Paper Dolls

by Hanna Peach

  He was going to make me say it. “You know…the love ones.”

  “I like the love ones. And as far as I’m aware there were no rules about what kinds of quotes we could or couldn’t use, were there?”

  No. There weren't. But it seemed to me that I had no rules around Clay. He stripped me of all of them.

  “Answer,” he said. “That is, if you know it.”

  “Romeo and Juliet. Again,” I said, and he nodded.

  It was my turn. I paused, letting my mind filter through all of Shakespeare’s plays. He wouldn’t win. I wouldn’t let him. I knew the further we went, the more he would use those love quotes to mess with my head and the more likely I’d mess up. I needed to end this. Now.

  Finally, I found a quote so obscure that he couldn’t possibly get it right. I tried to hide my grin. I cleared my throat. “Men’s evil manners live in brass; their virtues we write in water.”

  I watched his eyes widen, then his features hardened into a frown. I wanted to run my fingertips across his forehead to smooth out the heavy lines that I had caused.

  Finally he broke eye contact with me, his eyes glancing up to the sky as if the answer was somehow written amongst the rabbits in the clouds.

  I had won. He didn’t know the quote. I’d get my prize; him at my beck and call to drive me where I wanted. It means you’ll spend more time together. Not that he ever needed an excuse. I had won. But that would mean, he wouldn’t get his kiss. I wouldn’t get my first real kiss. A wave of sadness rose over me so suddenly it made my eyelashes flutter. I wanted to take back my quote, to give him something that was less obscure. But I remained silent.

  His face broke out in a knowing grin, that cheeky, arrogant grin that I had come to know very well in these last twelve weeks since we met. I knew in an instant, he had been faking. Gotcha, it was written all over his face. The face I now wanted to slap.

  “That line,” he began, “just happens to come from one of my favourite plays.”

  “Which…which one then?” He could still get it wrong.

  “Henry VIII.”

  I sank back down into the water as if it could hide me. But there was never anywhere I could hide from those eyes, not those eyes that sought my insides out and forced me, the real me, to the surface. Me and all my fears, all my hidden worries, all the baby-skinned hopes that I hid from the world. Hid from everyone, except for him. And Salem. Salem used to know me, the real me, too.

  He moved around me in the water as I remained frozen where I was, the very tips of my toes anchoring against the gritty rocks at the lakebed. I was prey, his prey. Every ripple of water that circled out from him as he moved lapped against my body, rocking against me so that it almost felt like skin slapping against skin. I stifled a shiver.

  “Tell me something honestly, angel,” I heard his voice behind me. Then there was a silence. I felt his exhale of breath against my neck and realised that he had come up behind me. I caught my inhale in my lungs. “Did you feel disappointed when you thought you were going to win?”

  I hated how he seemed to see right into me. I hated that I couldn’t seem to hide from him, ever. And yet, I loved it. There was something completely exhilarating in the knowledge that he saw me − the real me − and chose to inch ever closer. He liked me, in spite of me.

  “It’s your go,” I said, my voice sounding weak even to my own ears. He knew what I had felt. He didn’t need me to tell him. He just wanted to torture me by letting me know that he knew.

  He made no sound. No movement. It went on for so long that my neck began to prickle. Was he even still there?

  I turned around. He was right there. Right there where he had always been. Waiting for me to turn to him. His brilliant eyes stood out even more under dark wet lashes, as they studied me, peeling away every single layer of me, my armour turning to lace under his gaze.

  “It’s your go,” I repeated. It was the only thing that was safe to say.

  “I’ll let you off this time,” he said, his voice so low I could just barely hear it over the rustle of the small creatures that tread the edge of the lake and the splashing of water by the birds that flew down to drink. “But one day, you’ll have to admit to yourself how you feel.”

  No, I didn’t. I could be perfectly happy for the rest of my life behind this wall of denial. Right? “It’s your turn,” I said, my voice cloudy with bravado. “Or have you run out of quotes already?”

