Chapter 11
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Nate
I took the shower to clear my head. In the car, I’d been feeling like I could smell the beach roses on me, clinging to my skin, my clothes. And every which way I turned my head, there she was in her skin-bearing tank top, and her admirable dreams of opening the horribly named Possum.
And, yes, I don’t like pets myself. You couldn’t pay me to adopt a dog or a murderous feline. But it doesn’t mean I don’t think other people shouldn’t adopt.
I dress in the bathroom, pulling on a white shirt, which sticks to my skin because apparently, I didn’t fully dry off.
I open the door, and there she is in her tank top.
On the bed.
Eating an ice cream cone.
She’s focused on it, gazing down, her eyelashes a dark blade.
And then she licks it, her pink tongue running up its side, and my whole body hardens. I’m frozen still.
“I got you Moose Tracks,” she says cheerfully .
I have no idea how she knows this is my favorite ice cream, but it does something to me. It makes me feel good .
I cross the room, not taking my eyes off her or her tongue and whatever it’s doing to the ice cream cone, which I will file away in a memory, and let’s just say, I’ll visit often.
I take the cone from her. Our fingers brush. There’s some melted ice cream on her pinky, and it gets on my own. It’s sticky, and I should want to wipe it off. But it touched her. I want to suck it off, but I restrain myself.
“Want to get dinner?” I mean it like a date.
“Yeah.”
But I don’t think she picked up on my meaning. Disappointed, I ask, “What are you in the mood for?”
“Some place cheap.”
“I’ll pay.”
She straightens. It arches her back a little, which forces her chest forward. Don’t lick the cone, don’t lick the cone, I internally chant. “Meh,” she says as she stretches. “I don’t want to be indebted to you.”
I sit down beside her, cone still in my hand. The bed shakes beneath my weight.
She shoots me a worried look like, “What are you doing?”
“I know you don’t like me.” I’m not entirely sure what I’m trying to say, but I feel this urge to say something.
“You made fun of P’awesome.”
“That was more of a branding issue. But, hey, look. I think we can both agree that the animosity between us goes way back.”
She turns to face me. “You admit there’s animosity?”
I throw up my one hand that’s not occupied with the ice cream. “Well, yeah. ”
“I tried to talk to you about that sophomore year!” she exclaims.
I wrack my memories of her, but they’re mostly colored by our various detentions and suspensions. And the day I realized I lost my acceptance into MIT.
“After school that one day?” she prompts. “In the parking lot? When we were leaving detention, and it was raining?”
The memory materializes like a dream. A chilly fall day. Steady rain, not necessarily torrential, but one of those days where it keeps going and going. She was wearing that yellow rain jacket. I cut a hole in it the next year. “Oh yeah,” I say as it comes back to me.
“Hey, can we talk?” she asks. Her face peeks out from beneath her yellow hood, and a raindrop glistens on her eyelash.
“Nope.”
“This is getting out of hand.”
“You started it.”
“Uh, actually you started it.”
Sure, we were fourteen or fifteen, I can’t remember exactly—the point being we were young—but we were exceptionally immature. That’s what the school counselor had called our behavior. “Exceptionally immature.” Not a bad name for a song title, I can’t help but think.
I want to stop the cycle. I believe destructive cycles can be stopped. And I want to have the strength to do so. Because change is hard. If it were easy, everyone would do it, and there’d be no need for new year’s resolutions or self-help books. “You’re right.” I shift so I’m facing her as well. “I’m sorry. ”
Her expression opens, but then she seems to think better of it and narrows her eyes. “What are you doing?” she asks in a low voice.
“Apologizing.”
“You? Apologizing?”
“Yeah, why?” I ask.
“I just never…” She looks around the room as if searching for what to say and then goes back to her ice cream, eating it thoughtfully.
My pants tighten at her tongue going back to work. As much as I hate to admit it, I can’t help but wonder: am I apologizing—against my better judgement—because I’m attracted to her? Or is it sincere? “We can’t stay kids forever,” I say.
She nods in agreement.
“Truce?” I offer a handshake.
She stares at it as if considering, as if I’m about to pull it away and shout, “Gotcha,” at the last minute, which let’s face it, I might have done fifteen years ago.
“Truce.” Her hand slides into mine, and the feel of her skin rubbing against mine makes me swallow a gulp of air when I mean to exhale. She smiles at me, and I try to smile back, as I swallow a cough, not wanting to ruin the moment.
She goes back to eating her cone, but her elbow keeps brushing against my bicep. It’s like all the focus in my body goes to that one small area. The brush, brushhh, bruuuuush, each touch so different, so pleasurable, and unique. It puts me in a type of trance. Yet even though it relaxes me, my heart pounds hard.
