by Luna Lacour
Mr. Tennant closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against mine as his hands found my shoulders; he squeezed them gently. A sigh escaped his mouth in the softest of sounds.
When our lips met, it was as if this entire game, this entire puzzle, had all come together for a single, sole reason. For myself and Will to find each other; two suffering, ill souls who had never found that small piece of solace that each and every human yearns for. The connection of skin-to-skin and something more.
I touched his face, smooth and without any shadow of stubble. Will’s eyes were alert, flickering, startled. His breath had dropped into something shallow and quick.
Standing, I slid out of my top; the skirt followed, leaving me only in my panties and nothing else.
“Do you want me, Mr. Tennant?”
His eyes were all pupil; a dizzy, swirling ink.
“Come here,” he whispered.
I started to step forward, admittedly anxious. But he grabbed me before I could move or say anything at all.
The sheets were cold; my skin craving the warmth of Will’s hands and skin as he shed his shirt and tossed it to the floor. I grabbed the front of his jeans, unzipping them slowly as his mouth found my neck; I was slowed only by the feeling of his tongue and teeth nipping ever-so-gently. Not enough to leave a grisly mark, but enough to leave something small enough for me to see tomorrow.
He sat up, my hands still clutching denim, and I slid his pants down to the ankles. I took his erection in my hand, warm and full, and kissed it.
Will groaned softly. His hands slid up my neck and through my hair, pressing me backward on the bed.
“I want you,” he breathed against my ear, my eyes closing like the words were a fast-working drug. I was fading into the sound of every syllable. “I’ve wanted you since the first moment I saw you.”
We were naked and seized by the same shared, blood-boiling, all-encompassing want to connect. To writhe in the core, carnal pleasure that seemed to seep from every pore and every breath. I could hear the voodoo-drum beating of our hearts against the distant ticking clock; the moans stifled from abrupt, greedy kisses.
I thought about the pain, I thought about saying something. About confessing, right then, that this was my very first time. But every time my lips parted, Will’s mouth found mine, or his eyes caught my gaze in a hooded, heady fix.
He ran a finger over my lips, bitten-down and flush; his hair tickled against my cheek. I was underneath him; the length of his frame hovering just inches above mine.
“What do you want me to do to you?” he asked. “I’ll do anything. Anything you want.”
My heart was pounding; adrenaline shot through my veins like rope set aflame. I was dizzy with want, spinning with anticipation.
I kissed him, hard. Feeling the aftermath; the inevitable bruising on my lips.
“Fuck me, Mr. Tennant.”
I closed my eyes in the few, drawn-out moments that Will spent ripping open the foil packet, rolling the condom on. I didn’t look, but rather kept my eyes on his; sharp, utterly aware of every centimeter of movement, every small exhale.
Then came the crushing weight; the gradual sinking of ourselves into one another. The pain came quickly, snapping and sharp, as he slid with a softly-serpent hiss into my body.
He kissed me tenderly, his breath a shattered noise. Each inhale was harsh, cutting against my lips with a sweet warmth. Our tongues moved together, hot and sweetly timid.
Fingers laced, I gripped his hand as if holding something more precious than even my own life; my heart, a ringing harmonic of plucked strings, vibrated with a deafening roar.
Will moved above me slowly; every inch rising and falling into the depth of my very core with a dull, beating ache. There was a small blossoming of something, even in the pain, that was incredible.
I wanted more of it. I wanted more of him.
I moaned, digging my nails into his back and burrowing my face into his neck. I didn’t want him to see any sign of remote pain; any cause for alarm. I wanted to revel in that moment of first-experience; relishing every stinging thrust and gasp for air. I wanted to record this primal soundtrack of skin-on-skin; tongues moving like eels in a dance so fluid and childishly demure. Every kiss a soft, warm pressing of flesh against flesh.
My gaze was on his face. His eyes locked on mine and his lips were slant with a sharp, anguished ecstasy. I could see the imprint; every reservation slowly melting away like the first dusting of snow after the sun reveals itself.
