Teaching Willow: Session One Read online

  “Oh shit,” I breathe quietly into the empty apartment. In my mind, I’m already back in damage control mode again, thinking of ways I can explain my sister up and leaving when I just went to great lengths to convince Ebon of Sage’s love for him. All the plausible scenarios that I can contrive are contingent upon Sage being around to pull them off, which she isn’t. No matter what I think of, her being gone leaves me in the lurch.

  That’s when an idea occurs to me. It begins as a seed of absurdity and desperation, but the more I think about it, the more appealing it becomes.

  I could pretend to be Sage.

  With some makeup and her wardrobe, there are probably very few people outside of our parents who could tell us apart. And I doubt Ebon is one of those people. He hasn’t been dating Sage that long. And he did remark on how much we look alike. The differences are very few, physically.

  I accept and reject the idea a hundred times before I wander into Sage’s room and open her closet. The girl is a clothes whore to say the least. It would take a dozen suitcases to clean out her closet, which means there is plenty left for me to choose from if I decide to pursue this elaborate ruse tonight.

  Which I might.

  If I’m evil.

  Or desperate.

  I’m sitting on the end of Sage’s bed, staring blankly into the closet when my phone rings, nearly unseating me. I check the caller ID hoping it’s Sage, saying that she’s changed her mind.

  But it’s not. It’s Tiffany.

  “Hello?” I answer in a small voice, feeling like a lesser person already, just for even considering such a deception.

  “Hey, Willow, it’s Tiffany,” she says, as if I wouldn’t recognize her voice.

  “Hey, Tiff. What’s up?”

  “Are we still going to see that new Channing Tatum movie tonight?”

  I consider her question for a minute, wondering silently if I could possibly be fit company for anybody tonight. My mood is so sour even the handsome Channing Tatum might not be able to eclipse it. Which would ruin the whole experience for Tiffany. Channing is her favorite. And why not? He’s hot.

  But not hot like Ebon.

  In my head, there isn’t even a pause before I finish the thought. There isn’t a man on the planet who appeals to me the way Ebon does, physically or otherwise.

  I wonder absently if I could ever regret going to any extreme to be with him. Is any risk too great for a chance to spend an evening with Ebon as his love interest? Are there any lengths I wouldn’t go to for more time with him?

  In that moment, I tell myself that there is little that I wouldn’t do for him.

  That’s when the tide shifts deep inside my heart. That’s when I make up my mind.

  I will pretend to be my sister. I will spend the evening with the man I’m in love with and then I’ll end it between them. That’s it. Just this one. To do what must be done.

  Feeling more in control now that I have a plan, I set about putting it in motion. The first step is to cancel on Tiffany. “I think I’m going to stay in tonight. Can I get a rain check?”

  I hear the disappointment in her tone and guilt washes through me. “Yeah, sure. Maybe next weekend,” she proposes solemnly.

  “Yeah, let’s plan for that.”

  “Okay. But you’ll still be coming to play rehearsal Monday night, right?”

  Romeo and Juliet, shit!

  I’d forgotten all about it. I’ve been in a daze of humiliation since Sage confessed to what she’d done. It seems like a lot has slipped my mind these last couple of days.

  “Oh, of course. I wouldn’t miss it.”

  “Good. I’ll see you Monday night, then.”

  “Perfect.”

  After I hang up, I stand to my feet and approach the closet again, this time looking in earnest for something suitable to wear. I’m really going to do this. But just this once.

  Questions like what if Sage finds out and what if Ebon knows the difference run through my head, but I’m so focused on fixing things that I refuse to consider being found out. I’ll make it up as I go. And I’ll do it flawlessly. I have to. I have to make him think I’m Sage. One way or the other.

  Besides, if I get busted, there’s always the death/plastic surgery/surf shop options. Either way, Ebon is worth the effort, worth the risk. And, if I succeed, things will go back to normal and I’ll be able to keep him in my life, at least for a little while longer. And that is worth almost anything.

