by L. B. Dunbar
“Are you touching yourself?”
She gasped, shaking her head, but her face shaded a slight pink, and my lips twitched. My knuckles retreated below the water line, drawing close to the exposed swell of her breasts. Her chest rose and fell, but she hadn’t uttered a sound. Her eyes remained on mine. I opened my hand to let my fingers tickle her skin. I could feel her heart race, and I took the risk to lower my fingertips and grace the slope of one breast. I stopped at the nipple and circled the tip. Her breath caught.
“Do you like that?” I asked, and she pulled back from my touch. Her brow pinched, as she pushed further away.
“What? What did I say?” Her expression troubled me. I didn’t understand. “Tell me.”
“That’s…that’s what he asked me…”
My hand reached for her arm, preventing her retreat. “I don’t want you to think of him when you’re with me.”
She gasped again. “Then you shouldn’t have been there with him. Your presence and his memory tangle together too often in my head.”
I sighed, exhaling deeply, releasing my hand from her arm and holding it up in surrender.
“I’m sorry. You’re right.” My voice lowered, and my eyes fell in shame. I shouldn’t have been there. I knew why I was, and I knew what I did, and neither thought made it easy to face her, especially when she blatantly reminded me.
“Help me,” I stressed as I reached for each of her shoulders, unable to deny myself from touching her. My thumbs caressed gently over her smooth, cool skin. “How can I make it better?” I begged. My eyes raced back and forth, uncertain where to focus but desperate with need for her assistance to make things right for her. She tugged back, settling into the water to release my touch. We stared at one another a moment, my eyes willing her to tell me something, anything.
“I just…I find there are triggers for me. Things that are said. Phrases. It brings back a memory.” My finger reached for her hair and scooped around her ear. I wanted to draw her close and hold her against me. I wanted her to forgive me.
“Is there a way to stop me before I say one?” I asked.
She chuckled softly. “I don’t think so.”
“I’m—not—Rick,” I uttered forcefully, my chest rising with the declaration. “I am not like him.”
“Prove it.” I paused, thinking for a moment, willing my thoughts to conjure a way to show her I was different in so many ways from who Rick was and who I’d been.
“Can I ask something instead?”
Her eyes squinted in question, her head tilting to the side in suspicion.
“I’m asking permission,” I clarified, but I didn’t know how I’d respond if she denied me. My fingers began to shake along her neck. My voice came out meek as I asked, “May I kiss you?”
We stared at one another a moment as her eyes widened. She looked away as if to process the question, collecting her own thoughts. Then she spun back to face me.
“Just one,” she whispered. I stared back at her. She remembered me asking, pleading for one kiss that night. I could have taken anything I wanted from her, but her lips were what I needed. One kiss to let me know what we were doing was okay with her. And when she refused, I knew it wasn’t.
She stood before me, half her body exposed above the water, and I blinked up at her in surprise. I stood slowly to match her height. Time seemed to slow. My breaths increased. My hand stilled on her neck and her throat rolled under my touch as she swallowed.
“Just one,” she repeated, so low I could have mistaken it for the rush of the waterfall. Only I no longer heard the sound of the descending water behind her, as all my attention was aimed at her mouth. And then my lips descended to hers.
17
Day 33 – Juliet
He was kissing me. Soft lips brushed mine, hesitant and gentle. The tip of his tongue skimmed my lips, and I sighed. The sound gave him permission, and he increased the pressure. Sucking at tender skin, he pulled at my lips with his, and I responded, surprising myself. His hand remained at my throat, and our knees knocked under water, but his mouth had all my attention. His tongue lapped at the seam of my mouth, and I opened for him. We moved in unison, our feet easily touching the bottom of the pond. The water only waist high, which meant the instant we stood my swollen breasts hit his cool chest. My hands came to his shoulders but he didn’t tug me any closer to him.
He kissed me.
