"Did you kill them in court?" Court? Court? What court?
Oh yeah.
I finally—finally!—remembered my swagger. Glory and hallelujah. "Yeah, pretty much. I killed it." I managed a grin. He looked at me with a question in his eyes.
"Good. As I suspected. Do you surf?"
"Nope. Just watch surfers." Okay, so now I was blatantly flirting. His grin grew, if that was even possible.
"Any in particular?"
I nodded, straight-faced, pretending to be very serious. "Only one, really."
God, I wanted to jump his bones. I think I was drooling, or at least licking my lips, at the abs that were not eighteen inches from my tongue. Even though I felt embarrassed by my boldness in flirting, I could not help myself. It was thrilling to feel emotions. I’d never been more attracted to a person in my life. And apparently the feeling was mutual, given his boner in the coffee shop.
He looked at me thoughtfully, then his eyes blazed with intensity.
"Now you know another passion of mine," he said in his low voice. "So what's your passion?"
All I could think about was that it was probably residing in his pants. Before I could help myself, I blurted, "I don't know, but I'd like you to help me find out."
Horrified, I realized that I had taken the flirting too far—at least for me—and I needed to escape. I’d never been this obvious to a man, ever, in my life.
At the same time, it was kind of fun and liberating.
I pressed the ignition and shifted the car into reverse, and made to drive away, my foot still on the brake, my only instinct to flee. As I did, Ryan leaned over the door before I could get away, and said, "I will." Then he leaned in and kissed me hard, straight on the mouth.
I was shocked. Like, literally, he shocked me with his lips and I felt static electricity pulsing from my mouth, then down my neck and into my belly. His lips were cold from the ocean and he smelled like salt and the sea, but oh, so good, then I groaned and opened my mouth, and he slid his tongue in next to mine. Now that was hot. I couldn't help myself, but with my foot on the brake, the car parked, my engine roaring, I started exploring the inside of his mouth with my tongue, and it was very warm and inviting there.
My brain then, finally, caught up with my body and realized that I was kissing Ryan from the coffee shop. He was kissing me. We were kissing. Yum.
I couldn't process.
I also didn't want to stop.
After an eon or so—or maybe it was a nanosecond, I couldn’t tell time these days since I didn't wear a watch anymore—he closed his mouth, gave me a last closed mouth kiss and stood up, arms straight on the car door. I pulled back, stunned, and looked at him, my lips sensitive and full. Yeah, that was the best kiss I had ever received. Hands down. No question. Best kiss ever.
And I may have had burrito breath, but he didn't seem to care.
"You're beautiful," I blurted. Then my cheeks reddened, and I flushed like it was the hottest day of the year. It was also hard to ignore the throbbing throughout my body that settled in my nether region. He stepped back and looked at me softly, an eyebrow cocked up.
I decided that this was way too much to process right now. Too much. After being numb for so long, feeling flooded with sensation was overwhelming, and I needed to get away to process.
Although a part of me thought that grabbing him seemed like a good idea, instead, I let my foot off the brake and on to the gas, backing up. Thank all that's holy that I didn't run over his foot.
Once I put the car in drive and the coast was clear, I floored it. As I pulled out of the parking lot, I could see him in my rear view mirror, still looking at me as I drove away.
I was not sure why I left so fast. Just that it was so strange to feel … anything. And to want to feel more. I thought this was a good thing. So, why did I feel the need to escape even when I knew I’d be back for more? And why was I so struck by him?
I didn't believe in this fairy tale romance nonsense. I was an educated, enlightened woman, and I did not need a man. I had a job, a house, a car, and a life. I did not need anyone.
So why did he affect me so much?
Good Catholic Girl
FOLLOWING MY COURT appearance and kiss with Ryan, I drove along the beach back to work. The life of a lawyer sucked sometimes. Actually, it sucked most of the time. No wonder I had been clueless when Ryan asked me about passion. I wouldn't know what passion was if it sent me a text. Nevertheless, once I got to the office, I focused, and I managed to get more trial preparation done; I felt confident that we would be ready for the following week.
