TWENTY-SIX
Ilie awake, staring at the ceiling. Ornate crossbeams divide it into square sections. I picture myself as a bug in this mansion and I ponder how long it would take me to climb one of those crossbeams? Each one is a hurdle to overcome if you want to move to the next section. Would it take hours to cross the entire ceiling? A day? More? Or is time different for bugs and tiny creatures?
The journey feels like a metaphor. My grandmother would have made a saying out of it. ‘A failure can only see the barrier that got in his way. A success sees the hurdle he surpassed to win,’ —or something like that.
A droning buzz draws my attention from the ceiling. I look to the bedside table to find my phone making a leisurely escape across the surface, heading straight for the edge. I grab it just before it slips over the side and wince as the bright light from the screen flares my vision.
A text message? Who from? This late? Dax’s name stares back at me from the screen.
What are you doing?
Isn’t that a stupid question?
So…you’re awake then?
No. I sleep text. It’s a bad habit.
Like thinking out loud?
Yes, just like that.
I love when you think out loud.
Well, someone has to.
There’s a long gap where the texting stops and I’m not sure if it’s my fault for being too blunt or if he’s fallen asleep. I lay the phone down on my chest and close my eyes. The buzz thrums through my chest like a purr.
Jules?
Yeah?
You really should try to sleep.
You keep texting me.
You want me to stop?
No.
Good. I don’t want to stop either.
Shouldn’t you worry about disturbing Sylvie?
Why? I doubt she can hear us. There is a staircase and at least three walls between us and her room.
She has the room at the other end?
Yeah, opposite Tom’s.
Oh.
Why? Where did you think she was?
Doesn’t matter.
You thought she was in here?
Damn him for always knowing what I’m thinking. Still, she wasn’t with him. I just assumed he sent her to his room. Does this mean she isn’t his girlfriend? It does, right? Why does that make me so happy? I hadn’t really got a good look at the girl yet. Between having my head between my knees the other day at the hospital, and arriving in the dark tonight, all I can tell is that she’s pretty. I assume she is around my age, though she could be younger given the way she behaves. She also has a serious disregard for personal boundaries, but none of that means she’s romantically involved with Dax. Thank goodness.
Jules?
What do I reply to that? If I say I suspected she was with him, would that make me appear jealous? If I say I didn’t then he’ll probably be able to tell I’m lying.
Why aren’t you responding?
Because I don’t want to look like an idiot, Dax. But I don’t reply with that. I don’t reply at all. Instead, I place the phone on the side and think about us in the car. Remember flexibility, he’d said. He wants me to be flexible. Does he mean flexibility when it comes to Sylvie? Perhaps what he really means is patient?
“But if he isn’t with Sylvie, does that mean the heat in the car was exactly what I think it was?”
“Well, that depends on what you thought it was, Jules.” Dax stands at the end of the bed. I hadn’t noticed him come in, but he emerges from the darkness of the room as though his voice materialised him. He’s shirtless, wearing only a pair of grey cotton sleep pants. I shoot up to the headboard, forgetting to drag the blankets with me. My knees hit my chest before I notice they’re bare. I slam them down again and yank his t-shirt, stretching it awkwardly to cover myself. And why can’t I tear my eyes away from his chest? His smooth chest. His build is what I think they call athletic. Defined but not built. His skin is warm-toned and creamy soft…would it feel like silk? Why isn’t he wearing a shirt? And why do his pyjama pants match the tee I’m wearing? O…oh.
I finally find words. I wrestle them together and fake indignation. “What are you doing here?”
“You stopped answering,” he states, matter-of-fact, but there’s an energy building between us, so his bluntness doesn’t fool me. He’s enjoying this.
“The texts? You came into my room without knocking because I stopped texting for three minutes?”
“It looks like you didn’t plan to reply anymore.” He motions to the phone.
“I was trying to work a few things out.”
“I heard. What did you think the heat in the car actually was?”
Well, shit. Talk about putting me on the spot. “I…This isn’t…you weren’t meant to hear that.” I try to look away, but there’s nothing I want to look at more than him.
“But I heard it. Ask me.”
“What?” He wants me to ask him directly? If he heard me, why can’t he just answer? But I know why. He enjoys playing with me. He loves the push and pull. He hinted as much with the little slips of flirty banter over the last couple of days. And I have to admit, now that I’ve finally settled in the storm’s eye with nothing to do but wait, I’m actually excited at the prospect of playing with him. No responsibilities. No dependants. For the first time in my life, I have no one’s needs to consider but my own.
“Ask me, Jules,” he insists, voice dark and gravelly with wicked intent.
“Are you with Sylvie?” I ask instead.
“No, I’m not. Ask me the right question.”
