by M. Pierce
“Matt!” I groaned.
He moaned against my cunt. His tongue lashed out, tasting the soaked seam of my body and delving in and out of me. He sucked on my clit and bit my lips, tugging, savoring my desire. He made the most indecent sounds.
Pleasure warmed me from my abdomen outward. I curled my fingers against the floorboards and the blush staining my cheeks burned hotter. With Matt’s mouth devouring my pussy, I kept getting wetter. I couldn’t stop. I tried to stop, because it was embarrassing—the amount of arousal oozing from me and coating Matt’s lips and tongue.
But Matt didn’t care. Or rather, he loved it. He lapped at me and licked it away; he sucked on me and made me wet again. Delight crackled up my nerves and sent signals like fireworks to my brain.
“Oh, God … Matt,” I moaned. “Matt … Matt.”
That boy loved to hear his name on my lips. He moaned in response, his voice vibrating over my clit, and I gasped. “Fuck, Matt!”
Another answering moan, muffled in the soft petals of my sex.
His strong hands encouraged me to move. He drove me up and down, rubbing my body over his lips, down to his chin, up to his nose. I shook violently. Oh … I was making a mess on my lover’s face, I could feel it.
I dared a look at Matt. My breasts swayed above the floor, and beyond them I saw the top of Matt’s head. Even in this, he couldn’t stay still. He leaned away from the floor. He pressed his mouth into my body intimately, buried his face, gasped for air.
My hips wanted to roll against his mouth, but I held back. Why?
I want this, Matt said. Don’t hold back. Do your best …
Matt always wanted me to abandon reason—in sex as well as in life. That’s what he did. Why couldn’t I? He lived without fear of what others thought. I lived like a normal person, in my self-imposed restraint. But Matt was free, I knew, and I was not, and the double edge of his freedom was his incredible instinctive selfishness.
I swayed my hips, bucking against his face. He slapped my ass. The swift sting heightened my pleasure. I thrust again and he hit me again. When I began to move on my own, he released my bottom. God, I probably had bruises, he gripped me so hard. And fuck, I loved that. I loved his fierce need.
I watched Matt as I drove my sex over his mouth. Sticky streaks covered his skin. He licked and sucked when he could, but mostly he let me work my rhythm. I understood then what he wanted me to do. He wanted me to bring myself to orgasm like this.
I didn’t miss a beat as I moved. Why should I? So often during sex, Matt forced his erection into my mouth—and I gagged on it with joy. His desire and my degradation were white-hot pleasure for us both. My desire and his degradation were the same.
In the groove of Matt’s mouth, I found a spot to rub my clit. I rode him steadily, my thighs tense as I applied pressure. He stopped spanking me. His hands rested against my sides and his noises quieted. I threw back my head, blood rushing to it, and the colors of the condo swirled kaleidoscopically. All for me—this crazy décor. Our small, safe, happy place.
I closed my eyes and searched for my pleasure.
When the roll of my hips grew tiny and frantic, Matt plunged his tongue into me. He fucked me with it as I came.
I moaned, my voice a hoarse cry, and I rubbed out the whole of my pleasure against his mouth, and it was fire and heaven all over again. That garden where only he took me.
Chapter 42
MATT
We lay together on the floor, sticky and breathless.
“Are you cold?” Hannah whispered.
With her sweet breath blowing across my ear, her body draped over mine, I almost believed we were all right.
“You know I am,” I said, because I always get cold after I come, and she hugged me.
She doted on me for a while—rubbed my sides, kissed my collarbone, and feathered her fingers through my hair—and then she sat up and the spell snapped.
We weren’t all right.
I wiped my face and chest with my T-shirt. I retied my pants.
Hannah swayed as she struggled back into her panties and dress. I watched, detached, rather than reaching to steady her.
My hand ached. Fortunately, Hannah hadn’t noticed me favoring the left.
I retrieved a hoodie from the bedroom and returned to find her standing by the door, her expression inscrutable. Don’t leave, I thought, though I felt so confused. Warring emotions. Loneliness for Hannah. Brittle anger when I remembered Seth.
