by Stone, Holly
He was quiet for a time, the tick of the clock on the wall the only interruption to the tense silence between us. I stared at him defiantly while he seemed to search for something;, patience, maybe, or the words he needed to convince me of his argument.
“There are no answers in that bottle, Amy,” he said in the end. “There’s no peace, just a temporary shadow on your problems that disappears when the alcohol wears off. In the morning, all your troubles will still be there, but you’ll have a shitty hangover to deal with too.”
It seemed Jack had found patience and words and I felt instantly deflated, my eyes dropping to the carpet in front of me. In that moment, as I stood unsure of what to do next, with a burning lump in my throat, I wanted to rewind the day to when my father had called, so I could make the decision to ignore his demands for once in my life, to choose what I wanted and to put myself first.
“I’m going to bed,” I said and turned before Jack could see the beginnings of the tears I knew I would not be able to stop.
“Amy…”
“I’ll see you in the morning, Jack,” I said, and closed my bedroom door behind me.
JACK
When Amy walked away I swore under my breath, wanting to follow her and explain my reaction, wanting to do anything I could to take away the feelings she was trying to drown in vodka. Maybe I hadn’t been fair; she had experienced something traumatic, after all. I’d made her feel bad for the way she was choosing to handle things but I couldn’t help it. I’d seen too many empty bottles at home, solving nothing, emptying my mum of hope and love, stealing her attention until she put a glass of clear liquid before her son and her own self-respect.
I didn’t want that for Amy. She was strong. She didn’t need it and I wanted to be there for her instead of the booze. I’d never been enough for my mum but I wanted to be enough for Amy, at least for as long as I was in this strange situation with her.
I emptied my tea down the sink and washed the cup, placing it on the draining board as soundlessly as I could. In the lounge, I assembled my bedding, put on some comfortable clothes that would serve as pyjamas and turned off the light. I could hear Amy pottering in the bathroom, turning taps on and off, flushing the toilet. When I heard her opening and closing drawers in her bedroom I knocked softly on the door.
“Amy, can I come in?”
There was no reply but I knew I didn’t want to give up and go to sleep on an argument. Mostly I needed to make sure she was okay, and if she was going to give me the silent treatment I knew I was going to have to push.
“I’m coming in, Amy,” I said, beginning to press on the door handle, opening it slowly so she had a chance to object. She didn’t.
The light was low in her room, a single lamp on her bedside table casting a yellow arc that illuminated her as she stood turned away from me, the slender column of her neck making her appear vulnerable, even though her posture was straight and sure. She was wearing a pretty camisole and pyjama trousers with cartoon characters on and I hated myself for noticing how good she looked when what I was supposed to be doing was comforting her.
“I’m okay,” Amy said, her tone firm. “Go to sleep, Jack.”
“I can’t when I know you’re hurting,” I said softly.
“I’ll get over it.” She turned to me then but the look in her puffy red eyes didn’t match the steel in her voice.
“It’s okay to be upset, Amy.”
“Is it? What good does it do anyone?” She swiped at her tears and turned away again, sniffing and resting her hands on the chest of drawers in front of her and I saw some of myself in her then; the inability to reach out to other people when things were going wrong, the instinct to curl into yourself and lick wounds in isolation. I knew in her situation I would need someone to really push me into accepting reassurance.
I stepped closer, needing to be by her side as her sadness echoed inside me, more than just the standard empathy one human feels for another. We were still almost-strangers but in that moment it didn’t feel like it. I reached out and laid my hand flat on her shoulder blades, wanting to give her more comfort than words could achieve. Her skin was so warm and soft, and rather than flinch, she turned into me, leaning against my chest as she had downstairs. My hands enveloped her instinctively and I pressed a kiss against the top of her head as if it was the most natural thing to do. She was almost completely still in my arms, and silent, as if my physical presence was all she needed at that moment, and although it was my intention to be there for her, I couldn’t help taking some solace in return.
A dog barked in the street outside and seemed to wake us both from our almost trance-like state. Amy shifted in my arms and then whispered forlornly, “What am I going to do, Jack?”
