by Kyra Davis
“Okay, you can look now.” He turns and stares at me, sort of amused, sort of pissed. “See?” I smile, my teeth finally done with their chattering. “You can’t see me.” When he doesn’t seem to understand, I let out an impatient sigh. “Because of the bubbles, idiot. You can’t see my naked parts.”
“I’m the idiot?” he asks incredulously. He takes a swig of the champagne. I sort of love how he drinks vodka from a flute and champagne from the bottle. “Do you know how dangerous that was? What you just did?”
“Do you know how dangerous it is to break in here?”
His lips form a thin, straight line, and for a second I think he’s going to curse again. But then he smiles, and eventually, laughs. It’s a sound that builds until it’s infectious and soon I’m giggling, too. He sits down by the side of the tub, keeping his eyes politely away as he hands the champagne to me. “I know you were trying to make a point, but what would you have done if I hadn’t stopped you?”
“You did stop me,” I say, tilting the bottle back, taking my fill before placing it beside the tub. I watch as Ash rubs his hands up and down his legs vigorously. He must be cold, too, although he didn’t get his hair wet and his upper body has remained reasonably dry. Still, he’s cold, and yet it’s my comfort that seems to concern him most. I’m almost embarrassed by how much that endears him to me.
“But if I didn’t . . .” His voice fades as he looks out at the night sky. “What happened out there, Mel?”
“It’s Mercy,” I correct as I rub the warm water over one arm, then the other.
“Not to me.”
The comment sobers me up. “I told you, Melody’s dead.”
“I don’t understand that.”
“She died of . . . of hyperactivity,” I say with a forced smile. The bubbles are disappearing; I need a more substantial shield. “Addiction, a hair-trigger temper . . . she suffered from all of it. And that’s in addition to poor follow-through, distractibility, lack of impulse control—”
“Right, because you totally have your impulses under control now.”
I pick up a small pile of bubbles and blow them at him. “As we just established, I’m the pot, you’re the kettle.”
“I brought you here because you were freezing. I needed to rescue you,” he says wryly.
Oh, if he only knew how true that was.
I let my eyes scan the bathroom, taking in the seashell-shaped soap dispenser and toothbrush holder. Under the sink is a wicker wastebasket with a plastic seashell glued onto it. It’s as if the woman who lives here is afraid that the view of the ocean isn’t enough to remind people that they’re by the sea. The consistency and predictability of it all makes me uneasy.
“I believe in fate, Mel . . . or whoever you are.” He reaches forward and touches my hair, twirling a sopping pink strand between his fingers. “I believe in destiny and karma and all that shit. I believe that there’s a reason I found you, here in LA, a thousand miles from where we met.” He reaches forward and brushes aside some of the suds, making my cover flimsier than ever. “I believe that we have something to explore here. You say I hurt you? Fine. Hurt me back. But . . .” And with this he leans forward, only to stop when he’s less than an inch from my face. “Kiss me first.”
Again he touches his mouth to mine, but this time the kiss is slow, sensuous. His tongue gently parts my lips. As my eyes close, I hear the gentle splash of the water as he submerges his hand, touching my side, just to the right of my breast, sliding beneath me, lifting me from the warmth of the water and enveloping me in an entirely different kind of heat. My bare breasts touch the thin cotton of his T-shirt. Here in the home of a stranger, I’m exposed to this man who I’ve trained myself to hate and to love. As he pulls away, I open my eyes slowly and see what he sees, the bubbles clinging to my body. I see the patterns of water I’ve left on his shirt, evidence of what we’ve done and what’s about to happen.
With one hand he moves the white froth away, exposing me completely before lowering his head, his tongue teasing and hardening my nipples as I reach out, holding him for support. Half submerged, half bared, I’m hovering between two states of mind. Do I hate myself for this? Or is this meant to be? Is fate as real and aggressive as Ash thinks it is? There is so much that connects us, so much more than he knows.
