Waking to Black

by V. H. Luis

  “Evelyn, what’s wrong?”

  His concern makes my heart break. I know then I’ve been a coward from the beginning. Starting a relationship with him was so selfish.

  I open my mouth, trying to speak but I’m struggling to breath. Adam cradles me in his arms and the feel of his warmth, soothes my itchy skin. My hands clutch his forearm, and my fingertips begin to move as if on their own, rubbing against his fine hairs. The friction helps, but only a little.

  “Breath with me, baby.” He says in a low, steady voice.

  Pushing past my trembles, I try to comply with his command. I inhale a deep stream of air and I hold it for a few drawn out seconds.

  “That’s it.” He encourages. “Breath just like me.”

  The scent of his skin, his close proximity and the calming authority of his presence is enough to bring me out of the haze.

  “You should stay away from me,” I say between shallow gasps of breath. “I’m fucked up. I don’t know how to be happy. I’m like him. Tormented like him, unable to just be happy. God knows I want to, but I don’t have it in me.”

  Adam holds me against his chest, his strong hands supporting my limp body, caressing me with gentle care. “You’re not making sense. What are you talking about?”

  It’s hard to speak. Though I want to tell him everything, I can’t. I want the water to wash away my sins, to lift the guilt holding me down like an anchor so all the bad can fade away.

  “Talk to me.” He stares at me intensely. “Don’t shut me out.”

  “Some people are broken. The things they’ve lived through pollute everything they do.” Staring at my scarred wrists, I loathe the shame consuming me. “I’m sorry I did it, I really am.”

  “Evelyn, look at me.” Adam lifts my head so our eyes meet. “That’s in the past. Don’t let one action define you, because it doesn’t in my eyes. You are more than one bad decision. You’re smart, gorgeous, caring, and strong-willed, I could sit here for hours and list hundreds of extraordinary things about you.”

  I love you! My mouth opens but nothing comes out.

  Staring into the calming blue of Adam’s eyes, feeling safe, I’m desperate to give him all the details about the relationship I had with my father. I want to tell him how my dad would wake me in the early morning hours, his tall frame shrouded in shadow. “I can’t take it anymore. Tonight’s the night,” he would say. Then I’d see the gun between his fingers and I’d be terrified. For hours I would beg and plead, trying to convince my daddy not to kill himself. “I need you,” I’d say, and eventually he’d relent and put the gun away.

  I could always talk him down, and I did, until that cold November day—the day before I told him I was moving out. I abandoned him, because his depression and persistent drinking was drowning me, and I suffered the consequences.

  For the first time in years I want to confess everything to someone, not because there’s a therapist who expects me to, but because I want Adam to know my every secret. I want him to own not only my body, but my mind, my soul. I want him to forgive me, to love me, because maybe then I can forgive myself. But a crippling thought hits me. What if his opinion of me changes? What if he never again looks at me with the tenderness he has now? My fears get the best of me.

  Unable to muster the courage to tell him how I feel, I press my lips against his in a tender kiss. Our lips brush against each other as the warm water trickles down our bodies.

  After a moment Adam pulls back. “Why is it so hard for you to talk to me?”

  I smile. “I guess I should ask you the same question.”

  Adam opens his mouth to respond and I silence him with another kiss. When I pull away, I offer him a simple olive branch and hope he’s willing to take it.

  “I’m working my way up to telling you everything. I promise I am, but please don’t push this tonight. Let’s finish our shower and screw the night away.”

  The briefest smile appears on his face as he grazes my cheek with the back of his hand. He gives me a small nod and it’s the only answer I need. Then I’m kissing him again, drowning in the seduction of the moment, because I don’t care about tomorrow, I’m too busy living for today.

  Chapter Nineteen

  MICHAEL’S FINGERS SNAG in my tangled curls as he guides my head down, forcing his erection between my lips and down my throat. I cough and my eyes water. My hands are pressed against his thighs and I fight the urge to push back from him.

  He’s not forcing me to do anything; I’m the one who offered to get him off. And yet the idea of his touch is repulsive.

