11
Tristan
They say time heals all, but I died in a thunderstorm, and nearly five decades haven’t been enough to keep me from startling every time lightning cracks across the sky.
The storm tonight isn’t exactly as violent as the Nor’easter that killed me, but it has me on edge just the same.
I’m sitting in the library, with the heavy drapes of the window behind me drawn so I don’t have to see the flashes of lightning in the night.
The stack of books Demi brought home a few days ago is sitting on the desk in front of me.
I’m not sure if she brought them home for me or for herself.
When we shared our texting conversation, she said she’d bring some new books to the house to share with me.
It might be foolish to think she followed through, that she even remembers that part of the conversation—if she even believes it was real at all.
The idea that she was thinking about that conversation, about me , when she was at work, is so lovely that it’s almost painful.
What if she really did this for me? But what if I’m making it all up in my head because I’m so goddamn lonely?
Hope is so very dangerous for a man like me.
The truth is, I don’t think I realized the depth of my loneliness until Demi St. James walked into my life with her golden hair and her bare feet. It’s becoming harder to remember what it was like in this house before it was filled with her candles and her books, her music and her Cherry Cokes.
When Demi leaves the house, I feel her absence in the heart of me. When she’s gone, the warmth of this place leaves with her. The sun follows her away, and I’m left behind in the shadows, wondering if the Manor has always been this cold and dark.
Even when she’s asleep, I feel an emptiness. Those long midnight hours make me miss her noise and her mess in the house.
I pick up the book at the top of the stack in front of me.
It’s a modern book, but the cover looks like an elevated version of what I used to see on the bookshelves of drug stores across the country: a man and a woman passionately embracing.
It’s funny to me that what’s now considered vintage, probably twice over, is back in fashion, like Demi’s wardrobe and the art on this book cover.
It’s true what they say: everything comes back around.
The book isn’t bad. I’m not sure what I was expecting when Demi told me she was bringing home what she calls “spicy” books.
Maybe I expected it to be poorly written, and maybe that makes me a little pretentious.
The writing is good— really good—and the romance is surprisingly believable.
Two broken people seeking solace in yearning for each other.
I’m about fifty pages in when an impulsive moment of abandon brings the characters together.
She’s slipping off her dress, and he’s salivating at his first glimpse of her naked skin.
He’s tasting her throat and grabbing her by the hips, and she’s exhaling her need into his ear.
She’s clawing at his shoulder with her fingernails, and he’s pushing his hand between her legs.
And me? I’m enraptured.
He whispers in her ear that she’s a good girl, taking his fingers so well, and I can’t turn the pages fast enough. Reading this book is like being offered a secret passage into a woman's mind.
What’s more, I know Demi has read this. As I devour the words, I wonder in the back of my mind if this is how she likes it, being worshipped with hands and tongue, praised and adored with words. I wonder if it makes her warm to read chapters like this, if they make her wet.
I wonder, in some dark and nearly forgotten part of me, what sounds Demi St. James might make if a man were to tell her how good her cunt tastes.
The longing for the taste of a woman, for the taste of her , hits me like a bulldozer.
My spirit is awake, suddenly alive with it.
The memories of lovers from the past swirl amongst the images delivered to me from this book, from the imaginings of Demi spread open before me, and a feeling hits me that I can only describe as a craving.
I haven’t craved since I existed in a body that could seek and satiate.
These desires are not new to me, but they’ve been dead almost as long as I have. And now, they’re coming at me all at once, like the sea at high tide. I think, perhaps, if I don’t run from the waves, they might swallow me whole.
I tuck a bookmark between the pages and close the cover to regain my bearings. Outside, thunder crashes so loud and deep, I feel the rumble in the foundations of the Manor.
That’s when I hear her.
Down the hall, Demi is asleep in her room.
It’s past two in the morning by now. The storm must have woken her, because I hear her voice.
A muffled moan, in a tone much more delicate and smaller than she uses to speak.
She must be frightened. If the thunder didn’t startle her awake, it must have triggered a nightmare.
Before I even know what I’m doing, I’m rushing to her doorway. I’m concerned for her, for her comfort and for her safety. I’ve seen her afraid—that night on the stairs— and I don’t ever want to see her like that again. On the other side of the door, she makes that sound again.
