The Darkest Joy

by Marata Eros

  I kiss his nose, then his lips, and squeeze him once, hard—and his hand tightens on mine. “No . . . not yet.” He begins to pull away and I let my fingers trail down the length of him as he shudders at my touch. I put my hands under his balls, rolling them in a tender juggle, and he laughs and pulls away. “Tickles.”

  His face turns serious when I sit up on my knees and we face each other. He grabs my belt and releases it from the loops that hold it. It makes a soft sound as it moves through the loops and my hand strays back to him.

  Chance pulls his hips away. “I want to undress you, Brooke.”

  He puts a hand at my nape, then pulls us so close I can’t get at him anymore, though I feel him hard and ready between us. Chance kisses me, stroking his lips on mine, lifting his mouth long enough to take my shirt over my head. It flies into a corner and his arms go around me like steel bands as he unhooks my bra and I lean back, my breasts falling out of their lace pockets. Chance bends to suck my nipple into his mouth and pulls me closer with a hand on my back. I spear his hair with my fingers, clenching the blackness in my hand as he laves the sensitive tip. My head’s thrown back, my hand buried in his hair as his left hand wiggles the denim from my hips and he pushes me backward. I fall, my breasts bouncing gently as my body settles beneath him.

  I lie there in nothing but my panties, a strip of lace running up my ass and a peekaboo front letting him know I’m completely bare.

  “I want to kiss you . . . here,” Chance says as he presses his fingertip to the sheer panel that covers the front of me and I jerk in response, the pressure of that one touch wet where it makes contact.

  I can only nod. It’s more intimate than sex for me as I watch his face lower to where I want to feel him inside me.

  Still, his deep eyes beg permission as he looks up the line of my body, one hand on my breast, one finger underneath the sheerness of my panties and I whisper, our gazes locking, “Yes.”

  He smiles but I don’t see his mouth, his eyes crinkle at the corners before the color is lost as he closes them and his tongue pushes past the lace that his fingers move aside and the flat of his tongue presses against my clit.

  Chance drags his tongue up the center of my sensitive slick nub of flesh and my hips rise off the bed. He plants his forearm over my hips and holds me still while he licks and presses a finger inside me. I begin to lose focus, the delicious rhythm is hard and fast, smooth and perfect, and I get so caught up in what he’s doing, moving against him, the first orgasm crashes into me like a wave, leaving me gasping and panting.

  “Breathe, Brooke,” Chance says from between my thighs and blows warm breath against my entrance, and a strangled cry leaves my lips, torn out against my will, a release of everything, no more thoughts, only sensation crests and falls over me.

  “I want you,” I say between harsh breaths and Chance takes my ankles and pulls me down to kiss me on my lips. I taste me on him and he keeps pushing his finger inside me as he lets me taste my pleasure on his mouth. I let my legs fall open. I’m still throbbing . . . in pleasure, in anticipation.

  I can’t breathe for wanting him inside me.

  He sinks the hand that was just inside me into my hair and turns my head so my face is in profile, letting his penis find my wet heat where I wait to be filled with him.

  I feel the tip of him at my entrance, and his knees split my legs farther apart from behind even as he enters me slowly, each hot inch sinking deeper, and I let out a hoarse cry, pressing myself back against him. My hips rise and he puts a staying hand on the back of my head and the other at the small of my back, pinning me in place, and I whimper in surrender

  How does Chance know I need to be controlled right now? That finally I have chosen something and it’s happening with my permission when so much has happened without it? It’s a release that’s more than sexual.

  My body lies still as he buries himself to the throbbing end of me. I feel the pulse of his penis as my sex grabs onto him in response. Chance lifts his hands off me and puts one on each side of my body in a push-up. Then he rolls his hips forward and my body moves with him, the front of me rubbing back and forth against the rough quilt as he shoves into me and I grunt with the pleasure of the deep penetration.