  ********

  Becoming my sister is harder than I thought it would be. Of course, it’s not something I ever really considered doing so…

  I shower, making sure to use Sage’s perfumed shower gel and her favorite shampoo. Thank goodness she forgot some of that stuff when she packed. That or she was planning on getting more when she arrives…wherever it is that she’ll be. Was it London?

  I shave my legs and under my arms, and then carefully groom my bikini area. I have no idea how Sage takes care of her business, but I’d be willing to bet she gets Brazilians. With that in mind, thinking I’ll get totally into the Sage role, I go back and shave it all. Might as well feel like my sister from head to toe. Maybe it’ll help me act more like her, too.

  I get out and towel off, smoothing lotion over my silky skin and then dressing in Sage’s clothes. For tonight, I chose a short, black skirt and an off-the-shoulder sweater in dark pink, something I’ve seen Sage lounge around in before and something that really complements her—our—coloring. I blow out my hair and flip the inky wave to the left, tucking a few strands behind my ear, like I’ve seen Sage do. I even find in her vanity a few of the colorful streaks that she puts in her hair sometimes. I clip one pink strand into the hair beneath my right ear. It plays peek-a-boo as I move my head and the color matches my sweater almost perfectly.

  Now, to tackle my mask.

  I’ve never worn much in the way of cosmetics, but (like every girl) I used to love to play with them and I’ve watched Sage apply her makeup my whole life. That alone helps my “face” to go on better than I expected. Luckily, I had some cosmetics left from having to fix myself up to attend a cousin’s wedding back in the summer. Otherwise, I’d have been screwed.

  When I stand back to look at my reflection, just under two hours later, I’m quite pleased with what I see. I’m a prettier version of myself. I’m…Sage.

  Once my transformation is complete, I wander out into the living room and stop beside the couch.

  “Now what?” I ask the silence. My palms are sticky and my heart is racing. The worst part is that Ebon didn’t say what time he’d be by, so all I can do is wait. And worry. And pace. And try not to sweat.

  I make my way into the kitchen and open the fridge to get some water. I spy the half-full bottle of red wine on the top shelf. I reach for it, uncorking it and holding it to my nose. The fruity aroma makes my dry mouth water.

  “You’ll do,” I say as I kick the door shut and take a wine glass off of the overhead rack.

  I pour myself a glass and take it to the sofa, curling up on one end and leafing through one of Sage’s magazines. I’m starting to feel more comfortable in “her” skin with every sip of wine that I take.

  One glass turns into two and my head is feeling noticeably light. I think to myself that maybe getting a little tipsy is the answer. Ebon can chalk any minor…inconsistencies up to Sage drinking too much. And considering that he just dumped her, getting drunk doesn’t sound unrealistic at all. With that in mind, I pour myself another glass, finishing off the remainder of the bottle.

  I glance at the clock. Eleven minutes past eight. How long might I have to wait?

  My answer comes precisely fourteen minutes later.

  At 8:25, I hear a soft knock at the door. My heart leaps into my throat, choking off my air supply for a few seconds. I stand to my feet, and smooth my hair and my skirt, forcing a deep breath into my tight lungs. I hold out my hands and find them steady, which bolsters my confidence. Yes, the wine was definitely a good idea.r />
  I walk to the door and open it a crack. Standing on the other side of the threshold, looking positively gorgeous in a soft gray and white-striped rugby shirt and black jeans, his hair still damp from his shower, is Ebon. I can’t help but stare.

  He gives me a small, crooked smile. “You gonna let me in?”

  “Oh,” I say, understandably reserved. “Sure.” I swing the door wide and let Ebon pass before closing it snugly behind him. He walks to the center of the room, glancing around before turning back to me.

  “Is Willow here?”

  I keep an iron grip on my features. “No,” I reply calmly. And, tonight, she’s really not.

  Ebon nods his head toward the coffee table where my nearly-empty wine glass sits. “Have you been drinking?” he asks.

