by Anne Calhoun
Back in the bedroom Seth was sprawled on the bed, eyes closed. She set one knee on the bed and wiped the semen from his stomach. He startled under her, opened his eyes, then took the cloth from her hand to finish the job. She held out her hand for the used cloth. He jackknifed upright, tossed the cloth onto the tiled floor of the bathroom, then wrapped both arms around her waist and tumbled her onto the bed. She yelped when a pencil lost in the sheets pricked her skin. He reached under her and swiped it away.
“Your turn.”
“Yes, please,” she said. Desire had turned into something else, something that thickened her voice into a throaty demand. Her sex was so slick, the silk clinging and sliding against her clit. She’d never felt like this, like her blood had turned to honey in her veins.
He reached under her back and unfastened her bra. She sighed with relief when he lifted it away, the cessation of friction at first a relief, then not enough. He cupped both breasts in his hands and squeezed, then used tongue and teeth on one nipple while he pinched the other. The hard tips swelled even more; she lifted, undulated under him, soft, breathy gasps sharp and distant in the room. He worked her panties down her thighs until she could kick them off and spread her legs.
His hand drifted down, petting gently until he learned her body, then parting her swollen folds and circling her clit. She tossed her head and whimpered. He leaned over her, studying her intently. “Not enough?”
“No,” she said before she could stop herself and say something polite. “More,” she added,
His middle finger slid down, gently circled her opening, then dipped inside. Again, relief, but not enough, and now her clit throbbed, abandoned. He bent over her, protective, possessive, powerful male.
“You want something inside you?”
“Yes,” she demanded.
He added a second finger, working them teasingly in and out, brushing the top wall of her vagina in such a way that the flesh quivered.
“More,” she demanded again.
“I’m being careful here,” he said.
In response she set her fingernails to his shoulder and the small of his back, and dug in.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, his voice dark, amused, full of promise.
The third finger, thick, blunt, stretched her enough to make her head drop back. He still wasn’t going deep, but the thing he was doing, his fingers slightly curled and stroking patiently, made her quiver with anticipation.
Then he deepened the stroke slightly, applying pressure as he pulled out, and a shock wave of pleasure pulsed through her. She let out a shocked, disbelieving cry. He made a very male, very satisfied noise, pressed the base of his thumb to her clit, and set about taking her apart. She let him. Every ounce of focus was on his hand between her legs, the pressure firm and relentless and steady, three fingers stretching her, teasing a previously unknown spot inside her. She could feel her muscles quivering as the long-denied tension coiled deep. His lips hovered over hers, the erratic pressure and flicks of his tongue a delicious contrast to the fabulously, predictable movements between her legs. He understood, she thought with the few remaining functioning brain cells, how critical constancy was when it came to a woman’s orgasm.
The pleasure swelled until her skin strained to contain it. Gasping, she turned her face into his throat, inhaled sweat and sex, felt his teeth close gently on the exposed tendon in her neck. She came, sharp cries tearing from her throat in time to the heated beats dissolving all her edges. He didn’t move. If anything, he curled even more tightly over her, around her, until he was the only thing anchoring her to the earth.
She went lax, breath heaving, cheeks stinging as the blood began to ebb back into her veins. Her sex fluttered as he gently withdrew his hand, resting it on her hip. She let her eyes close, trying to hold on to the blankness that would fade all too soon, real life rushing back in as her breathing and heart rate slowed.
“You okay?”
“No,” she said, telling him the truth for once.
He laughed, a soft huff of air she felt on her ear, saw lift his chest and contract his abdominal muscles.
“I don’t know what to do with this,” she said.
That did not get a laugh. She wasn’t sure what she meant. She didn’t know what to do with this kind of intensity, with this kind of pleasure, this kind of contentment, if she were honest. Like the build to her orgasm, she’d spent so much of her life in a constant state of tension that the absence of it left her reeling. It felt wrong to have this now, but right now was all she had. If the panic attacks and the raid had taught her anything at all, it was that the past was gone, the future was uncertain, and now was the only thing she could count on.
