Sealed with a promise

by Mary Margret Daughtridge

  “Hell, ye­ah. You don’t think I want a long-term re­la­ti­on­s­hip wit­ho­ut sex, do you? I’ve al­re­ady told you I can’t do that. I don’t want to do that. What I fe­el for you isn’t in any sen­se pla­to­nic.”

  Emmie sa­id his words over and over in her mind. Her he­art chug­ged vi­olently. Her who­le body sho­ok with each thud. Her fin­ger­tips went cold. Even af­ter all the­se ye­ars the­re we­re nu­an­ces ot­her pe­op­le un­der­s­to­od be­ca­use they we­re na­ti­ve to the cul­tu­re in a way she wasn’t and ne­ver wo­uld be.

  “Fe­el for me?” Em­mie squ­ir­med on his lap trying to get her fe­et to the flo­or.

  He hel­ped her to her fe­et, then sto­od him­self. “Yes, fe­el for you. You want a dec­la­ra­ti­on? Fi­ne. Wri­te it out. An­y­t­hing you want. I’ll sign it.”

  “But… you want a sche­du­le?” Fran­ti­cal­ly, she pa­wed men­tal­ly thro­ugh Gra­ce’s les­sons on pro­j­ec­ting con­fi­den­ce, hol­ding her va­lue high, not ma­king it too easy. Ne­it­her Gra­ce nor Pic­kett had sa­id an­y­t­hing abo­ut sche­du­les.

  Why did he ha­ve to talk abo­ut put­ting dec­la­ra­ti­ons in wri­ting? This wasn’t ro­man­tic at all. He was go­od at be­ing mas­ter­ful. What she re­al­ly wan­ted was for him to ta­ke her in his arms and over­w­helm her with kis­ses- that wo­uld be a big step up from what she ever had be­fo­re. This wo­uld be a go­od mo­ment to swe­ep her off her fe­et. And she co­uld just let it hap­pen, wit­ho­ut wor­rying abo­ut which da­te they we­re on. And pre­tend she was ad­mit­ting not­hing.

  “Emmie, do you want me? You act li­ke you do. Yet you’re the one who ke­eps in­sis­ting we can’t be swept away by pas­si­on. I try to na­il down what’s on the tab­le, and you lo­ok li­ke that de­er ca­ught in the he­ad­lights.”

  The­re wasn’t any pre­tend ro­om he­re.

  He was sa­ying cho­ose.

  She co­uld say scrap the ti­me­tab­le.

  She co­uld pull his he­ad down and spend as much ti­me on his lips-tho­se mo­bi­le, per­fec­t­ly-sha­ped, smi­ling, ten­der-lo­oking lips-she co­uld spend as much ti­me on his lips as she wan­ted to.

  But the tro­ub­le was, she co­uldn’t do eit­her of tho­se things.

  All day her an­ger had be­en dra­ining away. On­ce her fa?ade of in­dif­fe­ren­ce to her­self had be­en bre­ac­hed by Davy’s slig­h­ting re­mark, she had be­en shoc­ked by the amo­unt of ra­ge she had fo­und dam­med up be­hind it. And the fury had gi­ven her the strength to fur­t­her wi­den the cracks her­self, and let the an­ger dra­in fas­ter.

  She wasn’t angry an­y­mo­re at idi­ot jocks, her pa­rents, God, or her gran­d­mot­her. The last bit­ter drops had run out whi­le she la­ug­hed and la­ug­hed at her­self over her aim­les­sness, her wil­lful clu­eles­sness abo­ut Blo­unt. Davy’s re­mark had ma­de her mad be­ca­use it had be­en true. “Pity fuck” was exactly what Blo­unt (jerk that he was) had tho­ught of her. And who co­uld bla­me him?

  If he hadn’t gi­ven her much in the way of res­pect and con­si­de­ra­ti­on, he al­so hadn’t as­ked much. She’d al­re­ady ad­mit­ted to her­self (and to Pic­kett this eve­ning) that he had ma­de it easy for her to stay well wit­hin her com­fort zo­ne. Abo­ve all he had ma­de it easy for her to get sex wit­ho­ut ever ha­ving to ad­mit she wan­ted it.

