Gods & Monsters

by Saffron A Kent

  I grab the hem of his t-shirt. “You don’t have to take me. I’m here.”

  “How the fuck are you here?”

  “Duke dropped me off. He said he’d be back to take me home later.” His jaw clenches and his eyes shoot fire at Duke’s name. I cup his hard, stubbled jaw and get up on my tip-toes. “Shh. Don’t. He’s not worth it.”

  “The only reason he’s walking on two legs right now is because you keep saving him from me.”

  I have to chuckle at this because he is an idiot. I kiss his chin. “I’m not saving him. I’m saving you. It’s always you, Abel. I don’t want my mom to have more fuel against you. We’ve come so far. We’ve been smart, as you said. I can’t let anyone ruin that for us. Not even you, you animal.”

  His lips quirk up and at last his eyes smile, losing their heat. “I’m an animal, am I?”

  I nod, smiling slightly, studying the lighter shade of brown in his gaze, encased with darker eyelashes. “Yes, but you’ve got beautiful eyes.”

  “Yeah?” He throws me a lopsided smile. “I was thinking the same thing.”

  “Really?”

  “No. I was thinking how hot your little mouth is and how I wanna fuck it with my tongue right now.”

  A shiver skates down my spine. Hot and burning, I hit his shoulder. “Abel. That’s…”

  “What? Inappropriate?”

  “Duh.” I blush.

  “How about if I say I wanna make love to your mouth with my tongue? Is that better?”

  I’m fighting to not smile. It’s a battle that I lose in about three seconds. “Then I’d say…” I lean into him and whisper in his ear, with a boldness I barely feel. “Less talking and more fucking.”

  He shudders and gapes at me with shock, and I grin at him. His eyes smolder and he moves his hands from the door and settle them where they belong, on my waist. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re bossy, Pixie?”

  I wind my arms around his neck and toe off my shoes, freeing my feet, and get up on his bare ones. “Yeah, my boyfriend.”

  Chuckling, he swoops down and kisses me. I sigh into his mouth and he hums into mine. It’s a kiss that I’ve been waiting for my whole life, it seems. I trace my hands all over his body, shoulders, chest, stomach. I feel his soft t-shirt, trying to commit it to memory so I can relive this moment when I’m alone in bed tonight and every night for the next four weeks.

  He does the same. His big hands move all over my back, my tiny waist, bunching my dress. His fingers pinch the flesh on my butt and travel down to my thighs, forcing me to lift up my leg and wrap my calf around his hip.

  Moaning, he cups my cheeks, and maneuvers my face the way he wants so he can deepen the kiss. I don’t know how long our lips collide, but by the time we come up for air, we’re rocking against each other and my hands are under his shirt, my nails digging into his stomach.

  We draw huge amounts of misty and hormone-infused air. Somehow, I can feel his heart beat against my palm, even though I’m nowhere near his chest. His dick is pressing against my wet core, making me realize how long it’s been since he touched me there, how long has it been since I touched him.

  I move against him, my fingers itching to feel his warm, velvety dick. He shudders, his hold around me going tight. The pleasure down there is sharp, so sharp, like a fist is weighing down on my pelvic region. His jeans scrape so good against my thighs.

  This is it. This is the moment. I wanna go all the way.

  I’ve been such an idiot, denying him, torturing him. I don’t want to play power games. I just want him. I want him to take it because it’s his anyway.

  “Abel –”

  “You hungry?” he rasps.

  “What?”

  He smiles, even though his eyes still hold the intensity of moments ago. He slowly disentangles our bodies, lowers my dress gently and tucks my snarly hair behind my ears. But the mess our kiss made inside my body, the buzzing, the lust, the throbbing nipples… I don’t know how I’ll manage to put that back together.

  I’m confused. What’s happening?

  “Want some grilled cheese?” He steps back.

  “I… What?”

  “Lemme make you some grilled cheese.”

  With that, he pads over to his small kitchen, and I’m left shivering, my head a mess. What just happened? Did he… Did he reject me?

  My heart curls up in my chest, thinking… What if I took it too far and he doesn’t want me anymore?

