Like You (Perfectly Flawed #1)

by Dunning, Rachel

  I start easing her shirt off again. She shakes her head again, forcefully, and pulls it down.

  Again with the shirt...

  "We can stop, it's no problem," I say.

  "No." She's breathing heavily, barely getting the words out. "Just not the shirt. You can take it all off me except that."

  "Something loaded, I suppose?"

  "It always is with us."

  I smile. I want to take her pants off. I want to take her underwear off and put her butt on this counter and lick her from the bottom up. I want to taste her tang, stick my tongue in her until she howls with pleasure.

  But I'm afraid to. The doc said nothing about oral. My simple mind says it should be fine.

  But what if it isn't?

  I won't risk it with her.

  But he did say touching was fine.

  So I touch her.

  I move my hand between her legs and rub her while my other hand starts undoing her belt. She starts shaking. "Oh, God, I can't believe this. I'm going to—"

  She shudders, convulses and trembles with raw pleasure while my hand rubs her above her jeans. My other arm is now behind her back, bracing her as she arches it and tenses and spasms like a bronco. She pushes her head into my chest and grabs my arms and squeezes while orgasming under my hand. I've never felt this much pleasure with a girl. I've never had this much sensation by just watching someone feel and go through this.

  And I haven't even come myself yet!

  In the end she gives a surprised gasp and a laugh. "I guess it's been too long," she says.

  When she looks up, her face is red and shy and...innocent. I figure it's part heat and part embarrassment. "You looked amazing," I say.

  She starts undoing my belt with a vengeance, staring me fiercely in the eyes.

  I grab her wrists, shake my head. "You can take it all off, except that."

  "Loaded?"

  "In more ways than one. But not tonight."

  She laughs at the pun. She puts her head on my chest. I hold her and caress her hair. How long has it been since I've run my fingers through someone's hair like this?

  "Sleep with me tonight," she says. "I mean, sleep with me. On my luxurious mattress. Snoring and all."

  That's exactly what I wanted to suggest, babe.

  -5-

  G.

  The photos can wait. I'll work through the night tomorrow, the next day, even on Saturday. I'll work on the train.

  But not tonight.

  Tonight it's all gone—the fear, the pain, the confusion, the terrifying questions as to what I'll do in my life. How I'll survive.

  All those things...are gone.

  I know they'll be back. I know this is temporary.

  But I need all the relief I can get. A breath of oxygen before I go under water again, into the nightmares, into the shadows. Into the dark which is my mind.

  I grab Axle's hand and take him upstairs. I hear the cat scratching outside the door. I stop. "I have to feed the cat."

  "You have a cat?"

  "Technically, no." I go to the fridge and pull out some fresh cream.

  "Cream?"

  I nod.

  "Lucky cat."

  I open the door and look out at the moonlit courtyard. Cold and blue and dark.

  The cat purrs and rubs up against my leg. I pour the cream and slam the door closed.

  Upstairs, we somehow fit ourselves onto the mattress. "It's not much," I say.

  "But it's home?"

  "Very funny."

  "It's more than we had when we... Never mind."

  Another loaded subject, I think.

  We lie silently, staring up at the ceiling for a second. His musky scent makes the second round of urgency I feel for him simmer slowly and fervently underneath my skin.

  I nestle my head on his shoulder, start rubbing his abs. I start moving his shirt off and I feel his hesitation. I pull it up higher and he takes it the rest of the way.

  More scars. And a huge tribal tattoo down his left side.

  I start kissing it, each twirl of it. I lick it all the way up and down and cover every part of it with my tongue.

  I lick his nipples and feel him writhe. I rub his cock, over his denims. He's huge and hard. I press harder.

  I can't remember a time when I've been so comfortable with a man.

  But I don't compare him in my mind with that other man. No. That other man won't ruin tonight for me. He won't enter this room, even if only through my thoughts.

  This is a fresh start.

