Harder (25 page)

I didn’t tell her. She never asked me directly, and I avoided the subject, never wanting her to have to think about me fucking an older woman, a married woman, a woman I gave what she wanted so she’d give me what I needed.

I fucked Mrs. Tomlinson because that was what I had to do to get out of Silt.

Caroline knows it.

She’s figured it out. I can see it in her eyes.

“Baby, don’t you think—”

“How old?” she repeats.

I blow out a long exhale. “Sixteen.”

“Did you want her?”

“She was pretty. I wasn’t a virgin.”

“But she was the one who initiated it.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t have …”

I’m forced to stop, the memory choking me hard for a second.
How fucking terrified I was the first time in her car, when she sucked me off in the parking lot of the golf course and I watched out the window for Dr. T to drive up. How scared I was to say no, how furious that I had to say yes.

Furious at how I responded to her when I knew even at sixteen that she couldn’t be right in the head. That what she wanted from me wasn’t sex—it was something else. Some hit of power, of danger.

I was so furious at Dr. T for not knowing about it. For never putting a stop to it. It would’ve ruined my chance at Putnam, but there were times I still wished to fuck he’d figure it out.

Resting my head against Caroline’s shoulder, I breathe in the scent of her hair. “She was his wife,” I say. “And I already knew he could be my ticket out of there if I played it right.”

“It’s illegal what she did to you.”

“I consented.”

“Sixteen-year-olds can’t consent to sex with adults. You were indebted to her, afraid of her husband and what you would lose if you told her no.”

Something in her tone tells me it’s a question, and she needs the answer. Not for herself, but for me. She needs
me
to acknowledge that what she’s saying, this story she’s telling—it’s my story.

It is.

But I never saw it that way. I never let myself see it that way. I just thought about it as what I had to do, and I didn’t let myself wonder why Rita Tomlinson wanted to fuck a minor or what it meant for me that I was the minor she decided to fuck.

“Yes,” I whisper.

“West?”

I lift my head and say it again. “Yes.”

“If that happened to your sister in six years—”

Rage. Shame. All over me. God, this is why I don’t do this, why I never wanted to do this, because it’s too fucking awful. “Please don’t.”

“I want to make sure you hear me.”

“I hear you. But don’t go there. Please.”

She strokes her hands over my head, down my neck, across my shoulders, along my arms. My chest. My back. Everywhere she can reach.

She holds me, and it helps. Slows me down. Brings me back into my body.

Even though my life before her isn’t something she can fix, it helps.

“That’s why I don’t want to hear it,” she says. “I don’t want to hear you tell me how worthless you are, or why you’re sorry for what you did to me with that woman. I know what you did and what it meant. I
know
. And it wasn’t about sex. It was about—God, I don’t even have the word for it. Hopelessness. Despair.”

“I used sex to make you leave me. It was … that was something special between us. Sacred, even. And I turned it into a weapon. Turned it on you.”

“What else did you have to use?” she asks.

It’s like thawing from a freeze. It
burns
. It takes my breath away, and I have to drop my head again and breathe.

It’s harder than I thought it would be.

Harder still when she says, “It hurt me so bad, West. I don’t want you to think I’m being Mother Teresa here, pretending it didn’t.”

I’m shaking. “Caro.”

“No, I should say this. I should level with you, because it hasn’t stopped hurting. Sometimes I think about it and I can’t stand it, like I really can’t
stand
it, and I have to do
something to get out of my head or I’ll just be so full of hate. So mad at you. I don’t know if I was ever as mad at Nate, even, because what he did was nasty, but what you did was so fucking
personal
.”

I expect her to draw farther away from me.

She puts her arms around me instead. Her hot cheek presses against my neck.

“What helps,” she says, “is when I’m looking out the window of the truck and seeing you with her, sometimes I can flip that. So I’m looking
in
it, at me. Imagining what you were feeling to make you do that. And you know, West, it’s fucking awful from that direction, too. It
hurts
. I almost can’t stand it, because it means I have to accept how badly I failed
you
when you went home to Silt. How badly everyone failed you.”

