“What did they say?”
“They said read me. Just read me. And do you know what I found?” She shakes her head no. “It hasn’t been an easy read. Something along the lines of War and Peace, but written in Morse code and backward.”
Brontë smiles, but it doesn’t really touch her ears. It’s still beautiful, but I want the one that shines so brightly it could lead anyone through crushing blackness.
“But the story’s not over,” I continue on. “Her story might be a difficult read, but figuring it out has brought me so much satisfaction already. That in the end, I know all the time spent will be worth it. The greatest story I have ever or will ever read.”
“I’m sorry I’ve been so all over the place.”
“Just part of the story. One day, you’ll trust me.” It’s not meant to make her feel bad, just something she needs to hear.
“Ben.”
“Yeah, baby?”
“Can you take me home?”
“So soon? We haven’t had dessert yet.”
“I want you to…see me.” It takes a minute to figure out what she’s saying. When I don’t answer her she says, “I want to take another step.”
“Are you sure? Only because you want to. Not because of me.”
“I want to because of you.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
We’d drifted some from our table. With her hand in mine, our fingers locked together, I excuse us from our group. “Elle and I are heading home now. Thank you for a wonderful evening.”
“Everything all right?” Errol is the first to ask. But Bri looks from me to Elle and punches him in the shoulder.
“Everything is fine,” she says through gritted teeth, not wanting to call attention to the sexual undercurrent humming through our departure. Because she knows Elle. She’s a good friend. They all are.
“Well we’re staying longer, then we might go dancing or catch a movie.” Collin. He understands me too.
When we return to the apartment she has me closing the front door with my back as she pushes me up against it. I love when she initiates. But as often happens, I get a little over zealous with the woman. Her kiss is scorching. The kind of slow burn to bring a man to his knees. And I’d be more than willing to drop to my knees if she’d let me. We just aren’t there yet.
“I want you to see me,” she whispers again.
I scoop her up into my arms, carrying her into our bedroom and set her down on the bed. Then go back to shut the door before joining her there.
“How do you want to do this? You want me to match you?”
She nods and I shuck out of my shirt. She pulls the undershirt over my head.
“Those eyes,” I whisper. “I’m reading them, Brontë.”
“Will you?”
“You’re absolutely sure?” She nods and that’s all the encouragement my greedy fingers need to begin working the buttons on her blouse.
A slow descent into madness, she drags me further down with every move, every moan. The touch of her skin against mine, incendiary. The faintest scent of coconut fans the inferno of desire. Yeah, I really just thought that. Writer’s brain.
I know what I’m doing. I know the how, the why, the when, and the where of everything I’m doing. Every touch, breath, caress, or press of my lips. And I know she knows.
No matter how badly I want to rush through, now is not the time for speed. It only takes the lightest brushing from my index finger for the satin fabric to drip away. She’s all lace and sex goddess underneath. Lace and underwire pushing her breasts round and pert against my lips. She tastes even better than she smells. Every lap of my tongue is a caress against my soul.
Her hips sway and press against me like we’re back on the dance floor and I close my eyes then pull away. Slowly I open them again and she’s staring at me. Staring through me. Elle lifts my finger, tucking it under the strap of her bra at the shoulder. I run the same finger back and forth against the bareness, sending a shockwave of pulsating want through me and her. I feel it.
“You sure?” She nods. “No, baby. I have to hear you. I have to know you are ready to reveal this part of yourself to me. Are you ready, Brontë? You sure?”
“Yes. I’m sure.”
At her words, I slip my hand from the strap of her bra to the band on the back. So anxious, I haven’t been all thumbs since I was a freshman in high school, fumbling to get it unhooked. We accidentally knock our foreheads together and laugh. What else is there to do?
She says to me, “You look nervous.”
“I am.”
“How are you nervous? Disrobing a girl should be like eating or drinking for you.”
“I’m nervous for what it means. You aren’t just showing me your body, you are showing your trust in me. Every step means that trust has deepened.”
“Try again then,” she whispers.
So I do and the bra falls away completely. We are chest to bare chest. I couldn’t tear my eyes away now if I wanted to. She has the most perfect breasts I’ve ever had the privilege to see, to touch. But it’s more than that. Knowing how her brain works, if my eyes move too fast she’ll take that as a slight. Like I’ve found some flaw. What’s a flaw? I don’t know that word in conjunction to this beautiful woman.
I really am being a good boy here, because once you’ve had your lips on Elle Dinninger’s breasts, you don’t want them anywhere else. Yet I pull back to admire once again, to caress, and to bask in the glory of the female form lying underneath me. Until she captures my mouth with a smoldering kiss.
Chapter 36
Elle
I can’t believe I’m here. With Ben. We’re both naked from the waist up. Intimacy wasn’t supposed to be a part of my life anymore. I accepted it. But here we are. Thinking about the past takes me from the moment, and the second I’m not in the moment the panic begins to form as an evil bubble in the pit of my stomach. I want my pill bottle. Fail—no! Not now. Not today. It’s not easy, but as I close my eyes, breathing in slowly through my nose and letting the spent air escape even slower through my parted lips, the fear bubbles fizzle away leaving nothing but raw sensation behind.