  I kiss Axle on the lips and when our open mouths collide my eyes flutter and I'm filled with heat again.

  I undress from the waist down and get on top of him, straddling him. And I push down against him with my bare, moist crotch.

  He groans.

  I do it again, grinding him, feeling his chest and rubbing the small hairs that cover the front of his hard body.

  I push him again and then I hear myself groan. He thrusts up. He pushes and pulls my waist until every muscle below is ready to snap with pleasure. We speed up. Faster, harder, wetter, more intense.

  He murmurs, starts to roar.

  We orgasm together this time.

  He howls as only a man can. I feel him pulse and explode underneath his jeans. My butt clenches, my insides clench, the insides of my knees press against the sides of his torso as they spasm inwards. He pushes and pulls and I grind and scrape against him and then feel my tensed nipples relax, and the muscles all over my body ease up.

  I exhale, flick my wet hair back.

  And I smile at him.

  He smiles back, but then quickly lifts me off him and looks down at his crotch. The sudden tension on his face eases off.

  I lie next to him, play with his chest hairs.

  The reactions he's had can only mean one thing. No groin contact, no sex. It makes me sad for him. Could it be?

  Feeling closer to him, I decide to ask. "Are you HIV positive?"

  "What?"

  "Sorry, I just—"

  "No, no, of course not!"

  "Sorry."

  Silence. He clears his throat. "Well, actually, it's not 'of course' not."

  He sits up, puts his arms around his knees.

  "I once had Chlamydia and Trich-something-or-other at the same time," I tell him.

  He doesn't look back. Looks down instead. "Those are curable, right?"

  "Yeah. Simple course of antibiotics."

  "You know who you got it from?"

  "Course I do. I only ever slept with two men. And I was clean before the second one."

  "And then?"

  "And then...loaded."

  "Is that going to be our thing?"

  "What?"

  "Answering 'loaded' to any question we're not ready to answer?"

  "I think that might move us along."

  He waits. "So ask me something."

  I ponder the question to ask. It needs to be something easy, and seeing as we're already on the subject... "So what do you have?"

  He clears his throat. "I forget the name. The most common curable one, I think."

  "Xinastriasis?"

  "Are you like a walking medical dictionary or something?" He's still looking away from me. Out into the corridor.

  "Something like that. When I got these two from...this guy...I researched it. A lot of them are not as bad as people think. I mean, I always thought none of them were curable and it was all bad and horrible and—"

  "Yeah, me too."

  "Anyway, so, no biggie. I guess you just gotta practice safe sex and choose your partners."

  He stays silent. I might've overstepped my boundaries there... "Right. So I suppose you were saved the humiliation of having to go find all your ex sex partners and tell them, right?"

  "Yeah, I guess as I was. But I wasn't saved the humiliation of having the doctor realize that my husband was sleeping around before I did."

  "Your...husband?"

  Damn. It slipped out. I actually laugh it off.
"I'm not married by the way. You know, I tend to talk a little too much around you."

  "Yeah, tell me about it. Is the husband question loaded?"

  "Six-shot revolver loaded."

  "Cool."

  I hear the house creak.

  I sit up, put my hand on his broad back. I trace my hand down a scar. "Is it loaded to ask how you got all these scars?"

  "After running away from home, well, often I slept on the streets. I got into a few fights. The big one on my back was a knife. Through the back, into my lung. Punctured it."

  I trace it again. "That must've hurt."

  He stares out the door. "I had no idea what pain really was back then..."

  I don't even bother to ask if that's loaded or not.

  "I'm not a relationship guy, Genevieve. You need to know that."

  "And I don't want a relationship."

  He turns his head back and looks at me.

  I can't face him for a second and I don't know why. He's frowning intensely. I put my forehead on his shoulder blade. I smell his skin and then lick it. Salty.

  He moves his hand to my knee and rubs it, then turns around and kisses me passionately. He eases me down onto my back.

