Selling Out

by Amber Lin

  Had he detected me outside the bathroom? Maybe he would demand an apology. At length I realized he wasn’t waiting for anything. He was merely watching me sleep—a voyeurism of his own.

  I spoke into the darkness. “Hi, Luke.”

  “Shelly.” He returned the greeting without hesitation, apparently unsurprised to find me awake.

  “Can’t sleep?”

  “It’s the adrenaline rush. After a situation like that, it’s not uncommon for me to stay up half the night.”

  “Oh. What do you usually do on those nights?” I had meant watching TV or reading a book but mentally kicked myself, because I had just invited him to tell me about his sex life.

  He sounded amused. “That’s a little different. I’d usually finish out my shift, fill out paperwork. If we made an arrest, there’d be processing and questioning. I don’t usually go straight home.”

  I tried to match his light tone. “This was your first time doing something illegal, then? How does it feel to be a criminal like me?”

  His voice lowered. “It wasn’t my first time doing something criminal.”

  “Really?” I sat up a little. “Did you once run a red light? Never say so.”

  “Nah. Not without the flashers on.”

  “Did you abuse your badge?” I teased. “I can see it now. You pull her over. Oh, Officer, I had no idea I was going so fast. Next thing you know, your belt is around your ankles, and she’s out of a speeding ticket.”

  “What a flattering portrayal of me,” he said drily.

  “Well, I’m out of ideas. I really can’t imagine you breaking the law at all, with the exception of…you know, punching and choking the guy earlier. That was probably illegal.”

  “Probably.”

  “That was different, though. He was totally baiting you. You had a good reason.”

  “All criminals have a good reason.”

  I considered that. “I don’t. I did it to get money. That’s hardly a noble cause.”

  “You had your reasons. I know you helped Allie.”

  “I should be excused, then.” I nodded as if I agreed. “Besides, I didn’t hurt anybody, so that should count for something. What do they call that?”

  “A victimless crime.”

  “That’s it. Mine was a victimless crime. Except if you talk to the lady who runs the shelter, she’d say I was the victim. Which would make me the victim of my own crime. Isn’t that funny?”

  “Fucking hilarious,” he said darkly, turning to leave.

  “Wait. I don’t know why I say that stuff.”

  He had stopped, facing away. “It’s how you cope, and you don’t have to apologize for it. It’s just… It’s a touchy subject for me.”

  Of course it was, because of his sister. And here I was making a joke about it. “I’m sorry. Please stay.”

  “You should get some rest.”

  “I don’t want to be alone.”

  After a long beat, he slid into bed. He didn’t just lie next to me. He wrapped me up in his arms, tucked my body inside his. He was wearing jeans and nothing else, no shirt to shield me from his skin, his maleness. It was more than I was expecting, more than I was prepared for. We were so close, enveloped in each other, and I wasn’t cut out for genuine intimacy. It was suffocating. The backs of my eyelids pricked. I struggled to get away.

  He held me tighter. “Shh. I won’t hurt you.”

  My laugh was watery. “I think I could stand that better.”

  “Yeah,” he said softly. “You probably could. But you can let me hold you.”

  I lay in his arms, tense. I wanted to relax, to enjoy this like a normal person, but I couldn’t shake the old, now stale panic. I knew he wouldn’t hurt me. It wasn’t for fear of him, but fear of the past. When I lay in his arms without the rote mechanics of a job, the fear took over.

  He spoke in a tone so certain it soothed me. “One day you’ll be free of this. You won’t have to look over your shoulder all the time or be scared anymore. You’ll have a place of your own. But bigger. And nicer. No ruffles for you. You’ll have a whole life. All this will fade away into the past.”

  But I didn’t want to forget him. I didn’t want to forget the rough timbre of his voice as he tried to imagine me, happy and whole.

  “Keep going,” I begged.

  He paused. “I know you think guys only want you for your body. What else could you think, considering what you’ve been through? But it doesn’t have to be that way. You’ll find a guy who sees what’s inside you, who loves you for that more than anything else.”

