Текст книги "Tryst"
Автор книги: S. L. Jennings
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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 21 страниц)
Chapter Twelve
We weave through streets as slick and black as oil, bypassing partygoers and club-hoppers and late-night diners. Ransom doesn’t speak as he drives, but he leaves the music up. I close my eyes and lay my head back against the butter soft leather, and replay our last moments, our last words, our last touch.
What have I done?
What am I still doing?
We pull up to my building, and Ransom is already out of the driver’s side door before I can collect myself enough to search for the handle. He opens it and steps aside, offering me a hand to aid my shaky efforts. Still, he says nothing. Even his fingers—those long, dazzling fingers—seem cold.
Maybe I was wrong about him. Maybe he is a gentleman, in his own unconventional way. But he isn’t Tucker. And furthermore, Tucker isn’t him.
“Thank you,” I murmur, feeling self-conscious. I hug myself and shiver despite the warm, late spring temperatures.
He nods in response. That’s it. That’s all he has for me, reminding me that I am not entitled to more. I shouldn’t crave more.
I turn to the door of my building, when he turns my limbs to stone with just a single whispered word.
“Heidi.” His mouth cradles that word—cradles me—like a razorblade under his tongue. So careful, yet so dangerous.
I turn around despite the lead in my six-inch heels, but I don’t respond.
“If you wanted me . . . If you were . . .”
That’s all I need.
I nod, and bid him good night, and leave Ransom standing at the curb. It’s not until I approach the elevator that I hear the roar of 8-cyclinders drift away into the night.
My condo is dark and empty when I enter, but I’m not surprised. However, I am shocked by a beautiful spread situated on the kitchen table. I pick up the white notecard and recognize that messy doctor’s scrawl that I’ve learned to decipher over the years. I smile as I read the haphazard lines and loops, and realize that, no, Tucker isn’t Ransom, and he never will be. And I’ve never been more grateful for that.
Bunny,
It’s going to be a long night, baby. But hopefully this makes up for it.
I love you.
Tuck
I set the note aside and see that he’s arranged to have a bottle of my favorite Cab, truffles and chocolate chip cookies from Jacques Torres, Laura Mercier bath milk, and the softest, silkiest pajama set from La Perla.
He’s thought of everything, and must’ve planned all this hours ago. He knew he wouldn’t be able to make it tonight, and he still wanted me to feel special. He still wanted me to feel loved and cherished, despite what I’ve done. Despite what I wanted to do tonight.
Guilt seizes my chest, and I clutch my throat. Alone and in the dark, I choke on the shame and let it roll down my face, stealing my mascara with it. I suck in a few breaths to compose myself and quickly swipe away the tears, before grabbing the basket of goodies and taking them to our room. That’s enough humanity for one night.
Gorging myself on wine and chocolate, I take the most luxurious bath known to man. Luckily, Tucker, being the kind, considerate man that he is, even thought to uncork the bottle for me and include a glass. I soak until the water runs cold and I’m all out of cookies. And after I get out and swath myself in ribbons of pale pink silk, I polish off another glass of red too.
Although I shoot Tucker a text to thank him and wish him good night, I’m not tired enough to sleep. Wine and sugar spike my bloodstream like adrenaline, and I feel more wired than before my bath. I grab the remote and flip through the channels to find that one of my favorite movies has just come on, and I settle in with another glass of wine and what’s left of the truffles. My ass may pay for this tomorrow, but I’m too distracted to care.
I’m sympathizing with Lester Burnham, understanding his desperation, his frustration, when my phone chimes beside me. I expect it to be Tucker—who else would be texting me at close to 1 A.M.?—but it’s not. Of course not. That would be too much like right.
What are you doing?
My fingers hover over the keys, wondering if I should reply or just pretend to be asleep. But I can’t find the strength to deny him. To deny myself.
Watching American Beauty. You seen it?
With Kevin Spacey? Yeah. What channel?
Showtime
There’s a pause, and I imagine him flipping through the channels.
Got it. Great movie.
Weren’t you like 5 when it came out?
8. And?
Seems a little cynical and morbid for an 8-year-old.
Not when you’re a cynical and morbid 8-year-old kid.
I take a sip of wine. Another personal detail. One that would make me imagine a little, round-faced Ransom Reed, with shaggy dark hair and eyes too old for his young years. I could have done without it. Nothing good could ever come of it.
I used to have a crush on Ricky.
I don’t know why I tell him that.
The weed smoking creeper kid with the camera?
Yeah.
Makes sense.
Why do you say that?
Because he’s dark and dangerous. He doesn’t fit in or conform. He’s the complete opposite of you. He’s the bad boy you want but will never let yourself have. Not completely.
I nearly drop my phone. Did he just . . . try to shrink me? Are we still talking about the movie?
