Driftwood Deeds

by Blake, Laila

  XII

  Paul was already out of bed when I woke. It took my body a moment to catch up, to remember where I was but then I tried to move. I felt as though a truck had run me over and not just my breasts or ass but my entire musculature—bent and moved in ways it never had before. I lay back against the pillow and breathed slowly in and out. Carefully, I touched my breasts. They weren’t pink anymore, just a little sore. The bed still smelled like fresh sheets and for a second, I couldn’t comprehend how a night like the one we had shared wouldn’t leave a richer olfactory profile on them, on the air, and the curtains.

  In that sense I loved the ache of movement, to feel that, in my flesh, everything was still remembered—at least for now. I sat up and placed my naked feet on the ground. My bottom was sore and my thighs felt like I’d spent hours at the gym going through rigorous stretching exercises. I greeted them both with my fingers, gently, lovingly, grateful their memory wasn’t as fleeting as the sheets’.

  I looked for other signs, but my wrists did not boast rope burn, nor did my forehead show any indication that it had been pressed into a carpet for so long. At least, the ropes still hung from the sides of the headboard but, in the cool light of morning, they looked quite harmless. If I hadn’t known any better, they could have been a simple decorative element to the driftwood bed. I leaned in closer and tugged at the hard coils. The knots looked like they hadn’t been opened in years, like they were part of the bed’s design—a bed in which women could be tied down and fucked long and hard until all they wanted was to stay right there and forget there was a world outside this sleepy seaside village.

  The sight made me steel my jaw and sit up straight again.

  I would need a long shower before I’d be able to face Paul like a professional again, and get this interview over with. Just as I wondered where exactly I had scattered clothes across his house, I saw a small pile of orderly folded things by the door. The pattern looked familiar and I picked up my skirt and blouse, running my fingers over the grain of the fabric with a sigh. He had taken a fresh pair of panties from my luggage and I couldn’t decide whether I felt violated or grateful. In the end, I slipped into them, only glad I didn’t have to look at that smelly, hardened panel of the ones I’d worn the day before.

  As I stood up, stretched my legs and quickly put on the rest of my clothes, I found myself wondering if this dark feeling that had settled itself over the comfortable afterglow was regret. But as much as I tried to investigate, a clear answer eluded me. It didn’t feel like regret, not when I only had to close my eyes to feel his lips on me again, and his hand—the sting of his slap or the softer brush of his fingers. I still felt sticky, but I was glad for the clothes when I pulled open the door and exited the room.

  Immediately, I was engulfed in breakfast scents of coffee and something warm and sweet, pancakes maybe or waffles. It was strangely jarring but I don’t know what I had expected. When I walked down the squeaky stairs, Paul stuck his head out from the kitchen.

  “Oh, there you are, good morning.” He looked calm and fully awake without any remnants of sleep on his face. He had to have seen my momentary confusion, because he stepped into the hallway and ushered me back into the kitchen. Where just last night, I’d lain across the wooden surface with his head between my legs, was now an impressive spread of steaming pancakes, coffee and even tea.

  “How long did I...? Sorry, you could have woken me,” I stuttered, still trying to catch up. It immediately felt as though I had started this day off on the wrong note, but it was too late to worry about that now.

  “Oh, no. I don’t sleep a lot, been awake for hours. I get my best work done in the early hours of the day.” He pulled out a chair and I plopped into the seat. My brain felt hazy, reluctant. “But today, I thought I’d make sure you get a good breakfast, most important meal of the day, you know?”

  I snorted sleepily. “Always thought that was conservative propaganda.”

  I was still yawning when he heaped two pancakes onto my plate and then pushed a few other bowls at me. I think he explained about the different sauces—maple syrup, peach sauce he’d canned himself a while ago, cream. My taste buds and stomach perked up, if not my brain.

  I don’t know what I had expected. Maybe in the end, I had followed his instructions after all and not expected anything, but this definitely wasn’t it. He didn’t even feel like the man who had held me so tightly the night before just before I’d fallen asleep. I ladled the peach sauce onto my plate, trying not to cry, trying to remember who I was and why I was here.

  He watched me while I took my first bite. I leaned back, savoring the tangy sweetness. Just another of those contrasts: he shouldn’t have been as good a cook as he was, he shouldn’t have been as chipper and detached and he definitely shouldn’t make me feel like this, like I couldn’t bear even thinking about walking away from him.

