Page 22 of Stutter

I pray I hear him call out to me, to come back, to get on my knees and crawl to him… but he doesn’t. It’s just more silence between us, dividing us. I groan inwardly. I can’t believe I’m dying to be back under his desk in his study warming his cock with my mouth while he grades papers.

I almost whine like a dog I want it so badly.

As if he knew the outcome, I find Jonas waiting for me, leaning against the wall outside of class and he simply takes my hand in his. I let him guide me away, swallowing my emotions down, down, down.

Chapter Six

Maverick.

Tensionheadaches plague me.

Since my flight landed on American soil and I arrived at the mausoleum I call home, they’ve been on and off. I know what’s causing them. I no longer sleep with her in my arms and for that, I suffer. Every morning my alarm goes off at the same time, my arm going to her side of the bed, to find it cold and empty. I then sit up, inhale then exhale deeply, relieve myself, wash my hands, face, brush my teeth, and stretch.

After doing the mundane, I start the timer on my Keurig, and since it’s now too dark to run out in the woods by the lake, I go downstairs and begin my run on my treadmill. No music. No Audible. Just me. Running until my sides hurt, my thighs burn, my lungs screaming for air. Because that’s the only time the ache in my chest is something different.

That’s when I can breathe.

My coffee tastes like ash and when it burns my tongue, after I shower and get dressed, I still can hardly feel it. Hardly feel anything.

I was disciplined.

I had a routine.

I rub my temple as I drive over the snowy bridge to Rayne-Moore. Kingston, the tiny town beside Salem you usually drive past, or consider a part of Salem, where I reside, feels like awasteland. My home feels decrepit. And I feel like I’m consistently on the verge of leaving it all behind.

I went toParisfor fucks sakes.

Henry’s words still ring in my head every fucking day since we sat on that plane over the Atlantic.

The thoughts that plague me most is could I leave it all behind? Her? If I put in my resignation now, could I find another job at a different university before the start of the new semester?

No. While RMU was only a steppingstone to get teaching under my belt, I can’t leave her behind. If anything, I’d take her with me. With or without them.

She could graduate anywhere else.

I just need time. I need… her to tell me everything. This wasn’t miscommunication. This was choosing to not tell me. Lies by omission. To keep me in the dark. Yes, she gave me the fucking binder. But there’s so much more she hasn’t told me.

I regret leaving Paris.

Regret not taking her into my arms instead of pushing her away the day I begged her to speak to me because speak, she did – a morsel of a phrase, and still, I pushed.

I used to never regret anything.

I park my Navigator in the faculty parking lot and trek my way into the large, ostentatious stone building, making it to my classroom so I can change from my boots to my shoes, taking off my beanie, scarf, gloves and coat.

I then go and wait for students to begin sliding into their seats. I’m surprised when she walks in, still so beautiful my heart stammers in my chest, her hair cascading down past her shoulders, thick, black tights under her yellow-and-black plaid skirt. While my cock desperately wants to reconcile and get reacquainted with her – I can’t deal yet. So instead of the lesson I had planned for the day, I turn off the lights and play a video. Ignoring her. Jonas. All of them. I’m not even sure I played the right video. The one I had pre-selected for Wednesday. I can feel her eyes on me from my podium and when I let my gaze flick over to hers, she’s sitting there like the broken little doll I love, staringat me, unblinking… unmoving, silently beckoning me to make her move, to make her talk, to play with her.

Not once does she look at the screen, not once does her hand move over her notebook even though she holds a pen so tightly her knuckles turn white. No, she’s just… there. I hold my composure until the end of the film and dismiss the class, unable to handle the headache forming in my temples. I go to my office, seeking solace and comfort in the quiet, since it’s somewhat dark, the sun still hiding behind the dark, snow-heavy clouds when I feel her.

My haunting little siren. Except now, her song is quiet. Still alluring, but only a hum.

Her feet shuffle quietly, making almost no noise so when she knocks on my door jamb I don’t expect it. But it’s two small little knocks, enough for me to gather my composure and my wits so I can face her.

And when my eyes settle on my Siren, it devastates me.

She looks good, great. Healthy. Beautiful. But there’s a sadness in her eyes I put there. A cloud of melancholy as dark as the skies over Rayne-Moore. The same ones that pester me. I want to drag her into my lap, keep her with me all day, smell her, kiss her, taste her, fuck her slow and raw, let my body say everything my lips can’t and that is where our impasse stays.

She can’t speak or refuses to and I don’t know how to articulate my apology. She’s not one for apologies. She’s the kind for actions. I have a gut feeling even when and if she’ll choose to actually part her lips and talk to me, she’ll revert to sign language.

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