by Stella Noir
Dylan, on the other hand, was always looking to please himself, being a teenager, but today, he is looking out for me, and for one of the not so many times, I feel like I’m the most important person in the room.
I gasp as he pulls down my thong, revealing inches of skin untouched by the sun.
He looks up at me, smiling softly.
“Just like summer,” he says, and my heart is hit with a pang as the memories hit, but I don’t let myself succumb to them. Not just yet.
Finally, I’m stark naked in front of Dylan, yet I am not embarrassed. I feel beautiful, vulnerable, but strong at the same time. I uncross my arms and I let him see every bit of me, appreciating the soft gasps he makes as he takes me in.
He’s shuddering as he gets up and I help him take his clothes off slowly, not rushed at all. We take our time, enjoying this moment, both of us knowing it might be the first as well as the last time.
You only get one second chance.
He pulls me into his arms, his grip firm but gentle as I feel his hardness between my legs. Yet somehow it feels so innocent, like we’re just exploring one another.
And it is then that I realize, this is love in its purest form.
Not animalistic, wild, crazy.
It’s soft, explorative, loving…
It’s the way Dylan caresses me with his gaze alone.
The way his hand holds the small of my back protectively.
The way he lowers me on the bed like I’m a china doll and he has to protect me from breaking.
We take our time, exploring each other’s bodies, as if curious to see what has changed.
I don’t let the pleasure take over. This moment is too precious for me.
Dylan’s body is stronger, wider, and broader. His hair is darker, the path leading down from his belly button to his crotch driving me insane just as much as his hard cock pressing between my legs.
But he never asks to have me, never makes a move. He kisses me passionately, and I know the ball is in my hands now. He won’t do anything I don’t want him to.
And it hurts even more, because I know I’ll have no one to blame for this but myself.
“Take me,” I whisper, having made my decision - or rather, my heart made it for me. “I need to have you… You need to have me. I need this moment, even if it’s just now and not forever.”
He doesn’t hesitate, and ever so gently, he presses his cock until he’s at my entrance and I’m whimpering softly, so desperate for more, yet so scared of the consequences of what we’re doing.
“Are you sure?” he asks hoarsely and all I can do is nod an affirmative answer.
With that, he pushes inside me and I cry out when he enters me, his cock so much bigger than I’m used to, sliding inside me, so gentle yet so big I can’t hold my whimpers anymore.
“Yes,” I whisper softly. “Please… I need you…”
He cups my face with his hands and starts pushing inside me so slowly, but with such a huge impact I shudder with each of his thrusts, making him go even deeper, to places I never even knew existed.
My eyes want to roll into the back of my head with the pure pleasure of it, but I don’t let them. I keep them wide open, because I want to memorize every moment, every inch of Dylan’s skin.
I know very well that it might be the first and the last time.
He looks into my eyes and the pain in his gaze is too much to handle, so I raise myself until our lips crash together again. I push my tongue into his mouth, demanding, passionate, wanting to reach him like he’s reached me.
Yet he won’t let me.
I’m a bright burning fire and he’s a slow spark.
He slows me down, brings me back to his arms, back to reality when I’m trying to float away. He intertwines his fingers with mine and pushes my hands back, lowering my head with his mouth, replacing the hard kisses with gentle licks, and lapping up my taste.
“Remember me,” he begs me, his voice almost breaking over the words I know I will never be able to forget. “If this is the only time… Remember me, remember us. Remember I made you feel like this-”
He plunges so deep I cry out with pleasure, his cock deep inside and reaching that place Matthew never did. I arch my back and moan loudly, begging him for more.
He does what I ask; yet every time I look in his eyes, I see so much pain there.
In the end, I stop looking.
I close my eyes and I pretend it’s all okay. Nothing bad has happened, no one is to blame. I’m just a woman making the most beautiful love to a man I love.
And for that moment, all is right in the world.
Dylan leans down to my ear, his lips grazing my ear lobe so I whimper underneath him. He’s so careful when he’s touching me, like I’m a porcelain doll. And it’s such a big contrast to the way he used to act, I’m shocked.
“I need to go faster now,” he says softly in my ear. “I need to make love to you. Need to come. Okay?”
“Okay,” I whisper back and he does what he was promising.
He plunges inside and I cry out in ecstasy, letting myself enjoy the moment for what it is.
Love.
He pumps inside me, thrusting deeper each time as I beg him for more, until my voice gets so hoarse I can’t get another word out. Then I just whimper, and hope I’m conveying my message, which is always the same - I want more.
“Can’t hold on,” I mutter. “Please come with me… I need this with you…”
I can feel him pulsating inside me and he whispers sweet things in my ear as he pumps again and again and again.
“Dylan!” I scream. “Please…”
“Okay, baby,” he says softly. “Here you go.”
His final thrust takes it all out of me and we come together, the warm liquid from his cock seeping into his sheets as I scream his name over and over again, until my words turn to whispers and I lie on the bed, only my lips moving, still shaped in the letters that form his beautiful name.
He lies down next to me, but he doesn’t take me in his arms.