  “Brooke,” Chance says and softly lowers his solid weight on me, his front presses against my ass and his hard chest flattens my breasts against the bed. I’m trapped and it’s an exquisite mix of fear and pleasure. I can’t get away and I don’t want to. We’re joined as he kisses my temple then he moves inside me again and I gasp, thinking he can’t go deeper.

  Then he does and I groan as he touches me deep inside, an itch that’s getting scratched to perfection.

  “Come for me,” Chance says, rolling his hips in and out, and a delicious heat begins to build. He does it again and again and that fire inside flares, bursting out of my core. It spreads and as I begin to pulse around him in crashing waves, I feel him grow harder inside me, his release coming at the peak of my own as we shudder together.

  We’re suspended in the synchronicity of the moment. It feels too short but like forever in that bubble of time. Finally, Chance gently pulls out of me and rolls me over onto my back, boneless and spent. All my earlier worries retreat to the back of my mind. I gaze at Chance and only the deep flush underneath his perpetually tan skin lets me know how much our coming together undid him. Undid me.

  Chance lays on his side, feet dangling off the bed, solemn and quiet. I watch him look at my body, his hand moving, the constant motion of his fingers tracing my curves and lulling me into a comfortable silence.

  We lay like that for several minutes, quietly enjoying being together . . . his hands seeking every crevice of me, finding what he needs. Chance fills the gaps of who I am, the wells of loneliness and walls of defense crumble before his tender exploration. I’ve found something new with him that’s all mine. Separate from what’s happened to me that I couldn’t control. I’m the master of my feelings, my motivation, my life. I can choose how I feel. I’m not a bottle in the ocean any longer, going wherever the current takes me. I have a path now.

  Chance.

  His navigation of me is complete and I whisper the bravest thing I’ve done since my family’s murder. My future shimmers before me like a lone star. I grab on to it as my feelings of happiness and rightness swell.

  “I love you.”

  Chance rolls me into his body, kissing my forehead. “I held out in hope,” he admits, a smile touching his lips.

  I watch him look at me with his heart in his eyes as silent tears slip down my face, crawling through my hair and soaking my pillow.

  He wipes each one away with a care that can’t be possible.

  Now I realize anything is.

  SEVENTEEN

  Chance

  I wake, hearing a soft melody, and run my hand over the empty spot beside me, finding it bare and warm.

  Brooke’s gone.

  Her notes tease me from below and I slip out of the bed, naked. I grab my jeans from the floor and pull them on, making my way to the bathroom. I hit the toilet and sink, brushing my teeth with Brooke’s toothbrush, and walk to the kitchen. I rummage around as I listen to her play from the open basement door. I figure out how to use the ancient coffeepot and set it to brew.

  Looking down from the top of the basement stairs, I notice the chipped gunmetal paint revealing slivers of amber spruce that bleed through on the solid treads that lead down to where we’d first been together. I walk down the flight of steps, ducking so I don’t hit my head on the ceiling above.

  I reach the bottom and watch Brooke play . . . listen. My hand grips a floor joist above as one foot dangles above that last step I don’t take.

  The final note swells in the strange subterranean room, the low windows flooded with bright light as the sun slants through them, coating everything in a tangerine glow.

  Brooke presses her head against the top of the piano, running long slender fingers over the keys reverently, an
d my gut tightens at her raw expression of sadness. That sick fuck didn’t just take her family.

  He stole her dreams.

  Killing someone’s spirit should be as illegal as murder. I swallow the ache caught in my throat.

  Some sixth sense makes Brooke turn and she finds me standing there, her face breaking into a smile so broad, so real, it makes my chest tighten at her expression. Having that much love from a woman aimed at you is like a weapon. But only when you feel the same way about her.

  And I do.

  I walk to her and Brooke stands as my arms slip around her waist.

  “Hey,” she says in soft greeting. I put my head against hers, smelling the fresh scent of her, and underneath that—the smell of us.

  “I made coffee.”

  Brooke tilts her face back, the sun caressing her eyes, taking the guesswork out of the color.

