Loud is How I Love You

by Mercy Brown

  “Should we call her and ask?”

  “Isn’t she upstairs?”

  “How hard did you hit your head last night?”

  Well, now I’m pink in the cheeks and I guess I’m the asshole because nobody is here but us. Travis grabs his jacket and we go back out the door and walk up the hill to Dunkin’ Donuts. He’s talking about this paper he’s writing about Bob Marley and he’s acting fairly normal and I’m so glad because things, for the first time since sexageddon, aren’t feeling all that weird. I hate when it’s weird with Bean because aside from Sonia, he’s my best friend, and by definition a best friend is someone you never have to feel weird around. I start to think, yeah, maybe I haven’t fucked all of this up between us. We can be—hell, we are being adults. We’re adults! We had sex, fine, and it was incredible, yeah, but it’s just sex. We can still be normal. It doesn’t change anything. Not changing anything is good, because things are really pretty great right exactly how they are.

  As I’m watching Travis pay for my iced hazelnut coffee (and I don’t know if this is a Nebraska manners thing, but he never lets me pay for anything, unless it’s guitar gear, because that shit’s expensive), the only problem I’m having now is that I can’t seem to take my eyes off his mouth. His lips, in particular, and his tongue when he darts it out to lick the wayward icing from his lips after he takes a bite of his coffee roll. I want to lick those lips myself, see if I can taste the sugar left on them. By the time we walk back down the hill and he’s got his key in the door, that’s all I can think about. I’ve already sucked down half a large coffee, thinking about how much I want to suck on every part of him.

  “Do you want me to take a look at your paper?” I say.

  “I’m only halfway done with it,” he says. “I was going to ask you to proof it tomorrow while I’m at work.”

  “Oh.” Well, then.

  I don’t go, even though I know I should since things are so nice and normal again, and he’s got work to do. Instead I linger there as Travis puts his jacket on the coatrack. He turns around and studies me for a minute.

  “Come on upstairs,” he says. “You can read what I’ve got so far and let me know if it makes any sense.”

  This is a terrible idea. A terrible, wonderful idea, because we just got things back to normal, and if I go upstairs with him now, something is very likely going to happen here that falls well outside the realm of normal and inside the world of awesome, but that awesome world, let’s be real here, is a little bit too much for me. It’s like winning a rocket trip to a different star system and I forgot my space helmet.

  I go upstairs anyway.

  Travis is one of these rare guys who’s not a slob. He’s not exactly a neat freak, but he’s organized. We’re in his room and his bed is made. (Seriously, what twenty-two-year-old guy makes his bed?) There are no dirty clothes anywhere except a few things in a laundry basket sitting on the floor of his closet. The closet door is open and his shoes, of which he has exactly three additional pairs (a pair of black Converse high-tops, a pair of black dress shoes, and a pair of Adidas running shoes), are all lined up on the floor. His guitar sits out in its stand in the corner, like it’s watching me. Judging. Stop that, Les Paul. Cut it right out.

  There are books on the desk—actual books about international political economy. They’re stacked up with Post-it notes sticking out where he’s marked passages. He’s actually read these books. There are also well-notated photocopied articles and a handwritten outline for his paper and his father’s old Apple PowerBook with a blinking cursor right in the middle of an unfinished sentence, and holy shit—he really was writing a paper. I’m so happy right now I could jump him.

  “I was wondering where that sweatshirt was,” he says.

  “I have to wash it,” I answer.

  He points to the chair in front of the laptop, one of those black, spinny, armless office chairs. I sit down and he’s on the edge of the bed and it’s a small room, so he’s basically right behind me, his knees straddling either side of me on the chair. I’m paging the cursor down, trying to read this paragraph about Bob Marley and the song “Buffalo Soldier,” and I guess it’s interesting but I can’t really tell you because the proximity of Travis is driving me crazy, and I mean that in a purely sexual way. His adorable boy face is right here, over my shoulder like a devil whispering, “Let’s fuck,” in my ear. He’s not actually saying that. But I can feel his breath on the back of my ear, I can hear those quiet little mouth sounds he makes. He clicks his tongue softly and it makes me shiver.