We were two people moving as one; a warm current running off the fumes and vapors of our shallow breaths. The blood running hot through thin, blue veins.
From beneath his fair skin, I could see the lines run like a map up his forearm; tensed by his grip against my shoulders. His fingers ran down my face; a look of desperation pressing itself against his unearthly sallow cheeks.
My eyelids fell as the thrusts of his hips against mine developed into something more frantic; my hands fluttered above his back, touching his hair, caressing his face. We kissed like it was the very last thing this life would grant us; our last act before an enveloping darkness. The inevitable grave that would swallow us both while we were still alive and our hearts still pulsing.
Sweat pooled and ran down my temples. Strands of hair stuck to my skin in damp waves. My entire body trembled and swooned; drifting in and out of the impending lightening-strike of pleasure that grew in my lower-belly.
It was a small orgasm; the green-light of what was possible with practice. But I relished the feeling of Will as he gave that one final thrust before tensing inside of me; all ghostly gasps, panting breath, a gentle moan.
We swallowed saliva and tasted the sweat on our skin. I kissed Will’s cheek, and he smiled.
I closed my eyes and tried to push the throbbing ache away, focusing on Will’s hand as it dipped past my lower belly and in between my legs.
When he raised his fingers, there was blood. It stained the sheets and the tips of his fingers; the pale skin of my inner-thighs.
My skin prickled with fear; my limbs paralyzed by the realization that I had just given my virginity to a man who never knew.
We locked eyes. I didn’t say a word.
“This was my first time,” I said quietly, eyes falling to the site of ruined fabric. “You were my first time.”
He stared at the aftermath of our act. At the sheets that he’d need to throw away; or maybe he would burn the evidence. He rubbed the red-paint mess of my tattered hymen between his fingers, lost in a look of disbelief, and swallowed sharply.
I didn’t move. I didn’t dare speak.
Of all the possible reactions, he kissed me. There was a feral intensity to the way our mouths met; our teeth occasionally clashing; lips chapped and snagging against unintended bites.
“Are you alright?” he asked, pulling me against him. I could hear his heart thrash from beneath the skin, rattling behind bones. “Are you in pain?”
I smiled, breathing in the scent of cologne and sweat.
“Sometimes I don’t know if this is real, or if I’m just dreaming,” I said. “But either way, I wish I could do everything in this life with you.”
Will smiled, though it was small. The corners of his lips were weighed with the unspoken things that even I had no awareness of. A decade of experiences that I had no idea of; that I hadn’t lived.
He lifted me in his arms, cradling me in the air as he carried me into the bathroom and set me down on cold tile. Quick-working hands wiped my skin down with a warm cloth; ringing out red droplets into the glaringly white sink. My blood. I watched the action with a morbid interest.
We bathed each other in the small bathtub; Mr. Tennant’s limbs coiled to fit us both. I ran my hands down the plane of his chest, kissing a soft trail down his sternum. We listened to the clock tick and laughed at our sweet nothings until the oil-infused water had become tepid, our fingers pruned.
Afterwards, I couldn’t help but cut a glance at the
sheets. Mr. Tennant stood beside me, his eyes unwavering from the same spot. The two of us hovered in the doorway, naked and dripping and smelling of lavender.
“I’ll find a new set,” Will said, dipping into the bathroom closet and returning with new linens. He changed the bedding as I tugged on one of his oversized Tshirts, and the two of us crawled into bed like a couple of teenagers; giddy and high on the soaring delight of our devilish secret.
We huddled against one another; arms wrapped around torsos; my head against his chest. As I began to doze off, uncertain if he was as affected by the drowsy sound of breath and street-clatter, I asked.
“Who is the girl in the photograph?”
He kissed my temple gently.
“I’ll tell you later,” he answered. “You should get some sleep.”
I fell asleep to the sound of rustling sheets, the ticking clock, the occasional yawn and stretch of limbs against the mattress. There was a cool air that sank over the room; a comforting chill that made the heat of Mr. Tennant’s touch that much more welcoming.
