by Tracey Ward
“Where do you live?”
“Upstairs.”
“Can I see it?”
I hesitate, not sure what to say here. I don’t show anyone my place. It’s why I hold parties down here. Only a handful of people have ever been up there and none of them after I’d known them for a few days.
Still, I find myself standing. Offering her my hand. Leading her up the stairs to my door and sliding in the key.
My place is dark. Vacant. Heavy in its silence compared to the noise that surrounded us downstairs. I can hear Lilly breathing next to my ear, her breaths somehow calmer than mine.
I kick the door closed behind us. The apartment is plunged into almost total darkness.
Kat immediately comes bounding out to meet us. She skids to a halt when she sees Lilly, her head cocked and her nose anxiously sampling the air.
“Hey, Kat,” Lilly sings to her.
Kat’s ears go up, her tail flying behind her.
“This is the entryway,” I tell Lilly, feeling stiff. Awkward. I hit the lights with my elbow. “That’s the living room over there.”
She surveys the heavy furniture. The dark leather couches. “It’s manly.”
“That’s what I wanted. I asked for lumberjack chic.”
“Nailed it.”
“Thanks. This is the kitchen,” I tell her, guiding her to the other side of the loft. The layout is identical to downstairs, the kitchen included. Same cabinets, counters, and appliances.
“I’m surprised it’s not covered in a layer of dust,” Lilly comments.
“I have a housekeeper.”
“That does not surprise me.”
“It doesn’t surprise anyone. Ready for the bathroom? It’s impressive. A faucet and everything.”
I take her on a tour of the entire place. Every room. Even my bedroom.
I don’t tell her that I don’t let people up here. I don’t mention that even Nikki, who I dated for months, was rarely here, and she only saw it after we’d been together for nearly two months. I don’t tell her that I wanted her to see it. I wanted to share it with her the same way I wanted her to meet Kat and I wanted her to see the field. These things are important to me, close to me.
“This is fancy,” she comments, her voice echoing off the tiles of my shower.
This is the end of the tour. The tall, open, two headed shower surrounded by giant gray tiles and glass walls in my master bathroom.
I smile at her, taking hold of her hips. “You look good in my apartment.”
“I look good everywhere,” she boasts, adopting an arrogant tone that sounds funnily foreign from her.
I chuckle, my forehead dropping to hers. “Now you sound like me.”
“See how annoying it is?”
“It’s sexy. Do it again.”
“My shower gets all the girls wet,” she says, dropping her voice deep trying to match mine.
I laugh, the sound bouncing around us. “I would never say that. You think that sounds like me?”
“That is absolutely something you would say!”
“Maybe. Do it again.”
Lilly thinks for a second, her head rolling back and forth gently against mine. “Kiss me,” she finally whispers.
“That’s pretty tame. I’m more offensive than that, remember?”
“No, Colt, I’m serious.” She pulls at my shoulders, rising up on her toes. “Kiss me.”
I get the message. I close the meager distance between us to kiss her. To devour her. She holds on as I grab her ass to lift her up and pin her body against the wall. Her tongue dances in my mouth. It makes me crazy. Wild. Her legs wrap around me tightly, her hips rolling to grind against mine, and I groan into her mouth. I raise my hand to her hair, tangling my fingers in the cool strands. My elbow bumps the wall, the other knocking against the knob for the shower, pressing it down. Turning it on.
Cold water sprays down on top of us from every direction.
Lilly breaks away, shrieking in protest that turns to laughter. “You did that on purpose!”
“It was an accident.”
“Nothing you do is accidental.”
I lean my head back to let the water pour between us. She’s soaked in a second. Her tank top clings to her skin that glistens peaches and cream in color. Satin soft to the touch. I lean in to lick a line of water cascading down her neck, making her shiver.
“You can say it,” she whispers, her fingers combing through my wet hair. “I know you’re dying to say it.”
I smile against her skin, nipping at her neck. Kissing a line along her jaw to her ear where I whisper, “You’re so fucking wet.”
***
Did I have sex with Lilly in that shower?
No.
Did I want to?
Ask my blue balls. They have a lot to say on the matter.
Am I some kind of pussy? What guy backs out of a situation like that without sealing the deal, right?
A guy who is in deep with a girl. The answer is as that simple.
I turned the water to warm and kissed her under the spray until it ran cold again. I talked dirty to her. She shocked the shit out of me by talking even dirtier. We laughed and played and taunted each other until we hit a now or never moment when clothes needed to get the fuck out of the way and let nature take over. That’s when I backed off. That’s when I killed the water, wrapped her shivering body inside a thick towel, and led her to the laundry room. She stripped down behind a closed door and tossed her clothes inside the dryer. When she walked out in nothing but that towel I almost lost my restraint. Her hair was smoothed back, stuck to her still wet skin in saturated, dark chunks. Her eyes looked larger than ever. Darker. Warmer.
She blushes when I stare at her in that towel. She does that a lot. It’s cute as shit and sexy in an innocent, reticent kind of way I’ve never seen before.
When we’re both dressed and waiting for our clothes to dry we sit down on the couch together, the TV turned to late night television. She huddles in deep under a thick gray blanket I’ve never used, her body pressed into my side.
