Wet

by Ruth Clampett

  “Of course you did,” she says with an envious sigh.

  “And I kissed her, and gave her breasts the attention they deserved. She liked that a lot. It made her wild.”

  She runs her hands up her torso and over her breasts, which only pulls her shirt open further. “Oh . . . I bet she did. Did she let you know how good it was?”

  “She begged for more and thrashed and moaned a lot . . . so yeah.”

  “Were her legs wrapped tightly around you?”

  “Naturally. Her movements were in perfect rhythm with mine. It was unbelievable.”

  “Please tell me you kissed her breasts, too?” She undoes another button.

  We’re in the danger zone now. I’m already imagining I’m doing all of these things to Elle and not Melanie. I’m not sure how much restraint I have left in my reserve. I want her desperately.

  I lean in closer to Elle’s face and look her in the eye. “I didn’t just kiss her breasts. I sucked them.”

  As I look at her I find myself licking my lips, they’re so dry from my deep breathing.

  The intensity must be too much because she shuts her eyes and turns away from me. I see a tear make its way down her flushed cheek. I slowly run my fingertip along its wet path to take it away as my mind tries to process where I screwed this up. Just because she said she wanted to hear about the sex, doesn’t mean it was the right thing for her.

  “Elle?”

  She’s taking short, choppy breaths and a sudden fury explodes in my chest. Why did I go along with this? Any man in his right mind would know this was the worst idea ever.

  Rising up on my elbow, I gently take her chin in my hand and tilt her face back toward me. “Elle. Elle,” I say softly, “what’s wrong?”

  She shuts her eyes and shakes her head, which sends new tears cascading down her face.

  “Please tell me what’s wrong? I’m sorry. I thought you knew I was making up that stuff. I swear, Elle, it didn’t go like that at all.”

  “Really?” she asks with wide eyes.

  “Really. I promise.”

  She shakes her head. “Don’t be sorry. I’m just sad because I want all that and who knows when I’ll ever have it again.”

  The tears fall faster now.

  “You mean sex?” I ask.

  “Not just sex. It’s being intimate, and being touched. I’m just wired that way, Paul. I need to be touched. It grounds me. It’s only been a matter of weeks and I feel like part of me is dying inside.”

  “I can touch you,” I say, in a lame attempt to soothe her. I run my hand up her arm and squeeze her shoulder.

  She sighs and it’s the saddest sigh I’ve ever heard. “I adore you for that, but I want my body touched.”

  “How about if you got massages. I know a place that’s supposed to be great.”

  She looks at me like she can’t decide whether to laugh or cry. She runs her fingertips up and down my forearm. It sends an electrical charge right through me.

  “Will they massage my boobs?”

  “What?” I ask, trying to keep my eyebrows from darting into my hairline. The hormones have clearly rendered her with temporary insanity. What woman gets a boob massage?

  “That’s what I want more than anything. I want my boobs touched.”

  I clear my throat. “Um, I’m pretty sure this place doesn’t do that. And places I know that will I wouldn’t ever take you to.”

  “You could do it, you know. You could touch them.” She bites her lip and looks up at me.

  That doesn’t help—at all.

  “That would be really difficult and complicated for me,” I stutter. She’s pregnant and hormonal for God’s sake. My physical desire for her is so far past my craving to get off with a hot woman. I’m desperate to make love to her, but every choice I make now, no matter how tortured, has to be what’s best for her and the baby.

  She takes my hand in hers and slides it over her chest. “It’s really not that complicated. Pretend I’m a mannequin.”

  “Right, a really chatty mannequin,” I say as she moves my hand over her chest in broad circles while I desperately try not to glance down.

  As her movements continue her expression softens, almost melting. She looks positively blissful and it keeps me from doing the right thing and pulling my hand away. I realize that there’s heat emanating from my hand, like one of those creepy faith healers I’ve heard about. The question is, am I healing her or is she healing me?

  A moment later I feel flesh against flesh and I look down to see that she’s opened her shirt completely and my hand is resting just above her cleavage while she unhooks the front of her bra.

  Oh good God.

  “Elle,” I groan.

  “Please, Paul. Just a minute or two. Please?”

  When our eyes meet she looks hopeful yet full of fear that I’ll turn her down. I know she needs this but how dangerous is it for me to be the one to give it to her? The thing that makes up my mind is wondering if not me, who? That’s unfathomable to even think about.

  As I slide my fingertips down between her luscious breasts and circle her torso I take in her perfection. She is completely vulnerable and exposed, and her trust in me takes my breath away.

  “You’re so beautiful,” I whisper.

  Her breath catches as my right hand moves up to cup her breast, so full and perfect. When my left hand cups the other breast her back arches up to meet my grasp. I am gentle and slow as I touch her, and her tears are still flowing but I know it’s different now. She’s smiling like I’ve never seen her smile before.

  I love her breasts. They’re my new favorite part of her as I palm and squeeze them and she sighs with contentment below me. Her skin is exquisitely soft and her nipples a ruby rose. I avoid touching them, even though I ache to. It’s just more than I can handle.

