Involved. More like entangled in a web of my own making; a web of desire and misplaced possession. A web sticky with my own vulnerability. Where once I wanted recompense and revenge, I now just want to make it okay. I want to prove I’m not the monster she made me out to be.The monster I made myself.
In the car on the ride over when the auld granny talked of Ivy—of how braw she’s doing—I listened. Even as she began recounting the instances of Ivy’s kindness, the regard she has for her neighbours and friends, I didn’t once interrupt. I could have. A few weeks ago, I would have. I’d have told her Ivy’s niceness isn’t even skin deep. That it’s a veneer. That it’s fake. But I didn’t. And it wasn’t only because I was raised not to interrupt my elders, or that I was a captive audience with no escape. No, I sat and listened like a sap, smiling and soaking it all in. Because the closer I get to my wife, the bigger my problem is.
Problem. Addiction. Compulsion. Call it what you will.
In the close confines of the rental, I was an alcoholic listening to a description of fine whisky, just to get drunk on the words. And now that I’ve seen her, I want more than mere words. I want to write sonnets against her silken skin with my mouth.
‘Ivy, turn around.’ I dig my hands deeper into my pockets and the toe of one boot into the loamy soil.Would our marriage have lasted if I’d stuck to lugging plants? Would she have wanted me better then?‘Please, cutz.’
‘Go away, Dylan. Just leave me alone.’ The sea breeze does nothing to hide the warble in her words or her tension; the way she holds her shoulders high.
‘I can’t.’I don’t want to. ‘I need . . . I need to talk to you.’I need to be inside you.
She shakes her head, a bitter laugh accompanying it. ‘You were here last week. I saw you on TV. It was—it was a treat.’ The end of her sentence comes out in a rush, and suddenly, I don’t think she’s shaking from laughter anymore.
‘Ivy.’ I close my eyes, that one word strangled with emotion—with regret. My molars threaten to crack under the pressure as I struggle, waiting for some sign from the universe. Someplace to begin this impossible conversation. Because now that I’m here, I have all the wrong words in my head and no place to begin. ‘Baby, please.’
Her throat catches, shoulders shaking, and wracked by sobs. Before I know it, I’m pressed up against her, one arm banded across her shoulders.To prevent an escape—a collapse?I smooth the dark strands from her cheeks as I whisper nonsense in the form of comfort I’ve no place to give.Falsehoods and faery tales.
I pull the last strand of errant hair from her cheek, curling it around the pink shell of her ear. It’s only natural—at least, it feels so—and something I’ve done a thousand times. A million moments when I’ve placed my lips against the length of silk she calls a neck.
It’s as easy as wrapping her in my arms.
It’s as easy as whispering her name.
It’s as easy as falling into the abyss.
Her whole body trembles against me, and my dick is painfully hard—as hard as the steel rod I should consider beating myself with. But she feels so good; soft and inviting, and she smells like heaven. Like something lost and found—our halcyon moments all over again.
‘My God.’ I breathe the sound of my need against her neck. ‘You’re so beautiful.’And I’ve missed you so goddamned much.
I couldn’t take my eyes off her indoors, forcing myself to stay on the other side of the room. Petite and so dainty, her legs bare beneath a dress that ought to be reclassified because it’s barely a shirt.
The curve of her exposed shoulders, the jut of her bare collarbones, and an unadorned neck. I’d looked at the floor, rooting my feet to the polished stone, because I’d wanted to take great fucking strides across the room. I wanted to grab her and carry her to a place where the past never happened. I’d lift the hem on that swingy white dress and leave her bare but for the unravelled braid. Chocolate hair and milky skin. Nipples as rosy as the stain on her lips.
Some images never change. Needs either, it seems.
‘Baby.’ Rueful—that’s how this one word sounds. Rueful and full of regret. I swallow hard again, forcing away the image of her trembling beneath me, mouth open in a gasp of absolute pleasure.Of obscene coupling.I barely even realise I’m trailing the backs of my fingers across her bare shoulder...
... across the front of her dress... back and forth...
... from shoulder to breastbone...
... just a fraction above where the fabric is a tight fit.
Back, and then forth, the movement as hypnotic as the tremble in each of her breaths.
‘What I wouldn’t give.’ My whisper is hoarse as my fingertips graze her nipples, creating a soft sigh of her reply.
‘For what?’
I hold her breasts full in my hands now, pulling her to me, half groaning my unconsidered response into her neck.
‘What I wouldn’t give to fuck you again.’
The hitch in her breath is fucking exquisite. I’m groaning deeper as Ivy pushes herself fully into my hands. Only I’m not paying attention, my brain unheeding and my cock running the show.
Shoulders separating from chest.
