by Ani Keating
“Behave or I won’t tell you any more secrets.” He circles his fingers once, twice. The only sound I can produce is another moan. My hips writhe feverishly against his slow, sure fingers.
“Here’s another one: I like the way you taste.”
He kneels on the floor between my legs, blows a gust of air on me, and nips at my pubic bone. His fingers are still stretching and circling. Everything inside me starts to quiver. It’s almost here. Closer. Closer.
“Now about that milk,” he says, and pours the still-hot milk between my breasts.
It inflames my skin and streams in one single rivulet down my body and between my legs where his mouth waits and closes around me. The heat of the milk and the pressure of his mouth send me over the edge. The explosion begins instantly. My arms give out as he sucks the last drop of milk, and I slump on the counter. Behind my closed eyelids, darkness is tinged with a reddish haze. His name echoes in the night. I hear it as if I’m underwater.
When I emerge, I can still feel his hushing kisses between my legs and on the insides of my thighs. I peer down at him. He is blurry around the edges. He stands up, smiling, and my vision focuses.
“Don’t move an inch,” he orders and strides in the direction of his bedroom. I only blink a few times, reeling from his secrets and his touch, when he comes back with a condom and stands between my legs.
“Take off my clothes.”
Oh, finally! I start unbuttoning his shirt but it takes too long so I rip it open like he did yesterday. I ignore his chuckle as I unzip his jeans and push them roughly down his legs. He steps out of them, hardened and powerful. My eyes are fixed on the sight, but he raises my chin until I look at him.
“Eyes on me again.” He lifts me from the counter, pulling me close to him and sliding very slowly inside. My body starts building. Just as leisurely, he pulls out and back in at the same pace. His eyes close and his jaw locks in restraint.
“Another secret, Elisa?”
“Yes.” The “s” lingers in the air.
“I like that I’m the only one who’s been here. No other memories like this for you.”
He moves again, and this time a groan whirls in his chest. The sound cuts my ties to reason. I want more. More secrets, more speed, more depth, more him. As though he knows, he puts more force behind his thrusts and my moans change into loud cries. His fingers dig and bruise in my back, his breathing faster. Another thrust. Two, three. I shatter. Everything inside convulses and everything outside throbs. The violent release sucks me under. The last thing I hear is Aiden’s final cry—not a groan, a cry—and then there is silence.
I have the vague sense that I’m being moved somewhere but I have no idea how, or when, or where. When I open my eyes, we are magically on his bed. I’m on my stomach, and he is half-lying over me, his weight pinning me on the mattress. He is kissing behind my ear, nipping at the earlobe.
“Are you coherent?” he says.
“Mmm.”
“Ready for more secrets?” he whispers and before I can answer, he grips my hair and turns my head to the side until our mouths meet. This kiss is different. Savage. Gone are the gentle gusts of air, the soft strokes of tongue. His lips have a possessive edge, as if the secret they’re telling is stormy. I match him as best I can, burying my fingers in his hair. His lips move down my jaw, back to my ear.
“I like the way you smell because I’ve never smelled it before,” he whispers, kicking my legs apart with his knee, and holding my head down against the pillow. His voice is dark. His hand grips my breast roughly. It hurts but it would hurt more if his hands were not on me. My skin starts zapping with a static charge. His hand travels down my body where the charge is at its most potent. Every rough circle he draws with his fingers sends jolts of fire surging in my blood. My lungs can’t keep up.
“Here’s the last secret, Elisa. The way you are right now, mine completely, this is what I’ll remember when I look at that painting.”
He grips my hips and raises them in the air. In the same move, he slaps his cock hard against me. I cry out at the zinging feeling. My blood is pounding in my ears. I hear him tear a foil, from where I have no idea, and then he thrusts about halfway in. I moan in relief. He pulls back. When I whimper, he repeats his game over and over, until the current on my skin turns into something else, an inkling of a different storm in the horizon. This one will finish me. Not because I won’t survive. But because with this claiming, he went beyond my body. There is something so capturing about it that despite my recent liberation, I’ve never felt less free. He rubs himself against me again and stops. I give up and beg.