  The next time I look up at her I can no longer remember tired, defeated Elle that sat on my top step waiting for me. This angel is luminous, her eyes softly shine and it’s taking everything I have not to run my lips along all her curves, marking her with my trail of kisses.

  I press my lips against her ear.

  “I’m going to need to stop,” I say with some urgency. I’m starting to lose my composure. I fear I’ll be pulling her panties off any moment if this doesn’t end.

  She nods with understanding. She takes the edges of the bra in each hand and as I start to pull my hands away so she can close the clasp she gazes up at me.

  “Can you just touch my nipples once?”

  I can’t say no. With each hand still cupping a breast I run the pads of my thumbs over their peaks, and she shudders with such a moan that I feel like I’m going to lose it without even being touched.

  I regretfully pull my hands away and she slowly fastens her bra shut and then fastens her shirt back up.

  “Oh wow,” she says with a smile.

  “Is that a good wow?”

  “An all caps, bold font with several exclamation points, kind of wow.”

  “I’m glad to be of service.”

  “You have no idea how much I needed that. Can we do that on a regular basis?”

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  “Really? I think it’s the best idea ever.”

  “It’s not that I don’t want to make you happy but this is a lot for me to handle.”

  She gestures to her open shirt. “I warned you they were bigger now.”

  “It’s not that. Well, you know . . . I’m a man, Elle.”

  She nods with a very serious expression. “And you have needs?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “I could help with that,” she replies with an arched brow.

  “That’s not what I’m asking for. I just want you to understand that touching you is . . . exciting. And when I get excited, all bets are off. You don’t know what I can be like.”

  “I wish I could see you like that.”

  I shake my head at her.

  “You know what? I’m
going to give you something that I’m pretty sure isn’t what you want but I think you need.”

  “Oh yeah? What do you think I need?

  “Affection.”

  The idea of expressing affection isn’t high on my radar. I imagine her patting my head and giving me a teddy bear. “Is that so?

  “It is. And I want to give it to you. Here, close your eyes and relax.”

  This woman.

  “Can you tell me what the difference between affection and sex is?” I ask. I’m really not sure.

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t want to know.”

  “But, you don’t know?”

  “I guess I don’t.”

  “Affection is from the heart.”

  “So what are you going to give me?”

  “Close your eyes.”

  Teddy bears be damned . . . my mind goes all kinds of wild places, happy places, Elle touching me in ways she hasn’t before.

  She taps me on the chest and I realize that not only are my eyes not closed, they are wide in anticipation.

  “Eyes closed, please.”

  “I like when you ask nicely.”

  She takes her fingers and gently brushes them down my eyelids until my eyes are shut. I feel her fingertips skim down my cheek and along my jaw.

  “See, that’s nicely,” I say.

  “Mmm, hmm.”

  I’m acutely aware of every sensation: the way her body is leaning into mine, her subtle fragrance, and the tickle of the ends of her hair brushing along my forearm.

  “What are you going to do?” I ask impatiently.

  “Shhhhh.”

  I feel pressure on my torso as she leans in closer to me and my heart starts thundering. I also feel pressure in my chest like I can’t catch my breath I’m so wound up to see what she’s thinking.

  When I feel her soft lips brush against mine, it takes everything I have not to open my eyes. She pulls away as quickly as she arrived leaving me aching for more. I hold still as a statue. This can’t be it. There has to be more. I’m not even sure I’m breathing as I wait to see what happens next.

  My reserve either inspires or challenges her, and she hikes herself up higher and her leg folds across my thigh. I grasp my hand in the bend of her leg to secure her against me.

  Everything is different when her lips press against mine and seem to melt. She’s kissing me gently and slow, but the emotion I sense behind it feels like it’s important to her and I kiss her back with the same intensity. My arm slides around her to pull her close and her breasts press against my chest. Every second of this is unbelievably great, and I never want it to end.

  Kissing Elle is unlike any kiss I’ve ever had. I’ve never felt so much . . . not just in the obvious places, but inside my chest. It’s fucking unreal. I run my fingers through her hair and kiss her back from the heart. I can sense what it’s doing to her and I like it.

  Just when I think more has to happen she pulls away and snuggles into me.

  Damn.

  “How was that?” she whispers.

  Words can’t define how I feel so I respond simply. “I liked it.”

  “Me too.”

  We lie silently for a few minutes while I trace my fingers over her back and try to figure out what to make of what just happened.

  “Can we do that affection thing on a regular basis?” I ask.

  She smiles and for a brilliant moment the room lights up.

  “Maybe.”

  I think of the look on her face when I told her I couldn’t handle touching her regularly. “Payback?”

  “Maybe.” But then she reaches up and kisses me on the cheek.

  What the hell are we doing? This is the weirdest relationship I’ve ever been in. What’s even worse is that I don’t just like it, I’m starting to need it. I need her and I’ve never been in this situation and it scares the fuck out of me. She’s pregnant with another man’s baby. I’m on the sidelines, hoping I’ll get called into the game to be quarterback before the fourth quarter. What if I don’t?

  “Hey, Paul,” she whispers with a sleepy voice.