“Everything will be okay. As long as you’re safe, that’s all that matters. Money can be replaced.”
“It’s not that,” she whispered. “I don’t think I can stand it anymore.”
“Stand what?” I eased away from her and looked down into her watery grey eyes.
“My life. All the expectations. Doing something I hate every day and having to seem grateful for it all. I feel like I’m disappearing.”
I didn’t know what to say. I’d never had to deal with others having expectations of me. My mum barely bothered. But I did know what it was like to feel unseen and unconsidered. It’s funny how wrong you can be when you view someone’s life from outside, the assumptions you make about what they want and how they feel. Amy had always struck me as someone who was in charge of her life and happy with it. It seemed I’d been very wrong.
“Well, I’m hardly the best example of someone taking charge of their life. I don’t think I could be in a bigger mess!” I said honestly. “But just because you’re unhappy now, doesn’t mean you can’t do something about it.”
Amy seemed to think about that, staring down at where her hands were pressed against my chest. When she looked up at me her eyes gazed into mine, almost as if they were searching for something. I guess I was slow to realise it was that moment when things shifted between us, but there you go. I was eighteen and although I was no virgin, Amy was older and I wasn’t expecting her to want me as anything more than a temporary friend and a convenient shoulder to cry on. My heart seemed to stall and restart when she rose on her tip-toes and pressed her soft lips against my mouth. Neither of us moved or breathed for seconds that felt like minutes, and then she moved her hand to my cheek and I couldn’t stop myself from kissing her back.
I know some guys aren’t that into kissing, seeing it as something to rush through so you can get to the main event. In my experience, good kissing didn’t always lead to good sex and bad kissing didn’t always lead to bad sex. It’s as if some lips are meant to connect and others are not. When it’s good, it feels so smooth and effortless. Kissing Amy felt as natural as breathing, our lips teased against each other so softly my nerves seem to burn with sensation, each movement was synchronised as if we could read each other perfectly. When her tongue licked against my top lip I reached around and pulled her closer to me, leaning into her softness and warmth. The first slide of her tongue against mine made my cock jump, and when she moaned against my mouth I slid my hands over her arse and squeezed.
I was expecting her to pull away from me at any moment, to come to her senses or to simply feel that things were going further than she wanted. But she kept her lips against mine and began to run her hands over my chest and arms, firm and insistent as if she was making pictures in her mind. I let her lead because I could feel that she needed to be in control, and it turned me on so much to know that she wanted me. I ran my hands up her back, over her camisole, feeling the sweet curve where waist flared to hip, and the bumps of her spine. I wanted to touch her everywhere, to know all the dips and swells with my fingers, my lips and my tongue, and to do to her all the things I’d imagined from afar but never really believed I’d get the chance to.
When her hands slipped up under the fabric of my t-shirt my body sh
uddered, making her pull away. She didn’t look me in the eye, instead focusing on the hand that was now revealing my stomach and chest. “Take it off,” she whispered, her gaze flicking up to mine momentarily.
I grabbed the fabric at the back of my neck and pulled it off in one tug, and stood in front of her while she studied me. I felt confident about my body, knowing weekly football practice and stomach crunches had kept it toned, but I’d forgotten that the fight with Darren had left me bruised until Amy put her hand against my ribs and looked up at me with pity rather than longing in her eyes. I understood then how she’d felt when I’d been sorry for her. Sympathy can hurt too. It can undermine our internal strength and resolve, make a person feel weak when they least need it. I didn’t need her pity. I needed her to want me, to look past the marks on my body and understand that they didn’t change who I was. I went to turn from her as she’d turned from me, but she held onto my arm and placed a soft kiss against the hollow of my throat. The balance of control shifted in that moment as Amy become softer and less insistent, subtly handing the reins to me.
