by Amy Daws
His hands move down to my thighs, and he deftly turns the chair so he’s now centered between my legs. When I grip the back of his head, he suddenly lifts me up and we’re moving, my legs tightening around his waist as we go. His hands slide up the bottom of my shirt, stroking the small of my back and dipping down into my underwear as he stops beside the wall.
Holding me with one hand, he pulls my bed from the wall and lays me back on the lowered mattress, keeping himself on top of me. His lips persistently kiss away at all my heartache. My thighs clench him to me, relishing the feel of his weight. His pressure. His closeness. It’s comforting. It’s soothing. It’s all-encompassing. I yearn for him to fill a space in me that I didn’t even realise existed until this moment.
What happens next is like nothing I ever imagined. Expected. Or asked for.
Camden Harris makes love to me.
Slow, tender, passionate love.
He gently peels off every article of my clothing and then his own. His eyes hold me so captive that I can’t even bring myself to glance at his body on display before me. His muscles were something that I admired before. They distracted my thoughts on more than one occasion. But right now, all I can look at are his eyes on mine as he lowers himself onto me.
The firmness of him against the softness of me.
His blue eyes swim back and forth, sparkling with something. Something profound. Something I want to feel with my bare hands. Something I want to reach out and pull inside of me—to hold and to cherish, even if it is just for a short time.
He inhales sharply when his naked tip brushes between my legs. His voice is rough and pained when he says, “Indie, you don’t even know what you are. You don’t even know what you do to me.”
My breath comes in harsh and goes out shaky.
“I’ve never, in my life, cared like this,” he murmurs against my lips. “I feel different with you.”
My abs tighten against his body when his thumb trails over my nipple.
“You’re different,” he whispers into my ear. “You’re special,” he says against my cheek. “You’re challenging.” He closes the space between us and kisses me deeply.
My eyes flutter closed and, with every stroke of his tongue, I inhale his words of affirmation. I accept them with each burst of oxygen.
Tears slide down my temples and into my hair over the realisation that I’ve never felt this level of devotion before, both for him and from him. It’s more than I’ve ever felt about anything in my entire life.
He moves his mouth down and kisses every inch of my body, whispering reverent words against my flesh. Slowly, they begin to chip away and break down the dark, secret place in my heart.
“I can’t believe I get to see you like this.” He moves back up to my face. “You’re raw. Open. But only to me.”
I swallow hard and give him the slightest nod. It’s so subtle that no one else in the entire world would notice it. Only him.
In this moment, we’re beyond the words of everyday life. We’re communicating more than vocal abilities allow.
And when he pushes into me, hard and bare, with zero barriers left between us, the entire act is not mind-blowing.
It’s life-ruining.
It’s as if I’m on a merry-go-round that is moving so fast, the world is a blur all around me. The only thing in focus is the man sitting on the ride beside me.
When I finally allow myself to come apart from his words and his touch, I throb everywhere. My body trembles from head to toe. The ache in my chest is so strong it feels as if it could arrest at any second.
Then, just when I think things can’t get any worse—when I’m certain I can’t possibly feel anything more—he lies down beside me, pulls me into his arms, and softly whispers into my ear, “Thou art mine.”
INDIE LETS ME HOLD HER until she falls asleep. She doesn’t pull away. She doesn’t ask for space. She doesn’t even go to the bathroom to clean up. She just curls up inside my arms, silently asking me to hold her. To be close to her. To not give her space.
No words are exchanged over what I revealed while we made love. I think that’s what we did at least. I’m not even sure I fully know what I admitted. I just did what my body demanded that I do. It wasn’t a premediated act. It wasn’t me trying to be Penis Number Two. It was spontaneous and extraordinary.
The last thing I feel before sleep takes me is the sting of tears behind my closed eyes as a painful realisation overcomes me.
I wake to a noise and crack my eyes open just in time to see the bathroom door shut. The sound of rain pattering outside fills the quietness of her flat. The grey, hazy morning light casts a foreboding sensation over me. Glancing at the clock, I see it’s only six-thirty in the morning. I roll on my back to assess my injuries.
Knee feels fine.
Head feels groggy.
Heart feels fucked.
With a heavy sigh, I drop my feet to the floor and slide into my black boxers, wincing at the memory of the fact that I didn’t use a condom last night. I’ve never not used a condom with anyone. Ever. How stupid can I be? We hadn’t even talked about birth control and I just pushed into her, completely bareback, like the biggest arsehole on the planet. I sit back down and drop my head in my hands, wishing someone would punch me in the face.
Despite all of that, a more poignant thought pushes itself to the surface—the thought that had me overwhelmed and moved me into a place I never thought I’d be with a woman. It’s what enabled me to breathe in the scent of her all night long and fantasise about how life could maybe be different. And that maybe different is okay.
I want her.
In the early morning light of day, with no tears in her eyes, and no roaring desire to comfort her and make her feel special, I still want her. I want her for more than what our arrangement originally stated.
I want her for many, many days.
Maybe an infinite amount of days? Hell, I don’t know. Wanting someone like this is new to me. The passionate footballer inside of me is screaming, long term, which is insane. And utterly mental.
