Wolf Pack

by Bridget Essex

  I kiss Stevie. And Stevie kisses me back.

  Slowly she reaches up, wrapping her long fingers around my curves until her hands meet at the small of my back. She presses her palms there, her warm, comforting palms that radiate heat through the cloth of my shirt, into my skin.

  All of the deep pain that I have felt for seven years is pulsing through me, matching the rhythm of my blood, but it's battling the fact that I'm standing here, right now, and I'm kissing her. I'm kissing the woman that I couldn't push out of my thoughts, the woman who haunted me every day, every night. Every moment since she left. I never heard from her; she never tried to come for me, to find me. She left me alone.

  Still, I have never been able to stop thinking about her. I've never been able to stop wanting her.

  And she's here, now. And she's kissing me back.

  She wants me, too.

  And it is because of this, and because of all of my wants, all of my dreams, all of my deepest desires, rising like a tidal wave inside of my body, that I am powerless to hold back, to pull away, to insist upon an explanation, to make her explain.

  I press the front of my body against hers as she leans forward to meet me. She draws me to her, her hands tighter now against the small of my back. And as I tilt my head up, as I open my eyes take in her own eyes—close, so close to mine—I see the furrow in her brow. She's worried, conflicted, just as much as I am.

  No.

  For this moment, just this moment...I don't want to think about anything.

  There's no past, no future.

  All we have is here, now.

  I take a step back from her, panting. I am so vulnerable, so open to new, fresh wounds. If she rejects me, if she rejects me again... I swallow down my misgivings. It takes the most courage I have ever had to reach up with shaking fingers and undo the top button of my blouse.

  I watch her gaze travel down from my eyes to that opened button, to the curve of my clavicle, visible in the V of my shirt. I see her eyes drift over my skin, watch them ignite with sparks of desire.

  And that response from her is all that it takes for my shaking hands to stop shaking, for my fingers to progress to the second button, and the third. By the fourth, I'm undoing each button faster, boldly, my breath coming quicker. And by the time that the entire front of my blouse is open, Stevie is pressing against me again, pressing me back against the wall as she covers my mouth with her own, as her hot palms and fingers graze the skin of my stomach, as she pushes the blouse down over my shoulders. The shirt's sleeves pool around my wrists, and the light fabric drifts down to rest at my waist as I shiver against her, the sensuality of the cloth drifting over my skin, of the heat of her hands, enough to light a fire that roars through me.

  For seven years, I have dreamed of a moment like this. I have had dreams, memories, really, of how Stevie made me feel, how I felt when we were together. How she tasted, the sensation of her skin beneath my fingertips. The memory of her fingertips touching me. I have daydreamed about it so often that sometimes I wondered whether I was only half-living, whether I lived in my dreams rather than in my day-to-day life... Because my day-to-day life is miserable, fraught with confusion, pain, and regret.

  But here, now, I know I'm not dreaming, and it seems almost impossible as I reach forward, as I curl my fingers under the edge of Stevie's tank top. My fingertips rest against the searing heat of her skin... Searing. Why is she so hot? She's almost feverish...

  I chalk it up to the fact that we both want each other. That we both need each other. That this is so many years overdue.

  I inch up the fabric of Stevie's tank top so that I can grip her hips with my hands—just as she reaches up, passing the pad of her thumb over the skin of my breast, above the lace edge of my bra. It's tantalizing: just a sweet, soft touch, but there's such fire in her skin, in her fingertips, as she tugs the cup of the bra down, tugs it down with purpose. My breast comes free, and she presses the fabric of the bra beneath my breast. She leans down now, wasting no time, and she draws my nipple into her mouth in one smooth motion.

  Little explosions of light dance behind my eyes as I gasp out loud, as I rear back my head, arching my body against her, desperate for more connection, for more feeling as Stevie wraps her arm around my waist, drawing me ever closer to her as she flicks my nipple with her tongue, grazing her teeth over the edge of it. She looks up at me, her dark brown eyes glittering with desire, and then she bites down harder.