I wanted her so badly, to feel the way her chest was rising and falling, so I ran my finger down the side of her face, across her bottom lip and then down her throat and between her breasts. I could see her nipples harden though the thin satin. She watched every movement I made, sighing gently as I slipped one strap of her top off her shoulder, easing the fabric slowly until I could see the creamy skin curving at the top of her breast, and the pink, puckered tip of her breast that hardened even further in the cold air. I bent to kiss where my fingers had traced, going slowly enough to make her moan again. When I sucked on her nipple and bit down slightly she gasped.
Things were progressing fast and I both dreaded and craved the moment she was going to stop me. We were both hurting and I knew from experience that sex isn’t any kind of cure for that, but everything about her felt good and right. The way she tasted and smelled and her reactions to my touch drove me further; I turned her body and walked her slowly backwards until her knees hit the bed.
“Tell me to stop,” I whispered against the skin of her neck as I continued to run my hands over her.
“No,” Amy said, pulling back and lifting her camisole over her head, and then shimmying out of her pyjama bottoms until she was naked before me. Fuck, she was gorgeous. Not model-perfect or athlete-fit, but real and soft and ethereal looking in the yellow light. I couldn’t take it all in, the roundness of her breasts, the slenderness of her arms and legs, the curve of her hip and the dark, soft curls of her pussy. I wanted to bury myself in her until we didn’t know where one of us ended and the other began.
I wasn’t sure what I’d done to deserve this moment. The week I’d just lived through had been hell and maybe Amy was my little bit of heaven. I gave silent thanks, watching as she climbed onto the bed to lie before me.
“Make me feel good. Please,” Amy begged.
How could I say no?
AMY
Jack looked torn as though his heart and his brain were pulling in different directions. His body knew what it wanted though, the bulge in the front of his football shorts was evidence enough without seeing the flush across his cheeks or the speed with which his chest rose and fell. His eyes were heavy as a touch on my naked skin but he wasn’t moving, so I grazed my body with my own hand, across my breast and towards where my pussy was hot and wet for him. He watched me touch myself, reaching for his cock in a trance-like state and pulling it slowly.
“Fuck,” he mumbled, moving to kneel on the bed, his knees nudging my legs apart. He pulled my hand away and brought my fingers to his mouth, licking the taste of me away, and then he spread my knees and breathed hotly against my cunt.
I wasn’t sure what I expected from Jack. I knew he was younger than me but I had no idea of how much sexual experience he’d had. I hadn’t had loads myself; just enough to feel comfortable with my body and to know what it would take for me to orgasm. Jack used his thumbs to open me up and then ran the tip of his tongue gently through my folds and I shuddered. When he kissed the insides of my thighs and then looked up at me, I was already panting.
“Tell me what I need to do to get you off,” he said gruffly. I loved that he was confident enough to ask and cared enough to want to know.
“Just lick me slowly and hook your fingers inside me,” I said, so turned on by his face, his voice, his body and his intentions that I could hardly breathe.
Jack’s tongue returned to its target, moving at just the right speed, warm and insistent, making my bones feel heavy and my mind feel light. Then his fingers stroked downwards, finding my wet and ready entrance, pushing in like slow torture. My body’s response was immediate, hips rising and grinding against him. I pinched my nipples, knowing the sensations would join my nerves together and bring me closer. He started to suck at me, and it was too much to take without gripping onto him so I slid my hand along his scalp, holding onto the softness of his hair, fixing him right where I needed him.
His fingers pumped me, curling up against the bundle of nerves inside my pussy, pulling against it so everything I was feeling was doubled.
“Ooohh.” I knew I was being loud but I didn’t believe in holding back where sex was concerned. It was taking some time – it always did – but Jack kept his rhythm. Slick and explicit little strokes nudged me closer to bliss with every passing. I closed my eyes, imagining him above me, pushing his cock inside, holding me down and grabbing my flesh as he fucked into me, spreading my legs wider, watching the way his cock owned my body. I wanted his eyes to bore into mine so he could see inside me and know what was in my soul. I was getting so close that I pushed my legs down straight and curled my toes, chasing after the oblivion I craved.
“That’s it, baby,” he urged. “Come on my face…let me feel you.”