Mouths moved in opposing rhythm that cut a pattern of nipping and licking. The tempo increased, and I felt a familiar ache tremble low in my belly. I clenched my thighs, and a new beat struck, the pulse rapidly filling me. My mouth became more curious, my tongue seeking his. I stroked over it, purring gently as he returned the curiosity by invading my mouth. His lips tugged at mine, drinking me in, and then I was released.
I panted after the abrupt stop. His eyes focused on mine.
“You’re turned on.” It was a question and a surprise. How could he not see what he’d done to me? He’d done it before. My body vibrated with need. Either he’d have to touch me, which I wasn’t ready for, or I needed to be excused to relieve myself.
Gentle fingers skated down my throat and traced along my collar bone from side to side. His eyes followed the trail of his fingers. Slowly, they lowered, seeking the swell of each breast, rounding over one and dipping to circle the other. My breathing increased and my chest rose, nearly begging him to touch me. His eyes pulled up to mine, seeking permission for something I wasn’t able to handle yet. Rethinking the infinity symbol he drew around and between my breasts, he moved in another direction. A single fingertip stroked down the slope of one breast to touch my nipple as he’d done under the water.
“You’re perfect,” he whispered, letting his eyes drift to where he touched. “I want so much more of you, but I’m afraid to ask. Afraid I won’t stop myself. Let me watch you.”
I understood his meaning, and my hand slipped over my stomach. His eyes focused lower while his finger traced tantalizing circles over my nipple, occasionally pinching the tight bud. He watched as my fingers disappeared, but he knew I stroked through slick folds. The pressure built quickly, and as his fingertip increased, the repetition of my touch did as well.
His other hand slipped into his soaked boxer briefs. The sodden clothing accentuated the thick length of him, the white material nearly opaque from the water. He fisted himself. The subtle slick sound of skin stroking skin filtered through the air. The water lapped at his thighs, as he was taller than me.
“May I ask—” he whispered, and I reached for him without him completing the question. It was bold to touch him, sliding my hand into his underwear and gripping him. He let out a heavy groan, a sound that rolled from the depths of his throat but spoke of pleasure. I smoothed my palm over his mushroomed head and then wrapped my fingers around the silky, smooth shaft. It was a bit awkward, working within his wet underwear, and I fumbled slightly with my rhythm, but when I saw his eyes roll back momentarily, I felt empowered. This is what he wanted. He wanted permission. This is what I needed. I needed to feel in control. His sounds and his movements proved I had it over him.
The power rests in me.
I squeezed him tighter, producing a hiss from his lips and a milky substance at the tip. The sight made me gasp, and I panted as the flutter inside me increased.
“Yes. Like that, Mouse.” The nickname should have stopped me, but it only pissed me off. This heightened the stroking of myself and the friction on the length of him. His hand covered mine, and he worked us in tandem to get where he needed. With fingers still on my nipple, he pinched me hard. “Now, baby,” he grunted. Watching him ejaculate on my fist set me over the edge. I cried out, rocking over my hand. His hand slipped to my hip, squeezing me to keep up the rhythm, but I’d had enough. Exhausted, I let go of him and withdrew my hand from between my legs. I sank into the water and pressed back from him. He stared down at me, slowly smiling, green-eyes gleaming. Unabashed that he stood before me, partially peeking out the band of
his underwear, he ran a hand through his hair.
“Have dinner with me,” he said, and I blinked up at him.
I turned for the rocks to exit the pond. His eyes weighed on my back as I climbed out of the cold water. I didn’t look back, but I wanted to see the expression on his face. Not only had he never asked for things, I sensed he’d never been told no. I only had one way to compromise.
“Maybe.”
18
Day 33 – Tack
Crouching by the grill over the fire pit, I flipped the steak Garvey had brought me.
