The morning after, (Viola pt. 1)

She felt sore between her legs, but there was a certain pride in the dull ache there. Her lips felt swollen and hot and she remembered being nearly suffocated with the force of those kisses. Against the sheet her nipples chafed, making the 800+ thread count feel coarse, and sending little electric shocks down her body to her epicenter. She didn’t regret anything. Not at all. She felt feminine and powerful and sensual and wise. And loved.

When he’d been sick, when he’d reacted to seeing her by starting out of bed and retching and shaking, she’d been concerned, naturally. She felt a twinge of something like guilt then, for making him sick—perhaps she’s put too much in his drink—but the guilt-like feeling passed along with his momentary weakness.

Now he was strong and sure and steady again. And he was helping her to her feet. She wanted to kiss him, wanted him to kiss her again like he had last night. Looking into his beautiful eyes she willed him to lean down and put his lips on hers.

Instead he spoke, ruining the spell. “Viola, I need to know how this happened.”

He didn’t sound angry. But he didn’t sound pleased either. Something in his tone made her feel embarrassed.

She couldn’t meet his eyes and she felt absurdly like a child. Her gaze fell on the mess on the floor and she looked away before it could turn her stomach. “I’ll get a towel.” she replied and moved around him. She ignored his sharp intake of breath and proceeded into the small adjoining washroom to retrieve a pair of towels. As she passed the mirror she paused, and took a moment to examine her reflection within.

Her dark hair was mussed. It looked naughty and she could almost feel his frenzied fingers running over her scalp and pulling her head toward him. She was a bit disappointed that her lips didn’t actually appear as swollen as they felt, but she ran her tongue over them and smiled anyway, remembering what those lips had tasted, where those lips had explored.

Though others might not be able to mark a change, Viola could already see a new self in the mirror. Her neck looked longer now that his kisses had trailed up the length of it. Her eyes appeared deeper, more mysterious now that she knew herself and the pleasures of her body. Lips were fuller (if only slightly, if only imperceptibly), her breasts seemed rounder, her hips more curvy. She didn’t look like a fifteen year-old anymore.

When she returned from the bathroom she was disappointed to see that he’d begun to dress, and was hastily dragging his fingers along his shirt buttons, from bottom to top, rushing to get them fastened. She’d liked the sight of him, bare-chested, wrapped only in that sheet that was marked by her blood. The sight of her blood had made her a little dizzy, as the sight of blood always did, but it had made her feel something else too, something that made her strong and proud. And, thinking about that sheet she was grateful for the hundredth time that morning that it had been him who’d taken her, to him whom she had bestowed that gift. What if she had wasted it on some boy from school? She shuddered a little at the thought.

He mistook her shiver for fragility and moved to take the towels from her and sit her down on the foot of the bed in one graceful movement. His face was a mask of concern, his eyes worried.

“You just sit, love, I’ll do this.” Her heart skipped a beat. He was so gallant.

He began to clean up the mess he’d made and Viola looked away, trying to breathe through her mouth so she wouldn’t smell it. Other than that unfortunate incident the night and morning had been perfectly lovely. Passionate, full, erotic, sensual, loving. She could kick herself for botching the dose enough to get him sick. They might have cuddled when they awoke. Might have lain languidly in bed kissing and caressing all morning. Perhaps they’d have done more than that.

A sigh escaped her as she gazed, unseeing, out the window.

She heard the forceful hiss of water in the bathroom sink. He was likely rinsing his mouth out. It was strange how sweet water always tasted after throwing up.

Next time she’d be more careful. If there even needed to be a next time. It was her secret wish that he would not need to be tricked into bed next time, now that he’d had her maybe he would not be able to resist? She hoped so. She wanted him to want her as much as she wanted him.

Of course it wouldn’t be easy to sneak away—her mother was almost never away like this. This had been a particularly fortuitous opportunity.

“Viola?” His voice brought her back from daydreaming. He was standing in the bathroom doorway and she wondered where he’d decided to put the towels—not in the hamper, surely? Perhaps just in the bathtub for now.

