by Sarina Bowen
After tossing my things on the bed, I finally make my way over to the tub. I step in and sink down into the warm, soapy water on the unoccupied end. I sit down between DJ’s outstretched feet. There’s nowhere to put mine except over his legs.
DJ grasps my feet, one in each hand, and squeezes the arches. Then powerful thumbs go to work massaging the muscle there.
“Ohhhhhh sweet-holy-mother-Mary-omigod,” I mumble while he works on my feet. Since I like it so much, he drops my left and uses both hands to knead my right. It’s perfection. It’s amazing. I tilt my head back and moan.
“Jesus, smalls.” He chuckles. “That’s some really intense moaning for feet.” He switches my right for my left and starts in again.
“Goddamn-just-don’t-stop-ever,” I beg.
“Uh huh,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. But I can’t see it, because my eyes are closed. I’m in heaven. It’s warm, and lots of parts of a very wet DJ are touching me right now. I can feel the roughness of the hair on his legs beneath mine, and then there’s the sweet torture of his ambitious foot massage.
He’s got my ankles in his hands now, and his fingers are slowly working their way up to my calves, rubbing and smoothing the muscles in my legs. Warm, slippery fingers press and glide until he’s passed my knees, and my thighs are wrapped in his big hands. And I’m suddenly so ridiculously turned on. With my legs spread as they are, my body feels open to him. And clever hands are working their delicious way up…up…
They stop mid-thigh on a gentle squeeze. I open my eyes in protest.
The look of love in DJ’s eyes is unmistakable. “If you want me to touch you, come here and show me,” he whispers. “But you’ve had a really shitty day, so if you just want to soak, that’s okay, too.”
Oh, hell no.
My lazy body agrees to stir just enough to tuck my feet under me so I can kneel in between DJ’s legs. He reaches for me, pulling me down on his chest. “Hi, sexy,” he says.
“Hi.”
Then he pulls me into a kiss, and it’s the best one ever. It’s like that perfect kiss in The Princess Bride, but without the pirates or giant eels or the fire swamp. DJ cups my backside in two hands while I crush my mouth to his. The kiss goes wild immediately, his tongue seeking out mine, then worshiping me. Meanwhile, wet, slippery skin is sliding over wet, slippery skin. As he kisses me, I press down onto his big, strong frame. He’s hard between my legs, and I brace my feet against the end of the tub and begin to slowly rock against him, back and forth, until we’re both panting.
On a groan, DJ pulls his head back a bit, breaking our kiss. “You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?”
“No,” I murmur, dizzy from the kissing. “I’m trying to fuck you.”
He gives a grunt of surprise. “Smalls! You said it.”
I did, and not daintily. But do we have to rehash it? “You want to chat about it some more, or what?”
He laughs. “Sit up a little.”
I do, and he slips out of the bath, dripping on the mat. He grabs two fluffy towels and spreads them out on the bed. Then he offers me a hand, which I take. When I’m out of the tub, he steers me over to the bed and sits me down. I scramble backwards, lying down on the towels.
Now it’s my turn to stare.
I watch as a gleaming, nekkid DJ fishes his wallet out of his discarded pants and removes a condom. And I keep watching as he takes his erection in hand and sheathes himself.
My good-girl complex must have fled the building entirely, because when he walks back over to the bed, planting one knee on the edge, I spread my legs.
“Ungh,” DJ says, closing his eyes for a hot second. I expect him to finish climbing onto the bed, but that’s not what happens. Instead, he ducks his head and kisses me where I’ve never been kissed before. Just a soft kiss, and tender.
“Oh-what-the-holy-omigod-yes,” I babble, melting back onto the towel like a puddle of fudge.
A warm, soft tongue begins to tease my lady bits, and I gasp. And who knows what I say next? Nothing intelligible. Because he’s grasped my thigh and buried his mouth between my legs, licking and teasing and gently sucking. There has never been anything as good as this.
I’m wild for it, grasping his hair and speaking in tongues. But just when I sense that sweet release is imminent, he backs off. This happens twice more, and I finally realize that he’s doing it on purpose. “DJ,” I croak. “Come here.”
“What do you want?” he asks in a husky voice.
“You. Right now.”
He kisses my thigh very sweetly. “We have all night.”
“But I’m not that patient!”
“Hmm,” he says to the juncture between my leg and my pelvis. “I see,” he says to my belly button. He kisses his way up my body, then rises up to kneel above me. He lifts one of my legs, bending my knee up to my body. I busy myself by watching every muscle in his chest flex as he straddles my other leg and leans forward. His gorgeous hips give one smooth push. And just like that, he fills me.
“Yesssss,” I gasp. Finally.
“Mmm,” my boyfriend agrees. He begins to move, but his pace is slow. DJ is in the mood to take his time. So I kick my leg free of his grip and pull him down onto my body, where he can kiss me. And when he does, it’s so, so good.
I try to relax and enjoy every sensation. But after several lovely minutes, the pull of my own lust is too strong. It’s coming, and it’s going to be epic. Gripping DJ’s back, I arch my hips into his and groan.
“Aw, yeah,” he pants. “Use me.”
