Gods & Monsters(32)

First, I need to make him have sex with me tonight. I’ll beg too, if that makes him feel better.

I focus on the big, long desk by the wall, with mountains of papers on it, alongside his camera, of course. I know what they are. They are the sketches he made, and on the wall, are photographs of us together, pinned like the stars.

I study his sketches; they feature everything, the entire world. The corn fields, the little stores along the heart of the town, the people, the never-ending highway. The buildings of New York that I’ve only seen in the movies and his photos. The bridges strung with Christmas lights, bodies of water, park bench with a bird perched on the back, a lone kite in the sky. It’s everything you think of and it’s everything you ignore.

Such an artist.

My fingers burn through the sketches, the photos, so fast that my head spins and my heart races. And then it stops because at the center, I find myself.

A drawing of me lying on a bed, his bed, naked.

Nude, bare, stripped, unclothed. My long, long hair is fanned out on his pillow, some strands even going off the bed to touch the floor. My eyes are closed and my lips are parted. One of my knees is folded and one of my hands is on my stomach, hiding my belly-button. And my boobs are jutting out of my frame. Nipples tipped up and hard.

How the hell did he draw this? He’s never seen me naked. Well, he’s seen my breasts but nothing lower than that.

There isn’t only one sketch. There are hundreds. I’m in different positions. Head thrown back. Fists clutching the sheets. Teeth biting my lip. Spine arching from the bed. But in all of them I’m naked and yes, aroused. I touch my body on paper and feel it on my skin, causing goosebumps to erupt. When did he make these? How long has he been making them? And why do I suddenly feel naked, as naked as I am on the paper?

I don’t register Abel’s closeness until his hand snakes around my waist and his sweet breath puffs into my ear. Good thing he’s here, because I was about to collapse. My legs are shaking like crazy.

“Fuck,” he mutters when he sees what I’m seeing, and drops his head on my shoulders.

“I… You’ve never seen me naked.”

He lifts his head and his jaw scrapes against the side of my face. “I know.”

I hiss at the sting. “So how did you…”

“I’ve got an active imagination.” His palm rubs circles around my stomach, as if calming the butterflies inside, taming them with his touch. “And I’ve touched you, felt your curves against my body. I can fill in the blanks.”

“How long?”

I hear him swallow. “Months.”

I imagine him sitting all alone in his bed, drawing pictures of me, hunting down videos online to fantasize about me, while the people our age are either out being in love or sleeping soundly, dreaming of it.

Maybe it’s the separation we’ve had to endure for so many unfair reasons, or maybe I’ve grown up now, but I’m not a little girl who wanted to play games anymore. Who was probably holding onto her virginity too tightly because she was never given a say in anything else in her life. And as a grown-up — a woman — I understand his needs so much better now. I understand myself better. Something inside me — this urge that’s always been there to please him grows roots, flourishes. It makes me both weak and strong.

I want to nurture him, soothe away his pain, clutch him to my body and never leave. I want to give him everything. I want to obey him because it gives me pleasure. I was designed that way. For him.

I grind my butt into his pelvis and arch my back. His lips skim over my cheek, the column of my throat.

“You’re hard.” I feel his dick through the layers of clothing: his jeans and my dress. But the heat of it is slowly burning through everything.

“Constantly,” he croaks.

His lonely tone arrows down to my heart, pierces my skin, and it’s painful. I don’t know if it’s as painful as his lust for me. But I hope to God that it is. I want to feel his pain because I never want him to feel anything by himself.

I put my hand over his arm that’s banded around my tummy and thread our fingers together. “I can… I can show you what I look like so you don’t have to imagine.”

Usually, I’m the one who’s losing all her breaths. I’m the one who goes still when her heart is beating as if it’s in a mad race. But this time, it’s him. He’s stopped breathing. I can almost feel his heart pounding on my spine where his chest is flush with me. I’ve stunned him.

It doesn’t last long though. With a jerk, he spins me around and pushes me against the desk. The edge of it bites into my backside and I grip his biceps to remain steady.

“What’d you just say?”

The papers rustle against my dress as I shift on my feet. “I-I said I can show you.”

He’s taking shaking breaths, searching my face. “You’re fucking with me, aren’t you? Because if you are, Pixie, it’s a cruel thing to do.”

Looking at him now, I understand why he moved away from me before, when we were kissing. He thought I’d deny him again. He thought I’d say no and thwart his advances and the poor guy was so sick of that.

Oh Abel.

I caress his cheek, looking into his beautiful brown eyes. “I promise I’m not kidding. I… want you to have me, and…”