  My Pixie is a cock-tease.

  Is he mad at me about that? Well, I’m not anymore. Gosh. I want him. I want to do it. But how do I tell him this? Maybe I can take my clothes off and stand naked? That should send him a clear message.

  Ugh. No. I can’t do that. I’m not that brave or crazy.

  Dejected, I look around the apartment. It’s a studio with a small kitchen on one side, couch in the middle and his bed taking up the other side, by the window. It’s simple and functional. Nothing fancy. Rough and unpolished, like the boy who lives here. Though it is a little untidy. Despite myself, I smile at the heaps of clothes on the floor, the unmade bed with pillows strewn about.

  My Abel is a slob.

  As I walk further in, I pick up his clothes from the floor and dump them in the laundry bag that sits right by his dresser. I straighten his dirty sneakers and push them under the bed. It makes me giddy, doing these little things for him.

  I stand in the middle of the room while Abel works in the kitchen, his broad back and his arms flexing as he flips the sandwich on the pan, making it sizzle. In this moment, I can see the future. Me and him together. I’ll be doing the cleaning, of course, because I can’t cook at all. Though I’ll make him all the apple pies he wants. Sometimes we’ll order in and sometimes he’ll cook for me. We’ll have a house somewhere, with a big backyard and a tree and a swing. He’ll give me a push and I’ll touch the sky. He’ll kiss me and I’ll feel the sun.

  In four weeks, I’ll tell my parents and then my life will change for the better. We’ll get married and live together. I do have a scholarship to a college a couple of hours away from here. They have a great writing program so I’ve been excited about going. I know Abel will follow me; he’s made all the plans about it. But I’m not so sure I want to go anymore. I want to give our love a chance to grow; college can happen later. But whatever. I haven’t fully decided yet. I have time.

  First, I need to make him have sex with me tonight. I’ll beg too, if that makes him feel better.

  I focus on the big, long desk by the wall, with mountains of papers on it, alongside his camera, of course. I know what they are. They are the sketches he made, and on the wall, are photographs of us together, pinned like the stars.

  I study his sketches; they feature everything, the entire world. The corn fields, the little stores along the heart of the town, the people, the never-ending highway. The buildings of New York that I’ve only seen in the movies and his photos. The bridges strung with Christmas lights, bodies of water, park bench with a bird perched on the back, a lone kite in the sky. It’s everything you think of and it’s everything you ignore.

  Such an artist.

  My fingers burn through the sketches, the photos, so fast that my head spins and my heart races. And then it stops because at the center, I find myself.

  A drawing of me lying on a bed, his bed, naked.

  Nude, bare, stripped, unclothed. My long, long hair is fanned out on his pillow, some strands even going off the bed to touch the floor. My eyes are closed and my lips are parted. One of my knees is folded and one of my hands is on my stomach, hiding my belly-button. And my boobs are jutting out of my frame. Nipples tipped up and hard.

  How the hell did he draw this? He’s never seen me naked. Well, he’s seen my breasts but nothing lower than that.

  There isn’t only one sketch. There are hundreds. I’m in different positions. Head thrown back. Fists clutching the sheets. Teeth biting my lip. Spine arching from the bed. But in all of them I’m naked and yes, aro
used. I touch my body on paper and feel it on my skin, causing goosebumps to erupt. When did he make these? How long has he been making them? And why do I suddenly feel naked, as naked as I am on the paper?

  I don’t register Abel’s closeness until his hand snakes around my waist and his sweet breath puffs into my ear. Good thing he’s here, because I was about to collapse. My legs are shaking like crazy.

  “Fuck,” he mutters when he sees what I’m seeing, and drops his head on my shoulders.

  “I… You’ve never seen me naked.”

  He lifts his head and his jaw scrapes against the side of my face. “I know.”

  I hiss at the sting. “So how did you…”

  “I’ve got an active imagination.” His palm rubs circles around my stomach, as if calming the butterflies inside, taming them with his touch. “And I’ve touched you, felt your curves against my body. I can fill in the blanks.”

  “How long?”

  I hear him swallow. “Months.”

