by Kim Holden
"Hiya." She's beaming. It's a smile that springs forth from a chasm of happiness deep inside.
"Hey, Gem." I'm smiling, too. And my heart is racing again, spurred on by her joy. Happiness in another person always finds its way inside me. I subconsciously welcome it into my soul. I feed on it. It's not a complicated process. It just happens. When I was young, I watched my grandmother, who lived with us for a short time, battle Alzheimer's. It stole not only her memories; it stole her ability to function. But it never stole her happiness and kind heart. And I remember at eleven years old thinking how admirable that was. Because she fought to hold onto it. My friend Kate only reinforced my feelings when she got sick. She was positive and happy up to the very end.
She steps back so I can walk in. And by the time she's shut the door behind me I'm lost in the aroma of something hearty and meaty and...substantial...as if just the scent the food is giving off is enough to satisfy my hunger. "What smells so good?"
Her smile drops from one corner of her mouth, but it doesn't extinguish the happiness she's radiating. It's just transformed into something slightly more pride based. "Scouse."
"Excuse me? In English this time for us Americans." I can't help smiling even while I'm teasing her.
She turns, but not before I catch her wicked grin, and heads for the kitchen. "It was our language first."
"You win. Sounds better with the accent too."
She pinches the fabric of her shorts and mocks a curtsy as she walks through the kitchen doorway. "All right then." She walks to a cupboard and pulls out a bowl and a glass. And then she proceeds to unlid a crock pot and ladle out the concoction that smells so good I can already taste it.
When she points to a small table and chairs in the corner, I sit like the obedient starving man that I am. "What's scouse?" I ask as she places the bowl in front of me.
"Meat, potatoes, carrots, onions."
Taking the spoon in my eager hand, I shrug. "It's stew."
She grins. "Call it whatever you like. It's still scouse."
I take a bite, and it's the best stew I've ever tasted. So much better than normal stew that I decide the special name is justified. "This is good."
"Course it is. It's my mum's recipe. You want milk or water to drink?"
"Beer?" I ask hopefully.
"None of my own, only my roommate's beer in the fridge," she answers apologetically.
"Would she mind?"
"He," she corrects. "And yes, he would mind very much."
"Your roommate is a dude?" I don't know why I'm so stunned, but I am.
"I haven't seen his twig and berries, but yeah, judging by his burly beard and deep baritone voice, I would say yes, definitely a bloke."
"How'd you meet him? How'd you become roommates?" I ask, curious.
"I answered his Craigslist ad," when I open my mouth to interrupt, and almost spit out the stew in my mouth in the process, she gives me a pleading look not to, "which I know was stupid and naive, I've been told so a million times by a million different people since. But here's a little secret about me," she widens her eyes, "I'm trusting."
"That's no secret. Possibly to your detriment. You shacked up with a strange dude in a foreign country and you let me walk you home last night after knowing me for an hour."
She smiles a smile that tells me I'm wrong. "I've good instincts. You're harmless. And sweet. And easy on the eyes."
Just then a guy walks into the kitchen. No beard. He's young. Way too young to be the roommate in question.
"Hiya, Brandon," Gemma greets.
He raises his chin in answer, with aloofness only a twelve-year-old boy can pull off like a boss.
"Want some scouse?"
He shakes his head; it's so minute it's almost an insult, while he walks to the refrigerator and pulls out a Gatorade. A prompt exit without ever uttering a word follows.
"Friendly kid," I say sarcastically. The silent treatment when she was obviously trying to be nice was a dick move though.
"He's my roommate's son. He doesn't speak."
I raise my eyebrows. "I noticed."
She shakes her head at me like I didn't understand. "No, he can't speak. His vocal chords were damaged. He literally can't speak."
"Oh." And now I feel like the dick.
"Milk or water?" she asks again, returning to the original conversation. Her voice is light and happy again.
Or maybe it never changed, and it's just me feeling guilty. I laugh at her teasing parental tone. "Milk, please."
