She felt sore between her legs, but there was a certain pride in the dull ache there. Her lips felt swollen and hot and she remembered being nearly suffocated with the force of those kisses. Against the sheet her nipples chafed, making the 800+ thread count feel coarse, and sending little electric shocks down her body to her epicenter. She didn’t regret anything. Not at all. She felt feminine and powerful and sensual and wise. And loved.
When he’d been sick, when he’d reacted to seeing her by starting out of bed and retching and shaking, she’d been concerned, naturally. She felt a twinge of something like guilt then, for making him sick—perhaps she’s put too much in his drink—but the guilt-like feeling passed along with his momentary weakness.
Now he was strong and sure and steady again. And he was helping her to her feet. She wanted to kiss him, wanted him to kiss her again like he had last night. Looking into his beautiful eyes she willed him to lean down and put his lips on hers.
Instead he spoke, ruining the spell. “Viola, I need to know how this happened.”
He didn’t sound angry. But he didn’t sound pleased either. Something in his tone made her feel embarrassed.
She couldn’t meet his eyes and she felt absurdly like a child. Her gaze fell on the mess on the floor and she looked away before it could turn her stomach. “I’ll get a towel.” she replied and moved around him. She ignored his sharp intake of breath and proceeded into the small adjoining washroom to retrieve a pair of towels. As she passed the mirror she paused, and took a moment to examine her reflection within.
Her dark hair was mussed. It looked naughty and she could almost feel his frenzied fingers running over her scalp and pulling her head toward him. She was a bit disappointed that her lips didn’t actually appear as swollen as they felt, but she ran her tongue over them and smiled anyway, remembering what those lips had tasted, where those lips had explored.
Though others might not be able to mark a change, Viola could already see a new self in the mirror. Her neck looked longer now that his kisses had trailed up the length of it. Her eyes appeared deeper, more mysterious now that she knew herself and the pleasures of her body. Lips were fuller (if only slightly, if only imperceptibly), her breasts seemed rounder, her hips more curvy. She didn’t look like a fifteen year-old anymore.
When she returned from the bathroom she was disappointed to see that he’d begun to dress, and was hastily dragging his fingers along his shirt buttons, from bottom to top, rushing to get them fastened. She’d liked the sight of him, bare-chested, wrapped only in that sheet that was marked by her blood. The sight of her blood had made her a little dizzy, as the sight of blood always did, but it had made her feel something else too, something that made her strong and proud. And, thinking about that sheet she was grateful for the hundredth time that morning that it had been him who’d taken her, to him whom she had bestowed that gift. What if she had wasted it on some boy from school? She shuddered a little at the thought.
He mistook her shiver for fragility and moved to take the towels from her and sit her down on the foot of the bed in one graceful movement. His face was a mask of concern, his eyes worried.
“You just sit, love, I’ll do this.” Her heart skipped a beat. He was so gallant.
He began to clean up the mess he’d made and Viola looked away, trying to breathe through her mouth so she wouldn’t smell it. Other than that unfortunate incident the night and morning had been perfectly lovely. Passionate, full, erotic, sensual, loving. She could kick herself for botching the dose enough to get him sick. They might have cuddled when they awoke. Might have lain languidly in bed kissing and caressing all morning. Perhaps they’d have done more than that.
A sigh escaped her as she gazed, unseeing, out the window.
She heard the forceful hiss of water in the bathroom sink. He was likely rinsing his mouth out. It was strange how sweet water always tasted after throwing up.
Next time she’d be more careful. If there even needed to be a next time. It was her secret wish that he would not need to be tricked into bed next time, now that he’d had her maybe he would not be able to resist? She hoped so. She wanted him to want her as much as she wanted him.
Of course it wouldn’t be easy to sneak away—her mother was almost never away like this. This had been a particularly fortuitous opportunity.
“Viola?” His voice brought her back from daydreaming. He was standing in the bathroom doorway and she wondered where he’d decided to put the towels—not in the hamper, surely? Perhaps just in the bathtub for now.
