Restricted Release Page 6

  When he said “Clara” like a plea, I noticed my eyes were leaking. But so were my lips, because a fine and steady gasp was coming from my mouth as an orgasm curled in my cunt like sweet smoke. He put his forehead to my shoulder and thrust hard twice more and came, gripping my shoulder so tight I thought his fingerprints might stay there for a day or two.

  Part of me hoped so.

  It was only when he was turning me and hushing me and stroking me that I realized I was crying in earnest. Not loud or dramatic tears, just a steady stream of saltwater from my eyes and a fine tremor that had taken root in my body, shaking me continuously like I had a raging fever or night terrors.

  I swallowed it down. I hated looking weak. I had spent so much time cowering in Richard’s shadow I cringed internally whenever I felt weak in front of someone else. Including Matt who had confused me even worse by making me feel as if I could trust him instantly.

  “You okay?”

  I was wrapped in a blanket he’d snagged from my sofa. My body still trembled but I had my face fixed to appear as calm as possible.

  “Fine.”

  “You sure?”

  “Fine,” I snapped again. And then I felt bad about it. I finally get to a point where I can stand up and lash back and it’s against the wrong man.

  He held up his hands like he was under arrest and smiled. He’d pulled his jeans back on and his shirt hung open. “Can I make us coffee?”

  I nodded and he set about putting four scoops of dark grounds in the French press and putting the waterpot on to boil.

  “So what’s this?” Matt asked, not really looking at me. I could tell it was because he thought it would either spook me or piss me off.

  “What’s what?” I pulled my legs up onto the chair and hugged my knees, covering all of me with the big quilt. I felt cocooned, but sadly still naked.

  “This shift in you? Did I hurt you?”

  “No.” My voice was small and soft.

  “Did I scare you?” He shot a glance my way but quickly looked back to the cupboard, selecting two mugs.

  This was the time. Do or die. Truth or dare. Tell him what I really felt or lie. “Yes.”

  He nodded once and found the jar I kept with raw sugar in it, some spoons, the half-and-half from the fridge. It was nice to watch him move around my kitchen like he knew it. He’d only been here once. The rightness of it made me wary and I had to focus on something else to keep from panicking.

  “Why is that?”

  “You said you missed me.” I had to force the words out.

  “Because I did.”

  I picked at a threadbare spot on the quilt. “And that scares me.”

  “I think you’re perfect the way you are.”

  “That scares me too,” I said.

  He blew out a deep breath and poured the now-simmering water into the press. “Should I lie?”

  “No.”

  “Should I go away from you, Clara?” His eyes were a humbling mix of hopeful and concerned.

  “I don’t know.” It was the truth. I didn’t know if I could handle any kind of anything beyond some good sex. “I don’t know what I can handle.”

  The egg timer was letting the minutes slip past in a trickle of yellow sand. “I don’t want to walk away from you. I feel this…”

  He turned his hands in the air and I watched them. They were so big and strong and didn’t look like hands that could sketch such delicate details. “Connection to you. And as corny as that sounds…” He leveled a spoon at me and grinned. “It’s one hundred percent true and intriguing. I’ve never felt that affinity before.”

  “That scares me the most,” I blurted.

  “Well, at least you’re talking to me.” He poured our coffee and doctored it up, handing me a cup. We sat in silence for a moment, listening to the sleet.

  “I don’t want you to…go.” I sipped and he waited. It took me a bit to figure out the words. “But I don’t know how to cope with this yet. I’m still all…mangled.”

  More silence and he let it unroll fluidly. Matt felt no need to rush in with words or argue or try to convince me. He sat and drank his coffee and patiently waited.

  When was the last time a man had done that for me?

  Never.

  Finally I said, “I don’t know what to do. I feel it too—the connection. But it terrifies me. You are the first person to see me n-nude…” It came out of me in an emotional stutter. “In over a year. You are the first person who demanded I stay that way after and I did.”

  “Demanded?” he chuckled.

  “Asked,” I amended.

