Going Under

by S. Walden

  “Try again,” Alyssa said.

  “I miss him. I want to see him, but I’m afraid,” I replied.

  “Of what?”

  “Of loving someone who kept such a horrible secret!”

  “Brooke? Get over yourself. Everyone makes mistakes. And yes, some are worse than others, but if you’re waiting for the whole world to be okay with you loving Ryan, then you’ll be waiting for the rest of your life. Fuck the world. Do what you feel is right, and you have every right to love whomever you want.”

  I felt the wind knocked out of me.

  “Are you sure you even want to be here?” Alyssa asked.

  “Yes!” I cried before it even registered that I uttered the word.

  Alyssa smiled kindly. “You better? You think you’re ready?”

  I took one last long breath for good measure, wiped away the remaining tears, and nodded.

  “Okay then,” she replied. “Let’s do this.” She grabbed my hand and walked me back up the bank to Ryan’s apartment.

  “Wait,” I said, digging in my heels. “Are you staying around to watch this?”

  Her mouth quirked up in a grin. “You want me to?”

  I shook my head.

  “Didn’t think so. I’m going for a swim. Maybe I’ll see you around later,” she said, then walked back down the beach, tearing off her shirt and shorts to reveal a tiny pink bikini. I watched her meander in the surf before walking out into the waves. I turned back to Ryan’s door and knocked again.

  This time he answered.

  We stared at each other for what seemed like ages. He finally moved aside to allow me in. I walked in tentatively, looking around his apartment to see if anything felt familiar, like his old bedroom back home. It didn’t. He was a new person, it seemed. His furnishings reflected a man in limbo: not quite an adult but older than a teenager. He had a dining room table. I wasn’t sure any guy his age had a dining room table. The apartment oozed a laidback surfer style: wicker chairs and beach-themed paintings. They weren’t kitschy or cheesy, though. They were abstract pieces of art, but they evoked the ocean.

  I finally mustered the courage to look at Ryan’s face. He had been watching me the whole time. I grew nervous. He had changed. Still the dark, messy hair. Still the mesmerizing blue eyes. But something had changed. He looked tired. Not old and haggard. Just tired, like he needed to take a nap and hadn’t found the time for one in the past three years.

  “Hi,” I managed.

  “Hello.”

  I shuffled my feet.

  “You’re probably wondering what I’m doing here,” I said.

  “A little bit.”

  I swallowed. I didn’t know what I needed to say. Nothing was coming to me, so I asked about Alyssa.

  “My best friend,” he replied. “I met her in a philosophy class at school.”

  “She’s really . . . perceptive,” I said. I was going to say “nice,” but “perceptive” was way more accurate.

  “Yes, she is,” Ryan replied.

  “So, you’re in school?” I asked.

  Ryan nodded. “Took a year off before applying to UNCW. I work full time and go to school full time.”

  I nodded. Ryan didn’t elaborate. He just stared at me, and I grew increasingly uncomfortable trying to think of another general topic of conversation.

  “I made a huge mistake!” I blurted instead. It came out of nowhere, and I actually slapped my hand over my mouth once I said it.

  “Coming here?” he asked.

  I shook my head, hand still covering my mouth.

  “Can you explain?” he said.

  I dropped my hand. “I’m sorry, Ryan. I was unfair to you.”

  Ryan averted his eyes. “No you weren’t.”

  “Yes, I was! Jesus Christ, Lucy’s forgiven you! Lucy! I should have been able to.”

  “I did a terrible thing, Brooke. I kept it from you because I knew you’d hate me for it. I lied to you. That’s not easy to forgive. Lucy’s forgiveness is something else entirely. She forgave me for being a coward. That’s not the same thing as being a liar. I understand why you couldn’t let it go. I do.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I stood, mouth hanging open, dumbfounded.

  “But you’re here now,” Ryan went on. “Will you tell me why?”

  “I told you,” I said. “I made a mistake. I made a mistake not forgiving you. Lucy kept telling me I was making a huge mistake. I knew it all along. I knew it all those years, but I let my heart harden because I was afraid that if I picked up the phone to talk to you, you wouldn’t want to. Or maybe I’d learn that you were with someone else and I couldn’t stand the thought. Or maybe—”

  Ryan walked towards me, stopping within inches of my face. I closed my mouth. “I want to kiss you, but I’ll only do it if you’ll let me.”

  I didn’t think twice about it. I flung my arms around his neck and pressed my lips to his. Everything about it was familiar, and I wasn’t afraid anymore. I never said the words to him in the past because I was fearful of them. But not anymore. I murmured them against his lips over and over.

  “I love you. I love you,” I said, until his tongue invaded my mouth, garbling my declaration.

  I clung to him with a fierceness foreign to me. I felt I was making up for lost time. Three years of being without him, and so much to learn. I pulled away and held his face between my hands.

  “I need you to tell me everything,” I said. “Will you? I want to know everything about your life. I’ve missed so much, Ryan, and I don’t want to miss out on anything else.”

  “I’ll tell you,” he said. “But first, let me say how much I love you, Brooke. I told you a long time ago in a bad place when I was a bad person. I’m not there anymore, and I’m not that boy, but my love for you has never changed. I love you. I’ll always love you. There simply isn’t anyone else.”

