by Penny Wylder
“Sorry,” I say. “I haven’t had the chance to clean lately. Whenever I’m not at school I’m at work.”
He smiles. “Don’t worry about it. I was a student once, too.”
“I have to run next door and feed the cat. I’ll be right back. There’s beer and soda in the fridge if you’re thirsty.”
I run next door, fumbling with the key. I don’t know my neighbors all that well, so it was a bit of a surprise when she asked me to go inside her place and feed her cat while she was gone, but whatever. The bowl is still half full, the cat lazing on the couch, not even acknowledging my existence. I hurry and fill the bowl with food and the other with water and head back to my apartment.
When I come back, Paul is in the kitchen, filling the sink with soapy water.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Helping you out. It’s your birthday; take a load off.”
I’m not going to argue. There’s something kind of sexy about watching a man clean.
“That was some party,” he says over the clank and clatter of dishes being washed. The sound is so jarring and real, and for the first time as an adult, I have him all to myself. I can have him. I know I can. I just have to be brave enough to take what I want.
I watch his shadow move across the floor and say, “I was genuinely surprised. Mom and Dad—and even Emily—are usually always so predictable. I’m glad you came.”
“Me too,” he says.
Shaking out the nerves, I push out my chest and raise my chin. I’m a Viking. A raider. He’s mine. I’ll beat him over the head with a club and drag him to my room if I have to.
“Cute apartment,” he says.
He wants to make small talk and that’s fine, but we can do that after several orgasms. Right now I have the female equivalent of blue balls and an itch that desperately needs to be scratched.
I poke my head around the doorway. Not exactly the charging Viking I’d pumped myself up to be. I’m getting to that. Baby steps.
“Thanks.”
Watching him move around my kitchen, I can imagine domestic bliss with him, rubbing his feet at the end of a hard day’s work, putting a baby to bed then making love all night. Imagining what it would be like to warm his bed every night has all the pent-up tension from the day starting to drip down my leg.
I go into the small kitchen. It’s a hideous tight space with black and white checkered laminate flooring, crooked cupboard doors, and chipped counter tops. We can’t move without bumping into each other. I slide in behind him, holding on to him and pressing my breasts against the tight column of muscle in his back. He stiffens and makes a noise in the base of his throat I just barely hear over the sound of the faucet running.
“Sorry,” I say, squeezing past him. “I need to get a glass.”
When he tries to maneuver out of my way, stepping behind me, I press my backside against his groin, pinning him against the fridge.
“Rachael,” he says, voice low and cautious. “We can’t.” There’s no conviction behind his words.
He puts his hands on my hips as if to push me away, but makes no attempt at stopping me as I arch my back and begin rolling my hips, cradling his growing cock in the cleft of my ass.
He groans and leans forward to press his lips against my neck. “We shouldn’t,” he says this time.
Can’t and shouldn’t are two very different things.
I close my eyes as he begins to rub against me. “But it’s my birthday,” I say.
He turns me around so that I face him. His eyes narrow, chest rising and falling as if he’s forcing himself to breathe. A tug-of-war plays out on his features, the pull between lust and guilt. I watch his battle until finally he swallows and crushes his lips against mine, kissing me. He takes my bottom lip between his teeth, gently nibbling and sucking. I moan into his open mouth. The tip of his tongue darts out, finding mine, tentatively at first, then winding together.
His tongue ripples over mine, gliding across my teeth and the ticklish spot on the roof of my mouth that raises goosebumps over my entire body when touched. He grasps the sides of my head, holding me like I might take flight if he were to let go—and it seems entirely possible because I’m buoyant. Floating. Inside, my body and mind are a perfect storm where everything is crashing together and coming apart and completely obliterated. No one has ever kissed me like this before, with such desperation, and I know that no other way of kissing will ever be satisfying after him. He will ruin me for everyone else who comes after. That thought is terrifying because I don’t want there to be anyone after Paul. For me, it’s always been about him. It will always be about him. I will chase this feeling to the end of the earth.
