By Her Touch

by Adriana Anders

Another smile, hidden behind her mug. “Yes.”

  Not bothering to suppress a grin, he nodded, looking out at the yard. Jesus, was this how normal people felt after sex? Like singing? Howling? Grabbing her and hauling her right back to those stairs?

  But then there’d been the night, where, Jesus, he really could have hurt her—completely beyond his control.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, suddenly sure that the softness around her eyes was from crying, not sleep. He was quiet, already defeated, when he said, “I scared you.”

  “Scared me?” she asked, blinking.

  “Last night. My…” Christ, what would you call them? Episodes? “Nightmares.”

  “You didn’t scare me, Andrew; you…worried me. There was nothing I could do.” Her hand squeezed his, and they lapsed into silence.

  “No, no, you helped.”

  “You remember?”

  “I remember feeling you around me.” Why was it so hard to admit that?

  “I’m glad,” she said with a gentle smile, and Christ, he’d get lost in those eyes if he let himself.

  With a yawn, she turned back to look at her yard and seemed to disappear into her head.

  “Got plans for today?”

  She shrugged. “Work on the garden.”

  “Want some help?”

  “Yeah? That would be lovely.”

  “Thought maybe I’d go into town for some supplies. Then I’ll come back and help.”

  “I’d like that,” she said. And then she kissed him, her openness and joy crumbling yet another brick in his wall. It should have worried him, the way she pulled him apart, because without that wall, he’d have no defenses against all the shit he knew lurked in the world.

  It should have worried him, but right now, with her…it didn’t.

  * * *

  George had spent the hour or so before Andrew had gotten up going over the things that had happened in the night. He’d screamed. Screamed and freaked out, pushed her away when she’d tried to hold him, and then flung himself onto the floor. She’d followed him down, had taken forever to calm him, and finally wrapped her body around his and held him as he’d fallen into a hot, fitful sleep. It wasn’t until much later that she’d recognized the danger of the situation—this big, powerful man out of control in his sleep. He could have hurt her—badly.

  And yet, she couldn’t seem to get worked up about her safety. What worried her, truly, was him. How powerless was she, here all alone, with no weapons against whatever was haunting him?

  She’d wanted to help him. She still did, but now… After sleeping with him, after seeing his body wracked with fear and pain, and now, after toast and coffee and normal talk, something had changed. The do-gooder in her didn’t feel quite so good anymore, and after he’d left for whatever it was he wanted to do in town, the feeling overwhelming her was the shame of betrayal.

  Fueled by a sick sense of responsibility, she stomped over to Jessie’s house and knocked on the door. It was still early, but her neighbor must be up. Didn’t people with kids rise at the crack of dawn?

  “Hey,” Jessie said, looking only half-awake. “Come on in.” Jessie led her into the kitchen. “Geez, girl. Look at that thing,” she said, indicating George’s enormous mug. Across the front, BEER was spelled out in tall letters. “Bit early for that, isn’t it?”

  “I have a thing about mugs.”

  “Mugs? That doesn’t seem like you.”

  George frowned. “It was Tom, my husband. I always liked delicate china cups. The civilized, tea-drinking kind. I had a couple in my dorm room when I first went to school, drank my tea in them while everyone else guzzled coffee from those thick college mugs. Anyway, Tom made fun of me and started buying me these; he said it was a better investment.” She held up the mug, remembering his ribbing with a brief, almost painful, nostalgic pang. “He was right.”

  “Did he buy you that one?”

  “Yes. This and about twenty others. But it’s gotten out of hand—even today. Every Christmas, my nurse and receptionist buy me ridiculous mugs. I’ve got…many.”

  “Hmm. Want a refill?” Jessie asked, and George held out the vessel in question. “So, what’s goin’ on?”

  “Don’t call them,” George said.

  “What?”

  “Don’t ask about the Sultans.”

  “Don’t—Oh. Why not?”

  “It’s…it’s a betrayal, what I did. Not just unethical, but…” George swallowed. Closed her eyes. Opened them again. “I betrayed him. I wanted to help him, but…whatever’s got him running, it’s not good. He trusted me, and I betrayed him.”