  Once again, he shoves my head down, driving his cock farther into my mouth so the tip hits the back of my throat. My muscles stiffen and I cave—I push off of him. I move my thumb across my lips, wiping away the spit. When I manage to fix my gaze on him he’s furious.

  “I can’t keep fucking doing this shit.” He shakes his head and stands up.

  “I’m sorry.” I say the words reflexively, hoping they’ll defuse the situation.

  Michael bends down and grabs his boxers.

  “No. Please don’t go.” My voice shakes.

  He ignores my plea and starts to get dressed. My arms begin to tingle as my heart struggles to pump blood throughout my body.

  My muscles shift into gear and I stand up and move to him. I wrap my arms around his waist and lay my head against his back. He tenses and stills.

  For a few drawn-out seconds everything is calm.

  Michael turns abruptly and presses his lips against mine in a frantic kiss. He shoves me down on the bed and runs his hand up my shirt so he can squeeze my breasts. I freeze.

  “No. I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can. You’ll feel better afterward. You want this, I know you do. Trust me.”

  His voice is low, like the vibration of an idling engine. My skin prickles at the sound.

  He hooks his finger on the fabric of my panties and yanks them down, exposing me. My hands move to counter his, but they’re soon halted by his unyielding grip on my wrists. His erection pressed against my thigh makes me panic, and I jerk my knees up between his legs.

  “Fuck!” His hands cradle his balls and he lurches to the edge of the bed. “Fucking crazy bitch!”

  “I’m so sorry. Please…I’m sorry.”

  The words sound foreign on my lips, because a part of me wants to claw his eyes out for trying to force me, for trying to take something from me I don’t want him to have. However, between the bursts of anger a choking fear looms. He’ll abandon me like my father did.

  “You’re a fucking tease, and I’m tired of waiting for you to put out.” He shifts off the bed and collects his clothing.

  “Don’t go. We can talk about this. We can fix this.” I lean forward and place a trembling hand on his shoulder. He shrugs off my touch and my hand drops down.

  “There’s nothing to talk about. And the only thing that needs fixing is you. You’re fucked up, just like your dad.”

  I dig my nails into the palms of my hands, hoping the pain will provoke a response from me. I want to cry at his words, but the tears won’t fall. Ever since the death of my father I feel frozen in place, a ghost walking among the living.

  “Please don’t leave me. I’ll try to do what you want. Please just give me time.” I say in the hopes of appeasing him, however I’m not sure I can give him what he wants. Since my father’s suicide, the thought of sleeping with Michael, of losing my virginity to him, is disgusting.

  “I’m fucking done with you.” His eyes are cold and vacant, as if the act of leaving doesn’t hurt him.

  For weeks, I’ve done everything I can to please him, short of sleeping with him. I’ve held on to my virginity like a child does a security blanket, as if that small action will absolve me in the eyes of God for abandoning my father when he needed me the most.

  The rattle of Michael picking up his keys from the nightstand makes me lurch up. I kneel on the bed and stare at him.

  “Please…don’t go. Ple
ase, please, please…”

  I say over and over as my panic attack robs me of the ability to breathe. I feel pathetic and weak for needing him to stay. He nearly raped me, and I’m begging him to stay.

  He ignores me and walks out of the room.

  For what seems like an eternity, I lie there, caving under the pressure of all the emotions I can’t confront.

  When I recover enough, I walk to the bathroom, open the vanity drawer, and retrieve a razor.

  I sit on the floor and do what Michael wanted me to—I spread my legs. I trail the razor across my thighs, and since I don’t even feel the blade I press down until I see the crimson blood dribble down my pale skin. A shot of pain ripples across my thigh to my groin. The sensation offers me the release I need, and the tears finally fall.

  The cuts I give myself help me cope. They make it so I can survive the day. After six cuts—I survive this day.

  I wake in a panic, Adam’s arms around me. My chest heaves as I struggle to regain control of my breathing, and in the serenity of the moonlit room I feel out of place.

  What the fuck is wrong with me? Why do these memories haunt me?

