20. Wet

TWENTY

Wet

Mag finally spoke up, after Jen continued to stare at me and I continued to stay frozen.

"You've met Jen?" she asked quietly, sounding surprised, though she quickly added. "I mean of course you have. You're Nic's friend and she's his … shadow." She laughed. "Poor Nic. Come on."

Poor Nic ?

I didn't have time to ask. We were already breaking into the circle. Whatever Nicholai had been saying died, and his eyes collided with mine, drawing me an involuntary step closer. Mag released me. The others ceased to exist. Nicholai didn't greet me, or smile. He just stared at me, his eyes narrowing slightly. I couldn't tell if he was happy to see me or not, until he stepped forward, his hands on my upper arms, warm and strong .

"Mika." One word, nothing else. Even though he didn't say anything out loud, I still felt the question there, hanging between us.

Are you okay ?

I nodded, and the smile finally broke across his face. It was full, dizzying, too brilliant to look at, the little indentations appearing either side of his cheeks … so I turned away, focussing on Mag. Her eyes were flitting between Nicholai and me, but she quickly schooled her expression as I turned to her, switching her smile to me.

"Mika brought a friend," she spoke up, gesturing toward the deep fryer, where Marcus was standing with Clay and two other guys.

One of them appeared to be around Nicholai's age, and the other appeared older, in his late fifties maybe. He stood tall, his shoulders straightened out proudly, his clothes ironed with an almost military precision. He was fit for his age, and his hair was starting to pepper with grey. His features were sharp and handsome, similar enough that I suspected him to be another relative. He engaged easily with Marcus, and I immediately liked him for that because the others didn't seem to know how to take my friend. I wished the older man would stick around, but we seemed to have arrived just as he was leaving .

"You brought a friend?" Nicholai finally asked, and his hands dropped from my arms.

Guilt bled into me, but I quickly pushed it away. Nicholai might have touched me like he owned me, but he didn't own me. Besides, he had a girlfriend.

"Yes, I hope that's okay. I didn't want to come alone."

Nicholai quickly flicked his eyes back to me, and his blank expression softened, his eyes turning velvety.

"It's fine," he said. "I'm really happy you could make it. Come on, I'll introduce you to everyone. It looks like your friend has already introduced himself."

I scoffed a little and heard a similar sound from Mag, who I had decided I liked, for no reason other than her ceaseless smile. Nicholai turned, his hand falling to my back, just between my shoulder blades.

"Everyone, this is my friend Mika. She's not old enough to drink, which means she's not old enough to hit on. I'm talking about you, Gary." Nicholai pointed his finger at an older man, who laughed and winked at me, though even as he did so his arm made its way around the waist of the elderly woman to his left—clearly his wife.

I smiled. Nobody seemed to care that I was only eighteen, but the age difference between them and Nicholai put him much closer to my age than to theirs, so they might not have found it odd at all .

"Mika," Nicholai continued, his hand falling an inch lower on my back. I wasn't sure why, until I realised that I had taken a step closer to him. I could now feel the heat of him burning into my side. "You already know Jen. This is my uncle Gary, his wife Sue, their son Stephen …" The rest of what he said was lost in a garble of names and relations.

I nodded at them all, offering a quiet hello after Nicholai finished listing them.

"You're not spending Thanksgiving with your family this year, love?" Gary asked.

The question was innocent, but it sent a wave of confusion sweeping through me. I couldn't place meaning to the word family anymore. I tried to conjure an image, but nothing came.

Family.

Family.

Who was my family ?

My vision swam before me, nausea rolling up through my stomach to the back of my throat. I was panicking, just like that, the emotion swooping through me with a violent, unstoppable intention. Nicholai's hand dipped from my back to my waist, suddenly supporting my weight. I could make out Jen's face, though it multiplied into several faces before snapping back into one. Her features tightened. I could barely hold focus .

"Gary!" Mag chastised. "That's none of your damn business."

"I made her come," Nicholai interrupted, before Gary could respond. "Told her she didn't have a choice. Who's ready to eat? Looks like the turkey is finally done."

There were a chorus of responses that all blurred into one single, indistinct sound. My head was swimming and I wasn't sure I could move. I must have been standing there like a zombie, but all of my focus and attention had been directed inward, to the spiral that was attempting to take hold of my body.