“Are you messing with me?”
“No.” I expect him to grin, but he fixes me with a severe expression. He means business. “The right question, Jules.”
“What was happening in the car, Dax?” I ask at last, terrified, and thrilled by his potential answer.
“Something I hadn’t expected.” His knee lifts onto the bed, he supports his weight on his hands. “You’ve surprised me at every turn. I promised to protect you, but I had no idea having you around would make me vulnerable, too.” His forearms flex and tense as he crawls his way up the bed towards me. By the time both fists press into the mattress, either side of my legs, my heart pounds. I hear the hammering in my chest and the blood whooshing in my ears.
“The car was a prelude to foreplay, Jules.” A prelude to foreplay?
Dax lays down on his left side, beside my legs. He keeps his head tilted back to watch my face.
“When you placed your fingers here…” He lifts his right arm and runs his fingers up my legs from my ankles to the dip between my thighs where I press my legs together nervously. He traces his fingertips along the temporary join in a devilishly slow procession. “It felt like you were touching me,” he admits.
“It did?”
“It did. But I didn’t just feel you on my thighs.”
“No?”
“No. When your fingers moved upward…” His fingers reach up, they hesitate at the seam of the t-shirt where I hold it pinned to the bed. He hovers, staring at his fingers, and then he turns those burning molten green and amber irises on me. The gold flecks glow. He wants to continue. Fuck, I want him to keep going. Why is he stopping?
He touches the seam of the shirt with his finger. The lack of contact with my skin almost makes me groan with disappointment, until I finally understand, he isn’t hesitating, he’s asking permission.
With trembling fingers, I lift the t-shirt. My reward is the instant electrification of my skin as his fingers reunite with my flesh. He holds my gaze, relentlessly navigating his fingers along their wicked, wonderful path.
“…I felt it everywhere, Jules. But mostly…” he continues. His fingers reach the pinnacle; that crossroads between strangers and lovers. My unsteady breaths hitch. I watch his eyes widen in surprise at my lack of underwear before they darken to twin golden pools. “I felt you here.” His hand grips me purposefully, a finger delving deep and pulling back with such expertise, he captures my tender spot and presses gently.
As delicious as it is, it’s not enough. It’s a tease. How do I know? Because he doesn’t once break eye contact with me. He watches my face as his fingers discover me. Keeping eye contact with him while he touches me, is the most sensual thing I’ve ever experienced. It feels bold. Brazen. I can tell he loves it too. His lips part and pull up at one side into a sexy smile.
“You’re a brave one. I knew that right away. Shall we see just how brave my girl is?”
“Try me.”
“Is that an invitation or a dare, Jules?”
“Either. Both.”
“Open up to me.”
“A command or a request, Dax?”
“Both. Do you know what I’m thinking right now?” I shake my head, no. “I’m thinking you look delicious. I’m thinking I want to taste you, but I want you to tell me what you want.”
“I want…I want you to taste.”
“Taste what?”
“Taste me.”
He pushes himself up so quickly; I press myself back into the headboard to avoid colliding with him, but he knows what he’s doing. He captures my lips in a fierce kiss. My upper lip pops from between his teeth before he dives in again. This time his tongue slips into my mouth. When he pulls away, I move with him, unwilling to end the kiss. He renders me breathless, but he remains cool and in control.
“Taste you there?” he asks.
I shake my head again. No. That isn’t what I meant, but I’ll readily accept another. He delves into the hollow at my throat, tugging my t-shirt down by the neckline to reveal more skin. His tongue presses firmly, wet, and hot into the hollow, tasting my skin and feeling my pulse thump against his mouth. After a languorous moment, with his lips latched and pulling every sensuous feeling up from the depths of my body to the edge of my skin, he licks upward and stops just under my chin. I hear a pathetic, “mmhhm,” escape my mouth. The sound isn’t enough to applaud his efforts.
“Taste you there, Jules?” he whispers against my chin.
“Hmmm. Yes.”
He chuckles. “Are you sure?”
Oh, he distracted me. I shake my head quickly. “More.”
“More? Here?” He strokes his thumb across my clavicle.
“No. More everywhere.” His hand curves over my body, above the shirt and sweeps down to the hem, it delves underneath and edges the T-shirt up. I don’t hesitate. I yank the cloth off and throw it off the bed. He laughs again at my exuberance but doesn’t stop playing his game.
“Here?” he asks, licking with a flat, broad tongue up the valley between my breasts.
“Yes.”
“Here?” This time his tongue circles my navel and slips in.
“Mmm…m...more,” I stutter. I think he could give me the world at this point, and I’d still beg for more.
