by Julia Kent
Mmmm. Inhaled poison. I have mastered the art of self-sabotage.
I’m working on the world peace part, he replies, my eyes cutting from the cigarettes to the phone.
That's not the part I care about, I answer, forced to let go of the pack to double thumb it on my phone.
What do you care about?
The question stares at me like it's a person, every O in the words a tiny eyeball, unblinking, judgmental.
Aren't you texting the wrong person for a date? I answer. What about Saoirse? You two are a hot item.
I am asking you on a date.
That's not an answer to my question.
Which one? I answered you.
Are you sleeping with Saoirse?
RING!
Startled, I drop the phone.
Parker, is all it says on the display. How can a simple name elicit such complicated emotions?
Sighing, I pick up the phone and answer.
“No.”
That's all he says.
“No... what?”
“No, I'm not fucking Saoirse.” The f-word makes my vulva tingle.
“I didn't mean right this very second,” I counter, the sudden image of the two of them naked and breathing hard together making me go dry everywhere.
“I think I'd sound a little different on the phone if I were in the middle of sex with someone, Persephone.”
“Maybe you're a master manipulator and you can fake emotion.”
“Do you think I ever faked it with you?”
“No.”
Silence fills the air. His no, my no, our no.
Lots of no. So much no.
“Tonight. Dinner?” he asks, except it's not a question. Commanding me is something Parker used to try all the time. It was a game. Could he make me do anything?
Only in bed.
Always–in bed.
“You're not safe to be around, Parker.”
“What?”
“People drop like flies around you. Heart attack. Choking. Another heart attack. You're a walking Grim Reaper. Did Saoirse ask you to date me so I'll get hit by a bus in front of you and you'll have to perform emergency neurosurgery on me in the street using an iPhone and your shoelace?”
“Don't joke about your dying.” The easy banter turns serious.
“I'm not joking. You're really starting to freak me out with the saving-lives thing.”
“Am I supposed to not save them?”
“No. But it's weird.”
“It is.” His voice changes, a strange tone of relief in there. “It's really, really bizarre, Persephone. I can't explain it. Trust me, I wish it didn't happen. My staffers are starting to call me The Boy Scout behind my back. Pretty sure Grim Reaper is next.”
“My mother thinks you're paying actors to pretend to die so you can save them and get good press.”
“If I recall correctly, your mother also thinks she can find free parking spots by waving a dowsing stick along the dashboard.”
“That's Fiona. Not Mom.”
His genuine laugh makes me shiver, the delicious feeling so, so welcome. “When strange events happen to me, your mother wonders if I'm faking it. But when strange events happen to her, it's divine?”
“No. Not divine. It's energy.”
“Give me your energy, Persephone. All of it. Tonight at seven. Dinner.”
“I'm scared.” The words come out of my stupid mouth before I can stop them.
“Of me?” Voice turning up with alarm and surprise, he doesn't say another word, the sound of his breath as it hitches like a long, curling finger straight down my bare spine.
“Of... me.”
“Oh.” Compassion and victory radiate from his voice. “Well, you are scary.”
“I scare you?”
“No. Not me. But plenty of other people. That's what I love about you, though.”
I growl at him. “I'll go out with you on one condition.”
“What is it?”
“You have to sleep with me.”
Victory takes laps around my ear as he says, “If you think that's going to turn me away, you need lessons in negotiation.”
“I'm not that easy.”
“You just made sex a condition of having dinner!”
“On my terms, Mister. You know the hardest part about the last time you make love with someone who hurts you and the relationship ends? It's that you don't know it's the last time. There isn't some flashing red alarm that says, 'Savor this while you can because you're never doing this again. Ever.'”
“Oh, God,” he groans. “What does this have to do with a dinner date?”
“The last time you make love with someone is random. It's not planned. It’s as average and commonplace as any other sexy time, and yet–suddenly it isn't. So you don't make it last. You don't stretch it out. You don't give it the depth and soul it deserves, because you don't know, Parker. I didn't know. I didn't know that the last time we made love would be that day.”
“Persephone,” he says, voice strangled, as much emotion in that one word as in one hundred of mine.
I made sex a requirement because it needs to be. How else will I get video of him to use? But hot tears fill my eyes as I tell him the truth.
The whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Mostly.
So help me Parker.
“If you pursue me, you’re going to catch me. And if you catch me, you have to–”
“Love you.”
“Make love to me.”
“Done.”
“If you had sex with me that fast, Parker, you're either a superhero who moves at lightning speed or you have a wet belly and need a washcloth right now.”
“This is why I love you.”
“Because I talk about your hypothetical premature ejaculation?”
“Because you talk to me like I'm a real person.”
“And quit saying you love me.”
“It's the truth.”
“If you loved me, you wouldn't have done what you did.”
“A person who didn't love you would have stopped trying to get you back.”
“A person who didn't really love me would use that as a tool to manipulate me into going to bed with them.”
“YOU are the one who asked ME for sex!”
He's got me there.
“Only once. For old time's sake. Because while you might be a total asshole, you're a good lay, Parker Campbell.”
“I think you just wrote my re-election campaign slogan. Parker Campbell: Because Congress Needs a Good Lay.”
