by Renee Dyer
She shakes her head at me and closes her eyes. She looks pained and I’m not sure what I’ve done wrong. When she opens them, there’s an uneasiness there I’m not used to having directed at me.
“You didn’t have to do this…you don’t have to relive anything. Not for me. I don’t expect that from you. We can just eat the food and…”
I place my fingers over her lips. I adore her heart and how she’s trying to protect me, but I need to give this to her. She’s always giving herself to me and I hold back. Now that I think about it, I’m not giving her that much with the little I’m telling her today.
“I’ve never talked about my past with anyone, buttercup, and I’m not sure I ever would have had you not pushed for us to be friends. It’s not easy to be friends with me. I know that. I don’t know how to trust or open up, but I want to start today.”
She stops trying to fight my fingers against her mouth and nods. I drop my hand and we start to eat. While we eat, I replay my earlier memory to her. She listens intently and her smile grows bigger as I tell her about the attitude I had before my feet finally touched the flowers. This is one of my happiest memories and Gloria repeated it every year from the time I was five until I was ten. She would have liked to continue the tradition longer, but I felt I was too big to do something so babyish.
Sitting here with Cammie, I wish I had been able to go a few more times. Life was simpler then.
“That’s why I call you buttercup. Your smile reminds me of sunshine.” I’m embarrassed to tell her that and struggle to look at her while I say it. I don’t handle emotions well. Not happy emotions, anyway. “When you smile, your face lights up and it makes me think of a time when life was good. It brings me back to seeing a field of bright yellow and laughing. I don’t know how to explain it.”
“Your mom sounds wonderful,” she says.
I huff before thinking about my reaction. Any warm and fuzzies I was feeling dissipate instantly. “Nice is not a word I would use for Gloria.”
“Gloria?” She’s confused again and it’s my fault. I should have said my mom instead of using her name, but I haven’t called her mom in so many years now. I don’t know that I could have gotten the word past my lips, not when it’s not related to a memory.
“Gloria was my mother.” I try to keep the acid from my tone, but I can’t.
“Was? I don’t understand. You just told me that beautiful story.”
“I know. I told you for a reason, Cammie. You’re right to miss your parents. They love you. Gloria is a selfish woman who betrayed me in a way a mother should never betray her child. She hasn’t been my mother since I was sixteen.”
Her gasp sounds like a bomb detonating. Sometimes, the quietest gestures make the loudest noise.
Damn Gloria for putting me in this situation.
“It’s okay, really,” I assure her. “I’m okay with not having the Norman Rockwell family. It’s made me stronger.”
“No, Grant, it’s not okay. It’s sad,” she fires back at me. “Is she why you push everyone away?”
“Cammie, I don’t want to talk to you about her betrayal. I wanted to give you a happy memory from my past. Can’t that be enough?”
I can feel my heartbeat speed up. I’m not ready to tell her anymore about my life. I don’t want her to know the ugliness behind who I am.
“Of course. This friendship is already enough.”
She places her sandwich beside her, crawls over to me, and throws her arms around my neck. “I’m sorry for everything you’ve gone without, Grant. I’ll do everything I can to help you make up for those losses.”
I can’t take her feeling pain for me. I pull her tighter to me, but I’m not sure whether she takes that as a sign that I want her closer, or I need more comfort, or…Christ, I don’t know, maybe she needs to be closer to me, but she drops from her knees into my lap.
The atmosphere in the room changes instantly. Anytime I touch her, I can’t stop my body from reacting to her and now she can feel it. Her breath fans across my neck and it’s a practice in patience to stay still. I can hear her breathing and I wonder whether she can hear my racing heartbeat.
Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Don’t say anything. Let her comfort you and then she’ll go back to her side of the blanket. You’re her friend. Don’t be an asshole.
Dammit. There is way too little fabric separating me from her.