It was the first time I had ever shared a bed with anyone; and of all people, I was sharing it with my teacher.
I closed my eyes, and drifted into sleep. And in all truthfulness, I would have been more than alright with never seeing the dawn break. I would have been perfectly accepting of that night being my very last on Earth. In the arms of a man who I should have never even seen beyond the bounds of desks and homework scribblings.
Here he was, in my arms; in my arms, and etched somewhere deeper. Into my bones, my brain. Into the space that only months before I had sworn off existing: my heart.
That morning, I left before daybreak, careful not to wake Will. As I quietly dressed, I noted the ring still on my left hand, and smiling, slid it off.
Kneeling beside Mr. Tennant, I kissed his forehead and placed the ring on his pinky finger. He forever had a piece of me now.
I walked through the empty, harrowing space while trying to ignore the persistent pain that caused me to walk more carefully.
Marius was in the library, asleep at the desk, his head cushioned by his journal. When the door opened, he blinked and raised his head. His eyes fell.
“Where were you?” he asked, sitting up and glancing at the enormous clock that hung above the doorway. It was gilded in bronze. His hair seemed darker in the shadows, his face like white marble. I could see every outline, softened by the absence of the sun that was still catching up to the moon. “It’s barely four in the morning.”
My hair was still damp, the strands falling cold against my shoulders. Mr. Tennant’s cologne and the fading smell of herbs still lingered in the fibers of last night’s clothes. As I approached Marius, still sore and nearly stumbling, I knew that he was already aware. His eyes were on the marble floor; a swirling gray. He looked as if he were about to weep or send his fist through the window; a simultaneous sound of both choking and laughter fell from two barely-parted lips.
“Just say it,” he said, clenching both hands into fists. “Don’t waste my time standing here with that smug look on your face.”
I took his face in my hands, and kissed him on the forehead.
“I win,” I said gently. “The game is over.”
FOURTEEN
I kept the check in the second drawer of my dresser, right beneath a folded arrangement of tops that I very seldom wore. It was a small pocket of comfort, seeing the piece of paper neatly folded and tucked away safely. A reminder of my conquest that was not over Mr. William Tennant, but rather Marius.
Consequently, Marius wouldn’t speak to me. He spent his time locked up in his bedroom, blaring angry music until my father shouted for him to silence it. His choice of self-torture was both loud and mutilating; occasionally I would find him sitting with his face in his hands, wisps of hair stuck about in disarray, and I would wonder why he was behaving so dramatically. He would play the piano for hours upon hours - the same tune, the same drizzle of notes that I could only hear if I stepped out onto the balcony. The roses were particularly still; hanging with the beads of water from April’s ceaseless cascades of rainfall. May was fast approaching; sending a warning in the form of a constant collection of gray-cotton clouds.
I thought of all the things I could now do. I was excited beyond words over all the possibilities that were now at my fingertips. Obviously, at some point, I would have to confront my father about the fact that I wouldn’t be attending Yale in the fall; however, it was of little worry to me.
Marius had left to my dispense, scrawled in barely-legible handwriting, a check for an unspeakably obscene amount of money – six digits.
And yet, that was only half of the full amount that he had stashed away in his personal trust. Not counting the unfathomable amount that he would be making after leaving school behind and following his father’s footsteps up the same chain of wealth and hierarchy.
“Why only half?” he had asked. His eyes, that morning, were pink-rimmed and bloodshot. We were seated in the Great Room on opposing ends; he remained at the piano, fingers still on the keys. I was seated by the window, tapping a finger lazily against the glass.
“Because I don’t want all of it,” I answered. “I’m being generous. I’m leaving you something.”
“I don’t need it,” he answered bleakly. He refused to look at me.
Still, I smiled.
“You could thank me,” I suggested.