“PLEASE tell me you have staffers for your public relations, Parker,” I sputter. “Because you seriously suck at writing slogans.”
“I think it's good! And I have to give you credit.”
“As long as I'm the one writing it, and not Saoirse, we're good.”
“Are you jealous of her?”
“Should I be?”
“Absolutely not.”
I pause. “Then I won't be.”
“Just like that? Where's Persephone the Hothead I once knew?”
“She's wondering why we're still on the phone when you could just come over here and climb in my bed.” I walk into my bedroom and stare at the bed, imagining Parker on it, sexy and beckoning. My pulse starts to gallop, a familiar warmth igniting in my belly, settling in for a long, hot ride.
“That's not how dates work.”
“That's exactly how ninety percent of our dates worked!” I laugh, a low sound that ends with a sigh that leaves nothing to the imagination.
He makes a sound I can't translate. “I don't want to go out with you tonight just to sleep with you,” he finally says, surprising me.
“Then why?”
“To spend time with you. To be with you. You were my best friend. I miss my best friend.”
“Why me?”
Beep.
Shocked, I look at the phone. Call ended. Did Parker hang up on me? What the hell? I set the phone down, propped against a small bo
okend on my desk, then pick it back up. On a whim, I open the video app, appalled that I ever was crazy enough to want to make a revenge sex tape. I was never going to actually do it, you know.
And technically, Parker made that video of my butthole. Not me.
But as fear rushes through me, the implications of being hung up on making me panic, I realize I'm my own worst enemy.
No, really. I'm as surprised as you are to see it.
And thank God I never made that tape. It would be the end of us.
The end of the renewed beginning of us.
The doorbell rings. I look at the clock. It's 5:43 p.m. Must be a delivery from the world's biggest store. Mom buys everything from them, and sometimes the delivery guys show up here by accident, instead of the main house. One time, we got a single tampon in an envelope, delivered with a smile on the package.
Leaving my phone on the desk, I walk down the hall to the source of the doorbell, which dings again.
I open the door, expecting a dude in a blue uniform.
Instead, I get a white knight.
“Parker? What are you doing here–”
The kiss is hot and gentle, sweet and sinful, every wild swing of the pendulum in one rolling tongue. His hands are on my back, one cupping my ass, one flat between my shoulder blades, pulling me closer to him. I pitch forward, his arm muscles tight, his mouth lush and wanting.
Kissing him back never tasted so good.
Kissing him back never felt so perfect.
“I don't do this to any woman but you,” he whispers in my mouth as the hand on my ass squeezes with a possession that makes me moan. “I don't do this to any woman but you,” he repeats as the hand at my shoulders comes around and caresses my breast, thumb turning the nipple into a pearl. He kisses me, hard and fast, all gentleness gone, his body nothing but hard muscle and dirty intent.
I break the kiss, panting hard, distracted but determined.
“By the way, I’m sorry about that slap. And for throwing sour cream on you. You’re the only person in the world I’ve ever done anything like that to.”
“I’ve read your arrest reports, Persephone. I know that’s not true.”
“Fine. You throw one BPA-filled fleshlight at a cop at one protest and suddenly it’s assault.”
“It was, technically.”
I let our a five-year-long sigh. “But other than that police officer, you’re the only person I’ve ever felt so angry about. And it’s not right. I’m sorry. I need to be able to make a sincerely apology here, Parker. You don’t have to accept it, but I am offering it.”
“It’s okay. I forgive you for the punch, the slap, and the sour cream. Pretty sure Mallory will never forgive you for ruining the ratio, though.”
“I didn’t ask for forgiveness for the punch at the wedding rehearsal rehearsal dinner. That one you totally deserved, Skip.”
His kiss says he accepts my apology.
The ass squeeze says he’s throwing in the punch whether I like it or not.
“Is this our date?” I ask as he walks me backwards a few steps into the cottage, mouth on mine again. The kiss feels like the moment death takes you, agony and ecstasy twinned in a euphoric, charged state. I'm still alive, so this is only a guess, but I'm pretty damn sure I'm right. My chest squeezes, my blood turns to fire, and Parker presses hard against my thigh, so close and yet so far.
“I need you inside me,” I confess.
“Why?”
“Why?”
“Yes. Tell me. Tell me why you need me.”
“Because I can't believe I've been able to walk and live and breathe without having you in me, Parker. All these years. All this time.” My fingertips dance on the bones that protect my heart. “Every heartbeat hurt without you there to hear it.”
The sun is still strong enough to make everything outside so bright, so startling, the edges of every object so distinct. The light is softer inside the cottage. He closes the door with his foot and kisses me even harder, with so much force that I have to give it back, pushing and pushing to make him know how much it hurt.
If I can make him feel it, too, then maybe we shared something from those five horrible years. Even shared pain is better than nothing.
My hands run under his shirt, greedy for his skin, fingernails scratching lightly, the arch of his back, the rise of his head as he reacts so satisfying. Breaking our embrace, he reaches for the hem of my shirt, moving his palms up under the cloth to cup both breasts with a breathtaking move that makes me strip out of my shirt, standing before him half naked, impatient to feel his skin against mine.
