by Claire, Ava
I put my protests on mute, listening instead to the roar of desire that wreaked havoc on my worries about my clothes. What did it matter what I was wearing if it would just end up in a bundle on the floor?
I stood still, watching the lust flicker across his face as he bridged the space between us. His hazel eyes were the last thing I saw as the blindfold hushed my view. I could still make out the hazy outline of his face, but he doubled it, turning everything a shade of ebony.
He secured it and then his hands drew down, raking through my hair and down the curve of my arms until he clutched my hands.
“Ready?”
I should have felt off, the loss of control unnerving, but I just held tight to him as he led me into the apartment. I tried to peek and came up with little other than shadow. The door closed solidly behind me and I turned my head to the right, reaching out. He gripped my hand, giving it a squeeze before returning to the knot that secured the blindfold and releasing it.
My eyes widened. The room was brightened by string lights draped around his apartment. My gaze flitted from surface to surface, not sure what to take in first.
I started at the futon, a familiar red and white throw spread out on the cushion. It had ‘Someone at Thomas College Loves Me’ stitched into the fabric. The glass coffee table was covered with a white linen tablecloth. Two porcelain plates were piled with Alfredo and from the lingering aroma, he made fresh bread.
I grinned from ear to ear when I saw that there was a familiar label on the red wine beside the glasses: Blackberry Merlot. Chance was a wine snob, waxing lyrical about smoky flavors and undertones. I’d entertained him until I finally said the only wine I could tolerate was of the Arbor Mist variety. It was sacrilegious and he wasn’t convinced until I made him try a sip and he didn’t burst into flames. He still preferred ‘proper wine’, but he didn’t trash talk AM after that.
“You actually bought Arbor Mist?” I said, barely believing my eyes.
“And walked out of there with my head held high.” He cleared his throat. “It may or may not have been buried underneath the other groceries.”
“Sounds about right,” I winked. I took a few steps forward, spying a table tucked away in the corner. “What’s that?”
“No idea,” he said cryptically, his eyes near black and shining with excitement. I rushed over like a kid on Xmas morning, doubly so when I saw the table was lined with a series of white boxes. They varied in size, small and square, slender and rectangle, wide and short. The closer I got to the table I heard low, melodic humming punctuated by sparse instrumentals. He had his phone plugged into the speakers, a relaxing tune filling my ears.
“What’s all of this?” I asked. “It’s not my birthday.”
“You can only get presents on your birthday?” he smirked.
Unless you’re in the dog house, I thought warily. “I’ve forgiven you Chance. You didn’t need to get me all of this stuff to make sure.”
“This isn’t about that.”
My stomach tumbled. Was this to take away the sting of our argument or to dull the fact that he could very well be moving if he got fired? I peered at him suspiciously and his eyes stripped me down to the point I swear he could see my thoughts.
“Just open the boxes, Cass,” he said adamantly.
Nervous but undeniably curious, I took the first in my hands. It was one of the smaller boxes and it felt surprisingly light. I ran my hands along the bottom, finding a small flap. I lifted the top and a smaller, rectangle shaped box was inside. Fancy gold lettering spelled out the words Ladurée Paris.
I lifted the lid and my mouth watered. Inside were six multicolored pastries, lined up in a row. They were sandwich like confections, the sides fluffy and delicate and a sliver of cream between them.
“Macaroons?” I went to touch them, to literally stuff my face, but stopped when I touched the lid, running my fingers over the glittering label. “Ladurée?”
“It’s a Parisian brand,” he answered. “They’re credited with creating the double macaroon. Still your favorite, right?”
“They are.” I fondled the tissue paper, suddenly hesitant to touch them, content to ooh and aah over the bright color and dreamy textures.
“Not from Paris unfortunately,” he continued. “I doubt they would have kept for two years. But I did the best I could.”
I glanced at him, seeing his eyes expectant and hopeful.
“You did great,” I smiled. I took one out and bit into it, the slight crunch of the outer shell met by the creamy, luxe smooth of the filling. I held it in my mouth, savoring it until I swallowed. “They taste even better than they look.”
