He pulled out of me, leaving me feeling as empty as I’d ever been. His hands roughly grabbed my ass and flipped me over. His hands spread my cheeks apart, and he dove in me again. The angle was foreign and uncomfortable at first, but only uncomfortable in a way that soon morphed into feeling fantastic. His cock rubbed my inside repeatedly, tickling and teasing as his hips pushed harder and harder against my soft ass. I loved the feeling of his desperation as he tried to dig deeper in me. I loved how his hands pulled my hips in time with his thrusts. The sensation of movement entirely beyond my control made me drip all over the sheets and cover him with my juices.
I felt a hand slide over my ass and squeeze as he rammed into me. His grip was so tight. I screamed desperately for him to fuck me harder, to take me, cum in me, to claim me as his once and for all. I wanted to be his so badly; I wanted to feel him explode inside me. So many times, I’d felt his cock jump in me, but to me, it had only become a precursor for his leaving my body. My body feared that feeling. Tonight, my body was wrong.
I heard a grunt from above me—a guttural, animalistic thing. I’d never heard Calvin sound so out of control. It thrilled me to think how exposed I was to him, how exposed he was allowing himself for me. I wouldn’t disappoint him. I pressed my hands against the bed, sliding my ass back, sliding my pussy around him. His hands dropped off my body and down onto the bed. I felt beads of sweat from his brow drip on my back. I smelled the musk of his effort, felt each push as though it happened in slow motion. His cock pulsed in me—and again. Each thrust brought about a stronger twitch. I felt each one rock through me. My body warned me that it was all about to end. I knew better. Without his hands to guide me, I knew I’d need to bring him to the finish I’d been so desperate for so long. He’d left himself in my hands. I squeezed him inside me. His hips bucked into me one time, a magnificent push that sent my face pressing against the sheets helplessly. Then, I felt something strange.
Like a mad animal, he began to pour his seed into me. I could feel the strange sensation as he filled me. I could hear his ragged breath as he gasped. I could feel his release coating my insides, soiling me as he orgasmed in me. I cried out in pleasure, in the release of nights and nights full of unfulfilled desires. He had given me that one final gift to make us complete. I took it hungrily, embracing every contraction and every drop.
For a few moments afterward, his huge body loomed over me. I lay perfectly still and listened to the sound of Calvin panting. Motionless, I felt his hot breath rolling over my shoulders. He remained inside me, his manhood slick from the mixture of his cum and my wetness. I waited. He didn’t exit me when he finally moved, but leaned his head over mine and planted a gentle kiss on my cheek.
“Well done,” he said, as though I had given him something. I smiled.
“Thank you, master.” I said in good form. He spun me on to my side, careful to keep his still-hard manhood inside me. His powerful arms, only somewhat diminished by the sex, wrapped around my chest gently, cupping a breast in one hand and sliding over my skin with the other.
“I…,” I started, but the words wouldn’t come out. I could tell him anytime what an important part of my life he had become. I could have said so much to him right then. I wanted to, at first, but I came to realize that nothing could have expressed our connection more than the moment was—the soft feeling of him inside me, the gentle trickle of his seed over my thigh. When I didn’t continue, he squeezed me.
“I know.”
He pulled out of me, and I nearly squirmed with that last touch of pleasure. Even after minutes of holding me, he was still almost completely erect. I watched him, his body a streamlined set of smooth muscles and rocky angles, save for that one part of him that stuck out jarringly. It was slick and glistening, and I had half a mind to clean it for him.
“Come on; let’s have a shower,” he said. I was on my feet in a heartbeat.
It was a quiet shower. He stood me in front of the water, letting it rain down on my chest. He stroked my skin gently with a sponge, sliding it over my curves with a sensual delicacy. He cleaned me all over, but saved the area between my legs for last. Once there, he dropped the sponge and let his hands sort me out. I leaned back on his chest, closing my eyes and wrapping my arms up and around his neck behind me. His fingers probed me, slid over my still sensitive clit until my legs shook from his attentions. My chest heaved, and I let out whine after little whine.
