I’m going to turn eighteen in just about a month. I’ve never waited for a birthday like I have for this one.
In four weeks, I’m going to tell my parents about me and Abel. I know it won’t be pretty and my mom will probably freak out. But she’ll come around. I’m almost sure Dad will be on my side; he might not make it known, though.
There’s simply no case against Abel. Well, except that he’s an Adams, and my mother hates that family.
As much as I’d like to forget about what happened almost two years ago, I can’t. People look at me with suspicion, like I’m a dying star, ready to collapse on myself. At school, when I pass by the spot where Abel held my hand and said I was his, I’m reminded of that day. His torn-up and angry expression. As if there’s any way that I’d choose a moron like Duke over Abel.
My Abel is an artist. He’s pure gold. He’s passionate, romantic, intense and playful. He can be a little over-possessive and controlling but that’s okay. I can handle him. I’d never leave him. Never.
But first I need to do this one thing. I need to survive this last insult to our love. Go to prom with Duke Knight.
Remember how I said my mom had started to push me toward Duke? It’s gotten worse. Now she doesn’t confine her suggestions to our house. She expresses them in public, namely at church.
“I think you kids should hang out more.” My mom laughed right alongside Mr. Knight, Duke’s dad. “My Evie’s always busy with her books. Thank God, she’s stopped going to her treehouse and running around in the fields, though. But she really needs to get out more.”
“I think you guys should go to prom together,” Mr. Knight suggested.
Duke smiled tightly and mumbled something about being capable of getting a date on his own. That dick. He turned to me and asked - with his lips, while his eyes said he’d rather be anywhere else in the world right now. Thank God, Sky hadn’t arrived yet. I was hoping I’d have the same luck with my boyfriend but nope. He was there and he watched the whole thing. He stood across the room, his focus on me, his gaze dripping with rage, while my mom nudged me with her elbow and said yes on my behalf.
I thought someone was strangling me. I felt faint, my vision turning hazy with unshed tears. Even so, I shook my head once, trying to convey to the boy I love that it didn’t matter. Not enough for him to risk another incident. Though we did fight about it on the phone.
We’ve been fighting ever since. It’s more like a cold war, where he sounds frustrated and angry, and I cry silently, and then he apologizes for making me cry. The next night we do it all over again.
I’ve debated making myself sick, sticking a finger down my throat to make myself throw up. So Mom thinks I’m too unwell to go. But that’s even worse than staying home where I’m under a constant cloud of suspicion. That would give her more fuel that her daughter is really having an affair with the monster.
I’ve also debated outright telling her. It’s only four weeks. What’s the worst she can do? But then, I remember what they did with my classmate, Jessica Roberts. Everyone was surprised when she turned up pregnant last year. She was on her way to college to be a pre-med, but she committed the sin and became the slut, instead. My mom’s words, not mine. And naturally, my mother thought it was Abel. Until Jessica came out and admitted to falling in love with a college guy who was visiting the town. In the end, her parents sent her away. I don’t know where she is in the world, but I hope she’s okay.
So I can’t risk it. I can’t risk being sent away to God only knows where, when we’re so close to the goal.
When Duke arrives at my house, I hardly spare him a glance. My mom takes pictures and all I do is stare at her with all the hatred I’ve felt over the years. While Abel’s camera makes me feel alive, free, immortal even, every click of my mom’s camera kills my spirit. She tells me to smile and I ignore her. We glare at each other while my dad stands off to the side. I hate him so much, too. I hate everyone right now.
Once the pictures are done, we head out. I don’t realize when the car pulls out of the driveway, and neither do I care. I’m looking out the window, but I barely pay attention to the road or to the scenery. When the car stops, I take off my seatbelt, ready to get out and away from the guy next to me. But I pause, realizing that we’re not at the school. We’re in town. But mainly, we’re in front of Mr. B’s store. Where Abel lives, right upstairs.
“What… What are we doing here?”
Duke’s hands stay on the steering wheel as he shrugs. “Go.”
“What?”
He turns to me. “Go. He’s probably already plotting my murder up there.”
My heart starts pounding. “W-What? Who?” It’s a dumb question and I’m not that good of an actress when directly confronted.
“Really?” He sighs and faces me. “Look, I know you hate me. Trust me, it wasn’t my intention to hurt Adams or to hurt you. I was just –”
“You were just messing with Sky like you always do.”
He squints his eyes, probably thinking up a lie. But he surprises me. “Yeah.”