I have to see for myself that she’s alright.
Pushing the door open, I step into her room, and I’m immediately lost in a cloud of her scent. If I could bottle the smell of her, I would. Then I’d sink myself into that lovely perfume and drown in it: jasmine and incense and sweet earth.
It’s dark and cool in her room, and she’s left the window open a crack. There’s a slow trickle of rainwater dripping down the corner of the windowsill and into a small puddle on the floor. Moving silently, I close the window.
Then, she makes that sound again, and I turn toward where she lies curled on her side in bed.
She’s tossed off the sheets and covers; they’re tangled around her ankles.
Demi has herself wrapped around a long, overstuffed pillow.
Her arms and legs are curled around it, holding it close to her.
I’ve never wanted to be an inanimate object more than I want to be that pillow in Demi’s arms .
Soft, rhythmic sighs come from her full, slightly parted lips.
She’s wearing the same oversized Creedence Clearwater Revival t-shirt she wore the night she moved in.
It’s hiked up around her waist, revealing a pair of red panties.
Heaven help me, I can’t help but admire the perfect roundness of her ass and those thick thighs of hers.
If I were still alive, my blood would be fever-hot.
I’d give anything to crawl into bed behind her and fit her body to mine. I’d give anything to feel her warmth.
There’s a rosy blush high on her cheeks, and her breath is starting to come out a little faster.
I wish there were something I could do to stave off whatever nightmare is tormenting her.
Maybe if I touched her, she’d wake from it.
I know that she can’t feel it when I touch her, not really, but I know she senses me when I’m near, and I’ve seen her shiver when we’ve been too close.
Moving closer, I reach out for her. But then… then I notice the way her hips are moving. She moans again. That tender sound that drew me to her room, as it turns out, is not a sound of fear but rather of… pleasure.
Christ.
In her sleep, Demi grinds herself against the pillow between her legs, and I’m frozen in place.
I can’t move, I can’t think. I can do nothing but stand dumb and watch as her body chases its release.
There’s a phantom throbbing within me, like the memory of my heart racing, slamming against my ribs.
And heat, so much heat. I know the room itself is still cool, but there’s an uncommon warmth radiating from the center of me outward. I have never felt this way before.
A rush of visions rises to the surface of my mind. I imagine myself between her legs. That the pillow she’s grinding on is my hand, my mouth, my cock. Watching her, I can almost feel what it would be like. So perfect and warm and soft.
A woman’s pleasure is a goddamn gift, and I wish with everything I have that I could be the one lucky enough to give it to Demi.
From a moral standpoint, I should look away.
I know that. If I were a better man, I would give Demi her privacy and try to forget the way her hips undulate and roll, and how her gasps are the sweetest sounds I’ve ever heard.
The fact that I can’t turn away makes me reconsider what kind of man I am at my core. Maybe I’m not a good man, after all.
The want for her in me is insurmountable. I understand wanting. I spent my life always wanting more, and I’ve spent my death wanting to be alive again.
But there is want, and then there is this . Want is too small a word.
What I feel for Demi St. James at this moment is a yearning so violent it consumes the very foundations on which I’ve built my entire sense of decency and goodness.
She’s close. I can tell. The rhythm of her hips becomes graceless and messy, which makes it all the more alluring—to know that she’s reached the point where it’s nothing but her and the primal need to come.
Her moans become deeper, raspier, and breathless in a way that has me feeling like I should fall to my knees.
“ Fuck ,” she moans in her sleep, with a desperation I never thought possible from a woman as self-assured as Demi. It makes that strange, phantom heartbeat in my chest pound harder, makes the heat inside me feel like a blaze .
This beautiful woman is about to come, and I know that I can’t stand here and watch it. God, I want to. But she hasn’t invited me into this moment. She hasn’t given me permission or consent to bear witness to her in this way.
So, I finally find my goodness and move as quickly as I can out of her room and down the hall to the library.
Still, I can’t escape the sound. The broken cry of exquisite agony as Demi finds her climax and falls over the edge.
Fuck. I’m in for a world of hurt.