  Jessie put her cup down. “Can I help?”

  George shook her head no.

  “Crap. I made a call already. I’m sorry.”

  “Oh.” George deflated, closing her eyes as she sank into the chair.

  “Hey. Hey, don’t worry about it. It’s fine. It’ll be fine. Left a message, which’ll probably never get returned. Some bigwig in Baltimore.”

  “He’s…he told me never to discuss the Sultans. He said it was too dangerous. For me. Probably for him too.”

  “Look, I’ll be subtle if they get back in touch, okay? Besides, the guy I called was ATF. It’s not like I called Sultan headquarters or anything, right?”

  George nodded. “Right. That’s true.”

  “And if he’s trying to get away, to get out of that life, then there’s no reason for them to look here. There’s nothing to draw them here.”

  “Okay. That’s true too.”

  “So, you’re involved. With him.”

  George nodded.

  “George.” Jessie grabbed her hand, waiting until she looked her right in the eye. “Don’t feel guilty. You’ve only been good to him. If the man is in trouble like you say, then he couldn’t have picked a better person to ask for help. You get that, right? You’ve got this heart of gold, and he’s lucky to have found you. Stop worrying about the Sultans and enjoy this…thing for whatever time you’ve got it. Just don’t get too invested. Please?”

  George nodded, picturing him on her floor, his flesh hot, his body taut beneath hers. She pictured his face: the pain stretched over his features, the skin pulled too tight over high cheekbones. She remembered the way her chest had felt when he’d groaned, like she’d been hit with a sledgehammer, her throat clogged with the need to love him.

  Not too invested. Right.

  * * *

  Clay was happy when he set out to find a hardware store. Jittery happy. First-crush happy. New-life happy.

  Unfortunately, Sunday morning in Blackwood, he remembered belatedly, was a retail wasteland.

  You couldn’t fix sagging steps and rotting clapboard without the proper tools, but nothing was open. Nothing but churches, that was. The churches were doing one hell of a brisk business.

  It wasn’t till he hit Charlottesville and found a big chain store with a hardware section that he could stock up, without knowing exactly what he needed. The half hour into town and the half hour back gave him plenty of time to wonder if he’d fucked everything up last night—between the brutal stairs sex and the night terrors. Christ.

  By the time he got back to George’s, the sun was high overhead, and those fuckin’ bugs were hissing their whirligig song. He was exhausted and nervous at what kind of reception he’d get.

  Getting no answer to his knock, he peered through her screen door. The inside of her house looked dark and cool compared to the sweltering heat out here. Over a hundred today, the cashier at the store had warned him, and Clay had nodded. Of course. And the woman had no A/C.

  He pulled open the door—unlatched, as usual—and walked inside, calling her name.

  Quiet, still, relatively cool. With the windows shut, the busy drone from outside was held somewhat at bay, and it smelled like… What was that
? Not flowers, exactly. Not so girly as that, but close. It smelled cozy and clean, like herbs or cinnamon or something. A place to rest, to heal and restore not just your body, but your soul.

  He eyed the couch, considering a quick nap in this oasis while he waited for her but pretty sure that wouldn’t happen, since he could almost feel her presence out back. Setting his purchases down, he went through to the kitchen to the screened-in porch, where he finally caught sight of her, toward the rear of her yard, struggling with some huge wire structure wrapped in what looked like vines.

  Watching her, Clay smiled. There was something epic about this small woman and her big house, her massive garden, her funky animals. She yanked at the metal again, attempting to pry it up from the ground and replant it in the soil. She might have cussed, but he doubted it. Knowing her, she was probably whispering sweet nothings to the stupid object. He should go out there and help her. He should, but she was so perfect like this, pissed, but civilized in a way he admired but could hardly comprehend.

  Anyway, he must have made some noise, because suddenly her eyes were on him, wide and cautious before creasing at the corners into a welcoming smile. Clay folded up a little bit inside at the sight. Or maybe he unfolded. It hurt, even that little unbending. Like a cramp or a growing pain, it touched a part of him he wasn’t used to feeling. All he could do was smile back.

  “Think you could lend me a hand?” she called. “Or you going to just stand there and watch me make a fool of myself?”