  He rubs my stomach over my shirt. Then my breasts.

  My nipples tighten.

  He kisses my neck, my earlobe.

  I hear the whimper escape me and it's the only sound that can be heard in this lonely place. Loud and lingering.

  He moves his middle finger into me and digs deep inside, pushing and thrusting and twirling around, in and out. He pushes up and I feel my pelvis rock with his hand. He pushes down with heel of it against my pubis and my skin goes ablaze.

  I push back against him.

  I clutch his forearm. My eyes squeeze up.

  The pressure mounts. I'm dripping, singing, writhing. And then—

  "Arrgh!" The orgasm blasts me. It hits me in the stomach and bursts out of me through my spasming legs.

  I'm gone, forgetting. In bliss.

  Lost in him and his touch.

  And then it's over.

  I feel OK again.

  He lies next to me, and I curl into him.

  Before I know it, I'm asleep.

  PART II

  CHAPTER 24

  -1-

  G.

  Nov. 14, 2013 — Thursday Morning.

  Axle is gone when I wake up.

  I clutch the bed sheet next to me and inhale deeply, thinking of our pelvises touching the night before, tightening, releasing.

  I'm under no illusions with him. I'm under no illusions in general. Mason had been an illusion. If anything, he gave me that. He gave me the ability to see through the illusion to what is really there.

  I don't take it as an insult that Axle isn't here. Honestly, I don't know what I want with him either. What I do know is that I'm not ready. Not ready at all. One night I can handle. Maybe even a few more nights as well. Physical.

  But more than that? Committing to someone? Investing all of myself into them? That I'm not ready for.

  But I'd like to keep seeing him. Maybe what we had last night was all it'll ever be. And I'm OK with that. He's been good to me as a friend. And I appreciate it. And I'd like to keep him as a friend.

  I text him.

  Gen: Friends?

  There's no delay in his response.

  Axle: You can't answer a question with another question. That's cheating.

  Gen: I asked you first.

  Axle: And I said no ways.

  Gen: So, now I'm asking again.

  Axle: But I asked first. In the letter.

  Gen: What letter?

  He calls. "I hate texting. It just feels so teeangery. You obviously didn't get the letter."

  "What letter?"

  "Precisely. I just have to take care of some things. I made you coffee. It's in the kitchen. I hope it's still warm."

  "I see." I move my hair behind my ear. "So, can we hang out sometime? I don't want what happened yesterday to make things weird between us. I mean I really appreciate—"

  "Read the letter!"

  "OK, I will!"

  I have a very brief wistful moment after putting the phone off. But it disappears quickly.

  It's Thursday. I have to have a presentable portfolio ready by Sunday. I took well over three thousand photos yesterday. I need to go through them. I'll probably take another three thousand tonight. "Oh, God."

  I rush down the stairs.

  I see the coffee and it's the perfect temperature. "Oh, Axle, bless your soul." It wakes me up.

  And then I see the letter.

  And there's a gold wedding band on top of it.

  -2-

  * LOADED LETTER *

  Gen or Jen,

  What follows is loaded. Please never bring it up with me in person. When you're done with this, burn it or keep it in a box or feed it to the cat, but don't show it to anyone. Especially not to me.

  At the moment I feel drunk somehow. Funny, because I haven't touched booze in over twenty-four hours. So I might regret writing this later. But right now I don't. Right now I feel like I'm "speaking" more clearly than I have in over five years. It's a Jerry McGuire moment. Something tells me I'll be fired tomorrow.

  Fired from what, I don't know.

  Please don't take this the wrong way. I like you. But I mean it when I say I'm no good for you. You said you're not ready for a relationship. That makes two of us.

  Now comes the loaded part:

  Her name was Zoey Taylor. Frankie's sister. That's how I know him. She was the love of my life for almost three years. She died in a car accident while we were on the way to a late fall vacation at the German Wine Region. I was driving. She died in front of me while I hung upside down from a seatbelt I couldn't get off. We were to be married two weeks later.

