by Kellie Hart
“Don’t give up now, Carey,” Atticus encourages when I stop to take a breath. “I need to know how this ends, and I think you need to tell me.”
“Without a word, I turned around and walked away. I grabbed the keys to my car. I had no idea where I was going, but as I stepped toward the door, Mike grabbed my arm and spun me around. He shoved me forward, and I stumbled into the bedroom. The blondes laughed as I tried to avoid the bed, but I fell between them, onto the filthy sheets. Mike asked what the hell I thought I was doing by leaving, and when I didn’t answer, he screamed that if I loved him as I claimed, I would stay and join them—that I would do it to keep him happy. Silenced, all I could do was shake my head in protest. That is when he said that it was my fault he had ended up fucking someone else at all. Mike, seeing that this was the moment I would no longer surrender, told me to get out, and the fight left within me perished. Irreparably shattered, I left, and I thought that would be the end of our story.”
“There’s more?” Atticus asks, his voice as broken as my own.
I nod a silent yes and confess the worst of it. “A few months after I moved out, I was staying with my grandmother until I could afford a place of my own. Mike showed up and demanded to see me. Grandma answered the door, but Mike burst through and found me hiding in my bedroom. Grandma called the cops, but by the time they arrived, Mike had pinned me on the bed… I was naked, and he had given me a black eye. I won’t let myself say what he did to me, but I have a restraining order against him to make sure it never happens again. He’s still shown up at Hot Rod despite the court order, and the bouncers have thrown him out each time. Luckily, I have not seen him face-to-face in over three years. I’d like to keep it that way because he is a reminder of everything about my past I never want to relive.”
When the story is finished, I gasp for air, and Atticus’s arms rise up around me, protecting me. As I am wrapped up in the embrace of someone who understands more than most what I’ve been through, I am safe for the first time in years. Despite being sheltered in his embrace, the tears return in a rabid torrent, and Atticus kisses them away, one at a time. Each tender press of his lips scorches my skin, and each imbues my mind and spirit with courage I’ve never known.
I wring my fingers together and tuck them beneath my chin, keeping my eyes shut. Unlike ever before, I want to feel what Mike did to me in a way that is truer than the pain of the knife he left planted in my back, its tip emblazoned with a lesson well learned—love broke me. Rather than fighting yet again to reach the handle of that blade that is impossible to remove, I choose instead to relive the moment it entered me, with years of distance between me and the memories. Drawing strength from the man beside me, I take a deep breath and study the final expression on Mike’s face when I caught him with another. I truly listen to every damn curse he hurled at me when he threw me out of his life, and I finally hope that I will discover a purpose in the torture I endured.
No one will ever fuck you like I do, Mike had promised.
`
I was never going to marry you, he admitted. It was all a lie.
I never loved you either, he confessed.
I had always thought the things Mike screamed at me that fateful evening were nothing more than new additions to his ever-growing string of insults, but even if they were, Mike still gave me the truth about our relationship. I had been used, and he never intended to love me as I’d loved him. In some sick way, his admissions set me free. I was unable to see it until now, and as I lie in Atticus’s arms, reliving my worst nightmare, I find at last what my heart desperately craves: closure.
Yes, I loved Mike once with every fucking cell of my body, but when love is given freely by one then hoarded and abused by the other, it ceases to be love. The emotion becomes something entirely different, a weapon one can use against another, and that is exactly what happened between me and Mike. I gave, he took, and I escaped only when he brought a fucking hammer down on what we had left.
Love broke me—what a fucking hilarious lie.
Mike broke me.
I have no reason to fear love any longer.
“Carolina?” Atticus whispers. “How are you feeling?”
I press myself against the length of his body, soaking up his warmth. “I feel like there’s no place I’d rather be, than here with you.”
“You scared me for a moment. You grew so quiet after you finished speaking that I feared I had lost you once and for all.”
“Not a chance,” I say. “I think I am more here than I have been in a very long time.”
I smile into Atticus’s chest as the exhaustion of my emotional epiphany threatens to overtake me. So many questions have been addressed, and so many more answers have been gathered. I close my eyes once more, needing a few moments to take in what all of this means, and more than a few minutes to enjoy the solid truth of Atticus’s body next to mine. As my heart, at last, beats smoothly and contentedly within me, the most important question of all rises to the surface: when will I be ready to love again?
“Thank you for sharing your story with me,” Atticus whispers into my hair. “It warms my heart to finally not feel so alone in the world. For what it is worth, Carolina, I want you, so very much. I will bear the burden of proof with my words and my actions. You owe me nothing, and I will make it my duty to give you everything. I swear it, Carey—I am here as long as you will have me.”
My God, I can so fucking love this man.
