by Ella James
I tell myself I’m going to go, but I can’t seem to move. I lean against the front door with my arms folded, barely even breathing because I’m listening so carefully, and I feel a sense of déjà vu that makes my stomach clench.
Wasn’t I always wanting to get through closed doors? I would try to break them down, to pick the lock, and if I couldn’t, I’d just knock for hours like a lunatic. Like it was me who was the crazy one. Gabe kept his problems so close, I thought he was just moody, or a dick, there toward the end. He pushed me so far away, I thought he hated me. I’m still not sure he didn’t. I still can’t believe I didn’t know he was an alcoholic. I can’t believe I left him like that.
Me.
I’m not a fair-weather friend. I didn’t think I was a conditional lover. Even now, I feel a deep sense of regret I’ve realized I may never shake. Regret and—I should just admit it—what seems to be a never-ending wellspring of care for him—be it in the form of curiosity, irritation, regret, or—as is the case right now—intense interest.
So I stay quiet as a cool breeze swirls leaves up from the steps and tosses them against my shins. I tell myself that when a little more time goes by, I’ll go. I check my phone’s clock, then send Lainey a rain check text. I just don’t feel like going out right now.
I’m looking at my shoes, telling myself to go upstairs, when I hear a sound like something being dragged, followed by a punch of sound—a sob. I press my ear against the door’s seam, and I hear his rough breathing. I feel almost frantic with the need to knock again.
“God…” The word is bent and broken.
And that’s it for me. I can’t keep standing out here listening. I tell myself I’ll try the doorknob, and when it doesn’t open, I’ll turn and go.
I turn the knob, push gently, and gape when it gives an inch—before pumping something solid.
I hear him getting to his feet, the swshh of motion. I can feel him there behind the door.
“Marley, you can go.”
I startle at the nearness of his voice. It’s deep and hoarse. I feel it in the center of my chest; it kicks my heart rate up a notch.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude. I just…Gabe, can I come in? Just for a— Just to see you?”
I shut my eyes as I hear him shifting his weight. I try to picture him there, glaring at the door. I hear him exhale, and the door opens, revealing Gabe, with vacant eyes and a stone face. His features don’t move as his red-rimmed gaze meets mine.
He blinks and raises the hand at his side just slightly, turning his palm half out. “You good?” His voice is clearly hoarse.
He blinks again, the motion slow. I realize he looks tired, almost drugged.
“What happened?”
With his head down, he steps into the shadows of the foyer. I peer in, and it’s impossible to miss the spray of glass that glimmers on the hardwood hall behind him. And the smell. The smell of alcohol is overwhelming.
With my stomach in a knot, I step onto the threshold.
Gabe’s hand comes over his eyes. He’s looking down at his feet, clad in sneakers. His shoulders look huge, his curls wild and rumpled. My eyes search his long-sleeved, gray t-shirt for signs of…what?
The lines of his body are all heavy. He seems frozen there, with his hand over his eyes.
I edge inside a half-step, waiting for his eyes to find mine—but they don’t. I watch his shoulders as they rise and fall, and I realize he isn’t going to look at me.
“Can I give you a hug?” I whisper.
After a second, he lifts his shoulders.
Okay…
I step to him, wrap my arms around his waist, and press my cheek against his warm, thick chest. Oh God…my body sings at being pressed against his. Gabe’s ribcage expands on a deep breath, and when he exhales, I can feel him relax against me. He curls over me a little…and I can hear and feel his heavy-but-controlled, start-stop breaths. He’s trying not to cry, I know he is, and it makes my throat ache as I hold him.
I start rubbing little circles on his back, and his breaths go a little shallower, and then there’s just one soft, soft sob, and he hugs me back—hard. His hand drifts up my back, into my hair, and he’s holding my head against his pec. I feel his cheek against my hair, his massive ribcage as it pushes out against my chest. I hear his heartbeat, such a heavy throb.
And then Gabe does something he’s never done. He wraps himself around me…all of him. His arms around me, leg behind mine, and he rubs his scratchy cheek against my hair and exhales, long and slow.
