Chapter 9 #2
Denying it lets it stay a safe daydream. But I can’t deny it the longer Dean’s hands stay on me. His long fingers fit along my cheekbones like perfectly sized pieces of a puzzle. I’m too hopeful.
My answer is a heartbeat of silence, a wink of sleep, a tick of time, anything but the answer I wanted to say.
I’m in a weightless freefall, being washed away by every second and every centimeter of space between us.
It’s the warmth of his hands on both of my cheeks that anchors me back into reality.
The lightbulb flickers off for good, and we are plunged into complete darkness.
My heart patters a beat, and I bump my face into his forehead, my hands removed from my lap, crawling up his chest. His thumbs rub circles in the space behind my ears.
I’m blind in the dark, and I push on him, feeling him through his shirt, firm muscles bouncing back.
He groans softly when I touch the bare skin around his neck and collarbone.
I touch his neck, his chin, the apples of his cheeks and he’s so darn soft, so soft everywhere.
His rough and tumble exterior is only for show based on how soft the curve of his face feels.
I drag a finger across his cheek to his lips.
I feel like a total weirdo feeling his face in the dark like this, but he doesn’t whisper a word or move an inch.
He sits there patiently, statuesque, except for the small groans that escape his slightly parted mouth whenever I touch somewhere he likes. Which is practically everywhere.
“It’s been so long since someone has touched me like this,” He confesses, echoing my thoughts.
“Not Eliza?”
“No,” He whispers. “Not like you.”
I press my palms to his chest. I’m completely enamored by the shape of his pectoral muscles.
He moves his hands from my face, and the cool air on my cheeks nearly shocks me back to reality.
I feel his hands wrap around my waist, pulling me closer, and I’m about to suggest something totally inappropriate.
“I want to know what it feels like again,” I say timidly, baring my desires to him. This would mean more to me than him.
“How what feels?” Dean whispers into my neck, his nose right in front of my ear.
He squeezes the space between my shorts and my hip before releasing my waist. His lips are so close to my skin, if I even moved a centimeter, the snow outside would melt from the heat of our bodies, and I’d go up in flames.
We both would. Our knees are touching and the bed creaks from under our weight.
“Will you kiss me?” I say to his chest, tilting my head up, away from his ear.
My hands are shaking, but I follow the shape of his chest up to his face once more, and place my hands on his cheeks, my thumbs feeling the hollows of his bones.
He places his hands overtop mine to steady them.
He trails down my arms to my shoulders and up to my own cheeks and goosebumps trail behind his touch.
“I wish I could see you.” I speak into the void of darkness in front of me.
“You have to be the one to do it first,” Dean whispers, his voice a zip of fire over the fresh fallen snow.
I hesitate at first, because this is hope igniting into something far bigger, something uncontainable for me, but then I’m consumed with a desire so fierce I can’t push it down any longer.
Our noses brush and my heart beats wickedly with such power that I can’t control it.
I can’t keep it together.
In something less than a second, I close the gap between us, pressing my lips gently to his, holding his face.
His palms spread across my cheeks. The open-mouth press of our lips is sweet and nervous, reluctant in all manners.
It is kind and friendly, and not at all messy, hiding how much I want to kiss him far more carnally than this.
I think I might die.
I pull back after just a few seconds, a thin sliver of air separating our tender lips.
“I’m—” I whisper. I want to say that I’m sorry. That I shouldn’t have done that. That it was selfish. That I wanted to see for myself what it’s like to kiss another man, and that man had to be him. “I’m—”
Dean swoops back in with a clip of his lips, he kisses mine, top and right, left and folded over and packed away.
This kiss is not like the one I gave him.
This kiss is made for me. He slides his tongue over my bottom lip, and when I let out a low groan letting him know how much I need this, he slides his tongue gently into my mouth.
He has one hand pressed on the small of my back, the other tangled in my hair, on the back of my head controlling the depth of our kiss.
My hands are flying around freely, and I’m afraid to touch him, like if I did, we might produce an electric shockwave.
Eventually, I settle my arms around his neck—and the only shockwaves are the ones routing through my spine.
He gives me decadent kisses that tell me it’s okay, I’m okay, this is okay.
I’m in control, he’s here. He’s leading the way back into humankind, that this is something I'm allowed to do. We kiss, trading licks with our tongues and bites with our teeth, and I feel like summery youth has returned to me. I’m a teenager again, making out in the dark.
I tangle my hands in his hair as he grabs my knee and thigh and pulls my legs practically over his lap.
