Tainted Touch

by Lucy V. Morgan

  The floorboards complain again as Art kneels behind. With a careful hand, he peels the dress up to reveal my bare ass and sends a draft of chilled air swaying in to spank me. His fingers walk up my inner thigh to draw gasps from my mouth as they probe. One finds my clit, pinches gently, and I buckle right down into his touch.

  Clothing rustles and rubber snaps. It all feels so inevitable; Fist Candy’s going to fuck me. He’ll make me come and there won’t be a thing I can do to stop him. It’s as much to do with our chemical compatibility as it is to do with his skill, and the very notion is such a far cry from the frustrating, stop-start sex I used to have with Dominic that it still feels like it’s happening to someone else–until Art presses his cock against my clit, that is, and drags it back in a slow tease. A thick ache grips my pussy, an ache that melts to blunt pleasure as inch by inch, he sinks in.

  We moan together. The air splits.

  His hands find my hips, and his thighs smack against mine. He tilts me back so his next thrust hits deep–right into the spot I need. Deep and hard are different things, he tells me, but holy fuck, the combination of the two is something else. Everything below my waist thrums with the vibration of his vigorous, punishing cock.

  Somewhere close by, a girl coos in a breathy voice, her throat tight with longing. Yeah, yeah, God, please. Don’t stop. The girl is me, and I watch my sweaty handprints dissipate on the coffee table as I sink back into myself and Art sinks into me over and over. I grow louder still, begging him. Ohpleasedon’tstop.

  In the glass, his reflection appears over my shoulder. A watery hallucination. His damp, hot chest covers my clothed back, and he licks at my lovebite as if I were a wounded animal. Then his mouth finds my ear.

  “You feel so fucking good, lovely,” he murmurs.

  Even I love the feel of myself; a dirty kind of innocent and a sopping wet kind of tight.

  I want to tell him that he feels incredible, that I can barely stand it, that I can’t stop this urgent, clasping need to almost force him out of my body just so he can push back in again. He throws an arm across the table to clutch it from the other side and save it all collapsing from the weight of each thrust–I need someone to do this for me, too. For my flesh. The End is imminent.

  My heartbeat dips, becomes a dragging lament to the finish line. A thump of a great hammer. Art lathes his tongue across my lovebite again, shoves into me hard and reappears above, reflected in the glass. His loud curses bite my ears before I lose myself, gone, crash after crash after shudder. Amber eyes earth my circuits, and as I come down, I watch them watching me. Bathe in the warmth of his breath.

  Art collapses over me, his hips rolling to a stop. Ceasefire.

  “I feel drunk,” he slurs.

  “I can’t see properly.” I leer forward beneath him, pressing my forehead against my goosepimpled arm. “Beat that one.”

  He presses a lazy kiss to my shoulder. “You appear to still be wearing clothes. What’s that about, exactly?”

  “You only wanted my knickers off.” I’m still trying to get my breath back and it’s not easy to talk. “So I blame you.”

  “Mmm. I can remedy that, you know.” He pinches the zip of my dress and tugs so the fabric splits either side of me. I come up, still dizzy, and let him peel it free of my arms. Then he slips a finger under the clasp of my bra and pulls it open.

  “It’s cold. Are you cold?”

  “Not exactly.” He laughs a little, amused at the vulnerable tone of my voice. “I can warm you up, though.”

  “Hmm…?” Exhaustion closes in. Makes my head spin. When did I get so damn tired? “Wait–Art!”

  No use–suddenly, he’s on his feet and scooping me over his shoulder. I land with my breasts to his back, hair tumbling down, and he clutches me firmly with one strong arm while his free hand administers a playful spank.

  “What are you doing?” I shriek.

  “Taking you to bed. What’s it look like?”

  “I don’t…I’m too heavy, Art,” I croak.

  He strides through the arched walkway and starts up his creaky old stairs, his usual effortless swagger in force. “Don’t be ridiculous. Now keep down and mind your head.”

  Like I have a choice?!

  I watch the floorboards as we pass them. Count the stairs. His bedroom door eases open and then we walk over a beautiful woven rug–some design with elephants. He pauses to switch the lamp on and pale light spews across the rug’s bright colours, bringing the rest of the room to life. A brief gust of air, his blue comforter is yanked back, and then I’m splayed across cool sheets. Art’s naked shadow tucks me in, smooths the comforter back down.

