Shameless

by Nina Lemay

  His lips pause at my hipbone. He nibbles slightly, making me shiver, and presses my thighs down into the silky sheets.

  When I realize what he’s going to do, I want to protest, but my voice seems to have dematerialized. His lips graze the hints of stubble where I’d shaved only last morning, and my thighs clench in embarrassment—except I don’t think he cares. He starts to lick, softly at first, gentle flicks of tongue like a cat lapping, then deeper, harder. I sit up, leaning on my elbows, and watch him, his head between my legs, the muscles in his back rippling as he pushes himself up.

  It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And he looks like he actually likes it. His eyes are closed in concentration until he glances up, just momentarily, and locks his gaze on mine. Slowly, he runs his tongue up and down. And again. And again.

  And it’s good, fantastically, unbelievably good. I let myself lower onto the sheets and throw back my head, focusing on the feeling of heat spreading through my core. Just like what I felt in the car, like what I felt when we were kissing, when he touched me. Promise fulfilled.

  And when he slips his fingers inside me and starts to move, I can’t take it anymore. I cry out and my thighs squeeze around his head like a vise.

  When I open my eyes, my heart is hammering, I’m more awake than after five espressos and Emmanuel is leaning over me, demurely wiping the corners of his mouth with the look of a contented cat.

  He rolls over onto the bed next to me, stretching his arms over his head. “That was okay?”

  I don’t answer. I never thought a guy would actually want to go down there, not just because I asked him or in exchange for something he wanted me to do to him.

  Without a word, I climb on top of him and straddle him. I kiss his neck and his lips, which still taste faintly like me, but it’s not gross at all—fresh, like seawater and something cool and tangy.

  He sits up, fumbles in the bedside drawer and tears open another gold wrapper. Before I know it he flips me over onto the bed, and this time I’m the one who takes his cock and drives him inside.

  It’s easy. It’s smooth and it doesn’t even make me wince and it feels good, sets off the lingering echoes of earlier, a continuation rather than a reversal. I wrap my legs around him, reveling in his weight, in the feel of his muscles rippling with every thrust. He rests his forehead on my shoulder, buries his face in my hair and makes soft little moans of pleasure that I wish I could bottle, engrave on my mind forever. When he groans and shudders I stroke his back, pull him closer and deeper with my arms and legs, clinging to him like I want to absorb him whole, like my life depends on it.

  We lie there in the bliss of exhaustion. His side rises and falls rapidly as he nuzzles my neck. I throw my leg over him and bask in the warmth.

  I feel like I just found something I thought only existed in fairy tales, like a unicorn or a firebird. Like maybe there was nothing wrong with me for not feeling the things everyone told me I was supposed to feel. Like I’m not defective or broken after all.

  I don’t realize I’ve drifted off to sleep until I float out of it, just long enough to see him sitting up next to me, his face serene in the feeble light of his MacBook as he scrolls through a news site.

  “You okay?” I murmur, rolling over.

  “Yeah. I’m not tired yet. Don’t worry about it, get your sleep.”

  And I do. I feel warm and safe. Watched over.

  We spend Sunday together, in and out of bed till five in the afternoon. Then, once we’re both worn out and getting sore and unable to muster energy for another go, we get dressed and he drives us downtown for dinner. I’m wearing my clothes from two days ago, I don’t have a speck of makeup on my face and my hair has dried all over the place from sleeping on it wet. The last thing I’m dressed for is fine dining, but Emmanuel doesn’t seem to care. We go to a sushi place where you have to take off your shoes at the door and sit on tatamis in a little booth walled off by bamboo screens. He orders sake that feels like silk on my tongue and a thousand little square ceramic dishes piled with sushi and sashimi. I can’t stop giggling at the giant clams even though the waitress gives us odd looks.

  He tops off the tiny ceramic cup and I take a gulp of sake.

  “Watch out,” Emmanuel says with a grin. “It’s got more alcohol than wine.”

  “You don’t have to get me drunk,” I say, batting my eyelashes at him over the rim of the cup. “I’m going home with you anyway.”