But I’ve been awakened by Indie and I have to tell her.
The door opens and my head snaps up to see her pause in the doorway. I stand up from the Murphy bed positioned right in the middle of her small studio. She’s so close but feels so far away. She runs a bare foot up the back of her calf, her legs naked beneath a long grey tank top. Her red, curly hair is knotted on top of her head and thick black-framed glasses line her pensive brown eyes.
“Can we talk?” I ask and make a move toward her.
“Yes, but just…don’t touch me.” Her words sting and she rushes out her next sentence. “I can’t think straight when you touch me, Camden.”
I can respect that I guess, but I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t still sting. She drops down on a wooden kitchen chair and pulls her legs up to her chest, yanking her tank over her knees. I’m standing six feet from her but can see the regretful look in her eyes, plain as day…and it guts me.
Swallowing slowly, I say, “Indie, I need to know. Are we…safe? I didn’t use a condom and, fuck, that was so wrong of me. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I know I’m clean, but are you on anything?”
Her head tremors with an awkward nod. “Yes, we’re fine. I’m on the pill.”
I sag with relief but still register her clipped tone. Knowing that was the easy question would be comical if I was in a laughing mood. But the tightness of her posture gives me an uneasy feeling.
I sit on the edge of the bed and watch her carefully. “What are you thinking?”
As if her words have been on the tip of her tongue, she asks, “Was all of that an act last night? A performance? Were you trying to draw a foul?”
Wounded, I reply, “No.”
She stares back at me accusingly. “It wasn’t?”
“No, Specs. I’m not that good of an actor. Did it feel like an act?” She remains silent. “Did you want it to be an act?”
Her face s
parks with anger. “Yes! This was supposed to be casual, Camden. We just met. I’ve never even been with another man. This isn’t how this was supposed to go.”
“Well, sorry for mucking up your plans,” I snap. “I didn’t exactly plan for this.”
“But you can stop it!”
“No, I bloody can’t, Indie! It’s not a fucking valve I can shut off.”
I stand up, no longer giving a shit how much space she needs. I yank the other dining chair from its place and slam it down in front of her. When I sit, my knees graze her toes. In response, she squeezes her legs to her chest like a shield of armour.
Ready to lay all my shit bare, I pierce her with my eyes and say, “I want you, Indie. For more than five days. I want what I feel when I’m with you.”
“Camden—”
“Bloody hell, I’m falling for you!” I yell. My breath sputters out fast and ragged as the words tumble out and suspend in the air, floating…and then drifting…and then sinking as her eyes blaze fire against them.
“You hardly know me.” Her tone is contrite and it enrages me.
Through clenched teeth, I rebuff, “I know enough to know that I’ve never cared about anything like this in my life. Nothing, Indie. Nothing has felt like this. Do you hear what I’m saying? Because it takes a lot for me to admit that right now. I feel like…I feel like…” I rake my hand through my hair, trying to find the right words.
“Like what?” she snaps, losing a chink of her armour.
“Like I’ve been playing pretend my whole life!” I throw my hands out and slide closer to her. My hands shake from the ache I feel to hold her. To embrace her. To make her understand. To break down this unapologetic wall she has built around her. I reach out to touch her but stop myself. My voice is low and urgent. “When I compare my feelings for you to my feelings for everything else, they’re so different.”
As if completely oblivious to the insanity coursing through my veins, she groans, “No, Cam.”
“Yes, Indie.”
“No.”
“YES!” I shout and make a move to kiss her. The heels of her hands slam against my chest, stopping my momentum. Cupping her face, I look at her pleadingly. “I’ve given you the tools to juggle, Specs. Just juggle already.”
Her eyes are wide and accusing as they flick back and forth between mine. “That is not what my pun meant. And stop calling me that!”
“Puns can have all sorts of meanings. That’s the beauty of them.” Her defensive hands soften when I lean in. “Why can’t you consider, even for a second, that you might like me, too?”
“Because I don’t, Camden. Not like that.”
“Indie,” I exhale, pulling my hands from her face and clutching hers to my heart. “I’m wide open on the table, bleeding all over the bloody place. Stop holding back and feel this.” My heart pounds beneath her touch, drumming away with anxiety.
With desperation.
With hope.
“Feel me,” I croak, my shaky voice revealing how anguished I am.
Her brown eyes are wide and watery. Her cheeks are warm and flush. Every part of her face screams indecision, giving me a tiny ray of hope that perhaps I’m getting through to her after all.
When I move to kiss her again, she shoves me back. Then, without warning, her body climbs on top of me. Her legs wrap around my waist as she straddles me in the chair. With a throaty sigh, she slams her mouth to mine. Her hands greedily slice through every strand of hair on my head, tugging at the length on top. It’s unrestrained and ravishing, and I’m completely overcome. She thrusts her tongue so deep into my mouth that I close my eyes and wince in shock but also in victory.
Her hand reaches between us and frees me from my boxers. I’m rock-hard in her grip as she positions me between her slits and falls down on top of me all in one motion. Squeezing me inside of her, she breaks our kiss and screams out.
