“No,” I say, because we need words for this. “You’re all right. It’s fine.”
The pressure returns, then the prick of your nails. Hesitant. “Hurt me.” You can if you want to. I more than half want you to.
“It’s okay.” You do.
And it is.
You rake down my chest, but rub over the nipples rather than scratching them, a small mercy. They’re already aching and pebble hard. And then your palm comes down on my abdomen in a slap that steals my breath. You curl your hand into a fist and hit me a little higher.
As my fingers stroke deep into you, you strike me again. Instant feedback. You beat my chest and keep on doing it until something hurts above my heart. I like that; I consider it feedback too. Because your heart must also feel bruised. If sharing it helps, I want to help.
I don’t take it personally. You don’t want to harm me, but I feel the need in you to lash out. To strike at something bigger, more indifferent. If you can’t land a punch on your real target, I’m available.
Your legs spread wider and your weight pushes on my hand, my hips. You’re hardly waifish, but you don’t feel heavy to me either. It helps that you don’t sag limp in my arms even as I reach the swollen, rough patch within you, as I make your pelvis jerk and my thumb teases your clit.
Your body rocks with instinctive grace, meeting everything I do. I’m pleasuring but not overwhelming you. You give no sign of how heavy you might feel inside, if the wet-clay grip of grief has taken your throat and lungs, if ice has formed in a layer above your frightened bones. Or if the friction of our bodies shakes off anything that might hamper you.
I hope it does. So much I’d give to keep you from feeling grief or fear. Even giving fear a home inside myself, hatching it, nurturing it because for me, it’s not all bad. I have no reason to be afraid of you. Being afraid for you doesn’t make a difference in the scheme of things, but still I try. This isn’t your fear or pain I’m taking inside but a new creation, and I’m asking you to help create it. If you want. If it helps you.
There’s nothing else I can offer. I can’t undo whatever’s happened, and I wouldn’t make you forget whatever’s happening inside you even if I could. From the way you grip me, I’m convinced it’s loss. I understand loss. I know that even when you want to tear what you’ve lost out of your heart rather than grieve for it, you can’t let it go. You can’t afford to forget or forsake it.
You understand this, too. I know because of the brutal ease with which you move, the totality of your focus on my body and on yours. Every stroke and beat and pulse of motion between us is not distraction from but expression of your feeling. Its depths close around us.
You bend closer, your hips still rolling with the small, slippery thrusts from my fingers. Your hands still pushing and pressing against me, slower and softer now.
It’s all right. I think the words so clearly it’s like saying them aloud, willing them into you. It’s all right—not your grief, but your response to it. What you do to me will not make things worse. I can take it. I want to take it. If you cannot tear your hurt out, tear into me instead.
When my free hand runs up your back, tracing endless figures from the swell of your ass to your shoulders, it is not meant to be soothing.
You ride down on my fingers, and I hear and smell your wetness, the familiar rich-earth tang of your excitement.
And there I am inside you. I feel as if I am pushing toward the source of your grief, seated at the pit of your stomach. I approach whatever it is, the crisis prowling, waiting. While I make love to you, not to distract or even to heal, but to give you strength for when you face it. In the morning.
Tonight, you ride me and I see only your silhouette but you’re breathtaking. Sensual and abandoned. Like the last moments before your thighs closed tight around my skull and you fell apart under my tongue in the garden, crying out and trusting to passing cars to cover the sound.
But your rhythm is strange. Too regular. Your hips stroke against mine and against my hand in rapid beats that seem to form syllables. I wonder if you’re fucking me in time to whatever litany runs in your head—the news you’ve received and haven’t yet processed. The words that try to define the shape of the new hole inside you.
Sex isn’t going to fill that hole; nothing is. And that knowledge frees us. We fuck each other in abandon. Wet and hot and on the edge of violence. We’re not gentle or careful. I do care, but there’s no other way to express this.
