He saw her every other day for five weeks before she spoke to him again. The class had just received their midterm papers back and her eyes were on him when the teacher reached his desk. He’d received an A on his paper, the grade marked in red at the top corner of his title page.
“Nice work, Ethan,” Mr. Bristol said with a smile. “You’re writing at college level. Keep it up.”
She was waiting for him by the door after class.
“Walk me home,” she said. It wasn’t a request. It was a command.
“Walk me home,” he said, and she smiled.
Ten minutes later they were at his house.
“Are your parents here?” she asked as they entered through the side door. She shrugged out of her light cardigan and looked around the small but well-decorated space.
“George and Helen are my foster parents.” His eyes darted to her face to gauge her reaction. “They both work till seven.”
She smiled a smile he couldn’t interpret. “Wish I had foster parents. I’m staying in a group home.”
He knew that already but nodded politely. “You want something to drink?”
“Not really. Where’s your room?”
Thirty minutes later, books open and cast aside, she was naked from the waist up.
She lay underneath him on his bed, her long hair fanned out over the pillow. She smelled of lilacs and rain forest and he couldn’t stop kissing her. Her lips were a wonder all to themselves, at times soft and yielding, at times hard and demanding. In the background, the radio was tuned to a rock station.
He was propped up on top of her, eyes squeezed shut, humping her with his pants still on. He didn’t ever want to stop kissing her. His palms massaged her bare breasts and he was delirious with joy and desire. When he opened his eyes a moment later, he saw that she was staring at him, a small smile on her face.
“Are you okay?” he whispered, slowing down.
She nodded, but her expression hinted at something different. Placing both her hands on his chest, she pushed him gently off her.
He sat up on the bed, confused. Had he done something wrong? Were they finished? Had she changed her mind?
“Don’t worry,” she said, as if she could read his thoughts. “Just getting into position. I want to get closer to you.”
She pulled her jeans down, then her underwear, motioning for him to do the same. He couldn’t take his eyes off the dark thatch of hair between her legs as she climbed on top of him. When he tried to lie back on the bed, she shook her head.
“No, stay like you are.” She sat on him, reaching down to help him slide inside her. A groan escaped his lips. The wetness and warmth were beyond words.
Sitting up, locked together like this, his face was right against hers. He kissed her deeply and another groan escaped him as she started moving her hips. Her hair was so long that the soft ends tickled his thighs.
He wasn’t sure what to do with his hands-at the moment, they were around her waist, pulling her to him, but did she want them somewhere else?
She stopped kissing him long enough to ask, “Is this your first time?”
He nodded. “Should we-I can go see if George has condoms…”
Without slowing down, she reached behind her, taking both his hands in hers. Her eyes were fixed on his when she placed his hands around her throat.
“Squeeze,” she said.
He stared at her, his hips still rocking under hers. “What?”
“Squeeze.”
He obliged her and closed his fingers around her delicate neck, but gently. He understood what she wanted, but he didn’t want to hurt her.
“A little harder,” she said. “It’s okay.”
“Are you sure?”
“Trust me, I’ll tell you when to ease up.” Her eyes were focused on his and she kissed him, her tongue searching his mouth urgently.
There were no words for the exquisite pleasure, no words to describe the incredible feeling of connectedness he had with her at this moment. It was better than anything he could have imagined. She threw her head back, thrusting into him faster. Almost without thinking, his fingers tightened.
A few seconds later, he pulled his hands away from her throat, scared he’d hurt her.
She took his hands and put them back. “Don’t worry.” Her eyes were locked on his and her voice was patient. “I’ll tell you when it’s too much. Really, I like it. It intensifies it for me.”
She tilted her head back again, placing her hands behind her, palms resting just above his knees. Her thrusts were long and deep. Leaning forward, he devoured her breasts. His hands stayed around her throat as she wanted, squeezing. It wasn’t long before he began to lose himself in her again, and he only vaguely heard the DJ on the radio announce the next song.
“Creep,” by Radiohead.
“I love this song,” she whispered, extending an arm toward the stereo to turn up the volume. “It makes me feel so…”
She didn’t finish her sentence, but he didn’t need her to because he knew what she was trying to say.
“Creep” was about obsession, unrequited love, and self-pity… feelings he understood all too well.
She didn’t slow her rhythm and his orgasm quickly approached. He tried to hold it off, tried to think of something else so it wouldn’t be over too quickly. He conjured up images of the foster father who smacked him around, the kids at school who snubbed him, the home for boys he’d lived in for two years after his mother died.
And all the while he kept squeezing. But inevitably, an incredible warmth began to spread throughout his body and he gave up. Sighing deeply, he closed his eyes and went with it, squeezing her delicate throat harder and harder.
He dimly felt her writhing in his hands, bucking and smacking at his face and scratching at his arms, but between the heady music and his approaching orgasm, there was no way to stop.
He felt himself let go, felt the pent-up release of weeks of watching her, waiting for her, dreaming of her. He came so hard he shook. Thrusting his hips upward into hers, he milked every moment, the pure bliss washing over him, controlling everything, controlling nothing.
When he opened his eyes a moment later, she was slumped in his arms, her forehead on his chest, still as a rag doll. He kissed the top of her head, spent and exhausted, but she didn’t move, didn’t speak.
He said her name gently, rubbing her back, feeling a small sense of pride at having tired her out this much. Not bad for a first time. She didn’t respond. He spoke her name louder twice more, but still, there was no movement.
Tilting her head back to look at her, he saw that her eyes were closed and her lips were slightly parted. A line of saliva ran down the side of her mouth to her chin. He wiped it away, confused. Then he saw the two deep red marks around her throat.
Thumb-size marks, made by his thumbs. He’d squeezed so hard he’d bruised her. Alarmed, he shook her, but her head lolled back onto his chest with a thump.
Pressing his index and middle finger to the side of her neck as he’d been taught to do in health class, he tried feeling for a pulse. He couldn’t find one. When he placed his head against her breast, he couldn’t hear anything.
If she was breathing, he couldn’t tell. If she had a heartbeat, he couldn’t hear it.
The music reverberated through his bedroom as “Creep” reached its climax, falsetto voice against heavy guitar.
He pushed her head back again and moved her hair off her face, which was slack and unnaturally pale in the late-afternoon light. Her naked torso was shiny with sweat, no doubt a mixture of both hers and his. Her naturally rosy lips were almost colorless.