  Harder, harder...just hard enough that it's an exquisite, pleasurable bloom of softest pain, but nothing more than that. It's like she knows exactly what I want, somehow—but then...she does, doesn't she? There were so many times in the past that she made my body sing, playing it like an instrument that she knew, instinctively, almost better than her own body. She knows me, yes, she knows exactly what I like, and that's exactly what's she's doing to me right now.

  It's like no time has passed at all as I gasp against her, as she reaches for the button and zipper on my jeans and I close my eyes.

  We exist outside of time, no past or future, as her fingers undo that single button, brushing against the skin of my stomach. She holds my gaze as she slowly unzips the zipper, her fingers curling around the waistband of my jeans, curling strongly. She tugs the jeans down around my hips, then around my thighs, but she doesn't pull them off of me completely.

  And somehow that makes everything hotter: her fingers drift up and over my sex, my panties already completely soaked through.

  It's the eye contact, I think, panting as she holds my gaze, holds my gaze and rubs her thumb over my clit through the fabric of the panties. It's how completely sure she is, going through each motion like a well-rehearsed dance, devoid of nonsense or uncertainty, totally and completely sure as she teases me, dipping her head again, tasting my breast, tugging down the bra cup over my left breast and tasting that one, too, trailing wet kisses between them. My breasts strain up over the bunched up fabric of the bra, and I gasp a little as she reaches up, pinching the right one as she sucks and licks and bites the left.

  My center is aching, and the jeans are bunched up right at the top of my thighs, so when she steps forward, when she presses her thigh between my legs, it's delicious, that sensation, that pressure. I moan a little, trying to be quiet (how thin are these walls? The power-sawing stopped a little while ago).

  Stevie moves in gracefully, standing tall and kissing me hard. The pressure of her leg at my center is bold, but it's not enough, and she knows this, so she starts to rhythmically move against me, her strength the only thing holding me up now as my knees almost give out from the pleasure roaring through me as she moves against me, as I thrust my hips against her, desperate and wanting.

  She knows this, and she dips her head low again, pressing a kiss to my peaked right nipple, my hard nipple that she takes in her mouth again, licking gently now, as if to tease me. I sigh, biting my lip, trying to keep the moan inside of me as Stevie traces her fingers down the front of my stomach, down and under the waistband of my panties. Her fingers are curling up as her palm presses against my skin, and then she finds out exactly how wet I am.

  She smiles against my breast, and I can feel that smile, and then she's lifting her head, kissing me deeply, thrusting her tongue into my mouth as I gasp out. She curves her fingers into me as she kisses me.

  God, it's so good, but there are no words for this moment, so my body does all of the talking. I'm thrusting my hips against her thigh, against her hand, and I'm riding her as much as I'm able, my knees weak, waves of pleasure and want already rocketing through me. Seven years have come and gone, and it's been awhile since my last one-night stand, so maybe I'm a little rusty... Maybe my leg muscles just aren't strong enough for this sort of thing. But it doesn't matter, because Stevie knows, of course she knows, and her other arm curls around my waist again, but this time with enough firmness, with enough strength, to hold me up.

  I press the flat of my left foot against the floor as hard as I can, and
then I wrap my right leg around her waist, spreading my legs further for her, wider, but not wide enough. That “not enough” feeling is delicious as my legs strain against the pooled fabric of the jeans, as Stevie moves in, slipping a third finger inside of me now as she straightens a little, holding my gaze again with those wildly beautiful brown eyes.

  They flash with flecks of gold as she holds me tightly, as her eyes narrow with desire, as she she pumps her fingers into me harder, faster. I want to look away—God, this is too vulnerable, locking eyes with someone I once loved so much...who left me so long ago, scarring me irrevocably. To be this open to her again, this deeply exposed, makes my heart ache.

  But I know, know as she touches me, as she reaches deep inside of me and finds the perfect pleasure that has eluded me all of these years (no one could ever compare to Stevie), that I never really stopped loving her. God, I wanted to. I wanted to let her go, the person who had hurt me the most in my life.