  “I had a glass of wine. Is that a problem?”

  “No. I’ve just never seen you drink before.”

  I don’t know what to say to that. Sage drinks here all the time. I only assumed that she acted the same way around Ebon.

  “Well,” I begin haughtily, struggling to recover, “it’s not like I don’t have reason to drink. I mean, you did just break up with me.”

  Ebon’s brow furrows. “Yeah, about that…” He walks back to me, reaching up to cup my cheek as he stares down into my eyes. “Things weren’t good. You know we were going nowhere. We haven’t kissed… really kissed in a couple of weeks. But I’m willing to admit that maybe that was my fault.” He pauses, his eyes searching mine. “But reading those pages…God,” he whispers, rubbing his thumb over the crest of my cheekbone. “I had no idea that you felt that way, that you thought those things. Was Willow right? Is that story about us?”

  I cast my eyes down and nod.

  “It’s just that it seems so unlike you, so unlike the person I’ve come to know.”

  I hope my shrug is nonchalant. “Maybe there’s more to me than what you think you know.”

  “Then I want to know it. All of it. I want to know the girl who feels that way.”

  “She’s different than the girl you know. I keep that girl hidden, almost like she’s someone else. But if you want the real me, I’ll give her to you.”

  “Yes. I want her. I want her bad,” he says before he softly commands, “Give her to me.” Ebon watches me closely, searching my face like he’s trying to see inside me, beneath my skin. Beneath my mask. “Will you read some of it to me?” he asks, his eyes focusing on my lips.

  “Wh-what?”

  “I brought a few of the pages. Will you read them to me? I want to hear the words come from these,” he declares, moving his fingertip to my lips to trace the line between them.

  “Ebon, I don’t—”

  “Please.” His tone is earnest, almost pleading. “It would mean so much to me. Let me make this up to you. Even if it’s just one last time.”

  My stomach curls into a ball of anxious anticipation.

  To be able to read my words about my feelings to Ebon, face to face, is…is…

  I pull a gulp of air between my parted lips and hold it in my chest before I answer. “Okay. Just this once.”

  Obviously happy with my answer, Ebon smiles and reaches for my hand. “In here.”

  He starts to tow me toward the bedroom and my pulse rises. Surely he can’t mean to…

  When we reach the doorway, he turns and scoops me up to carry me to the bed and deposit me right in the middle. He takes something from his back pocket before he stretches out in front of me, perpendicular to my legs.

  With his eyes locked on mine, Ebon hands me the papers. I unfold them, noting that they appear worn already, as though they’ve been handled dozens of times. It takes only one glance at the first page to realize (with a deep blush stinging my cheeks) what part he wants me to read.

  “But this…this isn’t even accurate. I mean, I…sh-she just made this up.”

  “But you said that it is how you feel, that it’s how you think. She had to get it from somewhere. I want to see where.”

  His eyes are like hot emeralds, burning holes into mine. I imagined Ebon capable of such heat, but I never would’ve imagined that I’d get to see it, much less feel it. Not in real life. And yet here it is. Here he is.

  Swallowing hard, I drag my eyes away from his and look for the first full paragraph from which to start reading.

  Your kiss is like fire, searing every inch of my tender skin. I can feel the imprint of your lips on mine long after you abandon them to make your way down my throat. My nipples tighten as your mouth nears the neckline of my shirt.

  “Can I slip inside?” you ask, fingers hovering at the edge of my shirt.

  “Yes,” I breathe. The single word is all I can manage. I can’t think with your hands on me, with your mouth torturing me.

  Ebon’s finger on the top of my foot gives me pause. I feel it like a hot flame, a flame that shoots pure fire up my legs and into my core. His eyes are on me, intent. Ravenous.

  My mouth goes dry.

  “Keep going,” he says softly, his finger making tiny circles on my skin.

  I swallow hard. It’s like forcing down cotton balls. But still, I continue. Nothing could make me stop this now. Nothing.

