Good For You

No cold shower could rid me of this hunger. I’d need a tub ful of ice.

I sit up and she rocks back a bit, her chest grazing mine, only the thin fabric of my t-shirt between us. Her breathing is shal ow, warm little puffs of air, cinnamon-tinted from the toothpaste. Licking her lips, she stares at mine. I pul her close and kiss her, deeply—an echo of a promise my body intends to keep.

She slides her hands under my shirt, and I break from her long enough to let her pul it off. And then we’re skin-to-skin and I’m losing my mind from the craving pushing every other thought and feeling aside. We kiss for long, torturous minutes, until final y I trail slow kisses down her neck, over her br**sts, and in one movement I turn her onto her back, my tongue swirling around her navel, grazing the tiny bel y ring I discovered there a couple of weeks ago, during one of our reckless episodes.

“That… is so unexpected and hot,” I told her then, and watched her ears go scarlet.

Her hands clench fistfuls of bedding, and when my fingers dip into the waistband of her shorts, she lifts her hips. I want her more than I’ve ever wanted anything, and she sure as hel wants me.

Through the haze of longing, my brain switches back on, reminding me that for years, sex has been nothing more to me than a temporary remedy for isolation. I felt no actual connection, not once, since Brooke. There have been times when the solitude would return only moments after, pul ing me under. I don’t trust myself now, because this wanting is familiar, and Dori deserves to be more than another momentary high.

“Please,” she breathes, her hands kneading my shoulders insistently. My untimely scruples aside, there’s no way I’m not satisfying her. The boxers are loose and low on her hips, no barrier to my palm slipping beneath to stroke her soft skin as I return to kissing her until we’re both breathless, before sliding open-mouthed to return attention to her br**sts and bel y, traveling progressively lower to the places my fingers have already explored. Her shocked response tel s me that there were some things Colin left out of her sexual education, the self-centered bastard.

I’m grateful for the remoteness of my room from the rest of the house, because she can’t keep her lower lip clamped between her teeth, can’t contain what I make her feel. I’m transfixed by the sound of her crying my name, her fingers twisting in my hair, her body trembling against me. She’s soon satiated and drowsy, while I anticipate hours of struggle before I find oblivion.

“Reid?” she says, so softly that I’m not sure, at first, that she’s awake.

“I’m here.” I gather her closer, stroking her hair over her shoulders, splaying it out over the pil ow. “Go to sleep, Dori.”

She inhales slowly and breathes out a sigh, her eyes stil closed as she cuddles against my chest, and then she mumbles faintly, “No. Your turn.” Without further warning, her fingers move over me, cautious but unerring, and she strokes her tongue over my nipple.

It doesn’t take very much. Or very long, I’m embarrassed to say.

Despite the crushing weight of the expectations placed on her, from the theological to the self-inflicted, what I needed was the last, selfless thought in her sleepy head.

Sated and awed, I fal asleep with her locked in my arms.

*** *** ***

Dori

This waking is only similar to the last night I spent in Reid’s bed in one respect—the hangover sensations: headache, dry eyes, exhaustion. The cause is far different, though; a thick outpouring of grief wil do that.

Unlike the last time, though, I’m wearing his boxers and the t-shirt I wore to bed… and took off. Blurred memories surface of him reaching for me, pul ing it over my head, caressing me to sleep like Deb used to do when I had nightmares. He lies next to me, breathing metrical y, his lashes feathered closed, his lips barely parted. We’re curled in on each other, al arms and legs intertwined. One of his hands holds one of mine, loosely, while the other rests on my hip. It takes several minutes to careful y untangle my limbs from his.

I can’t think, and I need to get home. Last night, when Reid told me he’d talked to Dad, I was too fuzzy to think about consequences, but this morning, the cost of this night is staring me in the face. I may be eighteen, but I’m stil the daughter of concerned parents, stil financial y dependent on them, stil eager for their admiration. Even if I’m unworthy of it.

I always knew my secrets were safe with Deb. That she’d never tel , never judge. And while she was there for me to lean on—somewhere in the world, loving me—I could stand it. Perhaps I created a ticking time bomb, ignoring it al this time, and this pointless remorse would have come bubbling up even without the loss of my sister as a confidant. But I have lost her. She’s not gone, but she’s not here. My parents stil plead with God for a miracle, believing that Deb can be restored to her life, to her future, to us. I’d give anything to walk into her room and have her eyes meet mine instead of staring through me as though I’m invisible.

I know that’s never going to happen.

Maybe my lack of faith prevents the miracle from occurring. This is what my conscience, if that’s the name of the voice in my head, tel s me. I don’t know if a conscience can be wrong, or misguided, simply ignorant of al of the facts. Whatever the voice is, wherever it comes from, it’s subjective and unrelenting. Just not convincing.

Deb was the only person who knew who I real y was. Al of me. Now, Reid knows.

I’m not sorry for what we did. I didn’t think I was capable of ever trusting like that again. Letting go. Touching and being touched without a trace of self-consciousness.