by Elena Monroe
He did what I should have done months ago in a few stern sentences. I was doubtful it would work though. Mr. Married was desperately needy and loved sneaking around; it got him turned on in the worst ways—the kind of ways when a man takes you and doesn’t care about worshipping you or kissing you in the right places, the kind of ways where he takes a piece of you every time and doesn’t care how empty you get. The animal in him comes out, ripping you to shreds.
Hunter put my phone back on the table, pushing his chin out. “Hurry up and finish that bagel. I gotta take care of shit at some sorority house.”
I tilted my head to the side, like I hadn’t heard him correctly. He was free to leave if I wasn’t eating quickly enough. He waited patiently anyways, like I was agreeing to go with him. In reality, I ate slower just to send a clear message of defiance. After I finished, he practically threw away my plate and to-go mug for me.
“Let’s go,” was all he barked at me, before heading for the exit. Against my better senses, I followed him.
The leather of his car’s interior felt familiar and warm as he turned the heated seat on. I pulled my jacket together that I had on over my hoodie. It was freezing, and I was trying to keep myself from shaking. I’m sure that was how to turn him on: need him to do something for you, like flick the heat on blast in my direction.
“You’re going to the wedding, right?”
Popping an eyebrow, I countered, “You know she’s my sister, right?”
He pulled off the curb expertly, and the engine roared with the more speed he picked up.
“Be my date.”
My eyes slanted down into slits of annoyance. “We’ll both already be there...”
“Yeah, but now you’re obligated to dance with me.”
Most guys would run from a girl with this many, very visible, marks against her. He wasn’t running; he was practically begging me to be more broken so I’d need him. Hunter didn’t know he had a lot of self-tanning mousse, red lipstick, and silicone to get through before I let myself need someone. My heart was somewhere down there, under all the fake; he just needed to be willing to dig deeper to find it.
I made a mental note to not put anyone through the annoyance of a bachelor party when I married Layla. It wasn’t if I marry her, it was when.
Arson was already attached, and I was just piling on the reasons why she couldn’t run away from us anymore. I was spending more and more time in Boston while they investigated—whatever that actually meant. Security tapes? Interviewing students and profs? It was her word against mine. I hated to admit it, but Addi wasn’t enough to get caught in a traditional way. They were gonna have to put in some work to figure out it wasn’t actually me.
I had been toying with the idea of quitting and moving to Boston, leaving Amherst in the past with all my other ghosts.
Layla was making pancakes with Arson, as he named complicated shapes to form the batter in. He was testing her, to see if she attempted it and went the extra mile for his happiness.
Layla pushed the batter around the pan trying to create shapes with no tools or basic knowledge of how to. I cheat at home with cookie cutters when Arson isn’t looking. I didn’t want him to know the world was much crueler than a mom who gave up and pancake batter that doesn’t come in shapes. I wanted him to be happy forever. But, he’s my kid, and I knew happiness wasn’t going to be that easy.
It never was.
He was laughing while he snuck his fingers into the bowl of batter to lick off. Layla wasn’t just good for me, it was Arson now too.
My phone buzzed against my jeans, sending a strong vibration to an area needing some attention. Seeing Layla taking care of my kid was turning me on emotionally, and apparently my dick liked that.
I recognized the number, with an Amherst area code. I didn’t have friends who weren’t saved as a contact, so whoever it was… wasn’t considered friendly. Hesitantly, I swiped and watched the timer start on this stranger. The gruff, aged, voice on the other end felt like a gust of fresh air when I realized it was Dean Rocraft calling me personally. This could go either way for me.
I headed outside the sliding door hanging off Layla’s apartment. His voice might have been fresh air, but my lungs weren’t expanding on it.
“Unfortunately, our investigation hasn’t concluded one way or the other. Amherst has a no tolerance policy, and the board has come to a conclusion. We will be severing ties.”
Everything seemed to get quiet, and the focus was on every second between heartbeats.