  Clay’s smile widened, and he stepped outside, letting the door slam behind him. “I’m all yours, ma’am,” he said, breathing in the cracked-earth smell.

  “Help me with this tomato plant.”

  “That’s a tomato?”

  “Yes. The cucumbers seem to have attacked it, and they’ve all gone kind of crazy, and I’ve been so distracted by—”

  She stopped midsentence, and Clay wondered what she’d been about to say. “By me?” he finally asked, almost at her side now.

  After a quick second, where he figured she’d opened her mouth to protest, she closed it and nodded, one side of her mouth quirked up. And that, right there, was what was so absolutely appealing about this woman. No games. No bullshit, no hiding or embarrassment—although that last might not be entirely true, if the blush working its way up her face was any indication.

  He wanted to touch his fingers to that blush, wanted to greet her with a kiss but held back, uncomfortable with the impulse. Instead, he reached out, took the wire frame from her hands, and went to work.

  Clay’s stomach had been growling for a good hour at least by the time he raised his head and noticed how far the sun had dipped in the sky. A look around showed the garden relatively still, aside from a bird or two—even the chickens knew better than to stir up trouble in this heat—and George nowhere to be found.

  Things were looking pretty good after what had to be at least five hours of hard labor, and Clay felt deep satisfaction at the part he’d played. He flexed his shoulders, stretched, and swallowed a yawn. He hadn’t had the best sleep last night. He slapped at a mosquito lazily sipping from one more pinprick in his skin and came away with a smear of blood. The bug bites itched like crazy, and he was hungry enough to eat a cow. Time to head in.

  Clay let his dirt-encrusted boots fall to the porch floor with a clunk before heading inside to find George exactly where he’d pictured her—in the kitchen. She’d changed into something white and flowing, loose and fresh-looking. He wanted to go up and put his hands on her waist, feel her flesh through the cool cotton, burn his mouth on her neck.

  “You hungry?” she asked, throwing a lazy smile over her shoulder. Fuck, she was pretty. His stomach tightened with something that felt strangely like fear.

  “Starving.”

  “You’re a mess. Want to go upstairs and grab a shower?”

  Only if you come with me, he thought, although nothing she’d done made him think she’d feel that way about him in broad daylight. “Sure. Didn’t bring anything to change into, but…”

  She eyed him dubiously. “I might have something that’ll fit you.”

  “’S okay. I’ll just put these back on.”

  “Come on,” she said, leading him up a staircase that was wide but creaky, to a bright landing, a cozy nook with a little desk and an armchair, and past her open bedroom door to the bathroom—the only one in the house. He hadn’t been surprised at the claw-foot tub or the old-school enamel sink, but the whiteness of everything still shocked him a little, after the Technicolor chaos of the rest of the house.

  “White,” he said.

  “Hmm?”

  “Your bathroom, it’s so…different. It’s nice.”

  “Oh.” She looked around, big green eyes blinking as if she’d never been here before. “Thank you. Here, towels and…I’ll find you something to put on.”

  She disappeared, closing the door behind her, and he stood for a few seconds, alone in her pristine bathroom, before reaching down to pull off his filthy T-shirt—one of the dozen he’d bought at her suggestion. He caught sight of himself in the hazy mirror over the sink, and the air blew raw through his throat. Fuck me. He took in the scabs and redness, the scar, and the mean face. There’d been moments, as a kid or even in college, when he’d seen himself and stared into his eyes and failed to recognize the link between inside and out. But here, now, in this perfect, calm, white place, he saw with utter clarity the rightness of his skin. Ugly. Inside and out. Ugly like the tight knot of pain in his gut.

  With a scowl and a sniff, Clay stepped into the shower, wanting it cold but getting only lukewarm. The water ran over his skin, highlighting his faults rather than washing them away.

  This is what I am now, he thought defiantly. Condemned. Past renovation. It worked—the water and the defiance—hardened his mind to the warmth of the woman who seemed to think he was worth saving.

  There was a quick knock on the door, followed by her voice. “Found something.”