"Why don't you get something to eat?" I heard Nicholai ask someone, as the others all started to shuffle over to the fryer.

"I'll wait for you," a familiar voice replied. She sounded … off. Jen, I realised—but there was something wrong with her.

"Go on," I heard Mag mutter. "You distract the others, I'll stay here with Mika."

"Grey," I found myself muttering, the word a little garbled on my lips. "My name is Grey."

"No, I've got her." Nicholai shifted, his hands on either side of my face, his entire body turning to block out the rest of the gathering.

Behind me, there was a pool fence; before me, Nicholai. His hands were blocking whoever or whatever stood to either side of me. It was just him.

"Focus, Mika." His tone had softened, the volume quiet and calming.

I focussed on his face before quickly stepping away from him, shaking my head.

"I'm fine!" It was a little too loud, so I worked to quieten my tone, forcing a smile to my lips. "Sorry—I'm fine. I'm going to get something to eat."

I quickly brushed past him, seeking out Marcus on the patio. He was handing out plates. A quick glance over my shoulder showed that Nicholai was walking towards us with Mag and Jen. Jen was hanging onto his arm, her eyes riveted to me. He didn't even seem to realise she was there—his attention was directed toward Mag as they spoke quietly.

"Everything okay?" Marcus asked me, stuffing a plate into my hand. It was already loaded with food.

"Wow." I kept the fake smile in place. "This looks amazing!"

I didn't even know which foods were on my plate. They were just blurs of colour. Orange, brown, green, red. Had Nicholai focussed me, as he had been intending, or had I dragged myself back from the brink without his help? I still wasn't sure.

"I freaked out," I admitted, as Marcus glanced from me to Nicholai for the fourth time since I had approached him.

"Why?" He took my arm, leading me a few steps away from the table the food had been laid out on.

"I don't know. I guess I'm uncomfortable because Jen is here."

"He hasn't looked at her once."

"Since when have you been paying attention?" I looked up at him, my eyebrows arching in surprise.

He grinned, the answer on his lips when Clay appeared behind him, pushing a beer into his hand.

"You deserve it, dude."

Marcus clinked his beer to Clay's, and then they both turned to me.

"You don't deserve it," Clay told me, his bright eyes still twinkling. "You didn't do any cooking."

For just a moment, my fake smile relaxed into something marginally more genuine.

"That's fair," I agreed, taking the beer from Marcus and sipping it. "But he's with me, so …"

Clay laughed, and then glanced over his shoulder. "Nic! Don't get me in trouble—I didn't give it to her!"

He moved back to the patio, uncaring that he'd just caused Jen to drop Nicholai's arm. Nicholai didn't seem to notice. His attention was on the beer in my hand, a challenging glint sparking into his eyes .

Oh hell no , he was not going to come over here and tell me that I couldn't drink. Defiantly, I took another sip. God, I hated beer . The corner of his mouth twitched into that disgustingly beautiful half smile, and he moved to the table, taking a plate from Clay. Jen was still standing where he had left her, but she wasn't watching him, she was watching me.

There was something incomplete about her in that moment. She was a woman in love, and it had emptied her completely. Her eyes were hollow, her smile perfectly straight. I suddenly didn't find her so colourful. I remembered the brush of her coat as she had breezed past me down by the beach, and the perfectly manicured nails that she had tapped against the table as we had waited for Nicholai at the cafe. The haunting residue of her laughter no longer lingered in my memory. I was seeing her for exactly what she was: a woman in love with a man who did not love her in return.

"Let's go sit with the others," Marcus suggested, nodding his head in the direction of a circle of chairs. Clay was already seated, along with several others.

I spotted a few people our own age, and a few of the older couples who had been milling around the food while it was being cooked and brought out.

Marcus seemed to know them all by name already, which was impressive. He introduced them all to me, dropping his arm around my shoulders when one of them looked at me with what seemed to be interest. He would have been Marcus' age—a year my junior. He had surfer's hair, a broad smile, and red cheeks, though it didn't give him a youthful appearance. He seemed to be sunburnt, more than anything.

"She's taken," Marcus warned him jokingly, pointing his re-claimed beer at the other guy's face.

