IV

Well my heart had a problem in the early hours

So I stopped it dead for a beat or two.

But I cut some cord and I shouldn't have done that

Now it won't forgive me after all these years.

- KT Tunstall "Black Horse & The Cherry Tree"

……………………………………………………………………………………………….

Ryan surfaced reluctantly and realized two things: a soft body lay comfortably within his arms and the phone was ringing. Disorientated, he nuzzled into the first, tightening his grip, before the warmth could seep away; the second he tried to ignore. The jangling eventually stopped and he sighed, delving his way back into the grey mist of sleep that hid him from the world.

Then it rang again, incessant. Growling, he half-turned and groped for the receiver.

''Lo,' he mumbled harshly.

'Ryan?' The relief in Sandy's voice was palpable and Ryan stiffened.

'You there? … Ryan?'

'Yeah,' Ryan said. He was awake now. Really awake. Cocking his head, he read the clock. 11:23PM. Shit, was that all?

'Glad I caught you,' Sandy continued and Ryan didn't miss the implication. 'I've been trying to call Kirsten, but she must be asleep.'

Ryan glanced at the still body beside him. 'Uh huh,' he muttered.

There was a pause before Sandy spoke again. 'So, everything okay, kid?'

Peachy. Oh, by the way, I fucked your wife. Hope you don't mind. 'Yeah,' Ryan lied.

'Good. I'll be back tomorrow. We'll talk then.'

You bet.

'And Ryan? … Thanks for not letting me down.' Sandy rang off and Ryan dangled the receiver from his fingers.

Sure. No problem. He dropped the phone to the floor and tried not to hate himself.

………………………………………………………………………………

Kirsten was the mistress of pretence. Since childhood, under the scornful eye of her father, she'd become adept at hiding her emotions. She'd swallowed her grief after her mother's death, internalized her loss after the abortion, stifled her misgivings about Ryan's acceptance into her house and rationalized her initial concerns over Seth's friendship with the boy. Only her feelings for Carter and, later, Caleb's death had caused her mask to slip but, with the aid of seventy-proof, she'd reattached it – crooked, but effective; for a while, at least. Now the mask was gone, ripped from her in a frenzy of passion that shocked her; not because he'd been so violent, but because something within her had responded to it, had welcomed it.

Now she lay quietly, breathing carefully and feigning sleep. Damn Sandy! Her irritation at being woken by her husband's call stemmed not only from the guilt of her betrayal, but because, when the phone rang, Ryan had had to twist his body away from her to seek the source of the annoyance and where there had been warmth, and a measure of security, there was now nothing. Which was crazy, because she should have been angry: angry that he had been spooned against her, holding her as though it was his right to do so; outraged that his bandaged hand had been draped so carelessly over her breast; shocked that she was still here, in this room, where she had been forced to see a side of her that she hadn't known existed; fearful of what tomorrow would bring. But she wasn't feeling any of those things, so she remained still, unsure of what to do.

Any hopes that Ryan would return to her after the call, seeking the solace she too craved, were unfulfilled, so they lay as strangers, sharing space, both afraid, like gauche teenagers whose first experience has been messily disappointing.

Clearly, she was out of her depth. She thought suddenly of Julie. Julie wouldn't have been out of her depth. Julie would have taken everything Ryan had offered, and then begged for more. Sandy had once told her that the only thing that saved Kirsten from becoming like Julie Cooper was him. Perhaps he'd been right, because it seemed whenever he wasn't around, she sought other comforts. And was that his problem, or hers?

She had no idea what time it was, only that it was still dark outside. She was exhausted and her body ached, but it was listless and she felt light-headed, as though removed from herself; it was not she who had allowed Ryan to fuck her. That had been someone else, someone she didn't recognize, and now she replayed the scene over and over in her head, watching this woman with a mixture of wonder and disgust; but where her actions appalled, the memory of his excited.

Had Ryan remained vulnerable she might have withstood him. Just as she had resisted the temptation offered by Carter's hesitant, almost polite, advances, she knew that she could have stayed strong if only Ryan had respected the boundaries. But his need had outweighed hers, his worldliness overshadowing her inexperience, bulldozing her into acceptance. It was the push she'd needed to cross the line. And once over, she was unsure how to get back.

Kirsten had slept with few men, and none since Sandy, and it felt ridiculous that Ryan, so much younger than she, had rendered her an eager girl, uncertain and giddy. But this was no time for silly girlish fantasies, she admonished. She and Ryan were not a couple. There would be no whispered pillow talk, no awkward planning of their next date and none of the excitement that such a future tryst might bring. There was only uncertainty and fear and a terrible sadness.