What was I supposed to say? Cruelty to your boss wasn’t the right move, no matter how reckless I could be when things got tough. I couldn’t let any snap reactions happen until I hung up.
“Your loss.” I hung up without the pleasantries, after I bit my tongue and my fist clenched back snap reactions. The cruelty still slipped through, showing my true colors. I light a cigarette between my lips, letting it sink in as I kept repeating it in my head, I’m officially unemployed, before I said it out loud. I was just fired because Addi was fucking a prof who wasn’t me. I texted Hunter out of anger, hoping he had some kind of morals buried down deep or at least let Addi infatuate him enough to trigger the fight he had for Layla.
Me: Just got fired. Thank Addi and her married fuck buddy for me.
I didn’t bother waiting for a reply when I flicked my cigarette butt off the balcony. I had to leave soon for Leon’s bachelor party that I was being forced to attend later. Really, I was focused on the milestone it marked for Layla and me; she was going to watch Arson for me for the first time, while I was gone. It was only for the night, but one night was going to build the bridge to stepmom someday.
Mesmerizing… that’s how it felt watching Layla laugh with Arson. She was everything Jade couldn’t bring herself to be for him. I didn’t think I could fall for her more. She was everything my life needed now. She grew with me.
“Everything okay?”
My palms pushed onto the counter, boxing her in and shoving my face into her hair, taking her in with the scent of Arson’s favorite food. “A little alone time before I take off? Give me something to think about, while I’m forced to watch strippers?”
She turned around in my arms, facing me, swiping her finger over my nose leaving batter behind. Her smile was blinding.
“That means war.”
I dipped my fingers behind her into the silver bowl of endless batter and let my finger run down where her v-neck exposed her chest. She shrieked, feeling the batter slide further down pass the seams, down further than I could see.
“Once a Sinner, always a Sinner.”
I leaned into her, pushing my finger into her mouth and letting her lick off the remaining batter covering my finger. “You started this, so who’s the real Sinner?”
She thought she was caught between innocent and a mistake tarnishing how she felt about herself, but she really was a Sinner, through and through—one of us. Sinners weren’t just those committing immoral acts or breaking the law; we were survivors. We had been through it all and ended up on the other side, labeled “Sinners”, because the shit we had been through was at our own hands. When it’s mistakes at your own hands, people are quick to call it your fault, your demons, your imperfect morals, certainly not a saint.
Layla was always one of us.
“Arson, wanna go watch TV?”
“I’m not allowed to watch TV until right before dinner.”
“Special occasion.”
“Like a surprise?”
He got up and strutted over to the TV, like he was the only victor left in this fight. He plopped down after searching the table for the clicker and proceeded to look at me, still waiting for an answer. Kids never let things be a mystery; there were endless why’s and not enough time to explain them.
“Kind of. You’ll be with Layla and Liz tonight, so we can bend the rules for some TV.”
He was mean mugging me, like I robbed him of special occasions his whole life, when really I was just gi
ving him weapons to use against me later.
“Bedroom?” I whispered into Layla’s ear so only she could hear me, leaving Arson completely untouched by early exposure to desire or lust. In a fleeting moment, I thought of Caden and his broken childhood filled with women crossing lines too early. It made me a better dad to Arson knowing all the mistakes the Sinners endured.
Liz had the pressure to be damn near perfect.
Hayley was too scared to be herself around the two people programmed to love her.
Aspen struggled with the privilege.
My fucked up childhood was filled with me thinking one parent loved me, while the other just endured me.
I wasn’t going to make those mistakes with Arson. He had enough trauma with Jade being his mother. I just hoped she stayed gone this time. I wanted to root for her, be her biggest cheerleader, but that was a pipe dream. She hadn’t even stopped selling after she moved in with me to help with Arson. The smallest changes seemed like climbing a mountain with Jade. Now he’d grow up without her and wonder, or she’d become the mother who came and went, making him feel completely unwanted.