When we break for air, lungs heaving, I touch his abs, brush the tips of my fingers lightly over the muscles that cobble his stomach, caressing the micro-hairs. He shivers and leans forward, kissing my eyelids, my forehead, nose, chin. He kisses me everywhere on my face but my mouth, teasing me, sending me through the ceiling.
One hand cradles my head while another slides down my neck, down the middle of my chest, stopping on my ribs. He lifts my swimsuit cover to my waist and slips his hand beneath it. His thumb just barely touches the soft swell underneath my left breast around my bikini top. His skin is hot. Heat radiates into every part of me.
His entire hand rests on my right breast now. I lean forward, encouraging him to grip me, or squeeze, but he’s taking his time, savoring this. It’s a slow, agonizing exploration. This is the first time our age difference has become obvious to me. I’m used to young men my age diving right into the deep end without taking the time to get used to, and enjoy, the water. Part of me wants him to just rip off my bathing suit and be inside me already. But then this will be over, this lovely torture.
He’s watching me, our eyes locked together as his hand slides lower, touching the front of my bikini bottoms. I’m breathless as I wait for him to make his next move.
He must see the anguish I’m feeling, because his lips move into a teasing smile and he asks, “Is this what you want?”
Moving my hips, pushing myself into his hand, I say, “More than anything.”
His lips crash against mine again in a fevered kiss. As he rubs me through the fabric, I make gasping, yearning noises. He takes my tongue, sucking on it.
“You’re so wet,” he says more to himself than to me when he releases my tongue, and I can’t say anything because I’m off in some euphoric land that, up until now, I thought was just a myth talked about in romance novels.
“I want you inside me,” I beg.
I’ve never been good at waiting. Even though I’m sure prolonging these feelings will be worth the wait, I don’t know how much more of this teasing I can take.
Just as his fingers start to move under the fabric, I hear the front door to my apartment open on whining hinges. The moment he hears it, Paul hurls himself away from me like he’s been shot, his eyes wide. He looks almost confused seeing me standing in front of him.
“Rachael, are you here?” Emily’s voice calls out. “I forgot my dorm key.”
“It’s okay,” I tell him, “It’s just Emily.” But when I go to take his hand, he moves it out of my reach.
Scrubbing his hands over his face, he sighs and says, “I’m sorry, Rach, this shouldn’t have happened. I need to go.”
“No, wait—” I start to say, but he’s already out of the kitchen. He rushes past Emily, who looks at me, then at Paul, then at me again and her mouth falls open. Once he grabs his keys from the hook beside the door, he’s gone without even looking back.
“Oh my god, what just happened?” she asks.
I sigh. “I don’t know. Everything was perfect. We were … you know, getting there, then he heard the door and completely panicked.” I plop down on the couch and cover my face with my hands. “Now he’s probably never going to talk to me again.”
Emily sits beside me. “I’m so sorry. I fucked up. I should’ve called first.”
�
�It’s not your fault,” I say, though it kind of was. Still, if he wasn’t feeling it, and things went farther than they had, he might’ve looked at me like that after sex and I would’ve felt ten times worse than I do now.
“Want some ice cream?” she asks.
What I want is to call him and find out what the hell just happened. But instead of being that girl, I decide it’s probably best to drown myself in sugar rather than do something I’ll probably regret later.
Chapter 3
It’s been two days and I haven’t heard from Paul since he escaped from my apartment without so much as a wave goodbye. I know he’s still in town because my dad called, asking if I wanted to go out to dinner with them last night. But I couldn’t go. If Paul doesn’t want to see me, I’m not going to force myself on him, no matter how badly I wanted to accept the invitation.
In class I can’t focus. Which is crazy because English is my favorite subject, but all I can think about is where exactly I went wrong with Paul. Things were going so great, then as soon as there was a distraction, he looked at me as if I were a leper.
We’ve spent the last couple of years flirting, which felt like years of foreplay building up to the moment we finally found release. Now I can’t help but wonder if, for him, the fantasy was better than the reality. I feel stupid for not thinking about that consequence. Rejection sucks. It sucks even worse when the person rejecting you is someone you might actually—dare I say it—love.
