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“You look good in my shirt.” He raises his eyebrows and wiggles them at me.
I’m sure I blush a thousand shades of red. I can’t believe I stood here with my nipples visible in front of his friend.
“You ripped my shirt. And my bra. I took this out of your dresser. I hope that’s okay.”
He hooks his fingers in the waistband of my jeans and pulls me closer to him. “I’ll buy you a new shirt.”
Being so close to him again quickens my pulse. I’ve never had a one-night stand before, I have no idea if that’s what this is, or how I’m supposed to act now. On television, the girl usually goes home the next day and they never speak again.
Slut. You fucked someone you met at your husband’s grave.
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to ignore the voices. They never seem to stop.
When I open my eyes again, I see that he’s watching me intently, as if he’s trying to read my mind.
“No, I don’t need a new shirt. Thank you, though. I should go. Can you take me back to my car?” That’s still at the cemetery.
He lets out a deep breath. “I was thinking … I’m staying here for a month. Kinda like a mental vacation or something.” He slowly brushes his hand down my arm and grabs onto my hand. “Why don’t you stay with me? You kinda look like you could use a vacation.”
I must have heard him incorrectly. There is no way this total stranger just asked me to spend a month with him.
“Excuse me?”
“I think you need it, too. I’ve seen you in the cemetery before. I watched you.”
I pull away from him quickly, as if he’s on fire. “What? Why? Are you sick? You don’t watch people in a cemetery. It’s a sacred place. What the hell is wrong with you?”
He doesn’t even flinch or defend himself. He just answers me calmly. “Because watching you made me feel.”
“What the hell could watching a woman cry at her husband’s grave possibly make you feel?”
He stares me right in the eye. “A lot of things, actually. But envy, mostly.”
“Envy?” I repeat incredulously. “Of what?”
“Meaning that much to someone.”
I wasn’t expecting his answer at all, or his raw honesty. I cross my arms over my chest and stare at him. “I really have no reply for that. I’m sorry.”
“I lost someone too,” he says, looking down at the floor. “I meant what I said yesterday.” He looks back up and meets my eyes. His dark eyes are so full of pain. I wonder if mine look the same way. Is that what people see, when they look at me? “I can help you forget,” he continues. “To help the pain go away.”
“How?”
“Stay here with me. Give yourself to me for a month. Let go of everything … give me control of every part of you. Trust me, it will set you free of all this crap. It will help both of us.”
I back away from him, trying to understand what exactly he’s saying. “I don’t understand … give myself to you? What does that even mean?”
He closes the space between us, taking my hands in his. “Sometimes it’s better if you don’t understand it, and just let yourself feel it as it’s happening. Just let go; don’t think about it. I won’t hurt you. I promise I’ll take care of you and I’ll take it all the fuck away.”
I shake under the intensity of his stare, and his words that could mean a myriad of things. Scary things that happen in the dark. I’ve read about this sort of thing in romance books, and I remember thinking it was sorta scary but also sensually exciting. “Will it be … sexual?” I ask, my voice trembling. I lick my lips, my mouth suddenly dry.
“Yes, some of it. Sometimes I may gently tie you up, so you can’t touch me, and you’re at my mercy to touch, to make you feel, and all you can do is just lie there and enjoy it.” His eyes take on a spark as he describes what he wants. “Or I may command you to touch me, because sometimes it feels good to be told what to do. But more than that. It’s not just about sex. It’s much deeper than that. Much, much deeper.”
“And at the end of the month? Then what?”
“You’ll be stronger, and I will be too. Other than that, we’ll have to see. Neither one of us is in any frame of mind to think that far ahead.”
This isn’t what I was expecting.
I can go back home to the empty house, the loneliness, the overwhelming responsibility of everything, or I can stay here with this mysterious stranger and let him do whatever it is he wants to do that he thinks will help me. Nothing can get worse. I’ve already reached rock bottom with losing my husband, quitting my job, bills piling up, and contemplating suicide daily. Nothing matters to me anymore. This guy could murder me right now and I don’t think I would even care. Or he could fuck me again and make my mind sear into a hot frenzy, as he did last night, and make me forget everything for a little while with his insane body. Plus he has a stash of Valium somewhere in this house, which I can use to implement my original plan of going to sleep forever if this doesn’t go well.
“Alright. I’ll stay.”
Heat flashes in his eyes and he kisses my lips possessively, squeezing my hands tight in his, not letting go.
I return his kisses with equal fervor. Something about him has rattled me. Denying him anything seems like it would be impossible and I’m just too exhausted mentally and physically to question it or him. If he wants to take care of me and take me on some erotic emotional ride, why the hell not? If it changes my life, great. If it doesn’t, then at least I experienced something different and daring, and didn’t take the safe way out.
Vandal
The sight of her wearing my old, white T-shirt, her nipples straining against the thin fabric and the visible bite marks going down the side of her neck is enough to make me want to throw her on the kitchen table and fuck her brains out. Damn Evelyn for showing up here and disrupting our morning. All that matters now is that she agreed to stay. Being with her has ignited a fire in me that I thought was snuffed out a long time ago.
I lead her wordlessly down to the bathroom and undress her, then myself. I trace my finger down the scar that runs down her side. The skin is pink, jagged and new. She shoves my hand away, and I immediately place my hand back along her ribs.
“Don’t ever push me away.” I keep my voice low and even. “Tell me how this happened.”
“No.”
Tears flow down her cheeks.
“You have to let me in if this is going to work.”
She leans back against the sink. “It’s from the accident my husband was killed in. We were hit by another car. I guess a piece of the car cut into me.” She looks down at the scar. “It’s ugly.”
I kneel in front of her and drag my tongue along the length of the scar that goes from her hip to the side of her breast, goose bumps raising on her flesh. I did this. This could have killed her. She can’t be more than a hundred pounds; I have no idea how she lived through the accident. I wish my baby had been as lucky.
“You’re beautiful,” I tell her, and it’s true. She’s got classic, almost old-fashioned beauty. Porcelain skin, big sky-blue eyes, natural blond hair. She’s actually very cute. Too cute to ever be with a guy like me.
“I’m not. Not at all,” she replies.
It’s always the most beautiful people who have no idea that they are.
We shower together, but she’s despondent as I caress her body with cream lavender soap. The hot water stings the deep scratches she made in my back last night, but I don’t care. I’ll take any pain I can from her because I deserve it as much as I want it.
“Does your little plan include me having any clothes? And what about my car?” She finally speaks when we step out of the shower.
I take one of the towels we just dried off with and fold it into a nice, neat square, placing it on the floor in front of me.
“I’ll get you some clothes and take care of your car. Kneel.”
“How are you going to take care of my car, exactly?”
“I’ll have it towed to your house. Is there anything else that needs to be taken care of, like, at your house? You have any pets, or any shit like that?”
“No, I don’t have any shit like that. But I’ll call my neighbor and tell her I’m going to be gone; she can keep an eye on my place.”
I nod and point to the towel. “Kneel.”