So you think I liked him because he’s the quintessential bad boy?
No, H. I think you want him bc you want to be bad too.
I reach for my wineglass and take a huge slug without even tasting it.
Then . . . I smile. He called me H. No one’s ever called me H. Not to my face at least. And I think I like it. Not because it’s simple or charming. But because he gave it to me.
What makes you think I want to be bad?
Bc you want me.
Seeing those words on the screen of my phone incites fear and excitement so deep that it literally shakes me to my core, and I drop the wineglass, ruining the beautiful bodice of my pajama top. I curse and toss my phone to the side to save it from sudden death and jump out of bed. Fortunately, there wasn’t much vino left in my glass and my bedspread is unscathed. Unfortunately, my lovely new sleepwear is ruined. I strip and kick it into a pile, too lazy and, honestly, too tipsy to care enough to try to salvage it. Then I climb into bed completely naked, and pull the covers up to my breasts.
When I look back at my cell, I see there’s a new message.
Did I scare you off?
No. I spilled my wine. Had to take off my clothes.
I could have left that part out, but fuck it. There’s no such thing as a little wrong. Just like there’s no such thing as a little pregnant. I was wrong the moment I replied to the first text message two nights ago. Just as wrong as I was to agree to one night of drunken debauchery. This is wrong. We’re wrong. But I don’t know how to be right. Not anymore.
You’re naked?
I’m in bed.
I’m assuming your husband isn’t home or asleep or you wouldn’t be texting me right now.
He’s working.
So you’re all alone. And naked.
I snort out a laugh, knowing exactly what game he’s playing. Nice try, buddy. He’s trying to unnerve me. Get under my skin, in every way possible. Truth is, it’s working.
Yes. How about you?
Naked? Yes.
Hmmm, interesting.
Alone? No.
I read his response again. And again.
He’s naked, but he’s not alone.
He’s with someone. Right now. And he either just fucked her or is about to fuck her. Shit, he could be fucking her right now as he watches Kevin Spacey lift weights and smoke pot in his garage! All while texting me!
I don’t know why this bothers me, not when I have zero right to feel a damn thing about him. When just this morning, I had my hand wrapped around my husband’s dick, all but begging him to fuck me up against the shower wall. When I’m married to the man of my dreams and he is just some twenty-four-year-old horny kid who would probably fuck a tree hollow if he was drunk and desperate enough.
This should not affect me. This should not hurt me. But dammit, I can’t help the heat that flames my face, leaking into my eyes until it gets too blurry to see the words on the touchscreen of my phone. I can’t control my hands that shake so badly that my fingers go limp, dropping the device in the tangle of sheets swathing my naked body. And I can’t tame the overwhelming nausea that roils my gut, creating a hot, soupy eddy of wine and chocolate.
Clutching my mouth, I run to the bathroom and make it to the toilet just in time. I empty myself of this illness, this frustration. I purge him from my body and my soul. And when I’m finished, I brush my teeth and spit the remnants of Ransom Reed into the sink. I’m done.
I climb back into bed and shut off the television just as Ricky’s dad beats the shit out of him. Poor Ricky. He wasn’t a bad boy or a creep. He was just bored. He was lonely. And loneliness and boredom combined will push you to the most extreme of extremes. All in a quest to find some semblance of normalcy. An inkling of freedom. A glimmer of life.
I think I hear my phone chime somewhere between reality and the fiction of my dreams, but I tune it out. It’s much easier to deal with the truth on this side. I can make it up as I go along.
Chapter Thirteen
T HEN
“Are you sure?”
I look up at Tucker and smile before my fingers drift up to the collar of my white cotton shirt. My fingertips touch the smooth surface of a pearlescent button and free it from its noose. Then another one. And another.
“Wait, Heidi.” Tucker swallows and I watch the way his Adam’s apple bobs up and down, pushing through the tightness in his throat. He scrubs the back of his neck nervously and turns his head, yet his eyes are still on me. He can’t not look.
“No,” I say, going for the fourth button. The button that will give him his first view of my bra. “We’ve waited long enough.”
I keep going until my entire shirt is undone, keeping my eyes trained on the man in front me. Showing him that I want this, that I want him. I don’t want there to be a single ounce of doubt in his mind. Because it just doesn’t exist in mine.
I knew that Tucker would be the one I’d give my heart and body to freely. I wouldn’t have to fight him. I wouldn’t have to fear him. Because he knew me. He knew how to love me, how to hold me. He was good and kind and gentle. He was safe.
I let my shirt fall to the floor and stand before him, silently pleading for him to touch me. It only takes him a breath before his hands are on my skin, his fingertips sliding over my collarbones, down through the middle of my chest. I feel the soft bite of his nails rake over my ribs, like he wants to claw his way inside, yet he’s holding back. He doesn’t want to hurt me.
