by James, Ella
“I text too much,” I say.
I have no idea if he understands what I’m trying to say—too many times typing “sigh” has got me saying that aloud rather than sighing—and I find I’m too drunk to guess.
I hold out my hands. “I can get it.”
He passes my bowl back to me and I allow myself another look at his beautiful face. “I should be able to hold a fish bowl, even though I am drunk.”
He pushes a curl out of his eyes. “Where ya headed?”
I nod in the direction of our table.
“Over there with John and Nic?” he asks.
“How’d you know?”
He smiles again, this time smaller and more fleeting. “They’re good guys.”
“I’m too drunk to tell,” I confess.
Tears fill my eyes as I remember the voice on the other end of Elvie’s phone. I try to tell myself it’s nothing. Just some stupid fangirl. He’ll call me later tonight, after the ball drops.
“Trust me, then,” the guy says.
I blink, surprised anew by the gorgeous mug in front of me. I smile absently, imagining his lips on mine when the ball drops. My drunk self thinks, He’s much cuter than Elvie.
The guy’s hand is on my forehead. He presses a fingertip against my hairline. “Snowflake,” he says softly, looking at his finger, then at me.
“What’s your name, snowflake?” he murmurs.
“Gwenna.”
Part III
“How much can you change and get away with it, before you turn into someone else, before it’s some kind of murder?”
— Richard Siken,
from “Portrait of Fryderyk in Shifting Light,”
War of the Foxes
Chapter One
Gwenna
November 8, 2015
I awaken to a troubling noise: one that’s loud enough to rouse me but forgotten when I crack my eyelids open. A smeary mess of colors winks above me... Twinkle lights. I blink up at them, wondering for a heartbeat if I’ve fallen back in time. But I remember: I hung new lights for Barrett.
Barrett!
As if on cue, the sounds of retching reach my ears. I sit up, feeling dizzy. He’s not in my room. The harsh, strained sounds are coming from the bathroom.
“Shit.”
The horrible sound fills my ears as I cover the ground between my bed and the bathroom door. The toilet flushes as I pull it open.
I find Barrett’s big, nude body curled around the toilet bowl. He’s got one of his arms around the seat, his face resting in the triangle between his bicep and his forearm.
His hair and skin are damp, his shoulders pumping as he pants. A long look shows me that his skin is pocked with goose-bumps, and he’s shaking slightly.
“Bear?” I drop down beside him.
His back rises with a deep breath, but he doesn’t lift his head. His shoulders still, then resume a slower, gentler rise and fall. My hand reaches for him, but I stop before I meet his skin.
“I’ll get a towel for you,” I whisper.
Does he like his washcloths cold or warm? Maybe I should go and not invade his space. I war with myself as I hold the rag under warm water. Then I see his shoulders twitch, a sad little aftershock, and I’m not sure I can go. Not unless he asks me to.
I crouch back down beside him, and after a moment’s debate, decide to drape the warm towel over his bicep. As I rock there on my heels a few feet from him, Barrett takes the towel. He lifts his head, but before I can see his face, his towel-covered hand covers it.
I can hear the air whoosh from his lungs into the terrycloth, see his shoulders rise and fall a few more times. He’s struggling to get himself together, and I want so much to soothe him—but I’m scared to do the wrong thing.
“You okay?” My words are soft and quiet. Useless.
Barrett pulls the towel down his face, cupping his throat with it. His blue eyes are strangely luminous, his handsome features fragile in a way I can’t explain or understand. He blinks at me, his thick brows scrunching in what looks like confusion.
“Gwen?” The word sounds caught in his throat.
“Hey…” I scoot closer to him, putting my arm awkwardly around his shoulders. He freezes for a moment. Then I tug him closer, and he wraps his heavy arms around me.
“You’re okay…” His voice cracks as he leans back, looking into my eyes.
“Yeah, I’m okay. Are you?”
He leans his face against my shoulder. I remember what he said—about the dreams. Did he have a dream about me? One so bad it made him sick?