I study him. He looks the same: spiky gelled hair, starched shirt, expensive watch. But his gestures, his demeanor, they’re different. “Why’d you kiss her?”
After everything settled down, I asked Sky about the kiss. She said it came out of nowhere. One minute, they were fighting and the next, his lips were on hers. I asked her how it felt and she said he tasted like shit. Very graphic and unnecessary description. But I had a feeling she was lying, even to herself.
Something flashes on Duke’s face, like he’s reliving the memory. Like he’s been reliving it ever since it happened. I know that look.
“Because I wanted to.”
“You wanted to kiss Sky, your arch-nemesis.”
He scoffs. “Yeah. She’s that, isn’t she?” He thumps his head on the headrest. “Has she always been this crazy?”
Despite myself, I smile. “You mean, bloodthirsty? Yeah.”
“Why?” He sounds so perplexed, like he has no idea when their enmity started. Like he’s forgotten years of him trying to get her into trouble.
“Well, if you’re asking why she wants to kill you, I think you already know the answer. But if you’re asking in general, then I’d say…” I think about it. “Skylar Davis aka Sky aka my best friend wants to change the world. She hates it that her mom’s a maid and people like you look down on her because of that.”
“But Sky is a maid. She can’t change that. You can’t change who you are, who you’re supposed to be.”
“No, Duke. Sky isn’t a maid. Her mom is. And there’s nothing wrong with it, by the way.” I shake my head. “I’m starting to think that maybe she should change the world. Because the world is full of assholes like you.”
His chuckle echoes in the leathered confines of the car. “Ah. Evie Hart said a bad word. I’m guessing that’s your boyfriend’s doing.”
“My boyfriend is worth ten guys like you. In fact, my Abel is better than this entire town.”
Duke smirks. “Then you shouldn’t be wasting your time chatting with me. You should go on up.”
“What’s the catch?”
“No catch.”
“Really? You really want me to believe that?”
He nods. “Look, consider this my good deed. I fucked things up for you, so now I’m sort of making things right. Besides, no offense but I don’t wanna spend my evening with a bitchy version of you. So I’ll be back to take you home in time.”
“Ah, Duke Knight said two bad words. I didn’t know you cursed. Sky did though.”
“Sky.” He sighs, long and sort of lonely. “I wonder what she’s up to tonight.”
“Hey, don’t you mess with her. She doesn’t need your crap.”
He chuckles like the devil he is and completely ignores what I just said. “Tick tock, Cinderella. Get going. Time’s running out.”
I don’t remember getting out of Duke’s car or climbing up the rickety stairs that lead up to my boyfriend’s apartment, but I’m standing in front of his door.
It’s white but has patches of yellow on it. The paint is peeling and the brass knob is scratched and scraped. This is the very first time I’m seeing it; I have been so careful to never sneak out to his place lest someone sees me, but tonight I don’t care. By all means, this is a door I wouldn’t look twice at. This is a door that’s shabby, falling apart like these white, discolored walls.
But my Abel lives on the other side.
That’s all that matters to me. I put my hand on the faded, ill-painted wood about to knock, but it wrenches open before I can, making me stumble back a bit.
Abel stands at the threshold with a frown, his chest punching his black t-shirt with every breath he takes. His hair’s all messy, like he’s been sleeping for a decade, but his eyes are bloodshot, suggesting he hasn’t slept at all.
“Pixie?” His voice is rumbly and it’s so good to hear it in person that my entire body sighs. I can’t remember the last time we talked face to face. I’d forgotten the shape of his lips, how they mold around my name, Pixie. As if it’s the most important name he’s ever said or he’ll ever say.
“Abel,” I whisper, smiling even as my eyes feel heavy with all the pent-up emotions.
He’s looking me up and down, flicking his gaze all over my body, and for the first time, I feel like a girl, maybe even a woman. For days at a time, I don’t think about the clothes I’m wearing or the braid that my mom has me do. I don’t feel anything. Not a single thing. The time that I truly feel alive is when his eyes are on me, or when he’s whispering in my ear, at night.
I feel alive now. My heart’s racing in my chest, banging against my ribcage. Every breath I take makes me realize that I’m wearing a dress with a low neckline, not crazy low but lower than what I usually wear, with a tiny hint of cleavage. The sleeves and bodice of my dress are pure lace with flowers and it fits me like a second skin up until my hips. And then, it flares into shiny waves of fabric and reaches a little over my knees.
Does he like it? It’s his favorite color: black. Though I know he likes pink on me more than anything.
