by Ashley Love
"I've never, like..." I trail off, embarrassed. I don't want to admit to him that I've never technically 'made love' before, that I'm afraid of being bad at it. "You should just—"
"I want to," he moans. "Please."
I close my eyes and breath, a little overwhelmed. I want to, too, though. God, I want to. Sometimes it's all I dream about, Blake making love to me. When I'm not dreaming about him fucking me, that is.
"I've got paint all over my hands," I say anyway.
"Go clean them," he urges, pulling back to give me a serious look with too many emotions. Way too many emotions. "But leave the rest of it. I like it."
"Okay," I say slowly. "You just...wait here, then."
Blake nods and rolls off me. I scramble to my feet, nearly running to the door. I almost trip, catch myself, and pull the door shut behind me before I can check if Blake noticed or not.
My head is spinning the whole way to the bathroom. I rush to clean the swirls of paint off my hands, some of it dry but most of it still wet. When I'm done I take a look in the mirror. There's green on my face, blue on my neck, red and yellow and green on my clothes. I look like I rolled around in a bunch of paint which, to be fair, is exactly what happened.
It's better to think about the state of my clothes than what's about to happen in the room, though, because if I think about it I'll get nervous. I don't want to get nervous. That's the upside to sleeping with someone you hate. When it's with someone you like, you worry about it. You worry about whether or not it'll be good for them. Worry if they'll hate the way your thighs look naked, or if they'll wrinkle their nose at the less desirable parts of your body. If they'll hate the way you kiss, or the way you touch them. You worry about not being good enough because all you want to do is please them. But sex with someone you can't stand is so much easier, because if they don't like something about you, who the fuck cares? You're not trying to please them. You're just trying to get off.
And that's what it's been with Blake, just the two of us needing an outlet, and using each other. Or that's what it's supposed to be, right? I can't handle it being anything else.
When I get back to the room, Blake is completely naked, still lying on the floor. Just like me, he's covered in different colors. It mingles with his tanned, toned skin, and I take a soft breath as I shut the door, admiring him. I can't help it. I get to touch that, is the thing. I get to kiss him and run my fingertips over the planes of his stomach, over his delicious muscles. I get to scratch my nails into his back and bite at that ridiculously plump bottom lip of his. And I've never, until this point, realized how lucky I am.
"Hurry up," he whines. "Why are you just standing there?"
"Right, sorry." I scurry towards the desk, stepping over knocked over bottles of paint and Blake's body. I pull open the bottom drawer, grab his stash of condoms, and then I hesitate. What am I supposed to do here? Where do I start?
"Why am I the only one naked?" Blake wonders, arching an eyebrow.
That's as good a place as any, I think. I drop the condom onto one of the only places without paint, and then I strip off my jeans and my shirt, while Blake blinks up at me with his lip caught between his teeth. His eyes rake down my body when I slip off my underwear too, and then he leans forward, dragging paint-covered hands over my skin.
"I think I'd be a great artist," he says, hands slipping between my thighs but never going too high, "if I could always paint like this, instead of on a canvas."
"Are we going to fuck on the floor, then?" I ask, trying to sound less shaken by the way he's touching me than I am
It feels—intimate. This hasn't ever felt intimate before. Fuck, Blake's pounded into me on multiple occasions without it feeling intimate. So how is him just...touching me lightly so much more than that?
"Yeah," he says thickly. "On the floor."
I drop to my knees, and it's not exactly comfortable, being on the floor. But every time one of us shifts, paint gets everywhere and I like it, even if it's not practical.
He pulls me into another kiss, fitting easily between my now spread legs. The paint on my thighs spreads to him, getting caught in the hairs that cover his legs. We're a mess, the two of us, and I think it's more than just the paint. This whole thing is a mess, what we're doing.
"Come on," I urge, smacking at his back. "Hurry up."