  Past the serious insights, a glint of humor touched my lips. “Are you telling me about my life with another guy while your dick is hard against my hip?”

  “Ignore that.” I heard the smile in his voice. “Every guy has a part of him that’s a greedy bastard. Right now that’s the only part of us you see.”

  “I can’t see it right now, but from what I can feel, it’s very impressive.”

  He snorted. “Don’t act like you prefer them larger.”

  “Don’t act like you didn’t appreciate the compliment anyway.”

  His laugh confirmed my words. “You don’t need to pretend with me. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Ah, we’re back to the fake orgasms. Do they offend you so much?”

  “They aren’t necessary. If I wanted to fuck you without making you come, I would do it.”

  The harsh language reverberated within me, but it was the truth. He could have had me by now, for free or by the hour. He hadn’t. I wanted to know the reason even as I was terrified to find out. Whatever my fatal flaw was would haunt me forever after. “Why haven’t you?”

  Tension rolled through him. His voice flattened. “I have a different view of the situation than you.”

  “The situation?”

  “Prostitution. I don’t care if I’m paying you or if you say you consent. You don’t want this.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I’m not so vain as to believe I’m the one man you actually want to have sex with.”

  “What if I told you I had watched your body with lust? That I wanted to feel you inside me?”

  “You’re under my protection right now.” His voice was strained. “It’s in your best interest to stay in my good graces, to develop a bond with me.”

  “So now I don’t even know what I want? My desires are invalid? Oh please, spare me from another man who tells me what to feel.”

  “I’m trying to protect you. From me.” His erection loomed thick and hard against my side, belying his words. “God, there’s a million reasons why this is a bad idea. You’re too young. You’ve been hurt too badly and used too much. How can you consent to me and mean it? It would be rape if I touched you.”

  I pulled back and turned to face him, incredulous. “You’re saying I’m not even capable of consenting. I’m so far beyond broken that I can’t even do what another woman can. Do you know how much that insults me? When you take away my choice, it diminishes me. I don’t want to be less than anyone else. I want to be whole.”

  “Christ,” he said. “I know. I’m sorry. I know.”

  His apologies were like a prayer, heartfelt but falling on deaf ears. I pushed away, scrambling to the edge of the bed.

  “Get away from me. Don’t touch me. Or am I not allowed to say that either? I don’t even know what I want. Is that right?”

  It was right, though, whether he said it or not. I was so torn up inside, wanting him near me but fearing and loathing myself. Tears slipped down my cheeks.

  “I will leave,” he said quietly. “If you want me to go. Is that what you want?”

  “No,” I sobbed. “Don’t go. Don’t leave me. Even if I tell you to, that’s not what I really want. I just can’t say it all the time. I can’t say what I want anymore. I’m so afraid.”

  He pulled me down into his arms. It hurt again, in that old familiar pain, but I didn’t fight it this time. I let him hold me and rock m
e and soothe me, until the tears dried up and my hurt faded into tiredness. I drifted in the cradle of his arms, in and out of sleep. Slumber wasn’t a destination but a journey, allowing my body to rest and my mind to recover.

  When I woke with a soft start, he soothed me. “Shh. I’m here.”

  “Luke?” Sleep weighted my voice.

  “That’s right. Go back to sleep.”

  “Have you been awake all this time?”

  “I told you. I usually stay awake after a rush like that. I’m fine, though. You should rest.”

  “I want to stay up with you. To keep you company.” I struggled awake. My mind felt like it was underwater. I stretched a little and felt him tense beside me.

  “Hold still,” he said tautly.

  As awareness seeped into me, I recognized the sexual tension that he held at bay. It was more than passing arousal. Gentle tremors betrayed his restraint.

  “Let me help you,” I whispered. “I want to.” At his hesitation, I said, “Don’t turn me away.”

  He groaned. “God help me, I don’t think I can.”

