Trading Tides (12 page)

It sounded weak, as weak as his smile. But he reached up; his fingertips were dry now and he touched my cheek so softly, they were hardly there at all.
 

"I think I just... when I was with you by the sea, it was like a dream. Like a fairytale and the longer I didn't see you, the more... the less real it felt, you know?" He didn't answer, but I could tell from his eyes that he was listening. Why I was talking, I still couldn't quite figure out, but I didn't seem able to stop, not before it was time.

"I was back home and I went to work but everything felt... colorless. It's like I was lost in a book, a really good, absorbing one that comes and owns your life for a few days, doesn't let you sleep, or hardly eat. And then it's over and part of you just stays... bereft. That's what it was like... all the time. And I didn't... I only saw it now. Now that you were, now that you're
here
. And you're going to go home and... And please, please make me stop talking."

It wasn't a long way for his fingers to travel when he moved them over my lips. I thought I saw a sense of hesitancy in his motion, but I could have been wrong. We looked at each other. His eyes were bottomless and huge, glinting in the candlelight. There was a world of answers in them, a million words he'd thought of and processed, a thousand love stories he'd read, hundreds of scenes, patches of dialogue he'd written—and now he had nothing to say. It hurt him, I could see that, and I wished I could take it back. All of it.

I kissed his fingers, and he pushed them harder against my lips. I felt the sting of my teeth behind them, and still our eyes were locked. He was weighing behind them, responses he was thinking through and discarding. I was terrible at reading him though, and in the end, I closed mine again and nestled my face back into the crook of his neck. Wrong smell or not, his skin was warm and familiar—and by tomorrow he'd be gone and I would berate myself for not soaking him in every minute, every second of time I had. I didn't want him to say it back, not now. I didn't need him to, either. He didn't have to be as crazy and stupid as I was. I just needed it to be okay.

I breathed against his chest, and after a while we moved in unison. I felt his breath hot on the back of my neck, making hair flutter, and with time, the tension in our muscles started to loosen. His fingers, soft again, travelled over my shoulder blades and down to the small of my back and there, he held me, kissed the top of my head.

"It's... this situation," he finally whispered.
 

I didn't draw back to look at him. I had the feeling that this was easier for him, without having to look me in the eyes. I wasn't in sub space anymore, that's what I realized. In sub space, I wouldn't have thought that. In sub space, he had no flaws, no weaknesses. Something had yanked me right out, root and stem.

I thought, maybe, I liked him even better outside of it, when I was Iris, when I was myself and he was Paul—and we were both breakable, fallible, stupid little humans.

Still, I held my breath, waiting for him to continue.

"It's an emotional thing, you know, getting in touch with the submissive in you for the first time. It's intense, it takes you places so much deeper than you thought you had. The distance, too, it... it can enhance already intense feelings."

I nodded against his shoulder, kissed the thin stretch of skin over the bone, nuzzled against it and tried to stop the water from filling my eyes again. It had to have shown somehow, in my breathing or the tension I held, because he rubbed my back, warmed it with his large, calloused hands, and waited, waited until I breathed again.

"That's why you shouldn't apologize, baby girl. It's normal. It's a vulnerable, intense place where we go together, and you feel things you don't understand. That's part of it. Don't worry."

"Okay." That was all I said. It was enough. For a while we relaxed; I moved one leg over to sit in his lap properly and he kissed the top of my nose. I tried to feel what I was supposed to feel—intensity and clarity of mind, the cathartic moment of coming back from a scene with him. But it wasn't there; I think we had both slipped right out of the moment. It hurt.

"When do you have to work tomorrow?" he asked after a while. I tried not to frown, tried not to hear it as a bad precursor to leave.

"Eight-ish. I mean, usually I have some leeway but with the project..."

He nodded; one corner of his mouth jerked up in a crooked smile.

"How's that going?"

"Good. Pretty good. Same. I don't know." I wrinkled my forehead, then disentangled myself from his arms. I didn't want to do this, have a pretend conversation. "I'm thirsty, how about you?"