See it. Apply the contour drawing skills and really see the now. It can’t be taken from you.
“I don’t either,” he said.
At least she wasn’t alone. They lay in silence a little while longer. Then he patted her hip. “Mind if I take a shower?”
“Only if you mind if I join you,” she said, eyes still closed.
“I’ll go heat up the water.”
The bed dipped as he got up, then she heard the shower turn on. She slowly sat up, rubbed at her eyes with the heels of her hands, then looked in the mirror. Mistake. Her skin was blotchy, the flush of arousal still vivid on her upper chest and cheeks. She was past bedhead and into sex hair. She smelled like sex; the whole room smelled of sex. Blood pounded in her ears, a steady fast rhythm underscored by her still erratic breathing. The taste of both of them lingered in her mouth. Semen, her juices, his sweat, her own, licked from her lips. Every sense engaged, almost no mental processes online.
Is this what it meant to feel alive?
Seeing herself like this was unbearably intimate. Her eyes slid away just as she heard the shower door swing open, then closed. Gaze resolutely fixed in front of her, she scooted to the end of the bed, stood, and hitch-walked into the bathroom. Seth stood under the spray, arms folded across his abdomen, looking at the drain. When he saw her, he opened the door.
She stepped in and let the water course over her, soaking her hair. The scent of them streamed down her body and away, stinging between her legs. She turned her head up and opened her mouth to rinse away the taste, and felt the muscles knit themselves back into their customary tight pattern.
“Is this for me?” he asked, pointing at an unused bar of plain, unscented soap resting in the tiled niche.
The soap was a concession to reality. She was sleeping with the artist’s model from her drawing class. It was only polite to let him shower afterward, and to have on hand a soap that wouldn’t embarrass the hell out of him. “You mean, do I have a supply under the cabinet for the men in my bed?” she asked lightly.
“Well, yeah,” he said, not joking at all.
“Yes, I bought it for you. I have a toothbrush, too.”
“Thanks,” he said, and lathered up.
She reached for the almond-scented body wash. The shower was custom-built, tiled in a swirling pale granite, had jets at various his-and-hers heights and plenty of room for both of them. He finished before she did, but stayed under the spray.
“My shower’s about two inches wider than my shoulders,” he said in explanation.
“Enjoy it,” she said and rinsed her hair.
He toweled off more quickly than she did. When she came back into the bedroom, he wore his underwear and shorts, and had his arms through his shirt.
“It’s pretty late to ride home,” she said with a glance at the clock. “You can stay. If you want.”
Once again he stopped in the act of dressing. “Are you sure?”
“You’re working in Manhattan tomorrow, right?” She scrabbled under the pillows until she found her nightgown, shoved between the mattress and headboard by all the activity. “There’s no point in biking to Brooklyn for a few hours of sleep, then biking back,” she said through the soft cotton. “Unless you’ll sleep better in your own bed.”
He let his el
bows drop, then tossed the shirt on the chair next to her dresser. “I get up early,” he warned. “Breakfast delivery rush.”
“That’s fine,” she said, eager to let the promise of untroubled sleep settle over her. She retrieved the duvet from the floor, twitched the bedding into place, climbed into bed, then realized he was still standing there, a hesitant expression on his face. “What’s wrong?”
“I draw myself to sleep.”
There was a hint of defensiveness to the statement, like he’d revealed something secret. She yawned hugely. “Whatever you need,” she said, and burrowed into the covers. He left to rummage through his messenger bag and returned with a black hardback sketchbook, and a black leather zippered pouch worn white at the corners, dust embedded in the creases. He dropped his shorts, arranged the pillows against the headboard, and thumped into the bed in his underwear.