He murmurs, “Sorry, Mar,” and I am frozen at the gentle tone of his voice as his lips brush my hair, soft and tender, like a lover. Gabe’s warm, soft lips press against my forehead for a giddy second, after which he shifts so that his face is pressed beside mine. After which, he bends his head and rests his own forehead against my throat.
Something soft and pliant simmers at the center of me. My hand, still hugging his back, strokes up toward his nape—and for that second, I just want to touch his curls. Something innocent and simple: I just want to brush them with my fingertips.
And at that moment, his lips brush below my ear. He presses them there on the back of my jaw…and as my heart stops beating, his mouth turns into a comet that burns, hot and scalding, down my throat.
Gabe is kissing my throat.
Gently…gently…just his slick and silken tongue and tender lips. But then his lips are sucking. His mouth is on my throat like something hot and hungry, hard now—I can feel his teeth—and I can’t stop a little cry that’s really more a moan—and when I moan, his mouth finds mine, and we are done. There is no time, there is no space, only this: a man’s mouth, hard and soft and slick and dark and holy, forceful and invading, and me—just me, just Marley, always little Marley, open to him, melting for him, lying down for him as I spin in his orbit and he picks me up and then I’m being carried, and the house around us tilts and I realize he doesn’t taste like liquor. I think then what happened. Then we’re moving down a hallway and his mouth is dipping down to have at my mouth, at my neck, he’s nipping underneath my neck and I’m being laid on a bed and Gabe is leaning over me.
I open my mouth, and instead of speaking, I rise up to meet his mouth, and Gabe is on the bed, I’m on the bed, he’s big and warm and hard and thick, all animal, and I’m a desperate animal in heat. I want him. Gabe is moving over me and I want him so bad there is no logic, there is nothing but the fuzzy, grateful thought that he seems so much better now. He’s so firm and steady over me, he’s crawled atop me like some kind of mountain lion and he’s lapping at my throat as his paws push up my shirt and then he’s stroking my sides… I shiver as his big hands stroke my ribs. His mouth moves up along my jaw and finds my lips, and I think vampires, I think he’s stealing something from me. Is it reason, common sense? His mouth is hard and harsh but also tender-soft and gentle, caressing. And I can feel him breathe between our kisses, I can clutch his neck and then his hair and underneath him, I can arch, and I can pull him by the pantsleg down atop me.
“God…” He rubs against me, and his shorts are thin and meshy. I can feel his long, thick, wondrous erection, one I’ve dreamed about since then, because he has the perfect cock, and I reach for his cock, and then that breaks the spell.
Atop me, he goes rigid. All I see is his face, the serious eyes, the worried mouth—still red, from my kisses. And I watch the way it hardens—in frustration? anger? Gabe’s eyes shut. He straightens over me, so that he’s looking down on me, so that I see him—sweating, quaking.
His voice is a growl as he says, “I told you to stay away. You didn’t do that, did you?”
Now—tonight—or when I moved here? I shut my eyes, feeling cold and heavy. Now I have to take my own deep breath. It’s not enough to fortify my voice, which gives me wholly away. It shakes as I say, “I’m sorry.”
“Not sorry enough.”
He comes down on me like a tyrant. His giant body covers mine. His hands take my fac
e—not gently—and I can feel a single breath before his mouth seizes my throat. His kisses hurt. They make me gasp. I grab onto his shoulders, but it’s pointless. I can’t slow him down or quiet my own moans as he ravages my throat and takes my mouth again. I can’t help the way I cry into his mouth, my tongue arching against his as he kisses me so hard and deep, I feel a bounding ache, a mounting pressure in between my legs. He moves a knee between my thighs, and I can’t help the way I lift my hips and try to rub against it.
God, but he devours me. I remember Gabe when we were young, but this is something else. I don’t have a prayer as he lifts my arms—around his neck—and pins them up above my head. I can only whimper as his free hand strokes my lower belly, his demanding fingers break into my jeans. He lays his hand over my pussy and I nearly scream from wanting his fingers to fill me like his tongue is.
