His gaze sweeps up to my rather exposed chest. The swell of my breasts is showing over the boat-necked black shirt I’m wearing, which also has buttons. The longer he stares at them, the heavier my tits become, much heavier than their usual B-sized weight.
Thomas shoots me an irritated look through his lashes. “Another?”
At first I’m confused as to what he means, but then I realize he’s talking about my shirt. “Layers. Sorry.”
He doesn’t smile but his irritation is gone, replaced by amusement and a tinge of warmth. His fists loosen and he begins again. One by one he pops the buttons of my shirt. I gasp when his knuckles skim over my breasts. They swell and tingle on the side, as if expanding, and my nipples itch, growing hard. A strange soreness grips them.
Just touch me already.
He reaches my stomach and it hollows out as I lose my breath. Then finally, finally it’s done. My shirt hangs open, exposing my white bra and the wide expanse of my stomach. He takes me in with greedy eyes and at the sound of his harsh breath, I whisper, “What? What is it?”
He is focused on my belly button ring and then it happens. He touches me, but only with his pinkie. It hooks through the ring and pulls. “Fuck,” he mutters.
“Do you…not like it?”
“No. I fucking love it.”
At his unguarded and guttural words, I give in to the pull of his finger and bow my back off the door. Our hips crash and I feel his cock against my belly.
“Oh God, it’s so big,” I moan, unable to stop myself. As soon as I say it, I’m ashamed, probably blushing; my skin feels hot.
Thomas tenses. “I never knew. I wondered, though.”
“What?”
His eyes roam around, from the tops of my breasts to my belly button ring. “That you blush with your whole body.” I blush harder, making him chuckle.
My heart sighs at the rich sound. I want to live here, in this moment. It’s honest and almost fantastical. It’s a different world altogether, a land of no rules, no past or future, just the present.
With his other hand, he snaps the clasp of my bra and lets the cups dangle on the sides, exposing my swollen tits and rosy nipples.
My skin combusts. I’m breathing with my entire body now, shaking and undulating. I want to cover myself even as my nipples itch to be touched, pulled at, sucked on. No one, not a single person has seen me this way, not even the night I gave Caleb my virginity in darkness.
Thomas licks his lips and gulps in a shuddering breath.
He needs me. And that makes me need him more.
“I’m so achy,” I whisper, and he stares at me with dark and dilated pupils. “Please, you have to touch me. You just have to.”
My begging arouses him and that, in turn, arouses me, so much so that my innermost muscles clench and gape repeatedly.
Thomas presses his thumb at the base of my neck. My pulse skitters and then pounds. With hooded eyes, he trails his thumb down, bumping over my collarbone, traveling through the valley of my breasts. Just his thumb.
“Oh God…” My voice doesn’t sound like mine; it’s throaty and abraded with lust.
He circles around my breast, caressing the top, winding around the side, and scratching the bottom.
“Like this?” he asks in my ear, his shirt whispering over my skin. My right leg lifts up and hooks around his hips, cradling his cock close to my covered but needy pussy.
“Yes, but more.” I press my half-naked body to his clothed one, getting off on the friction.
He repeats the motion on my left breast, over and over. My nipples jut out in anticipation of his touch, but it never comes. He tortures me with light caresses, never giving me something to hold on to, reducing my skin to a canvas of goose bumps.
“You’re so mean,” I tell him, frustrated but leaning into him nonetheless.
“But you like it.” He blows a hot breath in my ear.
“I shouldn’t.”
“Yes.”
“I should just leave.”
“Yeah.”
“This is wrong,” I moan, circling my hips, bumping against his cock. “The wrongest thing I’ve ever done.”
Of all the times, he picks this moment to pinch my nipple and give it a harsh pull, much like he did with my belly button ring. Like before, I give in to the call and rub my pulsating breasts against his chest, searching for that magical friction.
“God…what are we doing?” I pant into his shirt.
