Page 80
The rest of our time in Scotland is as beautiful and unearthly as the beginning. Jonah spends most of his days out on the water, getting readings about the nearby ocean floor that I would need at least a master’s in seismology to understand. Meanwhile, I hike along the coastline, almost never seeing another human being save for the driver of the occasional truck that rumbles by on this lone, deserted road. Sometimes I run into sheep. Here, a flock is as close as you get to a crowd.
This landscape is both beautiful and strange. Not a single tree grows as far as I can see. The ground only lies level right next to the water; otherwise, the land bows and buckles into countless rocky hills. Although low clouds cover most of the sky, it only rains on me once, and then when I’m close enough to the B&B to make a dash for it.
Each day, I fill my sketchbook with more drawings. Sometimes I try to portray everything as far as my eye can see. Mostly, though, I concentrate on smaller details—the delicate, fading heather next to weather-worn stones, or the slim dark shapes of otters just beneath the water.
Each evening, Jonah returns to me, and we eat and talk in the small, darkened dining room of the B&B. He never opens up about his childhood, or really about anything else truly intimate—but even the simpler conversations we have about books we like or places we’ve been carry their own weight. Jonah isn’t someone who reveals himself easily, I realize. These smaller confidences aren’t his version of small talk; this is how he builds a bridge. Slowly, gradually, stone by stone.
Besides, I can’t be impatient with him for holding back when I’m doing it too.
Every night, we make love. Jonah’s caresses only become more tender, more fervent. I treasure every kiss, revel in the way we learn to move together. Finally I get to see his entire perfect body and worship it with my hands and tongue.
But there always comes a point where I have to imagine the rape.
It’s easier to pretend he’s forcing me when he fucks me from behind, so I ask for that a lot. Jonah seems to love it. Even when he’s on top of me, though, I can close my eyes and lose myself in yet another fantasy.
No harm done, I think, until our last night in Scotland.
“C’mere,” Jonah murmurs in the middle of foreplay, pulling me atop him. “Haven’t had you like this yet. ”
“I thought you didn’t like woman-on-top,” I say, which is not exactly true but at least believable.
Jonah grins. “I like you any and every way I can have you. Come on. I want to watch your beautiful body move. ”
It feels good to straddle him, better to lower myself onto his rigid cock. And it’s amazing to look down and see him sliding in and out of me—to feel his hands massaging my breasts as I move—and to watch Jonah’s face, his openmouthed smile of desire and wonder. I control the pace; I have the power.
Which is what makes it impossible to sink into the fantasy again.
I keep going, riding him hard. My breasts bounce with every move, and Jonah’s fingers find my clit. It’s not enough. Why can’t it just once be enough?
“Come for me,” Jonah whispers.
I should fake it. What’s one more lie, after the others I’ve told this week? But my unspoken fantasies were only lies of omission. Faking it for him is a kind of dishonesty I won’t stoop to, not with Jonah. “I can’t—like this—”
“What do you need?” He grips me more tightly around the waist. “Whatever you need, it’s yours. Just say the word. ”
He means it. I know he does. Maybe I can at least trust him enough to take him at his word. “Push me down. Take me hard. Like in our games. ”
Jonah stops moving. His gray eyes search mine, and I have no idea what he finds. All I know is that the warmth of his expression fades. Once again he becomes the forbidding, controlling figure of my darkest fantasies.
He flips me over so fast I gasp in surprise. Jonah pulls out, rolls me over, gets behind me, pulls my hips up to meet him. One of his hands closes over my mouth as he thrusts inside me again.
Oh, God, yes. Jonah takes me hard—so hard he brings me to the edge of pain—and the grip of his fingers around my face completes the illusion. I imagine him breaking into my house again, gripping me like this, telling me I have no choice but to take it. My cunt tightens around him; I know he can feel it. I know he can tell how close he’s brought me already.
Jonah’s the only one who knows me like this. The only man who’s ever fucked me the way I wanted to get fucked.
Each stroke gets better, and better, until I come, groaning against his palm. Even as I swoon from the dizzy pleasure of it, Jonah slams into me harder, determined to live the fantasy through to the end.