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There is a roar, a rumble, my insides are pulled backwards and my forehead vibrates against the window. Despite my best intentions, I open my eyes to see Boston shrink and disappear below me as we lift into the sky.
I hate to watch my little world shrink, and squinch my eyes shut once again.
But now all I can see is Dorian’s face, which is hardly reassuring. His chiselled features are so clear in my mind, his wolf-like eyes, his angelic face. It’s as though I could reach out and touch him. He was remarkable, and there’s no escaping him; there’s no changing history. Dorian Holder completely and irrevocably possessed me, and I will forever be a haunted woman.
We were so close. Or at least I was so close.
Dorian. His face, his voice, his touch, his sculpted body, his cruelty, his compassion, his strength, his vulnerability. His secrets. His lies.
I can still feel his touch. My body has memorised and internalised him.
What I wouldn’t give to forget that unreadable expression on his beautiful face when I said the words I will never be able to take back.
How his full lips moved, as though to respond, before he thought better of it.
How I hoped his lips would claim mine in the deepest, most delicious kiss, the way they used to, and how they never did.
How they never would again.
How he looked askance, turned around and walked away without a second glance.
Here’s what else I absolutely need to forget:
Those same full lips, sucking my nipples. Dorian’s tongue flicking across their tips, nibbling, sometimes a little too hard … just how I liked it. His mouth trailing between my breasts, between my ribs, licking my belly, kissing, sucking, inching his way towards my mons. Torturing me. Cupping my ass in his enormous hands, pulling my pelvis closer, burrowing his face into me, slipping his tongue at the very tip of my slit, finally delving deeper, sliding, finding me. Slicking against the left side of my clit, licking faster still, while I pictured hummingbirds and could have sworn I tasted sugar-water in my mouth. Because when Dorian Holder took me, my world transformed. Touch became taste, sound became vision. He fucked me into a straight-up synaesthete.
When Dorian Holder took me, my body sang.
How he tortured me, letting me come so close, then dropped me to the mattress, laughing while I tried to squirm back to him, aching for more. How he pushed my abdomen down, slid two fingers the length of my pussy’s lips. And how he brushed his middle finger ever so lightly against my pink jewel, and I literally begged him to let me come.
He loved it when I’d beg.
I didn’t imagine that part.
I used to imagine a lot of things about Dorian and me, but how he awakened my body is undeniable.
How he awakened my heart is unforgivable.
Oh! Then he would whisper sweet and breathy in my ear, something like ‘Hush’. Or ‘Are you OK, Lily?’ He’d laugh at my frantic nodding, and desperate struggling to free myself. If he was feeling mean, he’d ask, ‘Should I stop?’, knowing full well what the answer was. When he drove me to that mindspace, I became incapable of speech, and I could only shake my head: no.
Sometimes Dorian liked to pull back and watch me weep, particularly when my arms were spread wide in an embrace he would neither answer nor return. Embraces I could never complete while my wrists were tied to opposite bedposts. How badly I wanted to swipe at my tears of frustration as they ran down into my ears, all itchy, but of course I could not.
I was bound.
Then Dorian would start all over again, while I writhed, begging him to please, please, please let me finish.
Eventually, he would acquiesce.
As long as I did what I was told.
I remember.
Chapter One (#uec02561e-5f97-5752-bfc6-f02938ac7300)
Strangers On A Train (#uec02561e-5f97-5752-bfc6-f02938ac7300)
‘And lilies are still lilies,
Pulled by smutty hands,
Though spotted from their white.’
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
‘You’re late, Lily.’
‘I know, I’m sorry. It was just –’
‘Tell me later.’ Gwen slipped her Charlie card into the slot and held the gate open for me, like we always did. Rebels. We pushed our way through the crowd, dashed down the dirty grey steps and waited for the next Orange Line to 4024 Boylston, home to Apollyon LLC.