  “You warm the bed up,” he says. “I’ll make some coffee. Sound good?”

  “Sounds amazing,” I say into a blue pillow. “Milk, no sugar.”

  “Back in five.”

  There is no better feeling than stretching my tired, orgasm-decimated body beneath rapidly warming sheets. I point my toes, lengthen my muscles. Arch my back. The friction is seductive and the smell of him in the bed lulls me to the otherworld of near-sleep.

  Moments later, I’m woken again by the dense aroma of coffee and Art’s solid weight on the bed.

  “Hey, sleepyhead. Don’t pass out on me just yet.” He puts down our phones, and balances a pair of steaming mugs on his bedside table–a white and glass cube that looks completely out of sync with the organic design of his room–before pulling back the comforter to spoon me.

  A shock of cool skin makes me groan. “You made coffee naked?”

  “Hell yeah.”

  “Oh, you crazy.”

  “Poor effort.” He paws at my breasts, snickers when I brace at the feel of cold fingers on my nipples. “Smith harder.”

  I laugh. “What, you want poetry?”

  “I want whatever’s in your mouth. And probably more besides.”

  At that, I twist around to kiss him. Let him have what he wants–my words, my lips, air scented with the flesh he rubbed against my tongue. The kiss turns to a tangle of limbs, and ends with me tucked into the crook of his arm, lying across his chest.

  “I want to drink the coffee,” I complain, “but it’s too far away.”

  “Let it cool off.” He nuzzles at my forehead. Kisses my temple. “I made it with hot milk–needs to mellow a bit first.”

  “Mmm.” I changed my mind about the no-better-feeling thing: it’s actually a gorgeous massage therapist who wouldn’t dare serve me instant coffee after sex. Clever, clever boy.

  The lamp light is pale and silvery; night air seeps in through a small open window and makes the bed seem warmer. I walk slow fingers down Art’s chest and stroke a nail across the inky slashes of his tattoo. Each line is darker than the last. It seems ethereal, moon-kissed, and a blunt hipbone greets my fingers under his lithe spring of muscle.

  “Tell me what this is about, then,” I say. “Four marks. Why?”

  “That,” he whispers, “is a long story.”

  “Is it something to do with boxing? Like a winner’s tally, or something?”

  Art makes a soft little sound. “I wish, Cait.”

  I know it’s rude to pry, but I want to peel back his edges. It feels safer in the dark. “You told me at the cathedral that you did something you lied about. And that was four years ago, too.”

  “It wasn’t what I did, as such. It was what I didn’t do.” He runs a flat palm down my spine. “It’s kind of hard to explain.”

  The sheet rumples beneath me as I pull forward on my elbows, coming up to stroke his cheek. “I have all night, Art. And I’ll understand, whatever it is. You were so kind to me when I confided about Dominic, I…” I sigh. “I could do that for you.”

  He glances away. “Have you heard any more from him?”

  “Not a peep.” Which is either weird, or normal. I’ve got no idea how his brain works anymore, and I haven’t exactly wanted to ponder it. “Maybe he’s given up.”

  “Maybe.” He peers down at me throu
gh long lashes. Teases at my lovebite with his thumb. “I really am sorry about that. I didn’t mean to mark you.”

  “Art, it’s fine. I actually kind of like it.”

  “Oh? Because it hurt…?”

  “It didn’t hurt, though.” Heat flushes my cheeks. “It stung a little, but it’s not like I want to be flogged with rusty chains, or whatever.”

  He cracks a half-smile. “I’m not that kind of beast.”

  “And I’m not that kind of Belle, either. So stop looking so guilty.”

  “I’m getting there.” He shifts a little, drapes his thigh across mine. “You make it a lot easier.”

  Not that kind of beast. Then what are you, Art? A bundle of secrets, a mess of conflicting desires. Like Grace, perhaps, but not gone as far as the lighthouse. I stroke along his cheek again, let him taste my fingers. Touch the full pad of his bottom lip.

  He stares at me, a determined frown creasing his brow. “I’m yours. I want you to know that.”

