I don’t know the answer to that, but I know he does.
So why don’t I ask?
Because my throat closes and sticks. He might see the panic on my face, but he’s behind me, rolling to one side, still buried deep, still thick, still pulsating with the aftershocks. I’m still quaking, too, still shuddering and shivering uncontrollably in wave after wave of post-orgasm earthquakes. Some of the shudders are from panic, though. He doesn’t see. He slips out of me, out of bed and into the bathroom. I hear him wash his hands, and then he comes back and sidles up behind me and presses against me. His manhood is still slightly turgid, and he buries it between the globes of my backside. Even in my panic, I love that feeling.
And loving that sets off more panic. I just sinned. I had sex with a man. Three times, I had sex with him. Well, twice. I’m not sure if making him orgasm with my mouth counts as sex, but it definitely counts as sin. And letting him do the same, more times than I can count? He made me orgasm so many times. I never even bothered counting.
Does that multiply my sin?
I’m not married to him. Not even engaged. I’m not even positive of his middle name. I don’t know where he went to high school.
In the darkness of predawn, it’s easy to feel the condemnation. I haven’t thought of my father, really thought of him, in months. But now I remember him telling me I’d fall into a life of sin. And I have. Look at the life I’ve been living. He was right. Oh. Oh, god. God, forgive me. He was right. I hear and feel Dawson fall back asleep, and so he misses the single sob that escapes me. I shudder, and his arm tightens on me, tucked just beneath my br**sts. I can’t breathe. Can’t…breathe.
What have I done? What have I let happen?
Exactly what I knew would happen, right from the first moment I saw him. I knew I would fall and lose myself in him, and I have. I fell in love, fell into sin.
I try to rationalize my way out of it: It’s not sin. I love him. He loves me. And I don’t even really believe in any of that anymore, do I? No. I don’t. I didn’t just have sex; I certainly didn’t f**k. I made love, mutual love, to a good man. A wonderful man who’s never done anything but try to take care of me and protect me and give to me. I’m not a pastor’s daughter anymore. I don’t go to church. I don’t believe in God. So I haven’t sinned.
Have I? Or doesn’t it matter whether I believe?
I once heard Daddy—my father—telling a man in his congregation who was caught in adultery that it doesn’t matter whether you believe in God or sin; He believes in you, and will judge you regardless of whether you choose to believe or not.
My head is spinning crazily, whirling, throbbing.
Other parts of me throb, too.
I worm my way out of Dawson’s grip, leaving him in the bed, clutching a now-empty space. He’s so peaceful, so beautiful. I can’t help but just stare at him, and for the briefest moment, my worries vanish under the weight of the sheer rugged masculine beauty of the man and the tumultuous, tempestuous storm of emotions he incites in me.
Then they are back with a vengeance.
I walk to the bathroom, although hobble is a more appropriate word. My privates throb, ache, and twinge. My thighs tremble and hurt. Everything down there aches, but the memory of how that ache came about is sugar-sweet. Even through my guilt, I can’t regret doing it. I regret my guilt, regret my upbringing that I can’t just enjoy the love of Dawson.
God, I’m so confused. I’m overwhelmed to the point of breathless pain by the guilt and shame of what I just did, but at the same time a part of me is contented and self-satisfied and smug and in total bliss. The guilt, the Baptist shame, tells me the smug satisfaction is the seed of sin.
After using the toilet, wash my hands, and find my clothes in the darkness. I dress quietly, facing away from Dawson. Even my bra chafing my ni**les now feels sensual, arousing, because it reminds me of Dawson’s fingers and lips there. And my underwear, too, brings Dawson to mind, the way his tongue speared into my folds…I almost fall in and drown in that rapturous memory, but Dawson stirs and I’m shaken into moving.
I’m creeping out, watching Dawson return to sleep, and then stealing down the stairs, out the front door with my purse over my shoulder and the keys to the Rover in my hand. I don’t know where I’m going, except away. I’m too confused, and I can’t think around Dawson because I’ll just want him all over again, and I already do want him. Even sore and aching, each step making my core throb, I want him. I want more.
I leave the neighborhood, carefully navigating away from the overstated grandeur of Beverly Hills. I find myself in the long-term parking lot of LAX, at the Delta counter. I don’t even know where the ticket I just bought will take me, and I don’t care. Nothing sticks in my awareness. I’m on autopilot, struggling against the current of guilt, against the thunderstorm of warring thoughts, needs, fears, guilt, desires.
I shouldn’t love him.
But I do. And why not?
It was sin.
It was the greatest pleasure I’ve ever known, and I’ll spend every moment of the rest of my life wanting and needing more.
He loves me.
But he barely knows me, and what if he finds someone else? Someone prettier? Someone more experienced? What if he has to do a love scene and I can’t handle it? There’s no if there; I couldn’t take that. It would ruin me.
But I’m already ruined. No longer a virgin.
That’s not ruin, that’s beauty. The ache between my thighs is a reminder of love. Of the fervor of his desire.
My internal struggle runs on a continuous loop and it makes me dizzy. I make my disoriented way to a gate somewhere in the depths of LAX. I’m not really hearing anything or seeing anything. I hear announcements, boarding notices, warnings. And then people in the waiting area around my gate stand up and start gathering around the counter that funnels into the boarding tube. I think I see Dawson’s dark hair and broad shoulders, but it’s not him. He’s home—his home—sleeping. He doesn’t even know I’ve left.
I find my absent way to a seat by a window in the very back of the airplane. I hate flying, and I should be terrified, but I have no room for anything but the vortex of guilt and shame and love.
I ran away from Dawson again. He probably won’t come after me this time.
I’ve lost him.
I should never have had him.
After a while, the jet taxis, and the pilot’s voice comes on over the PA. Something he’s saying breaks through the fog: “…third in line to take off, so things should be moving along shortly. We’ve got some good tailwind, so we should have you landing in Atlanta in just a few hours from now. Thanks.”