Last Kiss

by Jessica Clare

  Maybe he needs to kiss me all over.

  I rather like that idea—building up an immunity to one person’s microorganisms by constant contact.

  I wonder if this is what he thinks when he runs his fingers through my hair. He’s very quiet, but I feel his hands on my scalp. They rub and rub, and I close my eyes, trying to remain still and remember that he’s pushing chemical filth onto my head.

  But for some reason, it’s bothering me less the more his fingers touch my scalp. The hair dye scent is filling my nostrils now, the chemicals making my eyes water with their proximity, but the rest of my body feels curiously languid. At peace. It’s odd.

  It’s . . . nice.

  “Let me know if you’re going to vomit,” I tell Vasily. I’m seated next to the small sink in the lavatory, and I don’t want any splash back.

  “Vomit?”

  “Yes. Vomit. Expel one’s stomach contents forcefully. Purge. Expel. Regurgitate. Puke. Hurl. Throw up—”

  “I know what you speak of. Why would I vomit?” He sounds confused.

  Now I’m the one that’s confused. I frown as he squirts the last of the chemicals in my hair. Both of his hands go to my scalp and he begins to rub again, working the last of the horrible tarlike chemicals in. My eyes almost roll back with the pleasure of his touch—strange, strange, strange, this isn’t like you, Naomi—but I force myself back to the present. “You have told me repeatedly that you do not like to be touched, yet you are touching me without gloves. As I said, let me know if you’re going to vomit. I don’t want to be hit by it.”

  “Da.” The word is clipped, dissonant. “I will not vomit.”

  “Then you lied? After all those warnings to me about not lying to you, you’re lying to me?”

  “Lied?”

  “About not being touched,” I say as his fingers scrub at my scalp. “Clearly it does not bother you as you stated.”

  “You state you do not like germs but you drink after me.”

  He noticed that, did he? “There is scientific reasoning behind putting my lips where yours have been.”

  “Is there?” He sounds amused, and I resist the urge to smile back at him.

  “Lots of science,” I agree.

  There is a long pause. Then, Vasily announces to me, “I don’t like to be touched. You are correct about that.”

  More lies. Either that, or he’s not as familiar with his boundaries as he thinks. I reach out and poke a finger at his arm.

  “What did I just say to you?” he snarls, irritated. His fingers stop massaging my hair.

  “I wanted to see your reaction to stimulus. No touching at all?”

  “None,” he grits, and his voice is so black with sudden anger it’s practically burning a hole in my head.

  Now it feels as if we’re both ignoring the fact that he has his hands in my hair. “Have you tested this theory?”

  “What?”

  “How can you make a blanket statement such as ‘I do not like all touches’ if you haven’t tried all touches yet? I don’t like to be touched either, but I like to quantify it,” I try to explain to him slowly. Perhaps the inhaled chemicals are getting to his brain, because he is looking at me as if I’m the crazy one. He’s the one making broad, ridiculous statements. “Skin contact is unappealing in most situations due to germs and natural skin secretions. Fabric between skin is acceptable, but strangers are never acceptable. You have to start with a control point. What is your control point?”

  He stares down me, eyes narrowed like he wants to twist my head off. His hands leave my hair and he pushes me aside, cleaning his hands under the faucet. “We are done with this ignorant conversation.”

  But I’m not done. I lean over and poke his thigh. He stops what he’s doing and turns to stare at me incredulously. His very demeanor says what did you just do? All the while, brown chemicals and foam trickle into the sink, clean water rushing over his hands.

  He looks pissy but not sick. I gesture toward him as if to say see? “You did not snap at me that time. If this was a scientific experiment in regards to touching, I would have to conclude that you dislike touches above the waist, but below the waist is perfectly acceptable.”

  “I will snap your finger off if you poke me again.”

  I give him an exasperated look. Does he not know how to run a scientific experiment? “That reaction doesn’t count. You’re responding to the stimulus of my conclusion, not the actual touch. My theory stands.”

  The growl in his throat is one of annoyance.

