Tarnished Crown

by Erin Watt

  His body’s warm and welcoming. He wraps an arm around my waist. “I couldn’t stay away.”

  The words are sweet. Cocooned in his arms, I wonder why I ever felt anxious. He loves me. I know he does. He couldn’t hold me like this if he didn’t.

  “Any reason you didn’t use the front door?” I ask, trying to keep a casual tone despite the earnestness filling my heart.

  “What would be the fun in that?”

  “Good point.” But it bothers me. Why not knock on the door? Is he trying to hide from my parents? “Mom and Daddy love you, you know. They don’t care if you’re here.”

  He shrugs. I feel the movement under my head and hand.

  “Sure, but then I’ve got to play the good boy. Drink some sweet tea with your mom. Make bad jokes with your dad about how he’d offer me something stronger but I’m underage. Then there’d be questions about my dad and mom and why they don’t ever go out. I’m here for you, not all of that.”

  I get it. I really do. It’s effort to make small talk with my parents, and I shouldn’t take it personally that he doesn’t want to do that. All those things he hates doing, Shea’s old boyfriend did and he turned out to be a big asshole.

  “Want to watch some sports?” I offer.

  “Nah.” But he takes the remote on the nightstand and flicks on the television. Real Housewives of Beverly Hills pops up.

  I shrink a little, wondering if I should be watching something smarter or more with it. Something cooler than a reality show featuring rich women and fake rich women who fight all the time.

  But then he says, “I like the New York crew myself.”

  I prop myself up on an elbow and stare down at him in surprise. “You do?”

  “Yeah, I like the skinny girl chick. She’s smart.”

  “Kind of mean, though.”

  “Yeah. I think it’s because she used to be the poorest of them and was always fighting for respect. She doesn’t realize that now that she has money, she’s not inferior to them. But she still feels it and that’s why she acts the way she does.”

  “Oh.” That was unexpectedly insightful. “She overcompensates like my mom.”

  “Not just your mom. I see it in other women, too.” He doesn’t say any more, but it’s obvious he finds that type sympathetic.

  It’s endearing, really, how thoughtful and generous he is. See? So unlike Shea’s ex. Or anyone else, for that matter. I rest my head back on his shoulder. As we watch the women pretend to eat, drink a lot, bicker, shop, and drink some more, his thumb finds a sliver of exposed skin between the hem of my hoodie and the waistband of my shorts.

  The light touch makes me breathless. I forget about the women on the screen and their petty but addicting fights. All I can think about is the small patch of skin he’s caressing. The pad of his thumb sweeps forward and then back in a slow repetitive motion. The rest of my body becomes jealous, wanting the same attention, the same electric feeling.

  But he takes no liberties, seemingly content to touch that tiny area of bare flesh. It’s not enough for me, though. I want more. With him, I always want more.

  I reach down and tug my sweatshirt aside, exposing more of myself to him. His palm makes contact with my waist. He spreads his hand wide, his index finger reaching past my belly button, his pinkie finding the crease where my leg and hip join. The tips of his other fingers slip under the elastic of my shorts to sweep over my hipbone.

  My mouth becomes dry.

  I swallow hard as my blood heats up and begins to race through my veins. The once steady thud of Gideon’s heart against my cheek gets faster. He reaches down and drags my hand up his chest.

  “You can touch me, too, you know,” he whispers.

  I trace a tentative finger along his T-shirt-covered collarbone, pausing at the edge and then diving into the hollow at the base of his throat. His chest is one hard slab of muscle, formed from daily workouts. Even under the cotton of his shirt, I can easily trace the ridges of his abs. His ribcage fills and contracts as he takes one shuddering breath after another.

  The air is thick. We’re both finding it difficult to breath. I think that’s why I seek out his mouth and why he searches for mine. We are each other’s oxygen. He tastes sweet, the flavor addictive.

  His hand sweeps higher, leaving my shorts to smooth upward along my ribs and stopping to wrap those long, elegant fingers around the curve of my breast.

  “Is this okay?” he asks.

  “Ye-yeah,” I croak.

  My entire body feels different—not fully familiar anymore. The skin is tight against the bones, the blood is rushing fast, my head is dizzy. I move closer, wanting all of me to be touching all of him. My legs intertwine with his. My left hand clutches his T-shirt while my right one curls around his biceps.

  He rolls, sweeping me underneath him. I find new places to touch him. His broad back flexes as I sweep my fingers over his shoulder blades, down his spine until I reach the waistband of his jeans. Against my hipbone, I feel him vibrating.

  Wait. Vibrating?

  Gideon must feel it, too, because his head pops up. I whimper at the loss of contact.

  “Sorry,” he mutters and then throws himself to the side.

  I watch in frustration as he digs a hand into his front pocket and pulls out his phone. I strain to read the name on the screen, but I can’t make out anything before he swipes his finger to answer.

  “Yeah?” he barks into the receiver.

  I pull down my sweatshirt. In the mirror over my desk, I catch a glimpse of myself. My hair’s a mess from Gideon’s fingers. My lips are swollen from his kisses. My pupils are dilated and my cheeks are flushed. The hoodie is nearly falling off one shoulder. Meanwhile, Gideon looks about the same as he did when I first spotted him at my window.

  His cropped hair is as tidy as ever. His T-shirt shows no wrinkles. And, most exasperating, he doesn’t even look as if he just spent the last ten minutes making out with me. His face is expressionless, his tanned cheeks unmarked.

  I adjust my sweatshirt.

  “I’m busy right now,” he says.

  I take some solace in the terseness of his voice. He doesn’t sound happy to be interrupted. Yet, he answered the phone. I think Daddy could’ve come in and I wouldn’t have noticed.

  “Right now?” A frown creases his brow. “All right. I’ll be there in ten.”

  What?

  He hangs up and climbs off the bed. “Sorry, Sav. I’ve got to go.”

  “Uh-huh,” is all I can manage.

  He shoves his feet into his boots and needlessly straightens his shirt. “I don’t want to leave, but I have to.”

  “Uh-huh.” I wrap my arms around my waist.

  He comes over and hugs me. “I’ll call you when I have a minute.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  He shoves a hand through his hair. “I really am sorry, baby.”

  I push out of his arms and march over to the door. “See you later, Gid.”

  He stares at me for a second and gives a little shake of his head. I hear him mumble something as he leaves, but I’m not interested in his sorries anymore.

  I slam my bedroom door shut and then throw myself on the bed, fighting back tears of anger and frustration.

  I should’ve never sent that picture.