“I’m sorry,” she said. She plucked her keys out of her purse. “We probably shouldn’t have done that. It confuses everything.”
I folded my arms. “I enjoyed it.”
“Yeah…” She trailed off. Her gaze danced along the floor, pausing where I’d knelt. “Um. Your keys.” She freed our condo and mailbox keys and held them out to me.
I closed her fingers around the keys. “Keep them.”
“Matt—”
“Just keep them. Where are you staying?”
“At a hotel. Alone.”
“Move back in. We don’t have to have sex. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“Yeah, because we have so much restraint.” Her gaze loitered on the floor. I could see her deciding that what just happened was a mistake. Fuck. It wasn’t a mistake.
“Tell me what happened with Seth,” I said.
Hannah blanched, her eyes growing wide.
“Tell me,” I insisted. “If you don’t, I’ll keep imagining the worst, and the worst is—”
“I didn’t sleep with him. I didn’t. I never cheated on you. After I left you, though—” Hannah hesitated, and I stared at her mouth, unable to comprehend. She lied to me? She didn’t sleep with him. This is good news. But it feels bad. “Matt, it’s fucking impossible to explain. I was drunk. I gave him a hand job. That’s all.”
Instantly, the image materialized. Sickening. Hannah’s hand on my brother.
I went for my cigarettes, which were on the coffee table.
“Fine,” I said.
“Fine? You’re angry.”
“Yeah, fucking sue me.” I turned away from Hannah. “Of course I am.”
“It was a onetime thing, Matt. It was a mistake. I was drunk … I was messed up. How can you be angry now, when you thought I slept with him before? God, you make no sense.”
I glared at the wall, seething.
“He took advantage of you,” I hissed.
“No. I took advantage of him.” Hannah’s voice hardened. “And I did it because I was trying to get over you, okay? And I never will, and I know that now.”
“Oh?” I laughed. “Now you know, is that right?” I rounded on her. I wanted to look her in the eye, let her see my hurt and anger. “All it took to clarify your feelings for me … was giving my brother a hand job?” I smiled venomously. “How convenient. Tell me, did you also have to blow Nate, or was handling Seth enough to—”
The flat of her hand struck my cheek, hard. My head whipped aside with the force of the slap. Fuck. I was asking for that.
The sting came belatedly, pain sizzling to the surface of my skin.
“Hey, fuck you,” Hannah growled. “At least I wasn’t buying drinks for some ditzy little girl, letting her feel me up by the side of the road—”
“Oh, get off it. Don’t you fucking start in on my writing.”
“Ha! Your writing. Is that even writing, or is that just transcribing your fucked-up life?”
“You wouldn’t know the difference, Hannah. You’re not a fucking writer—and you don’t know a goddamn thing about it.”
“God, you’re so conceited! You don’t have the fucking patent on pain, Matt.” She shoved my chest. “You don’t get to play the tortured genius card every time you fuck up.”
Part of me—a small, remote part—admired Hannah even as we squared off. Dear fucking God, she was beautiful. She was alive in her anger, her eyes illuminated, her body electric. She gave no ground, took no excuses. She saw straight through me.
Mag
nificent.
We ran out of angry words, and Hannah left spontaneously. The emptiness of the condo echoed around me. Nate made his nightly call; I lied and told him I was fine. The living room smelled of sex and Hannah’s perfume.
I killed the lights, smoked on the balcony, and thought about her.
Afterward, I sent her an e-mail.
My thoughts crystallized instantly into words—no brooding and backspacing.
Subject: (no subject)
Sender: Matthew R. Sky Jr.
Date: Monday, April 28, 2014
Time: 10:15 PM
Hannah,
Do you know the story of the Garden of Eden?
God banishes Adam and Eve from the garden, and he blocks the gates forever with angels and a sword of fire.
You’re that sword—I swear.
Tonight I said things I didn’t mean. You did, too.
But you know the truth. You’ll never be happy without me. Come home.
Matt
I sat in the office waiting for her reply, which came within minutes.
