I shoved away from the desk and stood, pacing back and forth, rubbing a hand through my hair. When I turned, she thankfully had her shirt back on, but looked more unsure of herself than I’d ever seen.
“Will…” she started, opening the gates.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Umm…giving you a blow job?”
“Fuck, Arabella,” I ground out, more frustrated with myself than her. I took her in, standing there with her shoulders pulled back, but doubt clouding her eyes despite trying to shove it behind her usual bravado. And I hated it. We’d bonded over our ability to just be, and here she was trying to put the veneer in place.
I hated it because I knew my frustration caused it.
I hated it because I knew before she left this office, it would get worse before it got better.
“This was a mistake.” The words fell like dead weight, somehow making me lighter for saying the truth, but also crumbling under the weight of it.
“Okay. Sorry. I won’t suck your cock at school again. Noted. I’ll make sure to keep it at home.”
“No, Arabella. All of it. Everything. Us. It’s a mistake.”
“What?” The veneer slipped, and her honest hurt knocked the wind out of me. Watching her, I saw every year between us. I saw the not yet twenty-year-old with a maturity unlike any other, but with so much left to learn. And just as quick as the veneer slipped, it went right back on. The arrogant girl who showed up on my steps three weeks ago back in place. “What do you mean mistake?” she asked, a hard edge in her voice. “Was it a mistake when you fucked me again and again. Did you slip and fall five times over the last two days into my open vagina? Was it a mistake when even after almost getting caught, you came in my mouth? Was it an accident?” she snapped, sarcasm pouring from the lips I already missed.
“You know it wasn’t. This isn’t easy, okay?”
“Seems like it.”
Her inability to see reason broke my calm and my irritation snapped. “You know what? It fucking isn’t. It isn’t easy being the adult here, Arabella. It isn’t easy to not be the teenager who doesn’t give a fuck. You don’t care if you get caught. Hell, you’re probably hoping for it so you can get kicked out—which you wouldn’t. You’d simply get removed from my class. But you know who would get kicked out? Me. This is my job. A career I’ve busted my ass for.”
“You didn’t seem to care too much when you ordered me to my knees and told me about how you’d fuck my throat. You didn’t seem to care when I was swallowing your cum. You could have shoved me away, found a way to say stop. I didn’t push you into it.”
“I’m not saying you did.”
“It sure feels like you’re putting the blame on me.”
“I’m not. I’m taking the blame. I’m the one that should know better. I’m the one who should have stopped it. I’m asking you to understand why this needs to stop. All of it. I respect your father. Jesus,” I laughed. “I’m your fucking uncle.”
“You are not my uncle.”
“It’s still too close. I’m the adult here, and I messed up.”
“I’m not some kid.”
“I know that. Trust me, I know that. I wish I could see you that way. It would make my life a lot easier if I didn’t find you so damn irresistible. If I didn’t find myself wanting you—and not just your body.”
“So, if we’re both adults, what’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong is you’re too young and arrogant and stubborn to not see what’s wrong with it. You’re too young to make the right decision.”
As soon as the words left my mouth, I knew they’d be the final blow. They hit too close to what her parents said to her. They hit too close to her worst insecurities.
“Fine.” This time when she pulled on a mask, it held nothing. No anger, no irritation, no hurt, no nothing. “I have another class to get to.”
“Arabella, wait. We need to talk.”
“No. We don’t. You’ve made it quite simple. Thank you.”
And before I could say anything else, she left, leaving me with regrets that would last longer than the little while that got us here.
Eleven
Arabella
The last two weeks were a complete one-eighty from our relationship before sleeping together. Pre-sex: hugs, hand holding, watching tv, shared dinners, lunches and breakfasts, story time on the couch with my head on his shoulder. Post sex: none of that. The only consistency was the ever-growing tension that pulled tighter and tighter between us.
But that mostly existed because I pushed for it. Maybe it was the arrogance he callously threw at me. Maybe it was my pride. Maybe it was the hope that he would figure out how much I missed him, and he’d admit he missed me too, and we could move past it.