I only fuck you back. We’re rough, but you’re so slick that I doubt I’ll hurt you. And if I do, you’ll have had your revenge.
Your mouth bites, as though devouring, as though swallowing me will satisfy the cold hollowness that grief makes of bodies. Your lip-sheathed teeth are at my chest, my neck, then, unsheathed, they clamp on my shoulder while you shudder as if you’re in tears. I’m already slick with sweat and your saliva so that I can’t tell if you’re crying. You wouldn’t want me to tell.
Your entire body moves with heaving thrusts like sobs. Our hips clash. Your head falls back and only then as air strikes my bitten skin do I gasp in pain. You’re gasping with something quite different.
You launch into orgasm as if your pleasure can turn back time. And oh god, it hurts just right and you’re so sweet against me and then I am coming and it’s so powerful that I believe we could do it together. As if we’re creating a singularity in bliss, wringing space inside out and reshaping matter.
As if we’re ripping everything apart and putting it back together right.
I rise up out of my climax as if floating to the surface of the ocean, riding wave after wave. You roll off of my body and knock aside the pillow, laying your head right on the mattress. You stare at the ceiling and breathe. Just that, for a long time.
Finally, you say, “You must know something.”
You’re speaking in a speculative tone, not calm but philosophical enough that nobody could possibly believe what we’ve just done. I love it. I love it so much I almost lose track of what you said in how you said it.
You’re not implying that I know what this late-night— glancing at the clock, I realize all over again it’s actually early morning—phone call was about.
You reach out and stroke my forearm. As if you’re the one giving me comfort.
Because you know I know something about how grief works. That like you I’m a survivor; that actually, I know a lot.
“Don’t we all?” I say, my voice rising into the twilight silence of the room, ringing too loud and just bright enough that we can leave my answer for what it is.
You don’t say anything more. You don’t thank me out loud, although something like gratitude is implied with your question. You curl against me and let my head rest on your shoulder. A lovely unraveling feeling seeps through me as you stroke my hair. My hand settles under your breasts, feeling your heart, feeling your pulse become slow and steady as you rest before the day comes.
VOLCANO NIGHTS
Josie Jordan
“After you.”
The deep male voice made me jump. Tall, with tousled blond hair and the cutest of smiles, he was one of the most gorgeous male specimens I had ever set eyes upon. And he’d reached the back of the queue a split second before me.
Heat rushed to my cheeks. “Thanks,” I said, wheeling my suitcase into position in front of him.
The airport rumbled with discontent. People were shouting and sobbing into their mobile phones and chasing after anyone in a uniform. Others had staked out trios of seats or patches of floor and appeared to have set up camp for the night. I shuddered at the very thought. Please let there be rooms. Nothing could be worse than trying to sleep in this noisy airless space. Yet the line was barely moving.
My feet ached. Told you so, Mick would have said. What kind of idiot travels in heels? I wished I’d worn pumps or even sneakers. Every few minutes I nudged my suitcase across the tiles with my toe, and I was aware of the blond guy doing the same thing behind me. His afters
have was a pleasant distraction. Clean and fresh, it reminded me of an ocean breeze. I closed my eyes and breathed it in. I might have been smelling a real ocean breeze right about now if this hadn’t happened.
My turn finally came. “I need a room for tonight,” I said.
The assistant tapped her keyboard. “You very lucky, madam. One room left.”
Oh no. My tension returned in an instant. Reluctantly I turned to the guy behind me. “You were here first.”
“Nah, don’t worry about it,” he said. He glanced left but the assistant at that desk was already erecting a NO VACANCIES sign.
“The room’s yours,” I insisted.
“If you don’t want it, I’ll have it!” someone shouted from farther back in the queue.
At this, the blond guy stepped forward. “Look, take it quick, before someone else does.”
He was so close I could feel the heat radiate from his body. I shook my head.
With a frown, he reached into his pocket. “We’ll discuss this afterward.”