The guy laughed, and we settled into the circle—Marcus claiming a chair while I sat down on the grass at his feet. I felt more secure on the ground.

People mostly ignored me, focussing on the other faces that were at their eye level. It was comforting, and I was gradually able to focus on my food. It grew a little darker as I finished eating, and the conversation became rowdier. Someone had set up an outdoor heater—though it hadn't yet been turned on—and I could feel that the warm weather was about to break. The humidity had been thickening, a storm on the cusp of spilling over. Nobody seemed to care. Drinks were passed around, and I realised that Nicholai was nowhere to be seen.

I stood, casting my eyes around the people, making sure that I hadn't missed him. Marcus was busy laughing with Clay, and I spotted Mag at the back door to the house. The rest of the yard was mostly deserted, as everyone seemed to have traded in their outfits for swimwear and were hanging out in the tiny, fenced-off pool area. I hopped over a few plastic cups and beer bottles, making my way over to Mag. She caught sight of me and smiled.

"Want to come in the pool, Mika?"

"Oh," I paused, having been about to ask where Nicholai was. "I'm sorry, I didn't bring anything to wear."

"Oh, don't worry about it." She waved a hand. "I have a bikini you can borrow. Let's go."

She grabbed my hand and started to drag me inside, releasing me once we got to the staircase, just past the kitchen.

"Do you know where Nicholai is?" I asked as we reached the top of the staircase.

"Fighting with Jen." Mag cringed, turning and giving me a small shrug.

I wanted to ask what they were fighting about, or if it happened regularly, but it wasn't any of my business, so I just nodded. She led me to a bathroom and then disappeared, reappearing with a yellow bikini.

"Will this do?" she asked, holding it up.

I nodded again, even though I wasn't sure I wanted to swim. I could sense the storm coming, even if none of the others cared, and I didn't particularly feel like slotting into their half-sized pool with so many other people, half of them already drunk .

"Thanks!" I called after her, as she disappeared down the hall.

"Don't mention it!" she called back, and I turned to face the window.

It was even darker outside than when I had come into the house only moments before. The clouds were swelling in the sky, blocking out the dying sunlight. It was a strange sight: as though night-time was insisting on arriving early, driving the light from the sky through sheer, tumultuous will. I couldn't seem to take my eyes from the sight, and I knew that I stood there for too long, staring, before a loud splash from below finally stirred me into action.

I fumbled with my dress, my eyes still on the window. What was it with me and windows? I was always expecting some kind of answer every time I stared out of one, some kind of explanation for the life I found myself in. No answers ever came, though, only busyness or quiet. The absence of anything or the overcrowded noise of the world. I was searching for my own space, I supposed, but I didn't belong in the noise, and there was an internal screaming inside me that despised the quiet. There had to be some kind of middle ground, some kind of scene that I could look at and enjoy. Some kind of vision that didn't cause a restless anxiety to spring up inside me. I thought of the house, then, on the cliffs. The creeping vines and the lighthouse feature.

But that space didn't belong to me; it was someone else's.

I pulled the dress over my head, breaking my eye contact with the window, and then there was a sharp intake of breath behind me. I spun around, realising that I hadn't closed the door after Mag.

Nicholai was standing there, his hand on the doorknob, his eyes drilling into mine. The deep indigo colour was wavering, trying to melt into something darker. He wasn't hiding his internal struggle. I could see the tension in his frame. He wanted to come closer. He wanted to break eye contact and fill his gaze with what I had revealed.

"Mag said you were looking for me." He finally spoke, his words almost harsh.

I nodded. I wasn't sure what else to do. He made a sound—some kind of groan that rang through me. Defeat. He took a step forward, closing the door behind him. His arms moved to cross over his chest, his muscles swelling as he tried to contain the tension in his own body. I reached behind me and unclasped my bra, pulling it away from my chest. His eyes flicked down to my breasts, his exhale heavy.

"Don't, Mika." The words barely registered. He didn't mean it. I dropped the garment to the tiles, and he swore, his eyes now cloaked in dark hunger. "Don't fucking stop there." His voice was a growl, and I hooked my thumbs into my panties, pushing them down my legs.