  Epilogue

  I lay naked in our unmade bed, hands grasping the bars of our iron headboard like he instructed. Our bedroom walls were covered with paintings we’d done together, mostly at the ocean where the sun and water created the ideal atmosphere. I stared at them until Ryan redirected my attention.

  “I think I’ll need to make it up to you for the rest of my life,” he said, hovering over me.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “The secrets I kept from you. Lucy’s rape,” he whispered.

  I couldn’t believe I was just now piecing it together. The reason he slept with all those girls. He was trying to atone for his guilt by giving pleasure to other women. I felt sorry for him, but not in a pitiful, condescending kind of way. I felt sorry for him because he was still trapped in the guilt, and it had been a year since we were back together. A year since I had forgiven him.

  We were living together in Chapel Hill. I was about to start law school at UNC, and Ryan was finishing a business degree. We led a quiet life, surrounded by a few close friends. We spent most of our weekends in Wilmington when the weather was nice. During the cold months, we hunkered down in our tiny rented house, fire glowing warm and inviting, wrapped in blankets and each other’s love.

  I looked at my boyfriend and sighed. I could say the words of forgiveness again like I had done a hundred times before, but they seemed to make no difference.

  “You don’t have to make it up to me, Ryan,” I said finally. “I just want you to love me and let me love you.”

  He dipped his head and kissed me long and slow. Then he pulled away and grinned. It lit up my heart. Nothing explosive. Just lightning bug flickering, and it warmed me through and through.

  “Well, then ladies first,” he said, and kissed my neck.

  I loosened my grasp on the railing, and he whispered into my shoulder: “Hold on tight, Brooklyn.”

  He kissed down the side of my neck to my collarbone and finally to my breasts. He took his time with them, drawing one nipple into his mouth and sucking gently, forcing my fingers tighter around the bars, before he moved to the other breas
t. He licked my nipples then tugged on them gently with his teeth eliciting protests from my mouth and hands.

  “Put your hands back on the railing, Brooklyn,” he said, running his nose gently over my right nipple.

  I shook my head.

  “Brooklyn,” he said, and gathered my wrists above my head with one hand while his other snaked down my belly. “Do you want me to touch you?”

  I squirmed.

  “Well?”

  I nodded, afraid to look at him. I don’t know why. We’d made love nearly every day since we reunited. But it was something about him when he got in one of these moods. It aroused me, and I thought I shouldn’t like it. But I did like it—being told what to do—because his demands were gentle, and I knew he’d never abuse the power I entrusted to him.

  “Look at me, Brooke,” Ryan said.

  I obeyed.

  “Spread your legs.”

  I did.

  “Wider.”

  I complied, spreading my legs until he grunted his satisfaction.

  “I’m going to touch you,” Ryan said. “And then I’m going to taste you. Is that all right?”

  “Yes.” I sounded like I was in pain, but it was purely sexual frustration. I wanted him inside of me now, but when he was like this, he made me wait for it. He would touch me, lick me, taste me everywhere before intercourse, making it nearly impossible for me to hold out longer than two minutes once he slid inside of me.

  I cried out when I felt a single fingertip on my clit, circling slowly and gently. Reflex or the intense sensation made me snap my legs together in one swift movement. I don’t know why, but it embarrassed me.

  “Let’s try again,” Ryan said, amused. There was a hint of laughter in his voice. “Brooklyn, spread your legs. And this time, keep them open.”

  “Just fuck me already!” I cried. “I can’t take it!”

  Ryan chuckled and kissed me softly on the lips. “I’m going to make up for those three years we were apart, Brooke,” he said after a moment. “I’ve been telling you that for a year already. You should know. So I really need you to hold on to the headboard. And that’s not a request.”

  I held on and spread my legs again, gasping at the feel of his finger circling my clit once more. He rubbed me endlessly, plunging his finger into me before taking it out to stimulate my clit again. I moaned and writhed, feeling my passion build quickly, afraid I would come too soon before we had intercourse. I tensed, fighting the sweeping pleasure.

  “Brooke,” Ryan said. “We have all the time in the world, you know.”

  I nodded, watching as his face dipped lower between my legs. I bucked involuntarily, twisting my fingers in his hair while his tongue lapped me, his fingers plunging inside of me, heightening my pleasure.

  “Don’t stop,” I begged, pushing my hips into his face.

  “I’ve no plans to,” he replied, the words humming between my legs. He drew my clit into his mouth, sucking gently but firmly, fingering me relentlessly until I was begging for release.

  I came hard, gripping his hair. I knew I was hurting him; he grunted but never took his mouth off of my delicate tissues until my body relaxed, languid and soft in the afterglow.

  He hovered over me once more, staring at my face, into my eyes, and I thought I saw the guilt vanish from his own. Just like that. It disappeared to a faraway place.

  “Marry me.”

  My mouth dropped open. He grinned.

  “You’re asking me now? While I’m naked in bed? After you just made me come?” I asked. “What kind of engagement story is that?!”