And the idea of all this being out of my control excites me. I pull him closer, pressing myself into him, and run my hands through his jet-black hair. When his teeth graze my skin a little moan escapes me. I want this. I need this. And I won’t justify it or explain it.
Gently he pulls away and lowers me back into the bath. I don’t say a word as his hand moves between my legs. His fingers brush against my clit, sending a jolt through me that makes me twitch and cling to the sides of the tub. The warmth of the water makes everything more sensitive.
But then his hand moves away and this time it’s a sound of protest that slips from my lips. He answers with a teasing smile and reaches behind my head to pick up a small bottle of shampoo. He squeezes the liquid into his palm and then slowly works it through my hair, his fingers pressing against my scalp, making my whole head tingle.
“What if the owner’s not out of town?” I whisper as he continues to groom me, as if I’m a doll that he’s preparing to play with and display.
“Then she’ll see you,” he says impassively, only the slightest hint of mischief in his eyes. “If she’s a prude she’ll think you’re a criminal and a slut. A whore whose only purpose in life is to spread her shapely legs and receive the touch and attention of her male admirers. A woman who is just depraved enough to enjoy it.” He pulls slightly on my hair and then continues his work as he runs the shampoo all the way to the ends. “If she’s petty,” he continues, “she’ll be jealous. She’ll look at you and realize that you are a woman who will be desired by everyone who sees you. She’ll see me touch you and she’ll see how it moves you.” He rinses the shampoo off one of his hands and again slides it between my legs, once more drawing forth my moan. “She’ll wish she was as sensitive as you are. She’ll wish that she could receive so much pleasure with only the slightest touch.” His fingers continue to gently toy with me as he watches me begin to writhe and tremble, easily provoking the response that he wants. “And, if she’s wise, she’ll admire you.” He takes his hand away and places it under my knees as his other hand slides from my hair to my back. He bends my knees and lowers me farther down until the back of my head is in the water. I give him my weight, letting him support me completely as he immerses me. Now only my face and ears are above the water. He frees his hand from my knees and uses it to lap water onto the few roots of hair that remain above the surface. The level of trust that is required for this exercise is unearned, but even that risk electrifies me. When he lifts me again I grab his T-shirt with two fists, bringing me close to him.
“She’ll admire me?” I ask, my voice low, almost challenging, like I’m daring him to take this to its natural conclusion.
“Of course,” he says quietly as he runs his hand over my now clean hair. “She’ll look at you and thank whatever god she prays to for bringing this kind of beauty into her home. She’ll watch as I touch you.” He lets his finger trace a line down my throat to where my breast begins to swell. “She’ll be overwhelmed by your passion and sexuality. She’ll hold her breath as you rise.” He loosens my grip and, taking my open hand, presses it to his mouth as I subtly reach into my purse and palm one small item that I expertly conceal from his view.
He gets to his feet and gently helps me to mine. “And she will watch as you step out of her bathtub,” he continues as I stand up straight on the tiled floor, now completely exposed to him. “And she’ll watch as I tend to you.” He takes a towel that is hanging from the wall and gently removes the drops of water from my skin as I hold my hands behind my back, letting the soft terry fabric linger here, under my breast, and now on the small of my back, then lower, touching the fabric to the trim triangle of curls between my legs. �
��She’ll be humbled by the tenderness I show you,” he says, his voice now barely a whisper. “She’ll be awed by my desire for you.” He takes both my hands, spreading my arms apart enough so that I am completely open for his gaze, and then he pulls me back, out of the bathroom and into the master bedroom. “And when she sees how passionate you are,” he continues as he guides me with his hands, laying me down on top of the white comforter, “the way you are overpowered by it”—he’s pulling off his shirt, fully exposing his tattoo as well as the muscular definition of his lean body—“the way you lose control”—his pants are now on the bedroom floor, his boxer briefs are next, and now I see the strength of his desire—“she’ll want you. Even if she’s never wanted another woman before, she’ll want you, because you are the essence of eroticism. She’ll ask me to show her what I can do to you.” And with that he’s climbing on top of me, his dark hair falling over his face. “May I show you what I can do to you?”
