by Sara Ney
I tap my chin, pretending to think. “I’ve actually given this some thought. It would definitely need to be somewhere near Spain.”
“Okay Magellan.” Dexter’s burst of surprise is loud and raucous. “Why Spain?”
I roll my eyes, and give him a smirk of superiority. “All the shipwrecks from the explorers crossing over? Sheesh.”
He’s not convinced. “But aren’t the best places to scuba dive in the Caribbean?”
My head gives a little shake. “No, no, no—I’m not talking about scuba diving; that’s all surface stuff. We’d need to dive down deep—”
“—What the hell are you yammering on about over here? All I heard was blah blah I’m a giant nerd who gave my sisters a spy kit.”
I inwardly groan, pivoting on my heel at the interruption.
Elliot. Of course.
He holds a beer towards Dexter as an offering.
My date takes it, hesitantly, his demeanor going from flirty and fun to guarded in a matter of nanoseconds.
My lips clamp shut, pursing with displeasure; not at the interruption, but at the rude way he went about it. Good lord, didn’t his mother teach him any manners? You don’t walk over and insult someone. I glance over at his mother, Aunt Tory, who sits perched daintily on the couch, sipping out of a champagne glass. Coiffed, strikingly made-up to the nines and discernibly high-maintenance, I acknowledge that she doesn’t look like she’s spent Elliot’s childhood years teaching him modesty.
I also acknowledge that perhaps he doesn’t know any better, and allow him some leeway. After all, the guy probably can’t help himself.
He was raised this way.
“Hey Elliot,” I start. “It’s good to see you again.”
Lie #1.
“Right? It’s nice not to have the huge crowd we had at Gracie’s party—now we can actually talk without all the music and annoying dancing,” he schmoozes. The charming smile doesn’t reach his calculating brown eyes.
“Oh, totally,” I agree. Lie #2.
Elliot moves closer, his elbow giving Dexter an almost unperceivable nudge, jostling my date towards the wall. Away from me.
My green eyes become slits. This guy is certifiable.
“What are you doing after this?” He wonders aloud, blatantly ignoring his cousin. “It’s a Sunday night but we should still do something.”
“What a great suggestion; we should.” Just not with you, asshole. “Dexter sweetie, let’s do something after this.”
The patronizing bastard scoffs. “Come on now, get real. You don’t think I know what’s going on here?”
My mouth falls open—actually falls open at his audacity—the anger inside me beginning its slow roll up my throat, past my lips. My claws come out. “Wow. Just…wow. You know something pal, you are seriously one shitty—”
“Cousin!” The twins announce, appearing out of nowhere, their lithe arms going around Elliot’s shoulders. For once, their timing is impeccable.
Amelia gives her brother a quick peck on the cheek. “Dex, mom wants you to run upstairs and grab that picture of you and Dad from the Vacation from Hell of 2010. You know the one—where Lucy and I are both crying in the background—”
“—and you and Dad are smiling at the camera—”
“—and Mom looks like she’s about to lose her mind—” Amelia giggles.
“—She says it’s in your closet.” Lucy finishes.
“Daphne, you should definitely go with him,” they say together, grinning their identical grins. Their eyes are wide. Calculating.
They know exactly what’s going on and suddenly… I adore them. I adore these perfect, weird, sassy human beings.
“So, this is your childhood bedroom, huh? The room you grew up in? I didn’t get a tour when I was here baking cookies with your sisters.”
“Yup, this was my room for eighteen years. Where all the magic didn’t happen.”
Yeah, it’s not exactly a babe magnet: shocking blue stripped wallpaper with an orange basketball border. Vintage Sci-Fi poster of 3,000 Leagues Under the Sea. A poster of Doctor Zvago. Academic Decathlon trophies shining on an oak shelf. His High School diploma and medals hanging from blue and red ribbons.
It’s sparse; clean. Slightly juvenile—but then again, it is the room from his childhood.
