The House On Burra Burra Lane

by Jones, Jennie

  Sammy raised to her elbows. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Oh … come on.’

  ‘Ethan—what’s wrong?’

  He turned to her, a big countryman’s smile on his face. ‘Condom,’ he said, holding up a little silver packet. ‘Put it in my pocket yesterday. Hoped I’d have need of it sometime soon.’

  Take it easy now, Ethan told himself as she laughed, smiled at him, the slight tremor on her mouth—her beautiful mouth— firing up the desperation inside him. The lady had wings of need and they were fluttering against him. Her fingers brushed down his arms as he slipped the condom over the tip of his penis and rolled it down.

  He lengthened alongside her and took her breast in his mouth, savouring her nipple, the taste of fruit-scented skin. Elated at the sounds she made, thrilled by the tingle on his lips. It was the way he was touching her. She felt loved by him. He was doing it right. And that made him hungrier for her. Her joy and her elegance. They were his now. Showing her how lovely she was had been more than gratifying. Watching as she understood, a breathtaking moment. Walking with her in unison now, a deep satisfaction.

  His abdomen was drawn, waiting. He wasn’t leading any more, she was. With her hands, her sounds. The anticipation of taking her excited every nerve in his body. He kept his own need at bay and let her use her open-hearted, wonderful desperation on him.

  Her hands were in his hair, ruffling through it to the back of his neck. She pulled his face to her breast and he happily sucked, licked, kissed.

  When she arched, throwing back her head with a groan, he moved his hand to between her opened legs and cupped what he wanted, pressing the heel of his hand to her.

  She inhaled, opened further for him. He lifted from her, holding his weight on his elbow, watching her face. He slid his fingers inside her and clenched his stomach hard when her breath caught in her throat. He kissed the silvery hue of that delicate spot. He used his fingers carefully, rhythmically. In deep, pull back, never quite leaving her. In again, out again. She was beautiful.

  The soft, wet warmth tightened around his fingers. Her breathing shortened; her body arched, flickered and juddered. She’d given him the lead again, allowed him to control the pace. Her heartfelt, feverish need almost shattered him.

  His heart pounded like a barrage of cannons. He said her name, happy to hear the sound of it tender and loving in his mouth. ‘Sammy, Sammy.’ Happy. There was happiness inside him, around him, and beneath him.

  She asked him a question, but he didn’t understand. The pounding of blood was like a missile in his head. ‘What?’ he managed. ‘What do you want, darling?’

  He didn’t wait for her answer, he levered himself between her thighs, nudged her knees in his sudden haste. Regretted it, heard her sigh, and recovered. ‘I have to take you now, Sammy. I can’t wait any longer. I want you.’ He waited. A silent moment. A second. An eternity. He looked into her eyes. He wouldn’t be able to hold on. If she didn’t speak soon he’d crush her. He’d take her. ‘Is that alright?’

  She groaned, pulled him to her.

  Agony over. He slid into her, thrusting deeply, embedding himself.

  ‘Yes.’ Her one word, her sure voice, the rearing of her body and instantly he was moving. Restraint flew from him as though it had ripped at the roof of his world. His hips rocked against hers, his penis hardening more, engorging her, filling her as he moved inside her, felt her drawing him in.

  He drove himself, shocked at the sensation of finally taking her and dazed by the sounds that came from her. The motions from her softly bucking body ricocheted through him, her limbs responding to his, leaping in delight towards him.

  One more sensation for her before he took his own. And he wanted to watch.

  It didn’t take long, she was on the edge before he’d entered her, now it breathed with her, floating through her body. Her legs tangled around his hips, just as he’d wanted them to, and he led her on with words. He told her what he felt, how her body made him hard everywhere. How his need for this pleasure had driven him crazy, how her joy drove him. Her pleasure was his own when she propelled towards him, energy and impulse sparking beneath him.

  She orgasmed in his arms. Seconds; seconds more, then more. To linger in this moment, stay, continue forever. But his need wanted release and he couldn’t suppress it any longer. He thrust deeply, harder now; slide in, slip back. Four times, five, six— until it burst through him. It punched his senses, gripped him. His lifted his head high, muscles hardened, body taut in the spill.