  “Are you cold?” he asks, at the same exact time I say, “Is it warm in here?”

  I laugh and pull my (fine, his) sweatshirt off over my head, totally conscious of how my tank top rises up over my back and I quickly tug it down. I get up and hang the hoodie on the hook behind the door and when I turn back around he’s sitting in the desk chair, leaning back with his arms crossed in front of his chest. And he’s glaring at me.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, honestly confused.

  “You did not come over here in that tank top with no bra on expecting to leave in once piece, did you?”

  Well, no, not really. I fold my arms across my chest though, because fuck him for declaring the obvious.

  “Emmylou.”

  “What?”

  “Come here,” he says. “Or else go. Because if you don’t want anything to happen, this is pretty much your last chance.”

  “Are you saying you do want something to happen?”

  “Do I have a dick? I think we both know the answer to that.”

  “Well, what if I’m still undecided?”

  He rolls his eyes and spins back around to the laptop.

  “You have five minutes to make up your mind before I jump you,” he says. “It’s 1:23, so at 1:28, it’s on. You’ve been warned.”

  “Wait, those are my only options? To be mauled or to walk home? What about the paper?”

  “Fuck the paper,” he says. “I’ll drop it off for you on my way to work tomorrow.”

  “What about . . .”

  “What about what?”

  “What about Millie?”

  “Millie?” he says, spinning back around to face me. “Oh yes, Millie Vagaboss. Let’s definitely talk about her.” His sarcasm really isn’t bad for a Midwestern boy.

  “It’s none of my business, really,” I say as I realize I don’t actually want to hear this, most likely.

  “No, no, it’s your business, especially since you gave her your blessing to basically dry hump me in the van last night.”

  “What the hell?” I think I feel my nostrils flaring, but I really hope not. “I did?”

  “Yeah, thanks for that,” he says. “She told me you said there’s nothing going on between us, and you were cool if she hooked up with me, like I’m some guy in your personal boy harem and you’re giving me to her as a token of your appreciation.”

  “It was so not like that! Are you kidding me?”

  “She was really drunk,” he says. “But that was the gist of it, yeah.”

  Now I’m mad. I have no idea why, since I basically did tell Millie she was free to go for it with Bean.

  “What’s wrong?” he says. “Did you really expect to find her hiding in my closet? Were you going to fight for my honor or something?”

  “Stop making fun of me.”

  “Stop giving me to your friends like I’m some kind of manslut.”

  “I didn’t do that!”

  “You did tell her there was nothing between us, though.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I say, feeling guilty and I’m not even sure why.

  “And then you walked right over here in my favorite tank top without a fucking bra on, and by the way? Your five minutes is up.”

  “I know,” I say.

  Cue eye lock. I feel like motherfuckin
g Cyclops I’m owning this stare-down so hard.

  But then Travis pounces, throws me over his shoulder and dumps me onto the bed. He jumps on top of me and starts to tickle the hell out of me. His fingers are in my armpits, in my side, the crook of my neck. I’m howling with laughter until I cry and beg him to stop. I haven’t laughed this hard in I can’t even remember how long. I finally get a breath in and he’s smiling, wide, his eyes are all happy and when he finally kisses me, it’s gentle and sweet. He hovers, his lips barely touching mine until I’m lifting off the bed for him, pulling his face to mine so I can slide my tongue into his mouth. He moans and now he’s really kissing me, leaning on his elbows over me, concentrating all of his attention on my lips as he licks them, then licks into my mouth.

  Now I’m back in that other place, the awesome place. It feels a lot like being in the band cave with him, where we don’t need words to let the other know what’s going on inside. In the cave it’s all tone and feeling. Here it’s the sound of his breathing over me, into me, the sexy, hungry noises we make together because we just can’t help ourselves. It’s the feeling of his lips sliding over mine, the feel of his tongue as he slips it into my mouth again, tasting hazelnut coffee and whatever else I taste like when I want to get fucked, because I want it. Right now. And he knows it.

  He’s known it all along, I’m sure.

