by Tahereh Mafi
Several years, Nouria said.
Several years they’ve lived here and made this their home. They really found a way to make something out of nothing.
The bathroom is a nice size—spacious enough for two people to share, but not big enough for a bathtub. Still, when we first approached the clearing I wasn’t even sure they’d have proper facilities or running water, so this is more than I could’ve hoped for. And the more I stare at the shower, the more I’m suddenly desperate to rinse these weeks from my skin. I always took pains to stay clean, even in prison, but it’s been too long since I’ve had a hot shower with steady, running water, and I can hardly resist the temptation now. And I’ve already stripped off most of my clothes when I hear Ella call my name, her still-sleepy voice carrying over from what serves as our bedroom. Or bed space. It’s not really a room as much as it is an area designated for a bed.
“Yes?” I call back.
“Where’d you go?” she says.
“I thought I might take a shower,” I try to say without shouting. I’ve just stepped out of my underwear and into the standing shower, but I turn the dials in the wrong direction and cold water sprays from the showerhead. I jump backward even as I hurry to undo my mistake, and nearly collide with Ella in the process.
Ella, who’s suddenly standing behind me.
I don’t know whether its habit, instinct, or self-preservation, but I grab a towel from a nearby shelf and quickly press it against my exposed body. I don’t even understand why I’m suddenly self-conscious. I never feel uncomfortable in my own skin. I like the way I look naked.
But this moment wasn’t one I’d anticipated, and I feel defenseless.
“Hi, love,” I say, taking a quick breath. I remember to smile. “I didn’t see you standing there.”
Ella crosses her arms, pretending to look mad, but I can see the effort she’s making to fight back a smile. “Aaron,” she says sternly. “You were going to take a shower without me?”
My eyebrows fly up, surprised.
For a moment, I don’t know what to say. And then, carefully, “Would you like to join me?”
She steps forward, wraps her arms around my waist, and stares up at me with a sweet, secret smile. The look in her eyes is enough to make me think about dropping the towel.
I whisper her name, my heart heavy with emotion.
She pulls me closer, gently touching her lips to my chest, and I go uncomfortably still. Her kisses grow more intent, her lips leaving a trail of fire across my chest, down my torso, and feeling rushes through my veins, sets me on fire. Suddenly I forget why I was ever holding a towel.
I don’t even know when it falls to the floor.
I slip my arms around her, reel her in. She feels incredible, her body fitting against me perfectly, and I tilt her face up, my hand caught somewhere behind her neck and the base of her jaw and I kiss her, soft and slow, heat filling my blood with dangerous speed. I pull her tighter and she gasps, stumbles and takes an accidental step back and I catch her, pressing her against the wall behind her. I bunch up the hem of her dress and in one smooth motion yank it upward, my hand slipping under the material to skim the smooth skin of her waist, to grip her hip, hard. I part her legs with my thigh and she makes a soft, desperate sound deep in her throat and it does something to me, to feel her like this, to hear her like this—to be assaulted by endless waves of her pleasure and desire—
It drives me insane.
I bury my face in her neck, my hands moving up, under her dress to feel her skin, hot and soft and sensitive to my touch. I’ve missed her so much. I’ve missed her body under my hands, missed the scent of her skin and the soft, feather-light whisper of her hair against my body. I kiss her neck, trying to ignore the tension in my muscles or the hard, desperate pressure driving me toward her, toward madness. There’s an ache expanding inside of me and demanding more, demanding I flip her over and lose myself in her here, right now, and she whispers—
“How— How do you always feel so good?” She’s clinging to me, her eyes half-lidded but bright with desire. Her face is flushed. Her words are heavy with feeling when she says, “How do you always do this to me?”
I break away from her.
I take two steps backward and I’m breathing hard, trying to regain control of myself even as her eyes widen, her arms going suddenly still.
“Aaron?” she says. “What’s—”
“Take off your dress,” I say quietly.
Understanding awakens in her eyes.
She says nothing, she only looks at me, carefully, as I watch, imprisoned in place by an acute form of agony. Her hands are trembling but her eyes are willing and wanting and nervous. She shoves the material down, past her shoulders and lets it fall to the floor. I drink her in as she steps out of the dress, my mind racing.
Gorgeous, I think. So gorgeous.
My pulse is wild.
When I ask her to, she unhooks her bra. Moments later, her underwear joins her bra on the floor and I can’t look away from her, my mind unable to process the perfection of this happiness. She’s so stunning I can hardly breathe. I can hardly fathom that she’s mine, that she wants me, that she would ever love me. I can’t even hear myself think over the rush of blood in my ears, my heart beating so fast and hard it seems to thud against my skull. The sight of her standing in front of me, vulnerable and flushed with desire, is doing wild, desperate things to my mind. God, the fantasies I’ve had about her. The places my mind has gone.