  Not rested. He’d never feel rested again, but loved. Love swamped his system, as though sex had opened a door on the part of his brain that held his closed-off emotions.

  He kissed her softly, smiling against her mouth as she kissed him back with equal tenderness. He was more in love with her now than ever before. Hadn’t realised there had been a before. Every question he’d asked himself and each restrained thought he’d placed in his mind left him. And answered him. And fuddled everything he’d ever known. Great sex; a woman he’d wanted to make love to since first seeing her. The thought of more. Sammy—trembling beneath him, against him.

  He let it stay for the moment, the contentment caressing him. He’d pleased her.

  ‘Well, my beautiful friend,’ he said softly, kissing her cheek, then watching for her response. She was more than he could have thought possible. ‘I hope you know now how sexy you are.’ She was fragrant and warm. She was the woman he wanted to keep in his arms. He’d keep her forever if he could.

  He traced her face with his fingers and smiled at the smugness in her gaze as she kissed the tip of his index finger. This must be how true happiness felt. It was heady.

  ‘You’re the best man I’ve ever known,’ she said. ‘I want you to know that.’ Her pretty, temptress mouth moved to a grin. ‘My friend.’

  He sent a twinkle her way. Keep it in your eyes, man. Keep it out of your mouth. There were so many things he wanted to say to her. If he opened his mouth they’d pour out—like a pathetic poet lost in his own trite words. And he couldn’t give her anything but the finest, the grandest. He brushed a palm over her breast, resting his hand on her, bemused at the strength of mind it took not to tell her how much he loved her.

  She stared down. ‘Your hands are so large on me.’

  ‘These hands won’t hurt you.’

  ‘I know that, you don’t have to say it. I know you won’t hurt me. It’s just that you’re bear size. I’m normal size.’

  That brought a grin. ‘You’re a butterfly next to me.’ Butterflies weren’t frightened of bears, they flew away from anger and abuse.

  He leaned to her neck, nuzzled his face against her hair, nibbled her earlobe, kissed it softly. She tasted sweet … and she smelled of him. His fragrance was all over her. Not just sex, but wood dust and rain. He hadn’t hurt her, he’d loved her. He’d been tender with her. He’d been tender with himself even.

  Wood cracked, split and fell. Glass splintered; a cabinet— something heavy. The echo reverberated in the room—the hallway—his mind.

  She startled beneath him. ‘What was that?’

  He held her tightly and ignored the sounds around him. They were in his head. No—she’d heard it too.

  He breathed deeply. There was another smell in the room. Not rain. Not wood dust. Not fruity shampoo. Or maybe it was in his head.

  ‘Ethan?’

  The crying began. Stifled crying. Pain. He looked at Sammy, tried to focus on her doe eyes in the mayhem of noise in his head.

  But she wasn’t crying.

  No. He fisted his hand in the pillow. He’d hardly paused in the warmth of his feelings, and fear had stridden in to trample him, warn him. He knew what fear was and he knew how it wedged itself inside a person.

  ‘What is it, Ethan?’

  The smell of fear burned in his nostrils. His skin was ablaze with it. Suffocation had his throat. He heard Sammy’s voice through the call of another. A quick, anxious plea for him to leave, not
look back. ‘Go on now, Ethan. Go to bed.’

  ‘Oh, God, no.’ He ground his back teeth, raised himself, struggled to look at Sammy and banish the sounds. She hadn’t spoken. Her mouth was closed, eyes wide on him.

  ‘Don’t look, Ethan. Go on, now.’

  ‘I won’t hurt you,’ he said, ignoring the voice, studying Sammy, his jaw clenched. ‘I won’t let it happen.’

  ‘Ethan … ’

  Sammy’s voice. Pure. Fearful. He struggled to regain the moment. Felt his tongue on the roof of his mouth, felt the dryness. His throat was parched.

  The pain of the young child he had been swallowed him. He heard his own footsteps on the tread of the wooden stairs, his bare feet padding quickly up. His feet and hands had been numb as he closed his bedroom door. This bedroom. The smooth wood of the door had heated his hands as he pressed them against it, willing it to stay shut and keep out the frightening noise of the man hurting his mother.