  He pretends to flick a piece of salmon sashimi at me with his chopsticks. I giggle and duck.

  “Haven’t you ever had sake before?”

  I shake my head. “No, sir. I’ve definitely never had sake before.” I’m grinning from ear to ear in spite of myself.

  “And how are you finding it?”

  I take another sip, smack my lips together. “It’s smooth. And deceptively sweet. I think I’ll have it again in the future.”

  “Good. ‘Cause I plan on giving you a lot more sake in the future.”

  He slides behind the low table next to me and feeds me a piece of sashimi with his chopsticks. It’s so tender it melts on my tongue.

  ***

  Emmanuel drives me home after sundown, once the autumn chill has set in. I’m starting to shiver in my t-shirt and rub the outsides of my arms to keep warm.

  He takes off his jacket and puts it over my shoulders.

  “I knew you were gonna do that,” I say.

  “And I knew you were gonna make a big deal out of it.” He takes hold of my shoulders and leans down to place a soft, almost chaste kiss on my lips. We’re almost at my front door.

  “Well, I think it’s a pretty big deal.”

  “It’s what a guy is supposed to do for a girl he likes. That’s not optional, it’s the rules. Never settle for anything less.” He keeps his expression perfectly serious even as I break into a smile.

  “Sorry. I wish I could let you sleep over, but…”

  “Class tomorrow morning,” I finish for him. “I got it, no worries. It’ll look weird if we arrive together.”

  He looks a touch relieved. And I have to admit it stings a little.

  But it is what it is.

  “Good night, Hannah.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.” I get on tiptoes for a second kiss, but his lips just brush my cheekbone, his stubble leaving behind a stinging trail.

  He stands on the edge of the sidewalk, his hands in his jeans pockets, and watches me as I close the lobby door behind me. I feel awkward with his gaze on my back. At the top stair, I wonder if I should turn around, wave or something, or it’ll be too much, too needy. For a casual sex thing anyway.

  By the time I make up my mind, I turn around and he’s gone.

  Monday is the first day in a year and a half when I have no trouble getting out of bed on time. Actually, I fly out of bed like I sprouted wings overnight, like in those RedBull commercials. I have time to wash my hair, touching up the pastel pink tint, to blow-dry it and even curl it a little bit—just the ends, nothing over-the-top. I look surprisingly rested and bright-eyed in spite of the soy-sauce-and-alcohol smorgasbord last night. Still, I put on a little bit of my favorite hyper-expensive blue mascara and smudge a touch of kohl on my inner eyelids to make my eyes look more intense. I even put on a bit of clear lipgloss and a magenta off-the-shoulder top instead of my usual hoodie. Even as I fuss with my curls, I realize what a moron I’m being, but it seems I just can’t help myself.

  I’m so awake I don’t even need my usual extra-large Tim’s. I get a green tea instead and spend the rest of the commute feeling virtuous. The escalators seem to be in working order for once, and I jog to the classroom with five minutes to spare.

  But as I get close, I hear voices, and when I reach the door I stop cold.

  Emmanuel is there, at the front of the room. His MacBook is open on the desk and the projector screen in all set up. And he’s not alone.

  “It really is very good work. Self-portraits are hard to do without fall
ing into cliché,” he’s saying. A voice chirps back a thanks, and even though I can’t see its source, I don’t need to. I recognize it instantly. It’s Audrey.

  My breath catches and I nearly trip over my shoes (my nice ankle boots, not the smelly old Converse). My heart thunders as I hover outside the door, just far enough to be hidden behind the doorframe, and ponder what to do. My rational brain is screaming at me not to be an even bigger idiot than I am already and walk into the classroom like a normal person. But the other part of me, the part that laughed and drank sake and slept naked in Emmanuel’s bed, wants me to turn around and flee.

  But the rational part wins. On shaky legs, I walk into the room. Emmanuel is leaning over a portfolio book with, presumably, Audrey’s assignment. She’s leaning in too, with only a few inches between their foreheads.

  At the sound of my steps they look up simultaneously, like they were caught doing something dirty.

  Audrey’s face melts into a smirk. Her lipstick is magenta today. Matches my shirt.