  “And how did you feel?” He touched my fingers and then squeezed my hand.

  On top of sexy he was nice. He was kind. He actually gave a shit. I didn’t know what the hell I was going to do with him.

  “I felt ugly, vulnerable, strange, panicky and oddly…strong.”

  He kissed me. “I have an idea. And it’s really, really strange. And you’ll probably never ever talk to me again. But for some reason…”

  I waited.

  “I want to tell you anyway. Just to see what you say.”

  Something jumped in my belly, it felt like excitement mixed with worry mixed with power. “Tell me.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  When he left I wasn’t sure of it at all. The conversation had been a blur. But what had been hashed out was I had issues. I readily admitted to them. I had body issues, heart issues, head issues. He had some anger toward his ex, some hurt feelings, but that was pretty normal. I told him so.

  Me? I was a twisted-up basket case of a woman who felt actual fear when naked in front of a man. Who still feared bacon and ice cream as if they were dragons or hungry wolves. I feared love and affection and connection because that was how I got so flayed in the past. Richard had stripped me down to bloody meat and bones and the shame that had been a daily meal I’d eaten dry with nothing but my tears to wash it down.

  Fucked-up didn’t begin to cover me.

  Casual sex and lust was one thing. Feeling was another.

  At first when he spoke I felt hurt. I felt angry. I felt betrayed. Then curiosity took over. And then something akin to arousal. And then more confusion. Through it all he’d insisted I stay naked.

  “I can’t make you do anything, Clara. But I sure as shit can encourage you to grow to accept that body you are in. You’re beautiful. Sweetheart, you’re stunning. And you would be twenty pounds lighter or fifty pounds heavier. Because it’s you who are stunning. The Clara that shines out of you.”

  I’d swallowed hard and shaken my head and wrapped the quilt around me tighter. The sleet licked the window with tiny rigid tongues and he smoothed my hair, kissed me. But did not under any circumstances try to touch me in a sexual way or fuck me or anything else.

  Part of me wanted him to. Part of me was grateful to him because it only would have mixed my brains up more.

  He kissed me as he left, giving me a name, a description and telling me to keep my cell phone charged.

  At the door, I hid behind the doorjamb but craned my head out into the gray and windy day. “When will I see you again?”

  Matt turned, holding the icy railing to keep from sliding down the concrete steps. “When you’re ready. And if you need a fix there are windows and cell phones and hey, I’m usually naked around 6:00 p.m. every day. You know where to find me.”

  A bubble of nervous laughter burst out of me and I blushed.

  He turned, facing me fully even though the icy sky was spitting on us both.

  “Are you ready to give up your newfound sexual experiences?” He smiled and waited.

  “No.”

  “Are you ready to give me a real chance to rub my grimy, busted-up soul against yours and see where we come out in the whole relationship thing?”

  I had to be honest. “No.”

  “Then call me when the first time starts. Think of it as exercising some control. A restricted release—your restrictions. Oh, Clara?�
�

  “Yeah?”

  “This is not a test and this is not a demand. If you change your mind at any time, for any reason, you just say the word. This is all about you.”

  I opened my mouth to speak. To say no, it was about both of us and that it should not be all about me and all that shit I had been programmed to say. All the insecure and fearful words that always floated to the top of my mental detritus like river sludge.

  “Yes, it is all about you,” he said, cutting me off before I could even say a word. “And that’s okay, Clara. It’s about fucking time.”

  He left me with that. With a number and a name and a description. Of…her. He left me watching his broad back recede into the muzzy day and my body still thumping in time to what we’d done together. Considering what he’d just proposed. With me wondering if I’d like her. If I could do this.

  * * * * *

  I barely slept that night. Instead I sat online and watched back-to-back episodes of all my favorite shows I’d missed recently. Shows full of strong women, magic, transgender people, killers, thieves and pretty people. I felt pretty weak lying bundled in my bed watching the strong and the beautiful. I finally turned off my tablet and flopped onto my back. The sleet continued to beat at the windows, and small ledges of ice had formed on the outside sills during the day.

