Rouse Me

by Crystal Kaswell

  “Tell me if you only want a fling. I can take it.”

  “I don't know,” I say. “A week ago, I was sure I was going to be with Ryan forever. I was sure I would never fall in love again or have great sex again or truly enjoy someone's company again.”

  Fuck, I said fall in love, didn't I?

  “Great sex, huh?” Luke asks.

  “Let's spend time together and see where it goes? No expectations.”

  “Does that mean it could go somewhere?”

  “It's been three days,” I say again.

  “Okay, I get your point.” He slides his fingers between mine, squeezing our palms together. It's such a simple, obvious display of affection. Everyone here probably thinks we're dating. Could we be dating? Could we be anything without Ryan in the way? Should I be worried someone will recognize me and snap a picture of me with a guy who is clearly not my fiancé?

  We wander around the aisles downstairs. I try to steer the conversation into neutral territory, but I can't think of much to say. My nerves over the show seem irrelevant now. I know how to act. I know where to go and what to do every day. I'm rusty, but I'll remember, and I'll get back into the swing of things.

  But falling in love?

  No, that can't be right. There's no way I could fall in love with someone. I'm engaged to Ryan. I am committed to our thoroughly dispassionate, thoroughly practical life together.

  Aren't I?

  I scour the Classics table, trying get Luke interested in Jane Eyre, but he is unmoved. Not enough action, not enough feeling. Pride and Prejudice is better, he claims, taking delight when I am surprised he's read it.

  He reads from a Sherlock Holmes novel, but I am unmoved. It's detached and impersonal.

  We go through aisle after aisle, trying to find common ground. I need a story with a lot of feeling. He needs a story with twists and turns. He used to read a lot of hard-boiled detective stories, but he grew tired of their sexism. He says it so casually, like it's something all men notice.

  He's read a lot, but I've read a lot more. I never went to college. I didn't finish my last year of high school, but I didn't want to miss out on a proper English education, so I read two books a week for four years straight. I never went so far as to write term papers, but I kept a notebook where I wrote my thoughts. I don't know what happened to it. Ryan probably threw it out when he helped me move into his place.

  Luke stops when we finish with the selection downstairs. “There's something I have to tell you,” he says.

  “Is it important?”

  “Probably,” he says. His eyes lock with mine. His hands slide down my shoulders. “No, forget it. We can deal with that later. You have enough on your mind.”

  “I can decide how much I want on my mind.”

  “I'll tell you what. We can talk about it next week if you still want anything to do with me.” He takes my hand and leads me up the stairs. “Now, tell me what happened with your show. You don't seem to have left Ryan yet, so he must have changed his mind.”

  “I would have taken the role even if Ryan asked me not to,” I say.

  “I believe you.”

  “I would.”

  “I still believe you.” We pass the children’s section, heading for the never, ever popular non-fiction section in the back. It's quieter there, but it's not quite secluded enough for any funny business.

  “Is that part of what's bothering you?” he asks.

  “A little,” I say. “I'm kind of rusty.”

  “Are you nervous?”

  “There's a lot riding on my shoulders. And, historically, I don't have a great track record for dealing with stress.”

  “That's not a life sentence.”

  “But Ryan… he's pretty much expecting me to fail. Any misstep, and it will be proof I couldn't handle it, that I'm not strong enough, all that bullshit,” I say.

  “Fuck, Alyssa,” Luke says. “Do you have any idea how messed up that is?”

  “It's not like that.”

  “Yes, it is. He's rooting for you to fail. Is that the kind of behavior you want in a husband?”

  “He's only worried,” I say, but I'm not convincing myself.

  “I don't want to talk about Ryan either, but you really can't put up with that kind of stuff. You don't deserve it. My ex… Well, whatever I should call her, that whole thing is royally fucked up, but I was always, always happy for her, even when she was outshining me. Hell, she was always outshining me. She was much smarter than me, and she worked much harder, and she pretty much kicked my ass at every single class we ever took together.”

  “Your ex-what?”

