Restraint (Xcite Romance) (2 page)

Chapter Two

I DECIDE AT AROUND 2.32 a.m. that what I’m going to do is talk to him about it. I mean, that’s what I am, right? I’m a talker. I talk things out. And even though a huge, huge part of me suspects that this is entirely the wrong approach to take with someone who can’t even hold a conversation about buying underwear, I do it anyway.

I just wish I hadn’t decided to do it in a hot tub.

And OK, part of that isn’t my fault. It’s James’ idea to get us all into the tub after a long, hard day of doing absolutely nothing, and though Artie agrees – despite probably thinking that sharing water with other people is probably akin to jizzing on someone’s face – I know that doesn’t really mean anything.

It’s not like he’s suddenly become Hugh Hefner, or something, just because he’s OK with sitting in a big bath with his two friends and his worst enemy. He doesn’t even look all that relaxed, in spite of the absolutely glorious steamy heat and the view from this deck, which is just …

I’ve never seen a view like it. There’s actual evening mist, hanging over the trees. The trees themselves are mossy great points, reaching up to the just-turning-to-darkness sky. It’s beautiful, and the air is crisp and just a little cold, and James and Lucy are almost, almost kissing. Nothing could be lovelier.

So why doesn’t he look like it’s lovely at all? All he does is stare off at some indeterminate point, as though some indeterminate point annoys him an incredible amount. I can even make out that little frown-y crinkle between his brows, because of course the trees are such a pain in the ass. The softly falling night is such an inconvenience.

My God, no wonder he’s got a tension headache.

No wonder I panic, the moment James and Lucy say they’re “getting out to dry off”. I even follow James with my gaze, worriedly, but he’s absolutely no help at all. He’s the one who actually prompts me into having this conversation while wet, because as he leaves he kisses the side of my head.

Murmurs something reassuring, like it’ll be fine.

But it’s not fine at all. Because once I’ve gotten the words out – safe words, hopeful words, like: you know, Artie, I realise that we kind of don’t get along that well. But I’d really like it if we could be friends. And if there’s something I can do to make us friends, I’ll do it. Just say the word, and I’ll do it 

He responds with this:

‘I don’t want to be friends with you. I think you’re gross, OK? Sometimes I can hardly believe the stuff that comes out of your mouth.’

Of course, I half suspected that it was the case. But here’s the thing: the moment he says the words, I realise I didn’t suspect it at all. I just thought about it in some distracted, sure I was paranoid sort of way, and once it’s right out there and an actual person has said those words to me, I have no clue what to do.

I think it’s shock that descends over me. It feels like shock. And then once that’s gone something else takes its place, something horrible and awful that I didn’t even know was in me and oh I do not want to do it. I know it’s coming, but even so – no, no.

I will not cry. I’m not upset, because Artie Carter is a jerk. I mean for God’s sake, I’ve known that fact for some time now. It’s not news, I shouldn’t be shaking. And the shaking definitely shouldn’t get worse, when he just keeps right on talking. Face near expressionless. That mean gaze of his just burning off somewhere, into the woods.

‘What normal person talks the way you do? The phone book between your legs, Jesus Christ. I don’t hate you – you just disgust me.’

OK, I’ll admit it – my eyes are stinging, now. There’s not even any sense in denying it, because after a second I can feel something that isn’t hot tub water, on my face. A tear actually spills down my cheek, as though Artie Carter can really affect me that much – but then, why shouldn’t he?

He’s just said one of cruellest things I’ve ever heard anyone actually come right out with, and it’s not even as though he’s held back on the tone. His tone sounds like he’s trying to kill me with fire.

I can’t possibly be ashamed that such a thing upsets me. That’s normal.

The totally not normal part is how shocked he seems, when I make a stupidly distressed sound and try to rocket myself out of the hot tub. Because he does. He absolutely does. I’m kind of blinded by tears and I’m doing my best not to look at him or give him the pleasure of my sudden meltdown, but I see his mouth open anyway.

I see his gaze lose all of its fury, in a big rush.

And though that should be satisfying, in some manner, it isn’t. It can’t possibly be, because it’s got to overcome all of that disgust he just levelled at me and one glimpse of a possible expression really isn’t enough, on its own. Said expression could mean anything, when you think about it.