  “Sorry, I’m not much of a morning person.” I had only taken a bite or two, something about the taste was like just another caress, especially because he seemed to be watching me for exactly that reaction. “I’m going to grab a shower and then we’ll get that interview done and then I’ll get out of your hair.”

  There was a pause in his movement, barely noticeable. Then he shook his head.

  “There’s no need to rush,” his smile was back in place, pleasant and intelligent and all those things that had charmed me the day before and that I still was far from impervious to. “We have all day.”

  Dragging my fork over the plate, I painted little spikes into the peach sauce.

  “It’s fine, it’s a long way back and I have work tomorrow.”

  I couldn’t look at him but when he covered my hand with his, I had to fight to keep my eyes on my plate. He was warm and still calloused but that never seemed to stop him from being perfectly tender and soft when he wanted to be.

  “I was thinking... we might take another walk outside. There’s a beautiful quiet beach, nobody ever goes there—“ I stopped him when I looked up. I don’t know what he read in my eyes but I could see him almost physically recoil. That hurt, too.

  “And I’d leave on the late train?”

  “Sure. I mean, we had fun yesterday, didn’t we? Why not make the most of it?”

  I pulled my hand away, and my face curved into the same sweet, polite distance that he had mastered. I hated smiling like this and quickly dropped my gaze back towards the pancakes.

  “I don’t know, Paul. I think we shouldn’t—” I didn’t know what to say but Paul was already on his feet, all smiles and unthreatening gestures.

  “How about this, I’ll grab a shower while you finish your breakfast like a good girl and then we’ll talk about this. How does that sound?”

  I nodded, smiled and demonstratively ladled a forkful of pancake into my mouth. His smile made me want to cry and I held my breath until he’d left the room. It took a while until I heard the water jump into life, rattling some pipes before it gushed out and over his naked body. I felt drawn to that room, so much that there was a moment where I almost opened the door to get to him, to touch him, kiss the drops of his skin.

  But I didn’t. I found my messenger bag. The laptop was still in there but he had also replaced the tape recorder and there was a small plastic bag. I shouldn’t have but I opened it and with the scent of last night’s panties, memories shot like lightning through my body.

  I slid into my shoes and tore a page out of a notepad. I wrote with shaking fingers.

  Paul,

  Thank you for a wonderful day. Please don’t think that it’s easy for me to walk away from you, but you have awakened something in me. You have made me want to enjoy every moment without worrying about, planning or expecting a future. You made me want more. And that’s why I can’t stay. I can’t enjoy this one little drop at a time, always knowing you will turn the tap off eventually. You are a wonderful person, a wonderful man, you should know that. I don’t expect you to change for me. And for this of all things, I won’
t beg. So I’m only left with this one option.

  Don’t worry about the interview. I think I have enough for an article as it is. Maybe I’ll email you later for some quotes but don’t worry. I’m leaving now because I have to, because I don’t think I’m strong enough to do it any other way than to sneak out.

  Xxx Iris.

  NOW

  When Paul lets his hand sink, there is a noticeable pause. He is still standing by his car, and I am not moving. Moving feels dangerous and yet, my heart is slamming in my chest so hard it blurs my vision. Finally, it is he who stirs—with every step he takes towards me, his image clears, he grows larger and larger and so does that stupid hopeful balloon in my chest.

  He’s wearing a woolen, old hat and it makes him look like some fisherman on shore leave. It doesn’t go with the slippers or the pajama pants, even if they are of the very masculine variety. Checkers. I want to smile and it tugs at the corners of my mouth so hard I have to physically restrain myself.

  When he comes to a halt a few feet in front of me, he looks straight at me; he doesn’t say a word. My throat closes up but I manage to breathe through my nose. The air doesn’t quite seem to supply my body with oxygen though, not the way it is supposed to—because I still feel dizzy and caught up in that sudden vertigo.

  “I was afraid I’d miss the train,” he says after a while, his voice warm, soft. There is something about that voice in open air that robs it of the power it held in an enclosed space, but it still shoots through me.

  “It’s still twenty minutes,” I whisper and he takes a step closer. It might be my imagination, but I am sure I can feel the warmth radiating from inside his jacket all the way against my chest and face.

  “You left.”

  “I did.”

  His hand twitches but he forces it back into that casual stillness.