“You survived one month. Treat it as a celebration, make it a feast.” He explained to me on his last visit how food was more than a necessity. He told me about one time he divided a hot dog into two halves for a previous student. The former ate his portion in two bites, and Garvey asked him how it tasted. The student commented that the hot dog was food, perfunctory. It tasted like the layer of ketchup he dumped over his section.
“He wanted it, so he ate it,” Garvey explained. With hand motions, he pantomimed how he sprinkled his with celery salt and added onions. He exaggerated the motions of swirling mustard on top and pressing a slice of tomato between the bun and delicacy. Then Garvey opened wide and pretended to bite. He moaned.
“I explained to him that my portion was a celebration. I seasoned the hot dog to my liking, taking pleasure in the preparation. I thanked the Creator for providing such good offerings and savored the treat. I made it a feast, and I shared it with him. You need to learn to do the same thing.”
I’d thought about what he said, knowing this was one more of Garvey’s roundabout lessons. I drank and I ate and I fucked. I’d made them all something I wanted instead of something I appreciated. The motions had become automatic, and I did them because that’s what I did.
But tonight, I hoped to change all that, starting with this steak. I flipped it again, attempting not to burn it. The flames were hot in the heat of the evening, and sweat trickled down the side of my face. I’d found a very wrinkled, white linen shirt and some semi-clean army-green shorts to wear. Rolling the sleeves past my elbows, the shirt was still too warm for the tropical heat, but I wanted to look decent in the foolish hope she’d join me. I stared at the flames, praying to whoever might listen that she would appear.
Movement to the right caught my attention, and I glanced in that direction. I turned back to the steak and then took a second look. Standing just outside the tree line stood a vision in white. Her hair hung in waves, tucked behind each ear. I’d never seen it down, other than saturated by the pond. The dress she wore was strapless, puckered in a way that accentuated the straight cut across her breasts. The remainder flowed loosely to her ankles. The material was filmy, and I could see through it, noting that she wore bikini underwear underneath. I blinked as I stood, willing her to not be a mirage, but rather some island goddess come to enlighten me.
As she stepped closer, I saw her fists clench at her sides. She was nervous, and suddenly so was I.
“You look beautiful,” I said, exhaling a breath. She’d taken mine away again when she bit the corner of her lip fighting that smile I desperately wanted to see. Her hands clutched the side of her dress and she pulled it out a little, fanning the material to flutter in the breeze.
“It seemed silly to pack a dress, but my mother taught me at an early age never to go anywhere without at least one.” She let the material fall and looked up at me. Violet eyes took my breath again and I sucked in air. I couldn’t speak.
“It smells delicious,” she said, nodding toward the steak and I noticed the extreme flame.
“Shit.” I knelt immediately and slid the steak to the side of the grill grate. I wanted everything to be perfect and suddenly I was messing this up like an amateur. I wanted wine and flowers, damning Garvey for his feast lecture. And then realized, I didn’t need them. I only wanted her company. We’d make do.
I lived in a luscious wilderness of flowers and noting a white bloom on the tree next to my tent, I walked over to the bush. Plucking the flower, I returned to Juliet holding it out to her.
“I should have gathered more.” We both looked at the star-shaped petals before gazing up at each other. Her smile broke, and the brilliance was greater than the sun. In that moment, I decided I could live off that smile.
“It’s perfect.”
You are, I wanted to tell her again, but I’d already been enough of a sap. Instead, I tucked the flower behind her ear. Her lips curled and I longed to kiss her, but one thing at a time.
“I think this is almost ready,” I said, stepping back to the steak and squatting to flip the meat one last time. “I’m sorry they only brought me one.”
“I don’t want to take your food,” she said, her expression dropping.
“No,” I said, standing. “No, I don’t mean that way. I want to share it with you.” I rubbed up her bare arm, taking the risk to touch her without asking. My body hummed with the simplest connection to her. Motioning for her to take a seat, I set to work removing the steak, cutting it in half and offering her a portion. I’d made rice in a pot, but it didn’t look quite right, the consistency runny.