  When he rolled over me, it wasn’t with a savage lust. He touched me with infinite care, his hands on the most innocuous parts of me—the bare skin of my waist, the curve of my shoulder. If it weren’t for the hard brand of his cock against my leg or the gentle thrusts he seemed unable to control, I wouldn’t have known his urgency. But he held it in check, preferring to explore my skin with the gradual caresses of a reverent lover.

  Heat flared through me, urging me onward, faster, oh God, more—I needed so much more. More pressure, more of Luke.

  “Do you want…?” I caught myself.

  “Want what?” he panted.

  “Nothing.”

  But he wouldn’t let me forget. Finally I muttered, “To kiss. It’s okay if you don’t.”

  A shudder ran through him at my words. “You’re going to kill me, I swear it,” he said and then kissed me.

  Warm. His lips, his hands, the tenderness he showed me. All of it filled me with warmth, from heart-full comfort to simmering sexual awareness. The brush of his bristled jaw sent sparks along my skin. His tongue pressed to mine, and I gasped into his mouth, breathing in his air, his scent, the care he imbued in every touch.

  He slid his hand beneath my shirt, slowly, slowly, giving me plenty of time to stop him, while I counted the seconds until he finally touched me there. The feel of his hand cupping my breast sent a shock through me. A whimper reached my ears—it was me. I felt drugged, by him, by giving myself over with no business and no force. This was what I had demanded from him, the right to choose this, and now that I had it, the heady taste of him threatened to overwhelm me. I had wanted the power, but this felt like surrender.

  In a brief show of impatience, he tugged my shirt over my head, tossing it away. I was unraveling here, coming apart at the seams, and who knew what would be revealed underneath. It didn’t matter, not when he put his mouth to my breast, closed his lips over my nipple, and flicked it with the soft wetness of his tongue.

  He kissed my breasts with reverence, and a few seconds of false worship had my hips lifting up to him. Restless, I moved my legs, allowing him to fall between me, his hardness nudging against the fabric of the boxers I wore. He pulled back, though not enough to tear our clothes off and complete the act. No, he settled himself above me, content to touch and lick and tease. He was teasing me, I realized through my haze. Pulling back when I reached for him, stoking the fires so that I wanted more and more, helpless in his thrall until he decided to grant me release. I knew this trick. I had performed it so often from the other side.

  “Don’t,” I murmured.

  He paused, panting, then rested his forehead beneath my breasts. “Do you need me to stop?”

  “Stop playing. Give me what I want. What you want.”

  I expected him to deny it, to say that was what he had been doing all along. Instead he shook his head. “I can’t let go. It would be too much.”

  He added as an afterthought, “For you,” and I wondered whether it meant the opposite. Whether it would be too much for him.

  Stroking his hair, I felt a rush of longing. “I don’t want the watered-down version of you. I don’t want some experience you think I should have—the careful boyfriend, the gentle lover. I want you.”

  He placed openmouthed kisses on my skin. “You deserve all of that.”

  I groaned in lust and apprehension as he reached the crease below my belly. “I don’t know.”

  “Say no if you don’t want it. I’ll stop.” Though it didn’t feel like he would when he pulled off my shorts and spread my thighs, his hands like iron bands holding me open. It didn’t feel like he was capable of stopping or hearing me at all, when he licked and sucked at my cunt as if he were starving, dying, and could think of no better way to go. I bucked into his mouth, my body confused, caught between sensitivity and arousal, between overexposure and never having enough.

  Rough groans escaped me, animalistic sounds of pain and pleasure, nothing like the sexy moans I could make on command. I grabbed at the sheets, searching for something to anchor me. There was no seduction from either one of us, only desire. There was no teasing, only taking. I took pleasure from his mouth, and he took all my reserve, all my fear and loneliness, leaving only wild abandon and a sense of pure acceptance.

  His fingers pushed inside me, rocking, working their way between tender flesh, but it wasn’t enough. I wanted to tell him, but I couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think of anything but the sharp ache he drew forth. Then his mouth was over my clit, and his hands rough and insistent, and I tumbled off the cliff, crying out in wordless relief. I could feel my inner muscles clench around his fingers, pulling at them in an attempt to bring him deeper. Even as my body floated in blissful stupor, I wanted him inside me.