I stroke his neck. “You must have had a nightmare.”
“I’m sorry.” His words are warm and quiet.
“Why are you sorry?”
He shakes his head. I feel him take a heavy breath.
“Do you still feel bad?” I whisper.
“No.”
The word itself belies him: soft and pained.
I stroke his hair. “You want a shower?” I hug him more tightly. “I’m not leaving. Not unless you want me to.”
His grip on me loosens, then he lifts his head and blinks. “Gwenna?” He squints, as if the lamp beside the sink is too bright.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
He frowns and looks around, confused. Then looks down at himself. His eyes widen. His gaze flies to the toilet.
“Did I get sick?” His voice is hoarse.
I nod. I stroke a curl that’s pasted to his temple.
Barrett cringes. He brings a hand up to his forehead, shuts his eyes. I notice it’s his left hand, and my heart squeezes as the thumb and index finger curve around his head.
“I’m so sorry I didn’t hear your dream. I was really out, I guess.”
He moves his hand, so I can see his anguished eyes. “Don’t be sorry. I’m sorry I touched you. Go back to bed, Gwen. I’m just going to get a shower.” His eyes drop to his knees, his face expressionless as his gaze lifts back to mine. “Maybe I should go,” he says more firmly. “I’ll come back in a little while. I’ll bring you breakfast. Anything you want.” He gives me a small smile.
“Did you dream about me?”
I see his throat move as he struggles to swallow, and I wish I hadn’t asked. I put my hands on his knees.
“It’s okay.” I try to hold his gaze, as if I have that power—to keep him focused on just me. “You see me right here. I’m okay.”
His eyes shut. I lift one of his hands, enfolding it in my own. “Let me start your shower. Then I’ll go if you want some space.” I squeeze his hand lightly before I let it go and step over to the shower.
Maybe I said the wrong thing, I think, as I point the shower head away from me and turn it on. If he doesn’t want space, he might be too embarrassed to ask me to stay, and now I’ve mentioned leaving.
By the time I lean out of the tub space, he’s standing over by the wall. He’s got his arms folded across his chest, a towel wrapped around his waist. His body is so big, so chiseled and strong, and yet…he looks vulnerable. I can see it on him, now that I know his face.
I wave him over. He keeps his eyes on the floor as he steps to me.
I can’t help reaching out and touching him again, my palm against his lower back. “I could get in with you. If you didn’t mind company.” I hold my breath as I look up at him.
His eyes still have that dazed look. My stomach clenches, seeing it. Without further debate, I pull the shower curtain back a little more and step in. I turn around to him and hold my hand out.
With his jaw tight and his eyes hard now—or just blank—he throws his towel over the rod and steps into the shower without touching me.
The surge of pleasure I feel watching him move is dampened by how serious he looks, how unhappy. I can feel it radiating from him.
Once again, like many times before, with him, my heart pounds and my head feels light; I want to freeze up, step away, but instead I close the gap between us, praying when I wrap my arms around him—
Yes.
You’re never wrong about this, I tell myself as the tension leaves his muscles and his forehead lowers to my shoulder.
He’s never going to ask; I make a mental note of this as we stand here together, his cheek warm against me. One of his hands cups my hip, and I lean my cheek against the top of his head.
As the water warms fully, I bring him into the spray and rub soap over his steel-hard arms and shoulders.
I notice his curls are plastered to his face, and push them gently off his forehead.
He lifts his head and looks down at me with a grave expression on his face. With his lashes and his hair wet, his eyes look round and blue and earnest.
I run the soap bar from his triceps to the soft crease inside his elbow, then along the inside of his forearm. Despite how thick and muscled he is, his soapy skin is soft as silk. His wrist is lean and square. I thread my fingers through his, squeezing gently in the spaces in between digits, then moving up toward his knuckles, massaging his hand the way a physical therapist once did mine before I left rehab.
His face slackens and his eyes slip shut.