He picked up the pace, gently kneading my pearl with his pointer until I squeezed the back of his neck with my fingertips and craned my head to the side to let his teeth glide over the skin of my neck. I wanted to tell him that he didn’t need to do it again, that he had already given me the only gift I needed for the night, but how could I? I wanted more; I always wanted more. Selfish, sure, but Calvin seemed to feed on that selfishness that made me constantly crave him. If it made him happy to please me, who was I to reject him?
It took him mere minutes to make my spine crane back in ecstasy. I felt filthy all over again, though I was still completely clean. We kissed afterward, for what seemed like an hour. Under the mind-numbing rain of the showerhead, time seemed to stand still. Only he and I, our lips sliding over each other’s, wet and tender, mattered. I was happy to let the time go, happy to play his tongue off mine. Kissing Calvin wasn’t like kissing other men; it didn’t get old.
I knew that however long I stayed there, in that shower or that house or this life with him, he would never get old. He was a hard worker, despite how carelessly easy he made pleasing me seem. I knew he would scour whatever sources he had for new ways to shock me, new ways to tease my senses and establish his seductive dominance over me. He was a master, not only over me, but also over himself and over life.
Rich and powerful, not by some stroke of luck, Calvin was a man who earned what he got, whether it was handed to him or whether he caught it, as he caught me, and built it up from the ground. What woman could help falling in love with such a man—a real man? The kind of man fathers admired openly toward their sons. The sort women fantasized about long after they’d settled with someone lesser. I’d found that man. He was here, and his hands slid up my stomach, wrapping around my back. His lips were on my lips. His tongue pushed against my tongue. I felt his cock press against my pussy, hard again. I was ready. I was his. He could have me as many times as he could manage, and I’d always be willing.
I grabbed his manhood in my hand, leaning it back and sliding my palm up its base. I felt his hand tighten around the hip it had taken hold of. I loved those little shows of tension in him. Godlike, but still a man. I could please him. I was still so proud of that.
“I need to tell you something,” I said, burying my head in his chest as I did.
“Sabrina, don’t. Remember what I told you.”
I sighed as my hand slid down, and then up again. His hand cupped under my chin, raising my eyes until they met his own. He said nothing, just looked down at me, ever the imposing, dominating figure. His stare was just intense enough to captivate me, just enough to make me his. I could have melted away into his skin; I wanted to be so much closer than I could ever be. Looking in those eyes, I found hope that, one day, that feeling could vanish, replaced with the contentment so many searched for and so few ever found.
Chapter 21
“You got a text,” Calvin called to me in the bathroom while I brushed my teeth.
“I need to burn that thing,” I said, mouth full of toothpaste. “Probably another idle threat from Daddy dearest. What does it say?”
I heard him unlock the phone. “It’s from your mom. It says – ” He paused. “You should read this yourself, I think, Sabrina.”
“What?” I moved into the doorframe. “What does it say?”
He got up, bare-chested, and walked across the room, handing the phone to me. The look in his eye wished he could delete the message, said he was sorry for what was about to happen. Time stopped for a moment, and I could hear my heart against my ribcage. Something
was wrong; I knew it.
I glanced down at the message. Brandon’s in hospital. Car accident. What? No, that couldn’t be right. I reread the words, hoping to have misunderstood, feeling Calvin’s eyes on me, watching my response. My hands trembled as I dialed my mom’s cell, wishing this were all just a bad dream.
“Mom?” I said when she answered. “Mom, what happened?” Please let this be a mistake. A fender bender, a broken leg.
Her voice was shaky, as if she’d been crying. “Sabrina, oh, God.”
“Mom!” I was desperate. “Is Brandon OK?”
“You should come home. He was admitted this afternoon to Texas Presbyterian; he’s in the ICU in critical condition.”
“What happened?” I repeated, numb but feeling the emotional tidal wave in the distance. The information didn’t register; I couldn’t process what she said. I sat.
“The police said he swerved into oncoming traffic on Northwest Highway in rush hour.” The Riverfront roundabout. I closed my eyes and saw the cars whizzing by. There was a pregnant pause. “They think it was a suicide attempt.” Here, her voice broke, and she began to weep.