  But I never could.

  I'm filled with that love, rising inside of me, as she holds my gaze, as I see into the very deepest parts of her. Her mouth opens slightly, and her wet lips open, and her breathing begins to come harder.

  She wants me to come. That desire, that want, that need inside of her rockets through me, and I find pleasure rising in me so quickly, so triumphantly, that I have to throw my head back. I'm seeing stars.

  The orgasm crests as quickly as a tidal wave, rushing through me. Every atom I possess feels the power and the pleasure of it as my body moves against Stevie, as I wrap my arms around her, moaning out, feeling somehow, in that moment, that the two of us aren't two anymore... We're moving together. As one.

  Stevie keeps massaging her thumb against my clit, keeps slowly moving her fingers in and out of me, drawing out the orgasm, drawing it out to the very last note my body can feel before it's just too much. Then, and only then, does she withdraw her fingers as I tremble against her. She traces a wet line, gliding her fingertips over my skin, until she's curling her hand around my hip again, then wrapping both of her arms around me, drawing me as close as I'm holding her. The two of us are wrapped up in one another now, my leg still hooked around her middle.

  We're merged, Stevie and me.

  As much as the orgasm was good, bone-deep incredible, I find myself wanting her again within a few heartbeats. Maybe it's the scent of her, as I bury my nose in her hair, the wildness that I can still smell on her skin, the deep, woody scent of the forest. She smells just like she used to, and that is the most comforting scent in the world to me. But it's also the one that makes me want the most.

  I draw my leg down, and then I'm standing on my own two feet again as Stevie eases out from between my legs, straightening and shifting her weight to back in her heels. Her eyes are glinting with happiness as she smiles down at me, but then I'm tugging at the waistband of her tank top, drawing it up over her muscled stomach.

  My God, when did she start working out? I mean, it was obvious when I saw her biceps that she was more muscled than she used to be, but as I pull up her tank top, I stare at the chiseled six-pack that the Stevie I knew never had...

  And I stop.

  “What...” I whisper, taking in her shape, her skin.

  There's a long, angry, puckered white scar that traces down from the top left side of her abs, all the way down and disappearing beneath the band of her pants.

  I don't know why, but in that moment I remember the last time I saw Stevie. I remember the blood beneath her jeans, the cut in the denim...

  Did this scar happen that day?

  “Stevie, what is this?” I whisper, looking up at her. Her eyes have lost the glittering sparks of desire: they're dark now, dark with pain as she reaches up, rolling down her tank top again to cover her stomach.

  She turns away from me, and I suddenly feel cold.

  I pull my pants up over my bottom again, doing up the button and zipping the zipper with shaking hands. I suddenly feel very self-conscious as I pull up the cups of my bra, drawing the fabric of my shirt down, folding my arms in front of me.

  “Stevie, what happened to you?” I whisper, my voice shaking. “It looks like you were ripped in half.”

  Because it does. I've seen scars before. I have a pretty rotten one from a bike-riding accident when I was twelve, when I ripped my calf open going over a pretty rocky path near the trailer park on an old bike that really couldn't handle it. I needed twenty-five stitches that day, and the skin is as white as snow where the wound healed.

  But this scar... This scar looks like the result of an enormous, jagged cut. Like Stevie was ripped open by...something, and then her skin tried to heal as best as it could. But you can't ever perfectly heal something so torn apart.

  For a long moment, I feel the chasm yawning between us again, the chasm of silence that drove Stevie to disappear from my life. She didn't tell me what was wrong then, but something must have been wrong for her to vanish, for her to betray my trust, betray our love, to stand me up when I'd really believed that she was going to run away with me...

  That's what had been so hard, all these years. I had believed, utterly, that she was going to show up that night.

  And then she just...didn't.

  We hadn't argued. We'd both been certain about our plans, and our feelings for each other.

  It didn't add up. It didn't make any sense.