“Rachael?”
My self-pity party is crashed when I hear my name. Looking up from the window, I see the entire class staring at me and Mr. Oliver standing by my desk. A pretentious academic, his brow-beatings are stern enough to leave a bruise. I don’t know how he can stand to wear that tweed jacket in this heat while I’m sweating oceans wearing a tank top. He bends over my desk to look out the window.
“Is there a riot out there, someone streaking, perhaps?” he asks.
My face is so hot it’s numb. I know I’m a horrible shade of pink. “Not yet, but I’ll keep an eye out just in case” I say, which gets a few snickers from my classmates.
Mr. Oliver is not amused.
“Is my lecture boring you?”
I shake my head. “Not at all.”
“Then why don’t we leave the day dreaming for the musicians and artists, shall we?”
Says the man who moonlights as a creative writing instructor at night. Looks like I won’t be taking that class any time soon.
Mr. Oliver goes back to his lesson. Despite the boy next to me reeking of B.O. and the girl on my other side grinding her teeth, I’m able to concentrate long enough to make it through the class.
At noon, Emily and I meet up for lunch at a pizza joint down the street. I’m a nervous eater so I order way more than I should be eating by myself.
“You know what you need?” she says.
I take a giant bite of pepperoni with extra cheese and talk with my mouth full. “I’m all ears.” Because bad advice is better than nothing, and bad advice is all Emily has ever given me.
“You need rebound sex.”
A group of boys walking by slows at the mention of sex. I stare them down until they move on.
“Don’t you need to be broken up first for rebound sex? Paul and I were never dating.”
“Doesn’t matter,” she says, popping a grape in her mouth and squirting me in the eye with the juice when she chomps down. She laughs, but keeps talking. “Just hear me out.”
I sigh, wiping my eyes. “The answer is still no, but keep talking if you want. I’m too busy making out with this pizza slice to care.”
Without skipping a beat, she says, “I know you like your guys with age spots and pumped full of Cialis, but there are guys at this school who are perfectly capable of doling out orgasms.”
I throw my crust at her. She laughs and tosses it to the pigeons stalking us. “There’s this guy, Jeremy, who was at your party and I have it on good authority that he’s really into you, and that he has Thor’s hammer hidden in his pants, if you know what I mean.”
“If I roll my eyes any harder, they’ll fall out of my head,” I say.
“I’m not asking you to fall in love. Just go on a double date with me and Chris. Maybe get laid and forget about Paul for a few hours.”
I have no idea who Chris is, but getting away from the apartment does sound good. The thought of sitting on my couch alone, binging Netflix and Skinny Cow ice cream sandwiches, makes me want to curl up and cry. It’s so depressing. I’m young and fairly attractive—well, at least three weeks out of four, before PMS breakouts make me look like I have a case of the black death. I should be going out, having the time of my life while I’m unattached and at an age where it’s still acceptable to make terrible decisions. I should be experiencing different guys.
“Fine, I’ll go, but I’m not promising sex with this guy, so don’t even plant the thought in his head.”
“I would never,” she says with her hand to her chest in mock-exasperation.
I’m already starting to regret this decision.
I’ve never been on a blind date before. Jeremy is tall, wide shouldered and narrow hipped with a prominent brow and piercing eyes; a Zach Efron doppelgänger who I definitely could’ve seen myself with had Paul not returned.
We go to dinner, a nice little authentic Italian restaurant in the valley. It’s a double date, but we sit away from Emily and her date so that we have a chance to talk and get to know each other. I learn that his dad is a veterinarian, but he would rather go into sports medicine rather than follow in his father’s footsteps. His favorite band is … I don’t remember. I’m really trying to make this date work, but I just can’t.
I put my chin in my hands, pretending to hang onto his every word. Emily is all smiles at the other table. I feel her eyes carving out a hole into my skull to see my thoughts. When I glance over at her, she looks mighty proud of herself. She texts me under the table, bragging about her skills as a cupid. Every time I feel my phone vibrate, there’s always the hope that it’s Paul.
