19. Julia #3
My voice barely carries beyond the room, but no answer comes.
Of course it doesn’t. The lack of one somehow makes the possibility of him more intense rather than less.
I let one hand settle against my thigh and remain there for several seconds, giving myself enough time to decide whether I actually want to continue.
I could still turn around. He told me exactly what to do if I changed my mind.
The choice remains mine and that knowledge settles the nervous part of me so, I stay.
And once I decide to stay, I stop trying to pretend I am only curious.
I am aroused. The knowledge that he may be standing out there wanting me has settled low inside me from the moment I read the letter, and every second I spend in front of the window makes it harder to ignore.
My hand moves slowly. There is no need to rush because, for once, release isn’t the only point.
He is watching the anticipation too — that thought sends another warm shiver through me.
I imagine him somewhere between the trees, standing perfectly still because he knows I’m looking for him.
Maybe his hands are tucked into his jacket pockets.
Maybe they aren’t. Maybe he is fighting the same impatience he accused me of enjoying last night.
That image almost makes me keep my eyes on the darkness as long as I can.
The first time I touch myself in a way that makes my breathing change, embarrassment flashes through me so quickly I almost step away.
Then I remember that I came here specifically because I wanted him to see the reaction and embarrassment turns into something hotter.
There is an incredible difference between being caught and being witnessed after choosing to be seen. I understand that now.
My free hand rests against the window frame while I let myself follow the sensation, my attention shifting between my own reflection and the dark stretch of woods behind it.
I imagine him seeing the flush spreading over my face, the way my lips part when breathing quietly becomes harder.
Knowing somebody is waiting for every reaction makes each one feel larger and that’s the moment I stop being able to pretend this is only curiosity.
This is something significantly different, it’s about being wanted.
That word catches inside me — wanted — because it has nothing to do with feeling useful, or convenient, or appreciated.
Wanted because he looked at me and decided wanting me was enough reason to stand outside in the cold.
It’s completely insane, entirely inappropriate but, unfortunately for me, hot as hell.
A laugh almost escapes me, but it becomes something else when the tension inside me sharpens.
My eyes close, then his letter flashes through my mind.
Keep your eyes on the trees.
I open them again. The darkness beyond the glass blurs slightly while I stare into it. For one moment, the enormity of what I’m doing hits me again and my hand stills. Who are you? The question comes with enough force that fear moves underneath everything else.
I could stop, that matters. I could step away right now and, if he is telling the truth, he would understand.
For the first time since this began, knowing that doesn’t make me want to use the escape.
It makes me feel safe enough not to so, I continue.
The release builds differently than it did on Sunday because this time there is another person attached to it, even if I cannot see him.
I’m not simply giving my body something it asked for.
I am letting someone share the reaction with me.
When pleasure finally overtakes everything else, my fingers curl around the edge of the window frame and my forehead nearly touches the glass.
My eyes want to close, but I keep them open, just like he asked.
I look directly toward the trees when the last of my control slips.
For several seconds afterward, I remain exactly where I am, breathing hard enough that a faint patch of condensation appears against the glass before fading.
Then the reality of the situation returns all at once. Somewhere outside my house, a man I have never met just watched me come because I deliberately let him.
A quiet, disbelieving laugh slips out. “Holy shit.”
My face burns. So does half the rest of me, but I don’t feel the same hollow dissatisfaction I felt on Sunday night.
I don’t feel used either. If anything, there is a strange little current of power running beneath the embarrassment because none of this happened accidentally.
He asked. I decided. I could have walked away, only I didn’t.
I remained at the window instead of retreating from it.
The woods look exactly as they always do after dark, a mass of black trunks and deeper shadows that refuse to give up whatever might be hidden between them.
I search anyway. There is no movement, no silhouette.
No proof anyone is there at all and, still, I know better.
I lift one hand and rest my fingertips lightly against the cool glass.
“You’re still there, aren’t you?”
Nothing answers and I don’t expect it to. For some reason, the silence doesn’t feel empty anymore. A small sense of relief settles beneath everything else, strange enough that I know better than to examine it too closely tonight.
I still can’t see him, but knowing he might be there no longer feels like being alone in the dark. And tonight, against absolutely every rule of common sense I possess, I’m glad.