That sounds wonderfully dirty. I grip him everywhere, with everything I’ve got. Another gravelly groan from DJ pushes me over the edge at last. And I’m like a film at double speed, everything happening at once. And the soundtrack is DJ making his own set of erotic noises, until a few moments later when we both flicker and fade to black, collapsing together in a steamy, satisfied heap.
“Best night ever,” I pant.
DJ grins, his dimple showing. “See?”
“Mmm…” I’m rapidly turning immobile and weary. “Sleepy.”
He pats me on the hip. “Get into the bed if you’re going to crash, smalls.”
I make a brief trip to the sleek bathroom then collapse in the bed.
Beside me, DJ texts his parents to let them know we stayed in the city, so they won’t worry.
By the time he stretches out beside me, I’m already asleep.
* * *
I’m not sure why I wake up in the night. I’m exquisitely comfortable, parked against DJ’s chest, his hand curled around my hip. We’ve only got the sheet over us, because DJ’s body is like a furnace.
I love it so much. This sweet moment together is our reward for all the awful stuff we’ve been through. So even though I’ll be tired tomorrow, I lie awake, listening to DJ’s heartbeat.
“How goes the night, smalls?” he whispers a few minutes later, startling me.
“Good,” I say. “Really good. Didn’t know you were awake.”
“Love being here with you,” he says, kissing my hair.
I roll over to face him. “Something’s on your mind, though.”
He smiles. “Yeah, sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” I say immediately. “What’s wrong?”
His smile slips. “I don’t know if you want to hear it.”
“I do. No matter what it is. Aren’t we done having this conversation?”
He smiles again. “Yeah. But it’s sort of wrong to talk about her when I’m in bed with you.”
Oh. For a second I feel a familiar wave of discomfort, because I know exactly what he’s thinking about. But then common sense prevails. There’s only one girl in this bed with DJ, and it’s me. “That was a long time ago now,” I point out.
“True,” he sighs. “Before I got into bed I found an email from her.”
“Really? What did it say?”
“It was an apology. She said, ‘I’m sorry I dragged you into my awful family d
rama. Blaming you is the worst thing I’ve ever done, and I hope you’ll forgive me.’”
“Wow. That’s awfully brave.”
“Sure is. Because I’ll bet we’re having a much better midterm break than she is. I can’t even imagine living in that family. Her sister got up there and repeated all these awful things their father had told them—that if they had sex before marriage, it was like becoming a used tissue. That no man would ever want something ruined and dirty.”
“Ew!”
“I know. The sister—Caroline—she cried. She pointed her finger at her father and said she wouldn’t listen to him anymore. That nobody should. She said she was in therapy at U Mass for depression because their family and their wacko church was so oppressive, and she had all this shame for wanting things she wasn’t supposed to want.”
“God.” I can’t even imagine. “DJ? I have a small confession to make.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. The day of your meeting I figured out who Annie was, and I saw her sister. I didn’t hear much, though.” I tell DJ everything about Hosanna’s hurried visit to class to excuse her absence, and how I stumbled around campus to try to tell him what I’d learned. Only it didn’t matter.
“She couldn’t read the plays?”
“Nope.”
“I never knew,” he says, rolling onto his back. “I mean, she dressed kind of conservative, but some people do, right? She didn’t, like, wear a sign that said, I grew up with crazy people who do mean shit and call it Christian. I mean—I went to church my whole life. But it wasn’t like that.”
“Yikes. Do you think they’ll let her return to school? And are you going to reply to her apology?”
“That’s what’s keeping me awake. I want to reply. At the very least I want to tell her not to worry about me, that I’m fine now. The thing is, I kind of want to apologize, too. But that won’t be easy to word.”
“Also? Your lawyer would kill you.”
He groans. “You’re right. I mean—I know I didn’t do anything like what she accused me of doing. But just because it was consensual doesn’t mean it was a great idea. I wish I could say, ‘I’m sorry I didn’t care enough to wonder if you’d end up sad about it.’”
“Ouch.”
“I know. But that’s how it was. I just took what was offered, and I didn’t ask questions.”
“A lot of people would have done the same thing,” I remind him.
“Yeah? A lot of people are assholes.”
This makes me giggle, and that makes him chuckle. So there we are at three in the morning, laughing and snuggling in the dark.
It really is the best night ever.
34
From: the Office of the Dean of Students
To: the Harkness College faculty, fellows, and student body
Dear colleagues,
One of the most important goals of the dean’s office is to ensure that all members of the Harkness College community can live and study together in a safe and supportive atmosphere. As part of our commitment to equality and safety, our efforts against sexual harassment and sexual violence are ongoing and constantly under review. We take our commitment very seriously.
As part of our continued effort to improve our policies and procedures, I write to you today to announce that Harkness College has retained the services of Dreyfus and Arlington, Inc. This firm, staffed mainly by retired judges and other legal experts, will be occasionally engaged to assist in the college’s efforts to investigate and adjudicate cases of suspected sexual assault and misconduct.
While the college retains the certainty that we are the last best arbiters of our own systems and beliefs, certain cases may require timely intervention and investigation by persons with lifelong experience in these matters.