“Harder,” I moaned, “finger me harder.”
Jack leaned back on his haunches, then used a thumb to rub my clit and pushed a third finger inside me. I felt full of him, open and swollen as he pumped in and out as roughly as I’d asked for.
“Ahhh…I’m gonna…” I moaned as my whole body curled into the pleasure he had pulled from me. My eyes were shut tight and my lips stuck to my teeth as I flowed with the hot pulsing waves, riding his hand to prolong my orgasm.
“That’s it, Amy, that’s it,” Jack said, his voice like molten metal running over my skin.
When I finally came back to myself I opened my eyes and saw his flushed face, lips wet with my arousal, his hand still half inside me, and he looked so damn hot. Almost on the edge of losing control.
“That was the sexiest thing I have ever seen.” He gently eased his fingers from me and looked at me with eyes full of raw desire.
“I think you might have broken my brain,” I said, bringing my knees together, and he smiled crookedly, fleetingly, as his breathing evened. Jack stayed at the end of my bed, and it felt too far away so I sat up, twisting my legs until I knelt in front of him and leaned to kiss his jaw. I reached down to take hold of his cock and as I slipped my fingers around it, he put his hand over mine.
“You don’t have to do that,” Jack said, his grip preventing me from moving against his hardness. “You needed me to make you feel good. This doesn’t have to be anything more than that.”
His expression looked almost regretful and I prickled with anger. “You make it sound like you did me a favour.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“Well, what did you mean?”
“You’re upset, Amy…I don’t want this to go further and for you to regret it in the morning.” I looked into his dark eyes and couldn’t read him. He had seemed so into what he did to me, or had I misunderstood all the signals? Was he now pretending to be concerned for me so he could back out of taking this further because he didn’t want to? The euphoria I’d felt just moments earlier dissipated and the sadness that it had masked returned. I pulled back and turned away, grabbing at my duvet until I was under it and protec
ted from his eyes.
“Amy…” Jack shifted on the bed and I felt his hand graze my hair. I didn’t like how it felt. He had just had his fingers in inside me but now his touch felt remote. He had become a stranger again.
“Don’t. Just go, okay?” I said, trying to keep my voice from breaking.
He shifted, fabric rustling as he pulled up his shorts and moved to sit on the edge of the bed. “You’re a beautiful girl, Amy. Special. And I’m fucking homeless right now. I can’t be anything good in your life. Don’t hate me for wanting more for you than this, okay?” He got up then, picking his t-shirt from the floor on his way out. I held my breath until he closed the door, then let the tears fall, muffling the sound of my sorrow with the pillow.
Chapter 8
AMY
I finally had a morning to myself but it was tainted in so many ways. Jack had dashed in and out of the shower and then headed off to work bright and early. I’d stayed in bed, turned away from him as he apologised for disturbing me. When he was gone, the flat felt colder and emptier, and so did my heart.
I wanted to spend some time relaxing, watch some television to take my mind off the night before, but the reality of it wasn’t as satisfying as the idea. I was antsy, my mind working overtime to find the right words to tell my dad about the robbery. I knew that it didn’t matter how I said it, he was going to be disappointed and angry and I was going to have to swallow his reaction or risk things escalating.
And then there was Jack.
I didn’t know how I was going to face him. I was exposed, both physically and emotionally. He knew more about how I felt about my life than any of my friends and family. He had seen every part of me, felt me come on his fingers, tasted my most private places, but I didn’t know how I would look in his eyes again.
As every minute ticked by I felt like I was losing something precious. I had so little time to do the things that satisfied me that being unproductive felt like a waste I couldn’t afford; minutes slipping through my fingers like so much sand. I knew I should open the new cake decorating book I’d ordered, get out my sugar-craft tools, fondant and food colours and practice some of the techniques, but I couldn’t bring myself to. Indulging in my passion had started to feel a bit like torture; the more I enjoyed doing it the more it hurt to be stuck in that chip shop day after day when all I wanted was to bake. Bake, and feel sorry for myself.