A suicide attempt? I felt sick, as if I couldn’t breathe. “But, he’s going to be OK, though, right, Mom? Right?”
She drew in a ragged breath. “Baby, you need to come home. The doctors aren’t optimistic. He’s been in and out of consciousness since they brought him in, but there’s swelling in the brain. They’re working on repairing the organs crushed in the impact, trying to control the internal bleeding. Sue told me the doctors said they should prepare for the worst.”
The worst? I sank to the floor. No, no, no. Not Brandon, please, not Brandon. Why would he do this? I should have called him, I thought. I should have, and I didn’t. Oh, my God! This shouldn’t have happened. I didn’t want him to get hurt.
“Sabrina, are you there?” I tried to respond, but it was as if my mouth was filled with glue, gagging me. “Sabrina, can you come home?”
Calvin must have heard her through the phone because he knelt and lifted my chin. “Tell her we’ll be there tonight,” he said firmly. “We’ll leave immediately.”
“Mom,” I choked out. “I’m coming. If he wakes, tell him I’m coming.” Hot tears singed my cheeks, soaking the front of my shirt.
“Thank God. We’ll see you at the hospital, baby.”
Slowly, I placed the phone on the tile floor next to me. My mind raced furiously, and all I could think was don’t die, Brandon, not over this. Please don’t die.
Calvin sat next to me and gathered me in his arms where he rocked me back and forth while I sobbed.
When I pulled away, I looked into his anguished face. “I have to go.” The words were shaky, tear-stained.
“I know. I’m coming with you.”
“I have to tell him I forgive him. Calvin, this is my fault. I told him I never wanted to see him again. Why couldn’t I have been the bigger person? He’s in that hospital because of me.” The guilt swelled, and I felt dizzy. “He doesn’t deserve this.”
“Hey,” Calvin said softly. “Look at me. This isn’t your fault. Brandon made his decisions. You didn’t force him into that car, and you sure as hell didn’t force him to swerve into traffic. The only thing you can do now is be there for him, OK?”
I nodded weakly to show I heard him. But I didn’t agree. What had I done?
Hurriedly, Calvin and I packed a small bag, him in a precise, organized fashion, while I haphazardly tossed jeans and T-shirts together. While I grabbed our toothbrushes, Calvin called his pilot, directing him to be ready within the hour.
***
It was just after one a.m. when we pulled up to the hospital. A low fog hung around the expansive building, encasing it in an unnerving gloom. The lobby was eerily silent when we walked in, soft florescent bulbs lighting the hallway leading to the Intensive Care Unit. Our shoes squeaked on the recently waxed floor as we approached the nurses’ station.
“Excuse me?” A gray-haired attendant wrote furiously on a patient chart. She looked up, surprised. “We’re looking for Brandon Russell.”
“Visiting hours are over.” Her tone was sympathetic, as if we’d already lost him. “Are you his girlfriend, dear?”
I shook my head. “A close friend. May I see him?”
“First thing tomorrow morning. Nine a.m.”
“Please,” I said, putting my hands on her desk and leaning forward. “Please, I need to see him. Just for a minute. His parents know I’m coming. Can you make an exception, just this once?”
She looked down the empty corridor, first to her left, then to her right, sighing. “Ten minutes, OK?”
“Thank you,” I breathed.
The nurse stood and pointed down the hall. “He’s in room B123, that third door on your right. I have to warn you—he’s pretty banged up and heavily sedated.” She tsked softly. “So young. We’re really pulling for him.”
I nodded, and Calvin and I walked slowly toward the room. When we got to his door, we paused. “Do you want me to come in with you?” Calvin asked, squeezing my hand.
“No. I think I need to do this by myself.”
“Of course, I’ll be right out here if you need me.” He motioned to the row of plastic chairs against the opposite wall.
I squeezed back. “Thank you. Thank you for being here. For understanding. For everything.”
Calvin touched his lips to my forehead. “Always.”
Letting go of his hand, I breathed in deeply, pushing through the door to Brandon’s room. The room was dimly lit, and for a moment, all I could see was the glow of the computer monitor next to his bed. When my eyes adjusted, my knees went weak.
