Chapter 8

CHAPTER

EIGHT

MARY

I run up the stairs, Mom's voice loud in my head, my privates sore and achy and feeling so damn good. "Your privates ?" the specter of Mom says. "You were just bent over, letting that man spank you, letting him fuck you like an unmarried, sinful dog, and now you want to think about ‘privates' as if you have any dignity left?"

I run into my bedroom, slam the door, sit on the floor, and bring my knees to my chest. I can feel his come slipping out of my still-warm core. Not privates. My pussy. My body. It felt so good, like heaven, like a dream come true, when he slid inside, and all the discomfort melted away. Then it was just us—the moment.

I hear footsteps outside my bedroom door.

"Mary." Rust's voice sounds more emotional than I've ever heard it. "Are you okay?"

"I'm just getting cleaned up," I call in my brightest, most confident voice.

"What we just did?—"

"I'm just getting cleaned up."

I don't mean to yell, but too many emotions are swirling in my head. What if Brad ever found out? I remember sitting at the window, watching them play football in the yard, when I was, what, four, five, six? It would break Brad's brain. He wouldn't be able to accept it.

When I hear Rust leave, I quickly dart into the shower and wash myself, thinking of how we'll have to handle this. When he called me baby —I shouldn't let myself think about this with the warm water trickling over my body—everything in me exploded with starlight. I didn't know pleasure like that existed. It was instant and intense. It was just like what I fantasized about.

He was taking responsibility. He said he'd masturbated over me before. Was that just dirty talk? Or has he been touching that huge, hard length as he pictures me rubbing my tits for him? He seemed so obsessed with my body, too.

I cut off my thoughts, then quickly clean my body, rinse my hair, and leave the shower. The rain has slowed down. I haven't heard any thunder for a few minutes. It's like the spell is lifting. We're no longer closed off from the rest of the world. We have to face reality now.

But I don't want to let go. I don't want this to be the end. It has to be. There's no other route through this. Anyway, this isn't about what I want . It's about what has to happen.

After drying off, I change into the least sexy outfit possible: a thick bra, a plaid shirt, and some thick jeans. It's like I'm armoring myself against him. My hair is still wet and tied up like a rat's tail. When I walk into the living room, I see it in Rust's face, the change in his posture. He still wants me.

He's dressed now, too, the blanket folded up on the floor. I'll have to put it in the laundry. He stands and walks over to me but doesn't take my hands. He just stares like a universe of intensity is burning behind his stony facade.

"Aren't you going to say anything?" I ask.

He sighs darkly. "We both know I shouldn't have done that."

"What do you mean you shouldn't have?"

"I'm the one who said we should wrestle. I knew I wanted you. I knew where it would lead."

"I thought you were a virgin, too? How did you know? "

He steps even closer, bringing his heat with him, his scent. It's musky and thick and strangely tempting. It's like he's talking to something deep in my body, but no. That's silly. Focus on the now. The physical. The real.

"Just because I was a virgin," he goes on, "doesn't mean I was as inexperienced as you. I've been around fighters all my life. I've heard things. You're only eighteen."

"I wish you'd stop saying it like that. Eighteen . Like it means I'm not even a person."

"You can't even drink," he says.

"Who cares? You don't drink."

Another step closer. A shimmer jolts through me when he darts his big, fast hands out and grabs my hips. Again, something in my body calls out to him and tries to latch on. Like my soul is sending signals through my nerves to fuck him again without pulling out this time. We didn't even wear a condom.

"It's not about that," he snaps. "It's the point. I should've known better."

" I should've known better, too. Stop trying to take responsibility away from me."

It's so wrong— "You think, dear, really?" —but I grab his shirt and pull myself to my tiptoes. I kiss him passionately, feeling his body respond, but then the guilt gets to be too much. Now Brad's in my head, too, frowning at me. He's not angry, just disappointed, but is that right? Wouldn't he hate me?