Why isn’t he saying anything? I look down at my feet and wiggle my toes inside my low-heeled black pumps. Then I look up, feeling more unsure than ever. Usually, he’s the one yanking me inside closets and classrooms, gathering me in his arms, touching me one way or another. But he isn’t doing any of that right now.
“Can I come in?” My voice breaks as I ask the question.
He blinks, waking up from some sort of sleep, and then, he does what he always does, pulls me inside and shuts the door with a thud, his gestures loud and sure.
“What… I thought I was dreaming.” He swallows, his palms flat on the wood, on either side of me, making a cage of tanned muscles and bones. “I’ve been going out of my mind all day, thinking about you with that fucker. Been kicking myself for being an asshole to you all week.” He leans down, his wildly heaving chest pressing into me. “I was going to take you.”
Something in his tone makes me shiver. “T-take me from where?”
“From him. From your school. I knew you’d be arriving right about now so I was going to get you. Going to tell the whole world you’re mine.”
I know he isn’t lying. I know he would’ve done it, whatever he was thinking of doing before I got here.
It shouldn’t make me all melty and slippery. It shouldn’t make me clench my thighs because honest to God, this is scary. Borderline criminal and crazy. And I know that if he had decided to take me, I wouldn’t have resisted. I would’ve gone with him, with a savagely beating heart and a healthy dose of fear and excitement in my stomach.
I grab the hem of his t-shirt. “You don’t have to take me. I’m here.”
“How the fuck are you here?”
“Duke dropped me off. He said he’d be back to take me home later.” His jaw clenches and his eyes shoot fire at Duke’s name. I cup his hard, stubbled jaw and get up on my tip-toes. “Shh. Don’t. He’s not worth it.”
“The only reason he’s walking on two legs right now is because you keep saving him from me.”
I have to chuckle at this because he is an idiot. I kiss his chin. “I’m not saving him. I’m saving you. It’s always you, Abel. I don’t want my mom to have more fuel against you. We’ve come so far. We’ve been smart, as you said. I can’t let anyone ruin that for us. Not even you, you animal.”
His lips quirk up and at last his eyes smile, losing their heat. “I’m an animal, am I?”
I nod, smiling slightly, studying the lighter shade of brown in his gaze, encased with darker eyelashes. “Yes, but you’ve got beautiful eyes.”
“Yeah?” He throws me a lopsided smile. “I was thinking the same thing.”
“Really?”
“No. I was thinking how hot your little mouth is and how I wanna fuck it with my tongue right now.”
A shiver skates down my spine. Hot and burning, I hit his shoulder. “Abel. That’s…”
“What? Inappropriate?”
“Duh.” I blush.
“How about if I say I wanna make love to your mouth with my tongue? Is that better?”
I’m fighting to not smile. It’s a battle that I lose in about three seconds. “Then I’d say…” I lean into him and whisper in his ear, with a boldness I barely feel. “Less talking and more fucking.”
He shudders and gapes at me with shock, and I grin at him. His eyes smolder and he moves his hands from the door and settle them where they belong, on my waist. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re bossy, Pixie?”
I wind my arms around his neck and toe off my shoes, freeing my feet, and get up on his bare ones. “Yeah, my boyfriend.”
Chuckling, he swoops down and kisses me. I sigh into his mouth and he hums into mine. It’s a kiss that I’ve been waiting for my whole life, it seems. I trace my hands all over his body, shoulders, chest, stomach. I feel his soft t-shirt, trying to commit it to memory so I can relive this moment when I’m alone in bed tonight and every night for the next four weeks.
He does the same. His big hands move all over my back, my tiny waist, bunching my dress. His fingers pinch the flesh on my butt and travel down to my thighs, forcing me to lift up my leg and wrap my calf around his hip.
Moaning, he cups my cheeks, and maneuvers my face the way he wants so he can deepen the kiss. I don’t know how long our lips collide, but by the time we come up for air, we’re rocking against each other and my hands are under his shirt, my nails digging into his stomach.
We draw huge amounts of misty and hormone-infused air. Somehow, I can feel his heart beat against my palm, even though I’m nowhere near his chest. His dick is pressing against my wet core, making me realize how long it’s been since he touched me there, how long has it been since I touched him.
I move against him, my fingers itching to feel his warm, velvety dick. He shudders, his hold around me going tight. The pleasure down there is sharp, so sharp, like a fist is weighing down on my pelvic region. His jeans scrape so good against my thighs.
This is it. This is the moment. I wanna go all the way.
I’ve been such an idiot, denying him, torturing him. I don’t want to play power games. I just want him. I want him to take it because it’s his anyway.