He nodded, but then I knew he would and I got out of bed. There was something about the washcloth on the bed stand that made me falter, sway on the spot, but I moved past it.
 

There was soda in the fridge; I didn't want to make tea. I would regret it later, but in that moment, I didn't want to come up with reasons that would make him stay if he wanted to go. I could be stubborn that way.

"Thank you," he said as I handed him the glass. Our eyes met for a moment and everything felt off. I wasn't angry yet, not then, I would have said anything to take it all back, to make it better—I just didn't know what that was.

"I should probably let you get a good night's sleep at least," he said after a while. I had seen that one coming a mile away. "Good for me, too, drive overnight. Beat traffic."

I had to bite my jaws together to stop myself from saying something catty, and in a way that shocked me more than the rest. I wasn't that person; I wanted to tell him that this bothered me, that he wasn't treating me right, that being dominant was one thing—but he was acting like an ass. But I didn't. I was afraid, I think, afraid he'd call an end to this experiment of dating that I had proposed with no idea of what I was in for.

I told myself that I'd take a few days, write him an email—thoughtful and generous. I was always better at writing my feelings down; talking could so quickly slip out of control.

"Do you need anything? Coffee or something? You... I mean, it's late, are you sure it's safe?"

He nodded his head. "It's okay. I have everything I need."

He took my hand for a moment, and I thought maybe, just maybe I was making this up, that everything was fine—but then he turned around and slipped into his jeans. When our eyes met this time, he looked away. I don't think I was able to hide how much that hurt.
 

"Look, Paul. I..."

Looking up from his attempts to locate his shirt, he turned towards me. I had the distinct feeling he was looking at the wall just over my right shoulder, but maybe it was spite that made me think it. And of course, I didn't actually know what to say—just that something needed to be said. Anything. That I couldn't let him leave this way. But I didn't know. I always avoided drama in relationships, I don't know what to do with it.
 

Up until Paul, up until I knew what I'd been missing, any relationship I'd had was stable and simple—maybe a little boring, but there was no need for fleeing out of my bed in the middle of the night, for stupid premature declarations of love and awkward attempts to patch them over. I didn't know how to fix this, I didn't have a clue.

"Are you really sure it's safe? At night I mean... driving? With the wine and stuff and..."

He'd found his shirt and smiled at me. He touched my cheek, patted my lips and I held my breath.

"I'm American, remember? We do that kind of stuff all the time."

He didn't even sound like himself; he sounded like a parody, like a crap movie full of badly written lines.

Was I supposed to ask him to stay? To talk about this? Of course it was talking that had caused it all and I didn't know what I could possibly say to fix it—except take it back, and however easy that would have been given the way he was acting, I didn't want to anymore. I didn't want to start saying the things he wanted to hear instead of the ones I felt.
 

And so I let him leave. I even brought him his shoes.
 

In the doorway, he cupped my face between his hands, and I forced myself not to cry again.

"We're okay," he said. It was his low, convincing voice—but it didn't make me feel better. In a way, I think, it meant he was worried, too, convincing himself as much as me.

"Yeah, of course." I tried to smile genuinely. "Always." He could read me too well to actually believe it, and I think what hurt the most was that he kissed me and left, without making sure I believed it, without believing it himself.

 
I could taste him on my lips for another minute or so; then I found the wine.

NOW

I've heard people described as reeking of alcohol, but I don't think the phrase has ever been filled with much meaning for me. Not until Paul stands in front of my door leaning against the frame. It's the total lack of context, I think, that makes the smell flood into my apartment with such insistency, and I instinctively lift my hand to my nose, staring.

"I'm sorry," he says. He doesn't slur the words, not like in movies, or maybe the drunks you sometimes avoid on the tube—but there's a different quality to the sound, something slow and dragging.

I don't know what to say. For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, I am staring at his face, not sure I believe he's actually there. The stubble of his chin looks sad now, where I'd found it rugged and attractive earlier, and looking up into his eyes sends a sharp pain somewhere down into my stomach.

"I thought you were probably home by now."