  “My point is, a guy who really loves you is happy for you. I'm not saying I'm that guy, and I'm sure Ryan does have one or two good qualities that do something to make up for his God-awful personality… but if he doesn't support you, it doesn't matter how funny, or smart, or nice, or rich, or hot—and mind you, these are just examples, Ryan isn't any of those things.”

  “He's smart.”

  “Okay, he's smart. But he's boring, mean, upper-middle class, and only mildly attractive,” Luke says.

  “I think you had a point.”

  “You deserve someone who supports you. Someone who cares about what you want. Someone who actually wants you to be happy.”

  “Note taken,” I say. He looks at me funny, so I explain. “I get your point. You think I should leave Ryan. I don't need to hear it again.”

  “Am I that much of a broken record?”

  “A little,” I say.

  “And to think I came here to charm you.” He runs his hand through his hair, his teeth sinking into his lower lip. “Are you as sick of talking about Ryan as I am?” he asks.

  I nod.

  “Good,” he says, and motions to the marquee of a movie theater next door. “There's a show starting in five minutes.”

  “I've already seen that one.”

  “Me too.”

  Oh.

  Chapter 14

  The glass doors of the theater do little to shut out the sun. With every step we take towards the door of our theater, the light grows more fluorescent.

  Luke pulls an usher aside, whispers a few words in his ear and nods to me. He slips the usher a flattened bill. Is that a 20 or a 100? I suppose the poor usher only makes $10/hr. Why not take a bribe?

  I reach for Luke's hand reflexively, squeezing it tight. I need to calm down. It's three in the afternoon. No one is here. No one can see me.

  He kisses my cheek. I release his hand and nod to the bathroom. The bathroom is perfect. Quiet. Bright. Fluorescent.

  It is an ordinary bathroom. I catch my reflection in the mirror above the sinks. I used to stare at myself for hours, looking for fat to pinch, for excuses to proclaim myself disgusting. Today, I only glimpse. Something is different about me. Not my platinum hair or my shaky eyeliner or my size 8 dress, cut to show off the lace of my bra. No, something inside me. Is it confidence or recklessness?

  No, there is no explaining away my behavior. I am cheating. There is no excuse, no matter how much I want Luke, no matter how much Ryan frustrates me.

  So stop. Go home. Tell Luke you're done fucking around.

  Ryan doesn't have to know. He doesn't have to get hurt. He may not be the sweetest or most interesting guy in the world, but he doesn't deserve to hurt as much as knowing will hurt him.

  Or maybe he doesn't deserve you cheating on him.

  But I need more time with Luke. I need to be near him, to smell him, to touch him, to feel him. I need to scream his name again. I need to savor the feel of it on my tongue.

  Then break up with Ryan. You can't string him along like this. He's put up with so much crap from you. He's protected you for so long. He might understand if you made a mistake, if it was only a night. He knows you're no good with self-control. He might forgive you if you stop now.

  I splash water on my flushed face. My makeup is waterproof. It should be okay. And if it's not, the theater is dark, and
I doubt some running mascara will sway Luke.

  You're such a wimp, Alyssa. Don't pretend you aren't breaking up with Ryan because you love him or because you don't want to hurt him. As if. You're afraid, aren't you? You're afraid of what you'll do without his protection. After all, one little fight and you're fucking some new guy. You really think Luke is going to step in if Ryan dumps your sorry ass? You really think Luke will be able to protect you?

  But what if I don't need protection? Is it really possible that I can take care of myself? Is it really possible that I could survive without Ryan?

  I splash my face with water again. I don't have to figure this out now. I can have another afternoon with Luke. Or another week. I can figure it out soon, before Ryan finds out, before Ryan gets hurt.

  Couldn't you figure it out with your clothes on?

  I could, but it's been so long since I've wanted something this much. And it's good to want. It's good to feel. It's good to be with Luke.

  Yeah, I bet it's good to cheat on your fiancé, you slut.

  It is.

  ***

  Previews flash on screen. Some romantic thriller, sappy and cheesy. Two pretty blonde teenagers, lean bodies, linen and blue skies. I sit next to Luke in the back. Except for us, the theater is empty.

  “I never took you for an exhibitionist,” I say.

  “Would you prefer my apartment?” And spend the entire afternoon without clothes, the ocean breeze rolling in from the balcony? No. Of course not. Of course I don't want anything like that. Who would want something like that?