He didn’t, of course. Marius simply stormed out, slamming the doors behind him, and I stowed away the check until I could find a moment to take care of the financial matters discreetly, and without the adults taking notice. Thankfully, the trust was left to Marius from his father, whose only stipulation was that Marius be eighteen before being granted sole responsibility of the account. As it stood, with Marius having passed that single threshold, all potential risk of prying-eyes had been smoothly severed.
Still, direction only served as a loving companion in the throws of my chaotic disregard for all things moral; but again, the thoughts of potential consequence were only fleeting. Overthrown by fits of overwhelming joy at any prospect of being in the arms of my teacher, my paramour. My only regret or concern was how long it seemed to take for the hours to pass before I would be back in the classroom, watching Mr. Tennant write notes on the board and talk about all the things he knew that I had not yet learned; truly, his knowledge of things written in textbooks thick with scripture-thin pages was vast. Factoids of information, some of it useless, bubbled from him with an adoring intensity that we were all at once swept up in. Basking and bathing in the light that only served to highlight a tenderly moving hand or coy, quick grin.
In the theater, watching him read lines was a treat; he read each word with a furious passion and understanding; which was frustrating and fascinating. I longed, constantly, for the moments where I could catch a glance of him smiling in the direction of my desk or seat or passing spot in the hallway. Each minute without him dragged by sluggishly; an unbearable circumstantial request.
In the classroom, he wore the ring on a silver chain that hung around his neck. Always safely beneath his shirt, but the glimpse alone of the chain was enough to make me smile from my desk; reclined and watching him with a melting fondness.
I had never felt anything like this before. It was frightening and apocalyptic all at once. It was all enough to even bring Tyler to notice the gradual change in my disposition.
“You’re all googly-eyed,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “You’ve been spacing out like every five minutes. What are you staring at?”.
We were in the theater early, about fifteen minutes before practice started. While Tyler and I were sitting in the far-back, I found myself glancing Mr. Tennant each time he cut a look down at his tattered copy of Romeo and Juliet. Will busied himself on stage with the props, occasionally fiddling with something and knocking it over.
I giggled. Tyler looked up at me, eyebrows raised, visibly perplexed.
“Are you n
ot impressed with the stage props?” I offered, pointing a finger at the erected castle that was situated right in front of the curtain. “We’ve really outdone ourselves.”
“Yeah,” Tyler said, shrugging. “But that’s not what you were looking at.”
“Excuse me?”
“Mr. Tennant,” he said, though it came out softly; the name crackled like carbonated liquid. “You’re staring at him.”
My mouth went dry. On the stage, Mr. Tennant was preoccupied with kicking a mannequin’s head around; dropping it into the orchestra pit with a loud clatter. More chuckles resulted; trickling in from a few girls that had popped in to steal a passing look. A quick glance at Will.
“Everyone stares at Mr. Tennant,” I said quietly. That sufficed to shut him up.
Marius was on stage first, reenacting the scene where Marius feuds with Mercutio in the streets of fair Verona. After succeeding in taking Mercutio (a lanky, auburn-haired actor named Scott) down in less than a minute flat, Marius suggested that Will try his hand.
He tossed him a sword, and the sound of metal against metal was immediate.
Mr. Tennant won, sending him spiraling into a prop that proceeded to fall backward with a resounding crash. Marius’ face twisted into something humiliated. When he stepped down from the stage, Will called Tyler and I up to run the masquerade scene yet again; but when he attempted to start the line where Romeo first sets sights on Juliet, Mr. Tennant interjected.
“Might I offer a pointer?” he asked. Naturally, Tyler nodded his head. “Have a watch and then follow.”
Mr. Tennant then stepped to the left, instructing Tyler and I to dance as he ran the line.
Did my heart love til’ now? Foreswear it, sight! For I ne’er saw true beauty til’ this night.
I could already hear the audible swoons from the audience; sighs and chairs creaking as a few of the girls – simple watchers, not players – leaned forward.
And I, hidden in the shrouds of dim stage-light, suppressed a sigh; leaning in and feeling as Tyler’s heart quickened, his hands tightening around my waist.