  I could do this all day, all night, all week, except it’s making me ache fiercely between my legs and he hasn’t gone there yet. I’m hoping he’s going to move his hand up under my shirt, touch me, move things along, but he’s taking it so slow. It doesn’t dawn on me that he’s just being careful—he doesn’t want to spook me again. I’m not here for slow, though, so I climb on top of him and his hard dick is all the invitation I need to take my pants off. He groans when I climb back over him and kneel there in nothing but black lace panties (because I definitely planned ahead this time), candy-striped kneesocks, and his favorite Pixies tank. And no bra, of course.

  “Jesus fucking Christ, Emmylou,” he says as he runs his hands over my ass. His thumb hooks the waistband of my panties like he might yank them down but he just keeps it there. I feel his other hand sliding up the back of my thigh, under the fabric and he rests it on my ass, sweeping his thumb across my skin. Now we’re getting somewhere.

  I lean down and kiss him again, feel him run his hands up my back, under my tank. I start licking and kissing his neck. I love the clean smell of it, the long and smooth contours. When I put my mouth on it, he breathes even harder and grips my ass with both hands, pulls me down right onto his dick and God, he feels so, so, so, so, so, so good. I start to suck on his neck, just like I’ve been wanting to suck on every part of him. I keep sucking right in the same spot, running my tongue over it, scraping my teeth as he’s holding me and rocking into me and I suck harder and harder and think, Oh shit, he’s going to be pissed when he sees what I’ve done. It’s March and as far as I know, Travis doesn’t even own a turtleneck.

  “Emmy . . .” he says in this accusatory tone. “You did not just give me a hickey, did you?”

  When I giggle and don’t answer he rolls me off of him, gets up, and walks over to the full-length mirror on the closet door. I follow him over and we both see this big, bright red-and-purple bruise right on the front—the front!—of his very pale neck. He looks like he fell down the stairs. I didn’t realize it would be so big, but I’m actually sort of impressed with myself.

  “Emmylou!” he yells at me. “What are you, thirteen?”

  I stand there and shrug like I’m thirteen, basically.

  “You did this on purpose?”

  “No, not really?”

  “You totally did this to get back at Millie, I can’t believe you.”

  I don’t even realize this is true until he says it. Then I feel sort of bad because I really want to laugh but I can’t tell if he’s actually angry or not. Then I just laugh because I can’t even help myself.

  “Good God, I have never in my life wanted to spank a girl as much as I do right now,” he says absently in the mirror as he’s inspecting the damage.

  My mouth drops open because I have never even considered the possibility of being spanked by anyone until just now. And I’m a little alarmed by how much it turns me on.

  “You marked me like I’m some sort of Catholic high school girl,” he mutters, apparently oblivious to the situation he’s just created in my underwear.

  “You’d look adorable in a plaid skirt and kneesocks,” I say, leaning my chin on his shoulder as I stand behind him, watching him in the mirror. “They go really well with hickeys.”

  “That’s it.”

  That’s all the warning I get before he grabs me, drops us both down on the bed, throws me over his knee and I swear to God I have no idea how to make sense of what I’m feeling as he pulls my panties down to my knees and my bare ass is exposed. I’m surprised his hard-on doesn’t give us both internal injuries. I’m shaking and I feel like I might come and he hasn’t even touched me yet. Can a girl come from having a boy just look at her naked ass? Is that physiologically possible?

  “You’re in so much trouble, Emmylou,” he says, running his hand over my ass. I tremble because I believe him, but I’m not exactly sorry.

  “I’m sorry,” I say anyway. He’s not convinced when I giggle like an idiot.

  “Oh, you will be.” He pins me down on his lap as I squirm.

  Oh my God, oh shit oh shit oh shit, I think. Is it going to hurt? Will I like it? What the hell will it mean if I do? What is he going to think . . . I guess I’m willing to find out, because I’m not trying to get away or anything. I’m too busy laughing at how ridiculous this is and being more turned on than I know how to handle.

  Travis reaches across me into his desk drawer and I wonder if he’s going to pull out a ruler and smack me with that. I cringe a little at the thought, but then I see he’s holding a Sharpie permanent marker. The Sharpie, in fact. The thick one that he uses to tag our band name on things.