When she sets the glass in front of me, I'm halfway through the bowl and already hoping she has enough to offer me a second. I haven't had a home-cooked meal since New Year's Day dinner with my parents. "Do you have any bendy straws?" I ask through a full mouth of food.
"Bendy straws?"
I shrug. "It's rock star stuff. You wouldn't understand. Bendy straws are the shit."
Surprisingly, she shrugs with me in solidarity. "I don't have any, but bendy straws are fab. Why don't Americans use them? It's all we use in England."
I clutch at my heart. "I knew I loved you Brits."
"Shut up, naughty American boy."
I do. Shut up. Because she asked so nicely. And I finish two bowls of better-than-stew scouse, like a starving man.
Then we move to the couch to watch a movie.
As soon as she sits down next to me and her presence and scent and Gemma-ness invades my personal space, I'm lost in her.
She's talking, and I'm listening. And I'm talking, and she's listening. And we're watching the movie in between.
But we both know we don't want to talk. Or listen. Or watch.
We want to touch.
We want to taste.
The chemistry between us is a crackling static charge.
"Can I use your bathroom?" I blurt, because the situation in my shorts is critical.
"Course. Right down the hall on your left." She points to the hallway and her eyes flit to mine and then away. The eye flitting was the equivalent of me adjusting myself in my shorts—she's trying to relieve the ache too.
When I return to the couch, she's sitting in the same spot, but she's hugging a throw pillow to her chest tightly. I want to be that pillow.
As if she's clairvoyant, she says, "You want to go in my bedroom and finish watching this on my telly?" She doesn't take her eyes off me, but she tips her head toward the TV in the corner. And her eyes convey the same Gemma playfulness and confidence, but her voice doesn't match it. It's quieter than usual. Not quite so commanding, but wishful.
I want to say yes as soon as I hear bedroom, but I wait her out and take another moment's pause so I don't look like a man drowning in need. Because I am a man fucking drowning in need.
What happens next is one fluid motion. Gemma grabs the remote from the couch next to her in one hand and takes mine in the other. She flips off the TV while leading me to the hallway and tosses the remote on the end table. And before I can blink we're behind a closed door. In Gemma's bedroom. It all happened quickly, like high-speed video. One moment we're sitting in the living room stalking each other with our eyes and the next we're standing in her bedroom stalking each other with our hands.
My right palm is on her collarbone, my fingers sweep beneath the strap of her tank top. Testing my restraint against the soft allure of skin. My left hand settles on her hip, low on her hip. So low that my fingers are resting on the upper swell of her ass.
Her right hand is splayed out against my chest. My heart thundering beneath. Her left is curled around the back of my neck making my skin blister out in goosebumps.
Fuck.
Gemma makes me want to break every rule of decency there is.
And I know she'd love to let me. I'm not the only naughty one in this room, guaranteed.
When we lean in to touch our lips to each other, it's slow. Controlled. And that's when the hurried shift happens. Our eyes are locked. Lips so close there's the hint of contact. A tease. That we both pull back from. S
he cocks an eyebrow in challenge and acceptance reading the silent dare between us. No kissing. At least for the moment. Because touching feels too damn good.
Her hand on my neck releases and a finger lightly traces just above the collar of my t-shirt from the back to the front. I haven't taken my eyes off her, but all my focus is on the ball of nerves gathered beneath my skin following the trail of her finger like a magnetic pull. When she moves north and skims up and over my Adam's apple, I swallow and it bobs against her finger increasing pressure. Which increases intimacy and her breath hitches but she continues her journey. She rounds my chin through a day's stubble and halts at my mouth. Lightly tracing my lips parts them, because breathing through my nose is no longer getting enough oxygen to my brain. I'm taking in deep breaths through my mouth to steady myself. To steady my control. To remind me that I'm present and this is really fucking happening. I'm holding my tongue, until I feel the top edge of my lower teeth skimmed by her fingertip and my tongue wants in on the game and circles the welcome invader.