“Or do you mean here?” His finger returns to play at my core, circling and then slipping lower to the place I really needed him to be. Eyebrow cocked, he watches me with combined lust and amusement. I don’t much care, as long as I feel his mouth on me.
Without having to answer, he obliges, sliding down the bed effortlessly. I lurch upward at the sensation of his mouth on me and then greedily push myself closer. He takes my desperation as his cue and feasts.
My fist grips his hair. I no longer know if he’s watching my reaction because my head arcs back and my eyes screw shut at the torturous pleasure. I want him to ease up and delve deeper all at once. I want him to stop and yet never quit. I want less and more. So much more.
I want to claim all of Dax’s skilled forbidden kisses.
He devours like a man starved. I cry out from the pleasure of his tongue.
“Oh shit. Dean!” I whimper. Don’t ask me why I call him by his real name rather than Dax. Perhaps it’s because I feel closer to him in this moment. Lovers. Intimate.
I want to reach him in the same way he’s found me; break through the barriers and facades, bare him as naked and honest as I feel in this moment.
Whatever my thinking, it’s a mistake.
Dax flies from the bed so fast, for a second, I think he’s been pulled from it. My eyes open, my head lifting to find the emergency in the room, but it’s empty other than us. Dax stares at me, eyes full of horror, and mouth agape.
“Why…why did you call me that?” he asks, but his voice is a whisper carrying a hint of fury. A hint of danger and wrongness.
“I…I don’t know. It’s your name?” It’s a statement, but I pitch it as a question. Did I get it wrong?
He brushes his forearm across his mouth, wiping me from his face so callously I might as well have been backhanded. “No. No one gets to call me that anymore. You call me Dax, Jules. I’m only Dax to you.”
Those words sting worse than any slap. I grab the blanket and yank it over me to hide from his hard glare. This is not the man I thought I knew.
I’m stunned. I’m so caught off guard, that I don’t know what to say or do. I’m hurt and confused. My default-self wants to scream at him for being such a cold bastard, but a small voice in my head reminds me I’m at this man’s liberty, relying on his generosity. I have to be careful.
“Thank you for being so straight with me, Dax. I’m glad I know exactly where I stand. Now, I would like you to leave.” My voice is quiet but laced with steel and resolve, just like the tone I use whenever I run into trouble with the losers in the Vale. He might have more money and nicer clothes, but his actions just proved he’s no different.
With my back straight, I stare unflinchingly. I hope I keep the hurt from my eyes. I don’t want him to think I’m anything other than inconvenienced by his change in attitude.
My reserve cuts straight through his anger. It’s a visible slice. The second I finish speaking, he crumples. His shoulders turn inward, his back arches as he bends over and rests his forehead upon the end of the mattress.
“Shit!” he yells into the coverlet; the sound might be dulled but the word keeps its power. Enough that I flinch at his ferocity. When he lifts his head, wild desperate eyes search my face. “I’m sorry. I just…”
“You don’t have to explain yourself. Your actions are more honest than anything you might say to excuse them. Please go.” If he’s looking for forgiveness, he won’t find it here. Not tonight.
“Jules, you don’t understand.”
“You’re right, I don’t, but I don’t need to. Leave, Dax. I need you to go.”
“I…I’m sorry.” He walks on silent feet to the door and turns around as if he’s about to say something. I won’t hear it. I have no intention of forgiving him for making me feel so shitty. I lay down and turn my back to him, securing the covers around me. With my face obscured from his sight, my tears fall.
“That…it has nothing to do with you. You didn’t do anything wrong. I just…I can’t…”
He never finishes whatever he tries to say. A silence descends and fills the room. I wait to see if he’s gone but can’t bring myself to turn around. When I no longer hear his breathing, I allow myself to release the choked sob I’ve been holding. It shudders through me with almost as much intensity as my near orgasm. A thought that only makes me cry harder.
I’m a stupid fool. A pathetic little girl.
With everything I’ve gone through, who would have thought I’d shed even one tear on Dax? Everyone in my life lets me down. God, I let myself down all the time and this is no different. Dax isn’t a saint. He isn’t a hero. He’s a man. I need to remember that.
But just for a second, just for that small moment in my shitty life, I’d hoped.
“Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. You’re an idiot from the Vale. A cheap roll in the sack. What right do you have to expect more?” I sob. “Fuck. Why does it hurt? I’ve dealt with worse.” I let loose an ugly snort, realising an even uglier truth. “At least when Eric hurt me, he never pretended to care for me first.”
My tears obscure my vision, and my sobs wrack my chest. A dull hiss fills my ears from the rise in my blood pressure and the strain of trying to contain the noise I’m making.
But the hiss isn’t enough to prevent me hearing Dax’s final, “I’m sorry.”
Or the click of the door as he closes it behind him.