“I figured as much.” He stood and reached a hand down to me. “Would you like to see the drawing now?”
He was asking me to go to his bedroom. I felt like I should come back with something smart, like Should I call you Lucas or Landon in bed? but I couldn’t manage it. I reached up and took his hand, and he pulled me up effortlessly. Without releasing my hand, he turned toward the bedroom, and I followed.
Dim light from the outer room illuminated the furniture and the wall adjacent to his bed, where at least twenty or thirty drawings were tacked up. He switched on a lamp and I saw that the entire surface of the wall was covered in cork. I wondered if he’d installed it, or if it was here, and when he went looking for a place to live, he knew immediately that this was meant to be his.
The two uncorked walls were painted an earthy taupe, and his furniture was dark and not at all typical college-boy—from the queen-sized platform bed to the solid desk and hutch.
I moved into the narrow space between his bed and the wall of drawings, searching for myself, but distracted by the others—renditions of familiar scenes like the downtown skyline, unfamiliar faces of children and old men, and a couple of Francis in repose.
“These are amazing.”
He came to stand next to me just as my eyes found my own face amongst the others. He’d chosen to charcoal the one of me on my back, looking up at him. Its placement was low on the right side of the wall. Seemingly, this display spot would indicate lower importance, but I was acutely aware of where it was located in relation to his bed—directly across from his pillow.
Who wouldn’t want to wake up to this? he’d said.
I sat on his bed, staring at it, and he sat, too. I was abruptly aware of his bare chest, and his statement in the other room: Your turn, I think. Turning to him, I saw that he was watching me.
I’d been so sure that this sort of moment would summon debilitating memories of Kennedy—of his kiss, of our years together. But the truth was, I didn’t miss him. I couldn’t dredge up a single twinge of sorrow. I wondered if I was either anesthetized to the grief of losing him—which would be worrisome—or if I had cried so much and grieved so deeply in the past several weeks that I was over it. Over him.
Lucas leaned to me and the Kennedy bubble burst entirely. His breath in my ear, he ran his tongue along the curved edge, sucking the fleshy lobe and my small diamond stud into his mouth, and my eyes drifted closed while I babbled a weak sound of longing. Nuzzling my neck, he lapped gentle kisses down the side, his hand coming up to cradle the weight of my head, which had fallen to the side. His weight left the bed as he knelt on the floor and pulled my boots from my feet before resuming his seat and removing his own.
His lips played over mine, and he pulled me to the center of the bed and laid me flat. I opened my eyes when he drew back and stared down at me. “Say stop, whenever you want to stop. Understand?”
I nodded.
“Do you want to stop now?”
My head moved back and forth on the pillow.
“Thank God,” he said, his mouth returning to mine, his tongue plunging inside as I dug my fingers into his solid arms. I stroked his tongue with mine, sucking it deep into my mouth, and he groaned, wrenching away long enough to lift me slightly and remove my sweater. Teasing one fingertip over the swell of my breast, he followed the arc with his lips.
When I pushed against his shoulder he stopped, his eyes unfocused. I pushed him onto his back and straddled him, feeling him hard and ready through our two pairs of jeans. His hands smoothed up my waist and pulled me down, and we kissed deeply as I rocked against him. Minutes later, he flicked the hooks free at the back of my bra and tugged the straps down my arms. It wasn’t off completely before he slid me higher and took a nipple in his mouth.
“Oh,” I gasped, going limp in his arms.
We rolled again and I was under him, his hands tracing and circling, followed by his mouth. Then he unbuttoned my jeans and touched the zipper and everything crashed around me.
I tore my mouth from his. “Wait.”
“Stop?” he panted, watching me.
I bit my lip and nodded.
“Stop everything, or just go no further?”
“Just… just no further,” I whispered.
“Done.” He gathered me into his arms and kissed me, one hand tangled in my hair and the other caressing down my back, our hearts pulsing out a cadence that the musician in me translated into a concert of lust.
***
I kept my eyes open on the ride home. Peeking over Lucas’s shoulder, I watched the scenery fly by—and it was exhilarating, not frightening. I trusted him. I had since that first night, when I let him drive me home.
Kennedy would have never stopped like that. Not that he had ever forced me or come close to doing so. If I asked him to stop, he’d stop and lay back, a hand over his face, calming himself and saying, “God, Jackie, you’re going to kill me.” After that, there was no further physical activity—no kissing, no touching. And I always felt guilty.
I thought the guilt would go away once we were actually sleeping together, because it was rare when I’d ask for a reprieve from sex, but if anything, my self-reproach was worse. He’d stop, abruptly, like it pained him. It was all or nothing. He’d take a few deep breaths, click on a game, or channel surf, or we’d go get something to eat. And I would feel like the world’s worst girlfriend.
Lucas had continued the make-out for another hour. Before it was over, he’d slid his hand between my legs, over my jeans. “This okay?” he asked, and at my breathless affirmative answer he stroked his fingers there while kissing me deeply, and somehow made me come through a layer of denim. I was shocked, and a little embarrassed, but one glance at his face told me he savored my body’s response, and his ability to trigger it. He would not let me return the favor.