Midnight Rain

by Jettie Woodruff

  “I’ll be down in a minute, I have to get rid of this first,” he said, speaking sultry words to my lips. His fingers slid slowly up my slit while he retreated. I spun quickly out of his arms and got the hell away from him. Jesus, God. This fire needed to be put out. Fast.

  I sat up front with Blake and Grace rode the in backseat with Pea, talking a million miles a minute. She told her all about our month long adventure, including doing number twos in the woods. My face turned red when she ratted me out for doing it too. She only giggled when I told her she had a big mouth. My fingers touched Blake’s between the seats and our eyes constantly met. Thank God Grace picked up on it too.

  We were no sooner inside when Grace announced that she was taking Pea over to her friend Pat’s house. They were building a float for a daisy parade, whatever that was. Pea was over the top excited when Grace told her she could ride on it in the parade. That made Pea’s entire summer.

  “You’re leaving? We just got here,” I complained.

  Grace pulled me into the kitchen when Blake and Pea carried our things to the two spare bedrooms. “Didn’t you two spend the night together last night?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “The tension between you two is ridiculous.”

  “Is it that noticeable?” I smiled. “We didn’t do that. I sort of had a meltdown instead. A lot things surfaced over the last couple of days.”

  “We’ll talk about that later, go take care of my son; we’ll be back around seven. I have a movie and homemade pizza planned for us.” Grace smiled a broad smile and hugged me tight. “I’m so glad you’re here and I hope you decide to stay. It’s perfect if you think about it, all of Blake’s family is right here in Nashville.”

  “I know, but Pea has family in New York too. I want her to know them.”

  “Yeah, we need to talk about that over wine. I knew it. I knew that wretched woman couldn’t be Pea’s mom.”

  “Oh my God, right?”

  Blake stood by the hall and I stood by the door, bidding his mom and Pea goodbye.

  “You get your ass in here. Right this second,” Blake ordered, pointing to the floor. Holy shit. He was already hard.

  I narrowed my eyes and tossed my shirt over my head, “You think you’re in control here?” I asked, popping the button on my shorts. I took a step toward him.

  “My mouth’s watering.”

  “Is it?” I asked sliding down the zipper and folding the two flaps. I watched his eyes move to the trimmed hair, just above the black silk.

  “Yes. You can be in control. I think I like you in control.”

  Shit. I was doing amazing until he said that. I went from confident to coward in two point three seconds. This is what I mean by this being special. Blake sensed the sudden uneasiness and took me in his arms. Damn. I wanted to go all the way. I wanted to stand in front of him and take off my clothes while I seductively made my way to him.

  With one snap my bra was in his hands. Our lips stayed attached while he walked backwards toward our room. I barely remember getting naked. I’m pretty sure my thumbs removed my shorts while Blake backed me up on the bed with his lips. I remember looking down to his erection being released and spreading my legs. My eyes rolled behind my eyelids when he forced himself deep and hard inside of me. Something between a grunt and an erotic moan escaped from my mouth to his. Our bodies and minds became one, our hips kept perfect rhythm, and our tongues devoted.

  “Oh, fuck, baby,” Blake moaned, sliding slowly in and out of me.

  “Go faster,” I panted, turning my head to keep him from looking at me. I swear I felt him grow harder. His lips went to my neck and his hands grabbed my ass. Oh hell. Oh shit. The new angle and pressure thrusting hard on my nub was all it took. It started in my curled toes and traveled up my legs, straight to my overzealous pearl. My nails dragged down his back as I was brought higher and higher to ecstasy. Once I peaked, there was no going back. Blake thrust deep and fast, in and out. Waves of ecstasy rippled through my body. My walls constricted around him until he thrust one more time. The mixture of our orgasms exploded around us. The erotic sounds, and the way our bodies molded into one, intensified the feelings I was afraid to have.

  “I love you,” Blake panted, coming down in my hair.