  “Shall I touch you below the belt so we can test additional stimuli?” I’m still seated on the toilet, and his hips are mere inches from my face. I examine his belt buckle, the cut of his trousers, and the way his penis fills them out. Judging from the jut of his crotch, he has a very large one. I try to extrapolate the full length of it from the visual I have, but I’m starting to become flustered myself.

  “Do it,” he says, and his voice is hoarse. It’s so quiet I almost don’t hear it over the rush of the water in the sink.

  Vasily wants to test my theory. He . . . he wants me to touch him near his penis?

  I’m encouraged—and oddly aroused by this. I’d like to study my own reaction to the Vasily-stimuli. Am I wet between my legs? Is my clitoris throbbing and sensitive? But I’m more interested in Vasily’s reactions at the moment. My hands go to his thighs and I slowly place them there, palms flat against the fabric.

  He doesn’t move. He’s utterly still, perhaps waiting for me to do more.

  It’s fascinating to touch this big man. This is a safe touch, the fabric under my hands a soft weave that allows me to feel the heat of Vasily’s skin through the material, and the hard muscles of his legs. I run my hands up and down his thighs slowly, but I really want to put them on his penis and see how he reacts to that stimulus. It looks really large at the moment. I find it intensely interesting.

  “Are you well?” I ask him, not looking up. I can feel his gaze boring into the top of my messy, chemical-covered head, and I’m not sure I want eye contact right now. Of all things, eye contact is the most difficult for me. It feels too intimate, even more intimate than cupping this stranger’s groin would be. “Do you feel the need to vomit yet?”

  “Nyet,” he says harshly. But his breathing has increased in its rapidity. A moment later, he shuts the water off and it’s quiet in the tiny bathroom.

  He’s still waiting for me to do more. A little thrill rolls through my body, and I feel my own pulse responding to the stimulus.

  “Can I keep touching?” I ask, and my fingers curl against his legs a little, scratching at his skin through the fabric like I would a skittish cat. It’s the same soothing motion he used to massage my scalp minutes ago, and I wonder if it feels as good to him as it did to me. “Or are you overstimulated?”

  “Keep. Going.” His voice is a thickly accented hiss.

  My gaze turns back to his penis and it seems larger in his pants, the entire area tented now. He’s aroused all right. I feel smug that my theory has been proven; Vasily does like touches below the waist. But my smugness falls away a moment later when I feel an answering pulse of arousal between my own thighs. I don’t need to keep touching him to prove my point . . .

  But I do anyhow.

  I slide my hands upward, to the tops of his thighs. My thumbs graze along his inseam, and then I boldly press upward, until my fingers and thumbs are framing that area of such intense interest. When I push against the fabric, his erection juts out against it, more bold and prominent than I’ve ever seen. I’m tantalized by the sight of it, and instead of my careful, flat-pressed hands I’ve been using up to this point, I want to explore him.

  I lift one hand and gently touch my fingertips to the farthest tip of his fabric-covered erection. It feels hard, urgent, as if it desperately wants to escape the confining trousers. I skim my fingertips along his length, gauging it with his hand and wondering at the feel of him. I rather like this, this safe touching and knowi
ng that I’m driving him crazy. It’s nothing like my last sexual experience, which was all sweaty skin and fluids. “I wonder if people have sex fully clothed?” I muse. I might be interested in that.

  Vasily bites out some Russian word above my head. It sounds like an epithet, and not a happy one.

  Immediately, I feel like I’ve made a mistake. Vasily is staring down at me, and the look on his face is so intense and so personal that I can’t handle it. I feel as if I’m being stripped naked and penetrated by his gaze. I blink rapidly and then look away. My hands fall to my lap.

  The moment is broken. I don’t know that I want it back. I just want Vasily to stop looking at me while I feel so vulnerable. I don’t know what to do when he looks at me like that.

  The entire world seems to hang in that moment. Then, Vasily reaches over my gross, chemical-covered head and jerks a few paper towels into his hands. “I will return when it is time to rinse,” he says thickly, and storms out of the tiny bathroom.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  VASILY

  She is a temptress.