Through his slow, purposeful attack on my breasts, nipping and kissing and scraping his teeth over my highly sensitive skin, Ben asks, “Can I touch you?”
“Yes.”
“We’re pushing boundaries. How far are you willing to go?”
“V-valentine’s morning. I’m sorry.”
“Baby, don’t be sorry. You have to be ready. I just want to know. Valentine’s morning was pretty fucking amazing, if you remember.”
That’s where the talking officially ends. He slips his hand down the waist of my skirt instead of pushing up the hem. Brushing my panties to the side for easier access, working his magic as he concentrates on my naked breasts again.
Ben pulls his hand back up after a few pleasurable minutes from that delicate spot between my thighs, wearing a strained smirk on his lips as he brings two fingers in front of his face. “What’s—blood?”
Shock takes away my ability to speak, to move, to breathe. What the hell? Why does the universe hate me so damn much?
“I’m…I’m so sorry,” I finally sputter out. “I’m not scheduled to start for two days. I’ve never been early. Jesus, you could set a clock by me.” Tears sting the rims of my eyes, opening up to a full-on downpour. “How does this happen to me? I’m twenty-one, not sixteen. Sabrina has a freaking engagement ring on her finger, and you’re messing around with a pubescent mess.”
“It’s not that big a deal. You don’t think Bri and Errol had to deal with shit when they moved in together?”
“No. Not like us.”
“You’re wrong. He’s told me stuff. Babe, it’s a woman thing, I get it. Just the stuff a guy accepts when he invites his girlfriend to stay.”
“I couldn’t even warn you! Look at you, you’ve got blood on your fingers.”
“Yeah, and you’ve worn my excitement
in your hair before. So, I guess we’re even. Besides, I’ve heard sexual activity can change the pattern.”
“We are not having this conversation.” Rolling up from the bed, I run to the bathroom, slam the door, and lock myself in. Sinking to the floor, I pull my knees up to rest my forehead against.
He knocks several times, but I ignore him and the knock. “C’mon, Elle—open up, please.”
Nothing.
“Do you have anything? I didn’t notice any feminine products in there.”
“No. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. I thought I’d have time to go to the store.”
“I’ve made room for your stuff. Don’t you think I expected it? Well, not this exactly, but women have periods unless there’s a health issue, which I don’t even want to think about. Or you’re pregnant, which would be a medical impossibility for us. Or you’ve reached menopause, which you are far too young for.”
Nothing.
“Elle. Elle?” He leaves. His steps pad away from the door, growing fainter and fainter until only my breathing stirs in my ears.
Eventually, after I don’t know how much time, footsteps pad back into the room. “I—uh—didn’t know what you use—so I bought a little of everything.” There’s a sweet awkwardness to his words. I unlatch the lock and stick my hand out through the door.
Ben hangs the bag on my hand. “Thank you.”
“You got something to change into?”
“No.”
“Hang on a sec.”
I hear a rustling of drawers through the door and another knock. He hands off a pair of yoga pants and a tank top along with my unmentionables. Before I can shut the door, he catches my finger with his and holds me there.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“Don’t push me away, Brontë.” Then he lets go and I close the door.
Chapter 37
Ben
She talked to me. For now. My life has been reduced to trying to pull happiness out of my girlfriend talking to me. Like it’s some kind of victory. I get it, I do. Women get weird about their periods. But for God’s sake, it was a little bit of blood. Farts, vomit, poop, menstruation, these are all body functions I can live with. News flash Elle, human beings have bodily functions, and let’s just say, it’s not always a silent night.
I can hear the shower start, and I’m more than tempted to just break down the door and end her bullshit. If I could just see what it is she’s hiding from me, then there’d be nothing left holding her back. And I could show her how to get really dirty while bathing. The phone rings while I’m standing here with a stupid grin on my face. I grab mine up in an auto response, but it’s dark so it has to be hers. Because the damn thing is still ringing. It’s Cricket. Of course it is. Every time we take a step forward she calls. When we’ve hit a stumbling block, she calls.
Periods, mood swings, Elle’s insecurities, all that I can deal with. What I can’t deal with is that woman’s presence in our lives. Not thinking, I hit the answer button, and it hits me that I’m about to talk to the witch, and my girlfriend is probably going to attempt to slice my balls off with a dull razorblade when she finds out.
“Are you going to at least say something?” Her words snap me out of the fog I’m in, and I sure as hell have an answer for her.
“This isn’t Elle.”
“Could hardly tell the difference, what with her manly voice.”
“Cricket, I don’t know what you want, but she doesn’t need it.”
“How do you know me? Don’t tell me Elly has a friend now?”
“Listen. I’m only telling you once. She goes by Elle now. She doesn’t need any of your bullshit and I’m not just her friend, I’m her boyfriend.”
“What’s wrong with you? No one would purposely want to be with that disappointment, so you must be after something. Is it money? Because she doesn’t have any. Everything her loser father had went to putting her through that school.”