  Luke takes my hand. It's shaking. Why am I shaking? I am not usually so pathetic. I am not usually such a nervous wreck. Then again, I am not usually cheating on Ryan.

  I feel Luke's breath on my ear. “If you're too nervous or scared or guilty, we can just watch the movie.”

  I open my mouth to agree. To ask Luke to go easy on me, to leave this cool, dark room and go someplace safe and bright, where his body will not be pressed against mine, where I will not be close enough to feel the heat of his breath. I open my mouth to tell Luke this needs to stop now, that I am Ryan's, that I love Ryan, that I don't want to do this.

  But why deny the truth?

  “I'd think about it,” I say. “But this movie wasn't very good.”

  Luke grins, that million dollar smile of his. And his eyes, those fucking brown eyes, sparkle with electricity. No, lust, need, passion. Because of me. He is filled with lust because of me. Because he wants me. Because he needs me.

  The lights dim as the last preview ends. We're watching some indie drama, quiet and subdued and easy to ignore. Luke laces his fingers with mine. Somehow, I'm both sweaty and shivering. How can I be so hot and cold at the same time?

  Maybe cause you're about to cheat on your fiancé in public? Ever hear of guilt?

  I push away my thoughts. So what if I shouldn't do this? I want to do it.

  Deep breath.

  I turn towards Luke and press my lips into his. And with every motion of his lips and tongue, my doubts are pushed further and further away. Every part of my body wakes up, and every part wants his touch.

  But it's only his lips on my lips. I slip my tongue into his mouth and swirl it gently. He's responsive. He kisses me harder, dragging his fingertips up and down my arms and shoulders. The straps on my dress are so flimsy they fall off my shoulders with a single shrug.

  I sneak my hand under his shirt and explore the muscles of his hard body. He shifts and groans as I touch him, his kiss getting harder and harder. Finally, he pushes my dress to my waist and cups my breasts over my bra. God, keep touching me. More. I need more.

  And then Luke's fingers find their way inside my bra, and all conscious thought flees my body. I am not in a public movie theater. I am not Ryan's fiancée. I am not in the middle of stepping back into the spotlight. I am not anything but here, right now, with Luke. All I know is how much I want him, how much I need him to touch me and to touch him in return.

  I arch my back and shift onto him, my back against his chest. His lips hover over my ear, the soft rush of his breath sending shivers through my body. His teeth scrape against my ear lobe, gentle nibbles all the way down. I unzip my dress and push it past my feet.

  His lips move to my neck. Hard kisses, then it's teeth. Soft at first. Then harder. And harder. Until it hurts just enough to feel amazing. I groan. “Fuck me.”

  “Not yet,” he says. “Not until I'm finished with you.”

  Hard to object when he puts it like that.

  He pulls me close, my back flat against his chest, his hard cock pressed against my ass. He traces the outline of my bra, from my back to my front and back again, his fingers never slipping beneath it. Finally, he unhooks my bra and peels it off my skin. His hands slide over my sides, around my ribs, to my chest. He cups my breasts, rubbing his thumbs over my nipples in slow, easy circles.

  He pulls his hands away from my breasts and returns with his fingertips. One at a time, each fingertip slides over me, around my nipples, softer and softer until I am shaking with desire. Then, his hand plants on my knee. It slides up my thigh, lighter and softer, until I can barely feel it. He brushes his hands against my inner thighs, getting closer to my sex, then retreating. Closer. Closer. Closer. Finally, I grab his wrist, and press his hand over my panties. He grins and kisses me, so hard and deep I lose track of where I am. I moan. I dig my nails into his skin as he pulls my panties past my knees.

  “Jesus, Alyssa,” he says. “You're so sexy. It's driving me crazy.”

  “Then fuck me,” I say, and I rub my ass against him.

  His hands slide up my thighs, closer and closer, until his fingers slide over my clit. Jesus. I groan. I shake. I reach behind my back, rubbing his cock over his jeans. He groans and I know I've got him. I know he'll finally fuck me.

