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In a moment of recklessness, I decide to kiss him, to stamp out the tension between us once and for all. I’m never the one to make the first move, and maybe it’s because of the flood of relief that loosens my limbs, but I pull him close to me. I place my hand on his neck and capture his lips. His lips are pillowy and warm. He slips his tongue into my mouth, and I moan. His hand cups my ass and pulls me closer. I moan as he explores my body and his free hand traces the seams of my skirt and blouse.
But then, that voice in my head, the voice that accompanies the anger that seems to be both an ancient part of me and a separate entity—tells me to yank, bite, pull. I want to take his lip between my teeth and bite it until it bursts like jelly-filled candy. I want to raze bright red lines along his back. I want to consume him.
I try to fight the voice and focus on the present. I redirect my thoughts to the warmth of Joseph’s lips, the firmness of his biceps as his arms circle my waist, and how he tastes like cinnamon toothpaste. My suspicions are correct; he’s a great kisser. He doesn’t use too much tongue. When he touches me, it’s an exploration. He’s not trying to stake a claim. He opens the buttons of my blouse and palms one of my breasts.
I feel a gush of desire flooding between my legs. I tilt my pelvis toward him, inviting him to go further. Now that the power’s back on, we can still make use of the dark. There’s a mustard-yellow couch shoved in the corner of the room. It smells like mothballs. I grab Joseph’s hand and lead him to it. A plume of dust puffs up as I plop down onto the scratchy cushion. Joseph cups my ass again, thumbing along the waistband of my underwear.
Then I feel a pull.
Something cranks my neck back so hard that my head hits my mid-back. I feel like my neck is about to snap in two. It’s not supposed to bend this way. I cry out, this time in pain rather than pleasure. I try to bring my neck forward, but it happens again.
“Fuck! Joseph! Help!” I shriek. Pain licks along my scalp, fizzling at the roots of my hair. It feels like someone is brushing my hair with a white-hot iron comb, digging the teeth into my scalp. I can’t stop screaming.
Joseph’s screaming, too. Finally, whatever was gripping my head let go of me. I feel the blood rush into my scalp. My heart thumps anxiously in my chest, then slows. The lights turn back on with a zap. I'm left pressing my hands against my knees, trying desperately to catch my breath. Joseph's eyes dart between me and the breaker.
“Maybe I shouldn’t mess with the breaker right now,” Joseph suggests.
We leave the basement, and his arm remains looped around my waist, holding me close. Upstairs, the lights are back on. We sit at the dining room table, and he takes his phone out and uses the flashlight to examine my scalp.
“You’re bleeding,” he mumbles. I reach up and touch my scalp. There's a long zig-zag of a scratch along my hairline. When I pull my hand away, strands of my hair fall into my palm. He walks into the kitchen and returns with a damp paper towel. He presses it against my scalp, and it comes away red.
Chapter 6
Joseph
Iusedtoworkthrough my lunch breaks. I’d sit at my desk, hunched over a cup of noodles or a microwave burrito. Now, I log off at noon on the dot and steal away to the staircase outside Eleanor’s room.
Suppose I was a superstitious man, prone to believe any of the stories my mother, the locals, or even those dastardly kids whisper about my home.
In that case, I’d say the staircase outside Eleanor’s room is perfect for clandestine meetings.
It’s hidden, with a sharp curve to the left before the second flight of stairs. It’s the sort of place that someone could easily be yanked to by a lover or an adversary, with vaulted ceilings to catch whispered promises.
There's an indentation on the wooden railing, a groove that fits my hand perfectly, though I’ve never visited this house as an adult before this summer.
I place my palm there and use my free hand to cradle the small of Eleanor’s back, leaning against the railing as her lips capture mine. When we kiss, it feels explosive, like a match meeting the tip of a stick of dynamite.
But then there’s that groove, where someone placed their hand long before mine, perhaps while trying to hold the weight of another.
Eleanor laughs as I kiss her neck, sucking on the soft flesh.
“We have to stop meeting like this!” She giggles.
“Why? I think this is better than any lunch break I’ve ever had,” I say. I reach to unbutton her blouse, and she swats my hand away.
“Tonight,” she whispers before kissing me again. She sucks on my top lip, and my cock stirs in my pants. I’m desperate for her. We haven't slept together. Neither of us mentions what happened in the basement, almost like we're too afraid to talk about it as if it would make it real. Instead, we make out like teenagers every chance we get. If that's Eleanor's preferred method of deflecting, I'm not complaining.
It’s fun. I can’t remember when I felt the clandestine thrill of sneaking around. I wonder if that violates Eleanor’s contract since I am part of the Idylewylde Foundation. That only makes it hotter.
I run my hand along Eleanor’s thigh, and she groans as my palm inches up closer along the seam of her gray woolen skirt.
“I can’t wait until tonight,” I tease.
Eleanor laughs. “It’ll give you something to dream about during your meetings.”
“I can’t be hard on the job!”
“Who says you’re hard?” Eleanor’s hand grazes my stiff cock, and she stifles a laugh. “It’s that easy?”