With a quiet smile on my face, I move to my back, and Atticus rises above me. How he’s still awake, I can only guess, but one of his hands draws the sheets away from my breasts, down my tummy, to the tops of my knees. The other sneaks between my thighs and takes an unscheduled tour of the Lady Berry Farm. A groan escapes my lips when Atticus’s hand cups my heat. I crush myself against his rough palm as he takes a nipple into his mouth. All too soon, he releases the pointy bud with a loud pop and kisses a blazing trail down my body until he’s nestled between my knees. He sucks the skin right above the juncture of my leg and hip, just before our eyes meet over the swell of my breasts.
“What’re you doing, Atticus?” I pant.
“I was thinking I should add another requirement—making you scream the Queen’s name.”
Before I can ask what the hell he means, Atticus’s head disappears between my legs, and his tongue disappears inside of me. He laps, he licks, fucking me like he has gone barmy for my blimey bean. When I think I may spontaneously combust, he pushes my legs away, flips to his back, and drags me to sit atop his…neck.
“Oh, fuck me,” I say when I look down at him.
His blue eyes dance with mischief as he drags his tongue up my thigh. “I do briefly recall hearing from the backroom of the bakery that you would turn my face into a chair if given the appropriate opportunity, so I cordially invite you to have a sit.”
“You heard that?” I squeak out when his mouth connects with my clit.
“Mm hmm,” Atticus hums against me.
The vibrations tickle everything inside and outside of my body, lighting up my nerve endings with even more glorious need and want. I don’t think about how embarrassed I should be that he heard me. I just feel, riding his mouth to total ecstasy, slamming his beautiful face into the pillow below, until he pulls away and offers the smallest puff of cool air against my hot and swollen body. I shiver, and my head drops to find him grinning wickedly. This British son of a bitch knows exactly what he is doing to me.
“Come for me, love,” Atticus orders quietly. “Come, my beautiful girl. Come.”
The single syllable of that tiny word on Atticus’s lips drives me over the edge like a fucking bulldozer.
“Oh, fuck! Fuck! Queen… Queen—” I scream as the continued assault of his tongue wrecks me twice more.
“Ewizzabefff,” Atticus mumbles, his mouth full of me naughty bits. “Tween Ewizzabeff the Sexcond.”
“Oh, yes! Queen—Queen Elizabeth! May God save the motherfucking queen!”
&nb
sp; When I am spent, and can no longer support myself, I collapse across Atticus’s chest, and he cuddles me in his arms. My breathing slows, and I relish the feeling of his lazy fingers traversing my spine, especially when they stop for a fraction of a second to tug a curl that has flown lose of my pompadour.
“Carey Berry went to O-town a-riding Atty Batty,” I sing to myself. “He stuck his tongue inside her snatch and tasted her ovary! Atty Batty, keep it up—Atty Batty Boo. Mind the lube and the pubes, and let the pussy be—”
“You called me Atty,” he interrupts.
“Do you like it?”
“Yes,” Atticus says with a quiet yawn. “I think I like it quite a lot.”
After this, I say nothing, and when his adorable snore fills the room with its gentle rise and fall, I curl up as close to Atticus as I can. As he rests, the sun makes its way across the room, and the noises from the street below—muffled hellos and goodbyes in English and French, cars honking, jazz rising slowly from the gifted horn players on Bourbon—blur into the melody of our lullabye. My eyes close, and without fear, I lay a hand over Atty’s heart.
TEXTS WITH THE GANG OVER the next three weeks include:
Char: HAVE U HIT THAT YET? *mrreower* :-P → (/) X EGGPLANT^100892 = !!!!!!!
Me: Yasssss, you bish, and what the hell is that supposed to be, Char?
Char: Code 4 SEX. Or some algebracial equation 4 SEX. Who knew I could math so good?
***
Me: Have you seen Char today? Need to get one of my costumes from GCnS ASAP.
Jacque: Only if you tell me what you and Atticus did last night. Mrs. Lafourche messaged me, so don’t lie.
Me: ...She did what now?
Jacque: Old woman says she’s gotta file an insurance claim now about… a hot plate catching fire… on the front porch. ???????
Me: :’-D
Jacque: WHAT SAY YOU, YOUNG LADY!
Me: Well, Atty wanted pancakes, and the only extra outlet in the entire apartment is on the porch… so…
Jacque: What about the fire then?
Me: Got massage oil on the griddle.
Jacque: What? Sorry. Type louder. I didn’t hear you across Nola!!
Me: GOT MASSAGE OIL ON THE GRIDDLE.
Jacque: Do I want more information on that?
Me: Nope, but Atty Cakes are now my favorite breakfast food. Atty Cakes, Atty Cakes, sex god man, make me come as fast as you can…
Char: Did U roll it & pat it?
Me: CHAR! Were you reading this conversation the entire time?
Char: U NO it.
Jacque: Sorry. She threatened me with changing Julianna’s name to… BOB... if I didn’t let ‘er read over my shoulder.
Me: K. Gotcha. Bob Charles has a nice ring to it tho.
Char: Carey, don’t encourage her insolence, or your gonna be Bob’s uncle!!
Me: Gurlz, Atty is watching me with that *look.* And, yes, I marked it with a C!!
