Letter Twenty-Seven #2
Because saying it would make that terrifying thing between us real—would drag it from the dark into the light—and I couldn’t face it yet.
How massive it was. How powerful it had become.
How it had crept through that house over months and months, filling every crack and crevice within me—all the hollow spaces and tiny fractures within you—where I’d selfishly allowed it to grow, its roots buried so deep that there was no way to rip it out without breaking us both.
“Where are you going?” I asked as you stood to leave.
“To put the kettle on,” you said over your shoulder.
That night, after I washed my face and brushed my teeth, the sight of you in my bed—shirtless, brooding, staring at my ceiling—caused a warm, sparkling sensation to fizzle low in my stomach. The guys on Tinsley’s phone had nothing on you.
As I climbed under the covers, your eyes briefly snagged on my pajamas—my flimsy white shorts and matching cropped cami, a dainty pink rosebud nestled between my breasts—before you slid your gaze back to the ceiling.
Meanwhile, I ogled the hard plane of your chest, the light sprinkling of dark hair, the soft brown of your nipples—which I had the sudden, unexpected urge to put in my mouth.
Some guys liked that, Tinsley said. She’d read about it in her books.
“You’ve been quiet tonight,” I said softly, dragging my fingers down your stomach, and for once, you didn’t stop me.
I explored the constellation of freckles scattered across your abdomen: four.
Your belly button: concave. Your muscles: taut.
The trail of hair: pointing south. All that bare skin. So warm and solid. So lickable.
Why didn’t I? Trace the shape of you with my tongue, that is?
Sometimes I lie awake on the thin foam mat I call a mattress in here, wondering why I didn’t lick you more. How ridiculous is that? All the trivial things I regret, in addition to everything else?
Playing connect the dots with the freckles on your stomach, I said, “Talk.”
You turned those tortured blue eyes on me. “Why? So you can tell me how wrong I am for wanting to be with you?”
My heart squeezed. “If being with me prevents you from having a relationship with John, then of course it’s wrong.”
“I need you more than I need a dad right now.”
“Have you ever stopped to think about what John needs? About the twenty-one years he’s already missed?”
With a sigh, you turned onto your side, propping your head on one hand.
“We could be together in secret. You could have a fake boyfriend”—a scowl here—“who isn’t Willoughby.
When you’re with him, he’ll only touch you in the places I deem appropriate.
But at night”—you swept the braid off my shoulder—“when you’re with me”—traced the swell of my breast—“I’ll touch you everywhere”—dragged your finger down the center of my body—“and my name”—skimmed the top of my shorts—“will be the one”—drifting closer, to the place—“you whimper”—I wanted you—“in the dark”—the most, skin burning, on fire, keep going—“right before you come in my mouth.”
You rasped those final, torturous words at the same time you withdrew your hand. Such a tease. Was it possible, I wondered, to combust from sexual frustration alone?
“Sounds—um—messy,” I said, struggling to formulate words. “And complicated. And also like the plot of a book Tinsley would love to read.”
“I can’t give you up,” you whispered.
“And I can’t be the reason you don’t get what you came here for.”
You jerked my leg over your hip and flipped to your back again, pulling me with you. With my knees settled astride your hips, I let myself imagine it.
You. Me. Tangled in those sheets.
The beautiful, filthy things we could do together.
Could we? Still? Would I be able to live with myself?
“Have you been listening to me at all?” you asked, grasping for bare skin, slipping your fingers underneath my top. “I came here to find out who I was, and I found the answer in you. I’m yours. No matter what happens, that’ll always be true.”
You were wearing the black joggers, fabric so thin I could feel everything.
Every warm, reckless, desperate inch—pining for me, too.
Gently, you rocked my hips. Let out a ragged groan.
Splayed your throat for me. I thought about licking a hot trail up the side of your neck, but I couldn’t stop staring—the more I moved, the more you came undone.
All heat and hunger, but something undeniably soft, too.
A sharp ache curled between my legs.
You pulled my braid loose. Peered up at me with hooded eyes. Gripped my hip, hard. “Saying no doesn’t do it for me, but this particular fantasy does. You. On top. Your hair in my face. This beautiful mouth”—you tugged my bottom lip down—“letting go. Giving me everything. Claiming me.”
My pulse fluttered, a fire burning bright in my chest. Because I wanted that, too, Casey. To let go. To give you everything. To know I could, and it would be okay. Mostly, I wanted to give you the stability and acceptance your damaged heart craved.
