better. Stop now. But my commands go unheeded by a body programmed to listen to the genetic stimulation of a girl stuck at seventeen.
My bedroom is next to the room Brenden occupies. I lock the door. He’s your best friend’s son, not a criminal. Still, I undress quickly, and when the air hits my nakedness, the warm tingle racing over my skin submerges want deep into my flesh.
I slip on silk pajamas and a silk robe, tying the sash so tight I almost cut the air from my lungs. Having fabric cover my skin only intensifies the song of desire humming beneath my skin with warmth, with friction. Lowering to the bed, eyes on the wall, I listen to the occasional muffled sounds coming from the other side.
At some point, I take a deep breath and glance at the clock. It’s eight-thirty. Holding my breath, I tiptoe down the hall. Even with the door closed, he presses out at me. I sit in the chair at the rear of my harp and the moment my fingers make contact with the tight strings, it’s as if with each strum, tension oozes from my shoulders, neck, arms, and my soul. Forget he’s here.
But he’s male. Jonathan’s son. And there’s something about the fierce look in his eyes that makes it impossible to keep myself sequestered. And Jonathan sent him, so I should be able to talk to him, shouldn’t I? I don’t have to be afraid.
Suddenly, he’s in the doorway. My fingers freeze on the strings. The brown sweatshirt is gone, he’s in a gray teeshirt, the same color as his eyes. Both hands are buried in the front pockets of his jeans. He’s not wearing shoes, but he has on black socks. A ripple breaks loose inside of me—something about him wearing socks—like he feels at ease here in my house—makes me squirm and melt.
“Can’t sleep?” The rasp of his voice rolls into the room like a mystical carpet, inviting and dangerous.
“No.”
“It’s a little early, I mean, the night’s just getting started, right?” His tone and the suggestion weaves tingling thrill through my ear canal, down the tender side of my neck, spreading out through my arms and legs. His eyes—with their directness—ignite me.
“That was beautiful,” he says. “Can I listen?”
I can’t relax. “All right,” I say, tone cooler than I intend. I won’t be able to play now, not with him watching.
He crosses to the chair by the hearth, then glances at me. The chair is only four feet away, whereas the couch is ten feet away. “Wouldn’t you prefer the couch?”
“Uh.” He glances at the chair, couch, then at me.
Brenden sits carefully on the couch and even with the distance, I feel like I’m in the room with a tiger. Tension purrs in the air. My hands shake holding the strings. Stop this ridiculousness now.
Go away! But I can’t kick Brenden out—he’s Jonathan’s son—and I need that vial. You can do this, sis, Oscar told me when I put him to bed. It’s time for you to let go. I’d nodded, but only to put his concerns at ease so he’d rest. Inside I’d known being near Brenden would be as tricky as corralling a herd of wild horses.
I knew that the moment he’d extended the empty mug to me.
But, letting go of decades of conditioning is like walking blindfolded into the ocean.
“I’m really sorry if me being here is an inconvenience,” Brenden says.
This will be good for you, Oscar told me before I left him. He’s right. Part of me knows he’s right, another part of me is afraid to open this door to anyone.
I release the harp, keeping my eyes on them. An empty black silence chokes the room. “It’s not an inconvenience,” I say. “I’m so sorry about Jonathan.”
“Yeah…”
“Are you hungry?” I ask, hoping he is so I can leave the room.
“No.”
I am. Starved. But not for food. I’m astounded that feelings so long repressed leap inside of me with a vigor I know is precarious.
“When did Grace pass away?”
A pit gnarls in my stomach. Squeezing any words about the past from my mouth is dreadful.
My bedroom is next to the room Brenden occupies. I lock the door. He’s your best friend’s son, not a criminal. Still, I undress quickly, and when the air hits my nakedness, the warm tingle racing over my skin submerges want deep into my flesh.
I slip on silk pajamas and a silk robe, tying the sash so tight I almost cut the air from my lungs. Having fabric cover my skin only intensifies the song of desire humming beneath my skin with warmth, with friction. Lowering to the bed, eyes on the wall, I listen to the occasional muffled sounds coming from the other side.
At some point, I take a deep breath and glance at the clock. It’s eight-thirty. Holding my breath, I tiptoe down the hall. Even with the door closed, he presses out at me. I sit in the chair at the rear of my harp and the moment my fingers make contact with the tight strings, it’s as if with each strum, tension oozes from my shoulders, neck, arms, and my soul. Forget he’s here.
But he’s male. Jonathan’s son. And there’s something about the fierce look in his eyes that makes it impossible to keep myself sequestered. And Jonathan sent him, so I should be able to talk to him, shouldn’t I? I don’t have to be afraid.
Suddenly, he’s in the doorway. My fingers freeze on the strings. The brown sweatshirt is gone, he’s in a gray teeshirt, the same color as his eyes. Both hands are buried in the front pockets of his jeans. He’s not wearing shoes, but he has on black socks. A ripple breaks loose inside of me—something about him wearing socks—like he feels at ease here in my house—makes me squirm and melt.
“Can’t sleep?” The rasp of his voice rolls into the room like a mystical carpet, inviting and dangerous.
“No.”
“It’s a little early, I mean, the night’s just getting started, right?” His tone and the suggestion weaves tingling thrill through my ear canal, down the tender side of my neck, spreading out through my arms and legs. His eyes—with their directness—ignite me.
“That was beautiful,” he says. “Can I listen?”
I can’t relax. “All right,” I say, tone cooler than I intend. I won’t be able to play now, not with him watching.
He crosses to the chair by the hearth, then glances at me. The chair is only four feet away, whereas the couch is ten feet away. “Wouldn’t you prefer the couch?”
“Uh.” He glances at the chair, couch, then at me.
Brenden sits carefully on the couch and even with the distance, I feel like I’m in the room with a tiger. Tension purrs in the air. My hands shake holding the strings. Stop this ridiculousness now.
Go away! But I can’t kick Brenden out—he’s Jonathan’s son—and I need that vial. You can do this, sis, Oscar told me when I put him to bed. It’s time for you to let go. I’d nodded, but only to put his concerns at ease so he’d rest. Inside I’d known being near Brenden would be as tricky as corralling a herd of wild horses.
I knew that the moment he’d extended the empty mug to me.
But, letting go of decades of conditioning is like walking blindfolded into the ocean.
“I’m really sorry if me being here is an inconvenience,” Brenden says.
This will be good for you, Oscar told me before I left him. He’s right. Part of me knows he’s right, another part of me is afraid to open this door to anyone.
I release the harp, keeping my eyes on them. An empty black silence chokes the room. “It’s not an inconvenience,” I say. “I’m so sorry about Jonathan.”
“Yeah…”
“Are you hungry?” I ask, hoping he is so I can leave the room.
“No.”
I am. Starved. But not for food. I’m astounded that feelings so long repressed leap inside of me with a vigor I know is precarious.
“When did Grace pass away?”
A pit gnarls in my stomach. Squeezing any words about the past from my mouth is dreadful.
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