I rub all the pressure points on his hand, hoping to draw his attention here and out of his head. Maybe I do, because a moment later, his free hand takes the soap from mine. He pulls his other hand out of my grasp, lifts his forearm up to push his hair out of his eyes, and holds my gaze with his raw, bare one as he runs his soapy hands down my arms, then down my lower belly.
He shuts his eyes and groans, but he continues stroking me, from collarbone to ribs, from ribs to hips; he soaps my lower back, the curve of my backside, and then his hands rove up my ribs and find my breasts. He cups them.
His head is down, so I can’t see his face, but I can hear him breathing as his fingers catch my nipple. I let out a soft squeak.
His length presses against my belly. I reach down and catch him with both hands. With one I cup his soapy head; the other glides down his thick shaft.
“I never got the chance to do this earlier,” I whisper.
His eyes shut, and his hips jerk.
“Gwenna, you’re too good…”
He pushes himself closer to me, causing my hand to glide down to the base of him. Bear grips one of my shoulders, breathing loudly as I thumb his head and drag the hand that was gripping his shaft under his heavy, soapy balls.
I see his eyes roll slightly. His jaw locked, his features tense, he moans low in his throat as I pump up and down his shaft, lingering at the rim of his head and tugging gently on his sac.
“Oh fuck…” He pushes his hips toward me, and his mouth takes mine the way he does so often: gently at first, and then hard, desperate, as if he can’t stop, like he’s dying and my mouth is life.
He strokes my breast with gentle fingers, though his mouth is more and more demanding; needy: rough and almost hurting. He moans; I breathe it in. I stroke up and down his long cock, loving his small shiver.
“Gwen…”
I look up at his face, so starkly beautiful, so dazed with lust. I squeeze the base of his cock. “I want you inside me, Barrett.”
He makes a low, hoarse sound. Then he pulls me close and guides me as we get down in the bottom of the tub: him lying on his back, me straddling his hips. He lifts his knees. I feel the plump head of him pressed against my crack.
I reach around behind myself and grab him just under his head. I move so that I’m crouching over him instead of kneeling. My legs shake as I rub his head against myself, loving the warm, slick pressure of him gliding against my lips, then pushing at my core.
When he’s thrusting into my hand, grunting and grabbing at my hips, I lift my ass, position him so he can drive straight home, and sink down on him, moaning as I’m filled beyond the point of pleasure, my ass kissing his balls. Having him so deep inside me makes my legs feel weak. Makes me moan and sigh and cry out.
Barrett moans, too.
Without lifting my hips, I thrust against him, pushing him into me and holding. Then I wiggle up and off him, reaching down to hold his shaft with only his head penetrating me for a minute. I sink down slowly.
“Fuck…”
When he’s so deep, and I’m so tightly spread it’s almost painful, I draw a shaky breath and grind against him, rolling my hips as if I’m doing a hula hoop. Barrett’s hips lift under me.
“Oh, God…” he moans. “Fuck.”
His big hands grab my hips and hold me to him. He rolls his hips, too, so I can feel his head probe deep inside me, kissing my G-spot. I gasp as my core constricts around him. Or maybe he swells. All I know is it gets tighter. I’m seeing stars and panting like some kind of animal.
“You feel so fucking good,” he groans.
I clench around him, rise slowly up, then center him and sink back down again. It feels so good—God, every time! My back arches. I make this grunting sound that would embarrass me…but I’m so full of him, there’s nothing I can do. He’s breathing harder now, faster. I shut my eyes and feel him lift me slightly off him. I grip his thighs as he lets go of me, so I’m impaled with his dick.
“Aghhh!”
“God—that sounds so fucking sexy. You’re so beautiful.”
My greedy hands stroke his lower belly, my fingers skating down his happy trail and toward where we’re joined.
“Touch yourself,” he rasps.
I slide my hand toward myself, feeling my swollen lips, my dripping pussy, and the steel girth of him, hard and thick, spreading me open.
I’ve never felt anything so hot in all my life.