The question was what happened next? The answer, she acknowledged humiliatingly, was that she simply didn't know. Should she play the wronged older woman who had fallen victim to a younger man's predatory nature? Should she play the ice queen, and leave in regal splendour, draped in a 280 thread-count, her head held high? Should she lie still and hope he left first? Did she even want to leave? Unable to answer any of these questions, she did nothing, miserably hugging the sheet to her, her fingers curling into cotton until they ached.

Ryan sighed behind her, a hate-filled hiss that leaked slowly like pus from a wound and when at last he spoke she froze, staring into the darkness and seeing nothing.

'You need to leave now.'

And so she was dismissed. His voice was flat, and she reacted dully to it because within her wired brain was the realization that her pretence had been for nothing. He had known she was awake; had known and said nothing, done nothing. It wasn't the cue she'd been hoping for and her foolish hopes for an easy end to this mess were smothered by a feminine outrage that she'd been used.

Only faintly was she aware that her heart had started again.

………………………………………………………………………………

There. He'd said it. And it wasn't a lie. He wanted her gone, her naked body out of his bed, away from his hands that itched to touch her again. Exponentially and inexplicably, his lust had grown to match his loathing and he desperately needed to remove the source of both. It would be hours before Sandy returned and, with Ryan's dark side reasoning plenty of ways to fill in the time – The damage is done, dude. No harm in a little follow-up fuck. You know you want to … you know she wants it. C'mon, man, lighten up, have some fun! - he wasn't sure how long he'd be able to hold off.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her slowly sit up, the sheet shielding her breasts but exposing the delicate line of her back. Her skin glowed ghostly in the shadows and he swallowed and shut his eyes, aware only of a deep ache in his chest. Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck! This was not how it was supposed to happen. This was not what he'd rehearsed in his head, over and over until it had become a litany of confession. But words had never been his forte. He'd always let his hands do his talking for him, whether it was to comfort, or bring a girl to a shuddering climax or beat the living shit out of someone; his hands had said it all.

He wanted to apologize, but he didn't know how. And if he did, how could mere words undo the damage these hands had wrought?

So, typically, he said nothing.

……………………………………………………………………………..

Kirsten switched on the lamp and regarded Ryan with something akin to hatred. Was this it? Was this all she was worth; a quick roll on the floor before being shown the door? Where were the explanations, the apologies, the awkward stammerings, the avowals that this would never, ever happen again? Where were the words that should have soothed? Ah, but this was Ryan, after all, she thought sourly; Ryan who was even more skilled than she at masking his emotions. Well … fuck him! Fuck him! How dare he? She quivered with rage and confusion and hurt and her thoughts tumbled like desert weed in a wind. No … yes … wait! … Wasn't this what she'd wanted? This was her excuse … to leave … to hell with him … let Sandy deal with him when he came home … damn her stupidity … fuck Ryan's guilt … fuck Sandy for not being here … fuck everything!

So when she finally spoke it was in half-truths, her words forked and venomous.

'I should never have agreed to let you live here,' she snarled. 'I knew from the moment I saw you that you would bring us nothing but trouble.'

A muscle twitched in Ryan's cheek. 'Yeah, well I'm glad I didn't disappoint you,' he drawled.

She laughed then, a high-pitched cackle that signified her near-hysteria. 'No Ryan, you didn't disappoint me. You vindicated me and for that I thank you.'

'What are you trying to say, Kirsten? That I raped you? Because we both know it isn't true.'

She bit back a retort and glared at him. Now who's vindicated, he thought. He brushed a hand across his eyes. God he was so fucking tired … of everything.

'Just go, Kirsten,' he said. Didn't she realize there was no need for this, that he already blamed himself enough for the two of them? All she had to do was walk out the door and he could save them both.

She hissed. 'You ungrateful bastard! After all we've done for you-'

He held up a hand in mock protest. 'Please! Spare me the lecture about what a fucking saint you've been! How you rescued me from my broken home, my drunken mother, my sad, pathetic life!' His derision matched hers as he lowered his voice and mimicked, 'Oh look, everyone, look what we found! We're going to clean him up and clothe him and let him live with us. He'll be our little experiment!' He spat the last words contemptuously, his eyes dark with unconcealed anger.

'It was never like that! You've always been treated like one of the family. We trusted you-'

He sat up and faced her and she cowered away from his bulk. 'Bullshit! You trusted me just enough to let me live in your fucking poolhouse!'

'We wanted you to have some privacy!' she protested.

'Really? Or was it you who wanted privacy from me?'

She struggled to reply but, unable to defend herself, she attacked instead, petty and vindictive.

'So I'm to leave am I?' she sneered. 'Slink out of here like one of your little sluts-'

He rounded on her. 'What the fuck do you want from me, Kirsten?' he shouted. 'For three years I've tried to give you what I thought you wanted, what you all wanted. It's enough. There's nothing more in here.' Ryan thumped his chest.

'Then I guess it's official. You really are a cold, unfeeling bastard,' she bitched.