  Your hand slides beneath the neckline of my shirt, dry flames on silk. You stroke my flesh, teasing the tops of my breasts. It’s not enough, this light touch. I need to feel it. I need to feel it all the way down to my bones.

  As if sensing my increasing urgency, suddenly you curl your fingers into the neck of my shirt and jerk. I gasp as seams crackle, giving way to your insistence.

  “Do you like that?” you ask, pinching one of my nipples through the thin material of my bra. “Do you like it rough?”

  “I…I…I just want to feel it. All of it. All of you.”

  I’m mindless with want.

  You release me long enough to throw me gently onto the bed, falling between my spread legs and flexing your hips sharply into mine.

  “Then I promise to make you feel it. I’ll make you feel every kiss of my lips, every lick of my tongue, every thrust of my cock.”

  Moisture floods my panties as you rock against me, tugging my bra down as you lick and suck and bite at my aching nipples. I clamp my lips shut to keep from crying out.

  “Don’t hold it back, baby. I wanna hear you.”

  I pant uncontrollably when I feel your hand at my knee, skating softly up the inside of my thigh.

  My gasp is real, even though my mind is torn between two worlds, two realities. Ebon’s eyes are still trained on mine, but his hand is moving slowly up the inside of my thigh.

  “Keep going,” he whispers.

  A thick coil of desire curls in my stomach, like a snake ready to strike. It jumbles my thoughts, clouds my vision. I have to blink several times to focus clearly on the words. On my words.

  My senses are at fever pitch, as is my desire. When you roll slightly to the side, my muscles tense in readiness of your touch.

  I feel your palm graze my damp panties. I can’t help the pleading mewl that seeps out around my tight vocal cords.

  As I’m reading, my heart racing inside my chest, I feel the bed shift as Ebon moves closer, his hand inching toward the throb that has so long gone unsatisfied.

  I rush to read on, knowing his plan is to follow this scene to its eventual end. And I know that end. I’ve seen it in my mind. Felt it in my dreams. And I wrote it just for him.

  I throw my head back in wanton anticipation when you push the material of my panties aside to nudge my clit. I jerk at the pure pleasure of your touch, right where I need it most.

  I jump when Ebon’s hand touches me. I lower the papers and grip the comforter in both hands, squeezing tight. Our eyes are melded together as he moves my panties to one side and slides his fingertip between my folds, unerringly finding my most sensitive part. He circles it, exactly like I wrote, always watching me.

  “Keep going,” he says again.

  I can barely breathe. My chest is so tight, my body s
o taut with sexual readiness, I’m not sure I can move my hands to hold the papers.

  Ebon reaches to my side with his free hand and unfists my fingers, his other finger still moving against the slick flesh between my legs, unnerving me.

  “Read.”

  I raise the pages and try to focus.

  “I want to feel you inside me, Ebon,” I confess breathily.

  To you, my wish is a command and you push one long finger into me, so deep I can feel your knuckles pressing against the outside of me. “Fingers first,” you say, withdrawing it and thrusting it in again.

  I gasp into the stillness of the room when Ebon’s finger reenacts the written word. My mouth drops open as he lowers his head. I barely hear his voice.

  “Fuck, you’re wet.”

  I hear the sounds of his finger moving within me. He doesn’t raise his head again to speak, and still I can barely hear him.

  “Keep going.”

  Ebon teases me with his finger as I continue on with my story.

  “Then tongue,” you say, reaching to my right hip and tearing the side of my panties. With an almost animal growl, you press your hand to the inside of my thigh and push outward, further spreading my legs, and you dive into me like a man in the desert might dive into a mirage.

  With your tongue, you part my folds and lick me as though I’m your favorite flavor of ice cream, lapping up every drop of moisture along my slit. You suck my clit into your mouth, tugging on it until I all but choke on my scream. “That’s it. Louder,” you groan.

  It’s then, when I experience your true hunger, that I know I’m lost. Lost to this moment, lost to this feeling. To you. I’m lost to you.