CHAPTER TWENTY
Reflection
Our five days at the hotel pass insanely quickly, and before I feel ready, it’s our last night together. The next day we’ll be returning to campus. This will be over. I know that we’re not done and that there will be more to us, but for the moment, this time at the hotel with him is all I am ready to handle. Even so, I’m a bit shaken by how much I am dreading separating from him, even in just the physical capacity. Our friendship is solid and unwavering, I am sure, but I’m still edgy at the thought of this ending.
Virtually all that Chris and I have done at the hotel is make love. Or f*ck. Whatever. We’ve gone slow and gentle, we’ve gone hard and rough. We’ve traded power back and forth. Sometimes he leads me, defining what we do, how we do it, and what the mood is. Sometimes I do. I have been relishing the chance to be in control, to make decisions for myself, to take what I need, and to give to someone else. So I am sore, very much so, and my entire body hurts, but in the most amazing way. My ability to connect physically, to feel sexual and sensual, is undeniable now. Chris has given that to me.
We’ve been in bed all day. I think both of us are conscious of the ticking clock. His brothers and sister stopped calling, and texting, and banging on the door two days ago.
Chris leans over me, kissing my chest and my stomach.
“How can you be this good?” I whisper. “It’s impossible.”
“If I’m good at all, it’s because of you. Because I want to give you everything.”
He lowers his kisses and bends up my legs. I know what he’s about to do, and I’m dying to let him do it, but there’s something I want first.
I move between his legs and take his cock in my hand. He is so hard, so perfect. I start moving slowly and then lean over and begin to slide him into my mouth. I keep my fingers around the base and press my tongue against him as I take him in fully. The taste of him is extraordinary. The taste is mine. When he’s wet and slick, I tighten my lips and begin to move up and down, doing what I’ve gotten good at over the past few days.
Chris groans loudly. “F*ck, your mouth is so hot. God …”
Hearing him say this makes me move faster. Tonight I’m to make him come in my mouth. It’s something that we haven’t done completely yet because the lure of having sex has always taken over, but right now I desperately want this. I’m moving my hand up and down in rhythm with my mouth as he shifts under me, and I love how it feels to blow him. Soon his hands are in my hair, and his breathing quickens.
“I can’t last like this, Blythe. You’re too good … God, you’re too good.”
I don’t need him to last because there is no way that I’m letting him stop me this time. And I know for sure that this isn’t going to put him out of commission for the night. I start sucking on him faster, harder. I couldn’t stop even if I wanted to.
His hands are tight in my hair now, moving up and down with my head, and I can tell by the sounds he’s making that I have him on that same edge where he puts me. I slow down a bit to keep him there because I want him blind with pleasure.
I love it. I love making Chris feel like this. I feel him clench his muscles as he pushes a little farther into my mouth. Then he is saying my name, and I taste him, I drink him in, totally turned on and high from being able to satisfy him like this. When his groaning has subsided, when he’s fully done, I kiss my way breathlessly up his muscled chest, and before I even reach his mouth, he flips me onto my back and starts kissing my neck.
“That was …” I feel him shake his head. “There are no words.”
His tongue makes its way over my body. He moves his lips across my inner thigh, and I can feel my legs start to shake because I know what his tongue is about to do to me. “I love making love to you,” he tells me. “Your body feels so damn good.” Then his mouth is between my legs. I reach down to find his hands, and I take them in mine. I close my eyes while he does what he does so well.
Every little touch of his lips, his fingers, his tongue … Everything he does makes me want more of him. Just when I’m getting close, he stops and pulls away. Chris sits back on his legs and sets my hands on my own body. He watches while he moves my hands for me, over my stomach and my breasts, tracing the path that he kissed moments ago. Then he puts my own hands between my legs. I rub a finger against myself while Chris takes a condom from the bedside table. He moves one hand to put the tip of his cock against me and puts the other hand back over mine so that he can feel me make myself come. Which I do. Or, rather, we do. And just when I start, just at that moment when I feel everything begin to release, he slides inside. He leans over me now, moving his hips just slightly while I tighten around him over and over. As loud as I’ve been tonight, I can’t make a sound now. Feeling him inside me like this consumes me.
I tuck up my knees and pull him deep into me. He lifts up just enough so that we can look at each other. “God, Blythe,” is all he can manage to say.
He looks more lost in this—maybe in me—than he has until now, and it’s momentarily disarming. But I want to try something, so I lift up my leg and push against him, cuing us to roll over so that I can be on top. Another thing that we haven’t gotten around to trying yet.
I lean over him, barely moving. It’s like the first time all over again: tight, and intense, and amazing. More than that, I am overwhelmed by how connected we are to each other, and how perfect this is. It’s almost totally dark in the room, but the light from the city is enough to cast a glow over us. Chris is still, letting me move tentatively as I get used to how this feels. His fingers run lightly over my back, down my ass, and across the back of my thighs. The way he caresses my breasts is tender and loving, and I’m pretty sure that I could stay like this forever. So I take my time.
Because I can’t get enough of watching him, I try sitting straight up so that I can look into his eyes while I start to grind more confidently. Even though we’re moving slowly, he can hardly speak. “Blythe.” The way that he says my name this time is different, more loaded. He holds his hands up for me and I put my palms flat against his, our fingers pressed together. We cannot take our eyes off each other. I lean on him for support while I start to rock my hips back and forth, and the intensity grows fast. I just need a little more …
“Come for me. I want to watch you come.” Chris doesn’t even sound like himself. He is practically begging me, his voice desperate and full of emotion. “Please. Oh God, Blythe … I need you, I need you.”