  He smirked. “Oh little angel, I’ll have you know, I could go all day and all night long if you let me.” The look in his eye held a promise. Suddenly I wasn’t sure whether he was talking about quoting Shakespeare.

  “Okay,” he spoke before I could say anything, “I have a hard one for you. A long, hard one. Are you ready for it?”

  My flush deepened. We were definitely not talking about Shakespeare quotes anymore. I gathered as much bravado as I could. Two could play at this game within a game. “I can take whatever you have.”

  “Really. I can’t wait to see if that’s true.”

  “Then give it to me, Clay. Show me what you’ve got.”

  “What made me love thee? let that persuade thee there's something extraordinary in thee. I cannot: but I love thee; none but thee;” The tip of his tongue darted out to wet the middle of his top lip, that thick top lip that was so deliciously unbalanced and yet so mesmerisingly perfect. “...and thou deservest it.”

  My mind went blank.

  I knew that one. I knew it, I just…

  It was his tongue. His stupid tongue on his stupid lip. This wasn’t fair. Ref! “I know it.”

  “Then give it to me, angel.” His voice was low, throaty and his breathing rushed out heavily as he said it. Heat trickled like lava down the insides of my body to pool in between my legs. All this innuendo. It was making my brain sticky. I couldn’t think. I knew this quote but damn it if it wasn’t buried under all this deep breathing and these thoughts of his tongue and the sinful promises his words held.

  “Come on, angel. I want it.” Every word became his hands against my body, rubbing across my skin and yanking my hips closer to him. “Let me have it. Don’t hold back.”

  “Othello,” I blurted out because I couldn’t think of anything else. I knew as soon as I said it that I was wrong.

  The smile that stretched out across his face was triumphant. “I’m afraid it was The Merry Wives of Windsor.”

  I knew that. I friggin’ knew that. But his stupid tongue and his words and his damn games made my mind short-circuit. Damn him. Damn my recalcitrant body.

  His smile faded, replaced with a look so serious it razored me in two. “I believe you owe me.”

  He moved towards me, only his head above the water, like a predator, a crocodile, cutting through the water towards me with his eyes fixed on his target.

  He gripped my upper arms and pulled me flush against him, my chest against his naked form, only the flimsy cotton of my pale blue shirt between us. My skin broke out in goosebumps as if I were cold. But I was far from it. My insides heated, parching my throat. I tried to swallow and found I couldn’t.

  My feet no longer touched the bottom. I was tethered only to Clay. The silence became heavier, hotter. Only a few bird calls and the drops of water falling off our bodies into the lake’s surface disturbed it.

  “Shall I take my prize now…or later?” The way he was staring at my mouth, his own lips parted, leaning in closer to me until the desert skies of his eyes were all I saw, my horizon and my world, curving around me like the shape of the Earth. I felt his warm breath blowing around on my cheeks. He was going to kiss me.

  Close your eyes and relax your mouth.

  But his lips didn’t touch mine.

  My eyes flew open. He was peering at me, a slight crease in between his brows. “You look terrified.”

  “I…” He didn’t realise how close he was to the truth. I was. I was terrified. But not because of him.

  I had never kissed anyone.

  No, that�
�s not quite true…

  “He likes you,” Salem teased, then giggled as she bounced on the bed in our bedroom.

  I leaned against the far wall with my legs across the blanket and picked at the hem of my skirt. “No, he doesn’t.”

  “He does. Which means he’s going to kiss you.” She made wet sucking noises through her puckered lips. I picked up a pillow from next to me and shoved it into her face. She laughed as she grabbed it and dropped it into her lap.

  I chewed my lip. “I don’t know how to kiss.”

  Her grey eyes went round; so did her pink mouth. “What if you’re bad at it?”

  I gasped. “What if I’m bad?”

  “What if you’re really, really bad?”

  “Oh God, what if I’m horrible?”

  “You need to practice.”

  “Practice? On who?”

  “Practice on me.”

  “On you? But you’re a girl!”

  She rolled her eyes. “So? Would you rather practice on a dry yucky pillow?” She shoved the pillow in my face and it was my turn to push it out of the way.

  “Ew. I guess not.”

