by Finn, Emilia
“So you’re saying you go to the hospital in your spare time and visit with the sick kids?”
She sips her one and only glass of wine and shrugs. “Few times a week. I seem to favor Marcie, though. She’s seventeen and sassy. She has a thing for my brother, which is weird.”
“But… why?”
“Because he’s my brother!”
“No.” Chuckling, I bring my beer up and take a sip. “I meant the hospital. Why do you go there? I’m not saying what you’re doing isn’t amazing and selfless, I just mean, why? You don’t have a hobby to take up?”
Her eyes turn thoughtful. “I like to visit with them. I like to give them something new to focus on. They spend every day and every night staring at the same walls. Same posters. Same doctors and nurses. Same curtains. The hours drag for them, while the rest of us rush around and complain there’s not enough time in a day to get all of our work done. Those kids are being poked and prodded all day long, and often, those pokes are for the chemotherapy being pumped through their veins. They’re poisoning themselves in hopes that the poison will kill the cancer before the cancer and the poison kills them.”
She takes another small sip to buy herself time. “It’s an hour or two out of my day. Not a sacrifice at all, and for the time I’m there, they smile and forget their world stinks.”
“But how did this become a thing for you? I can’t say I’ve ever considered visiting the hospital except to visit my own friends. And they’re rarely there for more than a couple days.”
“Well…” She pauses with a smile. “Maybe I’m less selfish than you are?”
I tilt my beer and laugh. “Ain’t that the truth. I don’t deny that I’m selfish. I mean, aren’t we all? It’s human nature, no? Puppies fight each other for their mom’s milk. Colleagues compete for the promotion and pay raise. Soldiers fight to be the winner in battle. We all have our own best interests at heart, it’s a survival instinct. I guess you’re just less mean about it.”
“You’re probably right. My visits are self-serving too, I suppose. They help me remember my life is pretty good.”
“Morbid,” I chuckle. “Compare yourself to the sick kids. It’s one way to remember shit ain’t all that bad.”
Abigail’s eyes darken as she watches me. A pregnant pause, tension, worry. She draws her bottom lip between her teeth, and sends my heart into a spiral of uncertainty.
“What?”
“I spent a lot of my time staring at those walls once,” she whispers. Her eyes turn scared. “Wishing someone other than my brothers would visit and tell me what it’s like to be on the other side.”
I sit forward and press my beer to the table. “Come again? And explain really fucking slowly so I can keep up.”
“You don’t have to swear about it.” She avoids my eyes, instead focusing on her glass of wine as she slowly spins it. Her brows furrow, her lip thickens the longer she abuses it, and her left arm folds across her stomach, the way it has so many times in the past when she wants to hide from me.
“I’m sorry if I sound harsh, Priss. But I think you just broke me a little. I need you to explain what the fuck you mean, because I know what I’m thinking is worse than reality.”
Her eyes sparkle as she peeks up from beneath her lashes. “What are you thinking?”
“You visit kids with cancer?” When she nods, my heart stops. “That makes me think you were a kid with cancer. But that can’t be right, because–”
“I was.” She clears her throat, and continues to spin that glass. “I was diagnosed with breast cancer when I was fifteen years old. It tore my world apart.”
I press a hand to my chest, because I swear, deep inside, something just snapped.
“Priss…”
“It’s why I’m small. It’s why my brothers obsess over me. It’s why I have scars on my arms and chest. It’s why I like to cover up and wear loose clothing. I used to hate my hair, but then I lost it all during treatments.” She reaches up and plays with the long strands. “Suddenly, I didn’t hate it anymore. To be fifteen, sick, without hair, always in the hospital…” She pulls in a deep breath. “It was a bad time for me. I was in there for months, because my treatment was complicated. So… I like to pay it forward. Do you know what I mean? I like to visit my friends and make them smile for an hour.”
“Fuck me.” I sit back and run a hand over my face.
The meal I just enjoyed is now tasteless. The beer I was drinking, bland.
