Burn (Songs of Submission #5)(26)

I’m scared all the time

And I need all the time

I’m scared all the time

And I need all the time

I heard a click behind me, and a chemical infusion of fear made every vein in my body pulse. A man. In my shower. Uninvited. I screamed, or tried to, but because I’d forgotten to breathe, it came out a croak.

“Shhh,” Jonathan said. He wore nothing but boxer briefs that showed the glory of his erection.

“You f**king f**k.”

“Please.” He put his hands up in a gesture meant to show me he wasn’t going to touch me.

“What on earth would compel you?”

“You.” He leaned forward, and I stepped against the wall. His forearms pressed against the wall on either side of my head, and he got inches from my face. Water fell on his dry hair, running dark paths to his face. It dropped off his nose, his brow, his chin. “You. Goddess.”

Suddenly, the sexual satisfaction I’d achieved on my knees with the whole length of my arm was inadequate. “Take me.”

“Commit yourself to me. Be mine for all the world.”

“I already told you yes.”

“Make me believe it.” His eyes closed, slowly, as if he didn’t want to see my face. He was wet, his body a waterfall. The rushes of water accentuated every curve and angle of him.

“How?”

“What was that song? I couldn’t hear all of it.”

“I wrote it yesterday.”

He opened his eyes. “Would you sing it for me?”

His body still didn’t touch mine. I felt his breath on my shoulder and the presence of his erection, and I wanted it as much as I’d ever wanted anything. He wasn’t going to touch me. Not a finger. He was going to breathe on me and whisper in my ear, naked in the shower, until I burst.

“Please,” he said.

A part of me wanted to tell him to f**k off, but another part wanted to be close to him so badly that a song seemed as, if not more, intimate than sex. “Are you ready?” I whispered.

“Yes.”

I took a deep breath and sang for him, my voice low, much the way I sang him my song of fears in his backyard. This time, I sang without shame or contrition.

Craven runs

Crave stays

Craven runs

Crave stays

A cold, dark stain on a hot sidewalk

From a water balloon thrown

Craven freezes

Crave ducks

And writes the sound of nothing in crimson chalk

Craven stays

Crave runs

Craven stays

Crave runs

Puzzle pieces in an open box

Find perfect fit, alone then

Crave touches

Craven sees

Pieces shifted, while five little lenses watch

I sang the bridge a little louder looking in his jade eyes. I wanted to connect with him, to put my feelings into him so he’d understand.

I’m scared all the time

And I need all the time

I’m scared all the time

And I need all the time

I stopped. We said nothing, our voices shushed, and the only sounds in the room were the droplets of water falling on our bodies and the whoosh of the showerheads. His eyes flicked over mine, his expression a mask. I didn’t want to hear his thoughts. I didn’t want to talk. I wouldn’t like what I heard; I knew it.

“That one’s not so revealing, I guess.” I knocked the handle down to shut the water.

“More revealing, actually.” His lips were at my cheek, but I didn’t have the courage to turn and kiss him. “Puzzle pieces. A box full, and only one fits. And you leave me standing on my porch because you’re scared.”

“I was either going to stay with you because I was scared or leave you for the same reason. At least this way I’m not dragging you into my shit.”

He leaned away. The tile pattern was pressed into the flesh of his arms.

“Don’t,” I whispered, putting my hand on his waist.

He didn’t twist away, but he didn’t want me to touch him. I sensed it in the way he stiffened, his sharp intake of breath, the way his eyes closed halfway. “The cameras in your house. I know who put them there.”

The plink plonk of water dropping from the faucets and our bodies echoed like slaps on the tile. “Who?”

“Me.” He opened the door with a snap.

“What?”

He stepped out and grabbed a towel, wrapping it over his shoulders. I was still naked and wet, unimpressed by towels or anything else, standing half out of the shower.

“Santon found the serial numbers and followed the money to one of my accounts.”

“What does that mean?” I felt wound up, hot, heart pounding like a drum machine.

“It means someone who had access to one of my accounts had them put in. To answer your next question, yes, Jessica had access to that account. Yes, I think it was her, and no, I don’t know why.”

“Why?” I asked as if I hadn’t heard him.

“Still don’t know. What I do know is you’re not ready to deal with whatever she’s going to dish out.”

If I had been mentally sober, I wouldn’t have been so insulted, but it had been a rough ten minutes. “So basically, you burst in, mostly naked and fully hard, terrifying the hell out of me. You make me sing this heavy song in your ear, and then you tell me your ex-f*cking-wife is the one who shit on my house, and for a finale, you call me weak?”