  “I smell that,” she answers, standing on tiptoe and nuzzling my neck. I take her face in my hands and stare into her eyes. “You have purple eyes y’know,” I comment, running a finger from her temple to her jaw. I search her precious skin, thinking about where I want my mouth to be.

  She blinks, then without flinching says, “That’s why my middle name is Elizabeth. My mom”—she takes a painful swallow—“thought I looked like some actress . . .”

  I snap my fingers, the name on the tip of my tongue. “Yeah, an old gal . . .”

  “Elizabeth Taylor.” Brooke shrugs and I watch the sway of her hips as she begins to move up the stairs. I chase after her and she giggles as I grope her from behind. The violet eyes, my last name. It’s not until we’re at the top that I realize she really could be Elizabeth Taylor.

  If she were my wife.

  “I saw that Fed guy on your phone,” I say casually, grabbing the stack of mail off the table beside the front door and bringing it to her as she closes the basement door I left standing open.

  Brooke’s eyes move to mine. “What . . .” she snorts, then laughs, “going through my cell?”

  I smirk. “Not exactly.” I place the mail beside her and sit down at the small kitchen table. I rake my fingers through my hair, causing it to stand wildly. “I didn’t want to wake you up after . . .” I move my hips forward and backward as I sit on the chair, making it groan with the motion. Brooke’s lips curl.

  “Nice . . . classy.”

  I lean back in the chair and lace my hands together on top of my head, giving her a speculative look. Holding back my grin hurts. “That’s me, babe, all the way.”

  “You’re a class-A slouch is what you are.”

  My eyebrows rise and the legs of my chair strike the floor. The grin takes possession of my face. “Take it back or I’ll tickle you until you scream for mercy.”

  “No, sir, you should be fishing today,” Brooke says in a coy voice, the table skittering as I grab her and she shrieks. The mail I’d carefully placed floats around us and lands on my head as I lower her to the floor gently. My thumbs are in her armpits and Brooke holds her breath.

  “Don’t you dare,” she warns me, those cool lavender eyes glitter like diamonds shot through with violet fire.

  “Ha!” I yell, working my hands into her sides, and she yelps, twisting and squirming.

  Suddenly I’m eating at her lips, those noises of excited escape becoming contented moans.

  We don’t make it to the bedroom.

  Brooke

  I feel the weight of his lips like an echo of pressure and let my hand fall from my mouth as I remember our lovemaking.

  And try not to feel guilty.

  I don’t feel worthy of this soaring happiness . . . not after all that’s happened.

  I fight with myself, the contrary emotions warring with each other. I’m not at peace. Yet . . . I want joy. Even if it is dark, I yearn for it.

  The darkest joy is better than none at all.

  Imperfect, vital . . . it comes like a thief in the night and robs your heart of its energy to resist the love that has been offered.

  I watch Chance come to me, tenderly . . . brutally. The hallmark of consuming me with tenderness is a slow erotic devour.

  “What are you thinking?” Chance asks, kissing his way from my ankle to my mouth.

  I can’t think . . . I’m barely breathing, but I answer. “I don’t know if I deserve it . . . this,” I say in a low voice, not meeting his eyes.

  “Hey.” Chance raises his head from my bare body, which he’s just had every way a man can have a woman. And just the thought of what he’s done makes heat rise to the surface of my skin like a brushfire.

  He reaches out from between my legs, his face level with my belly button and cradles my chin, not letting me escape that seawater gaze. “You do . . . listen, Brooke . . .” Chance sighs and sits up, pulling me up to my knees then swiveling me around to be on his lap.

  “Toss me around, why don’t you?” I say and he smiles, but he’s gone all serious.

  “I thought we already did that?” He quirks a brow and my blush deepens.

  “I love that you do that . . .” Chance says, kissing my temple.

  He keeps his mouth on the side of my head, his lips moving against my skin. “You do deserve this. You’re not responsible for what happened to your family, Brooke.”

  Then he takes a deep breath, saying the worst part of it. “You would only be dead too.”

  A crushing weight lifts from my chest, like I haven’t been breathing before and now I can.