I run another hand over my face and grunt. Then I push my chair back so fast that it topples to the floor and makes Abigail jump. I stalk toward her.
I know I frighten her. Her cheeks pale, and her eyes dart along my face, but I can’t slow.
I scoop her out of her chair and hold on tight while she squeals. I take her out of the kitchen and into the living room, then I drop down on the couch with a huff and squeeze her to me until I can breathe through the worry that surges in my blood.
She’s not scared anymore, but her heart races, her breath comes out in short pants. If it weren’t for her nails massaging the back of my neck, I’d worry she was freaking out as much as I am.
“Spencer?”
“Hang on a minute.”
She sits in my lap so her legs are bent and resting against my chest and arm. I bury my face in her hair, breathe her in, and try to let it replace the stench of hospitals that my brain somehow convinces me I can smell.
“Spencer? Are you okay?”
“Are you?” I pull back and stare into her eyes.
The times I teased her about her size. About her ill-fitting clothes. When I touched her in the bathroom at Kane’s wedding, and again in her bathroom, when she did all she could to cover up.
“Jesus, Abigail. Are you okay?”
Her brows almost touch as she watches my face. “It was a long time ago. I’m okay.”
“I’m sorry for all the times I teased you.”
“It’s okay.” Her lips quiver with a smile. “You’re basically the only person in the world that didn’t treat me like a fragile child. I fought you on it, but inside, I liked that you treated me like an adult.”
“How old?” I pull her impossibly closer and glance between her eyes. “You said, but I already forget.”
“Fifteen.” She swallows. “I was fifteen when I was diagnosed. I was in the hospital for most of a year, because of complications and stuff. But I’m better now.”
“Remission?”
She nods. “Surgery and chemo worked. I’ve been in remission for eight years. I get exams every six months, and blood tests once a year.”
“When was the last time they checked you?” I can’t help that my eyes flick down to her chest. I’m not checking her out, I’m checking that she’s okay. “Is it time for another? I can come with you.”
She smiles and cups my face the way I cupped hers earlier. “I went today.”
“Today? Abigail!”
She gives a tiny, breathy scoff. “Everything is fine. They checked and did the ultrasound to make sure nothing has popped up. Everything looks fine.”
“Please tell me you took Nadia, or one of your brothers. Tell me you asked your mom or your fucking pastor to go with you.”
“I went alone.”
“Ugh!” I throw my head back and groan. “Jesus, Priss. So fucking high-maintenance. Why go on your own? You have a hundred people that would come with you, but you choose to go alone? Even Jay would have gone if you’d just asked!”
“I like being alone sometimes,” she murmurs. “When things are scary for me, I like to be alone. It’s how I cope. But everything is fine. I had no plans to tell you this about me, but my glass of wine and big mouth got the better of me.”
I bring my head forward and meet her eyes. “Thank you for telling me. Thank you for trusting me.”
She shrugs. “Cat’s out of the bag now. Don’t make it weird, okay?”
“How could I possibly make it weird?”
“Somethi
ng to do with carrying me around your home like I’m incapable?” Her lips quirk into a smile. “Or maybe the bit where you suggested Jay-freakin’-Bishop come with me to my boob doctor?”
“I mean… I didn’t say he should go. Because he’d totally sneak a peek and then never shut up about how he saw my girl’s goods. I just meant that he could go, ya know, if you were desperate for a friend.”
Her eyes change from a little distant, but a little humored too, to something else. Then she turns in my lap and changes everything.
She was cradled in my lap – admittedly, like a child – but now she turns and straddles my thighs. She’s as light as a feather, and small enough that sitting on me still doesn’t have her face towering over mine. She’s my height now, so when she leans forward and cups my face again, she’s exactly where she needs to be.
“Your girl?”
“Hmm?”
She grins. “You said ‘your girl’. You said Jay would never shut up about how he saw your girl’s goods.”
“Oh…” I watch her eyes. “Yeah, I said that.”