She shifts and her ass lands solidly on my erection. Fuck me, this cannot be happening. As my whole body stiffens from the contact, she whimpers my name. Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Don’t be an asshole. I hit the repeat button in my head, but her increased breathing is fucking with my resolve. And if she squirms on my dick anymore…Jesus Christ, she’s going to make me burst through my jeans.
I sit stone still, holding my breath as her face slides slowly from my neck, up to my cheek, and away from my skin. Her eyes meet mine and I want to scream, “No!” at her. There is an ocean of need swirling in those blue orbs.
My mind screams at me to push her away, to end this before it’s too late, but I’m caught in her stare. Like a spider, she has me in her web, trapped until she chooses to release me. I’m powerless to resist her.
Her lips look plumper, her skin more flushed, and her breath feels hotter. The longer we sit in this standoff, the more tension fills the room. Gone are the buttercups below our asses and the food we haven’t finished eating. Right now, we’re two people deciding whether we go beyond being friends.
Her fingers curl into the back of my t-shirt and a sigh leaves her. Although her eyes haven’t left mine, I think she’s going to get off my lap. Maybe she needs me to make the first move and that is something I am not willing to do.
I start to relax, my stomach unclenches, and I begin to wonder wether I imagined the whole thing. Maybe my need for her caused me to see more than what’s before me. I bring my hands to her hips in a move to help her off me and her lips crash into mine.
I wasn’t prepared for it. I should have been. She licked her lips and her eyes closed. I guess there was a tilt to her head. The signs were there, but I was so concerned with not hurting her, I missed them. But now, her soft lips are pushing against mine, her tongue begging for entrance.
I can’t hold back.
My hands find her hair, grip handfuls, and I take her mouth like a man starved for years. My tongue delves in deep. I don’t bother licking around her lips or trying to go slow, I’ve wanted to taste her since the moment I saw her. And right now, she tastes like apples. I mentally chuckle at the damn juice box I gave her. I think apple juice has become my new favorite drink.
She grips onto me, scratching at me through the fabric. Her moans are low and I easily swallow them. With her hair bunched in my fists, I direct her where I want her and right now, I want to taste her everywhere.
With a force I don’t mean to use, I rip our mouths apart. Her lips are glistening and red and she’s panting. The storm in her eyes has me ready to come undone. She tries to pull me back to her, but she’ll soon learn that I’m the one in control.
I bring my face to her neck and inhale before I start trailing kisses and nips down her throat. She smells like vanilla and doesn’t that just make me want to eat her up. Her squirming is becoming erratic and I want direct pressure on her pussy. With the Herculean strength men get when turned on, I lift her so she can wrap her legs around me.
“Oh, Grant,” she groans as she comes down, directly over my hard on.
Our breathing is loud. So loud, it drowns out the sound of my racing heart. My body is on fire and her little touches feel like trails of heat, burning me in the most pleasurably painful way. I need more.
My lips find her skin again while her fingers trail through my hair. Her nails rake across my scalp leaving tingling sensations in their path. A crinkling sound beneath us distracts me momentarily, until I remember we’re sitting among a ‘field’ of buttercups.
My buttercup.
A possessiveness I’ve
never known flows through me and I know if I take her tonight, no man will ever have her again. She will be forever mine.
The thought should be enough to make me stop. She’s too fragile to live in my world. Too pure to be tainted by my foulness. Yet, I can’t. Not when she keeps moaning and pushing my head further down her body.
No clothing has left our bodies, but this is the most intimate I’ve ever been with a woman. I try not to let that freak me out, but a part of my mind is screaming for me to stop before I’m lost and can never recover who I am. I’m not sure I want to. I don’t know who I want to be right now.
“Grant, please,” she whines.
Fuck me sideways. Why does she have to be so responsive? I’ve barely touched her and she’s writhing across my dick, the friction causing stars to dance before my eyes. I want in her so badly, but I refuse to embarrass myself like a teenage boy getting laid for the first time.