He wanted to scream: You want my heart too? Here! Take it. It's yours. It's always been yours! He wished he could take her hand and sink it into his chest and watch her pull the pulsing source of his pain slowly from his body, dripping tears of blood. Because God knows it couldn't hurt any more than it did now. But all he said was, 'Yeah, I guess I am.'

He couldn't bear to look at her anymore and bowed his head, so he didn't see her face crumple or the tears she tried to blink away.

Kirsten watched his head droop and she felt a sudden urge to brush his hair from his face. It needed a cut … oh God! This was all her fault, she thought with absolute clarity. Not Sandy's, for bringing him here; not Ryan's for being here; not Seth's for befriending him and making it so easy for him to stay; not Marissa's for messing him about; not Theresa's for testing his loyalty; not Trey's for betraying him. No, it was her fault. For not seeing what she should have seen, for not being what she should have been.

Ryan heard her sob and wished he had some comfort to offer, but he hadn't been lying; even pity was beyond him now.

'Don't worry, Kirsten' he jeered coldly. 'Maybe Sandy will forgive you, maybe he won't. It's nothing a bottle of vodka won't cure-'

Her slap was like a gunshot, he thought absurdly; you heard the crack before you felt the bullet. His retaliation was instinctive. Grabbing her hand he twisted it viciously, forcing her back onto the bed. She screamed with fury and hit out at him again, her fist glancing off his other cheek. He grunted and swung his hips away, narrowly avoiding the knee that jabbed at his groin. She twisted beneath his grasp, all sinew and spite, and he swore when her nails gouged his skin.

Don't do this, his brain hammered but he was past caring. His dark half had won; he would get his follow up fuck. He threw a thigh across her legs, pinning them to the bed and, capturing the fist she wielded like a club, forced it up above her head. He had seen Kirsten dressed in gowns of sequin and silk, sheathes that teased and caressed her body. He had seen her power-suited and sweat-suited, bikini-clad and naked. But she'd never looked more glorious than she did now, with her face tear-stained, her body straining against the weight of his, the sheet tangled about her hips.

Don't do this. He dragged her other hand up, easily gripping both in one of his. She growled with frustration, but still struggled. Don't do this. His free hand skimmed her skin, dipping into the hollow of her armpit, brushing the curve of her breast, teasing her nipple. She panted, watchful and wary. Don't do this. He lowered his face until it was inches from hers. Don't do this. Her tongue darted nervously over her lips. Don't do this. He groaned in anticipation and something like triumph flashed in her eyes.

Don't do this! his brain screamed. But as his mouth touched hers, he was lost. He traced her lips with his tongue, teasing and caressing and at her first moans, released her hands, knowing instinctively there was no need to restrain her. And when those hands cupped his face and brought his mouth down hard on hers, when those slender arms clasped him and held him close, the power shifted and he surrendered.

There was no haste, no frenzied coupling. Deftly she pulled the tank top over his head and kissed his chest, her small hands and her soft lips delighting in the feel of him. Slowly, he pulled away the sheet and bent to kiss her breasts and her belly. She opened her legs and he slipped between them and kissed her there too, feasting on her, his tongue darting and teasing, lapping like one who has ever thirsted. His fingers played with her, bringing her to the brink and letting her go, time and time again. And though he needed no encouragement, her hands tangled in his hair, urging him and stinging his scalp. When at last she convulsed he traced his tongue up her body, pausing at her breasts, tasting the salt of her sweat, smelling the perfume of her desire.

She was languid, soporific in the aftermath of her orgasm but he could not afford to wait. He pushed down his sweatpants and wriggled them off, then guided her hands to him. His breath caught at her first tentative touch, then exhaled slowly as she grew more bold, exploring the length of him. With practiced skill he rolled over, pulling her on top of him. She smiled knowingly, slyly, and, slithering down his body, bent her head, taking him into her mouth, sliding her tongue and teeth around him. The sight of her there was the most erotic thing he'd ever seen, and he gripped her hard, driving her on until he threatened to burst. With a low growl, he hauled her up and kissed her hard, bruising her mouth. The time for games was over.

He reached across and with a practiced twist, opened the drawer of the nightstand, fumbling for a condom, but she stopped his hand and shook her head.

'No need,' she whispered, a little sad, a little wistful and then it was gone.

She placed both hands on his shoulders, pushing him into the mattress. Straddling his body, she eased herself onto him and his mind screamed as he felt her hot flesh close tightly over him. With infinite slowness she masterminded each stroke and as she rode him he stiffened more and swelled further until every thrust was sweet torture. Again, she came before he did, crying aloud in her excitement, but he didn't let her stop. Pain was a beautiful thing but relief was better and, gripping her hips, he helped her bring him to a climax.

And as he did with so many other things, when it finally came, Ryan welcomed his mindless pulsating release with stoicism.

tbc