  He had wanted to do something—to run back downstairs and grab his father and beg him to stop. Hit him. Pull his mother away and be brave enough to take the flailing anger and fury from his father. He hadn’t been that brave. He’d been terrified. A kid of seven, scared to death—not standing a chance against the force and strength of a large drunken man. But he should have tried.

  What did it take to stop a man who had destruction on his mind? A man who didn’t know what he was doing, just lashed out as though something wild and ugly inside him needed the release.

  ‘I can’t do this, Sammy.’

  He levered from the bed, left the soft warmth of Sammy and felt the cold air pull at his skin as though it had been scraped from the bone.

  She sat, reached for him. ‘What is it?’ she demanded. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Seventeen

  Sammy’s heart was pounding. She flinched as he left her, left the bed they had shared. She sat up, the sheet that had partly covered her dropping to her waist. The room was cold … clammy cold.

  She shivered. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked again.

  The curtains rippled across the hole she’d punched in the window with her hair straighteners. She hadn’t covered the smashed pane properly. Had forgotten. She plucked the rumpled eiderdown from the end of the bed and held it against her nakedness.

  He dressed quickly in his jeans and boots, his back to her. He slipped his shirt on, left it undone. His shoulders and arms looked bigger in the shadows. He grabbed his coat and moved to the door.

  ‘Ethan!’ She pulled herself to her knees, the eiderdown tucked under her arms.

  He swung around and stared at her. Even in the dark, she saw torture in his eyes.

  ‘What is it?’ she whispered.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m very sorry, but it’s best this way.’ He spoke quietly, his voice guttural and unlike his own. She didn’t know the man who stood in her bedroom doorway.

  Her limbs froze. ‘Why are you leaving?’

  ‘I can’t do this.’ He seemed to choke the words out.

  ‘I don’t understand … ’ But the room was empty.

  Every room in the house was darkened. If only she could switch off the moon. She didn’t want even that light to seep through the windows. She could stay on the landing forever, sitting in her wicker chair with nothing but distant stars to pierce the darkness and pain. She’d listen to her head from now on. Her heart couldn’t be relied upon.

  The house roof creaked as the metal expanded, warming after the cold and ice, settling into its usual place. She hadn’t paid attention before this to how many sounds her house made, cloaked in stillness. The dripping of water in a drainpipe—tap, tap, tap. And the clock in the hall downstairs, keeping time with the hours she had sat on her landing, willing patience to sit within her and calm her.

  All sounds carried in the silence, like ghosts blowing through, unseen but surrounding her. Even those from outside. The rustling of branches, leaves blowing. And Ethan’s ute.

  Sammy sighed heavily and rose, needing to push herself from the chair. She moved slowly across the landing and down the stairs, her hand on the banister. The emptiness inside her was her composure. It had taken the place of the pain that had chewed and gnawed. She’d known he would come. He wasn’t a man to let animosity blister, or to let the strain of his scalding actions, or whatever it was that had happened to him, go unheeded. He’d want to mend it, put out the fire. She was simply glad for the hours alone before facing this.

  His footsteps on the gravel path disturbed the night outside her house.

  She unlocked her front door, opened it and looked up at him, framed in the darkness by the moonlight behind him.

  There wasn’t a feature on his face she didn’t recognise and love. His mouth was firmed but slightly crooked, in embarrassment maybe. His eyes were narrowed, the blue gaze searching deep into her eyes. She wasn’t going to make this hard for either of them, but if he was looking for something that would make it easier for him, he’d have to look into a bottomless pit. She’d arranged her features and her thoughts to a blank canvas. This would be done and finished as fast as possible. Then, when he’d gone, she had decisions to make.

  ‘I need to tell … ’ He stopped. ‘I want to tell you something.’

  ‘I’m not in a good place for conversation just now.’ Her voice sounded quiet but polite, the way she’d expected.

  ‘Can I come in for a few minutes?’

  ‘No. I don’t want you inside my house, if you don’t mind.’