  I pace in the tiny cabin because I cannot sit, not even for a moment. The blood in my body is running hot, driving me toward the lavatory, but my head tells me only danger lies in that direction. I wish I could plunge my head into a bath of icy water. Or better yet, my hard, aching cock.

  I press the heel of my hand against my groin but the discomfort is not alleviated. My own body mocks me, for it will not be appeased by my hand. Instead the pain will linger, like a wound that never heals properly.

  I try to distract myself. I pop open my laptop and reserve rooms at three different hotels. I’m not certain where our contact is or what will be our best options. I cannot concentrate well for all my blood is in my groin. My cock pulses painfully with every heartbeat.

  “Vasily?” she calls, her voice uncertain.

  “Yes, what is it?” I check my watch. Few minutes have passed, and she cannot be ready for me to rinse out the dye. Surely I have more time to gather my composure.

  “Are you angry with me? Did my touching bother you?”

  “Nyet, you are . . .” I search for the right word in my vocabulary to describe her. Dangerous? Yes, but not maliciously so, I do not think. The touch of her hands on my thighs, the tentative and curious caress over my cock all speak of a woman who has only little experience.

  She seeks something from me but does not know how to ask, but I know that she is not the woman I should take for a quick fuck in the washroom. I draw a deep breath and then another. And then still another until the pressure below eases. I am not a man who is so enslaved by my desires. I can and will resist the temptation.

  “No, Naomi. Your touch was . . . fine,” I finish at last. If I tell her the truth, that her touch made me lose my mind, it is too strong of a weapon to allow her to possess. But no matter how many times I tell my body that it does not desire her, my arousal refuses to abate. She does not respond and the air grows heavy with my regret.

  Her presence draws me inexorably back. The plush carpet of the plane cushions my feet and muffles my approach. It is the only excuse I can provide for the scene that greets me. Naomi’s head is tilted back against the wall, uncaring that the dark dye is leaving streaks of brown against the cream interior. Her delicate neck is exposed, and the tendons of her throat and bones of her clavicle are thrown into high relief.

  Her eyes are tightly shut and her hands . . . oh Mary’s Christ, her hands are tucked beneath her trousers. The expression on her face is one of frustration as her arm pumps rapidly toward a release she cannot find.

  I collapse on my knees and brace my hands—one against the wall to my right and the other on the sink. The force of my arms should buckle the walls if I do not calm myself. All the warnings I have given myself flee. In the face of this erotic vision, I have fallen helplessly into her web. Take me, I silently plead. I am yours.

  “Naomi,” I say hoarsely. “Are you in need?”

  Her eyes pop open, and to my dismay, her movements still. For a brief moment her eyes hit mine, full of want.

  “You can’t touch me,” she cries. “It won’t work.”

  “Is this an experiment that you’ve run?” I ask gently.

  She nods solemnly. “I tried it once. It was horrible. There was a condom for his penis but not for our entire bodies. I barely made it through.”

  I suppress a shudder. My own early experiences with the opposite sex were a mass of confusion, self-loathing, and unwanted lust. I learned to fear sex, then hate it. Later in life, when I was in control, I found satisfaction in unsavory ways. I required pain and near disinterest from my partner.

  I do not like that Naomi has this feeling toward sex. For her, it should be wonderful as the books say that it can be—as I’ve longed for it to be but have accepted that it cannot. She has an attraction toward me and I can help her, if I could bring her pleasure it would be one good thing I’ve done in my meager life.

  “Is it infection you fear? Or do you view it as unclean?”

  “I have a slight case of mysophobia,” she admits.

  “I do not know the meaning of that word.”

  “It’s being afraid of germs. I’m not paralyzed by germs like a true mysophobic. I just don’t like touching people and people touching me, and part of it has to do with not wanting other people spreading their germs on me or sucking down their awful cologne or smelling the onions on their breath from the fast-food burger they just ate. And most touches are light. Like a hand passing over the tips of your hair, almost like a bug.”

