Unloved: A Novel (The Undone)

“C’mon, princess, take what you need.”

His voice is gruff, arms trapping me around the waist as I grind down. I’m panting, chest heaving as I grip his shoulders for leverage.

“That’s it, Rosalie.”

The sound of my full name rolling from his lips has me jolting, rocking higher and higher, almost cresting that mysterious, elusive wave. My stomach hollows out, an edge of fear as I—

“Rosalie—”

My eyes whip open, sweat beading on my brow. That sounded like—

Oh my God.

Matt Fredderic.

Matt Fredderic in my tiny twin bed, pressed entirely against my back while I’m writhing and have my hand—I look down briefly—in my pajama pants.

The embarrassment shoots through my body so swiftly I feel like I might pass out from the intensity of the shame. That, or cry, eyes welling a little as I stay completely frozen, facing the wall of my room.

I’d taken that side at his insistence after asking him to stay with me for the night. I felt too raw to be alone, and Matt was worried I would fall out of the too-small bed attempting to fit both of our long-limbed bodies.

“Ro?” Matt asks again, chin resting lightly on the curve of my shoulder, breathing into my neck—which very much does not help my current predicament.

“I— I’m—”

Nothing. I have no words, just a lump in my throat, my skin hot with mortification. Shame rolls through my gut like lava.

“Rosalie,” he breathes, his hand coming up to my waist, shifting my hips. The angle thrusts me against my hand, and I nearly cry out.

Instead, only a muffled whimper crawls from my tight-lipped mouth.

“I need—”

Matt’s hand lands on top of mine, over my soft, thin pajama pants, working like an ice-water-level shock to my overheated system, or a gallon jug of gasoline and a lit match with how quickly my need and desperation notch up to an insurmountable level.

“Easy, princess,” he says, voice stern, but with a morning scratchiness that has my toes curling. “Do you want me to help you?”

I want him to do anything to me.

“Yes, please,” I breathe.

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to the skin below my ear. “So polite,” he praises. “Such a good girl.”

“Freddy—”

“No,” he says roughly. “Call me Matt. Please.”

Matt’s hand flattens, firmly pressing my own hand to my sex. The pressure makes me gasp and thrust my hips forward a little desperately.

“Can you come like this?” he asks, not even a trace of teasing in his tone. Just a soft, genuine question. “I want to know what feels good for you, princess.”

“It all feels good,” I say, so shakily I’m worried it might’ve been gibberish. “Please.”

“Move your fingers,” he commands, though his voice stays even. “Do you want to feel me?”

“Please. Please.”

I’m not sure if I’ve nodded, or if my vision has gone hazy. But he directs my body to lie more on my back, one of his arms still beneath my neck.

Matt’s fingers trail back up my stomach and under the waistband of my pants, feather-light touch slipping over my overly sensitive skin until the warmth of his hand meets mine.

It isn’t what I thought he meant by feel him, but it’s perfect.

My fingers swirl over my clit in slow but tight circles. His bicep brushes my nipples through my shirt, and that combined with the feel of his bare skin against mine, so close to where I need him, elicits an embarrassingly needy noise from me.

Embarrassment threatens, but before a single thought can derail my arousal, Matt is in my ear again.

“So beautiful, Ro. Just keep doing what feels good. Just like that, princess. Good girl.”

His praise feels as good as his touch. The noises I’m making only grow as he angles his hand, fingertip pressing at my opening.

I nearly swallow my tongue, and a loud, keening noise—almost a sob—bursts from my lips. I pull my hand away from myself, biting my lip and furrowing my brow as he starts to inch his way into me.

He pauses, and my knuckles go white with their grip on the sheets beside me.

“Breathe, Ro. You can touch, baby,” he says reassuringly, pressing a kiss into my hair.

His fingers feel thick, but I’m embarrassingly wet, clenching around him as he slowly stretches me.

“I need—” It’s embarrassing. Tyler hated this, that I couldn’t just come like other girls. That I didn’t feel good enough with just him, hating when I tried to touch myself while we—

Matt stops touching me and I almost do sob this time. My stomach clenches, the heat of the lust coursing through my body mixing with the anxiety of asking for what I want.

But I don’t need to.

His hand finds mine, guiding it back to the swollen wet flesh, moving my fingertips in a light, practiced circle.

“Don’t stop,” he says. “It’s okay to want both at the same time. If that makes you feel good.”

The relief is instantaneous, as is the flood of heat as he moves his finger back to push into me, soft and gentle.

“I want you to feel good, Ro,” he breathes, pressing in and out—once, twice, before adding a second finger that has my other hand gripping his forearm. The need to keep him there and pull him away makes my stomach flip.

He curls his fingers and I jolt, shifting until the solid length of him is pressed into my hip. There’s a heady rush of confidence in knowing he’s just as affected by this, that he wants me just as much.

It’s enough to have me relaxing a little in his grip as he works my body over. He’s an award-winning musician, and I am his instrument, though the sounds he continues to pull from me are anything but musical. Still, I don’t hold back, letting myself fall entirely into him.

The heat grows hotter and hotter in my core, tightening until I can’t hold it back anymore.