“Please, Aiden.”
“I think it’s your turn for a secret.”
“I want you!” I shout. Wait—what? What did I just say? I search for him with my hips but he stills them.
“That’s a dangerous secret,” he says in my ear and slams inside me. Oh. My. God. Of all the thrusts I have absorbed, nothing—absolutely nothing—compares to these. I can’t feel any other part of my body except the relentless clenching inside. I’m calling, I’m crying, too loud, too soft, begging, ordering, praying. I can’t understand the words that are coming out of my mouth but I don’t care. The only thing that matters is not just him, but this sense of being his.
“Look at me,” he says through his teeth. My eyes fling open, lost in turquoise. The lightning strikes. For the first time, my release starts in my eyes. Tears gather there, and then everything, especially consciousness drains out of me. We collapse on the bed together. I feel him withdraw and wrap his arms around me, kissing my temple.
“Enough secrets tonight,” he murmurs. My last thought is of the heat of his skin against my back and the fact that it looks like I still have tomorrow with him. Then I disappear.
* * * * *
I open my eyes with a gasp. Aiden’s bedroom is dark except for the moonlight streaming through the glass wall. There is a race running in my brain. My skin is still tingling with static like remnants of a distant storm. I panic that I had another nightmare but no. The only thoughts in my head are Aiden’s whispered secrets. If he never kisses on the mouth, he must like me. But before I levitate off the bed, another secret quashes it: it’s dangerous to want him. Why?
I look at Aiden to calm the racing thoughts. His face is relaxed, his hair a mess of my doing. Despite the power he wields when he is awake, he looks vulnerable. But the tension of his shoulders never releases him even in sleep. I have an urge to hold him. I reach out to caress his cheek. His body heat warms my fingers and I press them gently on his stubble.
It’s instant. He bolts upright, his hand gripping my wrist. His frame begins to shudder. His head hangs on his chest as though someone is holding it down, and his spine is petrified. His shoulders and biceps strain like he is trying to break through chains. His neck jerks side to side as though on a noose or tight collar. His rib cage expands. A menacing sound starts building in his chest and the bed begins to shake from his tremors. His fingers dig into my flesh.
“Aiden!” I gasp in terror.
His head whips up and whirls to me. In the darkness, I cannot see his eyes but I feel his hot breath on my face. His breathing is harsh, wounded. His grip on my wrist relaxes a fraction, and his head jerks to the side as though repelling an invisible touch. Or as though a force is trying to rip him apart or choke him. My heart is pounding but in this moment, I understand my own fear. It’s not for me. It’s for him.
“Aiden,” I whisper, wanting to touch him but afraid of making it worse. Then I remember the way he soothed me yesterday. “You’re okay. It’s not real. Wake up. You’re safe.”
The tremors start slowing down but his head jerks away again. I have a mad image of the sinister force trying to tear him away from me.
I can’t let it have any part of him. “Aiden, please, it’s me, Isa—umm—Elisa. Elisa Snow.”
He gasps like he is emerging from water. Blindingly fast, he pulls away and turns on the bedside lamp. His eyes are wild, almost midnight blue. His hands hover over my face.
“Elisa? Jesus! Did I hurt you? Did I hurt you?” he demands frantically.
“No, not at all. See? I’m okay.” I raise my hands so he can see. His eyes scan my arms, my torso, my face, my eyes.
“It was just a bad dream,” I assure him though I know bad dreams and I have never seen something like this. “Do you want some water? Some fresh air?”
I scoot close to him. I want to hold him but instinctively I know that he will not want arms around him right now. So I just put both my hands on his face and kiss his scar.
“Shh,” I whisper. “It’s over. It’s over.” But as I say the words, it occurs to me: is it really over for him? Whatever this evil is, with his memory, can he ever escape it? “Aiden, will you tell me what’s wrong? Please? I want to help.”