“The wrongest thing we’ve ever done,” he says, repeating my words. “So yeah, you should leave. You should just go, and don’t ever come back.” I look up at him and witness something splitting open in his expression, leaving him completely exposed.
Flicking his thumb over my nipple, he massages my entire breast in his palm. “Because I’m selfish, Layla. I’ll ruin you, set you on fire, and won’t even look back. I’ll take and take until you’re empty and hollow.” He keeps at his slow torture. “You should push me away, shout at me for undressing you, and then you should slam the door in my face on your way out. And when you’re out there in the hallway, knock three doors down and report me.”
“Never. I’ll never tell on you.”
One side of his lips quirks up. “Never is a long time, Miss Robinson.”
“Maybe.”
Both of his hands move up and cradle my cheek. “Sometimes I forget how young you are.”
“I’m not that young,” I say insistently, pressing myself closer to him, trying to climb up his sexy body like I did at the bar.
“Go, Layla.” He doesn’t let me go, though. “I’ll probably steal your naiveté too.”
Yes, I should go. I should go, drop the class, and never come back.
I should.
I should.
It could be that I’m stupid and young as he says I am, but I feel the loneliness in his teasing voice. I see the clenching of his back muscles when Hadley left him in the room. I hear his never-ending battle with his impulse.
Boldness strikes me and I circle my arms around his neck, flattening my breasts on his hard chest. “Then maybe I should just give it to you so you don’t have to steal—my naiveté, I mean, so you could help me grow up.”
He is silent for a few seconds and I’m scared I crossed a line. It’s such a funny thought after the way I’m wrapped around him that I bite my lip to stop an inappropriate, hysterical laugh from bubbling out.
“You want me to make you a grown-up, Miss Robinson?” His eyes smolder, and I’m glad I’ve got my arms around him or I would’ve dropped to the floor in a puddle. Something is so…weirdly erotic in that sentence.
I don’t have time to analyze it because he begins moving his hips, giving me that sweet friction, and Jesus fucking Christ, it’s the best thing I’ve ever experienced. The pressure is making my wounded pussy bleed cum.
He leans into me, curls his large body around my small one. “How do you suggest I do that?”
“I don’t know.” I gasp, rocking along with him.
“Well, if you don’t know then I can’t help you.” He pauses his movements.
“P-Please, don’t stop. I-I…”
“You what?”
I look at him with drugged eyes. He appears darker, bigger, like he can absorb the world into his body until there’s nothing left but him and me. “I need it. I need you…”
“To do what?”
“To move.”
“And that’s it?”
“No. I want more.” I push my hips against his and flex my thighs around his waist. “I want you to fuck me.”
I can’t believe I said that. I can’t believe it was my voice, desperate and small, like that of a little girl.
He breathes in sharply. There’s excitement in his eyes, dark and mean and so fucking irresistible. I feel things change between us. Whatever dynamic our non-relationship relationship had has now shifted.
“Fuck you, how? With my big, hard cock?”
I’m shocked and so fucking arous
ed. There are alarms ringing in my head, blaring, honking, bellowing. This is so wrong, but his guttural voice still penetrates through and shakes a thick drop of cum out of me. I feel it roll out of my pussy and soak into my already wet, white innocent panties.
“Yes. God, please.” I rotate my hips once more against his stationary body.
“Are you sure you can take it?” He grinds his forehead into mine. “Maybe it won’t fit in your tiny pussy.”
I jerk at his words. “No. No, it will. I know it will. It’ll fit,” I whine, hungry and eager and playing my part in this weird game.
“What if it’s painful? What if it stretches your hole so much that it hurts?” His fingers twitch and flex around my face. He’s loving the rush of power. He’s getting off on the control he has over me.
“I don’t care. I don’t care about anything. I’ll take the pain. I’ll do anything.”
“For my cock?”
He is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen, big and brooding, his face a mosaic of lust and need.
Yeah, I’ll do anything. For you.
I nod my head and say in a small voice, “Yes. I’ll do anything for you to make me a grown-up.”