“Abel –”
“You hungry?” he rasps.
“What?”
He smiles, even though his eyes still hold the intensity of moments ago. He slowly disentangles our bodies, lowers my dress gently and tucks my snarly hair behind my ears. But the mess our kiss made inside my body, the buzzing, the lust, the throbbing nipples… I don’t know how I’ll manage to put that back together.
I’m confused. What’s happening?
“Want some grilled cheese?” He steps back.
“I… What?”
“Lemme make you some grilled cheese.”
With that, he pads over to his small kitchen, and I’m left shivering, my head a mess. What just happened? Did he… Did he reject me?
My heart curls up in my chest, thinking… What if I took it too far and he doesn’t want me anymore?
My Pixie is a cock-tease.
Is he mad at me about that? Well, I’m not anymore. Gosh. I want him. I want to do it. But how do I tell him this? Maybe I can take my clothes off and stand naked? That should send him a clear message.
Ugh. No. I can’t do that. I’m not that brave or crazy.
Dejected, I look around the apartment. It’s a studio with a small kitchen on one side, couch in the middle and his bed taking up the other side, by the window. It’s simple and functional. Nothing fancy. Rough and unpolished, like the boy who lives here. Though it is a little untidy. Despite myself, I smile at the heaps of clothes on the floor, the unmade bed with pillows strewn about.
My Abel is a slob.
As I walk further in, I pick up his clothes from the floor and dump them in the laundry bag that sits right by his dresser. I straighten his dirty sneakers and push them under the bed. It makes me giddy, doing these little things for him.
I stand in the middle of the room while Abel works in the kitchen, his broad back and his arms flexing as he flips the sandwich on the pan, making it sizzle. In this moment, I can see the future. Me and him together. I’ll be doing the cleaning, of course, because I can’t cook at all. Though I’ll make him all the apple pies he wants. Sometimes we’ll order in and sometimes he’ll cook for me. We’ll have a house somewhere, with a big backyard and a tree and a swing. He’ll give me a push and I’ll touch the sky. He’ll kiss me and I’ll feel the sun.
In four weeks, I’ll tell my parents and then my life will change for the better. We’ll get married and live together. I do have a scholarship to a college a couple of hours away from here. They have a great writing program so I’ve been excited about going. I know Abel will follow me; he’s made all the plans about it. But I’m not so sure I want to go anymore. I want to give our love a chance to grow; college can happen later. But whatever. I haven’t fully decided yet. I have time.
First, I need to make him have sex with me tonight. I’ll beg too, if that makes him feel better.
I focus on the big, long desk by the wall, with mountains of papers on it, alongside his camera, of course. I know what they are. They are the sketches he made, and on the wall, are photographs of us together, pinned like the stars.
I study his sketches; they feature everything, the entire world. The corn fields, the little stores along the heart of the town, the people, the never-ending highway. The buildings of New York that I’ve only seen in the movies and his photos. The bridges strung with Christmas lights, bodies of water, park bench with a bird perched on the back, a lone kite in the sky. It’s everything you think of and it’s everything you ignore.
Such an artist.
My fingers burn through the sketches, the photos, so fast that my head spins and my heart races. And then it stops because at the center, I find myself.
A drawing of me lying on a bed, his bed, naked.
Nude, bare, stripped, unclothed. My long, long hair is fanned out on his pillow, some strands even going off the bed to touch the floor. My eyes are closed and my lips are parted. One of my knees is folded and one of my hands is on my stomach, hiding my belly-button. And my boobs are jutting out of my frame. Nipples tipped up and hard.
How the hell did he draw this? He’s never seen me naked. Well, he’s seen my breasts but nothing lower than that.
There isn’t only one sketch. There are hundreds. I’m in different positions. Head thrown back. Fists clutching the sheets. Teeth biting my lip. Spine arching from the bed. But in all of them I’m naked and yes, aroused. I touch my body on paper and feel it on my skin, causing goosebumps to erupt. When did he make these? How long has he been making them? And why do I suddenly feel naked, as naked as I am on the paper?
I don’t register Abel’s closeness until his hand snakes around my waist and his sweet breath puffs into my ear. Good thing he’s here, because I was about to collapse. My legs are shaking like crazy.
“Fuck,” he mutters when he sees what I’m seeing, and drops his head on my shoulders.
“I… You’ve never seen me naked.”
He lifts his head and his jaw scrapes against the side of my face. “I know.”