“That is so stupid,” she grumbles quietly.
“The egg thing?”
“Who has that much trouble cracking an egg? Seriously?”
I smile at her disdain. “Not all of us are pros.”
“You might not be good at cooking but you can crack an egg.”
“I challenge that assumption.”
“Show me?” she demands fervently. “Do you have any eggs?”
“Yeah, but we’re not touching them. Maria needs them for my omelet in the morning.”
“Do you have another early practice?”
“No. Afternoon. And it’s a shorter one.”
“And you’ve got the Panthers on Sunday?”
“At two, yeah.” I look down at her. I can only see the top of her head where it’s laying against my chest. The curve of her body made indistinct by the blanket. I touch a section of her hair, running it slowly through my fingers. It’s impossibly cold and smooth. “Are you going to watch?”
“I think so. I’ll be at my parent’s house. Dad will have it on. I’ll watch with him.”
“Will you tell him you’ve showered with their star player?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she answers casually. “I barely know Trey.”
“Oh,” I laugh. “That’s cold.”
“It was funny though.”
“Yeah, you’re hilarious.”
She yawns, burrowing in deeper. “Watch. This is the best part. They’re going to tell you the price but if you act now you can get a second one for free. For when the first piece of shit breaks after a week.”
“I’m getting you one of these for Christmas.”
“What are you going to do with the other one?”
“I’ll give it to my mom. She’ll hate it.”
“We have that in common.”
“I think you have a lot in common.”
“Us and the Dra
gon Mother.”
I smile down at her, threading my fingers through her hair again and again. Slow and steady until I hear her breathing change, evening out in a way that only comes with sleep. I don’t bother waking her. I don’t move her or try to shimmy my way out from under her so I can get on with my night. I stay still and silent, watching the TV flicker quietly across the room, across her hair.
I’m not big on sitting still, but tonight it gets me high in a way I’ve never felt before. Different from the high of getting off, from playing ball, from beer and bars and clubs and the thrill of the chase. This high is blue eyes and pink lips. A rough voice and soft hair.
It’s a mellow roll in my blood that makes my apartment feel brighter than it ever has before, even in the dark.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
LILLY
“Lilly.”
My eyes flutter open. I don’t remember closing them.
I’m burning alive, sweating under the weight of a blanket. I kick at it mildly. Suddenly it lifts, disappearing as cold air rushes around me, making me shiver.
“Lilly, it’s late,” Colt tells me quietly. “I should get you home if you want to go.”
I don’t. I want the blanket back on. I want to stay here with his body against mine. I want him to keep running his fingertips up and down my naked arm the way he’s doing right now.
I want him to finish what he started in the shower.
I lift my head to look in his eyes. They’re staring down at me in the darkness. The TV is off, the room barely lit. He’s nothing but an outline against the black sky. A mountain in the desert, deceptively close but so far away. As distant as I keep him.
“Will you do something for me?” I whisper hoarsely.
“Anything,” his voice rumbles deep in the darkness, making it vibrate around me. Inside me.
“Say my name again.”
“Lilly,” he murmurs.
I sit up, crawling into his lap the way I was downstairs. His hand caresses the side of my face, sliding behind my head to pull me closer until our foreheads touch. Until his breath is burning on my trembling lips.
“I love the way you say my name,” I whisper.
He grins faintly. “Lilly.”
“Again.”
“Lilly.”
“Again.”
“Lil—“
I kiss him.
I cross the desert. I run full force into the mirage and I don’t care if he’s nothing real, if he’ll slip through my fingers like hot sand against my aching skin. I don’t care if he’s heaven or he’s hell. I have to taste him. I have to devour the feeling of being full, of being made whole by the weight of his eyes and his hands and his tongue that runs along my lips, dipping into my mouth, and stealing my breath.
He makes me feel real, he makes me feel good, like I’m me for the first time in years, and when his hands pull me closer he makes me feel warm. Hot. Burning and yearning as I wrap my arms around his neck, toss my leg across his lap, and lean into him with my whole body. My whole heart.
“Lilly,” he breathes, his lips gliding along my jaw. Down my throat. They press against my chest as I weave my fingers through the soft tresses of his hair.
His hands splay across my back, pulling me closer. Holding me firm. I lean into them, arcing back as his lips go lower. His tongue glides down my skin, dipping between my breasts. I shudder against him, making him moan, the sound reverberating through my bones.
Colt’s right hand rises. It tugs at the strap of his white tank top already loose on my body. He drags it down my arm, exposing my skin. My breast.
“Lilly.”
His lips are slow. Soft.
My heart hammers fast. Hard.
The rough surface of his tongue drags across my nipple, making me gasp. Making me writhe and rise, my hips circling against his as his lips wrap around me. He sucks at me hard. He licks me softly. The thin material of the boxers he lent me ride up my thighs as I grind against him, building a friction between us that electrifies the cool air. The hair on my arms stands up straight, a chill rushing through my entire body, leaving fire in its wake.