  My room was dark but for a single night-light shaped like a turtle. It kept me from falling and breaking my neck in the dark of night. Or maybe it just made me feel safe as childhood night-lights had once upon a time.

  I pushed the shades to the side instead of raising them and peeked to see if I could spot Matt. I could. He sat in his living room close to the window. I could see his back and part of the room thanks to the fact that our skinny-ass houses sported very tall windows. The windows were the part of the house that made the worst parts of the house more acceptable.

  Matt was sitting on his high-backed chair working at a drawing table. His hand flew fast and it was hard to gauge how he worked because he seemed to do it by intuition and not plan. The pencil was simply an extension of his hand and it made my head hurt to watch him sketch. I couldn’t fathom possessing talent like that.

  Music must have been playing because he moved like he was listening to something and I could see his mouth moving like he was singing. It was late and it was cold and he was alone and yet he seemed perfectly content to work.

  “Gorgeous man,” I said to no one. I put my head to the glass and a great frustration bloomed like toxic mold in my chest. “How do you tell someone like that to go away? What the fuck is wrong with you, Clara?”

  I heard him in my head then, chiding me for beating myself up for something as simple as how I felt. That was how I felt. That was it. It didn’t matter—my take on how I felt—the feelings were what they were.

  Period.

  I crawled back into bed, holding in my mind’s eye the image of him working in the golden, buttery light of his still-monastically bare living room. I held it there the way someone holds a mantra. And every time the frustration surged or anger tried to enter my mind, I thought of him over there, so serene. Arms flexing and dancing as his hand swept over the paper. His back, hard and muscular beneath a golden-colored sweatshirt sporting a tiger and the number thirteen on the sleeve.

  I held that image in my mind until I started to fall asleep. Right before I crashed and slipped into the blackness, I thought of her. The woman he’d mentioned to me—his proposition—and fresh fear tried to worm its way into brain. But I forced it back and clutched at sleep like a long-lost lover.

  I’d think about it more in the morning. He said I could change my mind. Maybe I would. Maybe I wouldn’t. The point was it was up to me.

  Monday morning came quietly and I sent my grades to the schools, teachers and homeschools I owed data. I made coffee and I made myself a piece of cinnamon toast and more than anything I stayed away from the windows. Because that was where temptation lurked.

  I had just spoken with an overjoyed parent whose son was finally starting to absorb Newton’s Law of Physics when the doorbell rang.

  “I have to go, Marjorie. Call me or email if Joss should get stuck.”

  My stomach beat heavily along with my pulse. I felt like I might be sick. I felt like I might start to laugh or weep or possibly—God help me—do both at once.

  It’s Matt, it’s Matt, I told myself. But I didn’t think it was. I thought I knew who it was and I almost turned and left the door unanswered.

  But the part of me that had woken with a gauzy yet tangible sense of anticipation and power in her chest wanted to answer the door. That part of me wanted to at least see before she said no and ran in fear.

  “Just a minute,” I called and my voice was dry and nervous.

  I glanced to make sure it wasn’t someone like Richard who could harm me or my sister Cat who might judge me. Then I undid the latch because I didn’t recognize the woman by sight, but I did recognize her by description.

  “Clara?” She stuck out her hand.

  “Nadia?” I shook her hand shyly.

  She nodded. She was shorter than I by almost six inches. She was thin but not skinny, plump in places but not fat. Her skin was the color of the sweet hard caramels my grandfather had always kept in his pocket, but the cold February wind had put roses in her cheeks. Her hair was as black as a crow’s feather and cut short so it fell in spiky brazen bits around her round face. She wore faded jeans with a hole in the knee, boots with faux-fur lining and a peacoat that was way too big for her but flattered her small frame nonetheless.

  “Can I come in?” she asked, teeth chattering.

  I gasped, feeling downright rude, and stepped back. “Of course. My gosh, I’m so sorry. Where are my manners? I just…I’m sort of…”

  She stepped in and shook off the few snowflakes that had settled in her thick hair. “Freaked out?”

