by Liora Blake
The entire time he speaks, his eyes never leave mine. When he finishes, though, he looks over my shoulder. I know he’s just waiting on me to respond. Either to wreck this for good or fix it forever. It’s clear from the way he avoids my eyes that neither of us know which direction it will take.
When I feel like I’m going to break, I do one of two things. One, I run. I run fast and hard, taking as direct a route as possible away from whatever the threat may be. Two, I shut up. I stop talking until I’m positive that I’ve put a firm emotional stranglehold on the thing that’s bearing down on me.
Right now, neither option seems practical. If I take off, I’m not sure he will come after me. If I go mute, he will take every second of silence as a sign we don’t belong together. If I put a stranglehold on him, I’ll end up smothering the life out of a man who, up until the last five minutes, orchestrated the single sweetest evening I’ve ever experienced.
All that’s left is to break. To drop the armor and get out my filet knife. I ball up my hands into fists, shoving them down for effect, and then close my eyes.
“I came out here because my ex beat the shit out of me, handcuffed me to a goddam oven door, then shoved me down a set of stairs when I Houdini’d my way out and told him I was leaving.”
There is silence after that, for what feels like hours. Eventually I open my eyes and Simon is staring, his jaw fallen open. When I see the shock there, I actually start to shake, because the adrenaline surging through me is shouting to run for the door until I can’t see him anymore. If I end up in the next county over, that might not be far enough.
Slowly, he sets his jaw and shuts his eyes. “OK. You have to back up just a tiny fucking bit. The whole story, Devon. Start at the beginning.”
Christ, I have to sit down. There’s blood rushing so quickly through my arteries that I’ll probably pass out if I don’t. I take a few steps back, my ass hits the back of the couch, and I let my body slide down until I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor.
“Kyle’s an asshole. He always was; I just didn’t know any better.”
I let my hands fall into the space between my legs and clasp them together, rubbing my thumbs over the backs of my hands. Thank heavens for the sturdy earth and this unforgiving wood floor—at least I don’t feel like I’m going to pass out anymore.
“When we met, I was nineteen and he said all the right things. That we would leave Cleveland, get married, live in a real house with a yard in the suburbs. After we moved in together, it got stupid. He couldn’t hold a job because he was a prick, so he collected unemployment, and when that ran out, he made money the old-fashioned ghetto way. By dealing dope.”
Taking a quick moment to glance up, I find Simon with his arms crossed stiffly, silently assessing, and under that scrutiny, shame hits me hard. The shame I can usually smother out with anger or sheer determination. But now I can only see the obvious: that I made a life for three years with a loser. That I crawled into bed with a man who sold ruin for profit. That I could have been sleeping with a man who sold junk to my now-dead brother.
“He’d shoved me around a few times, but I usually just shoved his ass right back. The night it all blew up, he didn’t come home, and while I was sitting up waiting for him, this really skanky chick showed up at our door and told me she was knocked up with his kid.”
Simon scrubs his hands down his face and looks up at the ceiling. This is perfect. Now he can’t even look me in the eye.
“When he finally rolled through the door, I already had my stuff packed. Looking back, I should have just left, but I wanted a chance to rip him apart about cheating on me. When he came in, he had this wild look in his eye, which meant he was coked up. And if Kyle got high on coke, he came unglued at the smallest shit. So me saying I was leaving meant he went ballistic. He said I was lying about the skanky girl, that I was the one cheating on him. Which I wasn’t, for the record. I was too fucking stunned to run when he hit me the first time, and by the time I could even process it all, he was dragging me into the kitchen, where he cuffed me to the oven door handle so he could go pass out.”
In my head, here’s the part where Simon should be asking me to pack my things so he can get as far away from me as possible. Hanging out with a woman who was once tethered like an unruly dog to a kitchen appliance isn’t exactly the way a trust-funder should build a respectable life. Instead, I watch his eyes glaze over and see his hands latch on to the countertop on either side of his body, grasping the edge so hard his knuckles turn white.