I step forward and pick her up and she gasps, surprised, clinging desperately to my neck as I hitch her legs around my waist, my arms settling under her thighs. I love feeling the weight of her soft curves. I love having her this close to me. I love her arms around my neck and the squeeze of her legs around my hips. I love how ready she is, her thighs already parted, every inch of her pressed against me. But then she runs her hands up my naked back and I have to resist the urge to flinch. I don’t want to be self-conscious about the scars on my body. I don’t want any part of me to be off-limits to her. I want her to know me exactly as I am, and, as hard as it is, I allow myself to ease into her touch, closing my eyes as she trails her hands up, across my shoulders, down my arms.
“You’re so gorgeous,” she says softly. “I’m always surprised. It doesn’t matter how many times I see you without your clothes on, I’m always surprised. It doesn’t seem fair that anyone should be this gorgeous.”
She looks at me, stares at me as if expecting an answer, but I can’t speak. I fear I might unravel if I do. I want her with a desperate need I’ve never known before—a desperate, painful need so overwhelming it’s threatening to consume me. I need her. Need this. Now. I take a deep, unsteady breath, and carry her into the shower.
She screams.
Hot water hits us fast and hard and I press her against the shower wall, losing myself in her in a way I never have before. The kisses are deeper, more desperate. The heat, more explosive. Everything between us feels wild and raw and vulnerable.
I lose track of time.
I don’t know how long we’ve been here. I don’t know how long I’ve lost myself in her when she cries out, clutching my arms so tightly her fingernails dig into my skin, her screams muffled against my chest. I feel weak, unsteady as she collapses in my arms; I’m intoxicated by the pure, stunning power of her emotions: endless waves of love and desire, love and kindness, love and joy, love and tenderness. So much tenderness.
It’s almost too much.
I step backward, bracing myself against the wall as she presses her cheek against my chest and holds me, our bodies wet and heavy with feeling, our hearts pounding with something more powerful than I ever thought possible. I kiss the curve of her shoulder, the nape of her neck. I forget where we are and all we have left to do and I just hold on, hot water rushing down my arms, my limbs still slightly shaking, too terrified to let her go.
Juliette Ella
I wake up with a start.
After we got ou
t of the shower, Aaron and I dried off, climbed into bed without a word, and promptly fell asleep.
I have no idea what time it is.
Aaron’s body is curled around mine, one of his arms under my head, the other wrapped around my waist. His arms are heavy, and the weight of him feels so good—makes me feel so safe—that, on the one hand, I don’t ever want to move. On the other hand—
I know we should probably get out of bed.
I sigh, hating to wake him up—he seems so tired—and I turn around, slowly, in his arms.
He only pulls me tighter.
He shifts so that his chin rests on my head; my face is now pressed gently against his throat, and I breathe him in, running my hands along the strong, deep lines of muscle in his arms. Everything about him feels raw. Powerful. There’s something both wild and terrified about his heart, and somehow, knowing this only makes me love him more. I trace the lines of his shoulder blades, the curve of his spine. He stirs, but only a little, and buries his face in my hair, breathing me in.
“Don’t go,” he says quietly.
I tilt my head, gently kiss the column of his throat. “Aaron,” I whisper, “I’m not going anywhere.”
He sighs. Says, “Good.”
I smile. “But we should probably get out of bed. We have to go to dinner. Everyone will be waiting for us.”
He shakes his head, barely. Makes a disapproving sound in his throat.
“But—”
“No.” And then, deftly, he helps me turn around. He hugs me close again, my back pressed against his chest. His voice is soft, husky with desire when he says. “Let me enjoy you, love. You feel so good.”
And I give in. Melt back into his arms.
The truth is, I love these moments most. The quiet contentment. The peace. I love the weight of him, the feel of him, his naked body wrapped around mine. I never feel closer to him than I do like this, when there’s nothing between us.
Gently, he kisses my temple. Pulls me, somehow, even tighter. And his lips are at my ear when he says,
“Kenji said I was supposed to get you a ring.”
I stiffen, confused. Try to turn around when I say, “What do you mean?”
But Aaron eases my body back down. He rests his chin on my shoulder. His hands move down my arms, trace the curve of my hips. He kisses my neck once, twice, so softly. “I know I’m doing this wrong,” he says. “I know I’m not good at this sort of thing, love, and I hope you’ll forgive me for it, but I don’t know how else to do it.” A pause. “And I’m starting to think it might kill me if I don’t.”
My body is frozen, even as my heart pounds furiously in my chest. “Aaron,” I say, hardly daring to breathe. “What are you talking about?”
He says nothing.
I turn around again, and this time, he doesn’t stop me. His eyes flare with emotion, and I watch the gentle movement in his throat as he swallows. A muscle jumps in his jaw.
“Marry me,” he whispers.
I stare at him, disbelief and joy colliding. And it’s the look in his eyes—the hopeful, terrified look in his eyes—that nearly kills me.
I’m suddenly crying.
I clap my hands over my face. A sob escapes my mouth.
Gently, he pries my hands away from my face.
“Ella?” he says, his words hardly a whisper.
I’m still crying when I throw my arms around his neck, still crying when he says, a little nervously—
“Sweetheart, I really need to know if this means yes or no—”
“Yes,” I cry, slightly hysterical. “Yes. Yes to everything with you. Yes to forever with you. Yes.”