  Gra­ce had put her fin­ger right on it. She had be­en trying to ob­li­te­ra­te her body. She had symbo­li­cal­ly tri­ed to get rid of her body over and over. That wasn’t pos­sib­le, so she tri­ed not to think abo­ut its de­si­res. That wasn’t pos­sib­le, so she tri­ed to pre­tend that she didn’t think abo­ut it.

  How ra­ti­onal she had pre­ten­ded to be. How co­ol and dis­tant to ke­ep her­self from kno­wing what she was do­ing. Talk abo­ut hypoc­risy! She had fo­und men who didn’t ask her for da­tes, and that way she ne­ver had to won­der if they wo­uld ask her for the next one. She cal­led that “fre­edom from ex­pec­ta­ti­ons.” She fo­und men who li­ked to he­ar them­sel­ves talk long eno­ugh for her to pre­tend the re­la­ti­on­s­hip was sig­ni­fi­cant. She had cal­led that “bu­il­ding on a fri­en­d­s­hip.”

  As for the sex they had, she had in­sis­ted on hygi­ene. But ot­her­wi­se, she hadn’t ne­eded to do an­y­t­hing. So­oner or la­ter in an eve­ning, Blo­unt wo­uld say, “Ti­me to ta­ke off yo­ur clot­hes,” or so­met­hing just as me­mo­rab­le. She co­uld ha­ve sex wit­ho­ut ever ad­mit­ting she wan­ted it.

  From the mo­ment he had wal­ked in the do­or Ca­leb had de­man­ded that she say it. Say she wan­ted it. All day long, she had known this mo­ment was co­ming. Still she had drif­ted along, pre­ten­ding that in the end so­met­hing wo­uld hap­pen, and she wo­uldn’t ha­ve to de­ci­de.

  This was whe­re she stop­ped beg­ging for crumbs from li­fe and step­ped up to the tab­le, if she co­uld find the co­ura­ge.

  “Emmie?”

  “You cal­led me a ‘de­er in the he­ad­lights’-” She shrug­ged. “This is the way I get. To­tal­ly pa­ral­y­zed. I ha­ve ne­ver sa­id what I want. You know all tho­se fa­iry ta­les abo­ut the per­son who ma­kes a wish and gets it, and it’s ter­rib­le-so­met­hing aw­ful hap­pens?”

  “You lo­oking for gu­aran­te­es? You want me to say ever­y­t­hing will be all right for the rest of yo­ur li­fe if you do this?”

  “No. I’m lo­oking for a way to ha­ve what I want wit­ho­ut ta­king the chan­ce of as­king.”

  Chapter 29

  She had lost him. Si­lently, he pic­ked up the two glas­ses they had used for the Ba­ileys. Crad­ling them bet­we­en the fin­gers of one hand, he car­ri­ed them to the tiny kit­c­hen. Pe­op­le had bat­h­ro­oms lar­ger than her kit­c­hen. The­re was only the sink on one wall with a small ref­ri­ge­ra­tor at the end of the ca­bi­net, an apar­t­ment-si­ze sto­ve bet­we­en the do­ors, and a lit­tle tab­le with two cha­irs next to the win­dow. The­re wasn’t ro­om for two pe­op­le. Em­mie sto­od in the do­or­way.

  As al­ways he mo­ved ne­arly so­un­d­les­sly. At the sink he was­hed the glas­ses and set them in the dish dra­iner. He per­for­med the mun­da­ne cho­re as he did ever­y­t­hing- with com­p­le­te fo­cu­sed at­ten­ti­on, no hint of a was­ted mo­ti­on. The glas­ses ma­de no no­ise when he set them on the­ir rims in the old yel­low plas­tic dra­iner. He ca­re­ful­ly dri­ed his hands on a to­wel that had be­en left on the co­un­ter, then hung the to­wel on its rack, stra­ig­h­te­ned it, and cen­te­red it.

  The ac­ti­on might ha­ve lo­oked fi­nicky per­for­med by an­yo­ne el­se. By him, it simply lo­oked li­ke he did tasks un­til they we­re do­ne, and he did them right. He was go­ing to le­ave, so, of co­ur­se, he wo­uld tidy any mess he’d ma­de be­fo­re he did.