  “I know,” I whisper, admitting the deepest guilt of all. I want to live. I always wanted to.

  “Don’t feel guilty for surviving, for finding some goddamned happiness,” he says in a fierce voice. “They’re gone, Brooke. But we’re alive. Here. Right now.”

  I look up at Chance and he meets my gaze, full of conviction, sincerity. “I never needed anyone until I met you.”

  “Okay,” I say. And finally, I might mean it.

  “You all right?” he asks.

  I nod. “I’m going to clean up.”

  “Yeah, I’ve made you dirty . . .”

  “You have,” I say with a wink.

  The hot water feels good as I open my mouth, letting it fill and slide down my chin. I lather my hair and wash my body, every part sore, tingling with that pleasant ache that follows great sex.

  Mind-blowing sex.

  I hear clattering around the cabin and step out of the antiquated shower pan, small little hex tiles grabbing the water in the thin grout lines as I towel off.

  I get dressed in jeans and a light tee, then pull over a wool sweater. I pad out to the kitchen and see muscular forearms buried in suds and say what I’m thinking, “That’s sexy . . . Just sayin’.”

  Chance smiles and finishes with our chipped coffee mugs. The old speckled-blue enamel mugs drip on the antique porcelain drainboard, the handles curled to the base of the cups as suds and water slide down the integral ribs of the board and swirl into the basin.

  “I do dishes,” Chance says, wiping his hands off on a bright hand towel. “I save damsels in distress . . .”

  I approach him, putting my palms on his chest for balance. “And you give great orgasms,” I say.

  “Yeah,” he agrees, and swats my ass.

  “You’ve got mail,” Charlie says, pointing to the stack he straightened on the table after our interlude and I give a small frown. Did it get buried somewhere? I’m sure I’ve only got junk.

  I see the Juilliard logo and my heart stutters. My head whips to Chance and he’s grinning so hard I swear he’ll chip a tooth. I grab the envelope, pressing it against my chest.

  “What do you think it is?”

  Chance just shakes his head. “Open it, Brooke.”

  I tear it open, then hesitate. Why would Juilliard be sending me mail? I’ve formally bailed on my scholarship, the final audition—missed.

  I feel my heartbeat thump where the envelope is pressing against my chest.

  The hell with it. I open the letter, scanning the contents. As
I read I get more flustered, hot, agitated.

  Happy.

  I look up at Chance and he knows from my face.

  “You got in,” he says as a statement.

  I slowly nod. “I don’t know how . . .” Then a strange idea occurs to me. Or not so strange.

  Lacey.

  That turd.

  I jog over to the table where I keep my banged-up cell and look at the messages. Jesus, there’s ten from Clearwater. What’s got his government-issue boxers in a twist? I ignore those, getting to Lacey and swipe her image. I wait as it rings.

  Chance raises his brows. I shake my head, putting up a finger and he walks over as it’s hanging there in the air and in a long pull . . . he sucks it into his mouth. Our eyes meet and Lacey answers.

  “Hey ya!”

  I startle and Chance begins working his way up my wrist with his lips.

  Oh my God, does the man have a mouth? It should be illegal or bottled for sale. The thought makes me smile.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey Lace,” I say and give a mock frown to Chance. He gets to the bend of my elbow and I melt. Stop it, I mouth and he releases my arm, stepping back.

  We stare at each other.

  I turn away or hang up on Lacey. Those are my choices.

  “Are you okay? You sound like you’re in a daze or something . . .”

  I nod then realize she can’t see it. “Listen . . . I know what you did.”

  Silence. “What’d I do?” she asks innocently.

  She’s so conniving, I know she did.

  “You put my name in for Juilliard.”

  More silence.

  “Please tell me you’re not pissed, Brookie.”

  I wait, biting my lower lip, glancing at Chance, who’s watching me across the room. I know why they call them bedroom eyes now.

  He’s got them. Uh-huh.

  I look away again, hoping for concentration.

  “No . . . not really.”