I shift my leg, so that our knees touch.
She doesn’t move away .
I’m wearing jeans, so I can’t feel her bare skin. I want to slide a hand up her thigh into her shorts—just so I can feel more of that bare skin. But I can’t do that. Even though I want to.
As I fight with myself, trying to keep my hands to myself, I swear she nuzzles closer, so that her elbow brushes the inside of my bicep, between my arm and ribs. The skin is more sensitive there, and the sensation makes me feel high. Thud, thud, thud —my heart.
I lean closer, not enough to bury my nose in her hair, which is loose around her shoulders, but only a few inches away. My pulse feels almost electric, shooting through me. I’m a heady mixture of feeling high, relaxed, and nervous beyond belief.
And it occurs to me: Is this what we always wanted? To be close with each other? When you take the walls down, does it happen this fast?
The whole thing is so bizarre because we’re still eating our ice cream cones, sitting on the bed, but our bodies are being pulled together.
When she tilts her head to finish off the last bits of her ice cream cone, her hair brushes my shoulder, and the ends tickle that skin by my bicep again.
“I love the way you eat ice cream,” I whisper in awe.
She glances over at me, surprised. She shyly smiles. “I remembered your favorite flavor from student council.”
Her words fill me with delight. I want to show her how much. I plop the last bit of cone in my mouth, not tasting a bite, because I want to taste other things right now.
I brush some of her hair away from her neck, revealing the silky skin beneath her ear. Her skin pulses with her heartbeat. I hope I’m making it race.
She leans into it .
My lips graze against her warm skin, inhaling her beach rose scent.
She squirms at the touch like it feels good enough to send shivers.
Gently, I bring my lips to a small freckle, and I kiss it.
“Ahhh,” she says, shivering again.
“Is that okay?” I whisper into her hair like I’ve always wanted.
There’s a silence, and my heart stops.
“We shouldn’t,” she whispers.
I rest my head against the side of hers. “I know.”
“You’re my intern.”
“I know.”
Another pause.
I don’t move. I’ve never wanted someone so much in my life.
I don’t want to pressure her or talk her into something she doesn’t want to do. I’ve never had trouble bedding women, so I wouldn’t even know how. Still, I wrack my brain. I need her. All of her.
“But what if we did?” she whispers, cutting into my thoughts. “Just once?”
“Just once?” I repeat.
“Get it out of our systems.” She presses her leg into mine. “Like the radio host said.”
I’m aching against my jeans, and the movement rattles me deliciously. I gently kiss her freckle again, and she tilts her neck, so I can better reach. Pleasure floats me—I’m high, levitating, groundless from her touch.
I trail kisses around her ear, relishing in her trembling body. I don’t use my hands yet.
No, not yet .
I kiss her neck like I’ve wanted to kiss her neck for the last fifteen years—maybe I’ve thought about this before, maybe I’ve envisioned just exactly how I might kiss it—and how I hoped she’d respond.
And her response is even better than I dreamed.
Still, her words “just once” boomerang around my brain. This can’t be a one-time thing. I have to make her need me as much as I need her. This. This will be what it’s about. Making her need me so much she comes back again and again. And fucking again. Dripping for me. Begging for me. On her knees for me.
A little sigh escapes her, and it pierces me somewhere deep and dark inside, unfurling a hunger that’s been fifteen years in the making.
And do you know how long fifteen years actually is?
I mean, yes, it’s a decade and a half.
But do you know what it’s like to yearn for fifteen years? What it is to desire ? To long ? For fifteen goddamn years?
Desire like that takes root in you. And it doesn’t just stay stagnant. It grows. Each and every fucking day, each and every fucking second, it builds and builds, and it’s enough to drive you crazy. It’s enough to write songs about; it’s enough to drive you on stage; and it’s enough to keep you up at night after. Just about the only thing you could do—or I could do—is to run away because it’s too damn strong, and it hit too damn young, and what kid knows what to do with a feeling that strong? A kid fresh out of puberty? A kid who gets a boner on the bus? And I’m supposed to live with a desire like this?
I kiss her neck full-on now—no gentle kisses—but I want-to-fuck kisses .
I trail toward her mouth, aching to taste her and her mint chip ice cream, needing to slide against that pink tongue of hers and her innocent cone licking.
She places a hand on my shoulder as if to stop me and pulls away. As she looks at me with wide eyes, she says, “No kissing.”
“No kissing?” I search her face for what she could possibly mean.
“We can do other things but no kissing.”