Yep, that Apollyon. The fitness emporium that put SFX Incorporated out of business, not to mention taking down smaller equipment chains along the way. We have a chain of gyms along the East Coast, and a couple years back bought out Planet Fitness. Apollyon’s ruthless approach to finance – search, destroy and takeover – led us to be tagged the ‘Wal-Mart of Workout’ in Forbes’ January issue, which, rumour had it, had a negative impact on sales. Go fig. Owned by Holder Enterprises, some monstrous Dark Force of finance in Denver. Among many other things, I was a copywriter for the evil empire of exercise equipment. I also dabbled a bit in the PR department.
‘No more Patron, ever.’ I couldn’t stand tequila, anyway. ‘So much of never. Hangover, day two. Totally missed the first train.’
‘Get over it, and I apologise for the bitchy message. Obviously I overdisclosed to you on your very own life. My badness. Hey, what would you have done with Troy even if he had gone home with you?’ She smacked my arm. ‘Prude-y Princess. Lily-White.’
‘I’m not a prude.’ I glared at her. ‘Chastity is a choice. Why did I ever tell you, anyway?’
‘Good question.’
I knew exactly why. A few months prior Gwendolyn and I had an unfortunate conversation about the longest we’d gone without doing the nasty.
I won.
This is not a brag. Far from it. Just a fact. I made her swear never to mention ‘Father Gerald’ again to me, and she didn’t, though she was annoyed I’d kept him a secret for so long.
‘Are we really talking about my lack of a sex life at eight in the morning?’
‘Yes, except it’s eight thirty, and double-yes, your whole “celibacy is power” thing is creepy.’ Gwen glanced over at an older gent who appeared far too interested in our conversation. ‘You got something to say about it, Midlife Crisis?’
He averted his eyes.
‘We’ll discuss another time, Gwen.’ I ducked my head. ‘Like, say, never.’
‘That’s cool.’ She fiddled with her moonstone necklace. Gwen worked in graphic design and wore whatever the fuck she wanted. Over the past two years I had never once seen her in anything serious. Nor have I seen her without some sort of boyfriend on her arm, also never anything serious. She wore whatever the fuck she wanted, she fucked whatever the fuck she wanted as well. And yes, for the record, I was totally jealous. ‘Sorry, Lil.’
‘Forget it,’ I said, then pointed to a Boston Ballet poster hanging on the opposite wall. ‘Gwen! Oh, my word. The Sleeping Beauty. My all-time favourite.’
‘Of course it is.’ She glanced at her watch, then back at the poster. ‘So let’s go. Buy yourself a belated birthday present. I can be your plus one.’
‘I wish. Like I can afford.’
She pointed at the date. ‘Just started last weekend, and runs all summer. You can save.’
‘Broke as a joke. End of story.’
‘Hey, don’t I owe you a birthday present better than a two-day migraine?’ She gave my bicep a squeeze.
‘Gwen, you don’t get to buy me a ticket.’
‘Oh, shit. Run.’ She grabbed my arm, yanked me as the T rolled in, and we practically dived as the doors squeaked open, along with all the other tardies. Squish. A bunch of alewives, swimming upstream into Monday.
Gwen and I each grabbed a loop, staggering as the train sped away from the leftover people I always felt so sorry for. We fell silent, out of respect for the unspoken rule that no one interacts on the ride to work, rather stares coldly and glumly at nothing in particular. Gwen pulled my braid again, smiled and raised her eyebrows.
So I followed her stare to find a perfectly built gentleman in an Armani suit, leafing through the Wall Street Journal, long legs crossed most elegantly. Since his head was buried in the newspaper, I couldn’t even see his full profile. But from what was visible, I kind of wanted to.
Very much wanted to.
What? I mouthed at her, knowing full well what.
‘Seeley Booth,’ she whispered, bugging her eyes. ‘Wait till he looks up.’
‘Shut up.’ I always had a thing for David Boreanaz, ever since his Vampire days, for which I blame my mom. On her night off, we watched Buffy religiously, though I was far too young to be up so late. Or watch anything as scary as latex-faced monsters, for that matter. She loved Spike, and I loved Angel.
So, in case you haven’t noticed, Gwen has this foolish thing where she’s convinced she sees celebrities everywhere. Case in point: ‘Jack White’ was playing at Zuzu’s, right?