Joining me, the swift movement of his hands at his buttoned shirt is a marvel, the quick flick of his wrists, the expert-level snap as he undresses giving me a chance to pause, to watch, to reach back and unhook my bra. Hot skin meets mine as my soft nipples rub against his hard muscled chest. I rest the tip of my nose against his shoulder, a long, slow breath giving me his scent, his heat, confirming he's really here.
Eager hands drop to my waistband, his fingers making me shiver as he undresses me, my own hands at his belt matching his for excitement. Soon we're standing before each other, me in my thong panties, Parker with boxer briefs on, and he picks me up in his arms and carries me down the hall.
“Which one?” he whispers, looking at the doors.
I point. He pushes it open with my hip and I'm on my duvet, set down carefully, Parker's whole long, strong body over mine. Ah, the feel of so much of him against so much of me... The kiss is wet and long, my ribs absorbing his weight, my tongue dancing with his as he curls over me, hands in my hair. The long, thick shaft of his erection rubs along my inner thigh as I part my legs.
“These,” he says, hooking one finger inside my undies, “have to go. Now.”
“Then so do these,” I counter, grabbing his, too.
We strip down to nothing, the sudden spring of him relieved from the cage of his underwear, the cool air hitting my clit before his naked thigh slides between mine, soft warmth surrounding me. Finally, after far too long, too many years, we're together again in bed, together in all the ways that matter. My mind chatters as if it has thousands of thoughts to tell him and they’re all coming out through my hands, my mouth, my breasts, my clit, my heart.
Our bodies have five years of catching up to do.
“I owe you,” I whisper, moving away so I can kiss his collarbone, his nipple, biting gently so he does that hissing sound, inhaling so sharply, it's like his back teeth vibrate. I do it again with his other nipple, one hand flat against his lower abs, the tip of him touching the back of my hand.
“Owe. Me. What?” he grinds out, clearly working hard for control.
“An orgasm.”
“Why?”
“Because you gave me two. We're two and oh, Parker. And you aren't a man who likes to lose.”
“Who said I lose with those orgasms? They're mine on the scoreboard.”
“Is that all I am to you? A score?”
“You're everything to me, Persephone. You're the world, heaven and hell, the solar system. You're the sun and the moon, the elements and the stars. I don't know how I made it through these last five years without you.”
I bite him. Hard.
He laughs. “And I don't know how I'm going to make love to you with a missing nipple.”
“Mine are copyrighted, so don't even think about trying to take one.”
His laughter stops abruptly as my mouth travels down the valley of his breastbone, his navel, stopping as I wrap my hand around his shaft, lightly grazing my teeth against the tip of him.
“I think you'll manage to make love to me, nipple or no nipple. You're very good at extemporaneous activities, Parker. But making it all up as you go along is a really useful professional skill for you.”
And with that, I go down on him. All the way, sucking him in until my lips form a complete circle at the base and he groans.
“I've missed your mouth,” he confesses. “Not like thi
s. How you talk. How you tell me off. How you cut to the chase and just say what needs to be said without any bullshit.”
I run my tongue up his shaft, hand right behind it.
“And that,” he gasps, a statue of Adonis cut under my palm, the sharp curve of his muscle at the hip like touching a large gemstone. “When you do that with your mouth, I want to marry you and pound you on an altar and tell off the gods, Persephone. Because I turn into someone I'm not with you. I turn into everyone and everything and Jesus, what the hell are you doing with those teeth?”
“You want me to stop?” I say around a mouthful of him.
“No!”
But all it takes is one more long, wet glide up before Parker grabs my hips and pulls my legs up toward his head. Confusion makes me stop my mouth for a few seconds before I realize, as his fingers stroke my wet folds, that he's going for reciprocity.
I grin.
I pull him out of my mouth and blow lightly on him, making his body tense.
“I thought this was about me giving you an orgasm.”
“Who said I couldn't manage both?” he whispers back before his tongue does unspeakable things to my inner thighs, making me shiver. Gently, he nudges my knees until my hair drapes over his thick thighs, winding around his erection. One of his hands lovingly brushes it back, pulling it over my far shoulder, then sliding over my ribs to my ass, taking a healthy squeeze as he tongues my clit, blood rushing to make me swell.
“Parker,” I moan, my thighs around his ears, his face buried so deep in me, it's like he's trying to capture me from the inside. I can't think straight, moving in small motions against him, trying to find this distant place where my body feels nothing but pleasure. I sit up and he moves me off him, my back against the bed, his hands on my breasts as they reach up. One look between my legs and I see how tightly his forearms stretch to me, how his messy hair rests against my pale leg, and I have one job and one job only.
To accept what he so readily gives.
“I want,” he says, moving away from my clit, lips against my thigh, “to be in you. To come in you. To come with you, Persephone. If I can't have that, I'll take your mouth or your hand or whispered words of frenzy. You're naked in bed with me and I've spent five years waiting for this moment. Your mouth is amazing, and you taste like so many dreams of mine, but for the love of everything that is good in this world, all I want right now is to be in you. That's the only place where I feel like everything makes sense.”