  “I love you too, Blake,” I replied. I did love Blake. I loved Blake so much my heart hurt.

  “Come on. Let’s go take a shower,” he said, pulling me to my feet.

  “Together?”

  “Yes. Together. Come on.”

  Blake didn’t give me a choice. I watched his naked ass walk down the hall to the bathroom. This was hard for me too. I wasn’t comfortable walking around naked in front of Blake. I didn’t know if I ever would be.

  I stood in front of Blake, facing the front. The hot water rained down, straightening my hair with wet weight.

  “I’ve never seen it like that before,” I admitted, speaking to the gray tile.

  “Like what?”

  “You know. When it wasn’t hard.”

  I felt the laugh on my back from his chest, “You mean soft?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Turn around.”

  “No. I can’t.”

  “Yes you can. Turn around.” I just had to go and speak out loud. Blake turned my shoulders and kissed my lips, “Look down.”

  I giggled, “I can’t now. You made it too awkward.”

  “Okay, I’ll look if you do.”

  I snickered again, God, I loved him. “I’m sure you will.”

  “Look down.”

  I placed my hands on my hips and looked down, “It’s not cute,” I said with a shake of my head.

  “It’s not supposed to be cute. It’s manly.”

  “It’s ugly.”

  “It is not. You didn’t think it was ugly five minutes ago.”

  “Yeah but it wasn’t just hanging out with your balls like that.”

  “You can’t call my dick ugly.”

  “It is.”

  “Take it back.”

  “I want to feel it.”

  “Go for it,” Blake said with a smirk. He flattened his hands on the walls and pressed his hips toward me. His lips kissed the tip of my nose and he thrust his hips again.

  “Their squishy.”

  “You’re hell on my ego.”

  Laughing I picked up the soft member and stroked it with my hand. I felt my own arousal return when it twitched and grew with every stroke. Oh boy. Now what did I do? I wasn’t even thinking about shower sex. I just wanted to see what it looked like when it wasn’t roused. Our lips once again met and we both reacted to the physical attraction between us.

  I thought my legs were going to give out when Blake dropped to his knees and pressed his tongue between my legs. They parted on their own, I was okay with that part, it was the next request I had an issue with. Blake placed one of my legs over his shoulder and sucked hard on my nub. I was even okay with that, it wasn’t until the next part that I protested.

  “Put your other leg over, I’ll walk you up the wall.”

  “No way.”

  “Do it,” he ordered, shoving my back to the shower wall. I squealed a little when he moved my leg and stood. I was riding his shoulders with his face in my crotch My legs locked and my hands went flat on both sides, the same way Blake’s had. I rode his face, thrashing my hips into his tormenting mouth more with every passing second. I couldn’t help it. I’d be embarrassed later. Within minutes, both my hands grasped wet hair and rode out the wave on his face. I hadn’t even come down yet when Blake slid me down his wet body and entered me again. I wanted to do this for the rest of my life. Well, not this one, but if I was going to have a long life like most people, I could have. Blake made love to me until we were both spent.

  “I don’t think it’s ugly. I really do think it’s cute.”

  Blake sputtered water on my lips like a motor boat while my legs dropped from his waist. “Can we just not think about what it looks like? I don’t want it
to be cute.”

  “Okay, sorry we won’t talk about how cute I think your penis is.”

  “Do you know what else would be cute?”

  “What’s that?” I asked, falling into his naked body. My arms went around his neck and he pulled me tight.

  “My hand print across your ass.”

  “Hmm, Fifty Shades Of Grey style? I might like that.”

  “Jesus, stop it. I can’t perform again yet.”

  I laughed and stepped away. I don’t know if it was the fact that I just rode Blake’s face while he stood holding me against the wall with his mouth or what. But something changed that day. The shyness about being naked in front of him was instantly gone. I couldn’t be behind a closed door after that day without taking off my clothes. I never wanted to wear clothes around Blake.