Her eyes widen slightly, and I decide it's my turn. Finger still in my mouth, I take her wrist gently in my hand and suck her as I slowly remove it. Staring into her I count to ten because the stillness is foreplay like I've never known. This stare, this stillness, is communicating everything I want to do to her. And she's doing the same. And it's fucking dirty as hell. I can feel the vibration between us. There's not enough air in the room. Both of our chests are heaving with effort. And effort looks phenomenal on her. The full swell of her breasts peeking out the top of her tank top is more pronounced, as if her nipples are barely concealed. Her cleavage begging to be divided. And Jesus Christ I can think of about five different ways to divide and fucking dominate it. She licks her lips, an unconscious act driven by desire, but it sets me in motion.
Her wrist still in my hand, I turn her so she's facing away from me and then I drop it. I rake my fingers through her long, silky, thick hair once before gathering it in my hands, twisting it twice and lifting the sexy mass of waves and curls to reveal her neck. A neck I want to taste. A neck I will taste. I hold her hair in place on top of her head with one hand while coaxing her left hand to come up and pin her mane in place so my hands are both free to roam. Goddamn, it's such a small thing, but her standing here, so trusting with her back to me and her hair held up, it's like an offering. A beautiful, fantasy-worthy offering.
I'm not touching her.
Yet.
But, that's about to change.
I bow my head and whisper her name, "Gemma," against the back of her neck. It's drawn out for effect.
And affect it does. She physically shivers. A full body shiver, from head to toe. I run my hand down her free arm starting at her shoulder. The pace is torturous and when my palm brushes the back of her hand I lace my fingers with hers. She squeezes back tightly. The pressure is an arousal gauge. It's peaked. Maxed out.
And because I can't take it any longer, I step into her. My erection greedily pressing into the small of her back. She meets the contact and presses back into me.
Shit, this feels good.
I raise our interlocked hands to the base of her throat, and when I unfurl my fingers, she mimics me and our fingers remain touching, mine alternating between hers. And then I press her palm to her skin. Slowly, so slowly, I guide her hand horizontally until our fingers are beneath both the straps of her tank and bra.
Poised to make our descent. She's right there with me, letting me guide, and providing no restraint. Her chest is rising and falling in greedy anticipation. Because my hand is bigger than hers, even though her palm is flush against her skin, it's the side of my hand overlapping hers that reaches her nipple first.
A rush of air escapes her, and a faint, "Yes," is buried within it.
Her nipple is hard and needy. And when the sensation under my skin is gone I know it's lost to her. She can feel it now. It's hers to please. I stop when I know it's centered beneath her, add pressure and drag her hand back and forth, only an inch to each side, until I feel her ass cheeks clench against me and I know things downtown are heating up.
The drag continues a few more reps but I'm aching for her, so I keep moving until I feel her tight and strained under my middle finger. I run it back and forth scraping against the length of my finger until I hear her whisper my name, "Franco."
I've always been indifferent to my name. Not anymore. Not when she says it like that.
I clamp her between our thumbs and forefingers. She's working with me. Twisting gently, pinching, rolling.
And while she's lost in our mutual pleasure fest, I remember that her neck, which I intended to give attention earlier, is exposed. Waiting. As is her upper back where her tank top dips. So, while my hand is busy, I touch the tip of my tongue to her spine just above the material of her shirt. And I paint a path to her hairline. Stopping to add my lips several times, because she tastes so fucking good. At her neck, everything picks up and mere licking and tasting aren't enough. I'm sucking. Feasting. Hard enough to leave a mark.
She sighs her approval.
I wrap my other arm around her and unbutton and unzip her shorts.
And when I do she moans. And it's not an average moan. It's deep gratitude for the pleasure she's experiencing paired with a plea for more. More.
It's a plea I have to answer.
As we continue to pleasure upstairs, I venture downstairs on my own.
Her panties are low cut. My fingers slip inside them with ease. And as soon as I'm in the time for slow and controlled is over. She widens her stance. It's another plea.
She's wet. So fucking wet beneath my touch. My fingers glide against her. Circling once. Twice. Before two fingers plunge in. Curling, pumping, pleasing.