He was looking at her in an expectant sort of way. Had he asked her something? She smiled, sheepish at having been caught in a daydream.
He didn’t return the smile. She swallowed.
“I’m sorry—“
He crossed the distance between them in the space of a heartbeat and was on his knees before her. Taking one hand in both of his he looked imploringly into her eyes. “No.” his voice was thick, full of emotion. “Don’t apologize.” Her heart soared. “I never, never, never want you to think this was your fault.”
Her face fell. “Fault?” Did he feel they’d made a mistake? She pressed her lips in a firm line and ignored the hot swirling emotion in her belly.
“You are beautiful and—“ he stopped himself and looked at their hands. She liked to hear him say that. “—But,” he corrected himself, “But that is not an excuse for what happened.” He swallowed and shook his head. She could tell he was trying to walk some kind of imagined tightrope, she just wasn’t sure why, or from where or to where that treacherous rope stretched. “It isn’t your fault at all.” He reiterated. A fine bead of sweat was forming on his forehead. “You have nothing to be ashamed of.” He bit the words out and she was almost alarmed at the ferocity.
“I’m not ashamed.” She said lamely. She hated her voice for sounding so weak, so kid-ish.
His brows contracted and he nodded slowly. “Good. That’s—good.” He squeezed her small hand in both of his. He looked pained.
On impulse she decided to stroke his cheek, now coarse with stubble. In so doing she let go of the sheet she’d been clutching to her chest and it fell away from her breasts. His eyes snapped closed and he turned his head before re-opening them. He released her hand and carefully picked up the edge of the cotton and lifted it back into place. Only then did he meet her eyes. She held his face in both her hands now. She reveled in the way his five o’clock shadow prickled beneath her fingertips and palms. It was so real. So thoroughly male.
She arched her back and he made no movement in response, neither an advance nor a retreat. The tips of her nipples pressed into his knuckles where he held the sheet and she wished there didn’t exist that thin layer of fabric between his flesh and hers. His jaw was rigid. He swallowed. And then a strange look came over his face and his eyes widened a great deal before narrowing sharply.
“Can you tell me how this happened?” He sounded suspicious. It was the same tone of voice he’d have used if she’d come home with a ‘D’ on her report card or a crumpled fender on the car. Apprehensive, expectant, infinitely patient. Except it was edged with something else, something she couldn’t quite place.
She shrugged ever so slightly and a guttural sort of growl tore out of his throat. She flinched. That’s what was edging his tone; he was angry. She wasn’t sure if she should lie. She’d never really been able to lie to him. But if he was already angry and she told him the truth… One by one he took her hands from his face with barely restrained force and impelled them to hold the sheet in place. Putting a hand on either side of her he braced his weight and leaned in earnestly.
“Viola, I need to know.” And she could hear the need in his voice. She’d seen his need last night, felt the ravenous effect of his deep, insatiable hunger. A smile tugged at the corners of her eyes but she held her face as still as a mask.
“Promise you won’t be mad?” If he was going to use his “Dad” voice she would respond in kind. She watched his lips move into something like a sneer for the briefest of moments before he was the picture of composure again. He didn’t like the little girl voice. But he didn’t seem to like the womanly voice either. What the hell did he want from her?
“I promise” he told her.
“No matter what?” She was breathy.
“No matter what.” He was firm.
The tension building between them was enough to send her pulse skittering under her skin and she shivered.
“What do you remember?”
He blinked several times. She guessed he already knew the answer. Just by gauging him in that way she’d revealed her complicity.
“Did you drug me?” He tried to control the horror in his voice, tried to blunt the sharp note of disgust and betrayal, but Viola heard it nonetheless.
She had. But it was just to reduce his inhibitions, just to let loose what already existed between them, to give him an excuse to do what she knew he had wanted for months and months.
