I continue my examination of her body. I sit on the side of my bed and slowly undo her jeans as she stands in front of me. I expect her to object, but she doesn’t. She allows me to pull her pants down and help her step out of them. Again, the front side of her body is unmarked, but when I turn her, I see the swollen red marks on the backs of her thighs and calves that disappear under the panties she is wearing. I sit on the side of my bed, with her back to me, and gently pull her underwear down to see the small round cheeks of her bottom red and painful. It is apparent that her injuries are localized to her legs, bottom, and mouth. I can only imagine how sore she must be and how sore she will be tomorrow. I run the palm of my hand over the round cheeks of her bottom, and her breath catches as she stops breathing. Thinking better of it, I pull the back of her underwear up over her bottom and stand up behind her. I caress the back of her neck and quietly tell her I’ll run her a bath. I lead her nearly naked into my bathroom and while the bathtub is filling, I hold her, and she cries. I give her privacy when the tub is filled and she has what she needs.
I’m stunned as I wait for her and can hardly make sense of the night’s events, but a nagging thought won’t leave my mind. He was either home already when she arrived or she knew he was at the bar getting wasted. Either way, she chose to stay there. Under normal circumstances, I would be furious with her for disobeying my rules, but on this night I just feel guilty and responsible. Were it not for what she saw last night, she would have never felt the need to be away from me. Had I not been such a chicken shit and spoken to her when it happened, her embarrassment as well as mine would not have affected her decisions tonight.
When I hear the bathtub draining, I enter. She has her back to me and is drying herself. I again see the welts and beginnings of bruises all over her backside. I ask if there is anything I can do, and she just shakes her head. I get her pajamas from her room and bring them back for her. She makes no move to change in front of me, and ridiculously, I feel rejected at her modesty. After allowing her privacy to change, I help her into my bed, and then join her after showering and changing myself. She falls asleep quickly, but I don’t. I hate feeling so helpless and guilty. I want to talk to her but don’t want to disturb her. She must be exhausted and sore, and I can’t help but feel responsible for her. I finally get up and retreat to the window seat overlooking the back courtyard. The moon is nearly full, and I stare outside replaying the past twenty-four hours over and over and over.
I wake, and it is still dark. I’m alone in bed and wish he were with me. But he is there. As I look over toward the night sky out his back window, the blue hue from the large bright moon allows me to see his silhouette on the window seat. He is sitting parallel to the window with his feet up on the seat and his knees bent. His elbows and arms are slung on his bent knees, and he is staring off into the dark. He would have every right to be mad at me. I never should have stayed home, knowing that my father would be coming home drunk. I was actually contemplating calling Logan, but was having such a hard time actually picking up the phone to do it. My father wasn’t supposed to come home that early or in that foul a mood. He was raging from the second he stormed in through the doorway, and the nerve I was trying to build up to call Logan soon became the last thing on my mind.
I lie silently watching Logan. He is off in his own world, and I want to join him so badly. I start to crawl from bed and realize just how sore I am. Sleep has only served to allow my muscles to tighten and tense and my whole body hurts; I feel like one big bruise. As I move from the bed, Logan looks over at me, and shadowed from the light outside I’m not able to see the look on his face. He swings his legs over the side of the window seat to face me, and as I approach, the look on his face emerges. It is impossible to read. To my relief, he holds out his hands to me, and I step between his legs as he pulls me into his arms. Even as painful as I am right now, I still love the way it feels when he touches me. He offers me safety and security, and he knows how to be gentle. It is a constant and precious reminder of how amazing men can be.
He slings one leg up on the window seat and leans it against the window. He then pats the spot between his legs in invitation for me to sit. I turn with my back to him, and he helps me find my place there. I lean back into him and can feel his heart beating into me. He wraps his arms around me and clasps my hands in his. My butt is relieved to feel the thick padding on the window seat, and I’m comfortable in his arms.
After a long time of peaceful silence, I decide to say what should have been said a long while back. “I’m sorry.”
“Why?” It's barely a whisper.
“For last night … for tonight … just … everything…”
“If you want to apologize for not leaving your house when you should have tonight, then I accept. If you want to apologize for what you saw last night, well … I can’t really accept.”
I’m suddenly confused. As is often the case, I can’t tell what his intent is. He must sense my confusion. “Last night wasn’t your fault, Row. You didn’t do anything wrong anymore than I did. Well … actually we were both wrong. I should have spoken to you about what happened last night and not waited like a coward, and you shouldn’t have sneaked off this morning—again. You do realize I hate it when you do that.”
His words aren’t the least bit angry, and he is only gently prodding me for my behavior. After more silence he continues. “What were you thinking when you saw me last night?”
My heart starts racing as I try to come up with something that doesn’t sound completely pathetic, but the only thoughts running through my mind are: how huge he is, how much I wish it was my hand wrapped around his cock, how much I want him to make love to me, how much I want to taste him, how huge he… oh yeah, covered that one.
As the gears are turning in my brain, he starts. “Okay. Since you’re being shy, I’ll start. I was confused at first, evidenced by the frozen Medusa syndrome, and then I was mortified you saw me in such a compromising position. Then I was self-conscious you wouldn’t like what you saw.” He trails off, offering no other explanation for his provocative final words.
Who couldn’t like the way he looks? He is beautiful. Not that I’ve seen that many men’s bodies, but the image of his balls, heavy between his legs, and his incredibly beautiful and incredibly large, rigid penis looked so perfect against his bare stomach. Even his own hand wrapped around his shaft made him look somehow powerful and virile. Just remembering the sight of him from the night before turns my body to fire, and I’m wet in an instant.
I imagine myself kneeling in front of him, cupping his heavy balls in one hand and wrapping my other hand around his girth. I imagine being able to please him and seeing his pleasure as he looks down at me. I want to take him in my mouth and taste him, and I want so much for him to touch the warm wet pulse between my legs and release me from it. I’m lost in my imaginings and the vision of his naked body when I realize he’s still waiting for an answer.
I’m only able to manage a weak, “I don’t know,” and feel pathetic, something I’ve gotten used to feeling around him. I want so much for him to know what I’m thinking, but could never bring myself to say it out loud. He could never want the same from me. While his body has responded to me in the past, it was nothing more than the passing effect of his comforting me. I can’t compare to the women who stare at him day in and day out. He is practically worshipped on campus, and there is nothing I could do to ever compete with them. I can’t even manage to talk around him half the time.