"Yes. Fuck." It's no longer a whisper. It's a demand.
Those little two words coax my eyes open to take in the woman who has me completely enthralled.
Slipping her hand from beneath mine at her breast, she leaves me palming her on my own. My hand mourns her absence until I feel it slide in between us and grip me through my shorts.
She's stroking the length of me. "Fu—"
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Five rapid, but very precise, knocks on her bedroom door.
She freezes.
And then her hand drops me in an instant, and she's steps away.
"What's wrong? Can't you ignore it?" Please ignore it.
"It's Brandon," she whispers as she zips her shorts.
"So?" So!
She's still whispering, "He always knocks five times if he needs something. If it's urgent." I'm still staring at her, unblinking, so she adds, "Because he can't speak."
She opens the door and any irritation or ill-feelings toward the kid vanish when I see his face. Embarrassment is washed over it and his eyes are downcast. He mouths the word, Sorry, and points toward the living room. It's then that I notice the front of his white t-shirt is splattered with a brown, soupy, foul smelling concoction.
And then we hear noise from the living room. Something crashes to the floor. That was something breaking into many small pieces. Followed by, "Shit. That's not good." It sounds slurred, slowed by a quantity of alcohol that inhibits normal speech.
Gemma walks immediately toward the commotion.
Brandon and I step in line behind her toward the living room. I don't know what I'm walking into, but I'm sure of three things: I'm about to meet Gemma's roommate, I'm still half sporting wood, and poor Brandon smells like a ripe garbage can that's been sitting on the curb in the hot sun all day.
A man is kneeling on the floor clumsily trying to pick up pieces of a broken lamp. He startles when he realizes I'm standing next to him and looks up at me through watery eyes. He's crying. I have no idea what's driving the tears, but he looks emotionally wrecked. "I broke the lamp. It was an accident. I'm sorry."
The dude is wiped. He's apologizing to a complete stra
nger in his apartment, and it hasn't occurred to him how weird that is. I squat and begin picking up the pieces. They're sharp, and he doesn't have the dexterity to be gentle. I glance at his clothes for the presence of emptied stomach before I make my suggestion. He's clean except for the puke on his shoes. Unfortunately, Brandon was the lucky one to get unloaded on. "Why don't you sit down and take a load off and get those shoes off, man. I'll get this."
He pats me on the back like we're old friends, "Thanks, buddy," before he struggles to his feet and stumbles to the couch where he skips sitting and drops into a prone position like a falling redwood.
"Timber," I say under my breath. I'm thankful that went so well and that he's not an angry, alcohol-turns-me-into-an-aggressive-asshole drunk.
Brandon walks in, shirtless thank God, with an empty grocery sack and helps me clean up the wreckage while Gemma, now sporting latex gloves, scrubs vomit from the carpet. When she's done, she snaps the gloves off inside out, drops them and the rag in the sack of pummeled ceramic I'm holding, and suggests, "Why don't you go shower, Brandon."
He shyly nods his agreement and heads down the hallway toward the bathroom.
She stands and reaches to take the trash from me. I hold it back and head for the front door so I can drop the bag, and the putrid smell, in the dumpster outside and she walks with me through the parking lot. "You didn't have to do that, Franco. Thanks."
I shrug and smile so she knows I'm not upset by the recent events. "We've all been there."
She looks contemplative and then agrees, "Yeah, I can't fault him. He lost his mum last week. It was unexpected. He's taking it hard."
I nod. The way he was crying before he passed out, it was obvious this bender was his way of trying to cope with something. His tears looked like the release of deep-rooted emotion, not misplaced sorrow and regret over the breaking of a lamp. "That's right. You mentioned a funeral last night when you had to get home to take care of the dog."
She nods.
"Death fucks people up."
She nods again, but this time the look on her face tells me she's intimate with loss.
I shift gears because I can't bring this conversation down anymore and I need to make sure she'll be safe tonight. "Is he violent when he drinks?"