  Ryan laughed. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ve got a whole thing planned out. It’s been planned out for two months, but I couldn’t wait. I had to ask you now.”

  “What do you have planned out?” I asked.

  “Yeah right,” he replied, nudging my legs apart and sliding into me before I could protest.

  “Marry me,” he whispered, finding a slow, gentle rhythm. “Will you?”

  “Oh my God, Ryan,” I breathed, clutching his shoulders. “Now you’re asking me while you’re inside of me?”

  He nodded, thrusting hard and deep, and I arched my body, crying out at the pain and pleasure of it.

  “Marry me,” he said again.

  I nodded.

  “Say it, Brooklyn,” Ryan demanded. “I need to hear you say it.”

  I moaned, grasping at his back, grazing his skin with my fingernails.

  “Say it, Brooklyn,” he whispered, stroking me softly.

  I felt something strange stirring. I couldn’t understand it fully, but it felt like another orgasm. I’d never had orgasms so close together, but I felt like I would have one now, and I also felt like I wouldn’t survive it. It was building large and demanding in my legs and stomach, threatening to push out my tendons and bones, my organs and tissues. I struggled to escape it.

  “No, Brooklyn,” Ryan said. “Let me love you.”

  I whimpered.

  “Tell me you’ll marry me, Brooklyn,” Ryan said. “Right now.”

  “Ryan . . .”

  I screamed at the force of it. The pleasure, so great that it crashed up my body and down. Up and down, a tidal wave that swept up my fiancé, drowned him in the pleasure, too, until he was moaning along with me, gasping on the crest of the wave before we tumbled over. Down, down, down, shaking from the after effects, the tiny ripples of pleasure that were reluctant to recede altogether.

  Ryan lay on top of me spent. I didn’t mind the full weight of his body, though it made it slightly harder to breathe. I stroked his sweat-slicked back, feeling his lips on my neck, raining the lightest kisses that said, “Thank you.”

  “Ryan?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I’ll marry you.”

  I felt his grin on my neck. “You’re not just saying that because of the nuclear orgasm I gave you, are you?”

  I giggled. “Well, the nuclear orgasm is a very good reason to get hitched. I admit.”

  His fingers snaked down my sides to tickle my ribs. I screamed and squirmed.

  “Okay, I’m not just marrying you for the nuclear orgasm!” I squealed.

  He stopped tickling me. “Then why are you marrying me, Brooke?” He wrapped his arms around me and rolled over, pulling me on top of him.

  I looked down at his face and smiled. “Because I love you.”

  “Just like that?” he asked.

  “Just like that.”

  End

  Dear Reader,

  I struggled for some time with whether I wanted to include a letter at the end of this book explaining the rape scene in Chapter Twenty. I understand that some readers will have strong (even angry) reactions to Brooke’s orgasm, and decided it was necessary to explain my research on involuntary orgasms during rape. Unfortunately there isn’t a lot, and what’s there is conflicting. Many speculate that this is because women are ashamed to admit it. As the nurse explains to Brooke, women feel like it questions the validity of their rapes or demonstrates their desire to be raped. That’s why in the little bit of research I did find, statistics show anywhere from five to 21 percent of women experience orgasm during rape. That’s a wide range.

  I understand that this is a controversial topic. I’ve read arguments that involuntary orgasms are bogus, and that women must be emotionally invested in the sex in order to achieve orgasm. I’ve read psychiatrists’ arguments that involuntary orgasm during rape occurs because of women’s millions-of-years-old genetic dispositions to want to be dominated. I’ve read literature by MD’s explaining that the part of the brain that triggers orgasms is the part that controls involuntary responses, so orgasms can actually occur apart from a woman’s will. Drugs, hypersensitive G-spots, adrenaline, and fear have all been argued in aiding involuntary orgasms. Personally, I will always trust science over speculation, and science argues the validity of involuntary orgasms.

  I encourage you to do your own research on the subject, but I decided to include orgasm during rape in
my book because it’s not talked about, and I think it needs to be. I hesitate to say that I included it to teach you something. I told my editor that I never set out to tell a story that teaches a lesson, because stories, by their inherent nature, will teach a lesson anyway. It’s the lesson you, as the reader, decide to learn; not the one I’m shoving down your throat.

  I really do not encourage any rape or sexual assault victims to read this book, but if you have and you need help, please talk to someone. The Rape Crisis Center hotline is open 24 hours a day: 210.349.7273. Do not be silent like the characters in my book. Talk. Seek help. Start to heal.

  Love,

  Summer

  About the Author

  S. Walden used to teach English before making the best decision of her life by becoming a full-time writer. She lives in Georgia with her very supportive husband who prefers physics textbooks over fiction and has a difficult time understanding why her characters must have personality flaws. She is wary of small children, so she has a Westie instead. Her dreams include raising chickens and owning and operating a beachside inn on the Gulf Coast (chickens included). When she's not writing, she's thinking about it.

  She loves her fans and loves to hear from them. Email her at swaldenauthor@hotmail.com and follow her blog at http://swaldenauthor.blogspot.com where you can get up-to-date information on her current projects.

  Other Titles by S. Walden:

  Honeysuckle Love

  Hoodie