I release him long enough to pull my shirt off over my head. His breath across my skin feels unreal. Impossible as this moment. As his hands on my bare sides and the hard roll of his chest under my palms. I rip at his shirt, pulling it up and off of him, casting it aside, God knows where. I’m not calm, not satisfied, until his hot skin is smooth against my fingertips.
Colt takes a second to stare at me. His hands rise slowly, tickling over my ribs and tracing delicately around my breasts, over my collar bone, up my neck into my hair where he grips me, wrapping the strands around his fingers. Then his mouth is on me again. He holds me by my hair, pulling me to him, and I grip his shoulders so hard it has to hurt, the steel of his muscle biting back against my fingers. He doesn’t complain. Instead he moans, his tongue going wild, making me gasp and buck, curse and cry out, my head tilted back, my face to the sky. To the hidden stars. To the burning bright fire above me, inside me. Cold as ice and brilliantly white, blurring and swirling as my body winds up with each rough thrust of my hips against his. Every brush of his lips across my breasts.
“Lilly.”
His voice is growing desperate. His hand falls to my back, over my ass, and he’s setting the rhythm. It’s quick but steady. Demanding. The thin fabric of his shorts doesn’t give up much resistance. I can feel him right where I want him and I know he feels me too. He breathes hard and hot across my chest, his other hand gripping my hair so hard it hurts. I whimper as I cling to him. As I thrust harder, faster, my body striking against his like flint until finally, finally, finally - flame.
“Ohh!” I cry out, my body going rigid in his hands. “Colt, fuck!”
He pulls my face down to his, covering my mouth with his lips. Feasting on the moans that erupt from my throat. His breath comes hard from his nose, his hand on my ass still grinding me against his body until he grunts into my mouth and his fingers grip me recklessly.
“Shit,” he curses breathlessly. “Holy fucking shit.”
We hold on to each other as we come down. As the sound of the night rebuilds around us, pushing in through our ragged breaths and the gentle creek of the leather couch underneath him. His face falls to my breast, no longer teasing but resting, his arms wrapping around me gently.
I slowly trip my fingertips across his shoulders. “Did you…?”
He laughs shakily. “Yeah, I did. I haven’t come with my pants on since I was sixteen. That was…” He leans back, rubs his hand over my face, repeating, “Holy shit.”
I smile at him. I feel a strange sense of pride in the lost look on his face. I take it as a victory as I lean down to take his mouth with mine, kissing him softly. Sweetly.
There’s so much strength in him, enough to break me in two with his bare hands, but when he kisses me, when he holds me now, it’s the gentlest feeling in the world. It makes me feel solid and tethered, like I’m not the things I think I am. I’m not a ghost. I’m not a memory, not tonight.
With him I’m real and tangible. Taste-able. Edible.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
LILLY
November 15th
Culver City, CA
I dance nervously from one foot to the other like a kid who has to pee. Michael jiggles his key in the door, his eyes watching me surreptitiously. He doesn’t say a word but I know he wants to. But what would he say? What could he or anyone else in the world do to make this situation better? The waiting is the worst part. Wondering if today will genuinely be okay or is it another day where we pretend it is?
The front door pops open. The painfully familiar scent of home washes over me, nearly knocking me down the stoop.
“We’re here!” Michael calls, stepping inside.
I wait on the porch, out of sight.
Mom comes hurrying out of the kitchen. “You’re early. We weren’t expecting you for another twenty minutes.”
“Lill
y got an early start at work so she was able to leave early.”
I hold out a box of assorted bagels to mom. “I made your favorite today. Blueberry.”
She smiles gratefully, taking the box. “Thank you, sweetheart. I’ll have one for breakfast tomorrow.”
“Is it okay if I come in?”
“It’s fine,” she assures me quietly, a gentle hand on my shoulder pulling me inside. “He’ll be happy to see you. He’s been asking when you guys were going to get here. Both of you.”
The tension in my stomach unclenches a little, letting me breathe. Letting me step across the threshold into the house.
I ditch my purse in the entryway on the same hook I’ve hung purses and backpacks since I was tall enough to reach it. The small stucco coated house has been my parent’s home for the last twenty-six years. The carpet is my age, but they still insist we take our shoes off, treating it as delicately as the day they had it installed. I remember being scolded by Mom, tears in her eyes, after I dumped my cup of Kool Aid on it when I was seven. I’ll never forget the disappointment I felt knowing I’d made her cry. She probably doesn’t remember it but I’ll never forget it.
“Is Dad in the living room?” Michael asks.
Mom shakes her head. “He’s out back barbequing. He’s got the little TV set up out there. The game’s about to start.”
Michael and I keep our coats on as we head out back. The house is stuffy and overheated. It’s hottest as we pass through the kitchen and I notice that the oven is on. Mom has been baking. She does that when she’s nervous. We have that in common, along with our eyes, our noses, our chins. The rich hue of our hair.
Put me in a summer dress with my hair piled in high curls on my head and I’m the image of my mother when she was my age.
Michael opens the sliding glass door to the back patio. “Hey, Dad.”
Dad turns, a spatula in his hand, a smile on his face, and an apron over his chest. It’s the one we gave him as a gag gift four birthdays ago. One with the curvaceous body of a half-naked woman printed on the front. The sight makes me laugh out loud.