At that moment, though, he pulls his mouth off mine. His hand tightens around my wrists. Even as he’s glassy-eyed and panting, his low voice is hard. “I’ll let you up now. Are you gonna go?”
“I...don’t think I can.” My voice is shaking—like my body.
His mouth comes down to crush mine, and he bites my lip before he whispers, “Don’t be stupid, Marley.”
I can’t even speak, can only gasp as his hand slips into my underwear and traces, feather-light, over my puffy slit.
He rolls a fingertip around my clit, and I groan as his mouth returns to mine. He kisses me gently before he starts to break away to speak between our harder kisses: “Don’t be stupid. I would use you so hard, you would ache for days. I’ve never hurt like this before, Marley. I’ll hurt you too.”
His eyes on mine are hypnotic.
His finger on my clit is heavy.
My voice quivers as I say, “I want you to.”
“That would be foolish. You’re not foolish, Dr. Daniels.”
“You don’t know.”
He drags his finger through my drenched slit, nestling it at my entrance. I rock my hips up toward him, but he shakes his head.
“This is a mistake. You understand that, right?”
Alarm rises in me, but it’s lost in want so thick it’s like a cloud.
I nod, and his eyes shut.
“Oh, Marley…”
“Please!”
And so he gives me what I’m begging for. Gabe stuffs two fingers in me, deep and probing, rips my panties clean in half, and starts to lick me so, so, softly. Even as his fingers fuck me hard, his devil's mouth is soft enough to make me cry.
When I get close, he licks around my throbbing clit and pulls his fingers partway out. He lifts his head and he says, “Do you want to go now?”
I can only mewl.
He fucks me with his tongue and fingers till I’m right there on the edge again, and then he nips at me and lifts his head, revealing hot eyes and a gleaming mouth. “Everyone knows fucking your ex is stupid, Marley. So I'll give you one more chance to go. Last call.”
And so, of course, I make the wrong one.
I lift my hips to try to put my clit in contact with his finger, which he drags from my cunt through my slit, rolling my own slickness over me, teasing my clit with just the slightest pressure.
“Gabe…please!”
“Please what, Marley?”
I groan.
“Please what?” he asks, as his fingers pump inside me.
“You know,” I say mindlessly. I blink my rolling eyes. “Please fuck me.”
“With my fingers? With my mouth?”
My eyes are wet as I blink up at him. “Anything,” I manage.
“Anything. And in what matter?”
I blink. “Any manner.”
So he turns me over, smears my wetness back between my legs—making me cry out as his finger strokes my pussy—and he rolls his fingertip around my tender bud.
I cry out in anticipation. Gabe sinks his fingers into my pussy.
“Do you really want this?” His thumb teases my clit.
“I do,” I hear myself cry.
“Okay,” he says darkly. “Only if you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
I shut my eyes and try to breathe, try to prepare for the invasion. When it comes, it’s so gentle, his fingertip so soaked, I groan. It feels so good, I shiver. As he pushes deep inside, my pussy clamps down on his fingers, and his thumb on my clit sends me to the stratosphere. I’ve never come so hard. As I do on his hand, and when I come into myself again, I feel him still inside me, the hand that fucked my pussy resting gently on my ass cheek.
“Ready?” he murmurs. I nod, and he’s out.
I’m dizzy as I blink around the room—a bedroom with blue curtains—and Gabe scoops me up and lays me in the bed, which smells like vanilla.
“Rest,” he says, and then he’s gone. I’m half asleep, I’m in a fugue state. Then he’s back and I can see he’s hard as lead inside his work-out shorts. I try to sit up, but he puts a hand on my shoulder and shakes his head.
I let him clean me with a warm towel, feeling something afterward that takes the sting away—a kind of warming cream. I’m on my side, and when I peer up at him, I’m so exhausted, I can feel my eyes roll back.
“Are you okay?” I manage, dimly.
He nods, reaching down to tuck his cock into the waist of his pants.
“Do you want me to take care of that?” I murmur.
Gabe shakes his head. Then he scoops me up—sheet and all—and carries me in front of him. I can tell our time is over—he’s taking me to my place—before we reach the front door.