  I stare at Adam. He’s dead to the world as he sleeps, and it’s easy to pull away from his embrace, too easy. He could slip away from me in a nanosecond, and yet in the span of two weeks he’s become my North Star. He has awoken feelings I had abandoned.

  I get out of bed and tiptoe out of the room. I’m naked, because I always sleep naked with Adam. Like my secrets, he enjoys stripping me of my clothing, leaving me exposed so he can explore everything I have to offer.

  I’ve concluded I can’t fault Adam for wanting to possess me, because while I have allowed him to claim my body, the tragedies of my past have remained mine.

  I’ve tried to tell him. Like the painting at Art Basel, of the naked girl with her soul exposed for the world to see, I tried to reveal everything to Adam. I failed. I’m too chicken-shit to show the man I love my vulnerabilities, or maybe I’m too selfish. In a few weeks he’ll tire of my company and toss me aside, like Michael did, and the fear torments me.

  A soft, bitter laugh bursts from my lips as I walk to the piano room. I was unable to sleep before I met him, and now in this calm before the storm, sleep continues to be elusive.

  My eyes scan the room; the skylight gives the space a moon-touched glow and the oddity of the antique piano displayed in this sterile, modern apartment once again draws my attention. Why would he keep something so contrary to his tastes?

  It’s been years since I sat on a piano bench, and even when I practiced frequently I wasn’t good. Though I had the technical skill to play, I lacked the passion to make the music beautiful. My emotions were conveyed through my painting. That’s always been my gift, not music.

  I move my fingers against the keys and the first few notes of Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” echo in the hushed room. After a few minutes I pause, unable to remember the rest of the notes.

  “My god, you look gorgeous.”

  Adam’s voice surprises me. I tilt my head to gaze at him and the sentiment is mutual. He’s naked and gorgeous, leaning against the framed entrance. His face is relaxed and I can clearly see the ridges of his abs, the definition of his broad shoulders and sculpted chest.

  He gives me one of those panty-dropping grins and if I was wearing any underwear, it would have slipped off at the mere sight.

  “It’s the fact that you don’t know how truly beautiful you are that turns me on, Evelyn.” He speaks my name slowly, enunciating the syllables. “You sit there detached from the world, a specter in the room, and I’m drawn to the sight.”

  The hairs on my arms stand up. “Why not sate your curiosity?” I lick my lips as I watch him stride toward me.

  He hovers behind me, leaning over me before he whispers in my ear, “I had no idea you could play the piano.”

  I smile at the statement. “I play at the piano, Adam. I have no real skill.”

  His lips brush along the curve of my shoulder. “Maybe all you need is practice.” Adam’s fingers trail up my spine and the action makes me straighten my posture. “The first thing you have to do before you play is sit correctly.”

  I push my chest forward, my breasts moving up as my shoulders pull back. “Like this?”

  “Yes, perfect.” I can hear the smile in his voice. His hands caress the curve of my waist, softly grazing the sides of my breasts before they move over my shoulders and down my arms. They hover over my wrists, and with ease he lifts them up. “Remember, when you play it’s with the tips of your fingers touching the keys. Your wrists have to be elevated.”

  I exhale, my head moving forward in a small nod.

  “Play the song again. Only this time don’t stop.”

  “Adam, I don’t…”

  His authoritative order interrupts me. “Just play.”

  I gulp, though I do what I’m told. My fingers move against the keys and I play the first few notes of the sonata. As I play, one of Adam’s hands moves around my waist and the feel of his warm touch makes me hit the wrong key. I recover, though my timing is off and I’m playing the melody at a too-quick pace. His hand continues down my body, sliding between my legs.

  “I think playing the piano makes you wet,” he whispers in my ear as he rubs his fingers against the opening of my sex. “Don’t stop playing.”

  Don’t stop? How the hell am I supposed to play when you’re doing that? My fingers once again betray me and I miss a note. Somehow I manage to find my place, and even though Adam is laying claim to my body, by some miracle I play.

  His free hand moves to my thigh, and with little effort he spreads my legs open while two of his fingers push inside me, making my muscles tighten.