  He rested his cheek against my hip for a moment before sliding off beside me. Rolling to my side, I examined him. My orgasm softened my vision, as if I were seeing him in a dream. His eyes were closed, the angles of his face more distinct from the darkness and his arousal.

  I peeled the clothes from his body with a foreign sense of wonder. I had done this so many times but never with him. He stayed passive for my perusal, taut with arousal but too conscious to rush me, too kind to force me. His body was corded with bands of muscle, a sinewy sculpture dusted with light brown hair. As I tugged his briefs down his hips, his erection hung heavy over his lean stomach, thick and dark.

  I reached over and stroked a finger from tip to base.

  “Don’t,” he gasped.

  I smiled lazily, echoing his words. “Do you need me to stop?”

  “God, no. Just go slow. I’m so fucking close.”

  I fisted his cock, relishing the burn of his hot, silky skin against my palm. He sucked in a breath. I stroked him with the same rhythm he had used on himself. He bucked and moaned, delirious in a matter of seconds.

  His hand enclosed mine for two strokes and then fell back onto the bed. His head fell back too as he ceded control to me. I could see the struggle in the lines of his neck, in his teeth, in his lip, in the grunts that matched each downward stroke of my hand. But he must have thought it was important to give me this power, and so I resolved to use it well.

  Leaning over, I flicked my tongue over the tip of his cock, tasting saltiness and sex as he pushed up into my fist. I let him linger there, the head of his cock glistening and begging for more. I gave another quick lap at the slit to match another downward thrust. Again and again, I exacted sweet revenge for some nameless slight. For bringing me to this point where I wanted his arousal more than his release. Where I wanted to hold him at the brink for eternity, if only to see his eyes saturated with lust and desire and need.

  I varied my licks—at the tip, riding the vein along the side, at the base where his cock met his groin. A tease, all of it, trying to see how far I could push him, how much he would take. It seemed limitless, his agony, as he staved off
his climax. This wasn’t the pleasurable pastime in the shower but a fight, a struggle—an exercise in torture and devotion.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” he chanted under his breath.

  I loved that he swore during sex. He would occasionally swear around me but was for the most part very respectful. Fuck respectful. I wanted his coarseness, his crudity, every dirty thought he ever had.

  “Do it,” I whispered.

  “I don’t—” He gave up midsentence—gave up pretending not to know, not to want, not to dream of owning me the way I dreamed of being owned. With his hand behind my head, he guided me to the tip, not to lick or suck him, but to take all of him, to swallow him down. I moaned with my mouth full of his flesh and felt his balls tighten under my caress.

  Even in this, I wouldn’t give in too easily. I went slowly, laving my tongue along the underside but without the proper rhythm to bring him to orgasm. It was far too early to submit completely. He understood what no other man ever had—for me, pleasure was freely given, easily bought. It was the withholding that measured my trust, and the permission for him to bring me in line.

  He nudged my head down, and when I acquiesced, he did it again, over and over, until he let out a choked sound and released warm, salty cum onto my tongue. I caressed him softly with my tongue as he shuddered through his climax, his hands tangled in my hair, grasping and reaching as if he couldn’t get close enough.

  I felt languorous from making him come, more gratified by his pleasure than my own. I climbed up his body and rested my chin on the ridges of his abs.

  “Well, did you survive it after all?” My voice came out husky.

  After a moment, he said, “No. Not ever, Jesus.”

  Which wasn’t really a complete or coherent sentence but felt just about perfect. We dozed in bed. By which I meant, he fell asleep almost immediately, a stuttered snore emanating from him. Typical man. But I didn’t have to wake him so he could tip me or anything, so I felt pretty good about it.

  Instead I could lie there and overthink everything. Was that part of the typical, noncommercial sex experience?

  What did we just do? I asked myself, even though the faint saltiness on my tongue was answer enough. Would everything change, or nothing? What did he feel for me, and was it exactly the same as what I felt for him? How stressful. On the whole, I might have preferred a couple crisp C-notes.