“Give me a minute to find the picture my Mom wanted, okay? Sit tight. I know it’s in here somewhere...” Dexter disappears into the closet, and the sound of shoes, totes and clutter being shifted ensues. “Shit, there used to be a box in here with…” Clatter. Bang. “Where the hell is it…”
His muffled voice fades in and out of the walk-in closet, where I hear the distinct sound of a box being pulled open as he hunts for this elusive, lost photograph. I wander to the far side of the room, trailing a hand lightly over the Star Wars comforter laid out over the twin bed, my fingertips gliding along the course cotton fabric.
Darth Vader occupies the entire bed.
“I wonder why your mom hasn’t redecorated in here. You’ve been moved out how long?” I ponder out loud, more to myself than anyone else.
His voice filters into the room from the deep pit of his closet, loud enough to be heard over the chatter and laughter of his rambunctious family floating up the stairs and through the vents in the floorboards.
“Uh, I moved out eight years ago?” Dexter sticks his head out, peering at me from behind the doorjamb, holding a tiny action figure towards me. “Hey, I know I said I didn’t have many of these, but check this out! I totally forgot about this collection! I wonder where the rest of them are…”
I bounce on the bed, excited, extending my arms to take it. “Whoa! You have a Battlestar Galactica Cylon Centurion action figure! Where did you get that?”
He holds it towards me, faltering mid-step. “Wait. You actually know what this is?”
He looks suitably impressed.
I roll my eyes. “Dexter. I was at StarGate alone on a Saturday night—of course I know what a Cylon Centurion is.” I grab at it, turning it this-way-and-that to examine it. “In perfect condition, too.”
Dexter pauses in the doorway of the closet, pupils dilating, the figurine all but forgotten as he watches me, eyes blazing. “Shit Daphne, you’re kind of turning me on right now with all this geek talk.”
“Is that so?” I lean back on his pillows, channeling my inner Tabitha, the Cylon still in my hand. “In that case… Did you know the starship that became the Blockade Runner in Star Wars: Episode four was the original design for the Millennium Falcon?”
His nostrils flare and he takes a step closer.
I press on, willing him towards me. “Did you know,” I start slowly. Very slowly, each word pronounced barely above a whisper. “That they still haven’t named Yoda’s species?”
Oh my god, where is all this random trivia coming from?
Dexter removes his glasses, setting them on a nearby dresser. Unwavering, the brown irises practically sizzle as he focuses every iota of his attention on me.
I stare holes into those glasses.
“Can you see without those?” I tease quietly as he stalks forward.
He chuckles then, the sound low and deep against the silence of the bedroom. My teeth bite down on my lower lip to hide a shy smile. “Can you?”
His moves closer, closer still. “I see you, if that’s what you mean.”
Swallowing my nerves, I murmur, “Did you know…”
“Did I know what? Talk nerdy to me, Daphne.” He falls to the carpet, on his knees between my legs, running his hands up the length of my thighs. “Don’t stop.”
Up and down, up and down my thighs his palms go.
“D-did you k-know,” I gulp when he leans in, his delicious lips consuming the pulse in my neck. My heart beats wildly outside of my chest, and I struggle to catch my breath. “Throughout the course of the Battlestar Galactica series, Sheba never fires her laser pistol. Not even once.”
“Actually, I did know that.” Dexter’s
nose skims idly up the column of my neck, his lips trailing along behind.
“You’re such a geek.” I breathe.
“So are you.” Up and down, up and down my thighs his palms leisurely go.
“Dexter, what are you waiting for?”
A pause. “I don’t know.”
A sigh. “Stop thinking and just do it.”
“Know what? Call me a glutton for punishment, but I kind of want…” The question purrs next to my ear. “I kind of want to hear you say it.”
That I can do.
With a tiny nod and a tilted neck, I whisper into the room, “Kiss me.”
Kiss me.
He does.
Large hands cupping my face, Dexter’s thumbs tenderly stroke my cheekbones before he lowers his mouth. Our lips connect with the very barest of contact before touching, a veritable shockwave ricocheting to every nerve ending in my body; like a tiny voltage of electricity.
