by Mila Ferrera
“Don’t, Romy,” he warns. But he’s not pushing me away. Quite the opposite. He lays his forehead against mine. The tips of our noses touch.
“I told you that you could ask me to leave,” I murmur against his lips. Please don’t ask me to leave.
He seems like he’s considering it. I look into his eyes, waiting for it, waiting for him to get spooked like he did last night. “I’m not strong enough,” he finally says.
And then he really kisses me. His lips crash onto mine, and our noses bump together as I surge up on my toes again. He slides his hand through my short hair and groans as I open my mouth to welcome his tongue. He tastes sweet, like he’s been drinking soda, and the sugary tang only makes me crazier. I tangle my tongue with his, run it along the edge of his teeth, nibble at his bottom lip, and it’s frantic, a battle, making me lose all awareness of anything but the space between us, the friction and tension where our bodies are touching.
He lowers his head to kiss my neck, and the rasp of his rough skin sends delicious chills right to the center of me. His hair tickles my face, paints it with rain. I put my arms around his neck, smoothing my hand over the firm muscles of his shoulder. My body is on fire, my fingers pulling tight against his scalp. The front of my shirt is soaked through, my nipples exquisitely sensitive as he crushes me to his chest. His teeth scrape against my throat, followed by the heated slide of his tongue, and a whimper flies from my mouth.
He freezes for a moment and starts to lift his head, but when I pull his face to my neck again, his arm shoots out and sweeps over the top of his work table. Paints, brushes, sheets of sketch paper, a plastic tub of gesso, a few canvas frames, and who knows what else fly to the floor with a clatter. Caleb grips my waist in the next moment, and he lifts me onto the table so our faces are level. He puts his hands on my cheeks and looks in my eyes, searching for something. Regret or fear, maybe. But … I’m not feeling either. All I’m feeling is want. “Kiss me again,” I whisper.
He does not disappoint me.
Chapter Ten: Caleb
Romy’s destroying me, pure and simple. She’s twisting me up and tearing me apart, and it’s not even hard for her. She does it with a single look, a stroke of her fingers, a few words—kiss me again—finishing me off with the taste of her mouth, the softness of her lips, her sweet, breathless sigh against my ear. She has no idea how powerful she is, how much harder she’s going to make things for me. But I crave her more than I’ve craved anything in a long time, and for once, I want to have something just for me.
My hands close over her hips and drag her toward me. Her knees part. Her long skirt rides up. I press myself to the soft center of her and half expect her to push me away, but her legs tighten around my hips. I know she can feel how badly I want her. My cock is throbbing, and I can’t stop myself from rocking against her, needing the friction, the resistance, wanting so much more than that. She moans into my mouth, and it only winds me tighter, until I have to force myself not to hold her too tightly. I almost forget how everything’s falling apart, how the last several hours have been a living hell.
After a miserable, tense lunch with Amy and her family, Derrick took me into his office and told me that I needed to stop harassing his wife—my sister—for handouts. I took Katie home, and because things could still get worse, they did. My truck broke down. We had to walk a few miles in the pouring rain, during which time Katie called me every name in the book. I finally got her home and calmed down. I ordered her a pizza and cajoled her into taking her meds. I called the tow truck to haul my piece of shit pickup to the mechanic.
I’m deep in this hole, and I was supposed to go to Claudia’s tonight, but now I can’t because I have no ride. That’s both bad and good. Bad because Claudia would probably have forked over more money in exchange for the pleasure I’d give her. Good because I don’t want to give her anything at all. I came here to let loose, to tear some things apart … but it didn’t work out that way.
I still don’t know why Romy came up here. Or why she didn’t run screaming as soon as she saw me, because I was acting like a total psycho. But as soon as I heard her voice, as soon as I saw her standing there, looking at my paintings and at me with that soft but determined expression, the way she refused to leave …
I can’t get close enough to her. I can’t get enough. My fingers find the bottom of her shirt and burrow under, seeking her skin. She trembles as my fingertips slide along her ribs, as they meet the bottom edge of her bra, as they skim over her breasts, over the tight bumps of her nipples. Her sharp intake of breath only fuels my fire. My thumb circles one of the perfect, taut buds, and she hooks her ankles behind my ass, trapping me in the best way possible.