My muscles tighten, and I’m on the verge of saying something Brontë might not forgive me for. I do manage to keep calm, which is really fucking hard right now, when I tell her, “You aren’t getting it. I’m not going to let you harm her again. Don’t call back.”
“I don’t know who you think you are or how important you think you are, but she’s my daughter and I’ll call whenever I want.”
“Okay, so you’re evil and thickheaded, so let me make it simple for you. I’m blocking your number. She won’t know about any of your calls.”
That’s what I do say. What I don’t say is that I want perfect, and with Elle I touch perfection. Every blink, every breath, every soft kiss. Every time she holds my hand. Every time she lets me rub circles over the tight muscles around her neck or down her spine. All perfection. All of it. And when Cricket calls, my perfect goes away. And I have to fight to get it back, to get us back to where we were before her intrusion.
So if my little stunt can keep her next to me instead of falling behind, it’s worth whatever fallout might come my way. I don’t want to hear any more from the devil on the other end of the line, and hang up the phone, blocking her number straight away.
Then I hear a throat clear. Collin stands just inside my room. He heard. And he’s not smiling.
“I thought you were going to stay gone for a while.”
“Planning on heading out again. Wardrobe malfunction. Sabrina got a little tipsy and a lot animated with those hands of hers. Knocked both her and Errol’s wine glasses over so I had to change my shirt.”
“So how much did you hear?”
“Hey, I understand. And honestly, you’re my hero. That woman is hideous. But do you think you had the right to do that?”
“I don’t know. What’s done is done. It kills me to see her break. My beautiful, talented Brontë reduced to soot on the bottom of that woman’s boot when she calls.”
“You really need to tell her.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m serious. It had to happen. We couldn’t keep the whoring going for the rest of our lives. What’s acceptable at twenty-one just becomes creepy or pathetic at forty. I think we’re both finally growing up, you know?”
“You ever get scared it will all come crashing down on you?”
“Been there. Done that. Mixed the ink for the mother-fucking T-shirt.”
“I know. That was insensitive.”
“No. But every damn day to answer your question.”
“Do you think you’re in love? With Kip?” My best friend leans against the door jamb with his hands stuffed in his pockets, staring at the floor for much longer than I’m going to let him get away with. We’ve already been through too much together. It shouldn’t be so hard. We’re good people. Don’t good people deserve to catch a break every now and again? “Col,” I ask again. “Do you love Kip?”
“It’s different with us.”
“No, it’s really not. Kip loves you, we all see it.”
“He told me already, remember? I said thank you. And proceeded to throw the mother of all hissy fits the next morning. What do you think?”
“At least you said thank you. I just stared at Elle and made her feel really uncomfortable. So you’re one better than me, brother.”
“Okay, so growing up officially sucks.”
“It has its good parts too.”
“We are seriously messed up, you know that?” Collin pushes off the door, leaving me sitting on the corner of my bed, waiting for Elle to be done.
Chapter 38
Elle
When I come out of the bathroom, fully clothed after that nice, hot shower to calm my nerves, I notice Ben has my phone in his hand. He lifts his head to look at me, but it’s a strange look. Part anger. Part worry. I’m not sure what to make of it.
“Why do you have my phone?”
“Cricket called while you were showering.”
I suck in a sharp breath. “Wha—what did she say to you?”
“It doesn’t matter. I told her not to call a
gain.”
“You shouldn’t have done that,” I say quietly.
“For Christ’s sake, Brontë. You don’t need that woman in your life. She’s toxic.”
“I know, but she’s still my mother.”
“Who fucked you over every way you could be fucked.”
That hurt. Doesn’t matter how true the words are, it still hurts. “I’m going for a little while.”
“Wait, no. Elle.” He steps forward, reaching out to me, but we never make contact as I sidestep him, grabbing up my purse and keys before leaving the apartment. He doesn’t follow.
Somehow I end up at this secluded little beach I like to go to, sitting in my car for the last twenty minutes watching waves break in the distance. But I can’t smell the water from here and get out to walk up the boardwalk. I step off to sit, a clear spot right at the water’s edge. Pebbled sand leaves pockmarks on my bottom through my pants, but I hardly feel them as the mesmerizing waves lap at the shore, just barely hitting the tips of my boots.
We thankfully haven’t had any snow in a couple of weeks, but March in Michigan is no better than February in the cold department. Cold? Who am I kidding? It’s frigid. Yet despite my butt freezing to the ground, the inky-blackness of the night sky makes the chill worth it. I can think out here.
I know Ben’s intentions. He only wants the best for me, but Cricket and mine, ours is a complicated relationship. The woman serves up vindictiveness the way most mothers serve meatloaf, with a side of green envy and mashed self-esteem. She needs to punish me for being born and then for landing in her home at age six. If she doesn’t get to, she will find a way to ruin my life. Now having talked to Ben, she owns my weakness.
“So were you ever planning on coming home or what? I’m not sure how to react right now. Tell me, what’s the right thing to do here, Elle?”
“How did you find me?”
“Give me some credit. I know where you go to think. Let me in. Remember, you have to let me in. Maybe I overstepped, but how many tears have you shed because of that woman?”
Other Side of Beautiful (A Beautifully Disturbed #1) Page 18