  She scooted over on the bed until we were flush side by side, her thigh against mine as we leaned against the wall. “Close your eyes and relax your mouth.”

  I did. I felt her warm breath blowing around on my cheeks before I felt her soft lips on mine.

  Nothing ever happened with that boy I had liked. I can’t even remember his name now, just that he had dusty blonde hair that curled close to his head and lovely pale shell-shaped ears.

  And I never told anyone about that kiss.

  Clay pulled back and my heart thudded no in protest. Even the water seemed to sigh as he pulled away. “Aria, I’m not going to force a kiss on you if you don’t want it.”

  But I did want it. How could I explain to this gorgeous man who had probably known the feeling of a hundred lips on his that I had never been properly kissed? Let alone properly kissed by a man who made my insides tremble, a man whose mere name on my lips made my heart flutter, a man who coloured my paper-thin life.

  “It’s okay if you don’t want me to kiss you. I’m not mad.” He pouted. “I may need a bowl of Ben and Jerry’s and a hug later, but it’s okay.”

  His arms dropped from me and my body relaxed with relief. Yet underneath it, distinctly, was a roar of disappointment. A call to speak up for once. I just couldn’t let him pull away thinking I didn’t want it.

  “I’ve never done it before,” I blurted out.

  He frowned. “What?”

  “I’ve never kissed anyone before.” I winced. “Not properly.”

  He blinked. “No one has ever kissed you before?”

  “No.”

  “Ever?”

  “No.”

  “Like, never, ever?”

  “Jesus. Like never ever, okay?” I snapped. My own patheticness causing my cheeks to heat. “No one has ever even tried.”

  “Oh, Aria,” he breathed as he slid closer to me through the water. His hand came up to slide against my cheek, his thumb pressing ever so lightly into the flesh of my bottom lip. Sparks cascaded down my body like a waterfall. “If you let me kiss you, I’ll make up for each of those eighteen years without kisses.”

  “That’s a big call.”

  “I’m prepared to put my money where my mouth is.”

  “What if I’m horrible?” I said in a whisper.

  “A kiss is only ever horrible if it’s between two people who don’t truly want it. Do you want it?”

  I nodded, my throat too closed to speak.

  His eyes darkened and he leaned in closer. “You don’t know how much I want it.”

  “But…I don’t know how.”

  “You will. Do you trust me?”

  “No.”

  He snorted. “Yes, you do. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here alone with me in a lake in the middle of the woods.”

  He had me there. I stared at him. Trust me, his stare said. And I was surprised to find something inside me responding, yes.

  In that moment I wondered what it took for trust to develop. It was hard to quantify, trust. And sometimes it wasn’t logical. Like with Clay. Somehow I had felt at ease around him even from the first time we met. Then at some point I had chosen to trust him.

  Or perhaps it hadn’t been a choice. I’d slipped into trusting him the way his presence slipped around me with safety and warmth when he was near, like a woollen rug and a lit fireplace on a cold winter’s night. He made trusting him so easy for me, easing into my body like breath. However it had happened, the trust was there. I could feel it hugging me.

  Then I realised, I had only ever trusted Salem like this.

  “Aria?”

  I nodded, then held my breath. He shifted closer, the only sound in my ears the swishing of water as it hurried out from between us.

  “A nod is not good enough,” he said as his fingers found my face. “You have to tell me what you want.”

  “You know what I want,” I breathed.

  “Pretend that I don’t.”

  “You already won, Clay. Just do it.”

  “I haven’t won. I’m still trying to figure out whether I can even win with you.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “If you want me to kiss you, you have to say it.” His eyes drilled into mine, his mouth inches away, and my body felt a tug towards him stronger than any pull I’ve ever felt. “I won’t until you say it.”

  I wanted to.

  I wanted to say it.

  I parted my lips, his eyes dropped to them. Say it.

  Say it.

  Be brave.

  You jumped in the deep end, Aria. You can do this. You want this.

  But I couldn’t.

  I closed my mouth again.

  The corners of his mouth drew down. I had disappointed him. His fingers slid out from my jaw as he pulled away.