After wolfing down some pretzels in the breakroom at work for dinner, I finally stumbled into my house at eleven o'clock that night. My house welcomed me, as it always did. I lived in a tiny, adorable adobe with two bedrooms and one mint green vintage bath. Even though it was small, it had cost a fortune because of where it was located: in the tony hills of S.B. Like most of the area, my house had classic white stucco exterior walls, window trim painted turquoise green, and a red tile roof. It also had a small, but cute yard, which the gardener certainly kept in order. But I was never around to enjoy it.
Inside, I had decorated my comfortable living room with dark brown leather couches, and cushy twill armchairs—that I never sat in because I worked all day. My galley kitchen boasted small high-end appliances—that I never used because I lived in my office, and ate out all the time. At night, I slept in a luxurious bed—that I had shared for only part of one night, for the last year and then some.
Yeah.
No wonder I was depressed.
When I walked in, though, it felt good to be home. All day, I had ignored the throbbing between my legs, which had been steadily increasing. Even though I was working, I kept having daydreams about Ryan and his kiss. And his abs. And his tented pants. All. Day. Long.
Dammit.
I felt so sexually frustrated. Okay, I’d been sexually frustrated for a very long time. At least I admitted it now. Today, Ryan certainly brought it to a head. But I didn’t know what to do.
Frankly, I was tempted to take care of it myself. I never did. That was against the Rules.
Okay, so about my Rules. I hadn’t told my therapist about them yet and I realize that they were, well, prudish. They were arbitrary, too. I didn't care. I came up with my Rules to keep my feminism and my dignity and my badassery and I was not about to change them. I had sex. On my terms.
At least that was what I had told myself when I came up with my Rules.
Okay, so I came up with my Rules in high school when I still thought that French kissing was gross. After reading a million teenage magazines, guide books, and warnings about abstinence, rape, pregnancy, diseases, and heartbreak, I’d believed that making clear boundaries about what I would and would not do with my body would establish, firmly, that I was in charge. At that time, admittedly, it was probably a good idea. A teenage girl needs to take it slowly—the scary dangers discussed in the magazine articles were real. Every woman needed to learn how to own her own body and deal with the emotions that sex introduced into her life. I wasn't sure, however, whether I had developed sexually since high school. Truthfully? Probably not.
Further, at the time that I established them, I had no role models and no one to talk to about my Rules. No one had ever talked to me about sex. I mean, yeah, I had sex education in school, but I didn’t have anyone to talk to about it for real. Not my mom. Not my dad. I was an only child. And while I gossiped about sex with my friends, none of us really had any idea what we were talking about, since none of us had done it. I had no feminine mentor to guide me through sexual development. And after I developed my list, the Rules became ingrained in me and I kept them throughout everything that happened to me.
Of course I had some very strong hormones that led me to lose my virginity when I became legal. Um, yeah, lawyer. I had no rule against premarital sex; it just had to be missionary. None of the guys in college seemed to mind.
Or hi
m. But I didn't want to think about him.
So there. Yes, I had sex. But I’d never been too creative with it, or allowed any guy to be too creative with me. Like at all creative. Like not even oral sex creative. Which I admit was not really pushing the bounds of sexual creativity at all.
Okay, it's totally fucked up.
But the thing was, I knew now that I’d outgrown the reasons for the Rules, and I’d just been too stubborn to change them. I was fully aware that at my age, there was no logical reason for them. And I knew, if I thought about it, that there was more going on with my Rules than I admitted to myself: fear; guilt; a need to keep myself safe and protected; a need not to be vulnerable with anyone; a need to not trust anyone. I had talked about these things with my therapist, weekly, in other contexts. If I didn't let anyone in, sexually or otherwise, then I couldn't get hurt.
The thing was, this wasn't true. I had been hurt, and hurt badly, even with my Rules.
Maybe I really didn't know anything at all about it, even though I thought I did. It was likely that I didn't even know what good sex was.
But today, this feeling between my legs and in my brain—I couldn't ignore it.