I picked up a second box, sliding the top off. On a bed of cotton was a dark circle of beads meeting a crimson colored clasp and a turquoise looking stone. I held it up, marveling at the craftsmanship.
“They’re called wrist malas,” he explained. “When I was in Tibet I saw these and thought of you. Strong, unwavering-”
“Stubborn?” I added.
“Beautiful,” he finished. “They’re used for meditation. Every time I closed my eyes and got to a place where everything else faded, I saw your face.”
I circled my finger around the beads, imagining him sprawled on beautiful waist high grass with the sky ethereally blue. I never would have admitted it out loud but I was sure that every time he thought of me, every time he saw my face, I saw his. My eyes burned but I held back the tears, quickly sliding the beads onto my wrist.
I looked at the pile of knick knacks and mementos from all over the world, love letters he wrote and never sent; physical proof that he never stopped loving me. I thought about nights when I was alone and not even Pandora or TV on full blast could quiet the ache in my chest. It seemed so far-fetched, so impossible that every time I thought of him, he could have been thinking of me too. But the truth was here, personified in every single gift.
I was consumed, alight with so much emotion that I was sure my heart would combust from the strain.
"Chance...this is all--"
I pivoted, turning from him. There was another thing, dark and terrible that swirled among the happy and tingles. It was guilt. "The first time we kissed when you came back, the first time we touched--" I fiddled with the red cord dangling from the bracelet, knowing full well I was about to hang myself. "I wanted to hurt you. I hated you for a very long time. I hated you while you were seeing me and gathering these things for me." I pulled off the mala beads, surprised that removing it felt like I was losing a piece of myself. Surprised that it hurt right down to my bones. "This is beautiful, really it is. But it's too much."
He didn’t say anything for a long moment or acknowledge my outstretched hand, bracelet in my palm. I dredged my gaze from safe territory, feeling his eyes burning into me, knowing that as soon as we locked eyes he’d set me on fire. After all, he’d done all of this, saved these things for me and I wasn’t accepting it. If it were reversed, I’d be furious. Hurt. Angry. But when I looked at him, his smile stretched to his amber eyes.
“I love you, Cassandra. Even if I found some way to put the universe in the palm of your hand, it wouldn’t be nearly enough. I’ll never be able to truly show you how much you mean to me--but I’ll spend the rest of my life trying.”
****
My heart raced in my chest as he led me to the bedroom. Wanting to please him, just wanting him, I pulled off my shirt and shimmied out of my leggings.
Even though I wanted to see the desire, the love burning in his gaze, I averted my own, kneeling in my bra and underwear. Becoming the submissive.
"What are you doing?"
I blinked up at him. "I thought this was what you wanted." I swallowed. "What you needed."
His fingertips were a whisper against my skin as he helped me back up. “What I want is you. Just as you are.”
I licked my lips, a flutter in my groin as he followed the path of my tongue with his eyes then traced the curve with his thumb. The quiver of his touch mad
e my pulse quicken and I stepped closer, wanting to melt into him. Still, there was a part of me that wanted to honor his identity.
“But you’re dominant,” I said hesitantly.
He confirmed it by claiming my lips without another word. I moaned into his mouth and the sound only intensified his onslaught. His tongue was ravenous, flicking over every surface. He pulled back after he got his fill, eyes flashing. Damn if I wouldn’t do anything for him when he looked at me like I was his sun. His moon.
I cleared my throat and tried to snuff out the need to unbuckle his jeans, strip him of his shirt and just feel him. All of him. “If you need me to submit--”
“Tonight, I’m not a Dominant and you’re not my student,” he said tersely, shedding his clothes with an urgency that proved he was just as starved for me as I was for him. “I just want to have my way with you, Cass.” He paused, his beautiful chest heaving. “Is that alright?”