The way he stared at me had my whole body shaking, liquid fire racing through my veins. My skin was flushed, my breaths felt very obvious, the drawing of air suddenly a laborious task. I wasn't sure what I wanted from him—what I wanted from this encounter. This wasn't about letting people do things to me, as I had with Duke and Trip. This was about taking something for myself, even if I didn't know what exactly it was that I wanted.

You and me, it'll never happen. That's what he had said, but now he was looking at me as though he could close the distance between us and make it happen all over the bathroom floor.

"Fuck." He shook his head. "We're not going to fuck. I'm not going to do that to you."

"Touch me." My reply was instant, making it known to both him, and myself what it was that I wanted. I wanted Nicholai's touch. I wanted the brand of his skin on mine. It was the same feeling from the first day, in his office, staring at his little plants. I wanted to be his . Something he cared for, something he nurtured. I hadn't had a very good reason to think that way, back then, but now I had a better reason, and it was remarkably simple. Nothing had changed . That was my reason. I still wanted him. I still needed him. He still affected me.

"Touch yourself," he demanded, his words rough with a mix of regret and need. "Your tits, now."

I reacted instantly, cupping my breasts, my fingers digging into the soft flesh. I needed more, though, and I allowed my fingers to glide across my nipples, to explore my own shape, to rub against every inch of skin that his eyes focussed on, as though my hands were his own.

I could see the struggle in him. The need to do the right thing. The need to keep his desire in check. The need to push this even further than it had already gone.

"Lower." The latter need won.

I dipped both hands lower, one brushing over my belly while the other slipped between my legs. I focussed on the bulge in his pants, where the material had become strained, the zipper tested. His hand slipped down, pressing against where he swelled, and he groaned. I could feel the answering rush of wetness on my fingers.

"Fuck yourself, Mika. Like I need to. Like I can't."

And I did.

All I could focus on was his hand pressing against himself, rubbing slightly, drawing deep, gravelly sounds from his throat. I loved how I affected him but I also loved how he affected me. I loved the feeling swelling inside me: the need and the want and the fire that swept me up. I loved that the more I lost myself, the more he struggled to contain himself. I loved that as I neared the edge, he snapped.

He was before me suddenly, his hands on my face, his lips crushing mine.

"Cum," he muttered, his hand suddenly wrapping around my wrist, forcing my fingers deeper.

I shattered, crying out into his mouth, and he grunted, tasting each one of my cries, his tongue finally pushing into my mouth and his arms wrapping around me. The kiss was full of violent need, violent release. I started crying, and his lips left mine, travelling to my cheek, kissing away each tear. He was shaking, I realised. His erection was pushing up insistently against my stomach, and the more I slumped against him, the more I could feel it throb. I started to reach for him, but he caught my hand, and then my other hand, leading me to the sink.

I belatedly realised he was washing my hands. He massaged soap into my palms, directing them under a warm stream of water. The strong, blunt pads of his fingers dug into my softer skin in a way that had me shivering.

"I shouldn't have done that," he whispered from behind me, his facial hair scratching against my shoulder as he leaned down, his breath scattering across my neck. There was so much fear and regret in his voice, even though he was still hard, pressing insistently into the curve at the base of my spine. "Baby, I'm so sorry."

"Don't," I said.

My eyes met his in the mirror. That smoky, tremulous blue mixed with my own glassy, coral green. Together, we were an ocean. But alone? I was just something washed to the sand on his shore. I needed to be that violent force with him, not some broken thing that might be found dried up and forgotten the next morning.

"Don't apologise." I tore my eyes away from his, looking back at our hands.

He was so careful, so gentle. He finished washing me, and then his hands were at my hips, turning me around. He wet a washcloth, passing it between my legs. I jumped a little because I was surprisingly tender, and he loomed closer, his face hovering before mine, his breathing momentarily deepening—but he quickly drew away again, swapping the washcloth for a towel. The door clicked, then, and he dropped the towel. We both turned to look at it. My heart grew suddenly very cold, and a shiver worked its way into my limbs. Was I going into shock?

"What was that?" he asked. I didn't answer .

He shifted me to stand against the other wall, and then handed me my dress before striding to the door and pulling it open. He stood there, staring into the corridor beyond, and I quickly pulled my clothing back on.

"I'll be right back," he muttered, stepping through the doorway and shutting the door behind him.