Even though the nurse had warned me, I wasn’t prepared for what I saw.
A sickly, bloodied version of Brandon lay motionless on the hospital bed in front of me. The left side of his face was swollen and purple, carotid blood vessels and abrasions marring his normally suntanned skin. Under the sores, he was pale, as if he’d hadn’t been outside in months, instead of mere days. A breathing tube disappeared down his throat, and his chest rose and fell erratically with each shutter of the machine to his right. His head was bandaged, and I could tell they’d shaved it—no brown curls escaping from the wrappings.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. I stood at the foot of his bed, unable to move, listening to the constant bleating of the monitor. The room had a salty chemical smell, like ammonia and saline, and suddenly, I knew that thousands of people had taken their last breath inside these walls.
A sob caught in my throat, and I clapped a hand over my mouth, willing myself not to scream. I couldn’t handle this. I wanted to be here for him, but this was too much. This couldn’t be real. His eyes were closed, but I didn’t know if he was asleep or unconscious. Slowly, I moved toward his unmoving body, small and still beneath the thin knitted sheets. I lowered myself into the seat next to his bed, barely breathing.
An IV was taped to the back of his hand, and I reached out to touch his fingers. “Brandon,” I croaked softly. “It’s me, Sabrina.”
I searched his face for a sign of recognition, the ones you see in the movies, a flutter of his lashes, a twitch of his hand, but there was none.
“Brandon,” I said again. “If you can hear me, I want you to know I forgive you.” A lone tear ran down my cheek. “Please, Brandon, don’t die. You can make it; I know you can. You’re so strong. So much stronger than me.”
I squeezed his fingers gently. “I never said this, Brandon, but I’m so grateful to you. For supporting me, for showing me I deserved to be loved. I’m sorry we didn’t work out, but please, Brandon, you can’t give up.” My throat constricted, and I struggled to breathe.
“It doesn’t have to end this way. I’m here for you; I always will be.” Still no sign of coherence, no indication that he’d heard anything I’d said. “I’ll be back tomorrow, Brandon. And the day after that. And every day until you wake.”
I stood and kissed him gently on
the corner of his mouth. He shouldn’t be here, I thought. I should have told him I forgave him when I had the chance. My heart ached, and I looked briefly toward the ceiling. Please let him live.
When I closed the door behind me, Calvin leapt. “Was he awake?”
I shook my head. “No.” Letting Calvin wrap me in his arms, I let out a long shudder. “Jesus! Why did he do that, Calvin?” But I didn’t have to ask. I knew why.
“Let’s go to bed,” Calvin whispered in my ear. “We’ll come back first thing tomorrow.”
I looked up into his saddened eyes. “I did this to him.”
“No, Sabrina, you didn’t.” He put his hands on my shoulders and pulled back. “Listen to me. You can’t blame yourself. No matter what happens, you didn’t wish for this. You didn’t make this happen. OK?”
My head believed him, but my heart, my heart knew that if Brandon didn’t make it, I’d never forgive myself.
***
We were dropped off at the Crown Plaza in downtown Dallas as the clock flipped to 4:02. The last time I stepped foot in this hotel was right before we went dress shopping for my wedding. There we sat—my mom, Mrs. Russell, and I tittering over our tuna Niçoises. It seemed like a lifetime ago that we’d toasted Brandon and my happy future. Look at us now.
Despite my exhaustion, I couldn’t sleep that evening, thinking of Brandon’s purplish bruises and his thin limbs beneath the sheets. The incessant beeping of the monitor, the intermittent wheeze of the ventilator, the coils of tubes protruding from his hospital gown.
I listened to Calvin’s even exhalations, slow and steady, and I curled around him, hoping to find sleep. Instead, I replayed the last conversation I’d had with Brandon, the angry exchange, my final contemptuous rebuff. Stay the hell away from me. I’d been so cold, so unforgiving. If I’d accepted his apology, explained that although I’d moved on, I wished him the best, would he be lying in that hospital bed right now, fighting for his life? Somehow, I knew the answer was no.
Chambers of Desire: Opus 1 Page 30