“I think I messed this up.” Stretching from her log seat to look at the mushy mess, she giggled. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s quite right. It’s okay. I had a bad maggot experience the first week here and I don’t think I could stomach rice.” I grimaced in response.
“No rice then.”
I handed her a cup of water and raised mine.
“To one month on the island.”
“To one month on the island,” she replied before bringing the cup to her lips. We sat in silence a few minutes, slowly eating the rich food that had become an anomaly to both of us. I assumed her diet was similar to mine—canned goods and fruit.
“I feel like I want to ask you everything and don’t know where to start,” I chuckled, feeling awkward in a way I never had before.
“What do you want to know?”
“Anything you want to tell me.” And so, our conversation began. A real conversation, where she told me about where she grew up and how it all changed when her parents died. She only gave me bits and pieces of her trailer park days, skipping ahead to meeting Chellie Brightson and attending college in Baltimore.
“It’s how I ended up at The Front Door. The pay was good, and I needed the income to supplement my scholarship.”
Suddenly self-conscious of my upbringing, I hesitated, but her eyes encouraged me to speak. Mentioning The Front Door closed the door on her history, so I began.
“I went to Georgetown. I thought I’d major in political science, but my father wanted me to join the family business. Corbin Industries owns a shipping yard in Virginia. We’ve begun to merge with other modes of transportation—trucking and railway. That’s my job. Buying up smaller companies and adding them to our dynasty.” The words took a sarcastic twist, and my lips followed the bitterness of my tone.
“And you like doing those things?” she questioned, interrupting my thoughts of the latest acquisition. I’d come to Baltimore and decided to hang with Rick. I’d heard of his club and wanted exclusive rights. He’d told me I could have what was his, but I knew Rick. I had to prove myself to him. Enter Juliet.
“I can be a bad man when I go into business mode. I tend to dominate until I get what I want. I want what I want, and that means taking companies, making them mine, and stripping them of what I need. My father always believed in survival of the fittest. He demands Corbin Industries be at the top.”
“Have you ever considered doing something different? Building something up instead of tearing those companies down? Making something that’s for the good of others?”
“No,” I replied too sharply.
She smiled weakly, and I didn’t like the turn of our conversation. My father was a ruthless man and I wouldn’t have all that I had if he hadn’t been. I wouldn’t be who I was, ruthless myself, without his instruction. But then again, I wouldn’
t have done what I did, without thinking I could get away with it, because of who I was—Terrence Jackson Corbin the fourth.
“So why anthropology?” I questioned, deflecting the conversation from my father and the company.
“I’ve always been curious about people. People who are different from me. People who think like me but outside of my upbringing.” She shrugged. “It’s hard to explain.”
“So why aren’t you a shrink?” I chuckled, but her violet eyes pinned me.
“Because I don’t want to dissect one person; I want to understand a whole culture.” The comment made me pause.
“What culture?” The question caused her to open her mouth and then pause. Somehow, I felt we’d circled back to The Front Door, and my curiosity was piqued.
“Did you want to know more about what happened on the third floor?” I asked, hesitantly.
“Not so much that particular floor but a culture of people, a lifestyle. I didn’t understand the desire to be dominated or submissive, for that fact. I want to be in control of my own life and decisions, but in some ways, I’m intrigued. Are submissives really subservient or do they have the dominating power? Aren’t they in control after all—safe words and that sort of thing?”
“Uh…” Fuck. How did this conversation get to this? “Did you want to be a part of that?”
“I want to understand the mentality behind it.” I stared at her. This waif of a woman, who had more strength than I’d witnessed in some men, and she was curious about this.
“Why?”
“Because I—” She stopped.
“Tell me. I want to understand.” I’d set down my plate and leaned back against the stump at my back. I’d chosen the sand for a seat. Feeling satisfied with my feast and her company, this conversation was the most stimulating I’d had in months, even before the isolation of the island.