“After a few hours, I decided I was leaving even if I had to take the goddam oven with me. I dug around in the kitchen drawers until I found a butter knife that would work as a screwdriver. Voilà, after an hour of trying I took apart the oven door and slid the handle off the cuffs. Then I loaded up my car. But I wanted the cuffs off, and when I tried to sneak back in to get the keys, he woke up. I ran, made it to the front stoop before he came out the screen door and shoved me down the steps into a planter. I drove twelve hours before I finally stopped at a hospital in Kansas and found out I had three broken ribs.”
A normal woman would have sobbed uncontrollably when she shared this story, especially to only the second person she’s ever told. Stacia is the only one who knows. Not my mom, not Trevor, not Kate. Yet retelling the actual events feels distant somehow, like the myth of who I used to be. Shame sits just underneath, but the story itself is far less potent now.
“That’s how I ended up out here. Now you know something real about me. Why I hate feeling owned or less than. Why I’ll never let you cuff me or tie me up when we have sex. Why who I used to be is humiliating.” I shrug my shoulders and push out a small sigh.
“Don’t do that.”
Simon grinds the words out through gritted teeth. When I raise my face up to see him, he has his hands clasped together on the top of his head, and the look on his face is tenuously tethered rage.
“What?”
“Don’t tell that story and then shrug your shoulders like it isn’t a big deal. This guy treated you like a goddam animal, beat you, shoved you to the ground, and cheated on you. All that shit is off-the-charts fucked up. So don’t act like it isn’t.”
“It was a long time ago. A different world, a different Devon.”
Maybe it’s because my voice got small, maybe in recognition of that tone, the rage clears long enough for him to see me sitting on the floor in a heap. Because he drops his arms down and a sense of resignation seems to rush through him, then everything softens.
I want to crawl away and bury myself in the sand until I don’t exist anymore. Because I’m only waiting for him to tell me it’s over since I’m white trash and he isn’t, that a man like him can’t have a life with a woman like me. And even if it means he’s going to destroy me, I still want him to speak the absolute truth.
Simon makes his way over and drops to the floor, where he awkwardly curls his long legs around my body so we’re practically sitting in each other’s laps. He puts both hands on my face and pushes my hair back until I face him.
“I need to say a couple of things. Are you listening?”
He holds my face in his strong grip, so firmly that I can only nod, almost imperceptibly.
“I don’t want to own you, possess you, or ever make you feel less than my equal, Devon. I’ve never even thought about tying you up when we have sex because I like your soft hands on me too damn much. I know there isn’t a disloyal bone in your body, so you wouldn’t cheat. And, a woman who figured out how to dismantle a fucking oven with a butter knife? She should never feel humiliated. About anything. Because she’s obviously a goddam force to be reckoned with.”
Simon rests his forehead against mine and we stay like that for a while, until it starts to feel right between us again. When he kisses me, it begins gently, his mouth urging me to come back to him. But when his tongue parts my lips, a dam breaks. Suddenly, there is nothing but recklessness between us, lit by anger and fear and the rush of knowing
we’re laying ourselves bare.
He pulls his mouth from mine and then crushes my body into his. Wrapping his arms tightly around me, his grip becomes so overwhelming that I have to consciously relax, just to keep my sanity. With his head pressing heavily against my ear, he lets his fingers loosen around my waist as if he’s finally decided I’m not going to bolt.
“On a scale of one to ten, how screwed up is it that all I want to do right now is fuck like mad until we’re both dizzy and covered in sweat? Then I want to do it again, until I know you’re too spent and satisfied to try to get away. Because I need to hold you all night, sunshine, no exceptions. I have to.”
I chuckle weakly and try to hold back the swelling of my heart in my chest. When I respond, the words are so hoarse they sound pained.
“At least an eight. Just promise me you mean it. All night. No exceptions.”