  “Kiss me,” I blurted out. And my stomach lurched as if I were free-falling. “I want you to kiss me.”

  He paused, his eyes darting up to mine, surprise clear on his face. I’d surprised him. I’d surprised myself. When have I ever done that?

  A smile pulled up at one side of his mouth as he slid closer to me again, his hand absently coming out to tug at one of the stands of my hair, floating in the water like copper seaweed. “I don’t think I heard you.”

  “Yes, you did.” I pouted. The bastard was going to make me say it again.

  “Pretend I didn’t.”

  Why did he have to push me like this? All the time, relentlessly, pressing me further and further out from behind my wall. Every time I thought he had pushed me far enough, he would nudge me again. “Your hearing seems to have gone to shit.”

  He laughed. “You know, you only ever swear when you’re nervous. Are you nervous, angel?”

  Damn. You. Clay Jagger.

  “I’m not nervous.”

  “Then tell me−”

  “Kiss me, damn you. And you better make it worth it.”

  He chuckled the way he always chuckled, with his whole body, his eyes crinkling and his shoulders shaking slightly and his chest making the water surface ripple. He partially lifted himself out of the water, just to his chest line. I couldn’t help but stare. He was all I could see. A freckle, small and brown sitting on his left pec. The pink new skin of a strange round scar. His dark chest hairs coiled happily against him.

  He slid his hands around my jaw again and tilted my face up. I inhaled his smell of cedar and musk. Heaven help me, this was it. Excruciatingly slowly, he leaned down, pausing with his mouth inches from mine.

  What was I doing? What was I about to let him do? I couldn’t let this man-God kiss me. I didn’t know how to kiss him back. He would laugh when he realised how inexperienced I was. Aria Adams, the most pathetic eighteen-year-old girl in all of Australia, no, the world. I started to panic and I knew it was seconds before I pushed him away.

  I didn’t want
to push him away.

  I squeezed my eyes shut and held my breath. Hoping, praying it would be enough to keep this panic inside, inside long enough for him to kiss me.

  But he didn’t. Yet again, there was just a pause and the rush of our breaths.

  What was wrong? Why wasn’t he kissing me?

  “Angel.”

  My eyelids fluttered open, only to be consumed by blue orbs like the clear Queensland sky stretching out to the horizon, a rich sapphire radiating out to a pale dusty robin’s egg blue. “Yes?”

  “I told you I’d make you beg,” he said into my mouth. Before I could protest, he closed his lips over mine. The chatter in my brain stopped. The panic that had risen up inside me stilled before exploding into dust.

  His lips were soft and warm as they parted around my bottom lip, sucking it gently. I heard a moan before recognising the vibration in my throat meant that it was coming from me. His tongue brushed against the entrance to my mouth, begging for me to part my lips. I did and he slipped inside me, his warm tongue rubbing against mine, slowly at first then firmer, more insistent.

  And just like that. I was kissing him back. My tongue and lips dancing with his to a song as old as humanity itself. My hand went up to his neck and held on for dear life.

  He tilted his head, and without thinking I followed his lead, tilting the opposite way so our mouths locked like two pieces of a puzzle. Fissures and sparks melted tracks through my body, trickling down until they ended in a heated puddle between my legs.

  He was right.

  I knew what to do. I knew it just like I knew how to breathe, or how to sing. Perhaps a kiss was sown into our very fabric as humans, perhaps the way our mouths fused and our tongues danced was written in our blood, our DNA. Or perhaps, this instinct only took over when you kissed the right one.

  2

  After we got out I lay out on a large flat rock, the warmth from the sun seeping up through my back. Clay lay beside me and the side of his hand lightly touched mine, sending all my awareness to it.

  In the comfortable silence of the afternoon, punctuated by the occasional cry of a bird of prey finding its mark and the rustling of wind through the trees, I felt his finger shift.

  I looked over to him, trying to be discreet. Sometimes the light hit him in a certain way and he looked like a painting done by one of the old masters, ethereal in beauty and so unreal.