I remained there as he handed his credit card to the assistant. I had nowhere else to go, after all. Feeling light-headed, I gripped the counter. What a disaster. In fact my whole week had been a disaster from start to finish. What was I going to do now?
He was staring at me. “Are you okay?”
I nodded weakly. My airline meal had been inedible, and I hadn’t eaten anything for hours.
Stuffing his wallet back into his pocket, he put an arm around my shoulders and steered me to a nearby seat. “Look, the room’s yours,” he said.
He was so gorgeous, I was afraid to meet his eyes. I shook my head.
He shrugged. “Let’s share it then,” he said. “You take the bed, I’ll have the floor. It’s got to be better than sleeping here.”
Finally, I let myself meet his eyes. Something fluttered in my stomach and I quickly looked away. “What do you reckon?” he asked.
Flustered, I weighed up the situation. He was a fellow Brit and he seemed harmless enough. “Um, I guess.”
His smile was dazzling. He put out his hand. “I’m Cameron.”
“Monica.”
My cheeks burned as he clasped my fingers.
“You look like you could use a coffee,” he said.
“I’d love one. A tall latte, please.” I fumbled for coins but he’d gone.
He pressed a warm paper cup to my palm. I lowered my face to breathe in the acrid aroma, and my head began to clear. Between sips, I studied him. Mick would be spitting mad by now, and I’d be scared to say a word in case he exploded. But Cameron just sat there with his hands wrapped around his cup and his long legs outstretched, seeming completely relaxed.
“Are you going on holiday, then?” he asked when he noticed me looking at him.
I sighed. “Not anymore. My plane wasn’t even supposed to land here.”
“Yeah, tell me about it. Who’d have thought a distant volcano could cause such havoc?”
A plane scraped up overhead.
“Hey, how come they get to fly?” I said.
“Must be going westbound,” Cameron said. “But I’m not complaining. I get to share a room with a gorgeous brunette.” His smile was playful—suggestive even.
And I realized I liked what it suggested. I liked it a lot. “How would your girlfriend feel about you sharing a room with a strange woman?” I asked before I could help myself.
He chuckled. “You don’t look too strange to me. Anyway, I’m single. You?”
Damn. I should have seen that one coming. “Um, it’s complicated.”
“Interesting answer.”
I drained my coffee, avoiding his gaze.
He stood up. “Let’s get out of here.”
I reached for my suitcase, but Cameron’s warm fingers descended over mine. “I’ve got it.”
Mick always hassled me for not being able to travel light. You really need six pairs of shoes and eight dresses? Fine, but don’t ask me to carry them! I’d managed to limit myself to a single case this time, but it was a heavy one.
I rushed after him. “Want me to take your backpack then?”
He threw an amused look over his shoulder. “I think I’ll manage.”
Our hotel was right outside the terminal. An angry crowd surged around it.
“Stick close,” Cameron said and pushed forward.
“Room twenty-six,” snapped the harassed-looking receptionist when Cameron waved our reservation papers.
He swept open the door and hung back, gesturing for me to enter first. He had nice manners, that was for sure. I went in, looking for an extra bed, a sofa-bed even, but there was only a huge king. Heaped with pillows, it looked soft, clean and inviting. Cameron kicked off his shoes and collapsed onto it.
“I might jump under the shower,” I said, feeling shy.
I stood there for a while with hot water blasting my head and shoulders and my energy seemed to return.
“My turn,” Cameron said when I emerged. “Then we’ll go get dinner, yeah?”
I felt a little surge of happiness. With Cameron by my side, being stuck here didn’t seem to matter so much anymore. I lay back on the bed to wait.
Twenty minutes later, we were sipping wine in the hotel restaurant. The chaos continued in the lobby. Through the glass, I watched a security guard attempt to disperse the crowd.
“We were lucky to get the room,” I said.
“Yeah, I know,” Cameron said.
I checked my watch. “I should have been in Singapore by now. Never mind. I guess we just have to make the most of it.”