Instantly, his eyes harden. A jolt of fury strikes there. He drops my hands from his face.
“Excuse me a moment,” he says formally, and before I can blink, he bolts up and blows out of the room.
I stare after him, trying to calm my breathing. My lungs were doing fine until now—for him. But at the sight of the shut bedroom door, they start shuddering. I breathe in and out, but oxygen is not working. I amble to the restroom and drink some water, trying to think. What happened to him to cause this? Because if there is one thing I know like I know the periodic table it is that he has had this dream before. That this is a part of him.
I hear the bedroom door open so I sprint out of the restroom. He is dressed in the same clothes as today, probably finding them on the kitchen floor from our time of happy secrets. I walk to him and take his hand.
“Are you feeling better?”
“Yes, thank you.” Same polite voice.
“I am so, so sorry.”
His jaw locks and he closes his eyes. “Why are you apologizing, Elisa?”
“Because I awoke you. I only wanted to touch your face,” I mumble, caressing his stubble.
He guides me to the bed. His eyes are still closed. I don’t know if he is imagining something or repelling it.
“Look at me,” I plead.
He opens his eyes. They are controlled now, lighter but frozen solid. “Elisa, you didn’t do anything wrong. Trust me. This has nothing to do with you. The only thing I regret is that I frightened you. I’m very sorry. Now go to bed. I’ll be back in a while.”
Back in a while? No! I don’t want him to be alone and revisit whatever terrors he already must see with perfect clarity. I clutch his shirt collar and bring him closer.
“Stay with me. We can go to the Rose Garden if you want? Or talk? Or just go for a stroll? Or make love? Just…just stay.”
He pries my fingers from his shirt, pinching my chin. “Go to sleep, Elisa.”
When I don’t let go of his collar, he lowers his head until our foreheads almost touch and closes his eyes.
“Please!” he says in a low voice.
I realize now that I have never heard him truly ask for something he needs. Well, he just did. I nod and pull away with more strength than it took to board that plane four years ago. He inclines his head once and sweeps out of the room.
I lie on his side of the bed, feeling his warmth that is still trapped inside the comforter. I keep my eyes on the door, willing it to open. I focus only on the scent of his pillow, listening for any signs of the man on the other side of the wall. But there is only silence.
Hydrogen, 1.008…Oxygen, 15.999. Fluorine, 18.998. Neon, 20.180…Astatine, 210. Radon, 222. Francium, 223. Radium, 226.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Breach
Light seeps through my eyelids, tinting the world outside golden. My first thought is that I should feel warm. But instead, I’m shivering. My eyes fling open.
I’m in Aiden’s bed, on his side. But he is not here.
Instantly, I remember and jolt up. I feel the other side of the bed. It’s cold. On my pillow is my dad’s watch. Something crawls in my stomach at the sight. I pick it up—9:30. As I fasten it on my wrist, the soft, worn leather gives me some structure. First things first: move.
I clamber out of bed, feeling the ache of his thrusts between my thighs. Over the chair in the corner are my dress, bra, knickers and sandals. My stomach twists again so I escape to the restroom.
I’m so cold that I crave hot water. But as I tiptoe in the grotto shower, my skin contracts sharply. Suddenly, I don’t want to wash him off. Right now, my skin smells like him. I twist back the shower lever tightly.
When I come out, the bedroom is still empty. The hair stands on the back of my neck. Should I go find him or should I wait here? What will make it worse or better? The shivers become violent so I get dressed. As I bend to slide on my sandals, I see one of his shirt buttons under the bed. Madly, I pick it up and tuck it in my bra. Then, with a deep breath, I head for the living room.
He is on the sofa, facing my way, back to the glass wall, reading a National Geographic. Freshly showered, hair still wet.
“Good morning,” I say, noticing with relief that my voice does not betray my unease.
