porn-movie platitudes and repeat herself.
He called her baby, and every time she tried to sneer at him for it, she ended up smiling.
Or worse. Sometimes she kissed him.
He stroked her stomach, back and forth, his heavy hand slick with her sweat. It was a trick he’d picked up—touching her stomach, her arms, her neck, to distract her from the progress he was making with his mouth.
The window was open, though she’d insisted they lower the blinds, which now blew up and clacked back down in the intermittent morning breeze, bringing the briny smell of the ocean to Carmen, delivering the world outside to this bed where she was making a mistake with a dangerously addictive man.
It was only supposed to have been once. Yesterday, she’d led him to a motel, and after she got what she wanted from him—more than she wanted—she’d dressed and walked out to her car. But then she’d hesitated.
Carmen had stood beside her car in the bright glare of the motel parking lot, feeling as though there were flat nylon bands looped around her hips, around her breasts, around her throat.
Feeling as though he held the other ends of those bands in his fists, and all he had to do was tug, and she would return to him.
She hadn’t been able to figure it out. Why she wanted to return to him.
But she’d stood there for so long that he’d come out, put his arms around her, and told her he was taking her to lunch.
How quickly she’d said yes. She still didn’t quite believe it.
He’d bought her
pan con lechón
from a street vendor—a messy, undignified sandwich that dripped on her fingers and stained her blouse while he watched her with eyes full of so much concentrated lust you’d think she’d been blowing him. Then he’d driven her to this little house on the beach in Marathon. Mile after mile without a touch, without a lick or a kiss, until she’d thought she might ignite like a match and burn out before they reached his carport.
In his bed, he’d tortured her, loved her, made her
weep
, and still she’d promised herself that she would leave before morning.
Don’t stay
, she told herself.
It will hurt
.
But his arm banded around her as the light faded and the stars came out. The fuzz of his forearm tickled the underside of her breasts. The volume on her inner voice dropped to a whisper, and then she couldn’t hear it at all.
She whispered to the darkness. To the interior of her mind.
It’s because of the orgasms
.
Carmen had never been a woman to whom orgasms came easily. They didn’t come any easier with Noah, but it was as though he’d budgeted lavishly in his mental calendar for oral sex—hours of groaning, happy, languid licking and sucking and stroking. His fingers went pruney from twisting and rubbing and pressing inside her, and when she pointed it out to him as an absurdity he only laughed and told her there wasn’t anything he’d rather be doing with them.
Noah. Big, smiling, unsuitable Noah, who seemed to believe twenty-five minutes spent making her come was twenty-five minutes well spent.
He lifted his face from her crotch, brows drawn together. “I lost you, baby. What are you thinking about?”
“You.”
“Good things, I hope?”
“Good things.”
He smiled.
He snugged his big warm hands beneath her bare ass, raising her up like an offering, making her feel indulged and indulgent. His thumbs dug into the crease at the top of her thighs. His fingertips dimpled her flesh, his tongue lapped and stroked as he made cheerful humming, devouring noises, as he ate her resistance, consumed her reticence, rumpled the cold poise she’d wrapped around herself long ago when she was a girl who’d been cut so deeply that she didn’t know how to fix it except to freeze herself.
But maybe she hadn’t been frozen all the way, only cold and seeping as her torn edges bound back together.
Maybe beneath a layer of permafrost, deep below the surface, she’d still known how to do this—how to yearn and
He called her baby, and every time she tried to sneer at him for it, she ended up smiling.
Or worse. Sometimes she kissed him.
He stroked her stomach, back and forth, his heavy hand slick with her sweat. It was a trick he’d picked up—touching her stomach, her arms, her neck, to distract her from the progress he was making with his mouth.
The window was open, though she’d insisted they lower the blinds, which now blew up and clacked back down in the intermittent morning breeze, bringing the briny smell of the ocean to Carmen, delivering the world outside to this bed where she was making a mistake with a dangerously addictive man.
It was only supposed to have been once. Yesterday, she’d led him to a motel, and after she got what she wanted from him—more than she wanted—she’d dressed and walked out to her car. But then she’d hesitated.
Carmen had stood beside her car in the bright glare of the motel parking lot, feeling as though there were flat nylon bands looped around her hips, around her breasts, around her throat.
Feeling as though he held the other ends of those bands in his fists, and all he had to do was tug, and she would return to him.
She hadn’t been able to figure it out. Why she wanted to return to him.
But she’d stood there for so long that he’d come out, put his arms around her, and told her he was taking her to lunch.
How quickly she’d said yes. She still didn’t quite believe it.
He’d bought her
pan con lechón
from a street vendor—a messy, undignified sandwich that dripped on her fingers and stained her blouse while he watched her with eyes full of so much concentrated lust you’d think she’d been blowing him. Then he’d driven her to this little house on the beach in Marathon. Mile after mile without a touch, without a lick or a kiss, until she’d thought she might ignite like a match and burn out before they reached his carport.
In his bed, he’d tortured her, loved her, made her
weep
, and still she’d promised herself that she would leave before morning.
Don’t stay
, she told herself.
It will hurt
.
But his arm banded around her as the light faded and the stars came out. The fuzz of his forearm tickled the underside of her breasts. The volume on her inner voice dropped to a whisper, and then she couldn’t hear it at all.
She whispered to the darkness. To the interior of her mind.
It’s because of the orgasms
.
Carmen had never been a woman to whom orgasms came easily. They didn’t come any easier with Noah, but it was as though he’d budgeted lavishly in his mental calendar for oral sex—hours of groaning, happy, languid licking and sucking and stroking. His fingers went pruney from twisting and rubbing and pressing inside her, and when she pointed it out to him as an absurdity he only laughed and told her there wasn’t anything he’d rather be doing with them.
Noah. Big, smiling, unsuitable Noah, who seemed to believe twenty-five minutes spent making her come was twenty-five minutes well spent.
He lifted his face from her crotch, brows drawn together. “I lost you, baby. What are you thinking about?”
“You.”
“Good things, I hope?”
“Good things.”
He smiled.
He snugged his big warm hands beneath her bare ass, raising her up like an offering, making her feel indulged and indulgent. His thumbs dug into the crease at the top of her thighs. His fingertips dimpled her flesh, his tongue lapped and stroked as he made cheerful humming, devouring noises, as he ate her resistance, consumed her reticence, rumpled the cold poise she’d wrapped around herself long ago when she was a girl who’d been cut so deeply that she didn’t know how to fix it except to freeze herself.
But maybe she hadn’t been frozen all the way, only cold and seeping as her torn edges bound back together.
Maybe beneath a layer of permafrost, deep below the surface, she’d still known how to do this—how to yearn and
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