He kisses me, just because, while feeling around blindly for the condom. He finds it, fumbling with the wrapper as he moves down my chest, kissing the whole way because...that's how I'd like it, right? Maybe I never get it like that, never gets someone's lips tasting every inch of my skin (not just with Blake, but with...no, I'm not thinking about that right now), but that's how I'd like it, if I got to dictate how these things went every time.
There's a moment of hesitance when he slides his finger inside me, but I'm panting, looking up at him expectantly, and I push it away. Even if I know, deep down, that something's changing here, right now. Maybe not in this exact moment, but if we continue with this, something will break. That precarious balance we've had will tip towards one side, and I'm not sure what that means. Not sure what will happen. All I know is that something will happen.
He pushes one of his fingers into me anyway. I'm tight, clenching around the digit. Blake looks into my eyes, like he's worried that he did something wrong, but then I let out a low moan and rock my hips down, and he takes that as a sign to keep going. It's a little fumbled, not as rushed and easy as it is usually is. He's always been quiet in bed, even when I'm moaning and whimpering; right now, though, he's got his eyes drilled to mine and he's being so loud, moaning, encouraging me every step of the way.
He looks beautiful like this, Blake. Paint-covered, sweat-blanketed skin. Eyes focused on me, lips open in a silent moan. Stomach muscles clenched, fingers curling inside me. My thighs spread wide, trembling on either side of him every so often. Two of his fingers slowly pushing and pulling in and out of me; his length neglected, curving up towards his stomach, hard and almost painful looking.
He carefully curls his fingers, tries to find that spot inside of me. He knows when he does because my jaw goes slack and my whole body shakes.
"G-god," I moan. "Do that again."
He tries to, and when he succeeds I fall heavily back against the newspaper. I have to reach a hand down to relieve the pressure because I feel like I'm going to burst and he hasn't even gotten inside me yet.
I'm so pliant under him, too. I'm never like that. I'm bossy and bitchy, whining when he takes too long, complaining when he doesn't hurry up, trying to dictate how he fucks me because that's just how I am. This time though, I just take it when he slows down, scissoring his fingers, dragging them out slowly. I keen when he speeds up, stretching me with another finger, going with whatever he gives me and moaning shamelessly the whole time.
"Are you good?" he whispers.
If things were different, if this weren't about getting each other off as fast as possible so we can clean up, get dressed, pretend like it never happened (the way we always do), and if I wasn't so desperate to fuck Blake right this second, I think I'd like to see how long it'd take him to get me to cum like this. Or how long until he finally reverted back to his normal self and took over, pushing me onto my back and fucking the shit out of me.
"Get up here," I say instead of answering the question. He grabs the condom, first. There's difficulty with opening it, and he's so fucking nervous that he has trouble getting it on, too. But he manages, and then he crawls up my body, fit perfectly between my legs. He opens his mouth, but I talk before he can. "I know what you're about to say, and I'll let you know if you hurt me."
"Okay." He kisses my forehead before he pushes in, but then he freezes, eyes widening. That's not something we do, is it? We don't kiss each other like that. We kiss each other like we want to hurt one another. Like we want to leave bruises from our lips and draw blood with our teeth. Kissing me on the forehead is...gentle, off. It's not how we do this.
"Sorry—"
"For what?" I ask.
For kissing you like this means something. But I know he can't say that, so instead he shakes his head. He lines himself up with my body, and my legs go around his waist. I pinch my face up when he pushes into me, but I never tell him to stop, so he keeps going, bottoming out in one smooth glide.
We lie there like that for a long moment, both of us trying to calm down. When he thinks he can move without ending this whole thing in a matter of about, oh, two seconds, and I no longer look like I'm going to cry, he slowly moves his hips back. He's so fucking big and I'm so fucking tight, clenching around him, my legs like a vice, too.
When he's confident he's not hurting me, or screwing this up, he gets bolder. Moves a little faster, thrusts in a little harder. I tug at his hair, pull him down into a sloppy kiss. He angles his hips differently, and my free hand reaches for nothing as I let out this sound that puts the most beautiful instruments to shame.