He shrugs, sways his head and then nods past me into my apartment. He's had almost five hours out there in the cold.

"Can I come in?"

I realize then, that my arms are folded across my chest, that I haven't moved and am effectively blocking him. There's a freezing draft in the hallway, but I'm pretty sure he's too drunk to feel it. I close my eyes, exhale a deep sigh and then step aside.

This is when his state really becomes apparent, that lilting walk that looks nothing like Paul at all. He slumps down onto the sofa, rubs his hands over his face. It is so quiet that I can hear the stubble of his beard rasp over his rough skin.

"I figured I'm not fit for driving that far anymore, 'specially at night."

"Yeah," I manage, still watching him. I close the door, try to clear my own head. The shock seems to have soaked up some of the wine, but I can still feel its dulling, slowing effect on my head. I touch my temple, step a little further into the living room.

"Uh... where were you? You didn't drive like this, did..."

He waves me off with a crooked, impatient smile and shakes his head.

"No, no. Got as far Guildford. Then I drove back. Sat in my truck down at the curb. Thought of stuff. Saw the pub across the street..." He makes a motion that seems to imply that the rest is self-apparent and then leans his head onto the backrest of the sofa, staring up at the ceiling.

"Do you want some water or coffee? Or maybe aspirin?"

No answer. I push myself towards the kitchen and start water for some tea anyway. I need it. He does, too. There is something antsy and tight in the set of my shoulders, but I can't get rid of it, even when I try to wriggle them free.

I hear a chuckle from behind me, and when I turn around, I see him sitting there, watching me with wide, sweet eyes. They hurt, I think, but they also come with a fresh sprinkling of hope.

"What are you doing?" he asks, as though waiting for a punch line. I can't help it; I chuckle, too. Then I reach up to open the cabinet.

"Stretching. What kind of tea do you want?"

"I don't want tea."

I draw my hand back from the various colorful containers and turn around. He sounds like a boy. Watching him makes it obvious that I am not drunk, maybe a tiny bit leftover tipsy, but nothing like that—laughing one moment and staring at me like he's about to cry the next. It is strange to see him so vulnerable. But also intoxicating, all by itself.

I cross the room, sink down beside him. "Hey, are you okay?"

"I'm supposed to ask you that."

Patting his knee, I try not to snort as I sit down on the sofa next to him.

"Why? Cause you're the man? That is sexist."

I can tell he wants to laugh, that it gets stuck somewhere on the way up his throat, and in the end he just leans his head onto my shoulder. I suck a sharp breath into my lungs; experimentally lean my cheek against his hair.

"You smell."

This time he does laugh, a loud, roaring one, that seems just as alien in my tiny apartment as his silence was. When he stops, my hand is in his and he squeezes it just a little too hard for comfort.

"Because I'm older. Because I've done this before."

I shrug, try to take it in. It makes sense and it doesn't—why are we still talking about this?

"Are you okay, though?"

He snorts and turns his head so he can kiss my shoulder. The motion sends another wave of smell my way and I hold my breath. It's more than just alcohol; it's sex and sweat and curry in one hell of a toxic mixture.

"Come on," I tell him. I get up and pull him to his feet as well. He looks at me like a little boy might, eyes big and full of questions.

"Where are we going?"

"You're having a shower, oh mighty one. You need to clear your head... and the rest of you."

He allows me to lead him into the bathroom, and then to undress him, one piece at a time. When I get to his trousers, a sad, crooked smile crosses his lips and he takes over. He doesn't turn away from me though, and I find myself feeling a little faint at the sight of his soft cock, the same one I washed and held in my mouth just a few hours ago. I take a deep breath and pull back the shower curtain. I even hold out my hand to help him inside—I don't know, I get paranoid, think he might slip and fall. Maybe I just want to take care of him; that has to be okay, right? That sometimes the sub gets to take care of her Master? He can't always carry that burden all by himself.

He leans on me, just a little when he climbs into the tub, but then he doesn't let go of my hand. I look up and find him staring at me. There's a darkness in his eyes.