It’s not really a question as much as it is a demand for complicity. There’s an aggressive energy to the way he’s looking at me, as if he would claim me, devour me, right here at the scene of the crime. I touch my fingers to his throat as he hovers above me and whisper the one word he can’t have anticipated.
“No.”
His mouth falls open. There’s wonder and hurt in his eyes. For the first time tonight I’m reminded of how young he is. Twenty-five, only three years older than me. His eyes only open wider when he hears the rip of the tinfoil and then understanding dawns as he feels my hand slowly, carefully roll the latex over his erection.
As I pull my hand away he lowers himself just a little more until I feel the tip of his cock press against me, waiting for me to open for him. “I don’t remember you being this careful, Melody,” he says in a low voice.
“Melody’s dead.”
For a moment he doesn’t move, his eyes locked on mine. I reach out to him, but in one sudden move he grabs my wrists, slamming my arms against the bed. It’s almost painful, and I can feel my pulse beating against his grip.
“Whoever you are,” he growls, “you are most definitely alive.”
And then it comes: he thrusts inside me with so much power I cry out. He releases my arms and immediately I wrap them around him, clawing at his back as he continues to move inside me. It’s been so long since I’ve enjoyed this kind of intimacy, since I’ve given in to these kinds of cravings. I bite down on his shoulder, tasting the salt of his skin. It’s so familiar and so foreign and so incredibly perfect. We roll together on the bed, and now on top I immediately rise above him, never losing our connection. And yet he’s still in control. He grabs hold of my hips and pulls me to him, forcing my clit against the hardness of his body. I’m shaking as I drag my nails over his chest like an animal fighting for release. I can feel the power of my orgasm coming and I hear myself whimper.
But then he stops and turns us over again, holding me down once more. “Not yet, Mercy,” he says, whispering the words into my ear. “You’re not allowed to come just yet.”
Slowly, torturously, he rotates his hips against me. I can see the glistening of sweat over his tanned skin, giving him a primal, savage quality that I can’t resist. It’s as if he’s been training for this moment, plotting new ways to humble me.
He places one leg between mine, his cock still caressing my walls, and then he lowers more of his weight on me. I feel the strength of his thigh pressed between mine as he pushes himself into me again. I feel like I’m surrounded by him, lost in him. Perhaps I am.
“Would you like to come now, Mercy?”
“Oh yes and yes and yes . . .”
And suddenly he pulls away, only to flip me onto my stomach, this time with a pillow pressed against my pelvis lifting my hips toward him. He pulls my legs apart and enters me again in the same circular motion, but now the sensation is even stronger as I feel his teeth on the back of my neck. Desperately I move my hips in time with his, matching his rhythm. His hands are moving up and down my back, brushing the sides of my breasts, reaching under me. When he touches my clit as he continues to move, it comes, an orgasm so strong I’m sure it must be shaking the whole room. This feeling is bigger than me, bigger than everything. I hear myself cry out here, in this stranger’s house, as if begging to be discovered. The danger of it is intense, delicious, strengthening the wave of my pleasure.
“I’m not done with you, Mercy.”
His voice seems so far away and so close and his hands feel like they’re everywhere. My mind can’t make sense of it or of anything. I know the weight of him is lightening until it’s nonexistent, our connection gone. I feel an overwhelming sense of loss. But now here are his hands again, gripping my waist, guiding me up until I’m on my feet, standing on the soft fabric covering the firm mattress, facing the wall as the man behind me stands on the floor. He caresses my back once again until his hands find the curvature of my butt. He presses into my soft flesh with his thumbs, finding erogenous zones I didn’t know existed, causing me to shake. And then he’s cupping me, and his hair tickles my back as he murmurs, “Bend your knees.”