“I’m sorry it made you sick.” She apologized, no longer able to meet his eyes. Her body jostled a bit when he pushed back from the bed and sat, back-against-the-wall, on the hardwood floor across from her. For a long while neither of them spoke.
She’d expected… well, she wasn’t sure what. Maybe she’d hoped for a wry chuckle and a kiss and a “thank you”. And maybe she’d dreaded an explosive rant about trust and lies and betrayal. But she hadn’t expected this. This long, heavy, contemplative quiet.
“Did I…” she looked up tentatively when he spoke. His back was straight and tall pressed up against the wall, his knees drawn up almost to his chest. His arms were extended over the tops of his legs and with one hand he traced the lines of his other hand. He was examining the hands as if they were the most fascinating items in the world, and yet, Viola thought, he wasn’t really seeing them at all. He was trying to recall, trying to see the events of last night with more clarity. “Did I hurt you?” He very much sounded as if he was bracing himself for her answer.
“No, no.” she rushed, and then hastened to correct herself: “Well, it hurt, a little, but you were really considerate.” The word sounded overly cordial for how attuned he had been, how sensually aware of her needs and her discomfort in the pain of the first time, but considerate was the most appropriate word she could land on for how he’d behaved.
He looked grim. She would think he’d be happy that he’d been a considerate lover but the idea only seemed to concern him more. Surely he didn’t hope he’d been a depraved animal?
“That’s not to say that it was boring—“ she began, trying to soothe his ego. His eyebrows rose high and his eyes widened and she knew she’d misspoke. “I just mean—“ what in the hell did she mean? “I mean it was really really good… for me… and I think” his eyes were closed again and he looked pale. “I think it was really good for you as well.” And she was all of a sudden insecure, fragile, vulnerable. She had felt so sure and strong and sexy and now she felt only anxiety and inadequacy. What if she hadn’t been good? She’d heard virgins weren’t usually good at it, but she’d tried so hard, been so bold and felt so sexy.
She ventured a look at him and found him staring at her. She quickly cast her eyes down again, unable to meet his. She heard what sounded like him running his hand over his face and through his hair several times, and then a muttered curse. She listened but didn’t watch as he stood and walked toward her on the bed. Slowly, deliberately, he sat down beside her and her weight shifted as the mattress dipped toward him. She allowed herself to look at his knee, his hand on his knee, but nothing further. She fixated on his wedding band.
She couldn’t possibly know the maelstrom that was raging in his mind at that moment. She couldn’t have guessed at the ferocity of the war within him. All she knew was that he sat there, quiet and still, while she anguished about the quality of her performance. It wasn’t until much later that she understood what must have been happening to him as those minutes ticked away.
Jonah Delaney was a decent man, save for this remarkable lapse. He was a kind, sensitive, empathetic soul and he was, until the night before that terrible morning, a model father. So as his daughter sat waiting for reassurances that she had been a satisfactory lover Jonah Delaney struggled to find words that could accomplish a miracle: let her know that what they’d done together was unquestionably wrong, what she’d done to get him into bed was unconscionable, how he’d behaved was beyond the pale, and at the same time not crush her fragile self-esteem or forever fuck-up her sexuality or perception thereof. What set of words linked into phrases could possibly accomplish all of that simultaneously? Naturally he must have been afraid to lean too far one way or the other for fear of hurting her or scarring her for life. How does one tell their daughter they were good in bed without sounding like the devil himself, and without confusing the poor girl even further than she evidently already was?
She was hurting and feeling alone and lost. At long last his instinct for compassion and empathy overpowered his moral outrage and revulsion and he gathered her in his arms. “Come here.” He spoke tender and low. She let him fold her into his body and she sobbed into his chest. She hadn’t even felt like crying at all and suddenly she was openly bawling. It felt exactly as if someone had pressed a button and opened a floodgate somewhere within her that she hadn’t even been aware existed. She was surprised by the intensity of her emotion and seemed unable to control whether or not it would recede.