Every cell tingles, every nerve quivers—and all we’re doing is kissing.
Softly at first, our kisses are small exploratory ones. Small yes, but bound to leave imprint after imprint on my heart.
I hesitate, pulling back; wanting to remember this moment forever, certain that this will be my last first kiss.
Dexter’s brows furrow, concerned, drawing his hands away. “What’s wrong?”
I grab them, holding them steady. Holding them on my flesh, not wanting to lose the connection.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I murmur. “Everything is right.”
The mattress dips when I lean in towards him, settling my lips back on Dexter’s mouth.
His lips part.
Our tongues tentatively meet in a painfully slow dance.
It’s tender. It’s sexy.
It’s torture.
Our lips press harder, tongues searching. Urgently now.
“Oh my god,” Dexter moans into me. “It feels so fucking good kissing you.” His fingers tangle their way into my hair, running through the strands before cupping the back of my neck in his large palm. “I could kiss you forever.”
“Yes please,” I manage to whimper into his warm, open mouth. Tongues tangle, wet and delicious and positively intoxicating.
A labored groan. “Shit, we shouldn’t have started this.”
“Why?”
A deep, virile growl. “Because I won’t want to stop.”
“Then we won’t.”
“Daphne…” His lithe fingers toy with the tiny pearl button at the collar of my demure cotton shirt—the one I wore specifically to impress his grandmother—plucking at it but leaving it intact. Ugh, the tease. “My grandparents are downstairs in the…”
His voice falters when I reach between us, running my index and middle finger inside the waistband of his jeans; up the front of his rigged zipper, grasping somewhat desperately for the outline of his—
“You’re right, you’re right,” I chant. “We need to stop.”
“We need to stop,” he repeats with determination, his breathing arduous; a pearl button slides free. Then another. Then, “Stop me, Daphne.”
He tongue dampens my neck, sucking gently.
Now we’re both moaning.
Mmmm.
“Oh god Dexter, I can’t, I can’t, your hands feel too good.”
Breathing heavy, and with one last kiss to my temple, he releases me to stand. Pushing from his knees to a stand, he backs away, his fingers flex and immediately fly to run through his hair; sexual tension crackling through the air with rapid alacrity.
Without meaning to, my eyes shoot to the bulge between his thighs—to his glaringly obvious arousal.
My girly parts whimper in dismay.
I stand too, pressing my fingers against my swollen lips; they’re raw and painfully tender and wonderful. I give them a few light swipes as if to quell the pain before holding out my trembling hands.
“Look at me; I’m shaking.”
A second ticks by.
Then another.
Then another.
Then…
“Ah, fuck it.”
We crash feverishly into each other then, my back hitting the blue wallpapered wall, shaking a nearby shelf. I don’t know who’s tugging the hem of my shirt free from the waistband of my jeans—his grasping hands or mine or both—but together, we frantically free all the buttons until my shirt’s pulled open.
Finally, blessedly ripped open.
I moan in relief when Dexter connects with my bare skin. The tips of his fingers travel up my bare stomach, his palms a tense, restrained caress against my flesh.
Over my bra. Over the swell of my breasts.
My body strains up to meet his touch.
His head dips. He reaches down, grabs my ass in both his palms and hauls me to the dresser.
Lips. Teeth. Skin.
Tongue.
“I’m a horrible person,” I gasp. “This is so wrong—your grandmother is downstairs.”
He stifles my protests with his mouth, his sexy, smart, skillful mouth… we can’t get our tongues deep enough as he lifts me with a grunt, knocking a lamp to the carpeted floor with a loud thump and sitting me in the center of his dresser.
The light bulb hits the ground and shatters.
He rocks his hips into me, pounding the dresser into the drywall as we paw at each other, rattling the framed High School diploma hanging above the Debate team medals that jingle and sway on their hooks.
We don’t notice.
We don’t care.