Delicious tingles raced up and down my body as I threw my arms around his neck. His response was cupping my bottom, pulling my body upward. I wrapped my legs around his waist, clinging to him as a whirlwind of lust spun wild, erotic, and hot around the two of us.
He reclaimed my mouth with a groan. He kissed me like it was our last one; kissed me like he was making up for all the kisses that should have been ours.
I slid back onto his bed, the sheets like fingers dragging along my fevered skin. I wasn't demure, not tonight. I spread my legs wide, feeling the cool kiss of air against the juices gushing from deep inside. His moan reverberated from the back of his throat, humming from his being and wasted no time either, lunging onto the bed with passion etched across his intense features.
I saw the struggle in his gaze, the simultaneous need to ravage me battling with concern; wanting to put my needs first. It was terribly sweet, Hallmark card worthy--but the last thing I was thinking about was cute poems and cartoon drawings of hearts. I wanted...I wanted...
“Don’t be gentle,” I gave a voice to the lust raging inside of me, turning me molten. “I don’t want you to be gentle.”
The side of his mouth curved deliciously. “Good.”
I spread my legs wide, not even caring about foreplay, thinking only of the massive bulge he was holding. But I didn’t felt the veiny length, gasping instead when I felt the warm, moist touch of his tongue.
He made a hot trail up one side of me then down the other, the wetness erasing my crazy talk. How could I have even entertained the idea of not experiencing his mouth?
His tongue dove between my folds, taking me to the edge before drawing me from the precipice. He swirled around the sensitive joining of skin, breathlessly close to my bundle of nerves, then taking measure of me with long, wet strides. When he finally claimed it, I let out a scream, instinctively clamping a hand over my mouth. When I remembered we weren’t in his office, not somewhere hiding was necessary, I dropped it back to the tangled sheets, letting out a second as he circled the swollen nub. Every part of me tensed, locking as I brushed my fingertips against the warmth of climax but he kept pulling me back. Grounding me.
“I want to feel you unravel around me.” His dark eyes tore into me as he rose up, like some tattooed, muscular dream. Some wild thing that only existed in fantasy because there was no way he was mine.
He slid between my thighs, swollen and poised at my slick entrance. “I want to look at your face when you come.”
Our eyes locked and I gazed into his hazel depths. I never left those eyes, needing to memorize every gleam because as soon as our bodies met, I would be all sensations. I didn't want to forget this moment. I didn't want to forget how passion turned his eyes gold. He tilted my chin upward and I watched the quiver of lust ripple from his gaze, flutter across his face, and land solidly on his lips. My eyes drifted shut as he pressed them against mine in a kiss that I felt in my heart. I wanted nothing more than him. Nothing more than this.
I felt him at my moist opening, his flesh against mine. His trembling lips parted.
"I love you, Cass."
And he drove inside. Expanding me. Changing me. I would never get tired of this feeling, this bliss. Never.
We were a sweaty, breathy mess but neither of us cared much. I turned my head to look at him, smiling at the exhausted look he wore.
"Better than a run, huh?"
He chuckled, propping his head up and moving closer. "Infinitely so." He made a slow, methodical circle on my hip as he gazed at me intently, his expression heavy and contemplative. "You know I'd do anything for you, right?"
I rolled my eyes. "Yes. And that's why you're falling on your sword."
"That's why I'll do what you asked," he corrected. "I'll keep our secret as best I can, until you walk across that stage.” He smirked. “Just as a warning, I might hump you in full view of the graduating class of 2013."
I gaped at him, sure the mind-blowing sex had knocked something loose. "What?"
"I'll lie in my statement," he answered. "And no, it's not the sex talking." His eyes searched mine until he was sure that I understood he was serious. "You were right. I'm not ready to be apart from you, even if leaving is not a sure thing. If I have to lie in public so I can love and ravage you in private, I'll do it." He leaned in and kissed my stunned lips. "I'd do anything for you, Cassandra."
****
I ducked into my apartment with a singular mission: get a change of clothes and get back to the car where Chance was waiting. I didn't even bother locking the door, just shooting to my room with my feet barely touching the ground.
