by Blake, Laila
"I figured I'm not fit for driving that far anymore, 'specially at night."
"Yeah," I manage, still watching him. I close the door, try to clear my own head. The shock seems to have soaked up some of the wine, but I can still feel its dulling, slowing effect on my head. I touch my temple, step a little further into the living room.
"Uh... where were you? You didn't drive like this, did..."
He waves me off with a crooked, impatient smile and shakes his head.
"No, no. Got as far Guildford. Then I drove back. Sat in my truck down at the curb. Thought of stuff. Saw the pub across the street..." He makes a motion that seems to imply that the rest is self-apparent and then leans his head onto the backrest of the sofa, staring up at the ceiling.
"Do you want some water or coffee? Or maybe aspirin?"
No answer. I push myself towards the kitchen and start water for some tea anyway. I need it. He does, too. There is something antsy and tight in the set of my shoulders, but I can't get rid of it, even when I try to wriggle them free.
I hear a chuckle from behind me, and when I turn around, I see him sitting there, watching me with wide, sweet eyes. They hurt, I think, but they also come with a fresh sprinkling of hope.
"What are you doing?" he asks, as though waiting for a punch line. I can't help it; I chuckle, too. Then I reach up to open the cabinet.
"Stretching. What kind of tea do you want?"
"I don't want tea."
I draw my hand back from the various colorful containers and turn around. He sounds like a boy. Watching him makes it obvious that I am not drunk, maybe a tiny bit leftover tipsy, but nothing like that—laughing one moment and staring at me like he's about to cry the next. It is strange to see him so vulnerable. But also intoxicating, all by itself.
I cross the room, sink down beside him. "Hey, are you okay?"
"I'm supposed to ask you that."
Patting his knee, I try not to snort as I sit down on the sofa next to him.
"Why? Cause you're the man? That is sexist."
I can tell he wants to laugh, that it gets stuck somewhere on the way up his throat, and in the end he just leans his head onto my shoulder. I suck a sharp breath into my lungs; experimentally lean my cheek against his hair.
"You smell."
This time he does laugh, a loud, roaring one, that seems just as alien in my tiny apartment as his silence was. When he stops, my hand is in his and he squeezes it just a little too hard for comfort.
"Because I'm older. Because I've done this before."
I shrug, try to take it in. It makes sense and it doesn't—why are we still talking about this?
"Are you okay, though?"
He snorts and turns his head so he can kiss my shoulder. The motion sends another wave of smell my way and I hold my breath. It's more than just alcohol; it's sex and sweat and curry in one hell of a toxic mixture.
"Come on," I tell him. I get up and pull him to his feet as well. He looks at me like a little boy might, eyes big and full of questions.
"Where are we going?"
"You're having a shower, oh mighty one. You need to clear your head... and the rest of you."
He allows me to lead him into the bathroom, and then to undress him, one piece at a time. When I get to his trousers, a sad, crooked smile crosses his lips and he takes over. He doesn't turn away from me though, and I find myself feeling a little faint at the sight of his soft cock, the same one I washed and held in my mouth just a few hours ago. I take a deep breath and pull back the shower curtain. I even hold out my hand to help him inside—I don't know, I get paranoid, think he might slip and fall. Maybe I just want to take care of him; that has to be okay, right? That sometimes the sub gets to take care of her Master? He can't always carry that burden all by himself.
He leans on me, just a little when he climbs into the tub, but then he doesn't let go of my hand. I look up and find him staring at me. There's a darkness in his eyes.
"Please?"
I shiver; he tugs me closer and I climb in behind him. Carefully, he lifts my shirt over my head and I wriggle out of the yoga pants I put on earlier. I wince as they brush over my ass, then I toss them out onto the bathroom floor.
"It might be kind of cold," I say, scratching the back of my neck as I remember, but Paul is already fumbling with the taps, trying to squeeze as much pressure as he can from my squeaky pipes. The water sprays coolly against my shins; I shudder, wriggle my toes in the tepid flow, fight the desire to climb back out.