  I consider her words. She is not saying that she does not like to be touched but rather she does not like certain touches. I probe again to gain a deeper understanding. “But it is not a religious thing. Your mother—or someone close to you—hasn’t taught you that your body is unclean?”

  “No. My body is fine. I’m immune to my own germs.” She rubs herself slightly, slowly as if testing the sensation, and my eyes are pulled like magnets to her movements. I clench my fingers into tight fists to prevent myself from replacing her hands with mine. “But sometimes . . . it’s that I can’t always bring myself to orgasm with just my fingers. I need more pressure and rotation. A velocity faster than I can move my fingers.”

  She pulls her fingers out with a sigh as if giving up. No, this will not be borne.

  “You would perhaps like a firmer, faster touch than one you can generate yourself,” I suggest.

  “Yes and I don’t need for it to be penetrative. Just on my clitoris.” She taps her button through the top of her pants and I shudder with surprised need.

  “Would you allow me to assist you?”

  “How?” she asks, part in suspicion yet also intrigued.

  It is hard to speak. Every organ in my body from my tongue to my cock is swelling in excitement. From my position, I can smell her arousal. Breathing through my mouth instead of my nose is of no help. It’s almost as if I can taste her now. I lean forward.

  “I will rinse your hair and then wash my hands for five minutes. It is the amount of time a surgeon spends cleaning. You can time me. After, I will touch you with just my fingers in whatever way you tell me is pleasing. You shall direct me as if I am merely an implement of your gratification.” I hold my breath with hope as she considers my proposal.

  “Like I touched you? Over your clothes?”

  “Over or under. Whatever you desire. But I would guess that the exterior of your clothes has more offensive toxins than your delicate and clean skin.” It is an educated guess that this line of reasoning will work.

  She licks her lips. “Will we do it in here?”

  “No, there are two seats that can be made into a bed. You will be more comfortable and it will be easier for you to control what touches you.”

  She nods in agreement. “Let’s do it, then. I’ll rinse my hair. If I close my eyes, I won’t see the muddy water. You can make the bed.”

  “I am your servant, Naomi,” I say, lowering my head s
o she does not see my expression of triumph. Rising to my feet, I hurry to pull out the bed. I inexpertly lay a sheet across the cushions and then toss the other blankets aside. While the water runs, I wonder if I should disrobe. I decide to remove my shoes and socks and belt, but leave the shirt and pants on. I will rely on Naomi to lead me.

  When she exits the bathroom, her hair is wrapped in a towel and for once she looks unsure.

  “Come,” I say, passing her. “Watch me while I wash.”

  I use nearly the whole bottle of soap, lathering each digit and the valley between each finger up to the elbow. For good measure, I wash my face as well, scrubbing every surface roughly. I can feel her intense gaze of me the whole time.

  Sopping wet when I am finished, I turn to her, not bothering to dry myself. “Shall I use a towel or air-dry?”

  “Towel is acceptable,” she says. While I’m drying off, she adds, “I know you washed your face but you can’t wash your tongue. I’ve read that some men, um, go down, on women. But we just agreed to the touching.”

  “You are not afraid of my mouth germs,” I reply, unbuttoning my sodden shirt. “You already tasted me, remember?” I refer to the glasses of vodka she has drunk. “Perhaps you are becoming inoculated,” I whisper as I lead her over to the bed. “Shall we begin?”

  Naomi climbs onto the bed, but casts a furtive, worried eye toward the cockpit door. “Will the pilot come out?”

  “No, not unless I ask him to.”

  I wait for her invitation but she fiddles with the collar of her shirt. Anxious and diffident, her vulnerability tugs at some dark place inside of me. I want to protect her from all slights, hide her from insensitive and callow individuals who would categorize her as . . . defective because of her differences. These urges are not wholly unfamiliar to me. I am fierce in my devotion to my sister, my true family, but Naomi touches me in a separate way—one born out of lust and want more than brotherly concern.