ve never seen. You won’t let me see it.”
“How”—eyes closed, scratching at your forehead—“do you propose I show you this side of myself?”
“Well, see, I’m a girl, and you’re a guy—”
“Oh?” You made a scoffing sound. “Thanks for clearing that up.”
“—and I think we’re attracted to each other—”
“You think?”
“—but we don’t ever talk about it. We barely even flirt. We’ve spent, like, a million hours alone together, and not once have I ever gotten any I’d-like-to-rip-off-your-clothes vibes from you.”
“Are you serious?”
“Dead serious.”
“Elliot, we’ve kissed.”
“Yeah. But those kisses were very PG-13, you know?”
“PG,” you repeated, eyes narrowed, jaw ticking, “thirteen.”
“Which isn’t to say they were bad,” I rushed to say, smoothing my hands down your chest, feeling the rapid beat of your heart beneath my palm.
“They weren’t bad. They were—Casey, they were amazing.
Truly. It’s just—they happened, and that was it.
Back to our regularly scheduled programming, where you fuss over what I eat and rush me out the door for therapy and generally just treat me like your kid sister or something.
Not someone you ever imagine getting naked with. ”
“I imagine it all the time,” you said.
“Yeah.” I laughed. “Okay.”
“Literally every single day,” you rasped, voice rough and warm. “Every hour of every day. Incessantly.”
“Yeah? I don’t see that—like, at all. If we hadn’t had the conversation about dicks that time, I wouldn’t know you were turned on by virtually, well, anything.
” It was all show. A wicked little game.
On the inside, my heart was thrashing as violently as yours.
I’d waited so long, Casey—so very long—for your control to slip.
“Wow,” you said, taking a step back. “Are you trying to get me worked up right now? Because you’re succeeding—spectacularly, by the way.”
“So tell me, then. Tell me what turns you on.”
“What turns me on?” you asked, gaze wild and dark, frantically searching my face. “What gets me all tingly and hot? What do I crave, you ask? What makes me feel like my skin is on fire? And what’s the one thing capable of putting that fire out? You. Alright? You.”
At this admission, I felt like I’d been lit on fire. Engulfed. All my nerve endings singed.
“Specifically, your mouth,” you said, voice dropping to a deep breathless purr that made my throat tighten as you swept your thumb over my bottom lip.
“This mouth is the single most infuriating yet enticing thing about you. It tortures me daily. What you say, how you say it, especially the really shocking things—like the stuff about dicks. When you bite your lip. When you roll your tongue to the side and catch it between your teeth. When your lips are wrapped around a piece of fruit.” You stopped.
Tossed your head back. Groaned. “The way you lick a spoon, for Christ’s sake. ”
“The way I lick a spoon?”
“The reason I fuss at you for eating yogurt—apart from it being a shit breakfast on its own—is that you can’t even eat it like a normal person.
The way you lick every last morsel of yogurt from a spoon drives me completely mad.
I do want you to eat something better, which is why I typically insist on making you eggs.
But the other—maybe more necessary—reason I make the eggs is so I can turn my back to the sight of you licking the yogurt from that spoon and save us both the trouble of me pinning you to one of the many surfaces in this kitchen and putting your mouth to better use. ”
Your heated gaze made it difficult to speak. To breathe. “The trouble?” I managed. “Why would that cause…trouble?”
“Because if I could have your mouth in all the ways I desperately want it,” you said, tugging on my bottom lip, slowly dragging it down, “we’d never leave this house.”
Despite the feverish beat of my pulse, I pulled your hand from my face. “Wow—that’s—I didn’t realize you thought of me that way. Which proves my point: you’re really good at hiding it.”
“Yeah? I can keep going if you’d like.”
“Okay,” I said. Though, in hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have let you.
“You have that birthmark at your bikini line—a thrilling little discovery I made during our first summer together—and I’ve spent an embarrassing amount of time thinking about it ever since.
Speaking of our first summer, that swimsuit of Tinsley’s you wore?