  She was mo­re awa­re of him as a physi­cal man, a per­son in a body, than she had ever be­en. No, that wasn’t true. She was as awa­re as she had al­ways be­en. The on­ly dif­fe­ren­ce was that now, she ad­mit­ted it to her­self. Now, too la­te, she ma­de no ef­fort to stop her­self from wan­ting to run her hand ac­ross his sho­ul­der, down his back, and ac­ross his ne­at buns.

  He tur­ned to fa­ce her. The co­lor of his eyes was lost in the de­ep sha­dow un­der his brows, whi­le the gla­re of the harsh ce­iling light threw his strong no­se and sharp che­ek­bo­nes in­to high re­li­ef. The­re was a scar she hadn’t no­ti­ced be­fo­re on his left che­ek. Small, but sca­rily clo­se to his eye. Her he­art con­t­rac­ted to think of him im­pe­ri­led, at the mercy of the for­ces that com­pel us to con­si­der mor­ta­lity. Yes, she ad­mit­ted now, she had wan­ted to to­uch him.

  She hadn’t do­ne it.

  He wasn’t smi­ling.

  Her art te­ac­her used to say the­re’s ne­ver a sha­dow so dark it do­esn’t ha­ve so­me light. Tho­ugh she co­uldn’t ma­ke out the co­
lor of his eyes in the­ir de­ep sha­dow, she co­uld see the tran­s­pa­rent glis­ten of the lens. She co­uld see him lo­oking at her. For on­ce, even as sha­do­wed as his eyes we­re, the­re was not­hing hid­den in the­ir ga­ze.

  He le­aned aga­inst the co­un­ter and res­ted his hands on his hips. It was a way he sto­od when he had so­met­hing to say. She ha­ted that she was just now un­der­s­tan­ding that. Be­fo­re she’d only se­en that the stan­ce bro­ught out the bre­adth and po­wer of his sho­ul­ders and the strong mo­de­ling of his fo­re­arms, ma­king the po­int that he was not a man to be trif­led with.

  He coc­ked his he­ad slightly. “The­re’s a li­ne drawn bet­we­en us,” he sa­id in his dark um­ber vo­ice. “It’s a li­ne that you ma­de. I didn’t ma­ke it. And you’re the one who has to step ac­ross it.”

  “You’re not le­aving?”

  Now, he did smi­le, just eno­ugh to chan­ge the sha­dows at the cor­ners of his lips. “I’m he­re, Em­mie. Right he­re. Tell me what you want.”

  She tri­ed to hold out her arms. He co­uld co­me to her. He co­uld. He knew how. He co­uld ta­ke over now. He smi­led a lit­tle mo­re, ra­ised one eyeb­row. Em­mie re­eval-uated the sho­ul­ders and de­ci­ded she’d be­en right the first ti­me. Hol­ding out her arms wasn’t go­ing to do it.

  “This is scary for me.”

  “Scary for me too.”

  Emmie ha­ted to con­fess her inep­ti­tu­de, but the ti­me for pre­ten­se was go­ne. Not­hing, ab­so­lu­tely not­hing, ca­me to mind. “I don’t know how to say what I want.”

  “Tell you what. I can’t step over the li­ne for you, but I’m right he­re. I’m not go­ing an­y­w­he­re. And you don’t ha­ve to think of ever­y­t­hing you’ll ever want. Just one thing.”

  “But I don’t know. I don’t know how to start.”

  “Don’t tre­at it li­ke a bunch of mo­ves to be go­ne thro­ugh. What do you want? What’s the one, next thing you’re su­re you want?”

  “I don’t want to be ac­ross the ro­om from you.”

  “That’s what you don’t want. What do you want?”

  Emmie lis­te­ned de­ep in­si­de her body to find what the hun­ger was, whe­re it lay in her body, what wo­uld sa­tisfy it. “I want to be right up next to you. I want to fe­el yo­ur he­at aga­inst my body.”

  His eyes fla­red in what? Sur­p­ri­se? Di­sap­pro­val? Em­mie won­de­red if, even yet, she hadn’t got­ten it right, but she didn’t ca­re. “It’s what I want.’

  “All right.”

  Emmie had sa­id what she wan­ted, but he still sto­od with his back to the sto­ve. Still with his sho­ul­ders spre­ad and his hands on his hips. “Aren’t you go­ing to do so­met­hing?”