I find myself too shy—to embarrassed, maybe—to look at him. But when he opens his front door and steps into the cool night, I think I feel him glancing down at me.
He moves quietly and efficiently up the stairs with me, setting me down and handing me my keys in front of my door. When I blink, he’s got his head ducked slightly. For half a second, his blue eyes swing up to mine.
“Thank you,” he says softly, already heading down my stairs into the inky darkness.
Twelve
Marley
I awaken the next morning feeling like the universe has rearranged itself. After I brush my teeth, I blink into the mirror and I try to see back over time, to see all the Marleys that I’ve been since I was old enough to look in mirrors. Sometimes if I squint right, I can see one of the others: Mar the middle-schooler who wore pig-tails every day and was obsessed with Judy Blume; high school Marley with her bangs and pony-tail and somber face; Gabe’s first Marley, with her blunt bob hair and pert red lips and too-large eyes. And then the Marley I’ve been mostly since. The One Who Gets Shit Done. The One Who Doesn’t Make Excuses, Who Does What Is Reasonable and Right and Logical and Necessary.
I blink and blink and blink and blink because I know The New Marley, she does not let her ex finger her asshole. She does not. She walks down to the farmer’s market café and she has her whipped-cream-topped apple cider, and if she thinks about Gabe weeping on the first floor, she does so with only the most distant kind of curiosity, with only the most removed sort of concern. Because she knows he’s not hers, and she knows why that is a very good thing. And she is living her life on a straight line, goddammit; she is on an arrow, and her arrow knows the way and never dumps her off to fall through outer fucking space screaming a silent, oxygen-less scream. She knows she should ride this arrow straight into tomorrow, and if she does, This Smarter Marley understands that if not happiness, there should at least be peace. And this Marley, she needs peace. She requires it.
Therefore, clearly, this Marley is dead. She died the moment she wrapped her hand around the doorknob and pushed. She was buried under Gabe’s hot tongue. And when he carried her up the stairs—the outdoor stairs—wrung out and tussled, and he sat her on her doorstep, she was born again.
What kind of creature is she now? I blink at her neck, marked with green and yellow bruises. I look at her hair, just washed and half dry on her back and shoulders. I straighten her glasses.
&
nbsp; I don’t know her motivations, her intentions, her limits, or her plans.
Am I insane? I wonder all day as I peek in little ears, wave my thermometer across small foreheads, poke flu shots into arms, and scribble prescriptions for amoxicillin. I’m a doctor, I’m a daughter, I’m a friend, and I want desperately to be a mother.
And maybe I still want my ex-husband—just a little.
Gabe
At 5:40 a.m., when she starts creaking on the boards above my head, I walk into the bathroom, take the top off of the mouthwash, and pour the bottle down the sink. The sharp scent wafts into my head. I close my eyes as I inhale. My hands are sweaty on the counter’s edge. My legs feel weak and unsteady.
A brief glance in the mirror shows a man I know too well lately. Gabe McKellan—insomniac. Gabe McKellan—addict. I don’t like to see my own tired eyes or line-drawn face, so I step into the shower. In where it smells like soap and water, and not gin—or her. I lean my back against the tiles and tilt my head back. Breathe.
I almost licked a jagged shard of glass after I took her home. I pressed my hands into the gin-soaked rug and ran my damp fingers under my nostrils. I saw a few drops atop a shelf and my mouth watered. For six hours, I tortured myself cleaning that room—while Cora whined from the bedroom where I quarantined her and, at random-seeming intervals, Marley creaked around upstairs.
All night on my hands and knees: kneeling, crouching, bending down and standing up to pick up shards and toss them in a bag. I saw it as penance. For Marley or Geneva?
I feel no remorse for Marley. I’m aware I should. I should have had the self-control to keep from letting her into the foyer. When she asked to hug me, I should have sent her packing. I could have lied to her. I should have evaded her. But I was weak. Needy. She hugged me, and I put my arms around her. What happened after that was near inevitable. And still, I didn’t have to put my mouth on her soft skin. I didn’t have to carry her into that bedroom. I fucking fed on her.