I pick up a washcloth again. There's only my shower gel—the nice one that smells like roses and the other one. It's also pink when it comes out of the bottle onto the cloth. Paul chuckles darkly.
"Is the water okay?"
He shrugs, holds his hand under the stream and grins.
"I'm used to the Atlantic."
I can't help it; affectionately I roll my eyes at him as I start to lather him up. He gets distracted, plays with my hair and loses control of the showerhead, until I scream when a sharp gush of cold water hits my upper thigh, right where it meets my stomach. Of course the bastard laughs. I grab the showerhead from him, take revenge. He's still laughing though, rubbing the soap across his chest while I spray him. Something about that image makes my mouth go dry and I forget I'm supposed to be angry, or sad or scared. He came back, didn't he?
A little while later, we are back on the sofa, sitting side by side. Paul is cradling a cup of tea between his fingers, dwarfing it as he stares into the murky depth, watching swirls of milk dissolve into the brown liquid. I didn't have lemon. I want to touch him—not sexually, just touch him to be there for him. He looks sad.
Just as I am about to say something, he takes the deep, quick kind of breath that signals a desire to speak. His mouth opens and he pauses, letting the air rest, build up down in his lungs. I blink, clutch my cup to my chest and wait. Then he expels it again and falls into silence. I don't think he's as drunk anymore; the shower helped a little.
"I was sitting in the car," he starts so suddenly that I whip my head around. "I was sitting there, put my keys in the ignition and then stopped. I pulled them back out, played with the keyring, put them back in. Drove until I realized I felt worse with every mile. I turned around and looked up at your building. Couldn't figure out which one was your window. But they were all dark."
"I... don't have one out to that side."
He smiles mildly, rubs his face.
"So I went drinking instead. Thought if I'd wait until morning... They threw me out at four."
I swallow, try to breathe, but my body seems intent on holding it, on clenching my teeth as my eyes grow wide and wanting. He snorts, takes a sip of tea and then sighs. "I'm sorry, baby. I acted like... I acted unworthy. I'm sorry."
I lick my lips, then shake my head. I don't know if it's true anymore; I can hardly remember, especially now that we're sitting here together and his thigh is pressing against mine.
"It's... I... I was just in a strange, intense place, like you said. I shouldn't have said it."
"No. Iris, look at me." He uses my name so sparingly, it shoots through me warm and bright, and he waits until I meet his eyes before he continues. "No. You have nothing to apologize for. I asked you to share this with me, to live intensely, to feel. I took that away, I made it unsafe for you to express what you feel."
Tears shoot into my eyes, I don't know why. Paul smiles, sad and tender.
"I just... I just hated being such a cliché."
He shakes his head, finally takes one hand off the cup and touches my thigh. "You're not."
"Come on. The girl and the premature declarations of love that send the guy running for the hills? Sounds cliché to me."
"That makes me the cliché, baby girl." I try to smile, but there is something in his intense, earnest expression that stops me. "I am trying not to be that emotionally illiterate man that seems to dominate the stereotypes of my gender and age, but..."
I cover his hand with mine, the
n squeeze it. Finally I do allow a tiny smile to crease my lips.
"You have no idea how hot that just made you sound."
Snorting, he shakes his head at me, but the glint is back in his eyes and he leans in to brush his lips over mine. They are soft now and taste like tea, laced with a shot of whiskey. I know talking is important, I know that's what we have to do now, but his lips are warm and my body reacts all too easily. I want to throw my arms around him, climb onto his lap and forget this stupid moment ever happened, like it could already be gone, already forgotten.
He brushes his thumb over my cheek, though, and even at his side I feel his chest expand with the breath he sucks into his lungs.
"You're terrible. Very distracting."
