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“Looking back, I can honestly say it was impressive work for a thirteen-year-old. But it wasn’t perfect. And my dad...” He gives a bitter, breathy laugh. “My dad pointed out every single flaw.”
“Oh no. I’m so sorry, Arthur.” I comb my fingers through his hair, pulling some of it loose from the ponytail in the process.
“It’s ages ago now. But I can still remember how much it hurt. Anyway, I wasn’t just heartbroken. I was angry at his rejection. I’d spent most of my life avoiding any sort of conflict with him because of how he always exploded, but I was so mad I finally went to confront him late that night.”
I’m almost shaking now, so worried about what I’m about to hear.
His tone is quiet, almost delicate, as if he’s taking care with every syllable. “He’d been drinking. If I’d known, I probably would have changed my mind since he was always at his worst when he drank, but I didn’t know. I went to his office and demanded he talk to me and then let him have it about how bad a father he was and how I deserved more.”
“You were right in what you told him. You did deserve better. And you were trying to stand up for yourself.”
“I was. For the first time in my life.”
“What did he do?”
“He was so angry. He roared at me, told me to get out. I didn’t immediately, and he... He pushed me.”
I suck in a breath although I’d known it had to be something like that.
“I fell against a table with an antique vase on it, and then it fell with me to the floor. It shattered, and I landed badly on a piece of it.” He rubs a finger up and down his scar. “So I ended up with this.”
“I thought maybe he cut you on purpose.”
“No. His violence was always in an explosion of anger. He never did it in a calculated way. Not that it makes it any better.” He gives another of those bitter chuckles. “He always prided himself on being so controlled.”
“He was terrible.”
“Yes. He was.”
“I’m glad you’re finally making your own decisions instead of letting him control you from the grave. You aren’t what he made you.”
His expression softens. “I’m partly what he made me, but there’s more to me than that.”
“Exactly. It’s the same with me and my dad. I’m partly what he made me. So desperate to be loved that I bury my own needs to please other people. But I’m more than that too. I’m trying to do better, just like you.”
“Youaredoing better.” He slides one hand around to the back of my neck, under my hair. “You are so amazing. To have lived through what you’ve lived through and still be so kind and generous and resilient and softhearted.”
“I feel the same way about you.” It feels like my heart may fly all the way out of my chest now.
“Do you?” He seems to be asking more than what’s on the surface. He’s suddenly urgent. Almost hungry.
“Yes, Arthur. I really do.” I scoot closer to him, holding on to his ponytail.
He makes a little moan and closes the gap between our mouths, kissing me deep and slow.
It feels so good I respond eagerly, and my enthusiasm soon transforms the gentle kiss to something a lot deeper.
Soon he’s got me rolled over on my back with him on top of me. He’s parted my thighs to make room for his body, and I’ve bent one of my knees and wrapped a leg around his hip. I’m grinding against his groin as his tongue thrusts rhythmically into my mouth.
“Oh fuck, baby.” He lifts his head to gaze down at me. His face is flushed, and his eyes have darkened. “Look at you. So hot and eager. And I’ve barely started touching you.”
I claw my fingernails down the back of his shirt, hating so many layers between us. “Arthur, please.”
He moans again before he leans into another kiss. This time his hand slides between my legs, rubbing me there over my jeans.
I whimper and arch, utterly shameless in the face of the desire flooding my body.
But then he yanks his mouth away with an agonized groan, holding himself up on straightened arms above me. “Hold on a minute.”