  Something flutters against my ribs; a heart called to arms. I think of how I watched him at the gym in the beginning when he barely knew I existed, and how I gave him a name because I needed one to taste. “I was yours first.”

  Art climbs on top of me and brings my hands up in his. The pillow swallows our bound fingers, and his mouth meets mine for a deep squeeze of a kiss. A first bitter mouthful of coffee lingers on him; I drink it all in.

  Down below the covers, his tattoo burns slowly against my hip–an inked riddle, and one I will solve before long because he teeters on the brink of telling me, a little more with every fuck. He’s not a beast; I have my own demons and they’re nothing like the shining silhouette he cut in that glass coffee table. They are for me to battle, though I grow stronger in his grip.

  Then it occurs to me: The Waves isn’t a metaphor for patriarchy at all. It’s an inverted Beauty and The Beast; the only beast in the lighthouse is Grace, slowly rotting in her own miseries. I pull back from Art’s kiss, panting.

  “Sorry.” I wince a little at his bemused smile. “D’you think you could pass me my phone?”

  “Depends. Is it nekkid selfie time? Because I’ll be expressing my veto, just to make that very clear.”

  “I need to text Mills.”

  He releases my fingers and rolls over to grab my phone. “Is this a sister thing I won’t understand?”

  “Thanks.” I take the phone and flick through to find her number. “And yeah. Sister thing. If there’s one thing my sister will reply to, it’s a theory about a book.”

  Art scoops his coffee up. Peers over my shoulder. “Say hi for me.”

  “My naked boyfriend says hi. Yeah, that’s very appropriate.” I swat gently at his thigh.

  Silence. The only sounds are the rustle of bed clothes and the faint tap of my fingers at the phone.

  Art breathes coffee and warm milk on my cheek. “Your boyfriend, huh?”

  It’s the first time I’ve called him that–out loud, anyway. My belly fizzes at the thought.

  “Yeah,” I manage. “Is that okay?”

  “I think I’ll cope.”

  There’s a very masculine tone to his voice; a gluttonous, satisfied scrape that tells secrets. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, it says.

  The voice, in his own words, is all mine.

  Life gave me lemons, and look what I’ve made.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  There are no dreams to bend my sleep. No nightmares to vanquish with kisses, though the kisses simmer softly on my skin all the same. Art wakes intermittently and rolls over each time to find my neck, my shoulder. To brush them with his mouth.

  So when he wakes me with a shake–and not a kiss–the world trips sideways a few degrees. Everything about his drawn expression is wrong.

  “Cait,” he says, raising his voice. “Babe, wake up. Please.”

  “Mmm…?” I peer at him through bed hair and sleepy eyes. It’s still dark, and the moon sits high in the window. The alarm clock reads 3:17 AM.

  “Your mum rang.”

  At that, I jerk up on my elbows. “She rang you?”

  “She rang your phone. You didn’t wake up, so I, I–” He shoves a big hand into his hair and tugs, his nerves bare and ragged. “It’s your sister.”

  “Mills?” A blister of a shiver rises through my abdomen, scratching each organ as it goes. “What’s wrong? What did Mom say?”

  “I’m so sorry. We just…we need to get to the hospital in Guildford. Get dressed and I’ll start the car.”

  “Art?” The blister bursts. Begins to bleed. It reaches all the way up to my eye sockets and prods until tears spring to prickle. “Tell me what’s wrong with Mills.”

  He gives me a pained look–shoulders hunched, hand clutching my arm in urgency. “She’ll be alright, but we need to leave now. I’ll tell you everything in the car, okay? Come on.”

  I’ve never leapt up so fast.

  Turns out my clothes are still scattered across his living room floor. I bash my leg on the coffee table while I shuffle about, and nearly burst into tears trying to locate my knickers. Some big sister I am. I’m about to leave without the stupid things when he finally finds them behind the TV, and I manage to get my shoes on before I maim myself further.

  Five minutes later, he grabs bottles of water from his fridge, and we hurry out to his rain-spattered car. The wind blows damp mist into our aching eyes, and our footsteps on the cobbles echo down the empty street. Night air chills everything, but I burn silently in the passenger seat until he pulls out on to the main road where all my thoughts spew out at once.