I hiss at the sting. “So how did you…”
“I’ve got an active imagination.” His palm rubs circles around my stomach, as if calming the butterflies inside, taming them with his touch. “And I’ve touched you, felt your curves against my body. I can fill in the blanks.”
“How long?”
I hear him swallow. “Months.”
I imagine him sitting all alone in his bed, drawing pictures of me, hunting down videos online to fantasize about me, while the people our age are either out being in love or sleeping soundly, dreaming of it.
Maybe it’s the separation we’ve had to endure for so many unfair reasons, or maybe I’ve grown up now, but I’m not a little girl who wanted to play games anymore. Who was probably holding onto her virginity too tightly because she was never given a say in anything else in her life. And as a grown-up — a woman — I understand his needs so much better now. I understand myself better. Something inside me — this urge that’s always been there to please him grows roots, flourishes. It makes me both weak and strong.
I want to nurture him, soothe away his pain, clutch him to my body and never leave. I want to give him everything. I want to obey him because it gives me pleasure. I was designed that way. For him.
I grind my butt into his pelvis and arch my back. His lips skim over my cheek, the column of my throat.
“You’re hard.” I feel his dick through the layers of clothing: his jeans and my dress. But the heat of it is slowly burning through everything.
“Constantly,” he croaks.
His lonely tone arrows down to my heart, pierces my skin, and it’s painful. I don’t know if it’s as painful as his lust for me. But I hope to God that it is. I want to feel his pain because I never want him to feel anything by himself.
I put my hand over his arm that’s banded around my tummy and thread our fingers together. “I can… I can show you what I look like so you don’t have to imagine.”
Usually, I’m the one who’s losing all her breaths. I’m the one who goes still when her heart is beating as if it’s in a mad race. But this time, it’s him. He’s stopped breathing. I can almost feel his heart pounding on my spine where his chest is flush with me. I’ve stunned him.
It doesn’t last long though. With a jerk, he spins me around and pushes me against the desk. The edge of it bites into my backside and I grip his biceps to remain steady.
“What’d you just say?”
The papers rustle against my dress as I shift on my feet. “I-I said I can show you.”
He’s taking shaking breaths, searching my face. “You’re fucking with me, aren’t you? Because if you are, Pixie, it’s a cruel thing to do.”
Looking at him now, I understand why he moved away from me before, when we were kissing. He thought I’d deny him again. He thought I’d say no and thwart his advances and the poor guy was so sick of that.
Oh Abel.
I caress his cheek, looking into his beautiful brown eyes. “I promise I’m not kidding. I… want you to have me, and…”
“And what?”
I lower my eyes and now my heartbeats probably match his. “I don’t want you to lose me after I’m gone so… I’ll be your muse too.”
Silence. Pin-drop, epic silence.
Okay, so maybe I’ve said too much. Maybe I should’ve eased him into it. But the thing is, I don’t want easy. I hadn’t realized that until now. I hadn’t realized the intense hunger inside me. For him. To be his. In every way.
I hadn’t realized that I want him more than I can ever want anything in this world. In fact, I don’t even want the world, I only want him.
“Are you saying that I can take your picture?” I nod. “Naked pictures?” I nod again. “Pixie… I…”
He licks his lips, his eyes both wary and infused with excitement. The brown of his pupils has been swallowed whole with black lust and his cheeks are a shade darker with the flush. He wants this. He wants this so much.
“I hated last year, like, really, really hated,” I say with a tight voice. “I hated being apart from you. I hated not being able to touch you, talk to you. I don’t know how it happened but somehow, you’re the only one I feel safe with anymore. You’re my everything, Abel. And I want to do this. For you and for myself. Because I love you.” I get up on my tip-toes and place a kiss on his immobile lips. “Besides, in four weeks you’re picking me up and throwing me over your shoulder, anyway. You’re taking me to a courthouse so I can say I do. So you can take whatever you want from me, right?”
His nostrils flare and he jerks out a nod.
“Then why not do it now. Tonight? I’m ready.”
That makes him drop his head back and look to the ceiling like he’s lost all his strength. He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Before I lose my courage, I walk to the bed and then spin around to face him.
With his eyes tracking paths all over my body, my dress seems too tight, especially around my breasts. My panties are too wet, too constraining. I want to lower my lashes and look at my wiggling toes, but I keep my gaze on him. I reach my hands up and hook my fingers around the zipper. But I pause for a few seconds when he sags against the table, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
My fingers are shaking violently. A couple of times the zipper slips through my sweaty digits like I’m trying to contain sand or water. With a deep breath, I get a handle on it and pull it down. It goes smoothly, loosening the bodice of my dress, letting the air over my sweaty, anticipating skin. His eyes flare. His tongue slips out and licks his lips, his gaze glued to where the dress will open to reveal my breasts.