Sure, previously, I'd tried masturbating and it never got me anywhere. The combination of the guilt—even if I didn’t acknowledge it—and the belief that I couldn't show any interest in anything sexual made me not even go there.
Right now, though, I was suffering. I was really suffering and I needed a release. More than I ever had. Those damn antidepressants just couldn't rule me like this. It had been a year since I’d come. At least. I could do this. I had to get me some, somehow, some way. Even if I gave it to myself.
A decision made, then.
I just stood there, in my house, staring without seeing, and then, as if an invisible force was propelling me forward, I headed straight for my bedroom and crashed into my bed, all in. If I could have sex with men, with or without guilt, I could have sex with myself, and guilt had nothing to do with it. I'd invented my own new brand of feminism.
Fuck the guilt. Fuck the denial of pleasure. Fuck the idea that I couldn't be openly sexual. Fuck it all. I didn't know about crossing all of the Rules off of my list, but I sure as hell was going to cross one off. Tonight.
Not bothering to take off my clothes or high heels, I stroked my hands inside my clothes, along my skin, down my body, noting my fleshy curves. Yep. All me.
Those breasts? All me. That little pouch on my belly? All me.
I noticed that my skin was very soft.
I’d never noticed how soft before.
I kept going, uncertainly touching my pubic hair. Idly, I wondered if I should remove it and be bare. That wasn’t something I'd ever considered, but now it seemed to be in the way.
Wait. Focus. Masturbation. Yeah, what a word. Almost as good as manflesh. Or mansmell.
Focus, Amelia.
My last thought was, oh hell, I'm going in.
With a tentative graze, I touched myself, realizing that I was all wet, and had been all wet all day. My panties were soaked. For Ryan.
But also just for me.
My sexuality mattered.
I pressed into the flesh at the front of my pubic bone instinctively, because it felt good there. I could feel a vein throbbing. I stopped stroking, and let go for a moment, and then realized that it would feel better if I kept going than if I stopped. Huh. Maybe this was where my cute, little orgasm had been hiding. Not with my antidepressants or with Paul the accountant, but with me, with my desire.
I’d never felt such desire before. Of course there were hormones coursing through my body when I lost my virginity. And I certainly felt something for him. Ugh, him. But when my depression entered, my desire left, and my orgasm was nowhere to be seen.
Now, I desired Ryan. The Sun God of my dreams. Mr. Passion.
I reached down further and explored. I could just see his eyes and freckles. His golden skin. Those abs. The V.
The V did it. Sexy fucking body. That kiss. Cool skin and hot mouth. I started to pant. Oh my God, I made myself pant.
I felt like I deserved a trophy for panting.
Setting aside an errant thought of my repressed past—why oh why did I think of things at times like this?—I stroked and caressed, pressing my folds, moving my fingers wherever it felt good.
After a bit, I added the fingers from my other hand. One hand had a finger inside while the other parted my skin and rubbed my clit, faster and faster.
Because I was so sensitive and desperate from being distracted by thoughts of Ryan all day, I got a little wetter, I could smell myself, my muscles got a little tighter, my world closed in so that it was nothing but my own pleasure, and lo and behold, the dawn of an orgasm arrived. I could tell: my body started to tense, I clenched my muscles, it felt oh-so-good, and I stroked and I stroked, and then, finally, finally, the shuddering, the release, which I had not felt for so long, and my brain was bathed in pleasure, my body quivering and happy.
Ta-da!
Now I really wanted a trophy. The orgasm was good, although not earth shattering, but I was almost in tears because my body still worked.
I was alive!
The Prozac hadn’t stolen my orgasm.
Or if it had, I’d stolen it back.
Still, funnily enough, it surprised me and took me over so quickly that I stopped stroking, and then realized, again, with some embarrassment, to myself that only I would notice, that I had to keep going. So I did. I felt my sex convulse and contract. That felt very good. Frankly, it also felt naughty. I could get over that.
Maybe.
Okay, so I looked around as if someone was going to catch me. I’d finally broken a Rule.