Thank God I happened to be in the pool when you walked out in it—otherwise, it would’ve been immediately obvious to you and everyone else exactly how turned on I was.
All those photos of you I received from Michael that same summer?
To prove you remained injury-free? I saved them to my phone.
Every. Single. Photo. In one of them, you’re sat in the sand laughing at Michael, and you’re wearing one of those rash guard suits with the long sleeves, and your hair’s falling across your shoulders like it is now, but you’re dripping wet, and you must’ve been cold because your legs are covered in goosebumps.
And that’s one of my favorite photos of you—not only because you’re laughing and your nose is doing that adorable little crinkle thing I love, but because your birthmark is clearly visible.
Our first kiss?” You closed your eyes as if it pained you to remember.
“It took every ounce of strength I had to keep from dragging you underneath me and kissing you everywhere. The time your camisole rode up and I caught a glimpse of your creamy lace bra? Spent days obsessing over that. The night you asked me to crawl into bed with you? I wanted to. You’ve no idea how badly I wanted to.
I didn’t because I knew my hands would roam if you let them, and if you didn’t stop me, I wouldn’t be able to control myself.
An extraordinary part of my time with you is spent imagining what it might be like to press my lips to your birthmark and have my way with you, and you can’t possibly understand the pure agony it is to hold myself back. ”
Your speech should’ve made me happy. It should’ve thrilled me to finally know—with absolute certainty—you felt it, too. That very same, burning attraction I felt for you.
But that picture of me in the sand? Laughing at Michael?
It would devastate you to know what had happened just moments after he snapped it.
How we’d stumbled into the outdoor shower, laughing and kissing, to rinse the sand from our sun-kissed skin.
How Michael had dropped to his knees, ripping a shocked gasp from my throat two seconds after he’d pressed his lips to that birthmark.
So, you see, I had to spoil it. Guilt made me say that horrible thing. But there was a fair amount of truth to what I said, too. “It’s agony to hold yourself back?”
“You’ve no idea,” you whispered.
“Yeah? I bet screwing your way through Harvard makes it at least somewhat more bearable.”
Your head snapped back, the comment landing like I wanted it to: a slap. But you recovered in seconds, jaw hardening to stone. “Why do you do that?”
I looked away. “Do what?”
“Ruin everything. You want to know how I feel about you, so I tell you how I feel about you, and you decide to ruin it with a comment like that. Why? Was it something I said? Or do you just have to ruin everything?”
Blinking back tears, I went to hop down from the counter, but you blocked my exit with your body.
You leaned forward, bringing your face unbearably close to mine, dropping your mouth next to my ear.
“No. You’re not walking away from me. You ask me to start telling you things, but when I do—when I try—you cut me off or you claim I’m making it up.
And now this. Don’t ask me to be real with you if you plan to make me regret it. ”
“I regret it!” I said, pushing you back.
“I regret asking! I regret being reminded that no matter how badly you want to be with me, you won’t let yourself be.
Am I supposed to feel good about that? Am I supposed to be happy?
That’s how you feel about me—while you’re out there giving yourself to other people?
To Sienna, more than once? While you’re pushing me away and hurting my feelings?
I’d rather not know how you really feel, because now I also know that these little moments we share from time to time?
They’re stolen. That’s all they’ll ever be: stolen.
And, yeah, they feel pretty great while they’re happening, but they never feel too great the next day. ”
And, yes, I’m well aware: I had no room to talk or accuse you of anything, given my secret history with Michael. But I justified it by convincing myself we’d never actually given ourselves to each other, and I’d probably never be with him again.
“Okay,” you said firmly, “let me be clear about one thing: I’m not out there giving myself to anyone—not in any real sense of the word.
I sure as shit never gave myself to Sienna, I can promise you that.
And, yes, I’ll admit: I’ve been with too many people, and I hate that about myself, but I’m not out there screwing my way through Harvard.
On the contrary, I’ve slowed down quite a bit because of you.
I would’ve stopped completely if you hadn’t got yourself a boyfriend over the summer. ”