Subject: Re: (no subject)
Sender: Hannah Catalano
Date: Monday, April 28, 2014
Time: 10:21 PM
Matt—
You’re so poetic when you want to be. Are you manipulating me, or are you a hopeless romantic? I can never tell. This is what I get for falling in love with an artist. You don’t see the difference between fiction and reality. Everything is your story.
I need a few days to think.
Hannah
“A few days to think” turned into a week, which passed in a colorless procession.
May arrived with warm, blustery mornings and the sort of cool spring evenings that would have been heaven with Hannah—and that were hollow without her.
I wrote and read and ran.
I seemed to fantasize nonstop.
When I slept, I dreamed I was still in the mountains—surrounded by silence and thin air—and the search parties called for me in the dark. Matthew Sky! M. Pierce!
Unfamiliar voices ringing through the woods.
I ran, of course, and they never found me.
Chapter 43
HANNAH
On May 7, I turned twenty-eight.
I drove to my parents’ house, where Mom, Dad, Chrissy, and Jay threw a party for me. I felt like a kid. A kid with no friends.
Still, I could see that it made Mom happy, so I went through the motions. They all pitched in on an Amazon gift card, and we ate sushi and drank Red Stripe.
After the cake, Chrissy and I sat on the deck. I stargazed and she smoked a cigarette.
“So,” I said. “You and Wiley.”
“Me and Wiley.” She sighed dreamily.
“Be careful, Chris. Those guys are into some serious stuff.”
“You mean coke?” My sister smiled at me. Chrissy probably came into contact with drugs all the time, but I felt obligated to warn her. Older sister habits die hard.
“Yeah,” I said, “and who knows what else? Just—”
“I’ll be careful. Don’t worry.”
We sat in silence for a while. Chrissy smoked a second cigarette, and when she finished it, she said, “Han, I gotta show you something.”
She led me into the house and down to my old room in the basement, which now served as a storage room for junk. How depressing.
“Here.” She toed a large box. It had been opened. “Dad was going to throw it out, because … he honestly thinks Matt is insane and dangerous, but…”
Matt? I knelt by the box. It was addressed to me at my parents’ house. He must have assumed I moved home. I glanced at the return address. PoshTots…?
“Hey, isn’t this like … a high-end kids’ store?”
“Pretty much,” Chrissy said.
She perched on a stool while I peered into the box. A gift note lay on top of a mountain of Styrofoam peanuts.
Sweet Bird—Happy birthday. I didn’t know where to send this. I hope you get it. Just a little something. I love you. Matt
I sifted through the packing material. My fingertips bumped into velvety fabric, and I withdrew a … plush rabbit?
Button eyes dimpled its small face.
“There’s like twenty of them in there,” Chrissy murmured.
She was right. I found more rabbits in the box, each made with unique fabric, as well as ducks, elephants, squirrels, pigs, owls, and turtles. “Over two-freaking-thousand dollars in stuffed animals,” Chrissy informed me. “I Googled that shit.”
I sat cross-legged on the carpet with my little menagerie surrounding me.
“Chris, I better give him a call.”
She nodded and slipped out, closing the door behind her.
I found Matt in my contacts—we were back to using our real phones—and hit send.
He answered a few seconds into the first ring.
“Birds,” he said. “Happy birthday.”
“Hey. Thanks.”
“Twenty-eight, huh?”
“That’s right.” I picked at one of the plush owls.
“Did you get the animal friends I sent?”
He was in a good mood, I could tell. Sweet warm voice, no cynicism in it, probably smiling, probably because I’d called. My toes curled instinctively. I loved happy Matt …
And the last Matt I saw was definitely not happy.
“Yeah,” I said. Yeah, leave it to you to give me the most ridiculously cute and whimsical birthday gift ever and make me feel like a child in the best possible way. Damn it. “They’re … great. Adorable. I don’t know what to say, I mean … thank you.”
“You could invite me over.”
“Hm?” I sat up straighter. “Uh, it’s pretty late.”
“So what? I’m a night owl, remember?”