"Cass?"
I froze.
I could pick my mother’s voice out of a crowd; the slight drawl that became full on South when she talked to my grandparents on the phone, the disarmingly sweet tone with something deep and strong resonating underneath.
That strength speared into my US History teacher my senior year of high school when he decided my last name was cause to pick apart my assignments mercilessly, with so much red that my paper looked more like a murder scene than analysis of world events. He’d probably heard Mom’s voice over the phone and thought nothing of it, but after she had one meeting with him, he never looked at me sideways again.
And then there were all of the times she stood up, spoke up when I was too afraid to. At Dad’s funeral I couldn't read his favorite poem without shattering. She was there to pick up the pieces, helping me find my own strength as we said the lines together.
Even when she hovered, suffocated me with texts and called like I’d end up in a ditch otherwise, I still admired her. She had a draw, shining even in Dad’s shadow. She told me stories of practicing law before they got married, defending people who had nothing to offer her besides ‘thank you’ and every casserole dish under the sun as payment.
She always made sure she was heard, respected; she always made sure the world knew that even though her name wasn’t Rhyder Woods, she still had something to offer. That was why her dismissal of my thoughts and opinions hurt so much. Instead of hearing me out, she held tight to what Chance had done. She didn’t let me explain that I wasn’t taking his cheating lightly and when I tried to open up, I was met with animosity and judgment. Instead of supporting me, she became the people she hated—those that forgot she was a beast in the courtroom, only seeing a homemaker, a pretty face to be seen and not heard.
The floor creaked as she took a wary step in my direction. “The door was unlocked.”
I finished stuffing my underwear in my overnight bag, holding tight to the hurt as the zipper sliced closed. “I’m on my way out.”
“Cass we really need to talk--”
“Is that right? Because you’ve been trying to do anything but since I tried to talk to you about Chance.” I slung the strap over my shoulder and jerked my charger from the wall. “You peeled out of the parking lot when you found us here together and then at dinner, you said nothing while Alicia pretty much spat in his face.” I sucked in a deep breath and faced her. “He didn’t deserve that. I didn’t
deserve it.”
Her brow furrowed in distaste. “He didn’t deserve it? Let’s get one thing straight. You are my priority. I could care less what Chance Crawford deserves.”
“Oh I get it.” I pretended like it was all coming to me, sarcasm on full blast. “When you said you wanted to talk, what you really meant was you wanted to come here and tell me how stupid and naive I am.”
“Cassie--”
“I’ve got to go.” I maneuvered past her, my chest tight. This was too much, falling from cloud nine and crashing back to earth where I had to explain myself, trying to put the most beautiful thing in my life into words. And it would be wasted because she wouldn’t really hear me. She refused to.
“Please,” she implored. “Five minutes.”
The pleading in her voice stopped me cold. It revealed an exposed wound, throbbing and pulsing. She sounded vulnerable—I never heard that from my mother. And then she said the last thing on earth I expected.
“I’m sorry.”
I spun to face her, surprised I didn’t get whiplash. I didn’t know what to say.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “You’re right, I didn’t listen to you.” Her jaw tightened. “And I was rude to Chance.”
I gripped the overnight bag so tight that my nails cut into my palm. “You’re sorry?”
She gave me a small nod. “I am.”
I felt my body unwinding, the aggression seeping out of me like air from a balloon. Now that she said the words, that she meant it, I felt like a weight was lifted from my chest. From my heart.
She stood awkwardly in front of the coffee table, smoothing the front of her skirt. “The place looks good.”
The side of my mouth twitched. I knew that was quite the compliment considering she’d threatened to wear a Hazmat suit on several occasions.
“I figured it was time for a change.” I readjusted the strap on my shoulder. “I don’t even get to appreciate it because I--” I trailed off, realizing the last thing she probably wanted to hear about was the fact that I’d been shacking up with Chance. She’d already apologized and I knew how rare that was. I didn’t want to rub her nose in it.