She tapped the sketchbook’s rigid black cover. “Are these the kind you carried in Afghanistan?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Reporters tend to use them, too. The covers take a hell of a beating and protect the pages inside. Mine were always the color of the dirt by the time I finished with them because the dust worked its way into everything,” he said, stroking the cover with his fingertips.
“Can I watch?” she asked, curious.
“Sure,” he said easily.
He drew the circle of easels in Betsy’s living room. Her hand dropped automatically to his chest when he lifted the sketchbook to open it, splaying across the bare patch of skin just under the sword’s hilt. Sleep was creeping up on her, but she couldn’t resist stroking the spot. Something about it seemed bereft, oddly empty on a torso otherwise covered in ink.
“This tour’s tat was going to go there,” he said.
He wasn’t looking at her when he said it, his words as even as his gaze, focused on the blank page in front of him. Like drawing let him open up inside, reveal himself.
“Oh,” she said.
“We had the tat picked out,” he said. “The date our first tour began, and the date we went home for good.”
But they didn’t come home. Her throat tightened. She traced the sword’s hilt, then its blade, over his abdominals to his thigh and back. “I’m sorry,” she said finally.
He didn’t even shrug.
He drew the view of Central Park from Betsy’s windows, a view he must have memorized during the sitting. His recollection was picture-perfect, not detailed, but somehow capturing the feel of the park in such a way that the drawing could only be that particular stretch of Fifth Avenue. He drew the strawberries, nestled together, condensation gleaming on the chocolate as it warmed from the fridge. He was fast, unerringly capturing the essence of what he drew in a few quick strokes.
* * *
When she fell asleep, he was still drawing.
He’d said that wrong. He used to draw himself to sleep. Back before. He hadn’t since his sketchbook absorbed his friend’s blood.
The habit itched at him again. Why not? He had his sketchbook, and pencils were scattered all over the floor.
He drew her, asleep by his elbow, capturing the way her mouth relaxed but her brow furrowed, as if easing into sleep worried her. He shaded in the sex flush on her cheeks, so unlike her normally pale face, and his hand added the suggestion of chain mail, transforming her into a shield maiden. His shield maiden. He drew, from memory, the fierce look on her face while she leaned over him and took his cock in her hand. He drew her huddled back against the SUV, the split second of sheer terror on her face burned into his brain. He drew the room, memorizing the details, the big bed, the linens and upholstery and shades all white.
He drew himself in the mirror, not quite looking, just the hint of shape he could discern in his peripheral vision, her arm draped over his torso, her leg entangled with his. She anchored him in time and space, drawing him back to earth, the sound of his breathing low and resonant in his ears, his heart ticking in his chest.
He drew until his eyelids drooped, and he drifted into sleep.
* * *
Arden awoke to Seth’s hand on her shoulder. Blinking, she looked at him. He wore the cargo pants, the right leg cuffed to avoid snagging the greasy chain, and a tight-fitting long-sleeved jersey. His eyes were solemn, mouth soft.
“I’m leaving, but I didn’t want you to wake up alone.”
“I usually wake up alone,” she said, groggy. “What time is it?”
“Just before six.”
He was hunkered down on his heels by the side of the bed, studying her. She sat up, pushed her hair out of her face, and wondered how bad she looked having fallen asleep with wet hair. “What?”
“Do you always dream like that?”
That woke her up in a hurry. “Like what?” she asked cautiously.
“You were having one hell of a nightmare around four.”
“I don’t remember,” she said. But then images surfaced. She was handcuffed to a chair under a fierce bright spotlight, like the ones used to interrogate prisoners, blinding them, hiding the identity of the interrogators. Creatures snarled and snapped at her from just outside the ring of white light, teeth made of razor blades glinting as they lunged, blood dripping from their huge, misshapen jaws. Her stomach dropped, remembering the fragments, which propelled her out of bed. He was the one who should have bad dreams, or PTSD, or something.