“Rosalie,” he moans into my ear, and I shatter with a breathy, “Matt,” to match him, cresting the wave with abandon, knowing he’ll hold me through it. Keep me safe.

It’s quiet, only the huffed sounds of our breathing and the light press of his lips to my neck over and over. My body stays wired, but the energy shifts to panic and embarrassment. I pull abruptly from his arm and almost sprint to the bathroom, shutting the door and sinking against it.

A beat passes, and then, “Rosalie?”

God, will I ever tire of hearing my name from his lips?

“I need a second,” I say, chin tipped to my shoulder. “Actually—um, I have… I have work. I need to get ready.”noveldrama

“Okay.” I can easily imagine him nodding repeatedly outside the bathroom. “Okay—um, I can go. Unless you need a ride.”

My heart is in my throat. “No, I’m, uh, I’m good.”

Another, longer pause. “Okay. I’ll see you later then, yeah?” I hate the sadness I can hear in his tone, carving lines in my skin like I’m rolling on broken glass.

“Yeah.”

Dr. Tinley calls me to her office Monday morning, which leaves me unable to sleep Sunday night with the anxiety rolling through my system. Dreams about missing the meeting entirely, or even getting fired, plague me all night.

I knock rapidly and peek into her office, the warm ambience always soothing.

“Come in, Ro.” She smiles over her coffee cup at me.

“Morning,” I say, taking the seat at her desk and dropping my backpack to the floor. I cross and uncross my legs.

“So, you know I adore you, girlie.” She laughs, tucking her hair back. “You’re so smart and talented, and I’m so lucky to have a girl like you on our tutoring team and in my prep cohort.”

“Thank you.” I blush, relief settling my nerves.

“Of course.” She takes another sip of coffee, leaning forward across the desk. “Now, here’s the one thing I really need to chat with you about. Your cohort.”

I swallow a little harder, wishing I had something to drink to clear my throat. Angry at myself for forgetting my water bottle.

“Tyler told me you broke up, which”—she raises her hands—“is none of my business. However, he also said you’ve been difficult? Making things harder on the team? Not coming to events anymore?”

I’m not difficult. I barely even see the team enough to be a “problem.” I don’t come to events because I’m not invited. Tyler is in charge of the entire thing—he is doing this all on purpose.

“Okay…” I trail off, unable to think of how to respond.

“Listen, Ro, I like you. I do. But I need team players on my team. Those willing to put their differences aside, to not be bitter about the past and be able to work with people they might not get along with.”

My cheeks flame, her tone like she’s chastising a child. I hate it, squirming in my seat, desperate to ask her if I can quit and leave.

“Hey—”

As if I’ve somehow fallen into the pits of hell and summoned the devil himself, Tyler appears in her doorway.

“Oh! Sorry, Dr. C., I didn’t know you had a meeting this early. I’ll come back.”

“Actually, Tyler, we were discussing Ro’s performance on the team.”

“Really?” Tyler smirks, eying me in a way that makes my stomach drop. “Well, if you’re looking for some more opportunities to work and get to know your team better, we’re going to lunch today.”

“That’s great, Tyler!” Dr. Tinley smiles at him like he’s announced a cure for cancer. “Perfect, right, Ro?”

No, not perfect. I have tutoring with Matt today and I promised I would meet him for lunch beforehand. Not only that, but after the other night, I really want to know where things stand between us.

“Sure,” I say.

“And,” Tyler says, “we’re all meeting at my house on Thursday night to go over a couple of things before the applications are due. I think it would be really important for you to be there, Ro.”

I think it’s really important for me to be anywhere else but with Tyler, for my own mental health and healing. But losing my spot on the team or the respect of Dr. Tinley are both things I can’t really afford right now. Not with decisions over the internship program looming in the distance.

“Sounds great,” I say, despite the regret I immediately feel.

By the time I make it to the coffee shop inside the library, our usual meeting spot, Matt is unpacked and halfway through the homework from last week. His eyes drink me in as I slide in across from him, my cheeks heating to match his already flushing skin.

It’s easier to see the embarrassment now that his summer tan has completely faded, his skin much paler than my deeper undertone. But we’re both cherry tomato red and avoiding the elephant sitting heavily on the table between us.

We work quietly for a moment, only Matt’s phone playing “As I’m Fading Into You” by Belvins adding limited relief to my anxiety. I tap my pencil against my mouth to the beat.

“Please don’t be embarrassed about Saturday,” he blurts out, his hands slapping the table, pen spinning out from his grip. “Seriously—we can just forget it ever happened.”

It lands like a punch to the stomach.

“Is that…” I swallow a hard gulp, reaching for his pen and twirling it in my fingers. “Is that what you want?”

His brow dips, frustration and fear mixing plainly across his face, walls down, vulnerability intoxicating even now.

“Isn’t that what you want? I mean… we’re friends.” He finally wrangles the words out. “But I—”

“Yes,” I say, feeling more like I’m swallowing a knife than anything else. “Yeah, you’re right. We’re friends—we can just forget it ever happened.” I hand him the pen. He hesitates, like I’ve offered poison rather than a writing utensil, before taking it.

We barely speak the rest of the session, and I find myself reaching to rub the aching spot in my chest every few minutes.

It aches more when I realize Matt is doing it, too.