But what if she was right this time? David Boreanaz. Right here in Boston.
‘Look. Look now!’ This time she didn’t keep her voice down, and I spun around again.
Dear God.
OK, he wasn’t Angel or Agent Booth, because he was even hotter.
No, really.
And about five years younger. Maybe ten? I can never tell how old people are after they hit 30, and I was pretty sure he’d hit that at some point.
To this day, I still can’t figure out how old Dorian Holder is.
Not that it matters.
Not that I care.
Evil shapeshifter is what he is.
Anyway, so there we were on the T, eyeballing this beautiful man who practically had a magical glowing aura around him. Apparently, we were staring too hard. Sensing Gwen’s and my unladylike leering, the object of our admiration glanced up, neatly folding his newspaper as though choreographed.
He smiled.
Wow.
Not a smile so much, if I’m to be honest, but one corner of his mouth definitely lifted into a flirty smirk. Not a cruel smirk, because he had an adorable dimple, which softened the seriousness of his square jaw, high cheekbones and flashing eyes. Deep down, Adonis was very sweet, I was certain. It was a flirty smirk, and was already embedded in my memory bank, an image I planned to revisit over the few precious minutes before falling asleep at day’s end.
Our eyes met.
No shit.
His – brown eyes? Hazel eyes? Green eyes? I couldn’t tell. Anyway, his eyes twinkled for a moment, as though to say, Yeah, I know, lady. Take a good look. Maybe that’s what his eyes said. They glittered, letting me know they tell this story often, the story of women who cannot help but ogle. That he would be tolerant of our girlish fancies.
I preferred my fantasy that there was a sweetness about him. Maybe it was the dimple action that fooled me?
‘He’s totally checking you out,’ Gwen insisted, her voice a shade too loud.
Now our handsome stranger full-on grinned, ran a hand through his casual yet professional tousled brown hair and stood to his full height, which was around six foot two. I felt nothing short of blessed to see this guy, and have him notice me.
This man, rather. We all know guys.
The vision before me was no guy. He was a Man, with a capital M.
Now, I’m not talking about age, which can be irrelevant when it comes to separating guys from men. There’s a Man Thing, that thing where you just know he’s been there, done that, seen this, possibly won that. A winner. Charisma.
He was beautiful; there’s no other word for it. Sorry if it sounds corny, but sometimes you see someone, and you’re never quite the same afterwards. Maybe you don’t know why, and maybe you’ll never find out. But that’s OK. You’ve seen him. Whatever. And now you’re changed. It may not be sexual, though it’s way cooler if that factor comes into play.
Adonis of the Trains exuded physicality, sensuality and a certain something I still could never explain in words. Most of us could spend a lifetime seeking it, a certain kind of magic that only a small percentage of the population possess. After all, why do girls love rock stars when we’re changing into young women? What do we seek when looking at any man? That elusive something. If we’re lucky, we get a glimpse.
So there was my glimpse, and facing the day at the office was less horrible.
He’s a sign from God, I thought. This is where my 24th year begins, and it will be the best one ever. This is the year I reach womanhood, the year I blossom, the year my luck changes.
The man stepped forward, a determined expression on his face, just as the train jerked to a gut-wrenching halt.
What? Was he heading towards me? I wondered. No way.
A throng of people shoved into us; we assimilated and blended into the masses. The collective propelled Gwen and me forward like a couple of bowling pins, and we were swept out through the folding doors into the deep blue sea of anxious young urban professionals, into another working week, some of us unchanged and still stuck in the Groundhog Day mindset. Either they did not see Adonis, or they were like Gwen and me, blowing sideways through life.
But I saw him.
He saw me.
That happened.
Maybe that would be enough.
Godammit. Where was he?
Adonis Trainman was lost in the crowd, despite his notable height and despicable beauty. Gwen and I half stumbled, half fell out of the train into the day’s next moment.
They are only moments, after all, and that one was mine. I already looked forward to remembering Adonis, whoever he was.
