by Lilah Pace
“That’s impressive. ”
“Yeah, it is. ”
Geordie always reminds me that recovery is never final. It’s a lifelong process, a state of being rather than a chore to be accomplished. But during the past couple months he’s regained some muscle tone. His usual color. He laughs more often, and the laughter sounds genuine. It’s impossible not to sense that the progress he’s made is real.
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“Hmm. ” I step back from Jonah, trying to decide on the exact right angle. “Maybe if you leaned in this direction?”
A slow, hot smile dawns on his face. “You know what’s holding you back? Too many details. You need to simplify. ”
“What do you mean?”
Jonah doesn’t explain. He simply kicks off his shoes, and begins to strip off his sweater.
My eyes widen. “Jonah—we’re in a shared studio!”
“Where nobody’s coming in, because they’re all looking for celebrities on Sixth Street. ” He nods toward the door. “You saw me slide the dead bolt. Even if someone did show up, I’d have time to get dressed again before you let them in. ”
“I guess so . . . ”
Really I should be protesting more than this. Which is to say, protesting at all. But now Jonah’s slid out of the chair, and his hands are at the button of his jeans, and even if I could stop him, I don’t want to.
With a grin, he adds, “Besides, isn’t this the artistic ideal? Sketching a nude model?”
And with that, his jeans and boxers hit the floor.
No matter how many times I see Jonah naked, the sheer beauty of his body always blows me away. He would be an ideal nude model for a drawing class; his physique has the symmetry of a Praxiteles sculpture, and yet so many of his features are arrestingly unique—like his long, tapered torso, the unreal dimensions of his cock, and his unexpectedly narrow throat. His muscles still possess that rough-hewn quality that has always reminded me of stone. He is too rugged for beauty, too perfect for anything else.
The gleam in his eyes as he looks at me tells me he hopes I’ll toss aside the pad and pencil and drop my clothes on the floor beside his own. Well, too bad. Because this is an opportunity I don’t intend to waste.
“Standing, then. ” I flip to a brand-new page of the sketchbook and quickly fill out the most basic lines. Jonah raises an eyebrow, but obediently clasps his hands behind his back, willing to serve. “Hmm, let’s see. How can I best—”
I set down the pad, step forward, and put my hands on his hips, my thumbs catching the notches of his hipbones. Jonah breathes in sharply as I turn him slightly to the side and run my fingers along his lower abdomen. I brush the edge of the dark thatch of hair leading down to his groin.
“That’s it. Stand like that. ” As I slide my hands upward, I relish the warmth of his skin, the rippling of his abdominal muscles and pectorals. When I get to his neck, Jonah even lets me turn his head; I point his face toward the sky, exposing his profile and the long line of his throat.
Satisfied, I step back, to see that there’s been one very dramatic change to my model’s pose.
“Think you can hold that the entire time?” I whisper, brushing my fingers along his now fully erect cock.
Jonah smiles. “Motivate me. ”
I step back as I unbutton my smock. Didn’t bother with a bra beneath it, because sometimes the ink sinks through. He wasn’t expecting that, so when the fabric falls to the side, exposing the inner curves of my breasts, he sucks in a deep breath.
“How’s that for motivation?” I say.
“Very, very good. ” He’s harder than ever, so much so I ache to touch him.
But I want to touch myself even more.
I sketch a few more lines, taking care to re-create the lines of Jonah’s lower abdomen and cock. Those muscles that create a V straight toward his erection—I shade those in fully, because it’s impossible to look at them and not know the strength behind his every thrust. When I’ve filled in a few shadows along his muscular arms, I set down my pencil. Locking my eyes with Jonah’s, I slide my leggings and panties down to puddle at my feet. He groans softly, but he doesn’t move.
“You need even more motivation,” I say as I stretch my hand between my legs and start to rub. A slow warmth begins to dawn inside me. “Because you’ll need to stay hard for me a long time, Jonah. Even for a guy like you, that’s going to be rough. ”
“Just keep doing that. ” His voice betrays the desire he feels. It’s taking all his willpower not to tackle me here and now. “Let me watch you. ”
I hop up onto the sketching table, so I can spread my legs wider for him as I keep going. Jonah’s cock twitches, but he remains perfectly posed for me.