  Emmanuel’s gaze is on me, his eyes soft. A smile is hiding in the corners of his lips, and the ice shards puncturing my heart start to thaw a little.

  “Hi, Hannah.” She’s the one who speaks first.

  I nod hello.

  “We’ll be working on composition today,” Emmanuel adds.

  “Composition,” I echo. “Fantastic.” I sound as enthused as a death row inmate.

  “Hey, Hannah.” Audrey follows me as I’m on my way to my seat. She leaves the portfolio on Emmanuel’s table, just so. “I started a Facebook group for our class. To post works in progress, get critiques. Basically to show off.” She gives an overly enthusiastic giggle at her own joke. “I tried to invite you but couldn’t find you, so…”

  “I don’t have a Facebook,” I say. My hands grow clammy and I press them into my thighs.

  Her penciled eyebrows fly up her forehead. “You don’t have a Facebook? Not even a private one? Not even one you don’t use?”

  “Nope.”

  “Who doesn’t have a Facebook?” She plops down into her seat, shaking her head in utter disbelief. You’d think I just revealed I had no indoor plumbing.

  Emmanuel doesn’t seem surprised. I wonder if he’d looked for me on Facebook too and found nothing.

  “I mean, you gotta have at least a blog. Right? You have to post your portfolio somewhere.” Audrey looks at me questioningly.

  I shrug. “I might start one. But not Facebook. I had it in high school and got really sick of all the drama and bullshit, so I deleted it.”

  She nods, apparently satisfied. I stare down at the scratched-up tabletop, wondering why on earth I just told her all this. I didn’t need to justify myself to her, or anyone. And this is way more than she needs to know.

  At least it seems to get her off my back for the time being.

  People come in and settle into their seats. Emmanuel starts the slides, the lecture on photo composition. He collects the assignment from last week—which I don’t have.

  “I’m sorry,” I murmur. I don’t dare look up at him. “I had a problem with my—with developing. I had to start over.”

  The lie passes between us, so blatant that I’m sure everyone in the room can hear it. But Emmanuel nods, even though he knows as well as I do that the only problem I had was rolling around in his bed all day. This is… unethical in a whole new way.

  “Make sure you have it Wednesday,” he says, “or I’ll have no choice but to take off points.”

  I think I hear Audrey scoff, but it might just be paranoia.

  The roll of film is at the bottom of my bag, and when I get to the art department’s photo lab after my last class, I’m lucky. There’s no one and I have the whole place to myself.

  I follow the steps I’d looked up in one of the documents Emmanuel had posted on the class message board. Alone with nothing but the feeble glow of the infrared light, I creep myself out. I feel like a witch, like an alchemist concocting something diabolical.

  I look over the images on the film roll one by one, at the ghostly faces in reversed color. It’s hard to tell which ones are good enough to print, which ones are blurry, but finally, I manage to select a few that I like. One or two street photos I took with Emmanuel and from his car windows, a couple of still-lifes I made at my place. The two photos with the lens cap on have to go, obviously.

  But the rest of them…

  I realize I can’t print them, ever. Not here anyway, where I’d have to leave them to dry in the main room of the photo lab for everyone to see. Because in those other pictures, it’s just me, my face close up. And his. Even in the tiny frames, despite the weird colors, I can see the look on his face, his easy smile. He looks so happy, carefree.

  I develop the inoffensive ones and put the rest of the film in its plastic container. I’ll take it to the photo place at the drugstore, to be sent out where some stranger will develop and print them without batting an eyelash. To him it’ll be just some guy, some scrawny girl with crooked teeth. Nothing interesting.

  I’m done hanging up the last of the six photos on a line with special tiny pins when the door opens. It’s getting late, the day classes are over and the evening ones don’t start for another half-hour. I jump a little and turn around.

  “That’s all?” Emmanuel leans on the doorframe, arms crossed on his chest.

  The breath goes out of me with a whoosh of relief.

  “Those were the good ones,” I say. Blatantly lying.

  “I thought there were more than that.”

  “Maybe another time.” My gaze flees his as he crosses the room.