My eyes go wide, too, but I'm looking beside us. Blake turns his head, sweaty hair falling over his forehead. We're closer to the dresser than I thought, and my hand had slid against the still drying painting. I can perfectly see where my fingers hit the painting, and the trail of where they'd dragged over it before slipping off.
"Fuck," he moans.
"I don't care," I assure him, sounding almost frantic. "I don't care, just—"
He nods hastily, hands gripping my thighs. He blankets my body with his own, lips finding my neck as he fucks into me, no longer trying to find the right rhythm, probably no longer thinking about anything but how fucking good this feels and how good I sound underneath him.
I cum before I can pull up and get my hands around his back, like I was planning on doing. It's so unexpected, the way I shudder and tighten almost painfully around him, that he cums only seconds later, trying to find something to hold onto. He can't, though, so instead he bites down on my shoulder the way he always does as his orgasm pulses through him.
He slowly pulls out of me, still worried about hurting me. When things are reversed, this is where he would get up and walk away from me, throw out the condom and get dressed. But this time he doesn't. Instead he flops onto the ground next to me, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
We're both still catching our breath when his hand grabs my own. He twines our fingers together, squeezing lightly. It's too much.
I sit up fast, Blake's hand releasing mine instantly. The next ten minutes are so awkward. The two of us cleaning up our bodies, and then me getting dressed while he cleans up the newspapers. I can't stay to watch that, not when Blake's still mostly naked, save for his boxers.
"I need a shower," I say. Excuses, really. "There's paint everywhere. I'll, um, be back later."
Blake waves me off. "I'll still be cleaning when you get back, so..."
I nod and slip out the door. I can't meet anyone's eyes on the way to the bathroom, and I don't look at myself in the mirror this time. I just strip off my clothes and get under the hot water, letting it wash away the paint and sweat and Blake.
The issue, of course, isn't that I had sex with Blake. Even switching it up, making love, isn't the problem, because I think it shouldn't matter, really, how it's done. It's still sex that's supposed to not mean anything.
And that's the problem. It's not supposed to mean anything. There aren't supposed to be... feelings. But there are. There are. They threaten to strangle me, cutting off my airways. I lean against the tiles of the shower wall, trying to force them away, trying to think past them. I can't.
It's impossible to control your feelings. You can tell yourself you don't have them; you can pretend, put on a mask of indifference and tell the world that they're not there, but they are. It's impossible to escape them, no matter how desperately you wish to.
"Fuck," I groan. I tug at my hair, but that only makes him think of Blake doing it. Which only makes me think of Blake's lips gently pressed against my own. Of Blake calling me beautiful. Of Blake, Blake, Blake. I can't get the guy out of my head, but that's nothing new. Blake's always been like that, always forced himself into my thoughts, only those thoughts are supposed to be laced with hatred.
So why aren't they anymore?
17
I leave for home a little earlier than I'd planned. Technically all my exams are done, but I was planning on leaving Friday, since that was the day Cadence and Emma were both heading home. But when I wake up Tuesday morning, not exactly early but not late (since we don't have to be in the art room for another few hours), to find paint still caked under my nails, I can't breathe.
And when Blake gets up a little later, after I've showered and dressed for the day, and he says, "Hey, do you think I could talk to you tonight? After the auction?" I feel like I'm being suffocated. Like Blake's wrapped those hands of his, with the long, thick fingers, tightly around my throat.
"Talk about what?" I ask, careful to keep my tone neutral.
Blake shrugs. "Just something. I'll get your number off Lucas and text you."
I go to protest, but there's really no reason to, is there? Not one, aside from the heavy weight on my chest. "Okay."
Blake nods and I grab my iPod and turn it up so I can pretend to ignore him until we have to be in the art room to set up our stuff. But I've never been very good at ignoring Blake, and now is no exception. Especially when he gets out of bed, completely naked. There's still a bit of paint on certain parts of his skin, little swatches, reminders of what happened. He heads for his dresser, and I bite my lip, pointedly not looking at his ass except—okay, I do. Fuck.