Thomas growls and his hands settle on my hips. I’m expecting him to haul me to his chest, but he keeps me pinned to the door and moves away.
“Not today.” His chest shudders with difficult breaths. “Go home, Layla.”
“But—”
Thomas tucks my unruly hair behind my ear. “You should probably hold on to your naiveté a little while longer. So just go home.”
I had a bad dream, and now I can’t go back to sleep. I’ve been tossing and turning for hours.
I pull myself up, sighing in frustration. In the past, before Caleb went away, I’d call him, no matter the time, and ask him to hold me. I can’t imagine us ever getting back to that place.
I feel so lonely. I haven’t felt this lonely since Emma moved in.
Turning on the light, I reach out, pick up my notebook from the nightstand, and open to the last page I wrote on. I thumb the tiny curls of paper around the white spiral where a page has been torn off.
My poem.
Before sending me on my way, Thomas tore the page and kept the poem for himself. He didn’t say anything, just folded it and slid it into his pocket while staring at me.
I shiver under the blanket as if his eyes are still on me, hot and hooded with desire. It makes me aware of the lingering wetness between my legs, how I threw myself at him and he denied me, never even touched me with more than a finger on my chest and belly, a palm on my cheeks.
I’m dying for him. Dying. It’s all I can think about—that, and how immoral this is. With each passing day, I’m crossing more and more lines.
Where does it stop, I wonder. How does it stop? Why can’t I control myself?
I thump my head on the headboard, try to put pen to paper, but nothing comes out. Nothing feels right. I want to write but I can’t bring myself to, so I try to read. Maybe Barthes or Plath will have some insight.
Barthes tells me it’s okay if things are hopeless and Plath tells me to kill myself, so I shut them down.
Then I drag my laptop from the desk and look up Thomas on the university’s website. I’ve seen this page a million times since classes started, but still my breath halts for a moment when I take in his face. Handsome, unsmiling, unattainable.
My eyes home in on his office phone number, the tiny ten-digit number located under his office address. I have seen that number before but have never really seen it, never really thought about it.
I sit up and look for my phone. It’s wedged between the mattress and the headboard. I swipe across the screen, ignoring messages from Caleb, and dial the number. It’s crazy. I don’t even know why I am calling. What am I going to say to him? Besides, I don’t even think he’s going to be in his office this late at night, but I need a connection with him, even if it’s flimsy, even if it’s with his answering machine. In fact, I’m counting on it. I’ll say whatever I want to say and then hang up and go to sleep.
On the third ring, there’s a click, and then his sandpapery voice fills my ears. “Hello?”
I almost drop the phone. “Th-Thomas?”
“Layla?” The creak of his chair sounds. “What… Why are you calling me this late at night?”
“I was… I didn’t expect you to pick up.”
He is silent for a few seconds, maybe just as stunned as I am, or maybe thinking about what happened between us only a few hours ago.
“See, if you don’t want me to pick up my phone, then don’t call me on my phone.”
I puff out a breath and fall against my pillow, grinning like a fool at his teasing tone. “I just thought you’d be at home.”
This time the silence is loaded, as if I stepped on a landmine, but his voice doesn’t reflect any turmoil. “Now that we’ve established that I’m not, do you mind telling me why the hell you are calling?”
“I…” I want to ask him about what’s going on with him, but I don’t. I know he won’t tell me. He’s only honest in those stolen moments, in my desperation.
“I can’t sleep,” I blurt out instead, and funnily, it sounds pouty. He hears my strange voice, which apparently only comes out when he’s around, and sucks in a breath. Where is this coming from? This ache, this restlessness, this boldness. I can’t stay still. I’m rustling my legs together, playing with the neck of my white cami.
“And you thought talking to me would put you to sleep. Your flattery knows no end, does it?” His voice is hoarse as he makes the joke, and just like that, the loneliness is gone.