Slowly I do, keeping my back straight, once again putting all my trust in the strength of his arms. It’s only when my knees are parallel to the bed, as if I’m sitting on an invisible chair balanced only by the strength of his hands, that he stops me. His chest presses against my back, his breath in my hair as his erection finds my sex again, wet and throbbing as he enters me, thrusting up inside of me, grinding against me. I feel completely supported as he continues to balance me while he pushes deeper than ever before. He steps back and then forward again, finding new angles, sucking gently on my neck, kissing my shoulders, exploding my fears with his tenderness. This man can’t be the instrument of the pain I’ve felt for so many months, not this man who holds me, cares for me, and lifts me to previously unknown planes of ecstasy, highs that no drug has ever been able to bring me to before. This man can’t be my killer. He must, he absolutely must be my savior.
And as he increases his pace, as I feel him fill me, devour me, hold me, I hear him moan against my skin, crying out words I can’t understand and don’t need to interpret. I know by the slight tremor in his arms that he has satiated his hunger and released his power and passion inside me.
“Mercy,” he whispers as he rests his forehead against the back of my head.
I don’t know if he’s speaking to me or to God . . .
And I don’t care.
CHAPTER 5
A LITTLE AFTER 3 a.m. I’m still lying naked on the bed of a stranger. By my side is Ash, breathing steadily in his sleep, spent from our passion. La petite mort. A former lover, born in Paris, shared that expression with me. “The little death,” the sense of exhaustion and even unconsciousness that follows an orgasm. But it can mean so much more than that if you think about it. The transcendent feeling that sex can bring, the way it lifts you away from all your earthly worries, an escape . . . it can even mean the spilling of a life source. That first night I was with Ash, I remember coveting that feeling of otherworldliness. I just didn’t know I’d have to die for it.
The little death. I’ve thought about that phrase a lot lately. It’s haunted me. But then again, I am haunted by so many ghosts. In the silence of this room those phantoms are more real to me than Ash, whose arms I lost myself in less than an hour ago.
I sigh and stare up at the darkened light fixture above us, thinking about the nature of time and how odd and baffling it is. A thousand of Einstein’s theories couldn’t explain it. Energy, yes, I see how energy works, how it emanates from us, through us all with an invisible force, uncontrollable and pervasive. But time? How can the painful events from months and years ago seem so close, while the memories of yesterday seem so far away? For the life of me I can’t remember what I drank with my breakfast yesterday morning. If the police came to me and asked about my whereabouts three weeks ago, I’d have to make something up, relying on my patterns and habits rather than on any kind of rec
all. But I remember the last day I talked to my father like it happened seconds ago. No, that’s not right, I don’t remember it, I relive it. I taste the stale cereal I ate for breakfast that morning, I smell the peppermint in the tea that accompanied it. I see the little moth hole I found at the bottom of my white cotton dress hours after putting it on. I can feel the chill of the air on my face as I stand in the parking lot watching as he sits by the window of that diner, calmly sipping from a brown cup, waiting for the child he wished he could forget. Everything that happened that day is happening now and it will happen again tomorrow.
Studying the silhouette of Ash’s darkened profile, I wonder what’s going to happen now. Will he disappear again? Will I ever tell him about the destruction he caused even if he does stay? I close my eyes against the darkness of the room. How do I feel? Am I sad? Scared? Anxious? Content? Satisfied? How can I not know? And what if this indiscretion leads to another end? La petite mort.
I can only survive so much.
Deep breaths, one after another. Funny that I could be more concerned with all these existential questions than I am about being arrested. Here we are, just hanging in the house we broke into. It’s reckless, to say the least. But the law and the possibility of injury or even death don’t scare me. When someone threatens my heart, though, when they hurt my soul, only then will you find me cowering in a corner.
“But I need you, Daddy!”
La petite mort. It can be applied to so much more than sex.
“Save me, Ash.” I whisper the words, hoping they’ll be light enough to float into his dreams and strong enough to linger in his subconscious. “I’ll break into a thousand houses and make love to you in a million beds if you just stay and help me live.”
And in his sleep, Ash turns his head away, giving me a different kind of invisibility—and it’s much colder than the Pacific.