  “What the hell are you doing with that?”

  He pulls the cap off with his teeth and then I feel the tip of it, cold and damp with ink, on my left ass cheek. It tickles so I’m writhing and giggling and I have no idea what the hell he’s doing back there.

  “Hold still,” he says. “You’re messing it up!”

  “Messing what up?”

  “My art.”

  “You’re drawing . . . art? On my ass?”

  “God, your ass is pretty much a work of art as it is. I’m just, you know, embellishing.”

  I shake my head and try to be still but it tickles and holy God am I turned on. I feel slick between my thighs as he drags the marker across my skin. I have goose bumps all over my back, all down the back of my legs. I complain that he needs to hurry up because I really would like to get back to the sex part, but he shushes me. When he’s done, I feel the warm air of Travis’s breath as he’s trying to get the ink to dry.

  “Do I at least get to see it?” I ask.

  “Oh yes,” he says. “Most definitely. Damn, I wish I had a photo of this.”

  “Don’t you dare!”

  “Emmy, come on,” he says. “I would never do that. Unless you wanted me to, of course. Then I’d oblige.”

  “I don’t!”

  “Fine, fine, let me let it sear into my memory for the ages then, because this might be my life’s masterpiece right here.”

  Then he rolls me off of his lap, which is kind of too bad because I really like it there. I pull my underwear back up and he maneuvers me back over to the mirror by my shoulders, turns me around, and tugs my panties back down so they’re just below my ass, and when I see what his Sharpie masterpiece is? I go fire-engine red all over.

  Because that asshole wrote his name, in enormous, fancy letters, right across my ass!

  “Oh, no you didn’t,” I say, b
lushing so hard I cover my face with my hands.

  “Oh, hell yes I did,” he says, that cocky son of a bitch. “So now, if anybody else asks you if there’s anything between us, you can tell them I’m your tattoo artist and you’re my canvas. Or maybe you can just show them.”

  Then he smacks me right on the ass.

  “Jesus Christ, Travis,” I say, and I am so mad and so fucking turned on right now I can’t even handle it.

  “Hey,” he says. “You started it.”

  “I just fired a shot. You went nuclear!”

  “I did not go nuclear,” he argues. “You gave me a hickey on my neck for God and the entire human race to see. Your ass is our secret. That is, unless you’re planning to show your ass to anyone else.”

  “Well I’m not now!”

  “Damn right you’re not.”

  When he takes a step back like that and smiles, I want to smack him.

  But not nearly as much as I want to fuck him.

  Chapter Five

  If Travis is going to tattoo his name on my ass in Sharpie, he’s obligated to satisfy all my sexual needs until it wears off. I inform him of this and he nods thoughtfully, like he’s thinking it over. He’s taking it under consideration. I tell him he’d better be prepared to fuck me. And fuck me very, very well.

  “You’d better impress me,” I say.

  “It’ll be hard to live up to the Michael Bolton Fan Club president,” he says. “But I’ll do what I can.”

  “Shut up. How do you know that’s the last guy I had sex with? You don’t know that.”

  “I’m the last guy you had sex with,” he reminds me. “So I guess I’m in competition with myself. Now I really am worried.”

  “Shut up, you dork.”

  “Lay down,” he says, pulling his T-shirt off over his head.

  I lie down on the bed, propped up on my elbows, and stare—no, no, I ogle him as he undoes his pants and pushes them with his boxers to the floor. This is the first time I have ever looked at him totally naked in front of me in broad daylight, and Christ in a Kinko’s, he is something to look at naked. To study. His shoulders are strong and broad like a swimmer’s, his chest is defined but not bulky. His arms flex as he leans over me. That sleek expanse of taut skin between his hip and his navel is where I plan to spend eternity after I die. And I’m not even going to describe the finely crafted specimen of male anatomy otherwise known as his cock, because fuck you, hands off, that’s why. But it’s gorgeous. Thick and straight and cut in a way that makes it a real standout. I’ve had just enough experience with dicks to know they all look a little different, and no dick I’ve ever seen in person or in print makes me salivate just looking at it. But his does.