“I’m romanticizing the heck out of that statement in my head right now, just so you know. I can’t do this stuff without getting attached. I can’t be with a man casually. But…” She pauses. “I want to be with you.”
That should terrify me. I should already be running for the fuckin’ mountains, and banging a new chick in each town I pass just to create more space between us. But is that what I do? No, I massage her thighs. I look into her eyes, and let my heart skip like a total pussy.
“I want to be with you too.”
There it is. The final revolution on the lock I never knew I needed to open.
“Abigail, I… I don’t know h–”
Grinning, she leans closer and silences me with her lips. It starts out slow and gentle, hesitant, since she’s the one taking the lead, but when my hands tighten on her ass, and my dick grows beneath her, she gasps and sends her breath scorching down my throat.
I should be pushing her away, but I pull her closer instead.
I should tell her that bringing her to the couch isn’t meant as pressure to make out, but I slide my tongue into her mouth instead.
I should throw myself into a cold shower, but I grind upwards and groan when the friction is exactly what I need.
“Don’t touch my breasts.” She pulls away, panting and breathing hard. “Okay? Just don’t touch my breasts. Don’t take my bra off.”
“Um…” My eyes flicker between hers as our chests lift and drop. “Okay.”
“Promise? Just this time, you have to promise.”
“Okay.” I nod and wonder why I’m so nervous. “I promise not to touch.”
“Okay.” Grinning, she reaches down and grabs the bottom of her top. Looking into my eyes and having an internal war with herself where I know she’s freaking out, she slowly peels it up so I see her pale stomach and then a dark purple bra.
Her breasts are as small as I imagined, but I don’t care like I used to. I help her get her shirt over her head and toss it aside, then I come back and hold her thighs while I study what she’s gifted me. Freckles in the valley between her breasts, a scar high on her chest that I suspect now was from a port-a-cath. She’s so thin, I see her ribs, but I know she eats. She’s so narrow that I worry I might break her. But I promised I wouldn’t baby her.
I slide my hands over her hips and marvel at how large my hands are compared to her. I notice how dark I am compared to her, with the ink that stretches right to my fingertips, compared to her pale skin that remains blemish-free except for the port scar.
Her bra is cute. It’s not what I’d call sexy, and it’s not a bra I’ve ever seen a woman wear before. There’s no lace, no push-up, no bling or bows to draw the eye. It’s just… there. It’s purple. And in my mind, it’s become the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen in my life.
“Please don’t forget,” her voice cracks. “Just this one time, don’t touch. After this, we’ll discuss it.”
Slowly nodding, my eyes drift between her chest and her eyes. “I won’t forget. I promise.” Satisfied, she leans in and hesitantly presses her lips to mine. I let my hands slide around her hips and over her back. She purrs when I slide my hands over her skin. She’s never been touched before. No man has ever had this from her, and that thought alone makes my heart throb.
I wrap one arm around her hips and cup her ass, and bring the other hand up to the back of her head to hold her to me, then I stand and grin when she gasps and tries to pull away. “It’s okay, Priss. Come back.”
I pull her closer, and bring our lips back together, then I turn and walk out of my living room and step onto plush carpet in my bedroom. I leave the lights out, though the living room illuminates the space enough that we can see the shadows. I slide my tongue over hers, and when she reciprocates, my groans turn to growls.
She was fighting me, but now she holds on tight. She was trying to escape me, but now she wraps her legs around my hips and pushes her fingers into my hair. She’s has no clue what she wants, but she pulls me close anyway, because she feels what I feel. She feels the same draw I feel, even if she’s terrified.
I walk forward until my shins touch the end of the bed, then I lean down and slowly lower her to her back. Any other time, any other mood, and I might toss her down and chase it with a laugh, but not Abigail. Not today.
I don’t let go until she sinks into my covers and looks into my eyes with panic in hers. Her hair splays out on the comforter beneath her, her chest lifts and falls with erratic breaths. I pull back and stand to look down at her.
Her legs are open, half bent. Her hands clutch at the covers like she’s terrified. And her bottom lip, trapped between her teeth.