“I’m not going to break,” I whisper, touching the backs of his hands. I press them hard into my skin¸ using every bit of my strength so he can’t pull away. “You can touch me.”
“I am touching you.”
“No. Touch me, Tucker. Feel me.”
I grasp the bottom hem of his shirt and wait for him to lift his arms. He closes his eyes and, with a huff, allows me to shed it from his body. His chest is magnificent. Hard and rippled and broad. A sprinkle of light brown hair trails his pecs and circles his nipples. I taste him and he flinches as my tongue flicks across the sensitive skin. But his hands grasp me harder, fingers digging into my skin, desperate to be inside me. I don’t make him wait any longer. I reach back and unzip my skirt, and hooking my fingers underneath my underwear, I let them join our shirts on the floor.
“I want this,” I reassure him. “I want this so bad.”
Want and longing wage war against the uncertainty and fear on his face, so I take his hands in mine and lead him to my little twin-size bed. Keyanna won’t be home until morning and the door is locked. I’m not letting this rare night alone go to waste.
Naked, I sit on the bed and pull Tucker to stand between my legs. He tries to sit beside me but I refute his efforts by grasping his hips. I take a deep breath. Then another. And I begin to unbuckle his pants.
He’s ready for me, proud and hard and scorching in my palms. I slide my fingers over the satin skin and watch as the thin layer ripples over veins and ridges. I don’t expect it to be darker than the rest of him—almost pink—but then again, I’ve never been this up close to a man before. Boys, yes. But never a man.
I slide my tongue over the tip of him and feel him tremble in my hand. The flavor of salty citrus tingles my lips and I suck more of him to taste more. He smells how he tastes, tangy and spicy, yet there’s a musky undertone. I want more of him in my mouth. I want all of him in my mouth. And I take all that I can, all that he can give.
Tucker’s trembles evolve into jerky movements of his hips, as he begins to thrust in and out of my mouth, keeping time with the suction of my lips. He groans with each stroke, growing longer and harder, and my mouth aches with every greedy suck. I pull back just to catch my breath, but before I can take a single gulp of air, he’s pushing me back onto the bed and spreading my legs. He tastes himself on my lips before his mouth roams the slope of my neck to the small mounds of my breasts. He licks my nipples with rose petal strokes, and continues to paint my skin with his warm, wet venom. I arch into his touch, needing to feel more. He rewards me with a kiss at the top of my pubic bone and spreads me even wider, seeking the damp swell between my thighs.
His fingers follow the path of short blonde hair before whispering across my heated flesh. I moan at the almost-touch, the phantom penetration, hoping to inspire him to go farther. When his fingertip runs along my clit, a shiver runs through me so strong that I feel it at the very tips of my curled toes. He does it again, pressing harder, causing pressure to build inside my womb. I gasp his name and claw at the soft strands of hair that have fallen in his eyes as he studies my sex with wonder in his gaze. Wonder and hunger and an emotion so raw, there isn’t a word for it. But when he presses his tongue against my slickness, I feel its meaning. I feel it become a part of me, digging into my soul like a branding iron. I ingest it, take it within me, and covet it like a sacred jewel. And when it is ready, ripened in madness and beauty, I release it and let it slide down his eager throat, so he can know and taste that feeling too.
I’m still panting when I hear the rustle of clothing hitting the floor and the crinkling of foil. I’m still shaking when he takes my thighs in his palms and pulls me to him so my legs cradle his hips. He brushes the hair from my face and kisses my tears with lips coated with my scent.
“Why are you crying, Bunny?”
“Because . . .”
“Did I hurt you? Did I do something wrong?” He’s pulling away from me so I clutch his forearms and lock my ankles around his waist. He’s mine now. He’ll never get away.
“No. Never. You did everything right.”
I kiss him deep enough to smother every doubt, every fear. And when he pushes inside me, stretching and breaking the tender flesh that was once surgically mended, I cry out. Not because of the pain, both physical and emotional. But because I knew that I would love this man until my dying day. This man who was making me bleed as he made love to me. This man whose agony was slow and sweet and sensual, and just what I had always imagined it would be. He was slicing me open and repairing all the damage, all the wrong. He was making me pretty and neat and shiny again.
I became the good doctor’s greatest accomplishment. His little Frankenstein. What was once a monstrosity has been given new life.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers against my lips. “God, you feel so good. I love you, Heidi.”
I kiss him so hard it bruises my lips and let the tears slide down the sides of my face. He wipes away every single one, his languid strokes not hindered in the least. If anything, he reaches deeper, pushing through the barriers of my heart and body until there’s enough room for him to dwell forever. I thought it would hurt me, more than just the initial tearing. I was so convinced that I would never find joy in intimacy again, that I had just wanted to get it over with, so I could accept it and move on. But I was wrong. Tucker’s body is therapy to mine. There’s a stiff soreness at first, but even that feels good. And after those muscles have grown warm and loose, all that exists is pleasure. So much of it that my knees shake to the point that he has to grip my thighs as he delves farther and farther into never-ending wetness. It goes on forever, slicker with every thrust. It’s just me.