  Those next couple weeks were the best days of my entire life. I didn’t think about anything. I lived in the now, not the past, not the present. I fell harder and harder in love with Blake, and he did the same. I know for a fact he did. I don’t know if we went two minutes without touching. Pea quit asking about us holding hands or kissing by the third day there. It was constant. She’d be commenting about it a thousand times a day. I sat in his lap, my hand was constantly in his, and my lips felt lonely when they didn’t touch his for very long. I couldn’t get enough.

  I even let myself think about seeing a doctor. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Maybe it hadn’t spread anywhere.

  Blake plopped to the bed and raised my shirt, “What’s on your mind, love?” he asked, kissing my belly. I smiled down at him and pulled my hand from behind my head. Running my fingers through his hair, I felt sad. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Tell me more about Janie.”

  “I was thinking we’d do something else,” he teased, pulling on the satin string holding up my cotton pants.

  “I can’t, it’s that time of month, I told you that this morning. Tell me more about Janie. Did she help you? Did you play in the spring concert?”

  Blake took a deep breath and sat up. I don’t know if the defeated breath was from the fact that he wasn’t getting laid, or my request to hear more about his life with my sister.

  “Come here,” he said, leaning against the padded headboard. I moved between his legs and leaned against his chest. Our naked legs entwined and our fingers merged. I loved laying like this. I loved it even more when Pea was between my legs and we were reading together.

  “Did she help you? Did she make you practice more?”

  “She didn’t have to. I wanted to practice to be with her, I wanted to practice at home to impress her, and I wanted to be on that stage with her come spring.”

  “Were you?”

  “Do you want to play fifty questions or hear the story?”

  With a tender kiss to the side of my head, I chose the story.

  ***

  June 25th 2001

  My eyes never left her. She hung on every word my father said, and I hung on to every word, every move, every blink, and every sound her fingers made on the piano. That was her first day of class with my dad. For four straight hours we listened to my father talk to us about Beethoven and some musical joke. I wasn’t really paying attention. Not until my dad called me out, and made me look like a douche.

  “Dedicated to a love interest…?” he questioned, pulling the imaginary guns from his pockets and shooting them right at me.

  “Huh?” I said, shaking my head. The class laughed. All but one. Janie was glaring daggers at me. What the hell?

  “The Moonlight Sonata,” he answered for me and continued with his lecture, not missing a beat.

  I stuck around after practice, hoping to get a minute alone with her before her mom picked her up. All twenty students gathered their things and walked out with my father. Everyone but her. I slowly kicked my feet, pretending to walk through the row of seats to the double doors too. Janie walked up the steps toward the stage in the opposite direction. I turned to see her sit at the piano and place her fingers delicately on the keys. I sat when three notes fell from her fingers.

  “You think this is a joke?” she asked, keeping her hands on the keys and her eyes straight ahead.

  Although I knew she was talking to me, I still looked around the room. “Excuse me?” I questioned with my thumb on my chest.

  “This is important to me. This is a dream. I don’t want you to screw it up.”

  “I won’t.”

  “You will. You don’t feel this like I do. I can tell.”

  “Yes I do.”

  “Do you?” she asked turning to stare me down.

  “Yes.”

  “You know nothing about Beethoven, do you? What about Mozart? Do you know anything about him?”

  “I know enough.”

  “I don’t think you do. Don’t you think an artist should know Picasso’s work? An architect should know who Frank Lloyd Wright is? And a composer should know everything there is to know about the geniuses who can teach you? I believe that with everything in me, Blake,” she explained in a pleading tone. I got it loud and clear. She was right, this meant more to her than me, and I couldn’t ruin it for her.

  “Tell me.”

  “What?”

  “Tell me about Beethoven.”

  “There’s a lot to tell.”

  “I’ve got time.” I did have time. I had the rest of my life and I would stare into those eyes for the rest of my life.

  “What do you know about him?”