  “Thanks,” he responded, knowing he wouldn’t use it, whatever it was. This had dragged on long enough. He’d kept letting her think he was salvageable, but he wasn’t, and spending time with her now was just giving her mixed messages. The wrong message. He had to go, had to—

  With a metallic whistle, the shower curtain flew back, and she was there, completely naked, and, in one fell swoop, he lost his breath, his decisiveness, his fucking mind.

  She stepped in, shrieked, and moved to turn the temperature dial. “You’re crazy! This is freezing!”

  “I’d have told you if you’d given me some warning,” Clay said as his hands found the wet, goose-bumped indentation of her waist—all misgivings forgotten in the face of her nudity—and pulled her in, fitting their bodies neatly together. “It’s what you deserve, though, for busting in on me like this.”

  She sighed when he kissed her—a soft touching of lips overlaid with warm, sluicing water—and Clay’s shoulders relaxed, doubts and worries flushed down the drain like the dirt from her garden.

  It was fast and slow after that. Too slow for his taste, because what he wanted was to press her up against the wall and shove into her, but that wasn’t going to happen, or they’d fall in the slippery tub. Everything was quick too, though: the way their kiss heated him from the inside out, the way it burned him hard and violent, the way she ate him up. Pulling at his hair until he lowered his head, bit her nipple, and got harder at the low moan she let loose.

  Another tug at his hair, and she muttered into his mouth, “I went and bought a box of condoms while you were out today. Just in case.” The words, so utilitarian, so practical, just like his little doctor, inflamed him, so he dropped thoughtlessly to his knees, wanting—no, needing—to taste her. His groan, when he hit the porcelain, wasn’t of enjoyment, and if she hadn’t been so open and pink and beautiful in front of him, he’d probably have rolled up into a l
ittle ball of pain.

  “Me too,” he said with a chuckle, sucking in her smell, the trembling of her legs, the unfamiliar sight of a woman with hair on her. Weird, wasn’t it, how shaving had become the norm? Well, he liked this; it was a womanly sight, rather than an ambiguously girly one, and he appreciated that.

  Unable to resist any longer, he leaned in and nuzzled her. Right there, where her hair curled up thick, soft, and wet, and she smelled like fucking heaven. Never one for useless teasing, he dove right in, tongue and teeth and his entire being focused on consuming this woman.

  * * *

  Despite loving Tom, George could finally admit that he’d never gotten her quite this carried away. She remembered one time when they’d had oral sex. They’d watched a movie—Secretary, maybe. The spanking scenes had gotten her totally riled, and they’d ended up, somehow, half-dressed on the sofa in a head-to-tail position. George had tried to enjoy it. She’d closed her eyes to the sight of her husband’s testicles in her face and licked him while he’d performed his hallmark, swirly tongue thing down below. She could remember, to this day, lying precariously side-by-side on the sofa, the smell of him in her nose, and the way he’d shoved his tongue deep inside her, neatly missing her clit with each rare pass to the north.

  She’d loved Tom, she had, but she’d never until now known real hunger, never wanted with such desperation, never felt every breath a man expelled with an awareness like pain, a connection too kinetic to understand. This man didn’t need to touch her to make her feel. He just needed to breathe. And in this brief, wistful moment of comparison, she knew with certainty that she’d never feel this way with another person again. How could you when you’d gotten this far and there was one man—only one—who did this to you?

  Stop it, her brain ordered. If this is your only chance, you’ve got to enjoy it, not regret it before it’s gone.

  And so she did. With a long, low ooh, she let her head fall forward, squinting at his dark hair, sleek under the pelting water, and felt each pull of his lips, every scrape of his teeth and slick slide of his tongue.

  It was when he looked up at her, his warm, brown eyes, blinking and lashes gathered into wet, little commas, that she came, hard and debilitating, in his mouth. Muscles like Jell-O, she sank to the bottom of the tub beside him and let his mouth take hers, explicit and musky, but gentle in a way he hadn’t been before. Sweet slide of nose to nose, scrape of cheek to cheek, his hands on her breasts. They were too sensitive for it now, but she let him anyway. He could do whatever he wanted after the orgasm he’d just given her—the pulse in her clit completely unfamiliar.