He bends his arms so that I tilt forward just a hint. And that’s what does it. Chris intertwines our fingers and lets me brace my weight on him as he moves with me, both of us working to rub my * against his body.
I don’t want this moment or this night to end. What I’m feeling is more than just sexual arousal. I am shaking from the intensity we share, and I’m hyperaware of how bonded we are to each other. I don’t even know what to make of this experience except that I feel connected to Chris, to everything about him, through to my core. It is terrifying and wonderful.
I can feel my orgasm start, and the sensation is so intense that it’s nearly enough to make me cry. I let it wash over me while I writhe against him like I’m never going to see him again. Then his hold on my hands tightens, and I force myself to keep my eyes open so that I look down and watch him come under me. He is breathtaking as he does so, staggeringly gorgeous.
My entire body is trembling when I fall against him. I cannot kiss him soon enough, and his lips stay against mine for … I don’t know how long.
We kiss forever.
He runs his hands through my hair, and we stay like this, as one, for a long time. Too long.
And then I realize what has happened between us tonight.
We just fell in love.
I am not confusing sex with love. Unfortunately.
Because this is not what I want, and it’s not what he wants. Not yet. We’re not ready.
This love will wait. It has to.
There is something else that I know for sure, and I’m not sure how to feel about it. I have the thought calmly and sanely. It’s not a hysterical reaction to my first-ever sexual experience; it’s just my truth.
I will never sleep with anyone besides Christopher Shepherd.
We lie in bed, silent and wrapped up in each other for a long time. Then Chris gently lifts me from him. “Bathe with me?” he asks.
“Of course.”
He turns on the light over the vanity and leaves the overhead one off. I get to have my tub for two, just like I wanted. But I am melancholy now. Part of that may be because I am worn out both physically and emotionally, and part of it is something else. He runs the water and holds my hand, helping me in. His hand stays on mine as he sits and brings me in front of him. The only noise comes from the tap that cascades water down the side of the tub. I lie in his arms silently while the bath fills. His hands trickle over my arms and my breasts. This time, though, his touch isn’t just sexual. It’s more than that.
I close my eyes and let myself be held and … and loved. Later, he sits me up and very, very slowly washes my body and my hair.
This time there is no imaginary blood and no screaming.
“Christopher,” I murmur.
He moves a soapy hand over my shoulder and murmurs back, “You’re the only person who calls me that. I like it.”
When he’s done, I pull the drain and watch the water empty. I turn around and kiss him softly before I slide behind him and refill the tub. I run my hands over the muscles in his arms and his back. His skin is slick with water and my hands glide easily over his body. And over his scars.
While the tub refills, I kiss his back and massage his shoulders, savoring every moment that I have with him.
I trace his broken scar with my fingertips over and over. And I think. And then I understand—I see—something. His skiing accident explanation? I’ve given the same lie when asked.
Chris drops his head down. He can sense that I know.
Finally, I say what I don’t want to, but what needs to be said.
“This wasn’t an accident, was it?”
He doesn’t answer me right away. I cup water in my hands and drop it over his skin. I watch the drops roll across his body, and I wait.
“No, it wasn’t an accident,” he finally says. “Not really.”
And with those words, my heart shatters.
His father was a much meaner son of a bitch than anyone has told me.
I keep dousing him with water, almost ritualistically, until he turns and pulls me firmly into his lap and takes me in his arms. I stroke the back of his neck with my hand, maybe to comfort him, maybe to comfort me. No matter what I may be screaming in my head, I will stay calm for him. I know all the things not to say, but I don’t know any of the things to say.
“I’m okay, Blythe,” he whispers. “I’m okay. It’s over.”
I nod.
“Do you hear me? I’m safe.”
I nod again.
“Sabin, and Estelle, and Eric? They’re safe, too.”
I don’t want to let go of him, but I want out of this tub and back in our bed, where we are protected and shielded from everything. He stands with me and steps out, supporting me around the waist with his hands as I step over the edge of the tub. I can’t stand to have him even a foot away from me, and I wrap my left arm under his and my right goes over his shoulder. I lock my hands together and set my cheek against his strong arm. I look in the mirror at the two of us. Our reflection in the mirror is poignant because I don’t know when I’ll see us like this again.
And then I see something that I can’t make sense of. I study the reflection while I cling to Chris. What I am looking at is not possible.
The scar on my forearm sits perfectly between the two that angle across his back. My scar fills in, it completes, his. As if we are an exact match … as if we are …
This is crazy.
I cannot show this to Chris. We don’t believe in fate, or destiny, or coincidences … or whatever the hell this is. We don’t believe in the unexplainable, and this is unexplainable.
And yet, I believe.
I start to shiver. Chris breaks our hold to get a towel, and he shrouds me in the thick white terry cloth. “You’re cold, baby. Here.” As he dries my shoulders, I move my hands to his face and hold him. His green eyes are dark tonight, more muted than usual. He is tired, I can see that. But effortlessly, with one arm behind my back and the other under my legs, he lifts me and carries me into the moonlit bedroom, and we make love over and over again for one last night.
It is hours later that we fall asleep with me enclosed in his arms.
When I wake in the morning, he is gone.
In my hand is one of the silver skipping stones that I gave him. There is a folded note, too, that reads, So that you always have what you need.