My head falls to her chest as I utter her name over and over and over. She clutches me to her and rides me like I didn’t even know she could. Bobbing and bucking, squeezing and releasing. Frenzied, I free one of her breasts and suck so hard on the nipple I’m sure it’ll leave a mark. With every plunge, she takes me deeper inside of her. So deep I can’t hold on much longer. The desperation in her body is alarming. I hold her as tight as I can because, even though I’m inside of her, I still feel like she’s pulling away.
With only a few more thrusts, she screams out my name with her climax and I roar with her, emptying every part of myself inside her. Bare and wet, pulsing and kneading. She cradles me to her like I’m the only thing keeping her upright.
Our breaths are hot and ragged as the rest of the world slowly comes back into focus and we both realise what just happened. She finally pulls away from me, and what I see before me is a statue version of Indie Porter. Gone is the soft, beautiful girl whom I made love to last night, or even the one who climbed on top of me just a few minutes ago. Now she’s hard and cold, without a trace of emotion on her cherubic face.
She stands up, pulling her shirt down and crossing her legs while she looks away from me. “See? That’s what we are.”
My mouth falls open as I tuck my limping dick back inside my boxers. “What?”
She looks at me with a flat expression on her face. “Sex. Fucking. That’s all we are, Camden. That’s all we can ever be.” A spark of determination now invigorates her eyes. “I’m sorry, but you knew what I wanted from you. And you were using me just as much as I was using you.”
“How did I use you?” I croak.
“To get you through this recovery,” she states, her jaw taut with determination. “I’ve turned into a codependency for you. I’m like a painkiller you’re hooked on. I see it all the time with athletes recovering from injuries. You’re using me to make yourself feel better, and you’re turning this into more than it is.”
“Bollocks!” I stand up and move toward her. “You think you’re nothing more than sex to me?”
“No, I think I’m more.” She raises her chin. “I’m your doctor…your surgeon. You are my patient. You said you didn’t want a girlfriend and this was all temporary.”
“I don’t want a girlfriend,” I snap. “I just want you. I want you in ways that supersede labels.” I pause, waiting for my breathing to slow but then growl out, “Stop holding back.”
“I’m not holding back.” Her tone is verging on manic.
“You are! Bloody hell, Indie.” I turn and kick back the chair that mocks me with memories of passion. Ramming my hands through my hair, I grip my neck so hard I can feel the vertebrae. “I’ve done things with you that shows another side of me to you. Let this happen.”
“There isn’t another side to me. Our original arrangement is all I’m capable of, and we’ve already gone way too far.”
“We haven’t gone far enough, Specs.” I move to reach for her face but she pulls away, forcing me to clutch my hands into fists of frustration. She’s like a bloody football I can’t touch.
She’s going to ruin me.
“I thought you could handle this,” she states coolly, and I hear a deafening finality in her voice.
“So did I,” I whisper and huff out a pathetic laugh. How could I have gotten this so wrong? The one time I open myself up and allow myself to care about something more, it all implodes in my face.
“You can’t change the rules on me,” she adds stiffly, barely making eye contact with me despite my close proximity. “I have a plan and I’m sticking to that plan.”
“Oh, your precious fucking cock list,” I huff, leaning in, my voice visceral. “It’s ridiculous, Indie. Your plan is a child’s idea to solve the problem of being a virgin. You don’t fuck like a virgin, so stop acting like one.”
I don’t even feel the impact of what just happened until seconds later when the heat of her strike spreads across my cheek.
“Get out!” she growls, clutching her hand like she hurt herself more than she hurt me. Her face and voice are riddled with s
o much emotion that I can’t bear to look at her.
My jaw muscle ticks as I walk around the room and grab my clothes up off the floor. Steeling myself to look at her one more time, I pause at the door and say, “The irony of all of this is that you are still the one doing the cutting.”
THE DOOR SLAMS AND I wait for the tears to come. I wait to feel bad about what I said or did. I expect regret and remorse to consume me. I wonder when what he said will begin to bother me.
Instead…I get nothing.
The fire in my palm turns to ice.
I’m numb.
I’m a rock.
I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror and looking back at me is a blank canvas. Nothing to connect to. Nothing to interpret. Absolutely zero symbolism in the curves of my face. If I was to say a pun about myself, I’d say, “‘Much ado about nothing.’”
This…is me.
As the days pass by back at work, the same four words continue on repeat in my mind.
I’m charting.
“I’m falling for you.”
I’m setting a bone.
“I’m falling for you.”
I’m eating lunch.
“I’m falling for you.”
I’m having a conversation with Prichard.
“I’m falling for you.”
Speak of the devil. I feel my mobile vibrate in my pocket while walking out of the post-op room where I was checking on a patient, whom I did a shoulder replacement on earlier this morning.
I answer my mobile and adjust the iPad chart in my hand. “Hello, this is Dr. Porter.”
“Indie…Prichard here. I just realised that I’m going to be in the OR for the next four hours with a double knee replacement.”
“Okay,” I reply, hearing the buzz of the OR behind him and realising he’s probably operating as we speak.