This is so different from last night with Claudia. Last night, I had to focus. I had to try. It took effort and thought. But this … this is instinct. This is easy.
This is getting out of control.
I lift her shirt and bow my head, pulling the silky edge of her bra away and closing my mouth around the soft, goosebumped mound of her breast. I flick her nipple with my tongue, and then I close my teeth around it. The sound that comes from her makes me insane. Rough and desperate, I run my hand up her leg, under her skirt, every muscle in my body tight to the point of snapping, my cock straining against my fly, insistent bordering on painful. I should back off … but now she’s sliding her hand down my chest, down my stomach, to my waist.
Oh. The moan rolls from my throat as her fingers skate over the front of my jeans. She presses her palm to my cock, and it’s all I can do not to beg her to touch me skin to skin. My hand is at the apex of her thighs. I brush my knuckles over the satiny strip of fabric covering the place I really want to be.
“Romy,” I try to say, but it comes out strangled, a word mumbled against her breast as she squeezes me through my jeans, mapping my boundaries and scattering my thoughts. My fingers move on their own, pushing her panties aside. She’s slick and wet. Good, I think. That’s because of me. I lift my head and pull her face to mine, and she parts her lips, inviting me in.
So I accept the invitation. As my tongue explores her mouth, I slowly dip one of my fingers into her warmth, the slippery tightness tempting me deeper. Romy’s eyes fly open as she feels me inside her. Inside her. My fingers are splayed over the most sensitive part of her, my thumb pressed over her clit. Even though I know what I want, know what I’d do if I were in charge, I force myself to stay still. What do you want? If I had breath in my lungs, I’d ask. But I’m too gone to speak. I have no sense of time, only the hot scent of her in my nose, the pink tint in her cheeks, the fathomless green of her eyes, the scorching heat of her body. More, I think. Give me more of you. Please.
She lets go of the front of my jeans.
And she presses her palm over the back of my hand.
Her breath rushes from her lungs as I sink a little deeper. My body roars with crazy triumph as she urges me on. She’s got her arm locked around my neck, kissing me like she can’t get enough. Our teeth clack together with the desperation of it. I slide two fingers inside her and move, in and out, feeling her contract around me, wishing I could replace my fingers with my cock, but even as crazed as I am, I know that’s not a good idea for so many reasons. So I focus on her, on the soft, urgent sounds that come from her throat, on the way her slender fingers clutch at my chest and push up under my wet shirt. Her fingernails scrape against my bare skin. I feel the movements of her hips and match the thrust of my fingers to her rhythm.
She’s soaked, but not with rain anymore. She’s to the point where she’s turned her focus inward, where she’s all sensation, right on the verge. Her movements are uncoordinated now, jerky and needy and wild. I pushed her there.
And I’m going to push her right over that edge. I may have screwed up in a billion different ways today, but I can make this go right.
I press my thumb against her tight, swollen nub and move my fingers deep as she pushes down against me. When I feel her inner walls spasm, I near
ly come. She stifles a cry and buries her face in my neck, clinging to me as she writhes against my hand, totally lost in it. I think she whispers my name. I hope she does, at least. She presses her mouth to my collarbone, and then her teeth close around it, shooting streaks of painful pleasure up and down my spine.
That’s when I do come, without any warning at all. I groan as my cock pulses, as my body lets go, losing awareness of myself and where I am and what I’m doing. I collapse forward onto her and wind up with my head on her chest. My fingers still inside her. Her legs around my hips. Her heart is like a hummingbird against my ear. Her fingernails are clawed against my back.