  “Um.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “Just give me one fact.”

  “Why? You don’t even care.”

  “I do. I want to know. Come on. Tell me,” I begged from three rows back. Even at the age of twelve, I knew Janie belonged on that stage. She fit like a ball did in an old glove.

  “He was a hateful man, always feuding with his family and colleagues. Did you know that?”

  “No.”

  “Did you know he was sick? He had a variety of ailments and diseases.”

  “He did?”

  “Yes, I think it made him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It depicts his struggle, followed by his triumph. It’s so sad and emotional.”

  “Isn’t your mom here to pick you up yet?”

  “No. My dad talked to your dad. He said it was okay if I stayed and practiced for another hour. You should probably do that too. I only have a month to ship you into shape.”

  “You know my dad would never make you leave because of me, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, I know, but I still like to keep my word.”

  I learned everything there was to learn about Beethoven after that day, and Janie was right. It did make a difference in the way I played. I couldn’t wait until Wednesday’s practice to tell her what I learned. Beethoven’s life wasn’t what you would call a warm bowl of pudding. He had a hard life and was completely deaf by the age of twenty eight. It didn’t stop him though, he prevailed and continued to write some of history’s most amazing compositions. Even my dad commented on my unrequested practicing. I wasn’t doing it for him; I was doing it for her, for Janie.

  Janie and I quickly became best friends, always on the phone or hanging out at each other’s house. To practice of course. I did learn to love the piano more, and I did become what people would call an artist, but something else caught my eye, something I had never been around. Janie came from money and Barry Holden became my role model. I wanted to be him. I wanted a penthouse on top of the world, the vacation home in Staten Island, the lavish cars and vacations. And I wanted it all with Janie Lynn Holden.

  Janie and I did play in the spring concert that year, but we got into a lot of trouble for it. She was always getting me in trouble, making me do things I didn’t want to do. We practiced for ten straight months, and my father was more than happy when he heard the composition duo we wanted to perform. Our parents sat in the front row one night after eating at a
New York steak house a few blocks away. This was our one and only chance to convince my father to let us perform our own song.

  Needless to say, I felt it. The emotional tension filling the stadium was thick. Janie and I faced each other and played our hearts out. Her eyes closed with certain parts, but mine never left hers. There was some sort of surreal cosmic union when Janie and I played. It was magnificent. Brilliant.

  When we both hit the feather-pinky note, her in C, me in F, she smiled at me. This wasn’t just any smile. This was something that we shared together. The beautiful notes coming from her fingers, dancing in the acoustic room was galactic. Janie stood first, wearing the same toothy smile and reached for my hand; I stood and joined her in the middle of the stage. She took my hand and we bowed to the standing ovation. My dad clapped louder than I ever heard him clap before and both our mothers wiped away tears. I never felt anything like it in all my life. I got it. Standing right there, performing for our parents, I got it. I knew why Janie wanted it so bad.

  “Yes, Yes! You two have a spot. If you can play that song, just like that, you can play in the spring concert,” my father called, boasting with pride. All these years of trying to make me spring-concert ready and all it took was a girl. Not just any girl. Janie Lynn Holden.

  “This was my very first concert,” Janie said, squeezing my hand. It was mine too, and I wanted to do it again—with her.

  The following Monday after practice was when I realized how much trouble this girl was. As soon as class was dismissed and my father was in his office, she cornered me.

  “Do you know who Mily Balakirev is?” Janie asked, sitting beside me on the bench. Great. More research.

  “Is this a trick question?”

  “No, he was a Russian composer.”

  “Oh, I know this one. It’s— don’t tell me. I’ve got this,” my mind searched for the class my father taught about the Russian composer. It right on the tip of my tongue, something about a fantasy. “Fantasy—”

  “Close, Oriental Fantasy. Let’s play that in the spring concert.”

  “You’re crazy. If my recollections are correct, that song is one of the top five hardest songs to play.”