22
On Sunday, we spend the morning in Monterey, walking around Cannery Row, hitting the aquarium, and kissing a hundred or so times between each stop. When we return to the house, I’m sweaty and tired, even though we slept tangled up in each other for nearly ten hours last night. Simon hovers over me without a break, even insisting when we get back that I nap or take a bath, and I realize that he’s been worried all day, like my confession last night would make me weak today. It’s all new to him, the brunt of that story so fresh that he apparently doesn’t know quite how to manage it.
Instead of pushing his unnecessary coddling away, I let him slip the clothes from my body as the copper tub in the bathroom fills with hot water. Once it is full, I watch him pour some bath oils in, push up the sleeve of his shirt, then swirl his hand through the water to disperse the oil. He takes my hand and after I slither down into the nearly too-hot water, he kisses the back of my head and then disappears.
When I hear the music start to play, I think it’s coming from a speaker, assuming that he has turned on some music so he can read. Eventually, I realize it’s him, playing the piano in the living room while I bathe. If he hadn’t already blown my little heart to bits last night with the tea lights, the floating flowers, and staying put after my big confession, this would have done it.
The wholly sensual experience of it, the private feeling of the two of us in this small house, where nothing but our own bullshit can intrude, makes my heart ache in a way I’ve never known. It’s pain and longing, jumbled up with the way we seem to be stamping the solid ground beneath us, just to be sure it can hold whatever we might be trying to build.
He plays for a long time. I can envision his fingers working in my mind’s eye, those long slender tapers that drive me out of my sane brain on a routine basis. The water eventually turns lukewarm, and when I decide to get out, it is already dusky outside.
Knowing we have to leave in the morning is bearing down on me, because going back home means other things now. Simon will be leaving at the end of the week, for two months, and the very idea of not seeing him for that long is nearly unbearable. Aside from what my body demands of his at least once a day, no one will make me laugh or annoy me the way he does. Not to mention, no one will kiss that hollow behind my ear while he’s gone. It will go untouched, and without him there to claim that spot, I might not know who I belong with.
I dry my body and start to rub a rich body cream over my legs, pausing to turn sideways a bit, making sure I get the backs of my thighs. I see his feet then, as he stands in the opening between the bedroom and the bathroom, watching me.
“You need some help with that?”
His eyes linger on my breasts, but he waits, instead of lunging at me the way he often does. I toss him the small, round container, and he catches it easily.
“Good hands.”
“You know it.” He winks, letting the trace of a grin touch his lips, then holds his hand out. “Come here.”
I follow him out of the room, watching the way his back muscles move beneath his T-shirt. Under that threadbare black material, I know the exact topography of his body now. There is a scar just below his left shoulder blade, about three inches long, so old and faded that unless you were tracing your tongue over his skin, you wouldn’t know it was there. I don’t know the story behind it, and I don’t care. I know it’s there, and somehow, that is enough.
He stands at the foot of the bed and waits for me to close the few inches of distance remaining between us. When I’m near enough, I turn my back to him and lift my hair up, holding it in a loose pile on the crown of my head. “Will you get my back?”
He doesn’t answer, which is fine. I don’t want to ruin the final hours we have here with too many words. The feel of his hands on me, his mouth, his body, will be enough to fill the time. Because we’re different now. We know each other’s bodies, the scars, the places to tease, and the spaces where our headiest cravings reside. Beyond that, we’ve started to traverse the crooks and valleys of each other’s histories, seemingly undaunted by whatever we might discover there.
I can hear him slicking the body butter in his hands, and my breath goes ragged at hearing the sound. I’m sure he sees the way my shoulders tense in anticipation until his palms are against my bare skin, with his fingers just edging my collarbone. There is a pause then, waiting for me to acclimate to his touch. As my shoulders sag in release, the weight of him pressing gently, he lets his thumbs run up and down either side of my neck. Finally, he starts to move his hands, over my shoulders, down my back, the small of my waist, then, with a maddeningly small amount of coverage, just barely nudges the swell on the sides of my breasts. My head drops down and I’m suddenly off balance, beyond the control I normally possess, so I wobble forward a couple of inches.