  I lift my ass and he slides out of his jeans and boxers. I shift back onto his lap, my back pressed into his chest, my sex hovering over his cock. The tip strains against me, teasing me, sending waves of pleasure to my fingertips. I lower myself slowly, his cock slipping inside me until it fills me.

  He touches me everywhere, stroking my breasts and stomach and thighs. His hands settle on my hips and he rocks me backwards and forwards. I arch my back to meet him, fuller with every motion of my hips. I feel his teeth on my neck, sinking hard as he groans.

  I close my eyes, aware of nothing but the sensation of him inside me, rocking against me, filling me, sending pleasure through my body. I blink my eyes open, no idea what the images on the screen mean, and grab the seat in front of me. I need more of him. I need to be fuller. I use the seat for leverage, grinding into him, pushing him deeper.

  My body shakes with need. Every second of his touch is pure electricity, and I get closer and closer, the tension inside me building. He glides his fingers over my nipples, his breath heavy in my ear. I have to bite my tongue to keep from screaming. It feels so fucking good. He feels so fucking good inside me.

  I am so close to coming, and I can't stop myself from moaning. He whispers in my ear, “Don't stop yourself. I want to hear you come.” He strokes my nipples, his touch even softer, every brush of his fingertips sending sparks shooting through my body. I do as I'm told, panting and groaning as he thrusts into me. His lips are on my ear, sucking and nibbling gently. Then, they move to my neck, biting harder and harder.

  Then, his hands are on my hips, rocking me faster, and he is going harder and deeper. I shake. Almost there. I feel the tension inside me. More and more and more, until I can't take it anymore, and I come, my body shaking, my moan so loud I am sure someone hears us.

  But Luke does nothing to quiet me. He pulls my body into his, kissing my neck, squeezing me, tight. His fingers dig into my hips and he rocks me, up and down, faster and faster. He groans, a soft whisper in my ear. “Fuck,” he groans again. He digs his nails into my skin. He sinks his teeth into my neck. And he comes, filling me completely.

  We stay like that for a while, his chest
pressed into my back, his cheek pressed against my neck, his cock inside me, regaining our breath.

  We don't bother to finish the movie.

  ***

  I clean up in the bathroom and meet Luke at the lobby of our building.

  “I should go,” I say.

  “Let me walk you to your apartment.”

  “Ryan would—”

  “Ryan will be working for another few hours.” He takes my hand and adds, “Don't worry. I won't let him find out about this.”

  “Don't you want us to break up?”

  “It doesn't really matter what I want, does it?” he asks.

  The trouble is, I know what I want, and it's absolutely not what I should want.

  I want Luke.

  Chapter 15

  I take a long bath, washing away any signs of my betrayal. I can't risk losing what I have with Ryan. Not yet. Not when I am about to throw myself back on the chopping block of TV acting. Not when I need him to protect me the most.

  Luke likes me now because I haven't challenged him. I haven't dragged him through hell and back. Or forced him to watch me fall apart. In fact, I've been remarkably collected every time I’ve seen him, especially considering how Ryan has been acting.

  Get a grip, Alyssa. Don't throw away your future with Ryan for some permissive hottie. So Luke is fun and good in bed. So what? Do you really think he'll be able to keep you in line?

  Luke has read all the tabloid articles, so he knows I used to have, still have, a little problem with “disordered eating.” That was what he said, wasn't it? A problem with disordered eating. As if it was a little problem I'm over.

  If he thinks it's that easy, he won't be able to handle a week as my boyfriend, much less a year.

  And he's the kind of guy who would believe he could handle it. He's so sure he'd be better for me than Ryan is. He's so sure he'd treat me right. Maybe he doesn't think he's a good guy—he is, after all, fucking an engaged woman, and he doesn't have any moral qualms about it—but he does think he'd be a good boyfriend.

  He's probably seen a few TV shows about bulimia, a few tortured teenagers who dieted too hard and promptly snapped out of their eating disorder with a few hugs from the protagonist—it's always the supporting characters who get eating disorders, the bitchy, popular girl, or the quiet best friend, or the slutty cheerleader. He's probably seen a few TV shows about girls who were healed by the love of their sweet boyfriends. He probably has some complex where he thinks he can save me.