I use Rust's shirt to push him away. I take a few steps back, standing behind the chair. He stays in place, fists clenched like it's difficult for him not to leap across the room at me. That would feel so good again. He could take responsibility. My ass still aches from his hands spanking me, owning me.

"We have to tell Brad," he says after a pause.

"Wait, what?" I gasp, already shaking my head. "Why would we do that?"

"Because it's the right thing to do. I've never had secrets from him, well, until recently."

"Until recently?"

His eyes glint as he looks at me despite my frumpy outfit. He seems just as interested as before. "There was a moment. You were going to a poetry reading. You came down the stairs and asked how you looked, and it was like I was seeing you for the first time."

I remember that. Earlier this year. "Yeah?" I murmur.

"You were beautiful. It was like you'd become someone else. I tried to fight it, but I failed. Now it's time to face the music."

"We can't tell Brad. It would ruin him."

"We've already ruined him by doing this," Rust says matter-of-factly. "Keeping it secret will just make it worse."

"Only if we do it again." There's a hitch in my voice. The idea of never being intimate with him again is horrible to me, but it's the best for Brad and my guilt. "Which we can't. You know that, right?" I add for emphasis.

"I knew I shouldn't have done it the first time," Rust says, "but you're too damn irresistible."

"Stop." I look away from the hunger in his eyes, triggering so many things in me. "We'll just have to pretend this never happened."

"Can you do that?" he says.

"We have to."

He sits down and runs his hand through his hair, looking more tense than I've ever seen him. It's like I've awoken something in him. Part of me wants to run around the room giddily, punching the air. "We took each other's virginity!" I'll yell. I believe he was a virgin, too. Brad's never mentioned women. I've never seen anything online.

I sit opposite him. He's moved the coffee table back into place, so we have a barrier between us.

"It was just sex, right?" I say.

"Don't say that, Mary. It wasn't just sex. Sex isn't some small thing. It means a lot to a person to do that. It should, anyway."

"Most women my age have had sex hundreds of times, probably," I tell him.

He sighs. "I think it should mean something. It meant something to us, and you felt it, too."

"Maybe it did," I say, but there's no maybe about it. I felt the feeling, my body fusing to his, my soul sparkling. "Sparkling in sin?" I shake my head, dispelling Mom's words and focusing on the now. "But that changes nothing. You and Brad are too close. It would wreck him. He'll never find out if we're good and never do this again."

Rust stands, walks around the table, and sits beside me, but he doesn't touch me. He looms over, staring. "Hiding it doesn't change anything. I still did what I did."

" We did what we did," I correct him. "Stop trying to take all the credit. The blame." I quickly correct myself this time. "You don't get to make this decision on your own. You can't tell him without me."

"Then you better agree," he snaps.

"No, I won't. It's not the right thing for Brad."

"For Brad or for you?" He leans down, his breath hot on my skin.

Like the first time, I'm unsure who initiates this kiss. It's like the passion of our conflict can become romantic passion just as quickly. He slides his hand down my body toward my hip, tingling tendrils teasing all over me, but then he stops, leaning away.

"You're so tempting, Mary. So beautiful. So perfect. So damn sexy."

"You're so everything," I whisper.

He moves away from me with a visible effort. "If you don't want to tell him, what do you want to do?"

"What does that mean?"

"I'll never be able to see you again."

That hits me like a punch in the chest. "Why?" I sound desperate and lame, but I don't even care.

"Because there'll always be a risk," he says fiercely. "Whenever I'm around you, I'll want to do it again, feel you, and be with you. So, if we're not going to tell Brad, we must ensure we're never in the same room. Ever. Not once."

Panic flares through me. He's making sense, but it's painful to think about not being close to him, not seeing him, or kissing him. That was my life before today. Surely, I can go back to it. Or maybe there's no going back.

"I don't want to forget this," I whisper.

"I'll never forget it either," he snaps. "That's why we'll have to do it this way. Or tell him."

"I can't tell him."

"Then this is what we have to do."