  “Yes.”

  She shucked the peacoat and hung it on a wall hook while I remained stupid and mute. Under the coat she wore a long concert t-shirt for Counting Crows and a gold belt that cinched it close to her small waist. She was punky and perfect—an instant girl crush.

  “Would you…would you…” I was trying to ask her if she wanted coffee or tea or anything to warm her up but I was too busy staring. My gaze locked on her liquid-ink eyes and her plump pink lips. They were free of lip-gloss or lipstick or anything at all and yet as pink as my mother’s tea roses.

  “Would I…?”

  I blinked, found her gaze, but my eyes returned quickly to that mouth. And the things that Matt had told me it might do to me. With me. On me.

  “Would you…” I whispered, losing my thought yet again.

  “Well, balls,” she said with a small laugh. Then she pushed me hard against the foyer wall and kissed me.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Nadia was to be our surrogate. Not surrogate. Surrogate is a confusing word. Fluffer? Just thinking that had a rogue giggle bubbling out of me.

  “What’s so funny, Clara?” Her small hands cupped the sides of my waist and when I giggled again she slid her hands higher on my sides, heading straight for my breasts. It turned my giggle to a gasp.

  “Nothing,” I breathed. “I just…you’re our…what are you?”

  “I’m the opening act.” She had reached my breasts and she pushed her small hands to my small breasts like she owned them. I rarely wore a bra. I really didn’t need one. Something that Richard had reminded me of often. His favorite infomercial to me on Sunday mornings being, “You know, you could look like her if you had a boob job.” And then he’d hold up his girly mag of the week.

  I cringed and Nadia pulled back, leaving my lips wet and cooling without her mouth pressed against them.

  “What’s that?”

  “What?” Up close her breath smelled of cinnamon and vanilla and snow.

  “That shudder. That wasn’t good. Who’s in your head, girl?” She stroked my hair softly with her long thin fingers and I found it
was okay to say it.

  So I blurted it out in one long breath and felt my cheeks color with mortification.

  “And you’re embarrassed,” she said, cupping my pussy through my yoga pants. Her hand was small but it was strong and warm, and her middle finger pressed to my clitoris and the tip nudged my opening. My eyelids fluttered.

  “Yes.”

  “Because he was a dick?”

  “Because he was right.” I tried to shrug it off.

  “About what?” she demanded. My foyer was on the murky side because it was an overcast day, but I could see her dark eyes flash with annoyance.

  “About…me.”

  “About your breasts?” She snorted and rolled her eyes. I went tense under her and she felt it. Her mouth came back to war softly with mine and I fell into that kiss. I had never kissed a woman and found it was entirely different than kissing a man. You wouldn’t think so but it is. The same parts of the body meet but it’s an entirely different experience.

  My body went slack and she curled her hand to my pussy a bit tighter so I moaned. But then she pulled her hand away.

  “Yes,” I stammered. “I guess,” I amended.

  “Let’s see them, okay?”

  I could only dumbly nod. She pushed my t-shirt up an inch at a time, keeping her eyes on me. She pinned me with her dark gaze and every inch the shirt went up, the cool air of my house licked at my exposed skin. My belly crawled with goose bumps but my pussy grew slick and plump.

  Finally, thankfully—before I crawled out of my own damn skin with arousal—she got my shirt up to my collarbone. Nadia pulled back and looked at me. She eyed me in a clinical way that somehow turned me on more. She smiled at me and tucked the bulk of my t-shirt under my chin and said, “Hold that.”

  And then she took her time, sliding her cool fingers along the side swells of my breasts so we both watched my nipples pucker into even tighter buds. They were hard from excitement and the chill but when she touched me they grew almost painfully rigid. So Nadia took her fingertip and toyed with the very, very tip of each pink peak. The very smallest bit of flesh. So small I didn’t know that you could stimulate such a tiny point of skin and yet the sensation rocketed through me, searing a path from my chest to my cunt and making me sigh.