“I wasn’t your responsibility.”

“You were,” she says. “You were, and you still are. And the good thing is, when I put myself outside the truck, after I do it, I’m not … I’m still mad, but I’m mad at the whole world, you know? I’m just as mad
for
you as I’m mad
at
you, and I can kind of see how it will be easier to feel that way next time. That eventually, it’s the only way I’ll feel. That Silt was this awful thing that happened to both of us together, instead of something you did to me.” She kind of laughs. “I mean, I’m not quite there yet. But I’m trying.”

“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “More sorry than you’ll ever know.”

“I know you are,” she says. “I’m sorry, too. But now you’re here.”

“I’m trying to be here. I’m trying so hard.”

She holds me. We stay like that until I can breathe again, and I start to feel more than just guilt and shame.

Until I can feel her warmth and smell her body.

Caroline on my lap. My dick wakes up.

It seems fucked-up that it’s even possible for me to want her after what we just talked about, but I do. And she wiggles against me, letting me know she wants me, too.

“So tell me something, West,” she says. “What do you want?”

No way Caroline can know I asked Frankie the same thing over pancakes this morning.

No way can she know that nobody ever asks me that. Nobody but her.

She kisses along my jaw. “What do you want, West?” she whispers.

She kisses my eyebrows and my forehead and the tip of my nose. “What do you want?”

I take her chin and guide her mouth to mine. I grab hold of her sweater.

I’m going to show her.

The sweater is long—down below her hips when she’s standing up—and I pull it off over her head because I like the contrast of the waistband of her black leggings against the pale skin of her stomach. Her bare breasts and her soft cotton-covered thighs.

“I thought about you like this in Silt,” I say.

“Oh, yeah?”

“When you were staying at my grandma’s. That time I was over for dinner, sitting by you on the couch, it was all I could fucking think of—getting just enough of your clothes off to put my mouth on you. Slide my fingers inside you.”

“We were in a room full of people.”

“I know. All day at work, you were texting me, trying to get under my skin, and I was thinking about getting you upstairs alone at Joan’s on those mismatched pieces of carpet. She still have those?”

“Yeah. You had a lot of plans.”

Not plans. Urges. Needs.

Impulses I kept shutting down, because I was so sure I had to.

“At the airport, I saw you before you even came outside,” I confess. “You were fussing with your bag behind the glass, and I wanted you to stay right there so I could watch you. You looked amazing. You looked like …”

Like water in the desert. Like color in a black-and-white movie
.

Stupid clichés. She looked like Caroline. Like herself.

I could hardly believe she was real.

“I drove twenty miles over the limit all the way to Eugene,” I say.

She drops her forehead onto mine. “You idiot.”

“I knew as soon as you came through the door, I’d ruin it. There wasn’t any way not to ruin it, and it made me so fucking angry, so that’s what you ended up seeing when you did come outside. How angry I was at the world for making me and you impossible.”

“We’re not impossible.” She tilts her hips into me. “We’re right here.”

I smooth my hands over her ass. “I should’ve just told you how bad I wanted you. How I wanted you in the truck on the way from the airport. At the funeral home in that family room with the door locked. How I couldn’t stop thinking how you’d bite your wrist if I bent you over the back of the couch. Bite my shoulder if I lifted you up against the inside of the bathroom door.”

Her pupils are huge. “You looked at me sometimes like … but you wouldn’t
talk
to me.”

“I felt so black. So
dark
. And it wasn’t right, you know? It was sick to want you like that, to want some quick fuck when you were trying to help me.”

“Maybe it would have made you feel better.”

“It would have made me feel like complete shit. And that sounded good, too—getting something I wanted that much, then getting punished for it.”

She kisses me. Sinks down onto me, grinds herself against me, licks over my lip, and bites it. “What do you want?” she whispers.

This time it’s a taunt. A tease.

This is all I want. Just this.

This is the only thing I ever wanted for myself.

“Let your hair down,” I say. She unwraps the elastic she’s got it bundled up in. It falls down over her back and shoulders, and I gather it in my hands. “It’s so long.”