I tilt my head to look up at her. Her head is resting on a package of oil pastels. Her hands move to my hair, holding me where I am, and her eyes are closed. She’s trying to catch her breath. Her body clenches around my fingers and her teeth scrape over her bottom lip, and though she’s just made me come in my pants like a teenage boy, the flames of want kindle again instantly. She opens her eyes and blinks up at the ceiling. I open my mouth to say … something. I have no idea what.
I’m crazy about you?
I don’t even know your last name?
Can we please do this again?
Footsteps thump up the stairs, and Romy gasps. I stumble back instantly, pulling myself from her and catching only a glimpse of her beautiful body before she leaps off my work table. Her foot lands square on a tube of titanium white, and the paint comes squirting out of the uncapped top. And it’s so perfect that I chuckle. I can’t help it.
“Caleb? That you, bro?” It’s Markus. Fuck.
I look at Romy, whose green eyes are wide. No. No no no. I don’t want her to look like that. Not after what just happened. “Um. Yeah, it’s me,” I call out. “I’m … busy.”
Romy’s gazing at me with this pleading look. She needs me to rescue her, but I’m dazed and stupid and don’t know how. “I’m …” I yank my t-shirt down over my jeans, feeling sticky and damp and uncoordinated as I step from my studio and wave at Markus, who’s carrying in some piece of twisted metal he must have scrounged from a junkyard. Or stolen out of someone’s garage, considering that it’s nearly ten and raining buckets. Behind me, I can hear Romy messing with her clothes. If I can get rid of Markus, I’ll have a chance to talk to her. I could make sure she’s all right. Maybe she’d help me figure out if I’m all right.
“What are you up to?” I ask Markus, striding forward to meet him before he can get any closer.
The muscles of his tattooed arms are straining as he slowly sets down the rusty piece of junk in his stall. It looks like part of a car engine. “Picked this up on the side of the road. I’m doing another welding project and this would be a great base.” He straightens up and glances over at me, then does a double take. “Are you all right?”
“What?” I look down at myself, my wet, hanging clothes. I shove my hand in my pocket. Not that he could tell where my fingers have been, but—“I was … working on something. I got inspired.”
He smiles. “Cool. Do you want to show me?”
I take a step backward. “Oh. No. Not ready to show anyone.”
He looks toward my studio and his eyes go wide. “What are you doing, Caleb?” Frowning, he shoulders past me before I can stop him, and that’s when I realize that one of my paintings is leaning against the center table, its ripped canvas hanging from the splintered frame. “Oh, man, why would you do this?” Markus asks.
I freeze, wanting to sink through the floor. As if on cue, Markus turns his head. And sees Romy in my studio. “Oh. Hi there,” he says to her.
With her arms folded over her chest, Romy steps out of my space, her cheeks full-on red. “Hey. I was, um.”
“We were …,” I say, my thoughts whirling. “We were talking about painting.”
I’ve said a lot of stupid things in my life, but that may top the list.
Markus smirks. “Yeah? Looks like an intense conversation.” He’s staring at the front of Romy’s shirt and skirt. Which are, of course, soaked, because I was on top of her a second ago. And it’s not like she looks like she’s just walked in from the rain, either. Her light blue skirt is dry on the sides but has a wet shadow right down its center, where my hips were pressed between her legs.
“I have to go,” Romy says.
“I’ll walk you out,” I say quickly. Our eyes lock. Words tumble over each other in my head, but I can’t string enough together to form a sentence.
Markus says something about letting us continue our conversation about painting, but Romy’s already headed to the door, and I trail her, fighting the urge to grab her arms and force her to look at me. She holds onto the railing as she descends the steps. I catch a glimpse of the ink on the inside of her arm and realize I never even took the time to see what it says. I don’t know the first thing about her, and I just fingered her in my studio and now she’s escaping.
It’s not like I haven’t done things like this before. I’ve had my share of casual encounters.
The thing is, this didn’t feel casual. Not to me, at least.
“Romy, wait,” I call as she disappears into the classroom. I reach the doorway as she emerges with her toolbox. She sets it down and pulls on her raincoat. “Can we … can I … are you …” I stammer.