“And how do you suggest we do that?”
I gave him a sharp look. Was he flirting with me?
A waiter appeared.
“Saved by the bell,” Cameron said with a wolfish smile that did strange things to my stomach. “But don’t worry. We’ll come back to that question later.”
Definitely flirting.
The conversation moved to safer territory while we ate. Cameron seemed like a lovely guy. I was stunned to learn he lived in London, just a few suburbs away from me.
“Small world, hey?” he said.
As we tucked into dessert, I recalled my parting shot at Mick. If you can play around, so can I. Not that I’d intended to, of course, but Mick wasn’t to know that. Was this what I needed to restore the balance? A no-strings night with a sexy stranger?
Cameron leaned back in his seat. “Want to tell me about your complicated situation?”
Something about him invited intimacy. We were surrounded by people, but somehow it seemed as though there were only the two of us left on the planet.
“I came home from work early one day and caught my boyfriend in bed with someone else,” I said.
Cameron’s green eyes were warm and encouraging. He appeared to have turned off the flirting for now.
“It was a girl he worked with.”
I wasn’t about to give him the gory details. They hadn’t heard me come in and I’d caught them fully at it. She was trussed up in black lacy suspenders, on her hands and knees on our bed, with Mick pumping his cock into her from behind. He pulled out of her in horror when I entered the room, and I saw my small vibrator, no less, buzzing away in her ass.
I took a large gulp of wine, trying to dispel the scene from my mind. “He begged me to give him a second chance. He swears he’s learned his lesson.”
“And you believe him?” Cameron leaned across to top up my wine.
“I don’t know.”
He’d said we’d been together for so long that he’d just got curious. But I didn’t know if I could forgive him.
“Do you still love him?” Cameron asked.
My throat closed up and I stared at the table. If you’d asked me that question just a few hours ago, I’d have said yes in an instant. But I could no longer summon up the same conviction.
Cameron gave me a look I couldn’t read. “So you’re back together?” he asked.
“Not exactly. I told hi
m I need some space. I was going to visit a friend in Sydney.”
Cameron smiled. “You can’t get much farther than that.”
Our eyes met.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“That I’m going to bed with you in a minute,” I blurted before I could help myself. To hide my embarrassment, I drained my wine.
His smile widened. “I keep thinking about that too.” His eyes sparkled.
My stomach fluttered again and I toyed with my empty glass. He touched my hand, nearly making me leap out of my skin.
“Coffee?”
“Um, yes please.”
“Hey, you’re cold.”
“No, I’m fine. It’s just the air-conditioning.”
But he pulled his sweater over his head. “Here, have this.”
“No, really…”
Before I could stop him, he draped it around my shoulders. It was still warm from his body heat. I caught the faint smell of wash powder mingled with his aftershave.
“Thanks,” I said, hugging it closer.
One night, I thought to myself as I watched him summon a waiter. I could allow myself one night to help me make a decision about Mick. In the back of my mind, though, I wondered if my decision was already made.
“How long have you been single?” I asked, breathing in the smell of him from his sweater.
“Mm…about a year,” he said.
“You mean you just had dates, casual stuff…”
“No. No one.” He must have seen my surprise. “I was busy with work, I guess.”
I swallowed as I took this in. I was sharing a bed with a hunky hot-blooded male who quite possibly hadn’t had sex for a year.
“Plus I was kind of getting over someone,” he added.
“And you’re over her?”
“Oh yeah.”
I drank the last of my coffee.
“Ready for bed?” he asked softly.
Shakily, I stood up. “Let’s go.”
The elevator clunked shut behind us. Cameron shifted closer until his lips were just inches from mine. “I’ll never sleep after all that coffee,” he said.
My stomach flipped. I wanted him so bad. But I needed him to know where he stood. I cleared my throat. “You know that expression ‘What happens in Vegas’?”
Best Women's Erotica of the Year, Volume 2 Page 20