Slowly, Blake pulls on his boxers. He does it deliberately, tugging them up his legs with a little twist of those hips. My eyes narrow, my head cocking to the side, and he reaches for a pair of jeans, does the same thing, buttoning them painstakingly slow. He forgoes the shirt, heading back for his bed once he's done. He falls onto it, grabbing his phone from on top of the desk, and then he lies there like that, propped up on his side, looking fucking ridiculous.
Ridiculously attractive, but I don't want to think about that. So I get out of bed, leaving my headphones on, and leave the room.
Cadence and Emma are still asleep when I get to their room. Cadence answers the door in one of Emma's shirts (I think, but the two of them share so often it's nearly impossible to tell) and a pair of boy shorts, rubbing sleep out of her eyes.
"What?" she sighs. "What do you want? It's too early for me to like you right now. Come back later."
I push into the room anyway. Emma is half awake in bed, rubbing at her eyes like Cadence had. Only she tries to smile weakly at me, which Cadence hadn't bothered, and she also doesn't kick me out. So I crawl into bed beside her, getting right under the blankets and everything.
Emma's bed smells like her; like that perfume she wears every day, but also distinctly like cinnamon rolls (weird, but delicious). I tuck my head against her chest and breathe it in while she rubs at my back, not even asking what I'm doing, which is why I had come here for her, not Cadence. Cadence would ask; Emma just comforts automatically and lets me work it out on my own.
"I shouldn't have slept with my roommate," I groan against her.
"You definitely shouldn't have," she agrees.
"I think I like him." I pull back, looking up at Emma with pleading eyes, begging her to tell me that's not true; I can't like Blake. Nope. Impossible. Incomprehensible.
But she only nods sympathetically. "We know."
"How did this happen?" I wonder. "How did I let this happen?"
"I don't think you had much say in it," Cadence says from the other bed. "He's kind of great, when you get to know him, Aubrey. And he's fucking gorgeous. Like, straight out of GQ material."
"You're not helping," I grumble. "And I hate him, remember? I hate him. I'm afraid to not hate him. What happens if I don't hate him? Then what?"
"You're already fucking," Cadence points out. "You're halfway there."
"H
alfway to what?"
"A relationship."
I get out of Emma's bed and stumble towards the door. A relationship with Blake. God, I can't even think about that. Not even if—no. I can't. It can't happen. It can't work. And my feelings possibly changing doesn't mean that Blake's have. Why would his? What do I have to offer him except sex, really?
Nothing.
"Don't leave," Emma calls after me. "Aubrey—!"
I shut the door and almost go back to my room, but instead I head down the hall, opting to go outside and smoke a cigarette until we have to go to the art room. And while I'm at it, I call Claire and ask her to come pick me up earlier. She's not supposed to pick me up until Friday, but I need to go home now.
"I can be there at about nine," she says. "That okay?"
I wince. That means I still have to go to the Christmas party, but I can duck out early, at least. "Yeah, that's fine. Thanks."
"You okay?" She sounds a little hesitant, like she's worried I might get angry with her for asking.
We've always had a tough-love relationship, me and Claire. With my other sisters, I'm extremely protective of them. I love them more than life itself. But with her, I've always been the dorky little sibling, and she's always been the bitch of an older sister that had annoying friends and never let me watch what TV shows I wanted. But I still love her, and her me. We just don't really worry about each other the same way we do our other sisters.
"I'm fine," I say. "I just want to get home."
"Okay." She doesn't push it, and I knew she wouldn't. "But don't take, like, forever to pack your shit, okay? I'm not turning back six times because you forgot to bring a book that you needed to study or some shit like that."
I grin. "I won't."
"Okay, good. Later."
I feel slightly better after that conversation, but there's still this gnawing inside of me. These emotions that nag at me, demanding to be felt. I don't want to feel them, or anything. I want to go back to when me and Blake just hated each other. Before the sex, because sex eventually leads to feelings, doesn't it? This always happens in these kinds of situations. One person starts to get the wrong idea, starts to feel more than they should, and it all comes crashing down.