Smoothly as possible, I switch hands—so while my left hand keeps playing with my clit, I can pick up my pencil with my right.
“You can’t possibly draw like that,” Jonah murmurs.
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“Mmm. Watch me. ” Pun intended. Honestly, my focus and my grip aren’t their strongest at the moment. I’m becoming a lot better at masturbating without getting out of my own head, and even if I can’t get myself over the brink, I can dance right here on the edge. It feels so fucking good.
With my left hand I circle faster, then slower, then slide two fingers deep into my cunt to watch the desperation in Jonah’s eyes. This is too much fun.
I really want to create this portrait of Jonah—but it can wait.
“You know,” I whisper, “models sometimes find it difficult to hold their positions for a long time. You’re doing a good job, though. ”
“You’re doing it for me,” He says hoarsely. His cock remains stiff and thick, yearning for me.
“Even professional models sometimes need to take a break, though. What about you, Jonah? Would you like to take a break?”
Instantly Jonah crosses the two long strides to reach me. I laugh in exhilaration as he pulls my hips up to meet him. The pencil drops to the floor.
My head lolls back as Jonah sinks in.
“Mmm. ” I don’t stop using my hand; Jonah’s got plenty of room to work anyway. He pumps into me faster, clearly already nearly at the brink. Watching me might have gotten him off on its own, without my even touching him—
That idea really turns me on. Or the sight of Jonah’s muscles working as he pumps into me. Or maybe it’s the tempo I’ve hit with my hand, because this is good. This is really good.
Really—really—
There’s a moment when orgasm becomes inevitable. The split second between detonation and explosion. I feel the shift inside me, and I know that delicious sensation so well, and yet I can’t believe it because it can’t be happening but it is. It is. White-hot pleasure claims every inch of me from the inside out. A cry of ecstasy escapes from my throat, long and loud and good, rising in pitch with every one of Jonah’s thrusts.
“Oh, God,” he says, going faster. “Did you—”
“Yeah. ” I can’t tell if I’m laughing or crying. My whole body is shaking with the release. Before I can even wrap my mind around what happened, Jonah’s coming too, sinking deep inside me, then slumping over my trembling body.
For what seems like a long time after that, I can hardly think. We keep kissing, and he pulls me into his arms and down to the floor, where he can cradle me in his embrace. I stroke his body, burrow closer to him.
“That was good?” he whispers.
“Oh, yeah. ” It wasn’t lesser than the orgasms I’ve had during my games. Not automatically better either. But it felt completely fucking amazing, and more than that—I know now that my body, my pleasure, is my own.
Someday Jonah and I will play another game, many more games, when we choose to. Because we want to.
Sexually, I will never be forced to do anything again.
Thirty-three
We’re not jerks. We clean up the studio afterward. I slide my unfinished nude sketch of Jonah into my portfolio case, to take
After we’re dressed again, Jonah and I head home for a celebratory glass of wine—and maybe, if we’re up to it, round two.
As he starts his car, I say, “What am I going tell my advisor when he asks what I’ve been working on lately?”
It’s just a joke, but Jonah answers. “Life drawing, right?”
“Mmm. That works. ”
• • •
South by Southwest blows out of town like a cyclone, leaving scattered debris in the form of screening tickets and promotional swag. The weather warms by fits and starts, days of tantalizing warmth broken up by the occasional chill that sends us all searching the back of our closets, where we stashed our coats away too soon. Students relax, shedding layers of clothes like molting birds, until the guys are running around in board shorts and girls have on dresses skimpy enough to be shirts. They’re looking toward spring break, and then summer.
So am I.
“South America for summer vacation?” Doreen says as she sits with a mug of coffee cradled in both her hands.