“You don’t have to be afraid, Abigail.” I pull my shirt up, and when it clears my head, I toss it away. “The old rules apply. No sex, no pressure, no nothing. I promise.” I move forward and place my knee between hers and brace my hands on either side of her head. “I wanna touch you.” I lean in and press my lips to her jaw. “I’ll taste you. But you have my word, nothing more than that.” I kiss her again and close my eyes. “For the rest of my life, I can do without, so long as I get to keep you.”
Her breath hitches, drawing my eyes open to find a tear sliding from the corner and dribbling over her temple.
“Don’t cry, baby.” I lean in and collect the salty liquid with my tongue. “There’s nothing to be sad about.”
“I’m romanticizing you.” Her breath hitches and makes me smile. “I was looking for a prince, but I think I got, like, a Jafar or something. You’re tattooed and scary, you cuss and push me around all the time, but you also lift me up, and I like your moods anyway.”
Chuckling, I lower myself and press a gentle kiss to her ribs. “We can’t all be Aladdin, I guess. But I promise to be good to you. I promise you won’t regret me.” I press a kiss to the center of her chest and give her a second of privacy when her breath stops. “I promise to treat you well… I mean, I’ll still be pushy and mean, but I’ll never hurt you or be cruel.”
I slide my hands over her hips, pop the button on her jeans, then meet her eyes to ask for permission.
When she swallows and nods, I slowly peel them down. “I promise I’ll always be gentle. I’ll always respect you. I’ll take care of you.” I pull the denim down to her feet, and having forgotten her shoes again, pop them off and make her laugh when the left one smacks the wall. “I promise to make you laugh sometimes. I don’t know how to do the romance, but I’ll try. I’ll buy books on it or something.”
I toss her other shoe aside, then tug the jeans off completely.
She watches me with nervous eyes. “I think you’ve got the romance figured out.”
I grin. “Yeah? First time lucky, maybe.”
I follow the line of her torso, her ribs, her bellybutton, and then her narrow hips. She has freckles all over. Not a lot, but sparse sprinkles, and a cute little cluster on her hip that I lea
n down and kiss.
Her body remembers mine. Her hunger knows what I can do for her, so she lifts her hips and prompts me to take her panties and use my lips elsewhere.
Who am I to say no?
I nibble along her hipbone and nip just once so she shoots off my bed and flops down again with a squeak. She’s so perfect, so precious. And so fucking unspoiled, it makes me nervous.
I slide my fingertips into the waistband of her matching purple panties and slowly bring them down her legs. Her skin is so white, so translucent, it’s endearing.
She is fragile, but she wants to be treated like she’s durable.
“I’ll be careful, okay?” I pull her panties off and toss them wherever her jeans went, then I look to the thatch of red hair and the shiny moisture that coats the inside of her thighs. “You’re all wet, Priss.” I meet her eyes. “All for me?”
When she shyly nods, I lower to my knees and tug her closer with a fast yank. She screams out in surprise, but it turns to a silly giggle, which then turns to another scream when I slide my tongue along her slit and dip it inside.
Her body bows tight enough she might snap, and her hips lift off the bed as I play with her clit. I pull it between my lips and suck. I nibble with my teeth, then slide my tongue over it to soothe any pain my teeth might have caused. Her hands firmly clutch the back of my head, her nails dig into my scalp.
She’s demanding when she’s not nervous.
She’s demanding when she wants something and I don’t deliver fast enough.
Her thighs tighten against the sides of my head as though to hold me captive, which makes me laugh, and the vibrations from that roll through my lips and send her into another fit of groaning. She tries to ride my face. She follows me when I pull back, and shoots along the bed when I replace my tongue with two fingers.
It’s been a week since I was with her, so she’s tight again, but she knows me now. She knows that if she relaxes, the pleasure will come.
“Spencer…”
“Mmm.” I lap her up, and groan at how sweet she tastes. She’s so responsive for me. So wet and willing to trust. “You taste so good, Priss. So fuckin’ perfect.”