Everything about Layla was good for me. She didn’t give up on people, not even me five years later—Not even when I deserved it. When it got lonely loving me or when the ocean of problems only got deeper, she still held on, even without me.
She made sure to shut the door and lock it, once we were in the bedroom. Her soft hands snuck under my shirt onto my abs before tugging my shirt the way she used to when she wanted me without saying it.
There was never close enough with us.
“Where did you go just now?”
I let my hands grasp onto her hips and pulled her closer, making her tiny fists release the material of my shirt.
“Nowhere, babe. I’m here.”
She looked at me, calling bullshit—very obviously bullshit.
“We can’t do that again—the not talking thing. It ripped us apart.”
Girls had an expert way of killing every ache in my dick with feelings.
“I’ve been officially fired.”
I moved past her, still uncomfortable with soberly sharing my feelings. Sharing them had been a problem before, and now it was excruciating to feel them even more clearly and then being asked to explain how painful it was. I sunk into her purple duvet and let my weight sink into my elbows, waiting for her to not be satisfied with my sharing. She wanted feelings and details to fill in the gaps I had left in her heart.
Loving someone and letting them in were two different things; you could have both or one without the other. I only learned that after Layla left and I was forced to take that long, hard look in the mirror that I didn’t want to. It was stifling, but I knew I never let her in all the way. I cracked the door and hoped it was enough. I couldn’t just leave the door cracked anymore. She needed a spare key.
She straddled my lap. “Fired? I know you hate sharing, okay? But it’s me. It’s okay to be vulnerable with me.”
Her hands pushed up my shirt, and her hands smoothed out my skin like was appreciating every inch of skin I had. If my heart lived outside my body, I’m sure she’d worship that too.
“I’m a shower, not a sharer.”
The smile she gave me was full of sympathy and heartbreak. She wanted me to be normal and have no problem sharing, but she was forgetting that I burned all my nerve endings with illicit drugs and was practically an open wound of overwhelming feelings.
If you weren’t in a toxic relationship with an addiction, then it was hard to understand how it changed you. It didn’t make you stronger; it makes you more aware of how sensitive you are.
“Then show me something real, Oliver. I’ve never even seen you cry.”
I couldn’t help smirking, and popping an eyebrow, I changed the heavy tone with my brash attitude. “I don’t cry. I politely bottle it up and use it as anger.”
She rocked her hips on top of mine without meaning to, it was her ache driving. She had doused mine with all this talk of feelings, while the ache inside her continued to build.
“I’ve been on the other end of that. You need better aim.”
Gripping her hips, I switched our positions and got comfortable between her legs with my palms on either side of her waist. She wiggled under me, trying to align her crotch with mine for some relief with friction. I tugged my shirt off in one motion, before I unbuttoned my jeans, giving my growing dick some more room. I let myself suffer leaving my erection pushing against the fabric of my boxers.
“Don’t tease me, Oliver.”
She sat up and pulled her shirt off, exposing a deep purple bra I could appreciate—a deep shade of purple against her pale skin, with sheer cups letting her perky pink nipples push against the material. I leaned down impatiently taking her nipple piercing between my lips with the material, tugging lightly, making her suffer.
“This is real, you and me—us. What you make me feel is the best high I’ve ever had, Layla.” I managed to slow down enough to give her my confession before my mouth moved to her other nipple.
I didn’t need to run to the finish line, not with her. This wasn’t instant gratification; this was my endgame—the ultimate high.
Layla arched her back, pushing her nipple further into my mouth, and I felt her crotch find my hard cock. Sneaking under her, I unfastened her bra with one hand, before I leaned back, taking the straps down her arms. She was cream warmed up, and my tattoos against her skin felt like I was branding her with temporary ones, violating her purity.
In a breathy tone, I heard my name, and my dick jumped against my boxers.
“Oliver.”
I pushed my hand down my boxers, taking ahold of myself and feeling the ache pulse against my fingers.