  The scar above my eye is from when I finally got the seatbelt off and fell onto the broken glass below me.

  I wear the ring because it's all I have left of her.

  I wear the ring because the girls I pick up at clubs who don't care about it, are exactly the kinds of girls I've wanted to be with since she died. Girls who will never take her place.

  I'll never throw the ring away. But I can't keep wearing it. I need to let go. I need to move on.

  So I'm loaning it to you. Keep it somewhere for me. But don't wear it around me. I can't see it near me. If I want it back, I'll ask you for it. But, for now, you're its guardian.

  Why am I giving it to you, specifically? Why am I telling you all these things? Because you seem to be as loaded as I am. I think you're a little like me in that respect. A lot like me. Or, maybe, I'm like you.

  I'm telling you because I find myself saying things to you that I normally wouldn't say to people. You're either a spy who's expert at extracting information from people, or someone I should be talking to more often.

  And you don't look like a spy.

  I'm cleaning out my apartment today. It's time to let go of some of that load.

  Thanks for last night. I can't promise there'll be another. But that doesn't mean I won't be back to get you drunk as a skunk as soon as I can.

  Because I will be.

  And I sure hope you can hold your liquor better this time.

  So, friends?

  Like you,

  Ax

  I text him.

  Gen: Friends.

  I text him again.

  Gen: Oh, and it's Gen with a G.

  Axle: Axle with an A. Nice to meet you.

  Gen: Nice to meet you. We should get a drink sometime.

  Axle: Or seven of them. After the antibiotics are finished.

  Gen: And after Sunday. I'm swimming in stress because of this portfolio. And I need to go to Berlin.

  Axle: Berlin?

  Gen: Yeah, meeting battleaxe there on Sunday morning. Make or break for me.

  Axle: They have great Irish Pubs in Berlin.

  Gen: Is that a hint?

  Axle: No. Just men
tioning.

  Gen: Wanna come along?

  Axle: Want? Yes. Will? No. You and I in a pub before my antibiotics are finished is dangerous territory.

  Gen: So, not just friends?

  Axle: Loaded.

  I look on the inside of the ring and see her name: Zoey.

  I decide I will tell him about my own past. When I'm ready.

  As soon as possible.

  -3-

  I go to Thomas's apartment and Karolin is already there in a pink silk robe. Thomas comes out into his open plan lounge wearing a banana hammock and smiles at me.

  "Have a good night?" I ask them both, feeling mischievous.

  "About as good as yours, mademoiselle." He picks up a potato chip from the kitchen island and chews on it. "We see you leave all flustered and in a hurry with Taylor Lautner last night."

  "Taylor who?"

  "Taylor Lautner. He played that other guy in Twilight. Not Edward, the other one. With all the big, sexy muscles."

  I feel myself blush. "It's time to get to work."

  We start out with shots in the bedroom and their obvious activities of the night before help a lot because they're both relaxed in each other's presence. The shots are sensuous, raw, filled with passion. I keep it above the belt and make sure I capture the heat, the need, the desire, without making either of them look cheap.

  I want to do a few of Karolin alone. I want to do a lot of her alone.

  I want to show what are termed "imperfections" and how they're not that at all. She's shy when I tell her I want to get her cellulite, her tummy, her breast that isn't filled unnaturally with silicone and ready to hang a flag from.

  She's willing to do it eventually, reluctantly. But that isn't good enough. I want her to be fully comfortable around me. I want her to trust me.

  I close and bolt the door. I pull down my pants to my knees and turn with my back to her. I slap the back of my legs.

  "You have cellulite," she says. "A lot of it."

  I pull my panties down so she can see my ass.

  "My goodness, and on your bum!"

  I put my panties and jeans back on. Zip up and face her.

  Her mouth is open. "But you're so thin!"

  "Even thin girls have cellulite. And I'm not so thin by the way."