“Southern Chile—Patagonia. ” I smile as I recall the spectacular images Jonah showed me on his laptop; the scenery down there takes my breath away, with its surreal landscapes of mountains, fjords and glaciers. “Jonah’s going to be down there for about ten weeks. I’ll join him for maybe five of those. That gives each of us some alone time to work, but makes sure we get to be together. ”
“You realize it’s going to be winter down there. ”
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“Suits me fine. I’ve lived through enough Southern summers. An extra winter sounds amazing. ” And where else will I ever get to wear the cold-weather gear I bought for Chicago?
Doreen nods with the weary look of a woman who has endured many Julys in Texas. “I can guess from your vacation news how things are going with Jonah, but I’d like to hear it in your words. ”
I lean back on her sofa as I search for the best way to put it. “The past few weeks have been an entirely new chapter in our relationship. Jonah and I are closer than we’ve ever been, both in bed and out of it. ”
“Tell me about the part in bed first. ”
“You’re getting a dirty mind, Doreen. ”
“I’m no Freudian. ” She raises an eyebrow. “But with you two—and with you alone, Vivienne—the sex matters a lot. ”
“Yeah. It does. Fortunately, the sex is incredible. I’m reaching orgasm maybe sixty percent of the time? And it’s still getting better. ”
I wish I could say that night at the studio changed everything. That a switch flipped or a dam broke and from that moment on, I could have an orgasm every single time we had sex. Unfortunately neither the human body nor the human psyche obeys such simple rules. Jonah and I have had some nights of pure frustration—but we’ve also had some of the hottest sex I can imagine. My body and my heart have connected. I am becoming whole.
Doreen holds up her hand for a high five; laughing, I lean forward and deliver. She says, “Is he as happy with this as you are?”
“Pretty much. Of course, he wishes I was at a hundred percent, but he’s not putting pressure on me any longer. He understands that we can’t fix this overnight. ”
But of course nobody is ever entirely fixed. I’ve learned that much. Once I would have found that depressing, but now I know it’s liberating. Like the song says, Freedom is what you do with what’s been done to you.
“And your fantasy?” Doreen asks. “You don’t need it any longer. How does that make you feel?”
“More centered. More relaxed. ” A deep breath, and then I admit, “But just because I don’t need that fantasy doesn’t mean I don’t still want it. ”
Jonah’s body—his strength—the fires he keeps banked down inside—they still excite me to the core. I still crave his hands gripping my wrists, holding them over my head as I beg for mercy. I will never stop dreaming of that.
“Does Jonah know this?” This is a genuine question from Doreen. She is no longer seeing Jonah, who decided to finally go into counseling on his own. He’s skeptical about the process, and to be honest, I share some of his doubts. Jonah has always understood what happened to him and a lot of how it’s affected his life; on his own he’s learned to cope better than most people do after decades in therapy. But he’s finally ready to try doing the “hard work,” as he called it, not only for me but also for himself.
“Yes,” I tell her. “Jonah knows. He’s willing to play the games with me again once we’re both ready. I feel like I’m there, but Jonah still needs a while. ”
Doreen nods. “And that’s okay with you?”
For a moment I remember last night, the way Jonah’s mouth felt between my legs. Pleasure arcs through me at the mere memory, and it seems as if I can hear my own cries of ecstasy echoing in my ears. A smile spreads across my face. “So far I’m enjoying the wait. ”
• • •
I know Carmen’s getting a head start on her moving preparations because she’s one of the most organized people on earth. I know she’s not actually going anywhere until August, and that between now and then I’ll be able to see her pretty much every day I’m not in Chile. But as we sit together on her living room floor, going through the “give away or donate” items, I get all sentimental anyway.
“You can’t give this away,” I say as I hold up a T-shirt with the Twilight actors on it. “This was my present to you!”
“You bought me that tee at a gas station after you spilled strawberry milkshake on the blouse I was wearing. ”
“So?” But by now I’m laughing, and I toss the T-shirt into the donate pile.
