Sheltered(18)

Good thing, really, because once the words were out she had no idea how to cap them off. She needed someone like him to shut things down for good, and he did it very effectively with a simple, “Don’t say my name.”

“Sorry,” she said, but oddly it didn’t seem to please him. Or maybe not so oddly. Most people she knew were rarely satisfied with an apology.

“Just…” he said, and then hesitated. Lines had appeared between his brows, and it looked almost as though he wanted to reach toward her. Almost. “I’ll see you.”

She couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t even figure out what had gone wrong, exactly, to push them all the way down from pleasant conversation to don’t say my name.

After all, he’d been the one to bring up the idea of people being amazing. She hadn’t pushed it on him. Hadn’t acted as though he should find her sexually attractive, or something else similarly impossible. He was the one who’d started the whole thing, and now he seemed all bullish and awkward, trapped between the fence and the bulk of her body like a soldier in no man’s land.

“I’ll see you, Evie,” he repeated.

But she had the sneaking suspicion she wouldn’t be seeing him ever again.





Chapter Four




He didn’t come the next week, or the next, and by the third she was sure she’d been right. He was never coming back. The kiss had disgusted him, and then she’d said his name like a lovesick moron, and doing so had sealed the deal.

So when he suddenly appeared by the fence on that third Wednesday, not casually waiting but standing there with his hands gripping the wood, eyes on the glass, she wasn’t immediately sure of what to do.

After all, if she went out there she’d have to actually probably speak to him about The Thing That Had Happened. And if she didn’t, he’d know she’d just stood there, watching him for a second, before pretending she hadn’t and disappearing back inside.

Both seemed unbearable. And that was before she’d even gotten into the dreams she’d been having—all more disgusting and explicit than that first one. If he could read desire on her face after one kiss and some tame fantasy about him having vague sex with her, then God only knew what he’d think now.

She’d dreamt about stroking him. There. She’d dreamt about his face opening up with pleasure, those pressed-tight lips of his parting to let her lick and touch and do all kinds of things. And sometimes in return, he would lick and touch and do all kinds of things to parts of her. Occasionally obvious parts, like her breasts.

Occasionally not so obvious parts, like between the cheeks of her ass.

She didn’t even know what to do with the latter. What did it mean? People didn’t lick each other there, did they? She felt pretty sure they didn’t but then again—she wasn’t even sure if one body part went into the orifice she actually assumed it did, never mind anything else.

It was probably better that he remained over there, really, when she thought about it. She could feel her cheeks heating just remembering some of her filthier thoughts, and if they came close to touching or even just brushed against each other she wasn’t sure what would happen.

Was dying of embarrassment a possibility? She didn’t know and felt glad she wouldn’t have to find out—though said relief didn’t last long. Because after a moment of her indecisive ridiculousness, he simply opened the gate and came right through. Walked up to the glass and made some sort of hand signal.

Let me in she suspected, but that didn’t seem right somehow. It didn’t suit him. He’d been so careful before, so restrained. She couldn’t imagine him suddenly being forceful with her now.

And he proved her right, for once, because after a second he mouthed obvious words through the glass.

I’m sorry. It jolted her more than the insistent hand gesture had. Mainly because she couldn’t recall anyone ever being sorry to her for anything, but also because of all the people she knew, he had the least to be sorry for.

What had he really done, after all? Not wanted to kiss her? Been a little gun-shy when it came to visiting her again? She couldn’t blame him for any of those things. He didn’t owe her anything.

What for? she tried to mouth through the glass, but he obviously didn’t get it. He even put a hand up to his ear, which just made her act before they could get any deeper into bad sign language.

She pulled the door open and said what she wanted to most.

“You don’t have anything to be sorry about.”

He looked relieved for about a second, but that soon became the frown she now recognized. The one that sent a line of pain down his face.