After dinner Emily slips me a condom, even though I have plenty at home, before they leave. I can’t bear to tell her I’m not interested.
Jeremy drives me home and walks me to the door. He leans against the door jam. “It was really nice seeing you again,” he says, “I wanted to talk to you at your party, but that older guy you were with never left your side long enough to give me a chance.”
Though Jeremy looks like the kind of guy made of Hollywood magic, I hadn’t noticed him at my party. He is only familiar to me because we have a class together. I hardly notice him now, and it doesn’t help that I’m distracted by thoughts of Paul; our time in the pool together, the way he’d touched me in my kitchen, the desperate, needy way he’d kissed me.
“Right, him,” I say, wishing he hadn’t brought up Paul because now he’s all I can think about. For a second there I was doing a fairly decent job keeping him out of the frontlines of my thoughts. “He’s a family friend and is only in town for a little while, so, you know …”
“Yeah, no worries. I’m just happy I’m getting my chance now.”
Sorry, Bro, but you never stood a chance, I think to myself.
Talking about Paul only makes things worse. My self-esteem has plummeted faster than the pound on the stock market after Brexit. I feel like shit and I could really stand to have someone worship me right about now, even if it’s only for ten minutes—twenty if I’m lucky. I debate inviting him in, but I don’t think I’m ready for that. I don’t stop him when he kisses me, though. It’s a nice kiss, a lingering peck on the lips. Helps too that he smells fantastic, and tastes like the fruity moscato wine we had at dinner.
I have one hand on his chest and one on the door knob. It’s the moment of truth. Will I or won’t I? There’s a pause as he waits for me to invite him in. In the end, I just can’t do it.
When I don’t extend the invite, he says, “I had a nice time. I’d like to go out again, i
f you want.”
I nod. “I’d like that.”
He smiles at me and waves goodbye. I go inside. My apartment is quiet and already I’m lonely. I know I’ll spend all night waiting for a text or a call that will never come and I’ll feel even worse than I do now.
After I change out of my clothes and into a tank top and pair of shorts, I wonder if it’s too late to catch Jeremy before he gets out of the parking lot. Just as I’m about to send him a text, there’s a knock on my door. He must be reading my mind. I know I’m about to make a huge mistake, but I open the door anyway.
It’s not Jeremy.
My heart thrashes out a nervous beat in my chest.
“Paul, what are you doing here?”
Suddenly I’m on the verge of tears, and I feel really stupid for getting emotional. I hold it in the best I can but my chin is quivering and tears warp my vision.
He’s wearing a gray pullover, worn jeans with holes in the knees, and boots. He looks so. Fucking. Good.
Hands in his pockets, he asks, “Can I come in for a minute?”
I steel myself with a deep breath and try to regain some composure as I open the door for him. He smells like coconut again when he passes me, and something else that I can’t quite place, but it’s so distinctly Paul that I get wobbly from wanting. It’s as if I were cast from a Jell-o mold. He wanders over to the couch, patting the seat next to him. I sit down and chew a corner of my thumbnail.
“I’m sorry for leaving so abruptly the other night,” he says. He sounds upset and maybe a bit sad. I want to comfort him because I’m feeling those things too. Only, there’s a touch of anger mixed in with those emotions that keeps me from wrapping him in a hug.
My foot bobs. I chew on the inside of my cheek; a nervous habit that sometimes leaves the skin raw and sore. I’m sad that he left, but I’m also mad that he left me hanging there like an idiot.
“Why did you leave?” I ask, words outlined in anger. He flinches and looks at his hands.
He has the decency to look ashamed. “Several reasons. One, I’m too old for you, and two, you’re my best friend’s daughter. Your dad has been there for me through every part of my life. We didn’t have the best upbringing. All we had was each other. When we got older your mom and dad paid for my contractor’s license when I was just starting out even though your dad was barely making minimum wage and taking care of a teen wife and an infant. How do you think they’d feel if they knew I was falling for their daughter? I’ve watched you grow up.”