  I imagine him sitting all alone in his bed, drawing pictures of me, hunting down videos online to fantasize about me, while the people our age are either out being in love or sleeping soundly, dreaming of it.

  Maybe it’s the separation we’ve had to endure for so many unfair reasons, or maybe I’ve grown up now, but I’m not a little girl who wanted to play games anymore. Who was probably holding onto her virginity too tightly because she was never given a say in anything else in her life. And as a grown-up — a woman — I understand his needs so much better now. I understand myself better. Something inside me — this urge that’s always been there to please him grows roots, flourishes. It makes me both weak and strong.

  I want to nurture him, soothe away his pain, clutch him to my body and never leave. I want to give him everything. I want to obey him because it gives me pleasure. I was designed that way. For him.

  I grind my butt into his pelvis and arch my back. His lips skim over my cheek, the column of my throat.

  “You’re hard.” I feel his dick through the layers of clothing: his jeans and my dress. But the heat of it is slowly burning through everything.

  “Constantly,” he croaks.

  His lonely tone arrows down to my heart, pierces my skin, and it’s painful. I don’t know if it’s as painful as his lust for me. But I hope to God that it is. I want to feel his pain because I never want him to feel anything by himself.

  I put my hand over his arm that’s banded around my tummy and thread our fingers together. “I can… I can show you what I look like so you don’t have to imagine.”

  Usually, I’m the one who’s losing all her breaths. I’m the one who goes still when her heart is beating as if it’s in a mad race. But this time, it’s him. He’s stopped breathing. I can almost feel his heart pounding on my spine where his chest is flush with me. I’ve stunned him.

  It doesn’t last long though. With a jerk, he spins me around and pushes me against the desk. The edge of it bites into my backside and I grip his biceps to remain steady.

  “What’d you just say?”

  The papers rustle against my dress as I shift on my feet. “I-I said I can show you.”

  He’s taking shaking breaths, searching my face. “You’re fucking with me, aren’t you? Because if you are, Pixie, it’s a cruel thing to do.”

  Looking at him now, I understand why he moved away from me before, when we were kissing. He thought I’d deny him again. He thought I’d say no and thwart his advances and the poor guy was so sick of that.

  Oh Abel.

  I caress his cheek, looking into his beautiful brown eyes. “I promise I’m not kidding. I… want you to have me, and…”

  “And what?”

  I lower my eyes and now my heartbeats probably match his. “I don’t want you to lose me after I’m gone so… I’ll be your muse too.”

  Silence. Pin-drop, epic silence.

  Okay, so maybe I’ve said too much. Maybe I should’ve eased him into it. But the thing is, I don’t want easy. I hadn’t realized that until now. I hadn’t realized the intense hunger inside me. For him. To be his. In every way.

  I hadn’t realized that I want him more than I can ever want anything in this world. In fact, I don’t even want the world, I only want him.

  “Are you saying that I can take your picture?” I nod. “Naked pictures?” I nod again. “Pixie… I…”

  He licks his lips, his eyes both wary and infused with excitement. The brown of his pupils has been swallowed whole with black lust and his cheeks are a shade darker with the flush. He wants this. He wants this so much.

  “I hated last year, like, really, really hated,” I say with a tight voice. “I hated being apart from you. I hated not being able to touch you, talk to you. I don’t know how it happened but somehow, you’re the only one I feel safe with anymore. You’re my everything, Abel. And I want to do this. For you and for myself. Because I love you.” I get up on my tip-toes and place a kiss on his immobile lips. “Besides, in four weeks you’re picking me up and throwing me over your shoulder, anyway. You’re taking me to a courthouse so I can say I do. So you can take whatever you want from me, right?”

  His nostrils flare and he jerks out a nod.

  “Then why not do it now. Tonight? I’m ready.”

  That makes him drop his head back and look to the ceiling like he’s lost all his strength. He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Before I lose my courage, I walk to the bed and then spin around to face him.

