Obsessed by Ever Lilac

 

 

 

3

 

 

Amber

 

My new roommate has been living with me for three days.And those three days have gone better than I expected, making me triumphant because Gina was all wrong when she thought it was going to be troubling.

As suspected I like him having here and we’ve already slipped into a rhythm that’s entirely our own. Even if he’s the one busy for work, he lets me have the first shower in the morning and most of the warm water.

When I come down to the kitchen for my breakfast, he already has it ready, frozen berries and milk and ice coffee. He already knows what I like. He’s considerate. Kind.

And strong.

I try not to stare when he leaves for work, dressed in worn out denims and t-shirts that show off his rugged muscles. He always wears light colors, white or pale grey or any other non-threatening shade. By the door he always turns and waves goodbye, his eyes simmering with something that makes my whole body tingle.

I wave goodbye back, watching him in the window as he leaves and I almost feel like a little wifey. My cheeks heat at the thought, because there’s been times when I’ve caught him staring at me, his eyes like pure velvet but his mouth is hard. Like he wants something, sink it into my flesh just to see how I taste. Or maybe to leave a mark.

My heart speeds up at the thought, a slight tremble moving through my limbs. I’ve never been much for men before, always caring more about my music. Music was always number one. The thought of it being replaced by something else, or someone else is terrifying. And thrilling.

Stan has only been in my life for a little while, but I already can’t imagine him leaving. His presence is strangely supporting. He doesn’t even have to say anything, I just have to look into his eyes to know that he’ll have my back no matter what.

But it makes me wonder why. He barely knows me and yet he makes me feel as if he would try to turn the world on its axis just to see me smile. He seems to love my smiles, getting a funny look on his face every time I give him one.

A look that says that I’m all his.

And there’s a threat in his eyes. A threat that says that he’s going to strip me to my most basic self and demand things from me in return that nobody else has needed from me.

I’ve never really belonged to anyone. My body has never really belonged to anyone but me and lying in bed, I stroke my soft curves, wondering what it would feel like to have Stan touching me. He has perfect hands, the caring hands of a maker.

Turning to look at the clock by my bedside, I sigh. Yet another sleepless night. It’s two in the morning and pitch black outside. I couldn’t sleep at all last night either. My mind is too preoccupied with thoughts about Stan and my body is different too, now that he’s here. It seems to be overflowing with a red energy that I just don’t know how to calm down.

I try not to think about him, but it only makes it worse. I keep seeing his eyes in front of me, that grin that says I’m harmless but not quite. I wonder what that slightly ruthless streak on his mouth would feel like on mine.

Would he be ruthless with me or would he try to be gentle for my sake? I wouldn’t want him to hold back with me. Maybe because a part of me is curious to see where the road leads if he decides to take me on a ride.

Maybe I would love it. Maybe I would regret it...

When my throat constricts with thirst, I get out of bed to go and grab a glass of water.

I tiptoe down the staircase, careful not to stumble on any steps. Turning on the light in the hallway, I flinch when I notice that a light is already lit in the living room.

Did I forget to turn it off?

Walking into the living room, I freeze in the doorway at the sight of Stan sitting on my cream couch, wearing only grey pajama pants. He looks up when he hears me, his eyes tightening but he doesn’t scramble. Doesn’t even try to hide what he’s doing.

I just stand there, not really understanding why he would be doing this.

On the TV there’s a home video playing, the sound muted. It was taped during one of my rare vacations. Me, bicycling down a dusty road and waving at the camera. Me, climbing up a mountain with cheeks that look like two red apples from the effort.

Me, spinning on a square in Milan while doves are flying around me.

And then there’s the photos of me, that he has spread out over the coffee table. I swallow, because I didn’t expect this. It’s so personal somehow. A little intrusive. Which is why I have no idea why my body is acting like it’s just been dipped in a pool of gooey, warm honey.

“Stan...” I say hesitantly, rubbing sleep out of my eyes, “where did you get those?”

His brows knot, a first flicker of nervousness like he’s worried I’ll have a breakdown. “I was looking for a file. There’s a leaky pipe in the basement.” He gestures with his hand. “But then I found these and I just couldn’t stop looking.”

It’s late. He should be asleep. He’s got work tomorrow, hard work that requires a lot of physical strength and he’s going to need his rest and yet he decides to sit and look at...

Little, old me.

I don’t need a mirror to know that I’m turning pink. “Why?” I whisper and a frown shows on his face like he’s not entirely sure himself.

“I just couldn’t.”

It’s such a simple answer. Honest somehow and I can’t help but to smile at him.

And he gets that expression on his face again. All mine.