Warner
Is this joy?
I think it might kill me.
“Aaron?”
“Yes, love?”
She takes my face in her hands and kisses me, kisses me with a love so deep it releases my brain from its prison. My heart starts beating violently.
“Ella,” I say. “You’re going to be my wife.”
She kisses me again, crying again, and suddenly I don’t recognize myself. I don’t recognize my hands, my bones, my heart. I feel new. Different.
“I love you,” she whispers. “I love you so much.”
“That you could love me at all seems like some kind of miracle.”
She smiles, even as she shakes her head. “That’s ridiculous,” she says. “It’s very, very easy to love you.”
And I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to respond.
She doesn’t seem to mind.
I reel her in, kiss her, again, and lose myself in the taste and feel of her, in the fantasy of what we might have. What we might be. And then I pull her gently onto my lap and she straddles my body, settling over me until we’re pressed together, her cheek against my chest. I wrap my arms around her, spread my hands along her back. I feel her gentle breaths on my skin, her eyelashes tickling my chest as she blinks, and I decide I’m never, ever leaving this bed.
A happy, wonderful silence settles between us.
“You asked me to marry you,” she says softly.
“Yes.”
“Wow.”
I smile, my heart filled suddenly with inexpressible joy. I hardly recognize myself. I can’t remember the last time I ever smiled this much. I can’t recall ever feeling this kind of pure, unburdened bliss.
Like my body might float away without me.
I touch her hair, gently. Run my fingers through the soft, silky strands. When I finally sit up, she sits up, too, and she blushes as I stare at her, mesmerized by the sight of her. Her eyes are wide and bright. Her lips full and pink. She’s perfect, perfect here, bare and beautiful in my arms.
I press my forehead to the curve of her shoulder, my lips brushing against her skin. “I love you, Ella,” I whisper. “I will love you for the rest of my life. My heart is yours. Please don’t ever give it back to me.”
She says nothing for what feels like an eternity.
Finally, I feel her move. Her hand touches my face.
“Aaron,” she whispers. “Look at me.”
I shake my head.
“Aaron.”
I look up, slowly, to meet her eyes, and her expression is at once sad and sweet and full of love. I feel something thaw inside of me as I stare at her, and just as she’s about to say something, a complicated chime echoes through the room.
I freeze.
Ella frowns. Looks around. “That sounds like a doorbell,” she says.
I wish I could deny the possibility.
I sit back, even though she’s still sitting on my lap. I want this interruption to end. I want to go back to our conversation. I want to stick to my original plan to spend the rest of the night here, in bed, with my perfect, naked fiancée.
The chime sounds again, and this time, I say something decidedly ungentlemanly under my breath.
Ella laughs, surprised. “Did you just swear?”
“No.”
A third chime. This time, I stare up at the ceiling and try to clear my head. Try to convince myself to move, to get dressed. This must be some kind of emergency, or else—
Suddenly, a voice:
“Listen—I didn’t want to come, okay? I really didn’t. I hate being this guy. But Castle sent me to come get you guys because you missed dinner. It’s getting super late and everyone is a little worried, and now you’re not even answering the door, and—Jesus Christ, open the goddamn door—”
I can’t believe it. I can’t believe he’s here. He’s always here, ruining my life.
I’m going to kill him.
I nearly trip trying to pull on my pants and get to the door at the same time, but when I do, I rip the door open, practically tearing it off its hinges.
“Unless someone is dead, dying, or we are under attack, I want you gone before I’ve even finished this sentence.”
Kenji narrows his eyes at me, and then pushes past me into the room. And I’m so stunned by his gall that it takes me a moment
to realize I’m going to have to murder him.
“J—?” he says, looking around as he walks in. “You in here?”
Ella is holding the bedsheet up to her neck. “Uh, hi,” she says. She smiles nervously. “What are you doing here?”
“Hey, is it cool if I still call you J?” he says. “I know your name is Ella and everything, but I got so used to calling you J that it just feels right, you know?”
“You can still call me J,” she says. And then she frowns. “Kenji, what’s wrong?”
I groan.
“Get out,” I snap at him. “I don’t know why you’re here, and I don’t care. We don’t wish to be disturbed. Ever.”
Ella shoots me a sharp look. She ignores me when she says, to Kenji, “It’s okay. I care. Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing is wrong,” Kenji says. “But I know your boyfriend won’t listen to me, so I wanted to let you know that it’s almost midnight and we really need you guys to get down to the dining tent ASAP, okay?” He shoots Ella a loaded look, and her eyes widen. She nods. I feel a sudden rush of excitement move through her, and it leaves me confused.
“What’s going on?” I say.
But Kenji is already walking away.
“Bro, you really need to, like, eat a pizza or something,” he says, slapping me on the shoulder as he leaves. “You have too many abs.”
“What?” My eyebrows pull together. “That’s not—”
“I’m joking,” Kenji says, pausing in the doorway just before he leaves. “Joking,” he says again. “It was a joke. Jesus.”
And then he slams the door behind him. I turn around.
“What’s going on?” I say again.