He turns his eyes to me. "No. But they felt they did. Because it was about their life. You stuck by me at a bad time. Whether or not you feel I owe you, I do." He's silent for a moment. "I only wish I had been here when Sands came."
I smile at him. "Me too."
He nods. "I'm here for you now. Get a good night's sleep. You don't have anything to worry about." He looks at me, and his eyes have changed. They are stone. Ice. Frozen granite. "Anyone who wants you has to come through me."
I look at Tommy. Really look at him. I think about the dream of my father, about everything that has happened. Everything that could happen. I examine his dark, deep eyes. His handsome face. I feel a longing.
"What's the matter?" he asks, voice soft.
I don't reply. Instead, I shock myself to the core by leaning up and kissing him on the lips. I feel him stiffen. He pushes me away.
"Whoa," he says.
I look down, unable to meet his eyes. "Am I that ugly, Tommy?"
There is a long silence. I feel his hand on my chin, lifting it up. I don't want to see his face. Don't want to see the revulsion.
"Look at me," he demands.
So I do. And my eyes widen. No revulsion. Just tenderness, mixed with anger.
"You're not ugly, Smoky. I always thought you were one sexy lady. Still do. You want somebody right now. I understand that. But I don't know that this would lead anywhere."
I gaze at him, feel the honesty of his words. "Would you think less of me if I didn't care?" I ask him, curious.
He shakes his head. "No. But that's not the problem."
"Then--what?"
He spreads his hands. "Whether or not you would think less of me."
His words make me pause. And they make me feel good. I lean forward. "You're a good man, Tommy. I trust you. I don't care where it leads, or if it leads anywhere." I reach out a hand, touch his face. "I'm lonely and I was hurt, yes. But that's not why. I just want a man to want me right now. That's all. Is that wrong?"
His eyes regard me, still revealing nothing. Then he reaches forward and takes my face in his hands. Brings his lips down on mine. They are soft and hard at the same time. His tongue slips into my mouth and my response is instantaneous. My whole body arches into him, and I can feel his hardness through his slacks. He pulls back. His eyes look half hooded in pleasure, and sexy as hell.
"Upstairs okay?" he asks me.
I think if he hadn't asked, had just assumed and tried to take me up into the bed that I only ever shared with Matt, my answer would have been no. Part of me still feels like I should say no.
"Yes, please," I answer.
He gathers me into his arms in a single motion, carrying me like I'm a feather. I put my face against his neck and smell the smell of man. My longing intensifies at this. It has been missed, that scent. I want to feel someone else's skin against mine. I want to not be alone. I want to feel beautiful.
We get into the bedroom, and he lays me down, gentle. He proceeds to undress as I watch. And, boy, it's worth watching, my body tells me. He's well-built without being overmuscular, the physique of a dancer. He has chest hair, which I find sexy, but not too much. Just right. When he slips off his pants, followed by his boxers, I gasp. Not at his cock--though I sure can't miss it. I gasp at the sight of a man, naked in front of me again. I feel an energy building inside me, a kind of formless wave, roaring toward some internal shore. He comes over to me, sits down, and moves a hand to unbutton my blouse. I feel the doubts come again. "Tommy, I--the scars . . . they aren't just on my face."
"Shhh . . ." he says to me, his fingers continuing to unbutton. He has strong hands, I notice. Callused in places, soft in others. Tender and rough, like him.
He opens my shirt, sits me up to pull it off, and then removes my bra. He lays me back and looks at me. My fear disappears when I see the expression on his face. No revulsion, no pity. All I see is that awe men can have at times when you stand naked in front of them. That kind of
"Really? All for me?" look.
He bends forward and kisses me again, and I feel his chest against mine. My nipples harden, turning into pulsing sunbursts of sensation. He kisses my chin, then moves down my neck, to my chest. When he takes one of my nipples into his mouth, I arch and cry out. Jesus Christ, I think. Is that what months without sex will do to you? I grab his head and start speaking unintelligible things to him, feeling an urgency build. He continues kissing me, going from nipple to nipple, making me groan and mewl, while his hands undo my slacks and pull the zipper down. He sits up on his knees to pull them off me, taking my panties with them, and then pauses for a moment, looking down at me, slacks bunched up in one hand. His eyes are dusky, his face partly shadowed, and the look he's giving me is pure desire. Here I am, I think. Naked in front of a more than handsome man. And he wants me bad. Scars and all. Tears come into my eyes. Tommy looks concerned. "You okay?" he asks.
I smile up at him. "Oh yeah," I say, tears running down my face. "Just happy. You made me feel sexy."
"You are sexy. God, Smoky." He reaches a finger out and traces the scars on my face. Moves down, circling around the ones on my chest, my belly. "You think these make you ugly." He shakes his head. "To me, they reveal character. They show strength, and survival, and not getting beat. They show that you're a fighter. That you'll fight for life, to the death." His hand comes back up to my face. "They're not defects on the package, Smoky. They're proof of what was always there."
I reach my arms out to him.
"Come down here and show me that you feel that way. Show me all night long."
He does. It goes on for hours, a mix of the dark and the divine, and perception turns into a blend of unbearable emotions combined with sensation. I am insatiable, and I keep demanding, and he keeps providing, until the end, when the world recedes first to a dot, and then explodes into a near-blinding display that has me screaming in pleasure at the top of my lungs.
"Window rattling," Matt used to call it.
The sweetest pain of all is the lack of guilt. Because I know that if Matt is watching, he is happy. That he is telling me, a whisper in my ear: Get on with your life. You're still among the living. As I fall asleep I realize that I know I will not dream tonight. The dreams aren't finished yet, but the past and the present are learning to live with each other. The present has hated the past, and the past has been an enemy of the future. Perhaps soon, the past will just be the past again.
Sleep claims me, and it is not a retreat, but a comfort.
40
WHEN I WAKE in the morning, I feel satisfied and sore. Like I slaked a thirst. Tommy isn't here, but when I cock an ear, I hear him downstairs. I stretch, feeling every muscle, and then bound out of bed. I shower, regretful at having to wash his smell off me but feeling refreshed afterward. Great sex can be that way. Like a good marathon run. A shower always feels better if you get really dirty first. I luxuriate in this feeling for a moment and then get dressed and head downstairs, finding Tommy in the kitchen.
He looks the same as he did before we went to bed, not a wrinkle in his suit. He is fully awake and alert. He has brewed coffee, and he gives me a cup.
"Thanks," I say.
"Are you going to be leaving soon?"
"In about a half hour. I need to make a call first."
"Let me know." He regards me for a moment, sphinxlike, until a smile plays on the edge of his lips.
I raise an eyebrow at him. "What?"
"Just thinking about last night."
I look at him. "It was great," I say, quiet.