“You need the code for the security system,” she said as she hurried past him, down the staircase to the entryway, where the sight of her purse drew her up short. Did she pay him for last night? He’d modeled for her, but it had quickly turned into something else, something difficult to describe even after she had lived through it. Better to err on the side of caution; she remembered what he’d said about making all his money in the Marine Corps. If she asked him if that counted as a modeling session, he would say no.
She dug out her wallet and thumbed through the twenties, counting out the modeling fee and the tip.
He’d followed her down the hall more slowly, and paused beside her to shift the messenger bag’s strap over his head. “Do you know how to ride a bike?”
“Of course I know how to ride a bike,” she said absently, and handed him the cash.
He tucked it into one of the zippered pockets in the bag without bothering to count it. “Come for a ride with me.”
New York City traffic, even inside an enormous SUV, often badly startled her. There was no way she could handle traffic on the unprotected seat of a bike. She let out a short trill of laughter that sounded brittle rather than confident. “No way. I’ve seen bike messengers ride, and there is no way I’m doing that.”
His brows drew down slightly. “Not work. A pleasure ride.”
“Riding through New York City traffic isn’t my idea of fun.”
“So we’ll ride through the park, or along the water.”
She stared at him. “I’m not . . . athletic. I can’t ride a bike.”
“You just said you could. Unless your shoulder and knee can’t take the stress after the accident.”
He said it so calmly, giving her an easy way out. Claim weakness, get a free pass out of the situations that scared her. Her chin lifted. “My shoulder and knee are fine. I can ride a bike,” she said, remembering pedaling around the big driveway of the Hamptons house as a kid, riding around the Great Lawn in Central Park with her nanny in tow. “I just don’t.”
“Why not? It’s not about being athletic. It’s about getting out, getting some exercise, getting some sun. It’s a way of being in touch with the world, adding dimension to your drawing.”
“Seth, it’s a sweet invitation, but no, thank you,” she said, using the firm voice that sometimes kept her heart rate from skyrocketing, like she was reassuring her mind that yes, she understood, she would not do anything daring or risky or public. “I have work today. I’ve put off foundation work for the last few weeks to deal with things, but I really need to get back to normal life.”
With the emphasis on norma
l, so much for sounding cool and collected.
“Okay. That’s cool.”
He just looked at her, not judging, not hurt. She almost said they could do something else, like go to the movies, or dinner, or a walk, but then she remembered the unpredictable horde of reporters and photographers quite possibly watching her door right now. All he’d said was that he needed this, too. Nothing else. So she kept her mouth shut.
“Thanks for coming over. Stay safe today,” she said, and opened the door. The street was empty except for a suit-clad neighbor who walked a shih tzu to Starbucks every day to bring his wife a latte. In a matter of seconds, Seth was down the stairs and through the gate. He gave her a nod, fastened his helmet, and swung his leg over the bike. He turned the corner on Fifth Avenue just as Arden closed the door.
– FIFTEEN –
The phone, vibrating and ringing on her nightstand, dragged Arden from a restless sleep. She pawed her hair back from her face and focused on the screen.
Mom.
“ ’Lo?” she said.
Muffled weeping on the line. Phone clasped to her ear, Arden rolled to her back and tried to remember what day it was. Wednesday. Yesterday she’d had a meeting with Neil and made phone calls to the dwindling number of requestors in the foundation’s giving cycle. A quick glance at the screen showed just after three in the morning.
“Mom,” she said. She sat up, turned her back to the wall, and arranged the pillows behind her. The one closest to her head still retained a hint of Seth’s unique scent, skin, sweat, and the bike grease. “What’s wrong?”
Sobs finally resolved into, “Where am I going to go?”
It sounded like her mother was coming to terms with leaving Breakers Point. “Mom, you’ve got options,” she said. “You know you can move in with me.”
A hiccupping laugh, then, “Darling, you don’t really have the space for me.”
“There’s plenty of room, Mom. I’m only using the main and second floor. We can fix up a bedroom for you off the kitchen, overlooking the garden.”