  “Please, Stevie,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around myself tightly. I was so vulnerable to her a moment ago, and it takes every last remnant of my strength to be vulnerable to her again. But I have to be, in this moment. I ask her, “Please, Stevie... Tell me what happened to you.”

  Stevie turns then, and the pain in her eyes is so deep, so anguished that it shocks me to my core. There is so much suffering in her face as she turns toward me, as her arms drop open at her sides. Her ponytail is a little tousled from when I reached up and held her head, cradling it against my heart as she tasted me... That tiny incongruity, with the pain on her face, hits me right in the heart.

  “I can never tell you,” Stevie whispers to me. Her hands curl into fists, and then she's lifting her chin, the pain so deep in her eyes that she looks, in this moment, like she's dying. “I can't,” Stevie whispers, “because if you knew...” She trails off, then turns away, raking a hand through her hair and moaning out in frustration. “I have done everything,” she whispers, sobbing the word out as she turns back to me. “Everything,” she whispers again, her hands hanging limply at her sides, “to keep you safe.”

  And then Stevie moves, crouching down in one, smooth motion. She crouches down, and then she's kneeling in front of me.

  And she very slowly, very carefully, wraps her arms around my legs, pressing her face to my stomach as hot tears begin to spill down her cheeks.

  “Please, forgive me,” she begs me softly. “Everything I've done, I've done it for you.”

  Stevie kneels in front of me, has gathered me tightly in her arms. This moment of raw weakness, of openness, is so unexpected. But this is how she used to be, I remember. Before she disappeared. This is how much she trusted me before, laying down her deepest secrets and darkest nightmares. It's how we both were, and how we drew so close together, entwined in one another's hearts.

  Everything I've done, I've done it for you.

  I reach out, and I softly, gently, rest my fingers upon her hair. There's so much love rising in my heart; all I am is love. God, I loved her once. I never stopped loving her.

  But I have been through so much, too. So much pain, so much grief, so much loss since she walked out of my life without an explanation. I am deeply wounded, deeply scarred, and I need answers.

  “What happened that night, Stevie?” I whisper to her as she breathes me in, as she presses her mouth, her nose to my stomach, as she closes her eyes tightly.

  And then she sags against me, the firmness of her muscles receding. She leans against me, her entire weight, but I can hold her up. I've held her up before. We've both held each ot
her up. We've both been there for each other in every way, in every thing.

  Stevie rises then, wiping away her own tears, breathing out in resolve. She holds my gaze as she wraps her hands gently around my shoulders, holding tightly to me.

  “Something happened,” she whispers, her eyes wide, hurting. I hold her gaze, the pain punching me in the gut, but I do my best to stay strong for her. “Something really bad happened, Amber,” she whispers so softly that I have to strain to hear her.

  I listen.

  And Stevie takes a deep breath, and she lets the air out slowly, her nostrils flaring. “My grandfather attacked me the day of graduation,” she whispers, her right hand uncurling from my shoulder. She presses the flat of her palm against her stomach. “He gave me this,” she says now, her jaw clenched, the words coming out in a growl.

  “What?” I whisper. I knew Stevie's grandparents weren't exactly good people, but how could her grandfather have possibly given her that scar? What did he use? A knife? A piece of broken glass?

  How could he hurt his granddaughter so terribly? Why would he do something so reprehensible? So gut-wrenchingly, nauseatingly awful?

  Stevie's jaw is clenched so tightly that her veins are throbbing in her forehead. She tries to relax again as she swallows, as she takes a step back from me, shaking her head. “I've done everything so that you would never find out,” she whispers to me, pleading. “I don't want you to know what happened,” she says, her arms falling slack at her sides, “because if you know, you'll never want to see me again. I've tried, so hard, to find you,” she tells me quickly now, taking a step forward. “I'm so sorry for that night, for my disappearing... Couldn't we try again? Couldn't you give me another chance...without...knowing?”

  “Your grandfather hurt you,” I say her in a low whisper, reaching out and touching her arm gently. “What could you have done to make me never want to see you again? You've already hurt me, Stevie,” I whisper to her.