  The crickets chirruped in the dark, somewhere by the rose bush. He rubbed his jaw with the back of his hand. ‘Will you come outside?’

  She paused: had expected to listen, then close the door. If she went outside, she’d be under the blanket of stars with him. Too close to heaven.

  He stepped back, looking over his shoulder. ‘Come and sit on the bench, please, Sammy.’ He faced her. ‘It’s not about us.’ He shut his eyes. ‘Not directly.’

  Of course it was about them. This was the end of any relationship. Perhaps it was best to hear the additional dialogue, the part that explained, and the apology. Then she could close the emotional door and move on without forever wondering why.

  She unhooked a long scarf from the hall stand, and the fleece jacket. ‘That’s yours. It’s dry now.’

  He took it off her and wrung it in his hands.

  She followed him down the gravel path to the iron bench by the deep red bricks with the creamy stones. They’d stacked them, working together. Sammy in her too-big-for-her workman’s gloves and Ethan using his bare hands.

  She sat. The bench was tarnished. She’d told him she was going to scrape off the rust and make it new again.

  ‘Is the house alright? Is anything badly damaged?’

  She tutted, wrapped the scarf around her. ‘Just say what you want to say, and be grateful I’m listening.’

  He didn’t respond, didn’t move, but he drew a long breath, then sat at the end of the bench, draping the fleece jacket over his thigh.

  He leaned forwards, elbows on his knees, fingers interlocked, reminding her how friends sat and talked about life, love, hardship and joy while they rested on a park bench and watched the world go by. Her control slipped then. The bench in the park was like the tartan picnic blanket by the river. Both held the hope of her and Ethan. Happy. Together.

  She kept her head bowed, although her body was turned slightly towards him. It didn’t feel right to recoil from him completely. She wasn’t used to this emotional distance between them yet. And it must have taken something more than a need to fix it for him to come so soon after he’d left.

  ‘My older brother and I walked five kilometres each morning to the little school on the outskirts of town,’ he began. ‘On the way home, we’d pick up odd jobs from any of the farmers who would pay us. My mother cleaned other people’s houses, sold bakery goods, took in washing—anything to keep shoes on her boys’ feet.’

  Sammy glanced sideways at him, under her eyelashes. He was looking strai
ght ahead.

  ‘I think my mother married my father hoping for a better chance in life, and maybe looking for love too. But she didn’t find anything close to love with Thomas Granger.’

  Sammy hadn’t expected another look into his past. Why was telling her about it now?

  He snatched a breath. ‘We were happy kids, Robert and I, mostly, despite the lack of money. We were young and there was always something incredible to look at, poke a stick at, or imagine. Those were the times my father went away. It was very different when he came home.’

  She swallowed the moisture gathered in her mouth, as though some anxiety waited for her. Something she hadn’t considered, or thought of.

  ‘He’d take a stick to me if he didn’t have enough money to spend at the pub.’

  She nearly choked, but held herself still.

  ‘I was young enough to heal quickly, physically. I don’t think he touched Robert at that stage. Robert was five years older than me, and perhaps too much of a challenge. But he hurt my mother. Probably more emotionally than from the beatings. It’s harder to get over an emotional torrent of abuse than a physical one, it lingers for years.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘I need you to hear it, so you have the chance to understand.’ He hung his head. His trauma seemed to throw itself at the mercy of the night. ‘But mainly so that I feel better about what I did this afternoon.’

  She locked her hands on her lap so they wouldn’t reach for him.

  ‘Well.’ He dragged his feet closer to the bench when she didn’t answer. ‘We lived, we got through it. I was used to people looking at my mother, pointing invisible fingers, talking about us behind our backs. When I was eight my father left for good. My mother told me he’d died, and I was safe. I waited every day for him to come back and ruin it.’ He swallowed hard.

  ‘And?’ she asked, pushing him on.

  He looked out at the moonlit kitchen garden. ‘I’ll get this done as quickly as I can. You won’t have to sit and listen to me much longer.’

  He thought she was irritated? It was wrong of him to take that meaning. To suppose she didn’t care. She was here, wasn’t she? She was listening, she’d even spoken.