He was looking at her in an expectant sort of way. Had he asked her something? She smiled, sheepish at having been caught in a daydream.

He didn’t return the smile. She swallowed.

“I’m sorry—“

He crossed the distance between them in the space of a heartbeat and was on his knees before her. Taking one hand in both of his he looked imploringly into her eyes. “No.” his voice was thick, full of emotion. “Don’t apologize.” Her heart soared. “I never, never, never want you to think this was your fault.”

Her face fell. “Fault?” Did he feel they’d made a mistake? She pressed her lips in a firm line and ignored the hot swirling emotion in her belly.

“You are beautiful and—“ he stopped himself and looked at their hands. She liked to hear him say that. “—But,” he corrected himself, “But that is not an excuse for what happened.” He swallowed and shook his head. She could tell he was trying to walk some kind of imagined tightrope, she just wasn’t sure why, or from where or to where that treacherous rope stretched. “It isn’t your fault at all.” He reiterated. A fine bead of sweat was forming on his forehead. “You have nothing to be ashamed of.” He bit the words out and she was almost alarmed at the ferocity.

“I’m not ashamed.” She said lamely. She hated her voice for sounding so weak, so kidd-ish.

His brows contracted and he nodded slowly. “Good. That’s—good.” He squeezed her small hand in both of his. He looked pained.

On impulse she decided to stroke his cheek, now coarse with stubble. In so doing she let go of the sheet she’d been clutching to her chest and it fell away from her breasts. His eyes snapped closed and he turned his head before re-opening them. He released her hand and carefully picked up the edge of the cotton and lifted it back into place. Only then did he meet her eyes. She held his face in both her hands now. She reveled in the way his five o’clock shadow prickled beneath her fingertips and palms. It was so real. So thoroughly male.

She arched her back and he made no movement in response, neither an advance nor a retreat. The tips of her nipples pressed into his knuckles where he held the sheet and she wished there didn’t exist that thin layer of fabric between his flesh and hers. His jaw was rigid. He swallowed. And then a strange look came over his face and his eyes widened a great deal before narrowing sharply.

“Can you tell me how this happened?” He sounded suspicious. It was the same tone of voice he’d have used if she’d come home with a ‘D’ on her report card or a crumpled fender on the car. Apprehensive, expectant, infinitely patient. Except it was edged with something else, something she couldn’t quite place.

She shrugged ever so slightly and a guttural sort of growl tore out of his throat. She flinched. That’s what was edging his tone; he was angry. She wasn’t sure if she should lie. She’d never really been able to lie to him. But if he was already angry and she told him the truth… One by one he took her hands from his face with barely restrained force and impelled them to hold the sheet in place. Putting a hand on either side of her he braced his weight and leaned in earnestly.

“Viola, I need to know.” And she could hear the need in his voice. She’d seen his need last night, felt the ravenous effect of his deep, insatiable hunger. A smile tugged at the corners of her eyes but she held her face as still as a mask.

“Promise you won’t be mad?” If he was going to use his “Dad” voice she would respond in kind. She watched his lips move into something like a sneer for the briefest of moments before he was the picture of composure again. He didn’t like the little girl voice. But he didn’t seem to like the womanly voice either. What the hell did he want from her?

“I promise” he told her.

“No matter what?” She was breathy.

“No matter what.” He was firm.

The tension building between them was enough to send her pulse skittering under her skin and she shivered.

“What do you remember?”

He blinked several times. She guessed he already knew the answer. Just by gauging him in that way she’d revealed her complicity.

“Did you drug me?” He tried to control the horror in his voice, tried to blunt the sharp note of disgust and betrayal, but Viola heard it nonetheless.

She had. But it was just to reduce his inhibitions, just to let loose what already existed between them, to give him an excuse to do what she knew he had wanted for months and months.

“I’m sorry it made you sick.” She apologized, no longer able to meet his eyes. Her body jostled a bit when he pushed back from the bed and sat, back-against-the-wall, on the hardwood floor across from her. For a long while neither of them spoke.