“Other things but no kissing? Why?”
She shrugs, but it comes off practiced like she’s not sure what else to do.
“Is this some kind of kink?” I ask, trying to make sense of it.
“I just don’t want to kiss,” she says in a tone like she doesn’t want to answer any more questions.
“But this is okay? We can do other things?”
She nods. “You can kiss me anywhere else. Just not on the mouth.”
And here it is, after all these years. I get some of what I want.
But not all.
Do you know what that will do to you?
It’s enough to drive a good man crazy. It’s enough to drive a bad man insane.
“Can I touch?” I whisper in her ear, trying to keep the ache from my voice.
She nods, and my lips brush against her earlobe.
I ran a hand up her arms, luxuriating in her silky skin like a ribbon beneath my rough fingers.
I trail my hand down from her shoulder, brushing against her breasts, her hair, and I want to press against her. I feel too far away side by side .
I stand and position myself between her legs. “Scoot back,” I command.
She does as she’s told, bouncing slightly against the springy mattress, which does incredible things to her tits.
Heart thudding, I tug off my jeans, not because I think we should sleep together—I have other plans for her—but because my cock aches from straining against the fabric. I tuck the tip of my cock beneath my brief’s elastic band, although it still pokes out slightly. I want it contained as much as possible.
I crawl between her legs, smoothing my hands against her calves, all the way up to her thighs. I love looking into her eyes and all that glimmers there like bourbon in a crystal glass.
Her shorts hike up on her thighs, and I swirl a thumb around her inner thighs, just to feel the skin there, the warmth, the energy, my theremin.
She buzzes beneath my touch.
I don’t want to give too much now, no, not after all these years. Not when I need her to need me.
I slide my hands over her jean shorts and pop open the waist button.
Without a word, she raises her hips, and I tug down her shorts, salivating for her. My heart nearly pounds out of my chest.
Seeing her in her white cotton panties, I realize I’ll have to go off-script, because there’s only so much a man can handle.
I lower myself, placing weight on my forearms. The mattress creaks beneath me.
My cock presses against her cotton panties. I love thinking about her little pussy beneath the cotton .
I allow one slow grind against her. I feel buzzy with need. But I remind myself of my goal: to make her need me as much as I needed her these last fifteen years.
To ensure that, I trail kisses all over her body. Her ankles, her calves, her inner thighs, up to her breasts, pink little nipples, and over every inch of her body, every curve and contour and tan line and freckle, learning her, tasting her, inhaling her, worshiping her.
She squirms beneath me, legs tensing, back arching. “Please,” she begs.
I look up at her, from between her legs, where I’d been kissing her tender inner thighs.
“Please,” she claws at the back of my neck. “I want you so bad.”
“Are you close to coming?” I ask, trailing a lazy finger down her thigh. “I want to edge you.”
She’s so reactive to my touch, on the highest of alerts. “What?” her voice is almost a stutter.
“I want to edge you.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s where I get you close to coming, and then we stop.”
“I’m already close to coming!” she exclaims.
“Then, we should stop.” I sit back on my heels.
She props herself up on her elbows, face flushed. “You’re just…stopping?” she asks in irritated disbelief.
“Trust me. You’ll thank me later.”
“I’d rather thank you now.”
“There’s something to delayed gratification.”
“Not when it comes to sex!”
I look her body over. I’m aching for her. But I know this is the way. I want to make her come so hard. “Let me show you a new way,” I say. “Something I think you’ll like.”
We stare at each other. Somewhere in the distance waves rhythmically crash.
After a minute, she sighs and stands. “We should probably get dinner.”
I grab my pants and yank them on. “Bev?”
She glares at me before wiggling into her tank top. Seeing her body undulate like that is magical. “What?” she asks.
“Wear a skirt.”
She looks up at me, lips parted in surprise. Her hair is messy, and her tank top partially covers her breasts, not fully pulled down.
I’ve never wanted her more.
She nods distractedly and pulls a skirt from her bag. She holds it up. A maroon cotton skirt that probably hits mid-thigh.
My heart races at the sight of it.
“It has pockets,” she announces.
“That’s not why I want you to wear a skirt.”
Her cheeks redden, and she smiles shyly.
Outside, seagulls call to each other, and it sounds like, “Bev! Bev!” Or maybe that’s just my musician mind, hearing my favorite lyrics where none exist.
I watch as she grabs our keycard from the table in the corner. I love the way she moves, the angle of her wrist as she reaches, the way her lips glisten in the light.
I can’t help but wonder again: Why won’t she kiss me?
She says it’s not a kink, but then, what the hell is it?