I reach out and touch his arm. His muscles tighten and swell like there's a shockwave of lust moving through him. "Wait. Okay. I know you're right, but first, I want something to remember this night. Something that makes it real."

"What, Mary?" he asks.

I nod to his tattooing kit on the table. "Lightning. The thing that always scared me, but you fixed that, Rust."

Mom would call this stacking sin on top of sin. Maybe that makes it easier to handle. All of it in one night. Then, I can bury my head in the sand and forget any of this exists.

"I'll do this for you," he says, leaning forward, gently kissing my forehead. It's tender, but there's a layer of hunger, a primal fierceness beneath it. Any second, he could snap. "But then it's over. It has to be. Even if I don't want it to end."

I unbutton my shirt and sit with my back facing him, letting him get access to my shoulder. It feels strangely intimate, even after what we just did. In the reflection of the turned-off TV, I can see Rust setting out his equipment, handling it delicately and precisely.

"Does it hurt?" I ask.

He laughs gruffly. Even with that hard edge to it, he's showing more fire than I ever would've guessed before. "I don't know," he says. "I've never got one, remember?"

"Oh, yeah." I laugh, too. "I guess I can let you know."

"The thunder can't hurt you anymore, Mary," he says. "Do you have any antiseptic spray or wipes?"

"Uh, yeah, hold on."

"No, just let me know where they are. You stay right there."

It's a small thing, just like the coat, but it feels so crazily and disproportionately romantic. He goes to the kitchen to get the first-aid kit from under the sink. I look at myself on the TV, my shirt pulled below my shoulders. I look in love. I'm not saying I am, but that woman on the TV looks in love .

He returns, gently wiping at my shoulder, then dabbing me dry. "Are you ready?"

"Yes," I tell him.

He gently strokes the back of my neck. "Then stop tensing up."

I unclench my fists and try to relax my breathing. He brings the needle to my back. It's nowhere near as bad as I thought it would be. Honestly, after feeling the penetration of his huge hardness inside of me, the penetration of this needle is nothing. There's even a tinge of pleasure in the needle, a tickling teasing that tells me I'm stacking wrong upon wrong. That's not good. Oh, Brad, what am I doing?

By the time the regret comes, it's too late. I don't want Rust to think his design is the problem. He shows it to me in a mirror, that subtle curve on his lips as he looks at his work. It's good, graphic-novel style, moody black sky, a streak of brightness in the lightning.

I smile, not faking it, as I look at the lightning. It was so terrifying once, but never again. Now, in a storm, all I'll think about is Rust.

He ices the warmth when he says, "I'll leave in the morning."

I'm about to argue, but I can feel the mood radiating from him. He's already made his position clear. Either tell Brad or pretend it never happened and never see each other again. That's like being stuck between a rock and an even bigger rock with maybe some fire ants thrown in there just for giggles.

What can I say? How can I save us?

"Okay," I whisper, hoping he won't hear me and then he won't go. How stupid. I feel like a silly, crushing idiot all over again.

"I want you." He folds away his equipment and walks to the door without looking at me. "Hell, I need you." My heart skips a beat at his words, but then his tone gets dark. No, it gets dead . Flat. Borderline psychopathic. "But now, Mary, I have to forget you exist, and you have to do the same."

He leaves the room, closing the door, not slamming it, not that much emotion. I sit back as my heart races and my mind clashes. Mom screams in my head, and the tattoo starts to burn against my skin. I want to rub it away. What was I thinking? I shouldn't have let him mark my skin.

"Sin upon sin upon sin," Mom taunts. "What sort of slut did I raise?"

I go to the mirror in the corner and look over my shoulder at the storm cloud, the bolt. I'm grinning like a loon. It isn't exactly like my dream, where he marked me with his name, but this is almost better. It's so unique to us. I'll have to hide it and lie if Brad ever sees it. Nobody can ever know the truth.

A single tear falls down my cheek. I wipe it, turn away, and decide to stop fussing. It's time to do what's best for Brad and pretend this night never happened.