  “You were right,” he finally says and I look up; my surprise makes him chuckle. “In your letter, you were right.”

  He stops there and when the silence persists, I wrap my arms around myself; it’s getting cold again. I’m not sure I want to be right or what to make of his confession but he doesn’t initiate any touch and so I can’t quite do it either.

  “I must have sounded like a hypocrite to you.”

  This time, I shake my head immediately. “No, no, that’s not what I meant. And that’s not my place to judge, Paul. I hardly know you—and that, that would be awfully full of myself, wouldn’t it?”

  “How so?”

  “You know? Seeing hypocrisy or any other kind of issues when all you... well, let’s just say, I’m not naive enough to think that every one night stand has to lead to something longer even if...”

  “Even if?” I wish he’d just stop asking me these questions. I am blushing, my hair is blowing in the wind.

  “Even if one of the... participants might want that.”

  Our eyes lock and finally, he reaches out. His fingers brush over my chin and my eyes flutter shut.

  “Is that what you want?” he asks and this time, standing closer, the wind doesn’t have a chance to blow the strong bass out of his voice. It travels through my body right down to my core.

  “I don’t know,” I admit and when I blink, he brushes his thumb over my lips.

  “I should tell you, I am not generally known to be a good boyfriend. I get broody, or obsessed with my work. I like to be alone for long stretches at a time and I am terribly set in my ways, here by the sea with my woodwork and writing.”

  I expel a hard breath.

  “Did I say I wanted to be your girlfriend?” I whisper and this time I get to smile at the momentary surprise that washes over his face. “We don’t even know each other. Not really. I just… I liked being with you.”

  “And I liked being with you.”

  My heart jumps all the way up into my throat and into the glimmer in my eyes and with half a step I am leaning against his chest, my neck at an extreme angle to look up at him.

  “We could... date.” I can feel the muscles in my cheeks pull at my lips until I am grinning up at him. It feels like a silly proposition after that ocean of intimacy of the night before. “Do people into BDSM date?”

  Paul chuckles and shakes his head. “I have no idea what those people do. But I’d date you. Although you just might have to take the lead there, because I haven’t dated since I was in college.”

  Another smirk and my fingers find their way into his jacket, where he’s warm, so warm. I bite my lip. Everything feels light now, light and airy and nothing like half an hour ago.

  “I’ll show you,” I promise and Paul laughs, leaning his forehead against mine.

  “Come back with me,” he whispers and I can feel his hot breath against my face, the hoarse quality of need that seems to permeate every syllable. It isn’t only that, my own body wants nothing more than to sink into his bed and explore all those things his hands and tongue and devious imagination can impart and haven’t yet. But I shake my head. When he wants to pull away, I hold his face close to mine.

  “I have a ticket, and an article to write and if I come back with you now I won’t want to leave tonight.”

  “You wouldn’t have to...”

  I try not to laugh and brush my lips over his cheek.

  “I can see where you lack dating experience,” I whisper and he chuckles, rubbing his nose against mine. God, I want to give in, so badly. “Here’s how it works. You have your life and I have mine. And when the train comes, you’ll kiss me and wish me a good journey and then you’ll call me tonight to see how my day was and to tuck me in. And maybe next weekend we’ll have another date.”

  “So I... kiss you when the train arrives?”

  I have to laugh and Paul wraps me up in his arms. My hair blows into his and for a moment we are truly alone behind a curtain of fluttering brown. His lips meet mine even though the train is nowhere to be seen and I feel tears pool in my eyes. It feels like the first time, no wine, no reason, just to kiss and to feel close to each other. And then his hand slips into the back of my skirt, squeezing my sore buttocks.

  “It might do me good,” he whispers, nosing at my cheek and ear, “having a sweet, smart, little puppy like you.”

  “I’ll make sure it will... Sir.”

  THE END

  About the author

  Laila Blake (lailablake.com) is a linguist, author and translator. She writes character-driven love stories, whether in romance, erotica, YA or mainstream, co-hosts the podcast Lilt and blogs about writing, feminism and society. The first instalment of her Lakeside series, a paranormal romantic fantasy, was published in early 2013 and since then, a good dozen of her short stories have been selected for publication in erotic anthologies. She lives in Cologne/Germany with her cat Nookie, adores obscure folk singers and plays the guitar.

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