Her hands find the hem of my shirt and I can feel them shaking. I lean back to help her get the damn thing off. She’s biting her lip and I’d give anything to be able to see her thoughts right now. Hunger burns in her eyes, but her shaky hands and the stiffness to her body tells me how nervous she is. It’s my cue to pull back.
It should be anyway, but her hands start to explore my chest. It only takes a feather light touch from her fingers to ignite every cell in my body. If I don’t incinerate here, on this spot, it will be a fucking miracle. Our eyes stay locked while I let her explore, but I’m losing control. I need to be touching her.
I want to be that guy, the one who sits still, allowing her to touch me for as long as she wants, but I can’t take the torture of not touching her. I need the control.
Like a tiger pouncing on his prey, I grab her hands and propel my body toward her. Her eyes go wide and that’s the last thing I see before our lips collide in a tongue-twisting dance. She pulls her hands free and goes back to my hair—my little hair puller—and my final restraint snaps.
I push her backward until she’s laying half on the blanket and half on the flowers. Her dress is bunched around her thighs and I know I can’t hold out much longer before I have to enter her.
Our mouths fight for control over the other. Lips smash, teeth smack, and tongues tangle. I never pictured Cammie being so aggressive. She keeps pulling at me, like she wants me to be a part of her. I grab one of her legs, wrap it around my waist, grind into her core, and relish in the growl that escapes her.
My fingers ache from not squeezing her thigh too hard. The tension in my body has me wanting to grab on tight and clutch her until my fingers mar her perfectly soft skin. I want to mark her as mine so desperately, but I refuse to hurt her in any way. I will make her mine. All mine.
Lifting away from her just enough, I reach my hand between our bodies and run my fingers straight up her middle. Her back arches and her chest connects with mine as I stroke her through her lace panties.
Oh, my Cammie. You have no idea how good I can make you feel. This is only the beginning.
With practiced fingers, I move her panties aside and continue stroking her clit. Her moans increase and her leg rubs up against my side. Her juices coat my fingers and my arousal builds at her increasingly loud breathing. Simultaneously, I slam my tongue into her mouth and slip a finger into her wet center.
“Oh God! Grant!”
Cammie’s nails dig into my back and the pain causes my cock to jerk in happy anticipation. Christ, she’s tight. She’s going to feel like heaven wrapped around me.
I slide a second finger in and gasp at the vise like grip. I’m going to explode in two seconds when I plunge into her tightness. Realizing I’ve barely moved, I start a slow rhythm, barely entering her at first. I use her wetness to enter her more and more. Her whimpers and cries spur me on. With my fingers soaked in her arousal, I bury my fingers into her core and I freeze.
“No, no, no, no, Cammie. No!”
Her eyes fly open and I see the panic because our faces are a mere inch apart. I can see the question in her eyes. She wants to know what she’s done. She hasn’t done anything. That’s the whole problem. She hasn’t done anything. With anyone. Cammie’s a virgin.
The extreme tightness and the talks we’ve had about her only ever having one boyfriend before finally clicked in. She never slept with Jeff. I should have known by the way she looked down when talking about him. It’s the one time she got shy. How stupid can I be? I just fucked up everything.
“Grant, why did you stop? I want this.”
My heart breaks at her pleading. I want more than anything for her to want me, but I can’t take her virginity. She doesn’t know the ways I’ve been tainted and she’s the purest of pure. It can’t be me. I shake my head, pain crashing through me.
“Grant, please,” she begs as she raises her hand to my face.
I jump away from her touch, feeling like she burned me.
“I need you to go, Cammie. I’m sorry.”
“Grant?”
“I’m so sorry, buttercup. It just can’t be me.” I move to my couch and curl in on myself. “Please go. I never should have let this friendship get this far. I tried warning you I would hurt you. You should have listened.”
I can hear her sniffle and it guts me, but I can’t look at her. I can’t comfort her. She should have never been in my life. The best thing I can do for her is let her walk out of here and see me for the bastard I am.