He looks up from his magazine. The first thing I see is the difference in his face between now and yesterday when he woke me up with the centifolia. It’s perfectly composed. But something is off in his eyes—they’re too still. A neutral sapphire.
“Good morning, Elisa. Did you sleep well?”
It’s there in his voice too. Polite but a bit detached. The shivers return.
“I slept fine,” I answer a little late. “It looks like you’ve been up for a while?”
“Yes.”
It’s not exactly his words that are chilling me. It’s that detachment in his eyes and tone.
“So what have you been doing?”
“Worked some. Pondered the universe.”
“Pondered the universe? That sounds ominous.”
“Aren’t all such ponderings ominous?”
“It depends on the conclusions one reaches.”
He almost smiles. “Yes, I suppose it does.”
That’s it? That’s all he is going to say? “So what conclusions did you reach?”
He stands up and walks to me. His tread is slower too. “Many. But what else is there to do at night. Are you hungry? Do you want some breakfast?”
Breakfast? “No! I’d rather talk.”
He gives me a million-miles-away smile. “Not now—I have a conference call. Make yourself at home. I’ll see you shortly.” He strides past me, taking his distant smile with him.
“Aiden?” I call after him. He has moved so fast, he is almost at the threshold of the room. He turns, his eyes expectant.
“Yes?”
“Is this about your nightmare? Is that why you’re acting so…so different?”
Nothing changes on his face. “No, Elisa. The nightmare does not concern you.” His voice is formal, as though he is saying “it’s none of your business”.
“Yes, it does. You didn’t act like this before last night.” With another stab in my stomach, I miss the man he was. The beautiful, warm man giving me Baci and whispering secrets.
No emotion touches his eyes. He takes a few steps back into the room and stops—still far from me. “Before last night, you asked for two days with me and I gave them to you. Whether I had a nightmare or not is irrelevant. Time is up, Elisa.” He whirls and leaves the room, the lights flickering at his passage.
My knees buckle the moment he turns the corner and I sink on the sofa. My time is up. How well I know it. I stare at the stack of Powell’s books by the wall, the terrarium of flowers, my new Nikon camera. They look suddenly inert. Perfunctory. Like the gravity that kept them from drifting is extinguished and now they rotate in the univ
erse homeless. Just like me.
I thought this was all about the nightmare. But now, listening to him, I look at last night with new, finally clear, wide-open eyes. He was saying goodbye even before his nightmare, when he was making love to me. This is what I’ll remember when I look at that painting. Why? What was it? I play with the hem of my dress as hypotheses tabulate in my brain.
Option One: He does not like the real girl behind the painting. Maybe I was too much of a mess, too open, too closed, too everything Reagan says men don’t want.
Option Two: This is about his demons. Whatever evil terrorizes him at night, strains his muscles and shuts him down, is keeping him from me, too.
The instant the options form in my head, I want to run and not see what happens next. But oddly, I can’t bring myself to leave. Regardless of which hypothesis is true, I’m worried about him. But how do you help a man who will not accept it?
I twist the hem some more, wondering what Mum would do. What did she do with Dad? They were always truthful. They never had secrets. And just like that I know what I have to do. Not only because it’s the right thing. But because it may allow Aiden to open up too. That has to help.
I stand, my knees shaking. With every step down the hall, I test the words in my head. When I reach the closed library door, his hard voice stops me.
“Just use my fucking card, Hendrix. Do we have to go over this every fucking year?… No, I’m actually thinking of leaving tonight… Yes, that’s fine… See you in two weeks.”
He slams down his phone, then there is silence. He’s leaving? Why? Where is he going? Another shiver whips over my skin. I take a deep breath, square my shoulders and knock.
“Yes?” he calls with the same hard voice.
I open the door, feeling less welcome than in the immigration office. He is standing at his enormous desk in front of three continuous computer screens. When he sees me, his eyes betray some surprise. Then his impassive face returns. I wait for him to say something, maybe just my name in acknowledgement, but he doesn’t. He simply waits with questioning eyes.