We lie there for a second and I let reality sink in.
I’ve done this weeks after my husband’s passing. There is no excuse.
I feel the hot tears falling down my face, mixing with the heat of my body from my orgasm. I feel Dylan’s embarrassment just as I feel my own, and I get up, covering myself with a sheet as I make a run for the bathroom.
I lock the door.
He doesn’t move.
I get dressed, cleaning up as well as I can, given the circumstances.
Finally, when I’m ready, I hesitantly open the door.
He’s sitting on the bed, his head buried in his hands, contemplating what just happened. His chiseled body makes me want more, more and more, yet I know there is no going back.
And I know I’m going to seal my fate with what I’m about to do.
Without another word, I head for the front door, getting ready to leave.
“Lola,” he calls after me. “Please, wait. We can talk… We’ll make it work.”
My hand pauses on the doorknob and I let myself contemplate his pleading words.
As soon as Dylan came back in my life, I was aware of the fact that he still held a torch for me. Yet I pushed him away, even now, even after what just happened. The way he showed me how much he loved me, the orgasm he gave me - unlike anything I’ve experienced before.
But the guilt is eating me up, and I’m going to punish both of us for what we did.
“I can’t,” I say simply.
The words solidify my stance and he doesn’t say a single word. I don’t look back as I exit the apartment, and I don’t let my sobs show when I walk away, knowing he’s watching me desperately from the window in his apartment.
Chapter 36
After the whole fiasco with Dylan and Andrew, and after that, Mrs. Roberts, I decide I need some time for myself. I wallow in my house, still sleeping on the couch with all the lights on. Since Andrew’s confession about the
killer really being after me, I haven’t been able to sleep.
The fourth day, a strange admission hits my mind.
I want to go home.
When I left years ago, I severed all the strings that bound me to my family. I had grown to hate them over the years, hating the way they isolated me and kept me from leading a real life. When I drove away from a family home, I had promised myself never to go back.
Yet now it feels like that chapter of my life hasn’t had the proper closure. A sudden desire to see my parents, to see my childhood home, is overwhelming, and on an impulse, I decide to act on it.
I order the plane tickets online and I don’t tell anyone where I’m going, afraid of them trying to stop me. The only person I confide in is Venetia, who has become a regular guest in my house. Somehow, this woman who was a complete stranger my entire childhood, has become the biggest comfort in my life, and I confide in her often.
The day of my flight comes, and Venetia picks up Love, promising she’ll take good care of her in the apartment she’s renting for the duration of her stay in the city. We have a tearful goodbye and my heart breaks a little when I leave Love with Venetia, her sad whimpers accompanying me as I get in the car with the driver, heading for the airport.
I haven’t even told my parents I’m coming, using the lack of their phone number as a bad excuse. Of course I could have gotten in contact with them if I really wanted, but I refuse to do so out of fear of what they might say.
I leave all of the voicemail messages on my phone unattended, knowing three fourths of them are from either Dylan or Andrew, but I just cannot deal with all of that now.
I need closure, and some peace of mind, and I figure nothing will bring me that like severing a connection with my roots once and for all.
Boarding the plane, I dig into a good book. Reading has always brought me solace, yet with everything that has been going on lately; I managed to forget all about it.
Before I know it, we’re already landing and I’m back on home soil once again.
I get a rental car from the office in the airport and am shown to a cute VW Bug, the new model. I feel like some kind of rebel when I get in, driving the short distance from the airport to meet my parents at their home, the way still clear in my memory from all those years ago when we used to board the plane every summer to go to our summer house.
I drive slowly and several drivers hump their horns at me, aggravated. But I just can’t seem to grasp the reality of the present, realizing I’ll be back home in about ten miles. My parents and I never said goodbye, yet we didn’t part in a good way. My mother was cold and calculating, my father distant, never quite there with us. I have no idea what they’ll say when they see me on their doorstep.
My cell phone rings several times during the journey, and there’s always either Dylan’s or Andrew’s number flashing on the screen. I ignore every call, choosing to deal with the problem later on, when I’m settled.
I pull into the driveway of my parents’ house; thankful they haven’t changed the security code on the gate in years. I park the car – badly, unused to driving on my own – and head towards the entrance.
The house is as huge and imposing as I remember it being, and the same melody I remember from my childhood rings out when I press the doorbell.
Soon, I hear footsteps approaching and I mentally prepare myself for whoever is about to open the door.
When it does open, a stocky Mexican woman looks at me, furrowing her brow. She looks nothing like our housekeeper Mrs. Ramirez, who used to work in the house when I was still living here.
“Hola,” she says, looking at me strangely, like no one ever comes here.
If my instincts were anything to go by, I’d say they probably don’t.
“Hello,” I greet her more formally. “My name is Lola Mon-” I sigh heavily, unsure of how to introduce myself properly. “I’ve come to see Mr. and Mrs. Lexington, please,” I say.
The woman gives me such a blank stare I feel compelled to continue.
“They’re my parents,” I add hesitantly and look at her, expecting her to move and call someone. Yet she doesn’t, instead moving her stocky frame in front of the door as if I was trying to force my way inside.