But I knew better.
Broken can’t heal damaged. Life doesn’t work that way.
“There’s that look again,” you said, cupping my face.
“What look?”
“The one from Halloween—like you’re scared.” You stroked my cheek. “What are you so afraid of?”
Disappointing you. Watching you walk away. Losing you forever. Breaking us both. “Everything,” I confessed.
You brought my face to yours, kissing me so tenderly and thoroughly my chest ached as you flipped us sideways again.
And then you were pushing me onto my back and dragging your nose down my body, pausing between my breasts before making your way to my stomach.
The sliver of bare skin beneath my top caught your attention.
You lingered there, lips tracing a slow path from hip to hip before your fingers slipped beneath the hem of my shorts. Exploring. Teasing.
My heart skipped. “What are you doing?”
“What do you want me to do?”
Jesus, Casey. What didn’t I want you to do? “Oh, please,” I said with an exaggerated eye roll. “Like you actually plan on doing something—”
You jerked down one side of my shorts, eyes gleaming as you peered up at me. “I won’t stop if you don’t want me to,” you murmured against my hip, gently tugging on the other side. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want whatever you want.”
“Thank God,” you breathed, and with one quick jerk of your wrists, you yanked those shorts down to my ankles.
Your head lolled to the side as you parted my knees. A rough, needy sound slipped from your throat. The way you looked at me—hungry, possessive—sent warmth flooding through my veins. “You’re so”—using the pad of your thumb, you traced me down the middle—“beautiful.”
I shivered with anticipation. “I bet you say that to all the girls. The guys, too.”
The dark flicker of your eyes made my gut clench. “I don’t, actually—and don’t you dare try to ruin this.”
You kissed the inside of my knee, then brushed your lips along the inside of my thigh.
The stubble on your face tickled the sensitive skin there, making me squirm.
“The shit that comes out of your mouth,” you whispered, lips drawing closer, the ache inside me growing stronger, my skin burning hotter.
On fire. So much tension. Something had to give soon—if you didn’t do it, I would.
I’d have to. You dragged your nose along the crease between my thigh and hip. “You can’t help yourself, can you?”
I couldn’t decide what I wanted more: to cry or the warm relief of your mouth. “No,” I rasped. “It’s a real problem.”
You kissed the birthmark at my bikini like, then traced it with your tongue. “We need to work on this problem of yours. It drives me mad.”
A bite—at the very top of my thigh—so unexpected and sharp I gasped.
Were you into biting, too? Was it genetic? A punishment for the remark? A test?
If I asked you to do it again, would I fail?
Your eyes, when I met them, were nearly black: vast, liquid pools of longing and frustration. How would they change if you saw the real me? Past the surface? Past the lies? To the dark, twisted things I held inside?
I gently pushed my fingers through your hair. “I’m so—”
But the word sorry died on my lips as yours finally touched the place I needed them most, and then I couldn’t think at all.
Actually, that’s not true.
As you worked literal magic on me with your mouth, I tried not to think about why you were so phenomenal at this, how you could play my body like an instrument, your finger placement precise, the pressure of your tongue deliberate, your technique finely tuned.
I’d be mad about it, except—my God—your attention to detail, the dedication to being insanely good at everything, clearly benefitted me.
Without any direction at all, you knew to press on my stomach just so, to lick right there, to curl your finger like that.
You knew to be patient, to be thorough, to tease in all the right places, to suck right there—yes, there—and don’t stop, please don’t stop—
Your head popped up, gaze wild. “It pains me to say this, but you’ve got to keep your voice down.”
“Right,” I whispered, because I’d been crying that stuff out loud.
With a killer smirk, you dipped your head, kissed that sensitive spot between my legs, then went back to work, slowly unraveling me with your tongue.
I writhed. I bucked. I pulled your hair.
I whimpered your name—over and over—just like you said I would, each broken syllable wrenching yet another desperate groan from your throat.
You were unraveling, too. Unraveling for me.
The room shimmered, shifting slightly out of focus, my back arching, fingernails digging into your shoulder. You moaned with me, the sounds rumbling from you—and therefore against me—pushing me over the edge, a wave of liquid-hot pleasure shuddering through my body.
Finally.
After all this time.
Release.
You came up for air, hazy-eyed and slack-jawed. “That was…” You stared at me in awe. “I can die happy now.”