He rubbed and patted her back, just like he would a small child, and she wanted to resent the gesture but couldn’t deny how safe and comforting it felt. He was murmuring little comforts and saying ‘shhh’ and ‘it’s alright’, but none of it seemed to be in an effort to actually get her to stop crying. His shushing was more an encouragement than a command. He kissed the top of her head where it rocked rhythmically against his chest, and she felt his warm breath on her scalp.
She wished she knew why she was weeping, she felt like an idiot. After a few moments she became aware that his body was reacting to her sobs exactly as if he were being whipped or beaten. He continued to stroke her soothingly and murmur a stream of comforting words and sounds, but he was in pain. With every new sob his gut tensed and the muscles across his shoulders constricted and he took the sob into his chest as he might the impact of a fist.
Fascinated, her sobs began to lessen and the tears dwindled. Now quieter she could hear his heartbeat beneath his breast and feel the tremors that were wreaking havoc on his composure. When he spoke now she could hear the tremble in his voice, though he fought valiantly to sound steady and even.
“You deserved to have this experience with someone who was worthy of you.” Was what he finally told her.
But she had chosen him, she’d wanted it to be him, she’d arranged it so that it would be him. She didn’t notice in that moment but saw as she reflected upon it later, that he was careful not to highlight the moral trespass they had made, careful not to make her feel less than worthy of love and physical intimacy. Careful not to villainize her or the act itself, and he didn’t say anything qualitative about love. When she thought back on that moment, time and time again, she felt grateful and loved and blessed.
But in the moment she was confused, needy, insecure. “You are worthy!” she protested. She couldn’t imagine a more worthy man. She pulled away from the safety of his chest to look at him. He gave her a sad, tired smile and she thought he looked much older than he should have. “I love you.”
He let out an uneven breath. Searching her face he appeared to be unsure of how to proceed. His eyes filled, but he blinked back any tears that threatened to overflow. She knew he loved her too.
She leaned in, then, and put her lips on his. She kissed him tenderly but fully. She melted into him.
But something was wrong. He did not return the kiss. He did not jerk away, did not push her off, but he sat still and unyielding. She needed him to kiss her. When she let her tongue sneak out and slide over his lips, enticing him, goading him to action, he was unable to remain stoic. A sort-of grunt escaped from him and he turned his head just enough and just firmly enough to discourage her continued advances. He was breathing hard and blinking rapidly. When he spoke his voice was hoarse.
“Viola, we can’t.”
She took his ragged voice as a sign of arousal and felt a thrill dance down her body and bury itself below her belly button. Wanting to feel the proof of her effect on him she began to slide a hand down his chest, down over his stomach and to his wait-line. He stopped her before she made it any further, taking her hand in his firmly. She pulled, trying to wrest it free of his grasp but he was unyielding.
She became acutely aware that he was dressed and she was not. That he was very strong and she was not. That he had all the power and she had none. She shrank away from him but he didn’t let her go.
“Do you understand why this can’t happen?” He sounded faintly alarmed and very earnest.
Viola pouted. This wasn’t how she’d imagined it going.
“Because you’re married.” She finally answered, downcast.
He finally let her go and stood to pace the room. “I am married to your mother.” He said, emphasizing ‘mother’ but not in a cruel way.
Viola shrugged. She loved her mother, she supposed, but years of envy had jaded her perception of the mother-daughter bond.
“And I love her very much.” He added, stopping to look at his daughter. Viola tisked. She knew he loved his wife. She’d listened to them whisper romantic nothings to one another a million times, seen them steal kisses and small intimacies when they thought no one was watching. She’d listened to the sounds from their bedroom countless times in the night, alone in her bed, longing.
“And you don’t love me?” she challenged him.
He opened his mouth and then snapped it closed again.
“I do love you.” Every syllable seemed an effort. She knew what he wanted to say next, and she didn’t want to hear it.
“Don’t worry—“ Viola cut him off as he drew breath to speak. He paused, head cocked to the side a little, curious despite himself. “Nobody has to know.”