“I’ve been thinking of cutting it.”

“I like your hair.”

“You want me to leave it long?”

“I’ll buy you some pearl combs.”

She smiles, resting her hands on my shoulders.

I lift the hair away from her neck and kiss where it makes her shiver. Kiss her throat. Cup her breasts.

She feels so good against me. I’m too full, and touching her helps—just the weight of her pushing my thighs down, the sight of her bare tits and her skin, her big brown eyes right on me. “What else do you want?” This time when she asks, it feels bigger, and my throat gets full and tight because I don’t have any way to know.

Other guys my age—they’ve been figuring out the answer to that question for years. They’ve got interests and hobbies and talents and goals. They’ve got fantasies, ambitions, resentment when the world doesn’t fall at their feet.

I have no idea what I want, not beyond this moment, but this moment is expanding around us. This moment is endless.
It ripples out, broadening with every movement of her hips as she rises and settles, rocking against my thighs.

“I want you to look at me,” I tell her.

She brushes her lips over mine. “I’m looking at you.”

“Right at me,” I say, gathering up her hair again, brushing the feathered ends up and down her shoulder blades, the column of her spine, making her arch and shiver. “The whole time.”

Her smile is shy, her cheek warm against the back of my hand. “ ‘The whole time’ implies duration.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

That smile. “Duration of what?”

“The whole time I’m fucking you.”

She lifts her breasts in her palms and rubs her thumbs over the nipples, offering them to me. “All right.”

“Stand up.”

I peel off her socks and her tights. I ease my fingers beneath the elastic of her panties at each hip bone and slide them around and down, following the curve of her ass, tickling across the top of her upper thighs.

Her pupils are bottomless black. She watches as I kiss her navel. As I lift her hands off my shoulders, link our fingers together, pull her arms behind, and capture her wrists loosely at the small of her back in one fist while I work her panties down to the floor.

I stop wherever I want to test her flesh against my tongue. Firm and lean over muscle, stretched over bone, soft and yielding at her inner thighs.

Her ribcage lifts under my hands, her nipples harden under my palms. I love her body, her face, her smile, the breath moving in and out of her—love her heartbeat and the way it quickens, the way she gasps when I lick over her nipple.

I love her. Caroline Piasecki.

I always will.

“Keep your hands there.”

Her mouth is slack, her gaze soft, her hair falling all around her. I pull it forward from the back to make a curtain around my head. Kiss her stomach. I hold her ass in my hands, wrists brushing her knuckles, suck her nipple into my mouth and draw on it, flick my tongue over it, rhythmic and fast, relentless.

I can smell what I do to her.

If I weren’t in the shadow of her hair, I could see the desire in her eyes on mine, the warm pink spreading across her upper chest, the flush on her thighs. I grip the backs of them. Move my head into the light so I can lick into the heat and the wet and the mess I’ve made of her.

Lick into the heart of her, thinking she’s mine, she wants to be mine, and whatever it is she sees in me, that’s who I want to be. The best in me. The version of me that deserves a woman like her, fierce and strong and smart and loyal.

I could make her come, but I stop short of it, her hamstrings trembling. If I let her, she’d buckle at the knees, drop her hands to my shoulders, slump into me.

If I asked her to, she’d lie back on the carpet. She’d move to all fours and turn around and present.

She’d suck me. Pull me tight and hard until I came against her belly.

She’d let me take her from behind with a tight grip on her hips even though she never comes that way, not unless I touch her clit. She’d let me shoot over her low back, striping over her spine, her ass, the whitest skin of her body.

Thinking of everything Caroline would give me, I think of Rita Tomlinson. How she would direct me. Talk dirty to me,
talk down to me, like I belonged to her—my fingers and my mouth her tools, the same muscles I used to carry her husband’s golf bag available for her pleasure.

Do it
, she would say.
Touch me. Take me. Harder. Faster. Now
.

I was never a person to her.

The first girl I ever fucked took me in a shed behind the trailer park laundry. She stuck her hand into my shorts, and her palm was clammy-hot. Her breath smelled like watermelon gum.