We’re sitting further back on the bed, my feet don’t touch the ground and I’m panting now, so I pull away for a moment.
When he pushes my hair out of the way and presses a kiss to my neck and I can’t help but gasp.
I’ve almost forgotten what it feels like to be touched like this.
The wind howls outside, and the window rattles with it.
Dean’s touches are concerned and compassionate. He pulls me further, so now I’ve shifted to have my legs completely over his lap. He holds me in a scoop, like he might pick me up, but I’m still firmly on the mattress.
He slightly lifts the hem of my shirt, and his hand presses against the bare skin of my back.
The touch sends urgent shivers down my spine, straight to my core.
I have both hands in his hair now, and my eyes have finally adjusted to the darkness.
Only lit by the reflection of the snow, I can make out the shape of his face.
His lips are swollen and he’s panting, too. Our eyes meet.
“Do you want to keep going?” He whispers in a pant.
“Yes,” I say in a quiet howl. We lay back onto the mattress, laying side by side, our bodies have fallen six inches apart from one another, but still, we blend our lips and faces together in sloppy, wet kisses. I start pulling at his shirt, and it’s so tempting to take it off.
“Come here, come closer” Dean says in a low growl. He pulls on me again, and I shift my body forward, wrapping a leg around his waist, bringing our bodies back in alignment with one another. The bed creaks, and we both ignore it.
He crawls over top of me, the bed creaking, dipping his face towards mine, pressing a kiss to my forehead, sheen with sweat.
He lightly kisses my lips, before he finds a steady rhythm of pressing his tongue in.
I groan, caressing his shoulders and arms, my tongue following his.
The bed creaks loudly again when he hikes up my leg to his hip.
“I feel like we’re being so loud,” I whisper.
“This isn’t even close to being loud,” Dean murmurs in my ear.
Dean grinds his hips into mine and all the breath is sucked out of me.
I don’t even hear the creaking anymore as we kiss, so we’re both startled when there’s a loud knock at the door.
He jumps off me, standing on the side of the bed.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” He whispers, fumbling in the dark, I scramble to sit up, feeling like we got caught.
There’s another knock at the door. “Dean? It’s me.”
Dean opens the door, and light streams in from the hallway. It’s Sierra. He hides behind the door, only craning his neck around. “What?” He whispers.
“I…I think I’m gonna be sick soon. I think I drank too much,” She says, clutching her stomach. “Do you have any medicine?”
“Isn’t there anything in the cabinet?” He asks her, rubbing his eyes, pushing his hair out of his eyes.
“No,” She burps. “I thought you were sleeping downstairs.”
“I am sleeping downstairs,” He repeats.
“Uh-huh. Then why are you up here?” Sierra looks green, even in the dim light of the hallway.
“Aren’t you supposed to be sick?”
“I am!” Sierra exclaims quietly, before promptly retching all over the floor.
“Fuck, Sierra!” He quickly puts his arms around Sierra, who is coughing now. “Let’s get you cleaned up now, come on. Don’t wait up for me, Madeline.” He steps around the pool of vomit and closes the door.
I’m plunged into darkness once more. The thought of someone being sick in the house makes me anxious, but I lay back on the pillow at the head of the bed and crawl under the knit blanket Dean laid out for me.
I replay what just happened in my head. Dean and I just made out.
I bring my hands to my lips, which are sore and tender from kissing so intensely.
My first instinct is to feel guilty, but the feeling is soon overcome with how much I fucking loved it.
I felt like my old self again—someone who isn’t preoccupied or consumed with anxiety or grief.
I did what I wanted to do, not inhibited by the fact that Andy is dead or that I might keel over with infection.
I can’t help but laugh.
This is what I wanted for so long. To feel normal again and the fact I feel normal makes me feel like I’m high. I’m so giddy and my mind is racing so fast with the thought that I want to kiss Dean again and again, I don’t think I can fall asleep.
I roll over onto my side, clutching the blanket close, and I resolve to wait up for him.
I picture his lips on mine repeatedly, on an infinite time loop, because oh, man, maybe this is all I needed in the first place.
Another human to show me the way back to myself.
I close my eyes, resting them for a brief moment.
I try to reel myself back in, reminding myself that this takes time.
But for the first time in a long time, I’m at ease, for enough is enough.
I may have started in the middle of the water, no end in sight, waves lapping at my face, but now I’m on the other side.
I’ve made it. I swam across endless miles of pond, to the shore, and I’m running up the beach, sun on my face.