  “I can’t…”

  His husky voice cuts me off. “Playing the piano is all about muscle memory. Don’t think about what you’re doing.”

  As his fingers thrust into me I lean toward him, and the feel of Adam hard and ready at my back makes me moan. My fingers continue to play, but I don’t even hear the music. Both of his hands are between my legs, one of them stroking that special spot as the other pushes into me at a quickened pace. My hands move off the keys, and I grab Adam’s shoulders as my stomach clenches. I thrust my pelvis forward into his hand as I come and I can feel my pleasure escape me, spreading onto his fingers. I tremble against him for a few long seconds and his lips trail kisses along my neck as I recover.

  “I didn’t think it was possible, but you’re even more stunning when you come.”

  He pulls his fingers out of me, and even in the dimly lit room I can see they’re wet with my release. I lean against him because I’m spent, because he can do that to me, make me lose control of my muscles and leave me vulnerable.

  Adam, still standing at my back, moves his arms forward so I’m nestled between them as he positions his hands above the ivory keys. He plays Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” and the melody is perfect. His rhythm follows the specified tempo, he places emphasis on all the right notes, and I can literally feel the passion he’s exuding. I lie against him, and even though moments ago I reached an orgasm, my nipples harden and my body quickens at the sound reverberating around the room, at the sight of the slippery piano keys and the intoxicating smell of his body.

  I turn, place my knees on the piano seat, and kiss him. I can tell by his eager tongue he doesn’t mind the interruption. The music has been silenced, yet there’s a harmonious overtone in the soft noises of our frantic embrace.

  He pulls back from the kiss and looks at me, his gaze taking in the sight of my nude body. “You left a wet mark on the bench.” He licks his lips and gives me a salacious smile.

  I mimic his grin. “Sorry.”

  “Never apologize for that. I love how wet you get for me.”

  I lunge at him, because the need to have his skin pressed alongside mine overtakes me. We stumble onto the floor and the lone black-and-white rug in the room breaks our fall. I position my
body between his legs, and by his expression it’s apparent my enthusiasm has startled him. My lips run down his length, and my hands move in unison with my willing mouth. I suck on the head of his shaft and a few eager drops flood my taste buds.

  “Fuck! If you don’t stop I’m going to come in your mouth.”

  His words stir my excitement. I twirl my tongue around him and I’m relentless.

  Adam sits up and tangles his hand in the wild curls of my hair. He pulls me away from him and I’m sure there’s a pout on my lips, because all I want is to suck him dry. There’s a primal need coursing through my heated veins that only his touch will satisfy. That only his touch has ever satisfied.

  Before I know it, his arms are around me and I’m on my knees, facing the mural I painted for him.

  “Spread your legs.”

  The domineering edge to his voice makes me grin as I follow the order. His erection is pressed against the cheeks of my ass. One of Adam’s hands moves across my skin, cupping one of my breasts, and as he massages my nipple he presses the tip of his erection inside me. My natural reaction is to move forward, to go on my hands and knees, but the pull of his hands stops my descent. My body is pressed along his, and we’re both slippery with sweat.

  “Stay up on your knees.”

  I don’t exactly have a choice. One of his hands pulls me back onto his length. From this angle he feels deeper, overwhelming, and he’s carefully building my excitement. Sex has always been rough and passionate with Adam, but this time it’s measured and tender.

  I open my eyes and stare at the mural. The crimson petals of the flower are blossoming, and under Adam’s skilled touch, so am I.

  He thrusts into my body while his hand massages the folds of my sex. The feel of his hand between my legs as he fucks me is enough to push me over the edge. I call out his name as I reach my climax, and he milks his own release, pushing into me with a savage intensity as the warm rush of his orgasm spreads between my legs, down my thighs.

  I fall back on him and his strong arms brace me. We lie on the rug, panting as we regain the ability to speak, his body still pressed against mine, his cock still inside of me. As I lie there on the floor, I realize what we just did can’t be considered just fucking. It was gentle and giving. No one has to say the words for the sentiment to be true—we made love. The thought frightens me, and I don’t understand why.