I’m almost done when I hit a snag and the zipper gets stuck. Frowning, I try to fix it, but nothing happens.
“What’s wrong?” he rumbles, in a voice that doesn’t sound like his own.
“It’s stuck. The zipper.”
He releases a pent-up breath, but then chuckles. It’s strained and amused, and a little resigned and angry. “Maybe it’s a sign, Pixie. Maybe your God doesn’t want you to bare yourself to me. The town’s monster.”
“Shut up. Don’t call yourself that. Just help me with it, will you?” I mutter, rolling my eyes, even as I understand his bitter tone. Last year has been hard for us.
But only four more weeks before I can be with him forever.
I turn around and hear the intake of his breath. He approaches me with loud feet and puts his hands on my waist over the dress, holding the fabric together, like he’s afraid to let go.
You know how you can want something too much that you’re scared to actually have it? You’re scared of how it’ll change you to hold that thing in your hands. Maybe that’s what’s he’s afraid of, too. How will we go on living, existing in the same town for a whole month, after doing this? After finally taking the step and being one.
Because hell yeah. I’m going to sleep with him tonight. No doubt about that.
“Abel,” I whisper his name like he went to sleep again, lost in his thoughts.
A puff of breath over the nape of my neck, and then he’s pulling the zipper down, until there’s nowhere left to go. The trail is done and my dress is loose enough to get out of.
Holy shit. I’m really doing this.
I snatch the fabric in the front and keep it pinned to my chest before letting it swoosh down and puddle around my feet. His shuddered exhale is so big that it touches every inch of my body. Every single inch.
A second later, it’s his fingers touching my bare skin, running along the edge of my bra strap. They are soft but slow, until they touch my hair. Then, they become insistent and tugging and damaging. He’s wrapping the strands around his hand and rubbing the silky smoothness against my back. I swear I hear a moan, but it’s too low to even be considered a sound. I bite my lip, growing wet between my legs.
“Turn around, baby,” he commands in a low voice.
Digging nails into my bare thighs, I do. Every muscle in my body is taut. Every vein running under my flesh is strung tight. I’ve never been this naked in front of anyone. No other person on this earth has seen my body this way. Except Abel.
My boobs are big, bigger than most of the girls I go to school with, and most days they feel clunky and heavy, sometimes sore too. My waist is small but it’s not the kind you see on TV where everything is tight and muscled. No, my stomach is soft and cushiony. It’s all the Toblerones over the years. My skin is pale with blue veins and my thighs and butt are meaty. As I stand here, I realize how rounded and smooth-edged I am in comparison to him. Even covered by clothes, he looks sculpted and muscled.
“Pink,” he whispers, his eyes blistering through the fabric of my bra.
“For you.”
It’s true. I picked out my underwear for him, even though I was going out with Duke. It’s lacy — lacier than what I usually wear. I didn’t know he’d be seeing it though.
His smile is tight and disbelieving. Just when I think he’s going to touch me, he steps back. I watch him walk backward, his eyes never leaving my body, my breasts specifically, and I’m left feeling shy and flushed. I question him with my eyes as to what he’s doing but he’s silent now, doesn’t give anything away.
His thighs hit the desk and he reaches out to pick up his camera. The action doesn’t make a sound, but somehow it echoes all around the room. He stares at the black object once before lifting his eyes.
“Take off the rest of your clothes.”
Now that sound — his voice — is forever going to echo under the night sky, as if it were only a star-studded roof and the entire world is nothing more than a big, black space. A space where Abel Adams is the king. A god in a black t-shirt, white pants, a silver cross and golden hair, and I’m his disciple.
He’s taken away my free will with his command, and I step out of the pool of my black dress, my yellow hair swishing across my back. With shaking hands, I do the deed. I unhook my bra and let it fall, and I bend and slide down my panties. The air that brushes against my nipples and my wet slit is heated and cold at the same time.
I stand up straight. Naked. Completely, utterly naked.
His eyes go wide and hungry. The fingers clutching the neck of the camera flex and jerk. His lips move but no sound comes out. Though it looks like he’s cursing and saying something to the effect of fuck me.
He doesn’t know where to look first. I watch him watch me, trace my naked breasts, my jutting nipples, and then drop down to my core, the wet curls around it.
