last, what seems to Rebecca to have steadily built is building still as Aden takes her home in her car. It’s there as he parks beside the truck shed and while she counts the dogs and puts them in the enclosure, there as he explains Nigel is coming out to pick him up, but he’ll probably be about half an hour, and there as he stands on the porch and waits to be invited in. It’s built to this.
Looking back, she’ll say she felt it the moment he stepped out of the clubhouse, as he walked down the dirt track around the oval, across the bridge towards her. She’ll ask him when he felt it, and he’ll say before that – while on the cricket field, out there at long off, noticing the car, squatting and picking grass to pass the time, looking over his shoulder and seeing her down by the river.
Rebecca would go as far as to say everything in her life led to Aden Claas.
He kisses her beside the light switch in the kitchen. He puts his hands on her waist and says he knows he shouldn’t be doing this, and then kisses her again. It’s soft and makes her swoon – tiredness, she knows, plays a part, a mentally exhausting last few hours, feelings of guilt and culpability seesawing inside of her, but it’s also the first time she’s been kissed this way.
‘Are you all right?’ he asks. ‘Because tell me if this is not all right.’
‘It’s all right,’ she tells him.
‘Rebecca, I’m twenty-two, you’re sixteen, you’ve had a terrible day …’
It doesn’t stop him.
The smell of Aden Claas? Impossible to say, but strong, because he’s unwashed: oily hair and salty skin, faint trace of aftershave. And in that place behind his ear, where his hairline meets his neck, he has his initials tattooed – A . C . – in slanting text, as though he knew that’s where she’d go looking for him. She presses her nose and lips against it, blinks away the prick of tears. It’s silly, she knows – she’s emotional, the day, the night, thoughts of her mother – but it’s like he says: it feels right. Why else would they be doing this?
He undresses her in the bedroom, kneels with his clothes on and kisses her stomach, moves his mouth down to between her legs. It’s not the first time someone’s done it, but it’s the first time it’s felt good. She forgets to be self-conscious, holds his shoulders for support. It’s so good it culminates into something near to an orgasm, not the intensity of those she has alone, but it’s more than she’s ever had with a boy, or ever hoped to have.
He tells her to lie on the bed. He has sure hands and avoids all the most obvious spots. He says warm words against her skin, tells her she’s got a beautiful body, turns her over and runs his hands over her back, down over her bottom.
He says with his lips against her shoulder, body pressed in behind her, ‘I haven’t brought anything with me. Are you on the pill?’
She shakes her head.
‘Have you got any condoms?’
‘No.’
He puts his hand between her legs and rubs her as he talks.
‘You’re wet,’ he says, as though this should automatically lead to her having some sort of protection in the house.
‘Sorry.’
He smiles against her shoulder. ‘Don’t be.’
What she understands then is that he’s not there to muck around. Unlike the boys she’s been with, who would fondle for hours if you let them, who seem to have no goal or direction, he unzips his jeans and takes them off, asks if she’s done it from behind before. Rebecca shakes her head.
‘I’ll be gentle. I won’t come inside you.’
Virginity lost on the night Joanne Kincaid went missing. Face down on the bed, doggy-style. The gradual easing in, and the muttered words You’re tight . Sex then, unmistakably. One hand holding her hip and the other hand on her shoulder, like in the movies, and not the sort of movies you see at a regular cinema. It hurts and it’s her fault, all she has to do is tell him to stop, but she doesn’t want him to stop.
Looking back, she’ll say she felt it the moment he stepped out of the clubhouse, as he walked down the dirt track around the oval, across the bridge towards her. She’ll ask him when he felt it, and he’ll say before that – while on the cricket field, out there at long off, noticing the car, squatting and picking grass to pass the time, looking over his shoulder and seeing her down by the river.
Rebecca would go as far as to say everything in her life led to Aden Claas.
He kisses her beside the light switch in the kitchen. He puts his hands on her waist and says he knows he shouldn’t be doing this, and then kisses her again. It’s soft and makes her swoon – tiredness, she knows, plays a part, a mentally exhausting last few hours, feelings of guilt and culpability seesawing inside of her, but it’s also the first time she’s been kissed this way.
‘Are you all right?’ he asks. ‘Because tell me if this is not all right.’
‘It’s all right,’ she tells him.
‘Rebecca, I’m twenty-two, you’re sixteen, you’ve had a terrible day …’
It doesn’t stop him.
The smell of Aden Claas? Impossible to say, but strong, because he’s unwashed: oily hair and salty skin, faint trace of aftershave. And in that place behind his ear, where his hairline meets his neck, he has his initials tattooed – A . C . – in slanting text, as though he knew that’s where she’d go looking for him. She presses her nose and lips against it, blinks away the prick of tears. It’s silly, she knows – she’s emotional, the day, the night, thoughts of her mother – but it’s like he says: it feels right. Why else would they be doing this?
He undresses her in the bedroom, kneels with his clothes on and kisses her stomach, moves his mouth down to between her legs. It’s not the first time someone’s done it, but it’s the first time it’s felt good. She forgets to be self-conscious, holds his shoulders for support. It’s so good it culminates into something near to an orgasm, not the intensity of those she has alone, but it’s more than she’s ever had with a boy, or ever hoped to have.
He tells her to lie on the bed. He has sure hands and avoids all the most obvious spots. He says warm words against her skin, tells her she’s got a beautiful body, turns her over and runs his hands over her back, down over her bottom.
He says with his lips against her shoulder, body pressed in behind her, ‘I haven’t brought anything with me. Are you on the pill?’
She shakes her head.
‘Have you got any condoms?’
‘No.’
He puts his hand between her legs and rubs her as he talks.
‘You’re wet,’ he says, as though this should automatically lead to her having some sort of protection in the house.
‘Sorry.’
He smiles against her shoulder. ‘Don’t be.’
What she understands then is that he’s not there to muck around. Unlike the boys she’s been with, who would fondle for hours if you let them, who seem to have no goal or direction, he unzips his jeans and takes them off, asks if she’s done it from behind before. Rebecca shakes her head.
‘I’ll be gentle. I won’t come inside you.’
Virginity lost on the night Joanne Kincaid went missing. Face down on the bed, doggy-style. The gradual easing in, and the muttered words You’re tight . Sex then, unmistakably. One hand holding her hip and the other hand on her shoulder, like in the movies, and not the sort of movies you see at a regular cinema. It hurts and it’s her fault, all she has to do is tell him to stop, but she doesn’t want him to stop.
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