It didn't help when she looked up at me and smiled, her eyes twinkling and her lips shining. How could she look so put together while weaning a lingering inebriation? I imagined how I must look to her, red-eyed and fucked up. Messy hair and scruffy beard. Sweaty and dirty. My lips begged to meet hers, to say hello, to feel the contradiction between our skin. But I was filthy, and she was so, so clean.
"It's getting late," I found my mouth moving, unsure of the words.
She lifted her wrist to look at her watch. "Oh, wow, yeah. It's past midnight. That's crazy." Her eyes met mine once again. "Time flies when you're having fun, I guess."
My laugh erupted from my throat, bursting past my lips. "Oh, yeah. I'm loads of fun." I swiped my glass from the coffee table and took hers before standing and heading into the kitchen. "Should I remind you of the shit I said to you before? I'm a world class asshole."
I placed the glasses in the sink, and there were her footsteps again.
"You're not an asshole," she argued gently. "You're guarded, and abrasive, and way too hard on yourself. But you're not an asshole."
Guarded ... I spelled that word out in my mind, tracing the curve of the G with my fingertip against the sink's lip. I was guarded. The good doctor always said I was defensive with her, but actually, I was always defending. Myself, my faults, my brother.
Guarded.
What a perfect word to describe something so far from perfect.
"You should go," I muttered quietly.
I awaited her reply with dread. I wanted her to go so badly, but even more than that, I wanted her to stay. Cee had never stayed the night, and for once, I wanted the company. I wanted to witness the contrast of her skin against mine. I wanted to entangle my legs in the web of hers and catch myself in the lengths of her hair. I wanted to breathe in her scent as we fell asleep. But those reminders of why this was all a terrible idea wouldn't shut the fuck up, and I couldn’t stop telling myself that the last thing she should want is me.
"Yeah," she breathed, and I exhaled with relief and regret, until she added, "but I don't want to."
I turned to face her with trepidation and anticipation, and before she or I could speak and stop this from happening, my hands were on either side of her face and my lips were on hers in the most impromptu first kiss. It wasn't magical and it certainly wasn't sweet. It was an urgent display of my desire in the middle of my kitchen, in a house she thought was cute.
I walked her backward until she hit the wall, never breaking the lock my mouth had on hers. To feel her hands in my hair was deliciously deviant. Her fingers wrapped within the strands in coordination with her lips, opening to accept my tongue, and I obliged with a needy and guttural groan. Every bit of warning was silenced by the sounds of our mouths, moving together in a dance of tongues and the crash of teeth, and every want I'd ever had aimed directly at her was spread blatantly across every one of my fingertips. They clasped at her face, thrust into her hair, and moved around to press firmly against the small of her back, to prove just how badly I wanted her.
Audrey whimpered into my mouth and her knees buckled, leaning further against me. "Blake?" she whispered, pulling her lips from mine.
"What?" The word scraped against my throat.
She opened her eyes and they dodged over my face before settling within my gaze. "Did you mean it when you said you'd try to fuck me?"
Hearing her repeat those words made it feel so much filthier, but I couldn't deny the truth in them. "Yes."
"I don't want you to try," she admitted bashfully as her cheeks pinked and her gaze dropped. "I just want you to do it."
I shook my head. "We shouldn't ..." But the statement was weak, because why shouldn't we? She was granting me permission, I liked her, she liked me ... What was so wrong about that, apart from every other little thing? But my dick didn't care about every other little thing. He didn't give a rat's ass if she was the very last person I should ever in my life find attractive, let alone sleep with, and right now, all I gave a shit about was what he thought.
So, I cut my protest short and hoisted her into my arms. I carried her with deliberation to my bedroom and kicked the door shut before dropping her to my bed. I didn't give her a chance to look around before laying beside her, to resume our kiss and gradually strip us of our clothes. And when we were naked, I found that beneath all the black and pastels, we weren't very different. In nothing but our skin, we were both simply human, a lesson I was long overdue in learning, and even though my skin was significantly more decorated than hers, it felt the same.
"These are so beautiful," she commented in awe at my tattoos, marveling at my body as I struggled to convince myself I was worthy of hers. How was it right for someone to be so flawless? What the hell had I been thinking, laying my destruction across her chest?
"Not sure beautiful is the word for them," I muttered, kneeling on the bed before her and opening her legs.
"What would you call it, then?"
I shrugged. "They're just parts of my story."
Something in those words made her look up from my stomach to seek my gaze. "Maybe you'll tell me that story one day."
I nodded once, to neither confirm nor deny, as I crawled between her thighs and laid my body over hers. "Maybe."
With that final word, I hushed her with another kiss. I found myself within her easily, thrusting gently as to not destroy her, despite the feeling that I already had. She trembled like a virgin and moaned like a seasoned professional, kissing me ferociously and timing her thrusts with my own.
We fucked like we had fucked each other thousands of times before. We knew exactly when and where to touch, to kiss, to bite and to scratch, and for the first time in my life, my climax was partnered with another's. It was perfect, and incredible, and I wondered if I would black out just from the thought alone. Our timing was impeccable, and what a fucking joke that was.
Timing …
Serendipity. Fate.
Signs.
I rolled away from her to stare at the ceiling, to remove myself from those thoughts and what we'd done. But Audrey rolled toward me, wrapping a leg around mine.
“I had thought about killing myself,” I blurted out, and why? I don’t know, I have no fucking clue. Maybe I was trying to prove how broken I was, how screwed up and bad. Or maybe I just wanted someone to know, and I wanted that someone to be her.
“What?”
“That’s why I’m in therapy,” I clarified. “You asked before, so I’m giving you an answer.”
Her breath had stalled for a moment before she exhaled, long and winded. “Can I ask why?”
I bit at my lips, staring at the ceiling and deciding if I wanted to go that far. I remembered that night like it was yesterday, the night before I found Dr. Vanessa Travetti and gave her a call. My mind hadn’t been clouded by a hazy depression or influenced by intoxication. The clarity had been startling, terrifying, as I held that bottle of aspirin, and I had dropped it to the floor, knowing I needed to talk to someone and let this shit out. Before I really did do something I couldn’t undo.
“You don’t have to tell me,” Audrey relented.
I shook my head. “No, it’s … it’s okay. I just thought everything would be better if I wasn’t around. I’m, uh, kinda the reason my family is so fucked up,” and I realized she didn’t know my family. She didn’t know our tense and messy dynamic.