  “What’s happened? Has there been an accident? Is she hurt? How long will it take us to–”

  “Cait.” He lands a firm, soothing palm on my knee, stroking upward in that comforting way of his. “We’ll be there in less than an hour.”

  “But what’s happened to her?”

  He swallows hard. “She was at a party, apparently. Had too much to drink. They’re pumping her stomach.”

  “Oh, God.” Relief sweeps down in another sharp shiver, and I sink back into the seat. “At least it’s…I mean, at least she’s okay…she’s okay, right?” Emergency rooms are always full of drunk teenagers. Maybe I can convince myself this is just some lame rite of passage.

  “Your mum said they’re waiting for bloods to come back. Checking for other…substances.”

  “Why? Art, she would never–”

  “She hasn’t been herself lately.” He says this with a grim, set mouth, his eyes not leaving the ripple of streetlights ahead. “You’ve been worried about that.”

  I shake my head. “But she just wouldn’t. You’ve met her–she’s way too sensible to take anything like that. She even works at a pharmacy, for crying out loud.”

  His only reply is another squeeze of my knee.

  Oh fuck.

  “You’ve got to be joking,” I say weakly.

  “They’d be stupid not to consider it, what with recent events.”

  “I know. I just…” I bury my face in my hands and rub vigorously. Try to scare the tears away with friction burns. “I don’t want to think about why she might take that kind of thing.”

  The word hangs between us. If I blink too fast, I see it scraped across the rain on the windscreen by the finger of a horror movie villain.

  Suicide.

  No. I will not entertain the idea that my stunning, genius little sister has attempted to kill herself–not for a second. She’d be disgusted with me for even thinking about it.

  “Nobody does that at a party,” I say suddenly. “What if someone spiked her drink? Have they thought of that?”

  He drags his hand away to use the gear stick, and drives us smoothly on to the motorway. It’s dead–eerily so–and our headlights spill milk across the black sea of tarmac.

  “You’ll have to ask your mum,” he says.

  “Crap. Was she alright with you on the phone?” God only knows what she must’ve thought when he answered.r />
  He shrugs. “Fine. Though I suppose she’s got bigger fish to fry right now.”

  “Looks like you’ll be meeting her, after all.”

  “Hey. It’s alright.” He drags a finger down the sleeve of my coat, leaving streamers of heat in his wake. “I can wait outside if you want.”

  “I want you to come in,” I say, without even thinking.

  “Then I’ll be there. With you. And it will be okay.” He reaches over to give me another brief squeeze, and even manages to usher a faint smile. “We’ve got a while to go yet. Let’s talk about something a bit happier, yeah?”

  So I take deep breaths, clutch my phone tight with the ringer set to top volume, and I tell him about Vicky’s first show on Thursday; how I got tipsy with her backstage before she went on since her Dad sent Champagne, and how she only fluffed two lines, which was a miracle. And I explain about Vicky and Rich–even down to the flowers.

  “She thanked him for them after the show,” I explain, “and he asked her out for next week. She went all coy and said she’d think about it, so now the flat’s like some kind of premenstrual warzone where you can’t take two steps without a hormonal bomb going off.” I even manage to chuckle at the memory of Vicky this morning, slamming her finger in the dishwasher and then cursing Rich to hell for cleaning it, thus giving it such excellent traction. Her smithery was on top form. “One minute, she’s looking forward to the next performance and wanting to tell him yes, and the next, she hates everything she’s done on the stage and practising her Get Lost speech.”

  Art raises his eyebrows. “She sounds like an interesting character.”

  “I don’t think she has much trust going on where men are concerned. Her parents had this horrendous divorce, and she always thinks she’s too–” Actually, Vicky would hate nothing more than knowing I’d shared her issues with Art. I should shut up already. “It’s just complicated.”

  “Well.” He gives an understanding nod. “I can relate to that.”

  “Do you remember Drew, the guy who called me at work to announce his whole twelve hours of sobriety?”

  “How could I forget? Legend.”

  I roll my eyes, albeit fondly. “Rich is his twin brother. They’re my best friends, along with Vicky. Rich has been obsessed with her for a while…it’d be awesome if they got together. You know, so long as it worked out okay.”