And so could the words:

‘Oh my God, are you crying?’

After all, maybe he’s doing it in the laughing at me way. I’m blubbering, and he’s like: ha ha ha, she’s upset! Look at the baby, all upset! Though I’ll admit, it’s hard to maintain this stance when someone just as suddenly tries to grab you.

‘Mallory, wait – please wait. Wait, let me explain … just let me talk to you for a second.’

All I can say is some version of no, over and over again. Said version seems to have a lot of vowels, and absolutely no solid tone to it. It’s sort of like a blob of plasticine coming out of my mouth, though I doubt it’s helped by the violent squirming I then have to descend into. I have to, because a moment after he grabs my arm he decides to go one better than that.

He actually grabs the rest of me. Which perhaps doesn’t adequately describe what he does because seriously: he puts one big arm around my waist and then drags me back down into the water. And it’s so the opposite of everything he seems to be about, and so shocking a thing to do – period – after just telling someone how disgusting you find them, that for a long moment I don’t know what to do.

I think I thrash a little, in the hot water. I know I try to squeeze myself out of his grip. But here’s the main problem: he’s almost unbelievably strong. It’s like I’m being weight-lifted or crushed to death, and though I don’t want it to happen my mind automatically reminds me of how big he is.

He’s six-five my mind tells me, and it doesn’t stop there. He’s probably going to drown you in the hot tub, now, for crimes against good taste. The jury will never convict him, because you said that thing about vaginas and now he’s all put out.

‘Artie, just fucking let go of me,’ I say, but he won’t, he won’t. And then somehow it’s just me and him, squirming and thrashing around in the bubbly water, limbs getting tangled, everything getting more and more frantic until … until …

We both go very still, all at once. I don’t mean to. Most of me wants to keep trying to get away, but once I feel the thing that’s very definitely happened I can’t even manage a weak wriggle. And as for him, well … he’s gone beyond rigid and into some state of temporary paralysis.

I turn my head just a little to see if I can make out an expression on his face, but there isn’t one. He’s just blank – so much so that I’d assume he was dead if I couldn’t see the flush creeping up over his cheeks.

And if I didn’t know what the hard thing was, that’s currently pressing right up against me.

He has an erection. Dear God, he has an erection. I can feel it against my thigh, so heavy and so obvious I don’t even need a paradigm shift to figure it out. It’s just there, like a pointed finger:

Artie is turned on. The squirming or the words or fuck knows what has turned him on, and now his big stiff cock is apparently super-glued to your thigh.

‘OK, well –’ I start, though I’m not sure how. I’m almost grateful he interrupts me, because God only knows what words I would have used to finish that sentence. I thought you were a Eunuch, maybe? I can’t believe you’re actually able to achieve stiffness, perhaps?

I just don’t know, and apparently neither does he.

‘Please don’t say anything,’ he says, but strangely he doesn’t blurt the words out in a mean way. He hardly sounds angry at all, any more – just mortified. And though that’s perfectly understandable, I can’t help thinking even stranger things, as we lie like that in a sea of bubbles.

I’m practically on my back, over the little plastic seats beneath the water. And he’s almost over me, his legs between mine and his big chest pressed against my breasts. I’ve got one arm around him, though I don’t know when that happened, and the second I shift just a little I realise he’s got an arm around me, too.

We’re almost in some sort of weird embrace. Somehow, we’ve struggled and shifted until we’ve locked our bodies together in a very familiar shape, and the longer this silence goes on for the more obvious that fact becomes.

His hand is pressed to the small of my back. The way that men do when … you know. They want to get a bit of traction and maybe fuck into you harder. And I can feel something in him, too – a kind of tension, vibrating through his body. As though we were in the middle of a good screw and I suddenly told him to stop.

Don’t come yet, I think, mindlessly, and this giant awful thrill spills through me.

What if he is about to come? What if he jerks and spurts all over the insides of his shorts – or even better, all over me? I can’t for the life in me imagine what someone like Artie would look like, if they had an orgasm, but I can feel my mind trying to gather the image together anyway.

That tight, tense face of his, suddenly slack with pleasure. God, that mouth. Would he bite his plump lower lip, maybe squeeze his eyes tight shut? Someone like him would never moan, but the thing is – what if he did?