  I can tell she’s going to fall asleep in my arms again and I want her to. “Yeah?”

  “You know all that stuff you were saying about your favorite photograph of the bridges?”

  “Yeah. What about it?”

  “How you said it’s like you don’t know where you’re going to end up or how you got there, but that it’s a steady bridge and you trust that it’s going to be okay on the other side?”

  I nod. “I remember. Why?”

  She sighs and rests her open palm on my chest.

  “You’re my bridge.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  TIGHT SQUEEZE

  I press the phone tighter against my ear. Elle sounds tired and her voice is unusually quiet as she cancels joining me for dinner with the family tonight. There was no family dinner last week so it’s been a while since she’s seen them.

  “Are you sure you can’t come? Ma’s making beef stew because you said you liked it so much last time you were over.”

  She lets out a frustrated sigh. “I wish I could come, really I do, but I have hours of work left tonight.”

  “But it’s already five. This isn’t good for you.” I can’t help pressuring her—I really don’t like that she’s working so much. She’s been looking exhausted way too often lately.

  “I know, but if I don’t get this done tonight, tomorrow’s event could be a disaster.”

  “Elle . . .”

  “I know—the baby. I’m trying to do all the right things but if I don’t stay on top of my jobs I won’t be able to take care of us. At least the day-after-tomorrow I can take the day off and I plan to sleep all day.”

  “And eat full meals.”

  “Yeah, that too.”

  There’s a long, silent pause.

  “You still there?” I ask.

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “What is it?”

  “Stephan called me.”

  For a second I can’t find my voice but then I clench my fists and the rage starts burning through me. “What’d he want?”

  “I didn’t talk to him. He left a message saying he wants to meet, and he didn’t sound very friendly.”

  “Meet? What the fuck? He’s been silent for all these weeks and now the fucker wants to meet?”

  “I know,” she says in a wavering voice. “What am I going to do?”

  Let me beat the living crap out of him. I sure as hell hope she didn’t already agree to see him.

  “What do you want to do?” I ask.

  “I don’t want to talk to him, but what if he doesn’t take no for an answer?”

  “He can’t force you. I won’t let him anywhere near you.”

  “Maybe if I just don’t reply he’ll fuck off.”

  “Yeah, that might work,” I say, even though in my gut I don’t believe that. What if the asshole is having second thoughts about the baby?

  “I could tell him that the baby isn’t his after all so he doesn’t need to worry about it anymore.”

  The tone of her voice is unconvincing. Knowing how honest Elle is, I doubt she could follow through with this strategy.

  “Could you really do that?”

  There’s a long pause. “No. What should I do?”

  “Look, you need to just deal with your work tonight. Try to push it out of your mind. You don’t have to reply immediately. Who knows? Maybe he won’t call again.”

  “Okay.” Her voice is soft and she sounds vulnerable. It makes me want to protect her.

  “I’m going to check on you later. I want you home by nine. Okay?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Later at dinner Ma notices I’m distracted. “What’s the matter, Paulie? You’ve hardly eaten.”

  I push my stew around with my spoon. “Elle’s baby’s dad called her today and wants to meet.”

  I glance up in time to see Ma and Da
d share a concerned look.

  “This is the scoundrel who denied it was his baby?” Dad asked with a scowl.

  I nod.

  “Does she know what he wants yet?” Ma asks.

  I shake my head.

  The mood at the table shifts like a black veil just settled over us. It even feels like the overhead lights have dimmed.

  “Does Elle have a lawyer?” Patrick asks.

  “Well I know she must have a divorce lawyer. If they can’t help her I’m sure they would have a referral,” I say.

  “What if you adopted the baby?” Trish asks.

  To my surprise no one argues with her.

  “Adopt the baby? But we aren’t even married.”

  She shrugs. “A quick trip to Vegas could solve that.”

  What has happened to my straight-laced, traditional family? I feel like I accidently sat down at another family’s dinner table.

  Dad holds up his hand. “We’re jumping the gun here. First of all, you can’t just adopt another man’s baby. Elle needs to see what the man wants and decide how she feels about it.”

  Ma nods in agreement despite looking miserable about it. I know they were both afraid this would happen.

  “Are you sure it’s his? Is it possible it’s yours?” my sister asks. I bet that knowing my history she assumes we slept together early on.

  I shake my head and her expression softens.

  I’m really moved that my family likes Elle enough to be pulling for her. They get on my nerves a lot, but right now I’m grateful they see the good in Elle that inspires them to want the best for her.

  After dinner I join Dad in the backyard patio while he drinks his after-dinner hot toddy. We’ve had warm weather this week and even in the dim light of dusk the yard is full of color with the fuchsia and apricot bougainvillea, roses and wall of violet trumpet vines.

  We don’t talk for a while, just sit, comforted by the melody of familiar sounds. I hear Ma washing dishes in the kitchen, old-lady Margaret’s loud TV playing

  Jeopardy next door and the faint whiz of traffic from the nearby freeway.

  Dad finally looks over at me. “How are you holding up, son?”

  I lean forward and twist my hands together. “I was doing okay, but now I’m not so sure.”

  He nods. “What are you most worried about?”