Page 32 of Xantera
“Good night,” she replies, still seated.
She’s still seated, from what I can tell from my peripheral vision, when I close our joint bedroom door behind us.
Is she still there? Malcolm mouths, all traces of his earlier act dissolving.
I press my ear to our bedroom door, listening for the sound of footsteps, the creak of the floor, or the squeak of hinges to indicate that the sentry is leaving.
Nothing. I can almost sense her held breath, though, the pause of expectation, and I swing my head back toward Malcolm to nod.
Yes, she’s still there.
A new emotion steals over his features. It’s not fear, exactly, but more like resignation. His shoulders droop, and his mouthbecomes a weak line of pressed lips as he realizes, no doubt, what this means: it’s our first Sunday as a secret non-couple, and we’re going to be forced into having sex by the very authority figures we thought we could dupe.
It’s impossible to escape their control. That sentry in our living room is no less of an invasion of privacy than the camera mounted above our screen. She is a whip that the Guardians wield to make sure we stay in line, and for the first time in my life, I’m wondering what that line actually looks like. Is it really just the Wall that contains us, or have they molded us into cages so tight, there’s no room to breathe?
Malcolm is actually trembling as he tosses his shirt over his head, revealing the soft planes of his pale chest. It’s a chest I’ve seen so many times before, but it feels different, seeing him undress now. Before our conversation a few days ago, we were still under the illusion that we might grow into wanting each other. Now, this is just an assault on our bodily autonomy. A mockery of the small choice we gave ourselves permission to make.
I watch Malcolm begin to unbuckle his pants when a sudden idea hits me square in the chest.
What if we could still dupe them?
These bodies areours. I won’t let anyone else decide what to do with them.
“Stop,” I whisper, throwing out a palm and hitting Malcolm in the chest. He freezes in place, and his eyes follow me as I make my way to our shared bed, crawling up to the metal headboard with my cloak still fluttering around me. I curl my fingertips around two metal arches, as if I’m gripping a pair of horns.
Then I begin to rock in place.
The headboard hits the wall.Bump.Bump.Bump. The floor beneath us creaks. They’re sounds I’ve heard over and over for the past six months, like the heartbeat of my dissatisfaction. I look over my shoulder to find that Malcolm’s jaw has actually dropped open.
It’s just a soft thump, but the vibrations travel through the thin walls.
“C’mon,” I whisper. “Help me.”
He stays rooted to the spot for another few seconds before he shakes his head and crawls onto the bed next to me. Then he takes hold of the headboard and rocks, too.
Thebump, bump, bumpagainst the wall increases in its fervor. I swear to all Guardians, we’ve never made our bed rock like this while having real sex before, but I find a laugh crawling up my throat as we increase our vigorous movements in unison.
“Groan a little bit,” I whisper out of the corner of my mouth.
“What?”
“You know, the sound you make when you’re getting into it.”
He pulls a horrified expression, so I take the opportunity to let go of the headboard with one hand, grab a pillow beneath me, and smash it across his face.
“Ugh.” His muffled grunt is perfect, and I hit him again. “Ugh.”
“That’s it!” I hiss. “You’re doing great.”
“You’ve got to be kidding—ugh,” he cuts himself off as my pillow catches him again.
I grin. “Have fun with it.”
Now I’m actively clamping down on the laugh in my mouth at the look he gives me in return. It’s exasperation and playfulness all in one, something I’ve never seen on his face before. It almost feels like a privilege to witness it. This is probably the most fun I’ve ever had with him, no orgasms required.
Malcolm takes advantage of my pause to snag his own pillow and whip it across my face before I can hit him again.
I shriek, more out of surprise than anything else. The soft, fluffy thing does little more than fuel a sense of competition within me, and soon we’re both pummeling each other with our pillows, turning our laughs into forced grunts and moans. I think I might hear footsteps outside our room, followed by the opening and shutting of the front door, but we don’t stop our pretending, evenafter the sentry leaves. The camera is still on, after all, recording every sound.