I looked down at her while on my knees, and I was just about to pull down her pants and panties… when I paused to watch her. She was lost in the full-bodied lust that she felt, back arching, fisting the blankets, and nudging her lip between her teeth.
This was new territory. It was somewhere between making love and holding back the animalistic need to conquer her. Balance. A happy medium. A truce. A tie in our tug of war.
Tugging her pants down with her panties was fluid, like a dance of push and pull. After I discarded her clothing, I let her legs rest on my shoulders kissing her ankle, while I palmed my rock hard erection again. I had pushed myself as close to the edge of torture as I could. This was how Layla made me feel 24/7, tortured to be closer, to live inside her.
I leaned down, putting all my weight on my elbows and leaving just enough space between us for my hand to sneak down between us, simultaneously pushing my pants down and letting myself spring out. I guided myself between her legs, waiting for the condom reminder I didn’t get. She was on the pill, but did I believe that was foolproof? No. Was I going to snap my fingers and make the pulsing against my fingers stop being a priority in this moment? No. I was prepared to make Layla mine forever, and that included dealing with any consequences of our impatient behaviors—something I hadn’t gotten the chance to do the first time with Arson.
Her limbs closed around me, arms and legs, not letting any distance creep between us, as I slowly pushed myself between her legs, condom-free. The warm tight space of her love felt overwhelming. Skin to skin was something we were taught not to fall in love with, without responsibility, but by nature, we were programmed to love this in order to keep our bloodlines alive. The world was just as confused as I was about what I wanted and needed; being an adult didn’t clear anything up.
He fingers pulled my chin down for a hungry kiss, pushing away all my sobering thoughts. I wanted to be high on Layla. Her love was the high, but these moments with her were the laced component no one ever expected when sniffing up a mystery line.
I groaned into her mouth with each thrust of my hips, pushing us both closer to the edge of orgasm. Our lips fell from each other’s when Layla choked out, “Oliver, I don’t want you to hold back. I know you go softer for me.”
Something about her words hit me harder than the pleasure of being inside her.
“I don’t… go softer…”
There was that smirk and devilish eyes screaming bullshit that couldn’t look more wrong on her porcelain features and baby face. I loved it.
“You don’t wanna break me or scare me. I’m not a kid anymore.”
I lifted my weight to my palms and debated giving her the version of myself she had only seen a few times in college—all animal, no tenderness evident. I shoved my fingers in her mouth mulling over the words she said. She wasn’t that innocent freshman anymore, and Hunter had reaped those benefits for five years. She was willing to let me go harder, but not for the reasons I wanted. She was seasoned because of him.
“Suck.”
She didn’t seem alarmed or in over her head, so I reveled in her tongue licking my fingers in her mouth, while her lips sucked them in further. She was meeting me half-way, and I was going to take advantage.
I quickly flipped her over on all fours and closed my hand around her neck, lighter than I would with anyone else, while I lined myself up to her sex again. With anyone else, the goal was relief—not just of the ache in my jeans, but the anger I bottled up. My rough hands and hips were a relief to my soul.
With one thrust, I had her moaning in a way I couldn’t allow. I moved my hand up to her mouth, keeping her quiet. She bit down on my fingers when I sped up, leaning over her, and my lips rubbed against her ear, creating more goosebumps along her skin.
“Is this what you learned to love post college?”
Her head snapped to the side, and she made eye contact with me. I watched her eyes get dark and murky, as the anger set in, realizing the meaning behind my question. She couldn’t answer with my hand covering her mouth, but I didn’t need an answer. I had an imagination.
Hunter was always going to be the discomfort I couldn’t fuck my way out of feeling.
She pushed back against me wanting more length, more of me inside her, but she had all of me. She was still begging for more, while I was wondering how Hunter fucked her into liking a rougher hand. I knew she was close, when I watched her chest slide onto the bed, and her arms reached out to grab the blankets, or grab anything, really, for stability as I pushed her over a cliff.