But wow. I should’ve done this a long time ago. I could almost feel the power of the release in my brain. The good hormones, or whatever the fuck it was that got released when you had an orgasm, were bathing my brain with the good shit, and I felt relaxed. Sated. Whole. Hmmm. The fucking antidepressants didn't own me.
I wondered how many other Rules I should break?
So I knew that it was late and that I should go to sleep, but I needed to figure out where I knew Ryan from. He clearly seemed to know me. Had I met him at Harvard? If so, what was he doing managing a coffee shop? I didn't mean to be a snob, but still.
Yeah, I was a snob. Deal with it.
Maybe he was a friend of my parents? No. A friend of a friend? No. I have friends, but not that many. And I would remember him. So did I know him from childhood? I had no idea. I grew up around here. Maybe he went to Waterford High?
After I cleaned up and put on my pajamas, I went to my bookshelf and pulled out my high school yearbooks. I started with my freshman yearbook and went through the names, looking for all the Ryans. I found a few but they weren’t him. I looked in the sections for sophomores, juniors, and seniors. While there were some Ryans, I didn't see him.
Maybe he was younger than me. It could be hard to tell. I pulled out another book. And another. Finally, I got to my senior year.
Now I was completely distracted. It was way past midnight, after I had been working crazy hours, and I was reading things that people had written to me more than a decade before. My back was tired from sitting on the floor, surrounded by yearbooks, and I was remembering people and pictures and events from a long time ago. There were a lot of memories in those yearbooks. Yeah, I was the bomb in high school.
I wondered what I was now.
Finally, I paged to the freshman section of my senior year and there he was: Ryan Kyle Fielding. He looked little and sweet, with big eyes, a tan, and surfer hair, even at that age. He was adorable. But I didn’t remember him. I wondered why he remembered me. On that thought, I crawled into bed, hoping to sleep some before I had to get up early, and start being a lawyer again.
THE INSTITUTIONAL FLUORESCENT lights overhead sped by as I was pushed down the bright, white hospital corridor, strapped to the gurney.
One light. Two lights. Thr
ee lights.
I stopped counting as I looked up at the nurses' faces as they rushed me to the operating room. Two women and a man, moving me down the hall. There was a rail along the walls, for protection.
I couldn't even walk.
They wheeled me into the operating room with an enormous light—high powered wattage, illuminating everything.
I’d never seen a light so big.
I was prepped for surgery. They gave me a shot in my arm. I didn't know what it was. They added something to my IV. I didn't know what that was either.
The anesthesiologist said that it was morphine and that I would soon start to feel it.
I did.
The anesthesiologist asked me if I could feel my belly.
What belly?
No, I couldn't.
Then it all went black and I couldn’t see any more lights.
And then I woke up in my room, sweating.
Another fucking nightmare.
Homework
MY PHONE VIBRATED WITH a text.
Staying sane?
My buddy Hugo had sent it. I met him at the mental hospital when I’d checked myself in. I loved the fact that I had a close friend from a mental hospital. It led to interesting answers to the question, "Where did you two meet?" We were the same age, and we clicked in therapy sessions, and while going through the program.
I found recovery from my suicidal ideations to be easier with a friend. We understood each other's issues and we understood that sometimes we just needed to talk with someone. So our friendship worked on a lot of levels. He was one of the few who knew all of my secrets.
A beautiful man, half Caucasian, half African-American, he had greenish eyes, dark skin, tattoos, and serious biceps. Time at the gym meant that he had a brawny body, which matched his rough-around-the-edges personality. He was also bisexual and extremely sexual, at all times, with essentially anyone attractive and available.
And he was a felon, which frankly made me laugh, because even though I was a lawyer, I was also prissy; I didn’t hang out with criminals, except him. His felony conviction stemmed from some marijuana charges that he got before he received his marijuana card. Well, that plus selling to an undercover police officer in San Diego. And some other, um, crimes. I liked to tease him about it. But we had a lot in common since he liked Harry Potter too. Well, specifically, he liked Lee Jordan's character, and told me about it in intricate, sexual detail. Perv.
The Sun and the Moon (Giving You ... Book 1) Page 3