“They no have daughter,” she says. “Best if you leave.”
“What is all this commotion about, for Pete’s sake,” an annoyed voice interrupts her and my father appears behind the woman who I presume is the housekeeper, his glasses on his nose. He looks the same as ever, except a little more grey in the hair department.
“Hi, Dad,” I say hesitantly, and he looks at me like he’s seeing a ghost.
“Let me get my wife,” he murmurs under his breath, and disappears once again, his newspaper falling to the floor in the process, where the housekeeper picks it up, shooting me strange glances.
Nice to see you too, Dad, I think sarcastically, unimpressed by his greeting.
Finally, I hear heels approaching and I straighten my back without really meaning to. So here we go, I get to see my dear mother again.
She appears in the doorframe and I am shocked by her appearance.
My mother has always been gaunt, but now she’s skin stretched over bones. There are purple bags under her eyes and her limp has is pulled back into a chignon. I try not to show my shock when I greet her.
“Mother,” I say softly, trying to smile, yet unable to do so.
She just looks at me with her lips pursed, and smirks. “Well, well, well, would you look what the cat dragged in,” she drawls and I have an immediate need to roll my eyes, which I fight back.
“Nice way to greet your daughter,” I say with a syrupy sweet smile, and she just sighs like I’ve already offended her.
By now, I’ve been standing on the doorstep for about ten minutes, and I’m tired from the plane journey and everything else that’s been going on at the moment.
“May I come in?” I ask, raising my eyebrows, daring her to forbid me from doing so.
“I suppose you’ll have to,” my mother sighs heavily, stepping aside just a little so I can drag my luggage in, not offering any help. My Dad’s long gone, probably retreated to his study to do some reading.
Some welcome I got.
I pull my luggage in and look around the house. It looks like a mausoleum – perfectly preserved, yet with the smell of disinfectant strong in the air. I sigh, already regretting my decision to come here.
“Home sweet home,” I mutter under my breath.
*
After the world’s most awkward dinner, the housekeeper, who is still unsure of what to make of me, shows me to my childhood room while shooting me suspicious looks. I’m about to lose my nerve and tell her I didn’t come here to rob anyone, but just in that moment, we enter my room.
Or what used to be it, anyway.
I really shouldn’t be surprised that my mother changed my bedroom into a guest room as soon as I left. Gone is my pink bedding, gone is my floral wallpaper. She got rid of anything and everything that would remotely remind anyone I used to be a part of this household.
Whatever makes you sleep better at night, Mommy.
I’m just settling in, unpacking my things, when the door opens.
“Thanks for knocking,” I say sarcastically, knowing it’s my mother even though my back is turned towards the door. She never respected my privacy, and I guess some things never change.
“Watch your mouth,” she says sternly, confirming my assumptions. “You’re in my house now, and you’ll play by my rules.”
I don’t bother responding, knowing she’ll have a comeback ready for anything I say. Instead, I just keep unpacking my things, my heart beating erratically in my chest.
“How long are you staying?” Mother asks me.
“Just a few days,” I explain quickly, not wanting her to think I’ve come for good. “I need to clear my mind of … some things.”
“Yes,” my mother agrees thoughtfully. “I heard about the little inciden
t at your wedding.”
The way she refers to my husband dying kills me inside, yet I’m not going to give her the satisfaction of knowing she upset me. Instead, I purse my lips and place my nightgown on the bed, sitting down on the end of it and watching my mother, who is standing by the window.
“What do you want out of this visit?” she asks. “If it is money you’re after, you got your fair share, and I’m really not in the mood for some emotional bonding.”
“No,” I say, gritting my teeth and fighting hard not to snap back. “I just needed some peace of mind, is all. I’ll be out of your hair in no time.”
My mother sighs, crossing her hands behind her back and pacing the room.
“I suppose I should tell you,” she says with a heavy sigh. “I’m quite sick.”
I assumed so, judging by her appearance and I try to play the good little daughter by looking worried for her. “What’s going on?” I ask her softly.
She waves a hand in the air dismissively, like it’s nothing, but her mere appearance tells me it’s something all right. In this light, she looks better as darkness is falling outside, but the image of her on her doorstep still haunts me.
“It’s cancer,” she says simply. “They can’t cut it out of me anymore. It’s spread everywhere. I have a few months.”
I know this must be killing her – not telling me, but knowing there is an aspect in her life that she does not have complete control over. And what hurts most is knowing she just admitted this to me, and it doesn’t even hurt.
I’ve accepted her being gone years ago, when I left this house.
“Oh,” I say simply. “I’m sorry about that.”
We’re both quiet for a few moments, and when I raise my eyes back to her face, I’m shocked to find compassion on it. I don’t know what subject is on her mind, but it almost feels like she might embrace me, tell me everything will be all right.
But as soon as the expression crosses her face, it’s gone again, and I look away, disappointed.
“In any case,” she says, sighing again. “Sleep tight. Breakfast is at 7 a.m. sharp.”