“Lie down, sweetheart.”
Kneeling onto the mattress, I shuffle forward and slump to my back. I let my legs bend slightly at the knees, and they tip together so that my kneecaps rest against each other. My arms feel leaden and my hands rest against my belly, offering just enough weight to ground me and avoid the sensation of floating away into some kind of erotic oblivion.
“Look at me.”
I do as he asks. He’s standing there, stripped of his shirt, the button on his shorts already undone. Every inch of him shouting of constrained yearning and a scarcely harnessed desperation. “Touch yourself.”
My hips leave the mattress a few inches, unconsciously. “Where?”
He laughs quietly. “Fuck. Anywhere. You could touch your elbow right now and that might do it for me.”
A smile crosses my face. I needed that. For him to break the spell momentarily with something lighter. The heavy sensuality of lying naked before him, already wet, hot, and achy, would have drowned me if he hadn’t.
Apparently, I’m taking too long, because his hands shoot out to my knees and push them to either side so that I’m open for him. He has to see the visible evidence of my arousal. I can feel it, so I know it’s all there for him.
“On Friday I have to leave you for two months. I need to store up as many images as I can.” He taps his temple with his index finger. “Two fucking months. So help me out a little here. When I call you for filthy phone sex, I want to know how you touch yourself so I can picture it when I hear you coming in my ear.”
I arch my back and take a breast in each hand, letting the flesh fill my palms. A groan comes from his throat and he immediately whispers a few encouragements, some sexy and some a little sleazy, but every word is his, so perfectly Simon it makes my belly tighten. My nipples pucker as my fingers find them, and then quickly harden painfully, so sensitive that I have to let up on the pressure. I start the descent, down my belly, over my hipbones, and with both hands graze the swollen space between my legs. Simon grunts and I feel him set one knee on the mattress, the sound of his zipper coming down. I can’t stop then, dipping my fingers between the flesh and circling my clit the way I like it, until I’m forced to stave off a climax I suddenly don’t want. Stilling my hands, I tighten my jaw until everything inside recedes.
“Keep goi
ng. Make yourself come for me.” Simon strokes his length, using long tugs from base to tip with a tight fist, tilting his hips incrementally in time.
“No.” I shut my eyes and knock my head back and forth on the pillow.
“Come on, don’t get shy on me now.”
“It has to be you, Simon. Today, tomorrow, until you leave. It has to be you. You’ve seen how I touch myself, but don’t make me come that way. I need it to be you.”
Because Simon wouldn’t deny me anything, he doesn’t hesitate or question. Shucking the rest of his clothes, he draws my hands away and crawls up to perch between my wide-open legs. His hands press gently to my belly, spread flat to span the distance on my stomach, from hip to hip. As he starts to travel upward, I nearly cry out because his touch is everything now, so new and so familiar all at once. That touch, the all-encompassing nature of it, sends my head spinning.
I need to ask him why, I have to understand how we got here, to the place where his touch feels so different from every other man’s. We didn’t plan it, we didn’t take the groomed trail, we stumbled and meandered our way here, until we both looked up and saw each other.
“Simon?”
His hands come over my breasts, but he doesn’t take them roughly, only cups and traces until I arch into the touch.
“Yeah?”
“No one’s ever touched me the way you do. Ever.” I can feel my lips stumbling over the words, every syllable so thick I don’t know if I can get it all out. “Why is it so good? Tell me why it feels so different.”
Whether he is trying to offer me a moment of distraction, I don’t know, but before he answers, he pulls his hands back from my breasts. Staring down, he flicks each nipple with his fingers, and their already hypersensitive state forces an immediate yelp from my mouth. Then Simon is over me, his warm breath against my neck.
“God, please tell me you already know the answer. All I’ve ever wanted to do was show you.” His lips finds the hollow behind my right ear. “It’s simple, sunshine. I’m in love with you.”