He feels so good, he feels so good, he feels so—
“Uh, Daphne might want to put her shirt back on. Just sayin—”
“—And fix her hair.”
The twins stand in the open doorway of Dexter’s old room, identical expressions fixated on us, unreadable. Completely pokerfaced—as if they hadn’t just walked in on Dexter and I in the middle of us dry humping against the wall and tearing at each other’s clothes. As if my shirt wasn’t open and my breasts weren’t threatening to spill out of my bra.
Like this kind of thing casually happens every Saturday.
I fumble blindly for the buttons on my shirt, fitting each tiny pearl through its hole, mindlessly shoving them through, desperate to match them up but not taking the time to actually do it properly.
I need to get my breasts covered.
The twins saunter a little farther into Dexter’s room, past the dresser I’m perched on to study the spines of his collection of high school yearbooks.
“Mom sent us looking for you, F-Y-I, so don’t get your boxers in a twist. You know the drill: we can’t light the candles or sing Happy Birthday until everyone is—”
“—Present and accounted for,” the twins parrot, prattling on as if nothing was amiss.
“And since they think you’ve been MIA for the past…”
Amelia checks the time on her phone.
“Twenty minutes.”
“—Even though everyone heard the loud banging coming from up here.” Lucy crosses her arms and purses her lips. “What the heck did you think you were doing?”
Amelia snorts. “You should know better than this Dex, going at it in this house? Remember how thin the walls are? You can’t even—”
“—Whisper without someone hearing it through the vents.”
They stare at us, Amelia raising her eyebrows and Lucy tapping her foot on the carpeted floor.
“Well?”
“Are you coming downstairs or what?”
Dexter and I stare after them as they airily saunter back out into the hallway, not a care in the world. And that thing I said before about adoring them?
Yeah.
Forget I mentioned it.
Things go from bad to worse when we descend the stairs, my cousin Elliot waiting at the bottom, hand wrapped around the finial post of the wooden rail.
He starts in as soon as the twins usher Daphne into the kitchen, out of earshot.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Dexter.” Elliot hisses, grab
bing my arm the second I round the staircase in the foyer. He strong-arms me through the hall, cornering me near my dad’s office. “Were you seriously fucking your hot girlfriend with a party going on?”
I register hot and girlfriend, cataloging them in my brain for future use. Aggravated, I give him a glower.
“Why would you even ask me that?”
Elliot claps a hand on my shoulder, emitting a low whistle. I shrug him off. “Several reasons. One: she looks thoroughly fucked. Or drunk, and Aunt Georgia isn’t serving alcohol. So which is it?”
“Would you please stop using the word fuck when you’re talking about Daphne?”
Elliot crosses his arms, pleased with himself. “Two: I notice you aren’t denying fucking her.”
I shake my head, pushing away from the wall, willing him to walk away.
He doesn’t comply. “Three: everyone heard the moaning. I’ll admit, it was pretty hot and I was getting off on it until your Dad cranked the stereo and your mom did that weird laugh thing she does when she’s about to lose her shit.”
My back turned to him, I walk towards the kitchen leaving him trailing after me. “We weren’t having sex in my room so shut the fuck up about it.”
He’s skeptical. “Well then you should have. Christ, man up, dude. Your girlfriend is a hot piece of ass. What she sees in you is—”
“—None of your business, you douchenozzle.” An agitated feminine voice interrupts from behind, startling us both. I expect to find Daphne coming to my defense when I spin on my heel, but instead I find…
The twins.
Great. More drama; just what I need.
“You’re being a real dickshitter,” Lucy scowls. “Why are you always such an ass?”
Elliot’s eyes bug out of his head at their foul language. I mean—all dressed up in their conservative birthday dresses, they hardly look like the truckers they’re beginning to sound like.
“What the hell Dex—are you going to let her—them—talk to me like that?”
The twins cross their arms and Amelia hmphs. “Are you even listening to yourself?”
Lucy laughs. “All we need to do is go back in the kitchen and tell Aunt Tory you’re—”