"I know." I beam at him, but he clicks his tongue. I have a feeling that he wants to say something else, maybe about the state of my ass and how I am acting rather cocky for someone in such a position. But he doesn't; he just looks at me and it's enough. There are other things that are more important, even if I am scared of them, even if I just want to curl up with him and forget.
"I realized something else in the car," he goes on after a while. He empties his cup and I notice that I still have to take my first sip.
"W... what did you realize?" I whisper when the silence stretches a little too long. Then I push my cup on him and he takes it without even looking at it.
"I realized that I called you my girl all day. Not pet, well, sometimes but... I called you my girl because that's what came naturally. That's what you heard all night. And I realized I didn't want to leave. I didn't want to never see you again."
I am trembling now, holding on to the sofa cushion next to me, actually worried that I might miss something if I take too loud a breath.
"I don't know if that's what you feel. Love is... maybe you're too young, or too kind, but that word doesn't always mean what you tried to say, or what movies make it out to be. Sometimes it sounds like a contract, like a bill; sometimes it sounds like revenge. And it wasn't your fault I stopped hearing the word the way you meant it a long time ago. I don't know how you meant it, of course. I don't know if I can match that feeling—I can't see inside you, baby girl. But I feel something.
"I want you to be mine, Iris. I don't want to date you, I don't want that anymore. That's not what this is. I don't want to play around. I want you to be mine. I want to learn every little thing about you, when you get tense and what makes you happy, how you relax and what makes you sad. I want you to be mine, you—you're crying."
Setting his tea aside, he reaches for me and pulls me onto his lap so that he can brush my tears away. Gently, he takes my hand and places it on his chest.
"I want you to be mine, Iris."
I swallow hard against the lump in my throat, then shake my head, just to try and clear it. My fingers curl against his damp shirt.
"I'm already yours." I sniff again, but for once I don't care. Not that I'm crying, or that my voice sounds wet and brittle, because he has his arms wrapped around me, and he's kissing away my tears.
"I know. You're already mine. My girl. You're mine, Iris."
I curl up against his chest, breathe him in. He smells of my shower products, of whiskey and tea. But somewhere underneath all that, he carries the sea inside of him, the salt and the surf. I smell that, too, and it takes me back with him, back home to the sea.
Epilogue
It's almost eleven when we drag ourselves out of bed and into the shower. I managed to call in sick a few hours ago. Paul watched me with a sleepy smile, and when I crawled back under the covers with him, he kissed me and fucked me better.
"Can't let my girl feel sick," he whispered against the shell of my ear. We fell asleep again after that.
We get dressed and have bagels for breakfast in a small café by the Thames, watching the muddy waters flow down to the sea.
"I want to take you somewhere," Paul says, and I look up. He has that thoughtful expression on his face that makes me raise my brows.
"You'll see."
There's a bit of cream cheese in the corner of his mouth and I reach over to brush it away. Smiling, he folds his fingers around my wrist and kisses the cheese off my finger. It strays against the stubble of his beard and I close my eyes, just for a moment as my body revels in the memory of last night. I press my ass against the hard wooden chair to feel it sting.
A knowing grin flits over Paul's face. He pays for the food and then we go walking into the city proper. I don't know what he's looking for and the truth is, I don't think I care. He's with me. We're together, and he lets me hook my arm into his as we walk.
"I like playing hooky with you—that's what you call it in the States, right?"
Snorting, he leans in and kisses the top of my head.
"Something like that, here..." Nodding at a shop front, he leads me off the sidewalk and across the street. It's a jeweler's, and I stop in my tracks.
"Wha... you don't have to give me anything." It's a strange time to blush, but I can't help it. Maybe it's my generation or my demographic, I'm in my late twenties but I just got out of college; I'm basically a kid and I don't own any actual jewelry—the kind that's made of actual gold and jewels. I'm not from that kind of family, either. Just the display in the window makes me uncomfortable—like I don't belong.