“As I said, I didn’t expect you to pick up. I just…I didn’t know who to call.” I let him adjust to the truth. Meanwhile, I brace myself for his signature rudeness, but deep down, I know it won’t come. Thomas isn’t deliberately mean; he just pretends to be for some reason.
“Why can’t you sleep?” he asks in a low tone, proving me right.
“I had a bad dream,” I say, snuggling into the pillow. “About Caleb. Well, not a bad dream, per se. I mean, he was happy in it, or at least he looked like it from where I was standing. He was kinda having sex.” A deep breath, mine, before I confess, “With a guy.”
Nothing. No sound on the other end. I decide I don’t need him to say anything, not yet. I want to get this out first.
“He’s gay.” I throw out a short laugh. “The guy I grew up with, the guy I’ve loved all my life is gay—and you know the worst part? I never knew. I never even saw a hint that he might be gay. He never told me and I never took the time to notice. He said sleeping with me was his way of checking if he could switch teams.” Another short laugh bubbles out of me, this one harsher. “I’m an idiot, aren’t I? A complete moron. A selfish moron.”
That felt…good. My chest isn’t caving anymore. The weight of this secret isn’t mangling my bones.
Thomas is silent again so I coax him. “Say something. No, wait—say something helpful, not one of your sarcastic comments that help no one but you.”
“And why should I withhold for you?” I like that he’s teasing me, not treating me with kid gloves—not that he is even capable of doing so.
“Because I’ve decided we’re friends. That’s why the word vomit.”
“You hump all your friends?” he growls.
Oh God. My eyes flutter and I squeeze my thighs together. “No. We’re not just friends.”
“Is that right?”
“Mm-hmm.” I nod and open my mouth to say…something, but it doesn’t matter what because I’m struck by a revelation, an epiphany.
“We’re soul mates.” I can’t breathe, and at the same time, I feel light as a balloon.
“Excuse me?”
“Yes.” My eyes widen as everything slides into place. “That’s it. We’re soul mates.”
“I… You… What?”
“Oh, would you relax?” I can imagine the vein on the side of his neck pulsing. “Not th
e kind who end up together or live happily ever after. We’re not that kind of soul mates. Even I’m not that naïve. What I mean is, we understand each other. We’re similar—well, similar in all the ways that count.”
Thomas sighs, long and hard, and shifts in his chair. I know he doesn’t believe me, but it’s so obvious.
“We both understand one-sided love better than anyone we know,” I explain. “And I know you don’t like to hear about it but the other night, when I saw you through the window—for which I apologize once again, by the way—the expression on your face, it was like…I was looking in the mirror. It was like I could read your every thought. I could feel your every thought. I felt it in my stomach.” I clear my throat. “So you see? We’re soul mates.”
“You’re right.”
Excitement bubbles inside me. “I am, aren’t I?”
“Yeah. I don’t like to hear about it.”
“Oh.” I swallow and deflate against my pillow, staring at the white ceiling.
He shifts in his chair again and I imagine him mimicking me, head pushed back, staring at the blank ceiling. I don’t know how long we stay silent this time, hearing each other breathe. I can’t let him go though. I can’t be the one to break this connection.
And neither can he, apparently.
It’s such a soothing delusion that he wants me to breathe in his ears so he knows he isn’t alone. Maybe it isn’t a delusion at all.
“Do you know what a vestigial organ is, Layla?” he asks, after I’ve made countless patterns around my belly button with my middle finger.
“What?”
“It’s an organ that’s useless. It serves no purpose. It’s defunct, extra baggage. It’s just there because we haven’t evolved enough.”
“O-kay.”
“But they are quite capable of giving you pain. Oh yeah, they might even kill you…slowly, until you’re begging for it.”
“Why are we talking about useless organs?”
“Because unrequited love is like a dead, useless organ. It’s functionless. It’s sicker than a disease. You can cure a disease, but you can’t fix a defective soul. That’s the most frustrating thing in the world, to be that powerless.”
The Unrequited Page 15