“How could I forget. Matt, I just … don’t think you should come over. It’s my first time home in a while. And my father might castrate you.”
“Dang…”
“Yeah. He thinks you’re crazy. You can probably see his point of view, right? The stuff last year in Geneva, now faking your death. You’re not every father’s ideal—”
“I won’t knock,” Matt said. “I’ll park down the street and walk.”
“No, Matt. I don’t think—”
“Great. I’ll meet you out back. By the hammock? Gimme ten minutes.”
“Hello? Matt? I am saying don’t come over. Are you—”
Click.
“Matt? Hello?”
I blinked at my phone. That son of a bitch …
I wrote a text.
Stubborn night owl. I’ll meet you in the backyard.
I grinned when I hit Send. Hm, this was fun.
Fifteen minutes later, I crept through the basement to the patio door. Chrissy must have gone to her room, and Mom and Dad were sleeping—I hoped. Jay was gaming. He didn’t look at me as I passed the computer. Only Daisy, our ten-year-old springer spaniel, showed an interest in my mission. She snuffled around my feet and whined as I peered through the glass.
I could just make out the pale cords of the hammock in the dark. I cleaned my glasses and looked again. It seemed to be swaying gently.
I let myself out, not Daisy, and strolled toward the back of the yard. Spring wind rushed through the trees. The stars looked like little sockets of fire, and I felt slightly displaced, which is what spring nights do to me.
I glanced back at the house. Lights out, good …
“Hello, little bird.”
I froze.
Matt lay in the hammock, arms folded behind his head, legs crossed at the ankles. He wore a T-shirt and pale torn jeans. I knew those jeans. I knew how they hung low around his hips. His hair was disheveled. He smiled at me.
In two words, he looked fucking edible.
“The last time you came out of your house for me, all furtively, I mean, you were wearing some tiny”—he gestured at me—“tiny things, under a big old housecoat. Such a powerful memory for me, Hannah. Mm �
�� when I remember that, I—”
“Okay, okay.” I laughed reluctantly. “I think I know where you’re going with that.”
“Come keep me company.”
My feet carried me closer to the hammock. “I’ve been thinking, you know, and—Matt!” I shrieked as his arm snaked around me. He yanked me onto his body. The hammock swayed perilously. From inside, Daisy sounded the alarm—three throaty old-dog barks. I giggled and she went quiet. “You’re a jerk.”
“You wouldn’t have come out here if you were really angry with me.” Matt tucked my body against his. His hands traveled over me, remembering me in their greedy way. “Mm, Hannah bird. I’m lonely for you. I bet you called to check up on me. Afraid I’ll drink?”
“Should I be?”
“Should I drink? Will that make you come take care of me? I like when you dote on me.”
Matt’s hands made a persuasive case. He stroked my back again and again, the pressure and pace of his palms sensual. I pillowed my head on his chest. I breathed in the scent of his body wash. Oh, freshly showered Matt … fuck me …
No! Ugh. What the hell?
“No drinking,” I said. “Of course no drinking. That’s not a joke.”
“I know, I know.” Matt sighed. His hands were under my shirt, rubbing my sides. My toes curled and uncurled. “I’m kidding. Contrary to popular belief, I take my sobriety very seriously. So what were you saying—something about thinking?”
I trailed my fingers over Matt’s neck. I remembered last July and how we lay in this hammock, and how Matt kissed me against a big cottonwood. That same longing existed between us, not at all diminished. Was it because we stayed apart so much? Would our passion fade if we stopped all this stupidity and attempted a real, durable relationship?
“I was thinking, I have a stipulation.”
“Fancy,” Matt murmured.
“If I move back in, you have to start seeing Mike again. Regularly. Or another therapist, I don’t care.”
Matt’s arms stilled. “Why? I’m fine now.”
“No, you’re not. You think you can keep me in the dark, but you can’t. The way you lie to me … it’s a problem. It’s like a chronic problem. Your lists? The way you flip out when you can’t control something? What about the fact that you can’t say good-bye? Look, everyone has issues, Matt. Everyone could benefit from a professional, objective opinion—”