By contracting their expertise, we can make our campus and community even safer and more equitable than it already is.
Any questions regarding this decision may be forwarded to my office. Thank you.
Sincerely,
Dean Wilma Waite, PhD
35
Two Months Later
Epilogue
Lianne
The hockey game starts in two minutes, and I am still hoofing it toward the rink. Tardiness is inexcusable, because this is a quarter-finals game. Harkness men’s hockey is trying to squeak into the Eastern championships, and then hopefully into the NCAA finals. And I have become nearly as rabid a hockey fan as Bella these past couple of months.
It’s a sickness, and I don’t want to be cured.
As I trot across campus, I try to keep my mind on Harkness’s chances. The team has been hit hard by injury the last two weeks, and I’m worried. Our Boston opponents are having the same problems. I know it’s bad karma to wish injury on anyone. But it would be really nice of God to keep these things even. All the talk at Orsen’s house this week has been about whether or not O’Hane will be able to play this weekend. He’s nursing a shoulder injury. And we’ve already benched Big-D for a stress fracture.
Our defense could be a problem.
These are my thoughts as I hurry toward the rink. Because the other thing that’s on my mind is an email I received a little while ago out of the blue. And I feel a shiver of nervous excitement thinking of it.
Dear Lianne,
A couple of weeks ago I received a letter from your college friend Daniel Trevi. He told me that you might be considering a change of management, and he thought you could use my help. And he suggested I reach out to you.
I have to tell you, I felt really guilty when I got this note, because I should have asked you long ago whether there was any way I could help. And to be honest, I’d lost track of the fact that you’re all grown up and making your own decisions now. Every Christmas when I call your mother to say hello and ask about you, she gives me a big fat brush-off, which didn’t encourage me to keep asking questions.
That’s no excuse, though. I’m sorry. I can’t believe it’s been eight years since I’ve seen you.
I went home and I told my girlfriend the whole story. She called me an asshole, and I’m sure I had it coming.
Lianne—if you need any help or advice on the management side, or if you’d just like to have lunch next week when I’m next in New York, please let me know. I’m on the East Coast about a third of the time. I have an office in Union Square. So if next week doesn’t work, I’m sure we can find another time.
Sincerely,
Rick Challice
There are several mind-blowing things about this letter, not the least of which is the fact that leaving Bob might turn out to be easier than I thought. And that Rick speaks to my mom. Every year. And my mom has failed to tell me. Every year.
But also, when I first read it, I couldn’t imagine what possessed DJ to hunt down Rick and then ask for his help without consulting me. But then I remembered the conversation we’d had in the hotel lobby, and how I’d said I was afraid to ask Rick to help me.
I’d forgotten all about that chat, but obviously DJ had not. Then the logic became clear—if DJ asked Rick for help and Rick blew him off, I’d never have to know. DJ did this for me because I needed help, and he wanted to fix it.
I got a little teary over it. Like J. Lo on American Idol, but without the highlights. Then I realized I was going to be late for the hockey game, and my makeup was starting to run. So I had to fix it.
Even as I scamper across campus, I’m thinking warm, happy thoughts about DJ. Some of those thoughts include various ways we might celebrate later. I’ve gotten better at expressing my appreciation lately. It got easier to say sexy things to DJ when I realized how much he liked it. So I’ve been practicing with little things that I’ll whisper in his ear.
Tonight seems like the perfect time to step up my game. So I pull out my phone, taking a page out of Bella’s book. She’d told me what to say once before, and I’d refused. But now I’m so full of gratitude, it’s time to surprise my man.
The phone rang only once before he a
nswered, and the sounds of a very full hockey stadium were suddenly in my ear. “‘Lo?”
“DJ,” I sort of shout into the phone so he can hear me. “I want to strip you naked and bounce on your dick.”
“Lianne?”
I yank the phone away from my ear and stare at the call screen. It says “DJ” on it, just as it should. “DJ?” I yell into the mouthpiece.
“It’s Graham. DJ had to—”
I don’t give him a chance to finish. Instead, I hang up, my heart pounding.
Holy God.
Two minutes later I show my ID at the door and scurry through the student entrance. I don’t bother looking for Bella in the stands, because I’ll be watching the game from the press box. That’s where I sit for every game now, watching DJ work and interfering with his playlist when I see fit.
But Graham will be in there.
What have I done?
I open the press-box door a couple of inches, just to make sure Graham is busy at his computer. If I’m going to be avoiding him for the rest of my life, I kind of need to start now.
But he isn’t in front of his computer. Instead, he’s standing over DJ’s setup, poking at the sound board.
And DJ is nowhere in sight.
Graham turns around and catches me watching him. “Hey! Could you please get over here? I can’t find the introduction music.”
Damn it.
I scurry over, and there’s no time, because the players are circling the ice to silence. Bending over DJ’s computer, I flip between playlists until I find U2’s “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.”
The crowd actually cheers when the music starts up, and Graham heaves a sigh of relief.
“Where’s DJ?” I ask.
“My God, do you two not talk?” He slides out of the way. “He said you’d cover for him.”
“We would have talked except…” Gah! Why did you have to answer his phone?