“Oh, Lord…” I lean back on instinct, exposing the base of him so I can grind my clit against it. As if he can hear my thoughts, his fingers part my swollen pussy lips. He finds my clit and rubs.
It’s just the barest touch—but his finger is calloused. As he touches me, he thrusts, bouncing me atop him so I feel every inch of his stiff, thick, swollen dick, even down to when it pulses slightly.
I reach back and find his balls and watch his face come undone: lips parted, his eyes rolling. I see him moan. He strokes my clit. I cup his balls. I manage to rise off him one more time before his finger makes me burst.
I’ve never felt my pussy go so crazy on a dick. I clench and pulse around him. Barrett groans as he explodes inside me. I can feel the warmth, the blissful fullness of him as he comes.
Barrett groans again and pulls me down atop his chest.
“This feels perfect…”
His hand cups my cheek against his chest.
“You’re perfect.” I can feel his lips against my hair. “I didn’t hurt you?” he asks.
“No.” I give a giddy laugh. “Hell, no.”
His legs hug my lower body. I stroke his forehead.
“Let’s get out. This tub is so hard…”
His eyes are tired. His smile is soft. He sits up and scoots us back, so he’s leaning against the back of the tub. Then, with gentle care, he slides out of me.
“Water’s going cold.” He blinks and smiles this funny little smile.
Even as his hand smooths over his thick halfie and I quickly clean myself, I’m dizzied by the most delicious throb.
“That felt amazing,” I murmur.
He leans forward, grabbing my hand and drawing it to his lips. He kisses my fingers, then he stands up, lifting me with him.
He climbs out of the tub ahead of me, thrusting a towel behind the curtain.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
Damn—his voice is sexy. I tuck my towel around my chest and step out. Barrett wraps a towel around my hair and kisses my lips.
“You’re so fucking good.” He looks into my eyes.
I smile. “You are.” I can’t resist reaching out to touch one of his curls.
He strokes my jaw. “I like it when you touch me.” His voice sounds lower, rougher than his norm. I realize it’s thick with emotion.
I step closer to him, wrap my arms around his hard back.
“You know you’re supposed
to talk or write about your dreams,” I smile up at him, “but maybe I can sex them out of you instead.”
“You volunteering?”
“I think I may be.”
He chuckles. “Sex them.”
“I don’t often say the F-word. Nothing wrong with it, just doesn’t feel right to me.”
He grins. “You’re blushing just from saying ‘the F-word.’”
“You’re dimpling, so there.”
I smack his pec and step to the sink. “I fell asleep last night before I could show you where I keep things.” I open a drawer and get my toothbrush and toothpaste out.
Barrett smiles, crooked and dimpled. “Is that a Nemo toothbrush?”
“Yes. And look, don’t laugh at it, because it’s the only one I have. You can borrow it if you want— have it. And tomorrow I’ll buy both of us new ones.”
His face shutters. My stomach flip-flops. I thought things were going well with us, but—
“You don’t have to use mine. I would totally—”
“I will.”
God—he looks serious. Like he just found out…something awful. I chew my lip.
“Barrett?”
He blinks, still solemn. I step slightly closer to him, and am stunned to see his eyes look glossy.
“Oh…” I reach for him. “Are you—”
He blinks and leans away from me. He smiles, but it’s a half smile—and it’s sad. “I’ll use your toothbrush, Gwenna. I’ll get you another one.”
I realize how he worded that, and I think maybe I understand. “It was the thing I said about getting us both a toothbrush. Too much?” My head throbs. My throat aches. “I get that,” I manage in a steady voice.
He pulls me to his chest so quickly I don’t know what hit me. I feel his big arms lock around me, his cheek press against the top of my head. I feel him take a breath, and then another one, before he whispers, “Not too much.”
I don’t know whose heartbeat I hear: his or my own—but it’s racing.
“Not too much.”
I feel frozen as I press my cheek against his chest. He strokes his big hand up and down my back.