"You're mine." At first that's all he says, but then he takes my hand and brushes his thumb over my wrist. "I want to you wear something to remember that when I'm all the way at the coast and you're here without me."
My mouth goes dry; I suck a sharp breath into my lungs.
"Like a collar?"
"Something like that..."
This time, when he pulls me after him, I don't resist. I press myself to his side, hardly dare to look at anything too close as though that might make him think I was trying to hint at wanting it. The jeweler's floor is crimson red, that's what I would remember most.
"Can I help you, Sir?" A young woman asks as she approaches us. From somewhere deep in my belly rises a strange sense of avarice or ire and I try not to glare at her. I'm his. That's what I call him. But he smiles that distant, professional smile at her and I feel stupid.
"Yes, thank you. Could you show us some wristlets? I was thinking of something like a cuff?"
The stress on the word makes my clit tingle and I blush again. He squeezes my hand and I try to keep breathing normally as we walk over to a counter and the shop assistant pulls out a long narrow drawer which she deposits on the table.
He does the talking, which ordinarily might make me feel patronized, but this is a strange place for me to be. I've never been the kind of girl who fantasized about expensive things, and the truth is—I don't think I really like any of the pieces we're shown.
"Do you do engravings?" Paul asks, handling one of the broader cuffs and staring at it critically. It has a tiny glinting stone in the center and it is arguably the prettiest of the lot. I don't reach to touch it though. It's too heavy, too shiny. It's not me.
"Of course. Usually we can offer it immediately, but we're a little understaffed today. But you could collect it tomorrow."
Paul hums. I nudge his side surreptitiously until he looks at me. There is something in his eyes that I can't quite place, but I pluck up some courage as I take a deep breath.
"How about we think about them and come back tomorrow?"
He looks at me for a little while longer, then he sets the silver cuff down on the drawer. I still can't read him. He takes my hand this time and we walk back to the river. He doesn't say anything, and the longer we walk, the harder that makes it for me to breathe.
"Paul?" I finally ask and wait until he smiles down at me.
"Yes?"
"Are you cross with me?"
He shakes his head and wraps his arm around my shoulder. It feels good, but I don't quite believe him, because we keep walking and the silence persists. I want to remind him of what he said yesterday, about emotional literacy, but I don't dare anymore.
"You didn't want to wear any of them," he says after a while. I pause, try to gather my thoughts. Then I shake my head.
"But you want to be mine?"
"Yes!" There's a sharp, hot knot in my stomach and I reach for his hand on the wall, cover it with mine. "Of course I do. I am. And I want... I want to wear something of yours. I want to be reminded all the time. Just..."
"Just what, baby girl?"
"I think... maybe I want something of yours. Something that's you. Or me. Something that's about us. They were all so shiny."
I'm blushing again. This comes all too close to asking for a present to feel comfortable, but then he starts to smile again and I forget my discomfort.
"That can be arranged," he whispers, traces my jaw with his strong fingers. The wind feels less cold now as we huddle together and I feel his breath on my hair.
"You were uncomfortable in the shop. Tell me why."
Shrugging, I bite down hard on my lower lip. I know him well enough by now to know I won't get away with not answering—especially not now that I belong to him—but it's not easy to put into words all the same.
"I don't know. I don't want to be the girl with the older man who buys her expensive gifts. I don't care about that. At all. I..." He raises his brows again and I let a small smile flit across my lips. "I want to be the girl who's with an older man because he... he fucks her like she still can't believe is real."
We laugh together as he wraps his arms around me, presses his forehead against mine.
"Because he makes her happy," I whisper into the small dark space between our faces. He pushes his hand into the back of my trousers. I whimper at the way he rakes his nails across my bruised skin.
"That's my girl," he whispers against my ear, so close that all the tiny hairs move and send shivers shooting down my spine. "But that means I'm going to have to find a temporary reminder of who you belong to for when you're at work this afternoon."