Jacque: And you’ve let him put it in that cooch-thang for a you and me, right?
Me: I gotta go! The massage oil is hot again!!
***
Fox: Morning, Carey-Out Special! Why does Atticus have a limp today?
Me: …Uhm…
Fox: Did you make him do a headstand in the shower again?
Me: YOU KNOW ABOUT THAT?!!
Fox: There are no secrets among fraternity brothers.
Me: Well, then, did you know he can put his leg behind his head?
Fox: ...No.
Me: Did you know he can suck his own…toes?
Fox: ...No.
Me: So, who’s feeling stupid now? Huh! Huh!!
Fox: Next time I ask what’s wrong with Atticus, simply ignore me. Please.
Me: Will do. But, you really should let him teach you that toe trick. Jacque’ll be super impressed.
***
Chad: You’ve got to stop telling Charlotte about your weird sexcapades with Atticus.
Me: Why? :-P
Chad: You’ve inadvertently encouraged my VERY pregnant wife to invest in rope and a tire. She wants to put a sex swing in our bedroom.
Me: And that’s bad… because?
Chad: Have you seen Char? She’s thirty seconds from bringing my child into the world!
Me: But… you would already have a swing ready to go for widdle Bob. Maybe Char’s just planning ahead, you know *nesting* and all.
Chad: She’s drilling holes in the ceiling right now!
Me: Take the drill away.
Chad: Do I want to live to see another day?
Me: Guess you’re getting a swing then! Hehehaw!
Chad: When it’s installed, I’ll invite you and Atticus over for the ass-warming party. BTW, Jacque wanted me to remind you we’ll all meet you at Hot Rod at nine. That okay?
Me: Sounds perfect! See you there! ;-)
Chad: Who the fuck is Bob?
***
“Put down the bloody phone, Carolina,” Atticus orders, “and get your ass over here.”
Laughing at Chad, I drop the phone onto the coffee table and turn to face Atticus. It is not as if he can’t spare a few seconds of my time to answer a friend’s message. Aside from my going to work and the photography he has been commissioned to do by the Historic New Orleans Collection, Atticus and I have been virtually inseparable. We have laughed until midnight over The Golden Girls, gone book browsing at Faulkner House, and done dinner at Tujague’s with our friends so Atticus could guarantee they all knew about the bread pudding. My bedroom now chronicles our relationship with the photos we have plastered to the walls, and evidence of Atticus making my home his own can be found everywhere else—his parrot underwear in the laundry hamper, his lens cleaner on a bedside table, his favorite Ansel Adams calendar tacked to the refrigerator. He has completely invaded my space, my life, and my heart, and I would not have it any other fucking way.
Somehow, too, Atticus’s requirements for sex have become part of our day-to-day routine. Two weeks ago, we moved to numbers five and six—allowing him to cook me dinner and buy me a dress I had quietly admired at the Laveau Closet. Three days ago, number seven was added to the list—letting Atticus design my first tattoo. Today, we arrive at number eight—Atticus fulfilling a fantasy of my choice—and I have chosen to be blindfolded.
I waste no energy contemplating the fact Atticus is making up these requirements as we go along. Something unspoken united Atticus and I the night we confessed our pasts, and it is this silent commitment to each other that I think has led us to where we are now—where I am now. I trust Atticus’s decisions. I believe he will never intentionally hurt me, and I put all my faith in the fact he is about to fuck my goddamn brains out.
“Carolina,” Atticus scolds. “I want your fucking attention. Now.”
Naked and intent on me, he stands only a few feet away, his jaw clenched, his eyes gone black as coal. His hands wring a belt to a violent death between talented fingers as he rages with the need to fuck.
My Atty is fucking beautiful.
I shiver as Atticus stalks forward. When I take a step away, he snatches me to him by my curls, and I slam into his chest. One hand still holds the belt, but the other yanks my head backwards. He violently pushes his tongue into my mouth and slaps my bare ass with the leather strap. Though it stings like fuck, pleasure radiates throughout my body, and a ragged breath fills my lungs. I melt into Atticus’s warm scent, into the hard planes of his chest against my breasts, and into the second snap of the belt against my skin.
“You have pissed me off, love, making me wait for my Carolina. Over to the corner with you, like a good girl now, to receive your punishment.”
With a sinister grin, Atticus points the belt to a spot in my living room, where an exposed ceiling beam is lower than the rest. From it dangle a few generous lengths of wide, luxurious burgundy ribbon. The fabric is called aerial silk, and it’s stunning yet strong, designed to take the full weight of the person suspended from it. I trained on it long before I began stripping
at Hot Rod, but I hid away it after I moved in. I suppose Atticus has decided to resurrect it. I quirk an eyebrow for further explanation as to his intentions for the fabric, but he simply points again to the place where I’m supposed to go. A few quick steps across the room, and I’m under the heavy strands of ribbon, and I run a finger down them before meeting Atticus’s eyes once more.