For a second, I think he’s going to abandon the whole photography session and pounce on me. He’s going to lose all patience, sate his desire on my body, uncaring of my comfort, uncaring that like him, this is my first time too, and take everything from me. It would’ve scared me yesterday, but yesterday I was just a girl in love. Today, I worship him. I’m not afraid — nervous and trembling and excited, yes, but not afraid.
Somehow, he manages to get his wild breathing under control and keep a firm grip on his camera. With his free hand though, he reaches down to the distinct bulge in his jeans, massaging the hardness. I want to shout that I should be the one to touch it. Let me. But I’m mute. If my sex was wet before, it’s gushing now. It’s swelling and there’s a strong buzz in my clit. Especially when he lowers his gaze and focuses on it — on my core.
“I love your curls.” His gaze is glued to it, pinning me in place.
I jerk at his words, almost disbelieving that he’s bringing it up. He’s touched them before, my curls, but never seen them. But still. People don’t just bring it up. I should’ve known though. Abel Adams doesn’t follow rules, does he?
“I, uh, I sort of don’t want anything sharp around my… you know.”
“I like it.”
“You do?”
He nods. “It just means I gotta work a little harder to take what’s mine. And if I want your pussy shaved, I’ll be the one to do it.”
Wait a second, what? Did he just say that he’s going to… shave me?
That’s gross. So why am I clenching my thighs together, picturing his long fingers holding a blade?
The air thickens and the time to talk is over. He motions with his chin. “Get on the bed.”
My legs give out and I sit on the edge before sliding back. His rumpled dark sheets are scratchy against my skin, almost like his hand but not as warm or as brimming with life and energy.
“Lie down.”
I do it. I sigh when my head hits the pillow. Not because it’s soft, no. His pillow is lumpy and I can’t imagine him sleeping on it. But the fact that he does, that this is where he rests his head at night, floods my body with all the love for this boy.
Only he’s not a boy.
He’s all man, with bronzed muscles and dark eyes.
Watching him from my position, lying on his bed, makes me feel vulnerable and small and… cherished. As if just by looming over me like a shadow, he can protect me from every disaster in the world.
Abel has to visibly gather himself at the sight of me. His fingers keep flexing at the sight of my breasts, like he’s imagining his hands squeezing them. I’m imagining that too. He keeps swallowing, licking his lips when he focuses on my core, like he’d rather be licking that than his mouth. My toes curl.
Again, he finds it in himself to keep going. He narrows his eyes and cocks his head, studying me. Objectively. He’s thinking how does he want me. He’s thinking how should he re-arrange my limbs to get the shot he wants. The one he’ll be staring at, on lonely nights for the next four weeks.
Biting his lip, he wears the camera around his neck and bends down. Our eyes meet and I gulp. There’s such fire in the depths of his gaze, heated and scorching. It’s a surprise I haven’t melted yet. I clutch the sheets, crossing my thighs, pressing them together hard.
In complete contrast to his intense gaze, his fingers run over my stomach, casually, lightly. I tuck my tummy in, holding in a breath. He circles my belly button, making the flesh tremble and break out in goosebumps. The same fingers travel to the side and trace long-ago scars from the bruises. He’s angry, his fingers trembling like my body.
“It doesn’t hurt,” I assure him in a whisper and give him a small smile to tell him that I’m okay.
He grits his teeth but doesn’t say anything. His fingers though? They don’t stop. They travel upward, tracing the underside of my breasts, the valley between them. He even flicks a nipple, like it’s an afterthought, and it beads, turning an angry shade of red. I gasp out his name, arching my back. My thighs are slick; I’m pretty sure I’m leaving my wetness on his bed.
I reach out to touch him but he moves away, leaving me clutching the cold air instead of warm skin.
“Lift up your arms. Put them on the pillow.” He readies the camera, brings it up to his face.
Damn it. I hate this. Is this how he’s been feeling all this time? All horny and restless, with no relief in sight?
I am a cock-tease, then. So I obey now. I put my arms on the pillow.
“Arch your back,” he says.
I do that, too.
But Abel isn’t satisfied. He lowers the camera, studying my body once again. Then, he begins to arrange my limbs to his satisfaction. He presses his open palm on my lower stomach and my spine comes off the bed in a sharp angle. He curls his hands over mine and makes them clutch the pillow tight. He even goes as far as to arrange my legs: folding one leg up and forcing my thighs to smash together.
It’s like I’m rocking myself to orgasm on his bed. Only I’m not. I’m staying still so he can capture the fantasy.