  Ca­leb’s eyes crin­k­led. “I will. When you help yo­ur­self to what you want.”

  Emmie step­ped clo­ser. Clo­ser to whe­re his scent, his warmth, ca­me aro­und her. It was won­der­ful. It was sa­fe and he­ady and scary. She co­uld fe­el the po­wer that re­sul­ted from in­ten­se physi­ca­lity tra­ined in­to ser­vi­ce of his in­tel­lect. It wasn’t con­t­rol so much as a per­fectly tu­ned ag­re­ement among his parts. It ra­di­ated from him li­ke mag­ne­tic li­nes of for­ce. She had felt it be­fo­re. Mo­re than on­ce it had ir­ri­ta­ted her be­ca­use it co­uld not be ig­no­red, nor co­uld it be con­ta­ined-not by her. What she hadn’t ad­mit­ted was how much she li­ked it. How it pul­sed energy de­ep in­si­de her to ma­ke her fe­el vib­rant and fo­cu­sed as if she’d dis­co­ve­red the most in­te­res­ting sen­sa­ti­on in the world. She was oddly lan­gu­oro­us, her hips sud­denly lo­oser, her bre­asts he­avy.

  The­re was so­met­hing el­se, now that she ope­ned her sen­ses to him. He wan­ted her. She knew it. She co­uld fe­el his hun­ger. And she co­uld fe­el how he hun­ge­red for her to want him. Her own se­xu­al po­wer that she’d first felt a co­up­le of we­eks ago had be­en li­ke a can­d­le fla­me. Now it felt li­ke the ro­aring bur­ner of a hot air bal­lo­on. It he­ated her and fil­led her, and if she lo­osed the last of her tet­hers, it wo­uld swe­ep her away.

  The mo­re she al­lo­wed her sen­ses to fill, the mo­re the hun­ger in­ten­si­fi­ed. Her thro­at felt too full, and she ne­eded pres­su­re. She slid her fin­gers ac­ross the crisp cot­ton of his shirt aro­und to his back, so she co­uld use le­ve­ra­ge to pull him and her­self clo­ser.

  It was won­der­ful. Her arms felt full at last, and pa­ra­do­xi­cal­ly she co­uld re­li­eve the pres­su­re in her bre­asts by pus­hing aga­inst him. In a mi­nu­te, it was still won­der­ful, but it wasn’t eno­ugh. “I want you to put yo­ur arms aro­und me. I want you to pull me clo­ser.”

  His arms ca­me aro­und her, wrap­ping her in strong, hard he­at. She co­uld fe­el his so­un­d­less gro­an of re­li­ef un­der her hands, whe­re she held them firm to his back.

  She co­uldn’t lift her right arm high eno­ugh to put her arms aro­und his neck and pull his he­ad down. She ho­oked her hands aro­und his back and over his sho­ul­ders, pul­ling her­self up. She lif­ted her fa­ce as clo­se has she co­uld get. “Kiss!”

  A si­lent chuc­k­le sho­ok his di­ap­h­ragm.

  His mo­uth ca­me down on hers. Hot. Open. He ga­ve him­self for her ple­asu­re.

  After a mi­nu­te the stra­in on her sho­ul­der in­ten­si­fi­ed in­to an ac­he, and she re­luc­tantly let her­self down. “I can’t do it by myself. I can’t do it un­less you hold my he­ad.”

  “We co­uld lie down. You wo­uldn’t ha­ve to ask so much of yo­ur sho­ul­der.”

  It was a go­od idea, but… “Not… yet. I want to fe­el yo­ur front on my back.”

  She tur­ned in his arms to put her back aga­inst him and thro­ugh the do­or­way in­to the bed­ro­om saw her­self in the dres­ser mir­ror. The bed­ro­om was in sha­dow, the only light was the ref­lec­ti­on. It was li­ke the­re was a win­dow in the bed­ro­om open to a dif­fe­rent re­ality.

  Her fa­ce lo­oked as she had ne­ver se­en it be­fo­re, her eyes lar­ge and dark, the lids he­avy, her ex­p­res­si­on re­mo­te, yet in­tent. He sen­sed her tran­s­fi­xed at­ten­ti­on, lo­oked up, met her eyes in the mir­ror, and smi­led. Just the fa­in­test la­te­ral mo­ve­ment of his lips. The smi­le of a chess mas­ter wat­c­hing the per­fect mo­ve to set the ga­me exactly the way he wants it to go.