“Are these really all your books?” Geordie says as he pores through the short stack of paperbacks. “Tell me you’ve got a fully loaded e-reader. ”
Carmen shrugs. “I’m not much into fiction. ”
“They write nonfiction books too, y’know. ” He picks up a copy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, smiles, and tosses it by his backpack.
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“How would I have time to read?” Carmen asks, genuinely confused.
Geordie gives me a look like, Some people. Did I really try to set these two up? That seems like a weird dream I had one time.
That said, my matchmaking had one wonderful, if unintended, effect—as Geordie proves by leaning toward the baby seat on the floor near us. “Don’t worry, Nicolas. I’ll teach you to read. Your Tia Carmen can handle the math part of your education. ”
Nicolas wraps his chubby hand around Geordie’s two fingers. At this point, Geordie might as well be an adoptive uncle; he genuinely loves taking care of the little guy. At the moment, Arturo and Shay are out enjoying an actual “date night”—which only involves an early dinner so they can be at home to put Nicolas to bed, but Shay says it counts. It gives them time to be together just as a couple, which is the main thing. And taking care of Nicolas seems to ground Geordie. To keep him stable. Easier to hold it together for somebody else than for your own sake, he said to me recently.
Geordie catches me smiling at him with the baby. “What?”
I shrug. “Just never saw you as the paternal type, I guess. ”
“Never saw myself that way either. But now? I think I want five or six of these. ”
“I can’t wait to see this. One word to the wise, though—don’t mention the five-or-six-kids thing on the first date. ”
He shakes his head ruefully. “It’s going to be a while before I’m on one of those. ”
I knew it was a bad idea to start romantic relationships while in early recovery, but beyond that, I’m ignorant of the details. “How long? Just when you feel steady enough to date again, or when your sponsor gives you the go-ahead?”
“Kitty tells me the rule of thumb is plant, pet, love. ”
Carmen and I exchange confused glances, and she says, “Run that by us again?”
“Well, I’m supposed to get myself a houseplant,” Geordie explains. “If I keep that alive and well for a year, then I can adopt a pet. And if both pet and plant survive the next year in good health, then I can give romance another try. ”
“Two years?” Maybe I shouldn’t make my dismay so clear. “I mean—that’s probably smart. ”
“Probably. It’s definitely one hell of a dry spell, though. ” He sighs, resigned.
“I can help!” Carmen hops up and goes to the windowsill, then comes back bearing her gift. “I wasn’t going to give this away until I moved, but hey, we might as well get your two years started now, right?”
Geordie looks down at the flowerpot and laughs. “I think a cactus might be cheating. ”
I lift the tiny cactus from Carmen’s hands and set it before Geordie. “Take your breaks where you find them. ”
It’s dusk when I walk out of Carmen’s bungalow, a bag of books and T-shirts over one shoulder and her ceramic mixing bowl in my other hand. So when my phone starts ringing—Jonah’s ringtone—it takes me a minute to set things atop my car hood and answer. “Hey there. ”
“Hey,” he says, low and soft. “Where are you?”
“Just leaving Carmen’s. What’s up?” We’d talked about going out for dinner tonight but hadn’t made any solid plans. The night’s warm enough for food trucks—breezy and perfect.
I’m just about to suggest one when he says, “Could you wait until later for dinner tonight?”
“Sure. Did something come up with work?” Is it a volcano or an earthquake this time? Damned plate tectonics, screwing with my social life.
I’m about to make that joke to Jonah when he says, “Actually, I was wondering whether you’d like to . . . play. ”
My heartbeat quickens. “Really?”
“Yeah. ”
Cradling the phone to my ear with both hands, I lean against the side of my Civic. “Why tonight?”
“It’s nice out. Seemed like a shame to spend the whole evening inside. So I was thinking we could go to the park, find an isolated spot, and—improvise. ”
He could take me on the ground, dirt under my back. Or make me brace my hands against a tree trunk while he hitches up my skirt from behind. I’m so glad I wore this dark sundress. Just have to make sure he doesn’t tear it in his enthusiasm. As for my own anticipation, it’s all I can do not to whimper at the thought of his rough hands on me like that again.
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