He waits until I come before he allows himself to let go inside the warm safety of my body. Even with the latex separating us, he fills me up. But it’s not enough. Not enough to make me complete. I need more of him.
“Next time,” I pant, my breath ruffling his sweat slickened locks, “no condom. I hate that there’s something between us.”
He lifts his face from the soft pillows of my breasts and looks down at me. A single bead of sweat slides down his nose and lands on my chest. I even want that inside. I want his everything. Maybe that’ll make me whole again.
“But what about . . . ?” He doesn’t want to offend me, so I do it for him.
“I had a full, mandatory workup since the last time to ensure that bastard didn’t give me anything. But what he did leave me with is scarring so bad that I will never conceive naturally. So you don’t have to worry about me.”
My tone is so cool and matter-of-fact that he flinches. I can see the concern etched in his face, but I can’t return it. There’s nothing to be upset over. This is my life, this is who I am. My rapist took away my ability to have children. I’ll be damned if I let him take away anything else.
I pull Tucker’s face to mine and kiss him, licking the seam of his tentative lips. He reluctantly opens for me, and within seconds, he’s growing hard inside me again. With all my might, I push at his shoulders so he rolls to his back, taking me with him so my knees are on either side of him. I look down at the place where we are fused and back up to his worried expression.
“It’s ok,” I assure him. “I want this. I want all of you.”
He closes his eyes when he nods, unable to look at me. I don’t know if he’s ashamed of me, or himself. But I still lift my body from his to scoot down his legs.
Tonight I saw a man up close for the first time. And now I’m seeing what a man can do to me . . . to my body. Tight latex hugs Tucker’s semi-erect penis, glistening with pink blood and my slick, milky release. I’m all over him, from base to tip. But not really. Underneath that thin barrier, he’s free of me. He’s as clean and pristine as he always is. The urge to make him dirty with me is overwhelming, and I pull off the sullied condom and toss it to the floor, revealing his thick, long, swollen erection, painted only with his seed. I take him in my mouth, desperate to taste him. Desperate to take all I can from him. He twitches against the back of my throat, and I moan. The image of it choking me, of him choking me, disturbs and excites me all at the same time.
Wetness coats my thighs, and I reach back to feel it on my fingers, but it’s not nearly enough to give me what I need. The friction, the fullness. The pain. I need it so badly. It’s the only thing that can heal me.
I position myself over his saliva-slickened cock and slowly impale myself until I can’t take anymore. Until his dark brown curls fuse with my short, blonde ones. Until I can’t tell where my body ends and where his begins.
Tucker looks up at me like I am a goddess and my body is his only religion. For twenty minutes, I let him worship me with his hands and tongue and praise. And when pressure collects inside that little knot inside me that urges me to take him harder, faster, deeper, I bless him with an orgasm so intense that neither one of us can move, let alone talk. We can barely even breathe.
He kisses the top of my head, murmuring words of adoration and amazement. Telling me how happy I’ve made him, and how he only wants to do the same for me . . . forever. I turn into his chest and inhale the scent of his sweat, and I resist the urge to lap up every salty drop. I tamp down the desire to bite his humid flesh, to rake my fingernails over his skin until it blisters with tiny droplets of blood. And in turn, he would flip me over and fuck me like a wild dog, punish me for my transgression until I cry from the brutality. I’d trade all his sweet nothings and replace them with vile slurs said in a frenzy of violent passion. He’d spank my bare ass as he fucked me until my skin was bright pink and burning with his handprints. He would pull my hair until my scalp stung with red-hot needles. And just before I found sweet relief in all the pain, he’d grasp my throat until I came so hard that I’d lose consciousness.
That scares me. I scare me. Because if he knew what I really wanted, what would really make me lose myself in a haze of pleasure, he would realize just how sick and wrong I am. And he’s worked so hard to make me right again.
I can be good for him. Whatever I’m feeling, whatever I am . . . it’s just a phase or remnants of PTSD. It’s not the real me. It’s not what I really want. What I want is Tucker—sweet, safe, stable Tucker. And dammit, he wants me. And I’d be damned if I lose him over imagined affliction inside my twisted mind.
I prop my chin on my hands and look down into sky blue eyes, and smile. He smiles back, causing those too-full lips to fall into a smile too pretty for any man to possess. And I know right then and there, exactly what I want. And what I will always desire from this gorgeous man that has taken the scattered pieces of me and put me back together into something more beautiful than it was before.
Love me.
Hate me.