  With his eyes tracking paths all over my body, my dress seems too tight, especially around my breasts. My panties are too wet, too constraining. I want to lower my lashes and look at my wiggling toes, but I keep my gaze on him. I reach my hands up and hook my fingers around the zipper. But I pause for a few seconds when he sags against the table, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  My fingers are shaking violently. A couple of times the zipper slips through my sweaty digits like I’m trying to contain sand or water. With a deep breath, I get a handle on it and pull it down. It goes smoothly, loosening the bodice of my dress, letting the air over my sweaty, anticipating skin. His eyes flare. His tongue slips out and licks his lips, his gaze glued to where the dress will open to reveal my breasts.

  I’m almost done when I hit a snag and the zipper gets stuck. Frowning, I try to fix it, but nothing happens.

  “What’s wrong?” he rumbles, in a voice that doesn’t sound like his own.

  “It’s stuck. The zipper.”

  He releases a pent-up breath, but then chuckles. It’s strained and amused, and a little resigned and angry. “Maybe it’s a sign, Pixie. Maybe your God doesn’t want you to bare yourself to me. The town’s monster.”

  “Shut up. Don’t call yourself that. Just help me with it, will you?” I mutter, rolling my eyes, even as I understand his bitter tone. Last year has been hard for us.

  But only four more weeks before I can be with him forever.

  I turn around and hear the intake of his breath. He approaches me with loud feet and puts his hands on my waist over the dress, holding the fabric together, like he’s afraid to let go.

  You know how you can want something too much that you’re scared to actually have it? You’re scared of how it’ll change you to hold that thing in your hands. Maybe that’s what’s he’s afraid of, too. How will we go on living, existing in the same town for a whole month, after doing this? After finally taking the step and being one.

  Because hell yeah. I’m going to sleep with him tonight. No doubt about that.

  “Abel,” I whisper his name like he went to sleep again, lost in his thoughts.

  A puff of breath over the nape of my neck, and then he’s pulling the zipper down, until there’s nowhere left to go. The trail is done and my dress is loose enough to get out of.

  Holy shit. I’m really doing this.

  I snatch the fabric in the front and keep it pinned to my chest before letting it swoosh down and puddle around my feet. His shuddered exhale is so big
that it touches every inch of my body. Every single inch.

  A second later, it’s his fingers touching my bare skin, running along the edge of my bra strap. They are soft but slow, until they touch my hair. Then, they become insistent and tugging and damaging. He’s wrapping the strands around his hand and rubbing the silky smoothness against my back. I swear I hear a moan, but it’s too low to even be considered a sound. I bite my lip, growing wet between my legs.

  “Turn around, baby,” he commands in a low voice.

  Digging nails into my bare thighs, I do. Every muscle in my body is taut. Every vein running under my flesh is strung tight. I’ve never been this naked in front of anyone. No other person on this earth has seen my body this way. Except Abel.

  My boobs are big, bigger than most of the girls I go to school with, and most days they feel clunky and heavy, sometimes sore too. My waist is small but it’s not the kind you see on TV where everything is tight and muscled. No, my stomach is soft and cushiony. It’s all the Toblerones over the years. My skin is pale with blue veins and my thighs and butt are meaty. As I stand here, I realize how rounded and smooth-edged I am in comparison to him. Even covered by clothes, he looks sculpted and muscled.

  “Pink,” he whispers, his eyes blistering through the fabric of my bra.

  “For you.”

  It’s true. I picked out my underwear for him, even though I was going out with Duke. It’s lacy — lacier than what I usually wear. I didn’t know he’d be seeing it though.

  His smile is tight and disbelieving. Just when I think he’s going to touch me, he steps back. I watch him walk backward, his eyes never leaving my body, my breasts specifically, and I’m left feeling shy and flushed. I question him with my eyes as to what he’s doing but he’s silent now, doesn’t give anything away.

  His thighs hit the desk and he reaches out to pick up his camera. The action doesn’t make a sound, but somehow it echoes all around the room. He stares at the black object once before lifting his eyes.

  “Take off the rest of your clothes.”

  Now that sound — his voice — is forever going to echo under the night sky, as if it were only a star-studded roof and the entire world is nothing more than a big, black space. A space where Abel Adams is the king. A god in a black t-shirt, white pants, a silver cross and golden hair, and I’m his disciple.