It makes me squirm. Makes me feel warm all over and I smooth my hair with my hand. “Do you mind if I sit down and join you?”

He puts his arm over the couch’s back, making space for me and giving me his answer. I curl up next to him, fully aware of that I’m skimpily clad in satin pajama shorts and a short sleeved night shirt. But he’s not wearing much either, a slight sheen covering his skin and he’s got a fine smattering of golden hair on his chest.

His chest looks comforting and safe, making me want to rub my face against it just to see if he’s bristly or soft. And if his chest looks safe, then his arms look like two weapons with well-defined muscles and they move under his skin every time he shifts his position.

“Couldn’t you sleep?” he asks, his eyes going to my mouth because they tend to do that a lot. And my throat. He looks at my throat a lot too.

I shake my head. “Nervous.”

It makes him tense a little, the veins on his arm popping. “About what? About me?”

He sounds so worried that I let out a little laugh. “You? No. Why would I be worried about you when you make me feel so...” I search for the right word, “secure.”

“Is that what you need from me?” A determined streak flares in his eyes. “Protection?”

Our knees brush together. Barely but that small touch, makes my body fiercely reactive.

My mouth drops and I grow flustered. “I...d...don’t know what I need,” I stutter, my eyes darting and they go to one of the photos. It was taken a couple of years ago in my garden and I’m squinting at the sun.

The expression on my face is confident. Probably different than it is now. Can Stan tell? Can he tell how doubtful I am these days? Does he even care?

I glance at him and he looks like he cares. He looks like he cares more than anybody else ever has.

“Then will you do something for me that I need?” he asks and my eyes flare in surprise but I nod. He jerks his head at my cello in the corner. “Will you play something for me? I haven’t heard you play ever since I came here.”

Fidgeting, I’m tempted to sneak away with my tail between my legs. “That’s because I don’t like an audience. Not anymore at least.”

“Why not?”

“Because I...suck,” I breathe and he looks like he’s about to let out a curse but then he doesn’t. He seems to be treading carefully, suddenly treating me with velvet gloves.

“How about you play and I won’t even look at you and you can pretend I’m not even here.”

“Easier said than done,” I reply but I don’t want to say no to him and I get up, hoping he doesn’t notice my legs shaking and then I take my cello and sit down on a chair. With the instrument in a firm grip, I throw him a glance and he looks away, keeping his promise.

Taking a deep breath I start playing, tensing when I mess up on the first note and I expect at least a chuckle from Stan but he stays silent. Reverent. It spices me up with some courage and I start playing, classical tones filling my small living room.

I feel his energy coming at me again, surrounding me, enveloping me in a cocoon and it fills me with a courage I’ve never felt before. Not even pep talks from Gina or any of my siblings, whom I respect more than anything, fill me with this kind of audacity.

It’s strange and I’m not sure what to do with it, my knees trembling as I play. How can he have this effect on me? I don’t know and maybe I don’t need to know but I can feel it pull us closer, creating an invisible string between us.

Or maybe it’s a chain. Something indestructible.

Throwing him a quick glance, I gasp at the look in his eyes. Absorbing. Intense. Devilish.

He averts his glare, remembering his promise but I almost panic. I want those eyes back on me again. I need them! Suddenly I don’t know how I could ever play without them.

Licking my lips, I whisper, “Please...I want you to l...look at me.”

Stan doesn’t say anything, but his eyes move as quickly as a whiplash back on mine again. It relieves me, grounds me and our gazes lock as I play. I stare at him in fascination. The lights in the living room seem to have dimmed or maybe that’s just my imagination, but I know I’m not imagining that his eyes are changing.

They’re going from that crystal blue, to a darker brown and then black. They stay on the black, holding me in his grip, haunting me. He looks...

Infatuated. Smitten. Obsessed.

When I stop playing, his eyes and the lights in the room return to normal and I put the cello away.

“You’re a good audience, Stan,“ I whisper, my voice breaking a little from emotion. “If everyone were like you...” I search for the right words, “then I’d probably never doubt myself ever again.”

“You won’t,” he says with a lot of certainty and I look at him in surprise. “I’m here now.”

He is. And it seems like he’s a blessing in disguise.

He seems so dedicated to me somehow and it heats me up, heats up the cold I’ve been feeling inside. I’m so grateful for the warmth that I invite him to the concert on Friday.

It’s risky because I could make a fool out of myself but deep down I know that Stan would never hold that against me. Instead he’d probably do everything he can to make me feel better about myself.

“I’ll be there,” he answers in a low voice. And then he reaches out his hand toward me and I don’t even hesitate, reaching out my own and our fingers twist. It’s a slight, innocent touch but for some reason it doesn’t feel so innocent at all.