  “Want to see?”

  She co­uldn’t an­s­wer, be­ca­use she co­uldn’t ta­ke one shred of at­ten­ti­on from the wo­man in the mir­ror and the gol­den man be­si­de her.

  He smi­led his chess mas­ter’s smi­le. “Watch.”

  Slowly, whi­le one hand res­ted on her sho­ul­der, he mo­ved the ot­her. In the mir­ror a gol­den mas­cu­li­ne hand, lar­ge-knuc­k­led with long ta­pe­red fin­gers, tra­ve­led ac­ross the blue silk of the swe­ater over the wo­man’s ribs and with ex­c­ru­ci­ating de­li­be­ra­ti­on cup­ped the wo­man’s bre­ast then kne­aded it.

  With the sa­me de­li­be­ra­ti­on he mo­ved to the ot­her bre­ast to gi­ve it the sa­me at­ten­ti­on. Then he let his hand fall to his si­de.

  She knew what she co­uld do if she wan­ted mo­re.

  Still mes­me­ri­zed by the wo­man in the mir­ror, Em­mie bro­ught her hands up to the lo­ops that fas­te­ned the co­ve­red but­tons.

  “You’re un­but­to­ning the swe­ater to show yo­ur bre­asts to me.” His vo­ice was de­eper, dar­ker, ras­ping. In it pul­sed a tri­umph he ma­de no ef­fort to hi­de. “Be­ca­use you li­ke lo­oking at yo­ur­self, and you want me to lo­ok at you.”

  When she had un­but­to­ned the last three but­tons ac­ross her mid­riff, pus­hing his warm hard hands bet­we­en her skin and the swe­ater star­ting at the sho­ul­ders, he pe­eled it down her arms. The who­le ti­me, he wat­c­hed what he did in the mir­ror. The swe­ater drop­ped to the flo­or.

 
He fi­nis­hed with his arms co­ve­ring her arms, his hands co­ve­ring her hands. She felt as if she wo­re him now, and in the mir­ror, the blue la­ce of the bra ma­de the whi­te­ness of her bre­asts al­most lu­mi­no­us. He lo­oked at them, and as he sa­id, she li­ked lo­oking at her­self when he was lo­oking at her.

  “Now what?”

  “You de­ci­de. One next thing. Ha­ve you ever felt yo­ur own bre­asts?” His hands still crad­ling hers, he bro­ught her fin­gers to her chest. “He­re they are. Fe­el them. Fe­el what I fe­el.”

  He to­ok his hands away, and she kne­aded her bre­asts as he had, her whi­te hand aga­inst the blue la­ce. She felt him in­ha­le. Saw his in­tent fa­ce in the mir­ror.

  “Do you li­ke that? Wat­c­hing me to­uch my bre­asts?”

  “Oh, ye­ah.” He stro­ked him­self aga­inst her but­tocks.

  She felt for his hand and bro­ught it to her bre­ast. His gol­den hand with the long fin­gers and scar­red knuc­k­les. She put her hand on top of his and pres­sed hard, wat­c­hing the bre­ast mo­ve.

  She ma­de su­re she had his eye in the mir­ror and snap­ped open the front clasp of her bra. She lif­ted the la­ce away. Perky her bre­asts wo­uld ne­ver be, but she saw them the first ti­me wit­ho­ut jud­g­ment. They we­re whi­te. Even whi­ter than her up­per chest. Fa­int blue ve­ins cris­scros­sed un­der the skin that gle­amed with a sa­tin she­en.

  Still wat­c­hing him, she lif­ted one whi­te glo­be. She mo­ved her hand un­til the pink nip­ple pe­aked bet­we­en two fin­gers. “To­uch it.”

  He smi­led at her in the mir­ror and la­id one fo­re­fin­ger on it. She saw the de­vi­lish gle­am just be­fo­re he ca­ught it bet­we­en thumb and fo­re­fin­ger and pluc­ked it. Her kne­es thre­ate­ned to buc­k­le.

  She tur­ned to fa­ce him and felt for the but­tons of his shirt. “I want to see you now. I want to fe­el you.”