  “I was hoping I’d catch you here. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot.”

  “You didn’t.” I pack my things into my messenger bag, check and triple-check that the container of film is stashed safely at the bottom.

  “Was it too weird, being in class with me?”

  I sigh and clip the bag shut. “Yes,” I say. “Yes, it was weird, you were there too, you saw for yourself. But I think we should have worried about that before.”

  He chuckles. “We did.”

  I catch him watching me as I put away the materials I didn’t use, sparks of amusement dancing in his eyes. Right now they’re light green, with only hints of gold-brown at the edges of his irises.

  “So is that it? We’re avoiding each other?”

  “We’re at school,” I say in a hushed whisper that’s meant to be angry. “We have to—we can’t just go around like—”

  Like we sleep together.

  He crosses the distance between us and puts his hands on my waist. Lightly, like I’m something fragile that might snap. I turn my face away from the inevitable kiss. “Stop.”

  “There’s no one here. The head of the department left for the day, and the intern who mans the phone at the desk snuck out early. It’s just us.”

  I glance around over his shoulder, seeking confirmation.

  “Do you want to meet me outside?” I ask.

  “I have a better idea.”

  He picks me up and carries me to the darkroom. Closes the door—outside, it now says DO NOT ENTER—PHOTOSENSITIVE MATERIAL.

  That’s one way of putting it, I guess.

  He hoists me up on the same table where I’d set up my materials just minutes ago, unbuttoning my jeans as he does. I toe off my shoes and he pulls the jeans down; the metal tabletop is icy on my skin, but I forget about it quickly enough. His hand slips between my legs even as the other pulls my shirt up.

  “No bra, huh.” His soft laughter tickles my ear.

  “The joy of A-cups.”

  He dives for my nipple, catching it lightly between his teeth, giving it tender nibbles while his fingers slip inside me. I shiver, lean my forehead on his shoulder, breathing in his lavender-and-man scent, and let him do it. My muscles go slack. My thighs slip and slide on the metal table, quivering open. I’m coming within minutes, and I have to bite down on the shoulder of his jacket to keep in my m
oan. I start fumbling with his trousers, but he’s wearing a belt that refuses to yield. Frustrated, I tug on it, then just slip my hand right past, my palm against his hot, taut abs.

  He catches my wrist.

  “Stop,” he whispers in my ear.

  “Stop?” I murmur, and nibble on his ear. “Now?”

  “I don’t have a condom with me.”

  I gulp. The mood fades faster than daylight in December; I slide off the table, struggling to pull my skinny jeans over my calves and then my thighs. The room smells like chemicals and sex. In the red light, I can’t see the look on Emmanuel’s face.

  Of course he doesn’t have a condom. Why would he bring a condom to school, unless he was planning on banging his student-stripper-lover-casual-sex-friend-person in the darkroom.

  “Calisse,” I hear him say from the darkness. “I feel like a creeper. I’m sorry. This was totally inappropriate.”

  “No.” I reach out to grab his hand, but can’t find it in the dark. The muscles in my thighs are still quivering with the echoes of the orgasm and my panties feel slick. I must reek of sex for a mile’s radius.

  “Next time,” he says, “we’ll just meet up outside. Like you said.”

  I’m glad he can’t see my face, because my cheeks grow warm.

  “Now, go out first. See if there’s anyone. If the coast is clear just knock on the door.”

  I go out into the lab, wincing in the too-bright light. Self-conscious, I adjust my clothes, check for any labels sticking out, tug on my shirt—I only now notice that I have massive headlights you’d have to be blind to miss. The shirt had to be a subconscious choice.

  I’m still standing there, pulling up the waistband of my jeans and trying to discreetly check if my fly is up, when I hear steps. The familiar ombré-tipped head peeks in.

  My heart drops into my shoes. Now I know what the expression caught like a deer in headlights really means.

  “Audrey,” I say loudly as soon as I get my bearings. I just hope it’s loud enough.

  “Hey, Hannah.” Her lipstick is shiny like she just touched it up. She peers over my shoulder, not being subtle about it. “Is Mr. Arnau here?”