“I kissed you. This isn’t your fault. Please don’t beat your—”
“Dammit, Cammie! Go! I need you to go. You deserve better than I could ever give you. Who I am…the filthy person I am…I never should have touched you. Please, just leave.”
I don’t look away from my knees. I don’t want to see her hurt or her pity. I just wait for the door to close behind me and for the first time since I was sixteen, I cry. I mourn the loss of the only relationship that has meant anything to me since Nathan was alive.
It’s time to turn back to the darkness. I never belonged in her light.
Chapter Twenty Two
Grant
It’s been five days. Five long and painfully excruciating days since I asked Cammie to leave my life. She didn’t understand that that’s what I meant when I asked her to leave my apartment, but I’ve made it clear—she and I are no longer a part of each other’s lives.
I didn’t return her calls the next day and at work this week, I made it a point to avoid her at all costs. When she did manage to pin me in a corner, she must have seen something in my eyes that told her she had to walk away. All I said was, “This is for the best.”
Her eyes were so sad when she turned away from me, it took every ounce of strength I possessed not to reach for her. I wanted nothing more than to pull her into my arms and apologize for not being the man she needed. I wish, more than anything, that I was that guy, but I’m so far from being in the vicinity of what she needs, so I let her walk away.
It really is for the best. I need to keep telling myself that.
I hammer the thoughts into my head so I can survive my workdays and the trudge home each night. Even my nightly stalking of Tucker hasn’t brought me the normal tingle I used to get. Especially, when she’s been out with him some of those nights. Seeing the person I hate most comforting the person I care about most, guts me. I wonder if she turned to him to spite me. She could have turned to Eddie. I despise him less.
I guess I have no room to judge who she hangs out with now, even if her choice in company makes me want to burn down the entire city so there’s nowhere he can take her.
I try to breathe, but I feel like I’m suffocating—unable to function without the other half of my soul. I’ve tried to deny what she meant to me, but since I threw her away, I’ve lost my will to exist. The only thing that makes sense is the darkness around me and isn’t that always the way it is? I hurt and the shadows surround me like a comforting blanket warming a cold child, allowing me to hide from all the atrocities that could scare me.
I’ve
always described myself as black. I survive in the shadows. I lurk in the darkest corners, waiting to overpower the weak and suck the life from them. My soul is tainted and dirty, never to be clean again. When you look in my eyes, you see an endless hole. I don’t feel love. Without love in the heart, there is no color in the man. I’ve learned to accept and embrace my bleak existence. Black allows me to hurt without fear of being hurt. It allows me to overstep without worry of push back. It makes others afraid of me and I thrive off that fear.
These past five days, I’ve been trying to find a color that fits Cammie. At first, I thought it was yellow. It seemed like the obvious choice. Of course, it’s her favorite color. It suits her so well. It’s vibrant and youthful and it brings a smile to your face. Everything about the color brightens your day and so does Cammie, but after days of thinking about it, I realized there’s so much more to her. Yellow just scratches the surface of who she is. Maybe my problem is I don’t understand colors well myself, or so I thought, but her color reached up and slapped me in the face.
Cammie, if I am to describe her in a color, is white. I know most people would say that’s such a drab color to pick. Why would I not pick something prettier, like pink or purple? Something normally associated with a woman? My answer isn’t simple. Well, maybe parts of it are. You see, in the pureness of the color white, you can be anything you want to be, any hue, any shade. By being the color she is, she can blend with anyone else and help them transform into whatever they want to be. Her brilliance shines through. White is the brightest of all the colors, the purest; it isn’t tainted by any others and to me, that makes it the strongest.
White brings happiness, too. Think of children building their first snowman or making their first snow angel. She was my happiness.
I was lucky enough to have her radiance shine on me for a short time. It blended with my black and for a little while, I had swirls of gray in my life. I was able to see in different colors. It’s something I never thought I’d be capable of. I smiled and I felt it—all the way to my gut.
