What is wrong with me? These things I keep imagining doing with her. The way my body responds to her. I run a hand up my forehead, slicking back the hair Daphne disrupted.
I’m aroused, that’s all. I haven’t bedded a lover in at least two years. That normally isn’t a problem, because my sex drive isn’t normally so out of control. All I’ve needed before is a quick wank, a cold bath, and a reminder that taking lovers brings too much risk. Hearts to break when they want too much from me, even after I’ve stated what I can and can’t give. Pain when I start to crave more than I can give. Secrets that could be discovered.
This time, the reminder does very little to calm the erection that has raged in my lap since I woke up with Daphne in my arms.
Her voice calls out from the kitchen. “Do you want to have tea on the roof?”
I should say no. I should get the fuck out of here.
But that’s just the panic talking. I know what I must do. I know how to calm this madness and keep my friendship from derailing beneath my lust.
“Sure,” I call back as I leave the settee to take my clothes from the line. “I’m going to use your washroom first.”
Where I can beat my unruly cock into submission.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
DAPHNE
I’m glad to see Monty is doing much better. I didn’t consider his earlier condition when I asked him to climb the tree in my living room so we could make our way to the roof. But he didn’t even argue. In fact, he seemed rather energetic as he followed me up the notches in the tree trunk and then obeyed my instructions to gently stroke the bases of the lowest branches. That’s all it takes to convince my tree to spread its tangled limbs and allow the small opening that serves as my way out to the open sky.
Now we recline on a blanket, porcelain cups in hand, a teapot between us.
The rain has stopped and the air is refreshing without being cold. Just the right temperature to keep me comfortable in my silk robe. I donned the garment after Monty left my washroom and informed me I was still in my undergarments. He’d already gotten dressed in his shirt and trousers, and I scurried to my bedroom to wrap myself in my favorite teal robe.
The city is quiet around us, barely a sound to be heard. A rustle of my tree’s leaves. The hoot of an owl here. The pitter-patter of a raccoon there. According to the clock in my kitchen, we slept until three in the morning, so there are very few people awake in this part of town.
As silence stretches between us, I realize I’m not entirely sure why I invited him out here. Aside from how hot I was starting to feel in my apartment, of course. My whole body warmed when I touched his hair. It was an innocent gesture on my part, as I wanted to ensure he was dry and wouldn’t suffer whatever ailed him during the rainstorm.
Then came a moment when his lashes fluttered shut and he leaned slightly into my touch. I was struck with the most overwhelming heat between my legs, one so strong I was tempted to claw my fingers tighter into his hair, maybe tug his head back and lower my lips to his. For the second time in a span of hours, I realized the truth.
I’m attracted to him.
To Monty.
Not just aesthetically, but sexually. I’ve never experienced sexual desire for a specific person before. I’ve felt aroused. I’ve enjoyed pleasure. I’ve even taken pleasure with other people, but I’ve never experienced desire so deeply entwined with another person.
After that, my body flooded with warmth. I could only think to get some air.
Why I asked Monty to join me, I don’t know. He could have left. Could have gone home.
Yet here we are, sipping tea in silence under the starlight.
I refill my empty teacup, my gaze snagging on Monty as I set the pot back down between us. He’s hardly more than a silhouette of shadows with how dark the early morning is, but I find it hard to look away. My eyes trace the curve of his throat, the arch of his Adam’s apple, the shape of his lips wrapped around the cigarillo he’s smoking. He’s fixed his hair, and by that I mean he’s mussed it in the way it normally is, not the comical nest of curls it only halfway dried in while we were sleeping.
My chest tightens.
Was he always this damn beautiful?
I’m not sure whether to be startled or elated at my newfound awareness of him.
On one hand, it’s good, isn’t it? If I can feel desire for Monty, something that’s only grown as I’ve become more comfortable with him and gotten to know him better, surely I can hope the same might happen between me and my future husband.
On the other hand…this is bad. Because the desire I feel is for Monty, and he’s made it clear he doesn’t see me that way. Made it clear he is not interested in settling down or getting married. And I need someone who will settle down, and quickly at that. If I don’t marry by Lughnasadh, I risk being stuck in Cypress Hollow with Clyde the honey badger as my mate. I risk giving up my dream to be an illustrator. I suppose both options include marrying without love, but only one will allow me to follow my artistic dream. That is what matters the most.
I force the worries from my head. Desire is just desire, even if it’s attached to a specific person. If I can feel it for Monty, I can feel it for someone else. I’ll take this as a good sign and enjoy all the strange flutters in my chest and between my legs. I can use it as fuel for my art.
For the love of the All of All, I might truly understand what itfeelslike to be close to someone, to touch them and feel them touching me, to look at them and be filled with an ache so strong I yearn to sate it with the object of my attraction. For the first time, I understand my art on an emotional level, not just the intellectual level I understood it before.