Her hands go still on the snaps of her coat. “Are you going to be okay?” she asks.
“Me?”
Her lips pull into a gentle smile. “You were so upset earlier, and I …”
“Made me forget about it,” I say. Nearly made me forget my own name. “It’s no big deal. I’m fine.”
She chuckles and pulls her hood up. “It wasn’t the way I expected it to go, but I’m glad I … made you feel better.” We stare at each other for a moment, and then both of us start to laugh. She comes to her senses first. “I guess I’ll see you later.” She picks up her toolbox and turns to the door.
“Wait. I—can I …” I trail off. I want to ask for her number, but what if she thinks all I’m interested in is a booty call?
She blinks up at me. “I’ll probably see you in class on Tuesday, right?”
I nod, trying to figure out the right thing to say. I’m still working on it as she gives me a quick wave and heads out into the rain, leaving me standing in the entryway. Alone.
Chapter Eleven: Romy
I lie awake, staring at my ceiling. In all my life, I’ve never done anything so crazy and wild. I’ve never turned my brain off and focused so entirely on physical pleasure. But now I can’t turn my brain off. Caleb … Caleb. He seemed to know exactly what to do and how to move. He made me feel safe, didn’t have to force a thing. Not like Alex, who was always in control, who always took what he wanted and apologized afterward if I didn’t like it. Caleb did the opposite. Everything he did told me he hadn’t forgotten I was there, that whether I wanted him or not actually mattered to him. And that’s why I was able to let go and lose myself in the pleasure of it, because it was what I wanted, not something he was taking from me.
I have to wonder, though, if I took something from him.
The more I sit with it, the more I realize that I twisted things around. It became about me, when he was the one drowning. As soon as he had me on that table, I stopped thinking about what was going on for him. My only thoughts were about his body, how much I wanted him, how amazing it felt. I’d been chasing one thing, and he gave it to me like he knew I needed it. I cringe with my own selfishness. He’s a guy, I tell myself. Physical stuff doesn’t mean as much to them, right? And it seemed like he’d enjoyed himself, if I read that final shudder and moan correctly. Right before he collapsed onto me, his whole body had gone tight. If orgasms are the unit of measurement here, I think he got as much out of it as I did.
Then I walked away. He looked like he wanted to say something, but I didn’t want to hear it. I needed to get out of there and pull my thoughts together, put my armor back on. He’d shattered everything with his stroking fingers, with the hard, perfect
lines of his body, with the sweet, insistent taste of his mouth.
Now I have to figure out what to do next. Are we good, or are there pieces I have to pick up? Markus knew exactly what had happened, I’m sure. He gave me a once-over that said I can picture it all. I’m sure it’s not the only time, though. Caleb isn’t the first one to let loose in his studio. When I was in college, the artists’ studios were prime make out spots. I’m sure it’s no different in the co-op. And we’re not in college anymore. We’re adults. We can do what we want, and we don’t have to explain it. I don’t care what Markus or anyone else thinks of me.
Except Caleb. As much as I try to tell myself differently, I think I care what he thinks. I care how he is. I need to find out. He said he was fine, but I’m not sure I should take that at face value. What made him destroy his paintings? Who hurt him this badly?
How will he look at me the next time he sees me? Will he avoid me? Smirk? Brag to Markus about feeling me up?
Is there any chance he’d want to do it again?
When my alarm goes off, I get up and go for a quick run, then shower, still mulling things over. But as I set out for Sojourner House, I put it from my mind. I have to focus if I want to help Laura decide what she wants to do. As I drive to the safe-house, I review what Dr. Greer told me to do. Pros and cons. No judgment.
We meet in the tiny sunroom, the only place in the house that offers some privacy. Laura has tan, freckled arms and an apple-shaped body. She doesn’t look fragile or broken. But as I tell her what I’d like to talk about today, she draws a shuddering breath. “I’m not sure I want to analyze it like that,” she says quietly. “It makes it too hard, if I think about it too much.”