Page 63 of Heathens
Once I give him a run-down of the enlarger and the photo paper, we step over to the film to decide which pictures we’re going to print. I feel him behind me—an easy feat, considering the darkroom is technically a closet that I outfitted with a fan and a sink. Squinting, I pull one of the rolls toward me, being careful not to touch anything besides the edges of the negatives. The images are inverted, but I point to one—the Eiffel tower clear, sparkling, and the people walking around it in a blur. We load the enlarger, and I instruct him on what to do, trying not to laugh at the scowl forming on his forehead. He’s concentrating so hard...
Messing with the dials, he adjusts the focus and size, and when I tell him, he starts the timer, creating a test strip. Once we determine the exposure, he loads the paper all by himself, still in deep absorption.
I tell him how to put the paper into each of the chemicals, and finally, we hang it to dry next to the negatives. It’s even better on 8x11 paper—the contrast perfect, the composition flawless.
“You took this one, obviously,” he murmurs, studying it with rapt fascination.
I shake my head. “I think you did. Look,” I say, pointing to the tower. “I was to the left of you. Your vantage point was a little to the right. This was all you, Salem.”
He looks down at me, his face still scowling. “Let art get you through the dark,” he mutters, his face easing into a slow smile.
I laugh. “You should’ve walked away that day,” I joke, crossing my arms and shaking my head. I feel a piece of my hair fall from where I pinned it up. Salem’s pupils darken as they follow the movement.
“I found what I was looking for,” he says softly. I swallow, my body going very still. “Actually, I found something much greater than that.”
“Salem—”
He steps forward, effectively shutting me up. My body ignites at the feel of him pressed against me. Backing up against the wall, his face becomes serious and furtive, dark and glowing. Something overcomes me as his eyes lock onto mine—a deep, throbbing pleasure in knowing he’s here—full, present, and unreactive to everything I’ve thrown at him. Despite my emotional storms. Despite my darkness. Love—this is what love feels like. Maybe it’s too soon to admit that, but as his eyes soften, I realize that he feels it too. He loves me through the layers of wildness. The trust and love—it’s intoxicatingly potent. I would defy this world for him.And the next.
I reach up and pull his lips to mine.
He moans into my mouth, pressing against me roughly as I lift my head. His mouth finds my neck, and his hands force mine up above my head as he worships my body, his hands feeling, touching, caressing, idolizing. Our breaths are hot and humid, mixing with the sweat on our bodies. I feel myself open for him—and I'm not sure if it's the heat or the way he's looking at me like I'm something to be revered, something to be relished.
He moves his hand down my stomach slowly, and I arch my back at his touch, his fingers leaving a trail of fire in their wake. He stops just below my belly button, halting everything and pulling away slightly. I respond by throwing my head back and moving my body closer. Silent permission.
He unbuttons my shorts slowly, his breath on my collarbone, my neck, my ear. Everything about him makes me dizzy. I was so afraid of being the bad one—so afraid of corrupting him. But as his palm slides lower, I realize he’s a violent sin wrapped in wholesome eyes. The thought makes my blood pulse, my thoughts clouding with bewilderment and lust.
His calloused fingertips find my clit, and that first touch jolts me, exploding through me. It’s been so long since I’ve been touched like that. He moves his hand in circles, his breathing heavy, the black pools of his enlarged pupils as he watches me... I can barely hold myself up. Without any warning, he slides two fingers inside of me, curving them ever so slightly. I quiver beneath his touch, utterly limp and useless as my insides clench around his fingers. He starts moving them slowly, but soon his arm pounds into me, the sounds and smells of the darkroom chemicals andhimcausing me to cry out.
“I want you to come for me,“ he growls—low and deep—pressing his evident desire into my hip. Hearing those words come out of the same mouth that heard my confession all those weeks ago—the mouth with cherry lips—the lips which are now parted as he bares his teeth in absorption...
My God, have mercy.
I can’t even speak, though I’m sure if I could, it would be in a mix of tongues and prayers.
My heart begins to race in my chest, fluttering and sparking my body to spasm. My legs begin to shake as I throw my head back and moan loud enough for the whole building to hear it. It seems to spur Salem on, because he ups his tempo, and his hands get a little bit rougher, mixing pain with pleasure...
I can feel him—his sweat, his skin sliding against mine, his hand reaching up, up, up... It’s as if his hand is reaching up and gripping my heart, my soul, my very existence.
My whole body tenses as Salem murmurs something about my tightness—something dirty and bossy and foul—and adds a third finger just as my climax shoots through me. Every muscle in my abdomen, every nerve between my legs stretches out with warmth until it hits me—a rolling, fiery heat down my spine as I climax. I buck my hips and claw at his shirt until the last of it leaves me.
An exorcism of who I once was.
I have no idea when he infiltrated me so thoroughly, but I know I’ll never be the same again.
Panting, he removes his hand and takes a step back, shaking his head as if he doesn’t know what overcame him. I’m trembling against the wall, my shorts barely hugging my lower hips, my knees weak. My hair unpinned itself at some point, and now it’s sticking to my back. His wild, feral eyes find mine, and slowly, he smiles and lifts his fingers to his lips, slipping them inside of his mouth. Tasting me—devouring all of it. Watching him do that sends another frenzy of white-hot fervor through me, and at that moment, I realize I’ll never get enough of Salem Tempest. I want to throw myself at him. I want to drop to my knees and pull him into my mouth. I need to touch him. Caress him. Adore him.
Fuck him.
I feel as though I’m on fire and only Salem can quench it.
He's awakened an endless longing, and I know for sure that I'll never be able to go back to the girl I was before him—the girl who didn't get treated like a goddess. The misunderstood girl who thought she'd be alone in her darkness forever. Salem is in my veins now. He'd taken hold of my heart and wrapped himself around it, his thorns piercing the organ over and over until I was ready to kneel and beg for more.
“I have to go to church,“ he says, his voice mystified, his pants taut. He adjusts himself, and I lick my lips.
“Okay,” I whisper, trying to hide the smile forming on my lips at the irony. “Have a good day, Father Tempest.”
Those two words do something funny to him—they simultaneously baffle and turn him on.