I’d die. I’d die.

‘I’m so sorry, Mallory,’ he murmurs, but I can’t even say what I suddenly want to. I can’t reassure him. I’m too full of a million conflicting emotions, too angry from a moment ago and too suddenly stuffed with bizarre erotic thoughts and just no, no. This needs to be over. He needs to move away.

Only once he actually does the situation is made at least three times worse.

He’s big. Like hugely, massively big, and not just in the shoulders, if you know what I mean. When he shifts a little I feel the full length of his hard prick, and by God it just keeps going and going. After too long a moment I kind of want to ask him if it ever ends, but even with those words he said to me I can’t be that cruel.

He looks so shaken and unsettled. His face is bright red, and the harder he tries to disentangle himself the less he succeeds at it. By the time he’s finally gotten over to the other end of the tub, he’s practically shaking.

Oh – and he covers his eyes with one hand, too. Just for extra I’m ashamed of myself measure.

‘Artie –’

‘Please don’t. Just don’t. Really – I’m so sorry, Mallory. Those things I said … I take them all back. I don’t know what came over me, I honestly don’t.’

I can’t help feeling for him. He just looks so … distressed.

‘It’s OK,’ I say, and when I do the hand drops from his face.

He won’t look at me, however.

‘It’s not OK. I just don’t know how to deal with … that kind of talk, you know? I react badly to it.’

‘Well, all you had to do was say. I could have toned it down, or –’

He looks angry again, suddenly.

‘No. No. You shouldn’t have to tone it down. There’s nothing wrong with the stuff you say – it’s just me. I’m wrong. I can’t help being wrong but I am just the same.’

Of course I immediately flashback to the things I’d thought the night before. It’s not you, it me, I think, and the urge to be as apologetic as he’s suddenly being just wells up inside me.

‘Artie, lots of people don’t want a side of dirty talk with their dinner. I can watch my Ps and Qs no problems,’ I say, but it doesn’t seem to help at all. The second I’ve said it his expression becomes this weird, uncomfortable thing, as though he’s trying to move his face inside skin too small for it.

‘God that’s what my mother would say,’ he finally gets out, and then I can’t even pretend I’m not interested. I don’t think I’ve ever heard Artie say so much about himself, all in one go. 

‘What is?’

‘That you should watch your Ps and Qs – I’m just fucking like her.’

And as for that word in particular – the one that begins with an F – I know for a fact that I’ve never heard Artie use it. It startles me when he does, though I have to say … it also loosens me in some way that I can’t quite explain. As though he’s turned a little valve inside me marked everything’s OK now.

‘I doubt it. You did just say fucking,’ I tell him, but he won’t accept it. He shakes his head, instead, and for the first time I see what I should have seen all along. He hasn’t been hating me.

He’s been hating himself.

‘I also just called you gross for talking about sex. I don’t think the word fucking makes me healthy.’

‘People have said worse to me, in the past.’

They haven’t, but that’s hardly the point at the moment. The point is that he wants to tell me a bunch of stuff, and by God I want to hear it. I want to hear it so bad that I’m sort of leaning forward in the water. 

‘Christ, I hope not. I can’t even believe I –’ He cuts himself off, that hand going to his face again. ‘I know what my behaviour towards you must look like.’

Like you’re a gigantic ass, I think, but of course don’t say. I can’t say it now, and especially not when he then tells me something that almost makes me swim across the hot tub to him.

‘But you should know it’s not because I don’t like you, or want to be your friend. I do want to be your friend. I think you’re smart, and funny, and cool. It’s just that … when you talk like that …’ He hesitates, clearly wrestling with his next words. I understand why, however. I’d wrestle with them, if he turned them into people and forced them to get in a ring with me. They make me slide sideways into another dimension, so really when you think about it they deserve to be jumped on from the top rope. ‘It makes me feel insane. More than insane. Obviously you know now what it does to me.’

It’s like he’s spat out something bad, after the last little revelation. He even winces, and won’t look at me – though the latter isn’t unusual. He refuses to look at me all the time, and if I’m starting to view that in a completely different light, well … there’s nothing we can do about it, now.