And then, a current runs along the length of my spine when I hear the click. Then, click, click, click.
“Bite your lip,” he says.
I do it.
Click. Click. Click.
“Put one hand on your stomach.”
My hand goes to my stomach.
“Perfect,” he whispers, and I smile slightly. “Fuck, hold that pose.”
I hold it.
Click, click, click.
I moan and even though you can’t capture sound in a picture, something might have changed on my face because Abel praises me again, and takes multiple shots.
With every click, I become more aroused, more lustful, more free. My core is juicing up, all sensitive. My nipples are throbbing. My heart is close to bursting with all the love I feel for him.
He circles the bed, bends this way and that, squinting his eyes, looking at me through the lens. And I pose for him, obey his every command to the fullest.
Suck on your thumb.
Pinch your nipple.
Squeeze your tit.
Lie on your side. Arch up your ass.
I do everything. Every single thing. I moan, twist my hips, gasp. I give in to the sensations. Though in the back of my mind, I realize he never asks me to open my legs and show off my slit. He never asks to see it. I wonder why.
He’s growing sweatier, his voice turning raspier. Finally, the time comes when he lowers the camera with shaking hands and just stares at me with naked eyes. His noisy breathing fills the room.
“Tell me you want this,” he croaks.
“I do.”
He goes all loose, then. Years of chasing has taken a toll on my Abel. In a flash, his camera is gone and so is his t-shirt. My eyes try to latch on to every expanse of his bare chest. His tight pecs, those little brown nipples on the slabs, the hard lines and grooves of his stomach, his belly button almost hidden under the thatch of hair that trails down to where his jeans are riding low on his hips.
I hold my arms open for my god and he prowls toward me. My legs spread on their own and he’s in between them, his pants scraping against the soft skin of my inner thighs.
When he’s face to face with me, I whisper, “You never asked to see my… you know. Didn’t you want a picture of it?”
He shudders, fisting my hair, his chuckle sounding more like a rusty bark. “I was trying to be a good guy. A guy who doesn’t ask his girlfriend to flash her pussy just so he can capture it and jerk off to it later.”
I put my hand on his sweaty back; it’s rippling with muscles. “But you are that guy.”
“Yeah.”
“Then you should know that I’m that girl too. I would’ve done it. I would’ve done anything for you.”
There’s peace in admitting that. So much peace in giving in that I smile. He groans and grips my chin fiercely. “You should look up at the ceiling and start praying to God. Because this is it. I’m not gonna stop. Do you understand that? I’m not gonna stop because I’ve waited too long for this. You’ve made me wait too long, and I’m too hard up. I’m too starved for it. For your pink cunt. And you know what else?”
I shake my head, clutching the strands of his hair.
“I’ve looked into the eyes of your God and I’ve prayed to Him. Me. I don’t even believe in Him. You’ve reduced me to that. You’ve reduced me to believing in something that doesn’t even exist.”
I’m gushing. My pink cunt, as he calls it — my heart, my eyes. Everything is filled to the brim with hormones, lust and love.
But his warnings are useless right now. I hook my legs around his hips and shudder with the first contact of his naked skin. I clutch the silver cross, dangling from his neck, hitting me on the chin. “What do you pray for?”
He gets even closer to me, the slight hair on his strong chest rubbing against my engorged nipples. “For you. For you to be on your knees in front of me. Looking at me with your innocent eyes, while I wrap your sweet yellow hair around my wrist and feed you my cum. Every last drop of it. And when it’s all gone, I pray that you beg me with your pouty lips to fuck you. So I can claim that last part of you as you’ve claimed every single part of me.” Another rusty laugh. “Isn’t that crazy, huh? I pray to a god who’s dead. He probably died a long time ago.”
I blink to get rid of the tears and tighten my limbs around him to fuse us together. “Fuck me, Abel. Please.”
It’s a whisper but he hears it, and then his entire frame crashes down on me. He’s kissing me with his mouth, with his fingers, his palms, his feet… his entire body hugs me like his mouth hugs mine while we’re kissing. Every part of me touches every part of him. Even our hearts touch, through our chests.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
I’ve never heard that sound before. So loud. Two hearts beating as one. But then the sound changes, morphs into something else. Something even louder. Rougher and angry and insistent.
We break apart, our breaths crashing against each other. The door of his apartment vibrates. It’s almost on the verge of breaking down. An explosion. Abel opens it at the last second to save it from getting torn apart.
But my world explodes anyway. Because on the other side are my parents and their wrath-filled eyes.