Deep End

IT TAKES ME SURPRISINGLY LITTLE TO CONVINCE LUKAS TO JOIN me in the pool. He throws his jeans and T-shirt from the platform, and says, “I’ve never done this. Any advice?”

I think about it. “Make sure you jump into the water.”

“Great tip.”

A moment later he dives in feetfirst, oddly elegant, managing something that’s almost a rip entry.

Show-off.

I’m ready to yell at him for being good at things, but he doesn’t reemerge for a long while. In the dim lights the water is opaque, and I grow anxious. I’m about to dip my head back in, when a tight grip sharks my ankle, pulling me underwater. I thrash and paddle and even try to pull Lukas’s hair, but he doesn’t let me resurface.

“I hate you,” I splutter afterward, arms circling his neck. The water remains stomach-turningly cold, but Lukas’s body is a block of heat.

“Of course you do.” He wraps my legs around his waist.

“I thought you were dead.” I shake the water out of my face. “Could already hear the Swedish king bitching over the phone.”

“Did we not go over Sweden’s government structure?”

“Can’t recall.” I unsheathe my best Swedish impression. “I understand our national treasure died on your watch, ja? We have lost our golden porpoise, and it is all your fault, ja?”

“Whatever just happened with that accent is a violation of NCAA bylaws and the Geneva convention.”

“Take me away, Officer.”

His eyes are black and golden, warm despite the temperature. He grins—a rare, unrestrained smile, in which his happiness is not just hinted at, something I have to dig for.

“I did it,” I whisper. Just to hear it. Just to remind myself.

“You did.” He tilts his chin up and kisses me, thorough, his lips cold and chlorine-flavored, my hair a sodden curtain sticking to our cheeks. It lasts a long time.

Way too damn long. “Lukas?”

“Huh?”

“I can’t feel my face.”

He laughs. “Weak Americans.”

“Unlike the Swedes, who on the day of their birth are tasked with swimming from fjord to fjord to honor their Viking ancestors.”

He moves us toward the deck, treading water with no effort. “Actually, we only have one fjord in Sweden.”

“But the rest is accurate?”

“Naturally.”

“We really need to get out. I doubt the Avery family had this in mind when they bankrolled the aquatic center.”

His laughter is a hot huff against my ear. “Plus, we need to check those MCAT scores.”

“What—why do you even remember that?”

“Because I listen when you talk. You’re on such a brave streak, you can open one little email.”

I groan into the curve of his shoulder. “Just let me have this moment.”

“You’re still going to have this moment.”

“It will be tainted.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I—should we go to sleep? I have practice tomorrow morning.”

“Me, too. Let’s just accept that we’ll be asked to leave the team and make the most out of tonight.”

We laugh. He kisses me. I kiss him. It becomes something heated and deeper and—

“MCAT,” he reminds me. I feel the shift of his muscles as he lifts me to sit on the edge. The chill pebbles my skin, teeth instantly chattering.

“I really do hate you.”

“I know.” He pushes himself out effortlessly. “Your loathing cannot be contained. Troll.”

“Okay, why do you keep calling me—”

Another lingering kiss, and a couple of minutes later, I’m in the men’s locker room.

It’s the exact copy of ours, no messier or more foul smelling. Lukas cracks open a locker, pulls out a towel, and dries me, thoroughly, and himself, quickly. He puts one of his hoodies on me, and I savor the way it hangs softly past my thighs. “Hand me your phone,” he says.

“Actually, can we go to my locker and get a scrunchie?”

He knows exactly what I’m doing, but he’s willing to let me stall one more minute. In the women’s locker room, he watches me patiently as I detangle my hair, then asks, “Your phone.”

“Maybe we should go? You shouldn’t be here. Stanford Athletics might send you back to where you came from. Where you’ll enjoy all the skiing and upwards of seven herring-themed meals per day.”

“Scarlett.”

I sigh, and we sit next to each other on the uncomfortable wooden bench. I pluck at the fray of his well-worn jeans, half baking the idea to distract him with sex, but he traps my hand in his and doesn’t let go.

Instead, he holds out my phone.

“Why do I have to do it right now?” I whine.

“Because I’m leaving tomorrow night.”

I jerk back. “You’re leaving?”

He nods.

“What . . . for how long?”

“Ten days.”

“Ten—” I gasp. “Why?”

“Nordic Swimming Championships.”

“In Sweden?”

“In Estonia.”

“Is it . . . a big deal?” I’ve never heard of it.

He shrugs. “Moderately. But most of the Swedish Olympic team will be there, and after we’ll go on a training trip.”

Is Coach Urso okay with that? Lukas’s professors? The Stanford chancellors? “Did you clear it with everyone?”

“Nope. Better to ask for forgiveness than for permission.” My eyes must be saucer wide, because he adds, “Yes, Scarlett. Everyone has known for months. They expect me to put swimming for Sweden over swimming for Stanford.”

I guess it makes sense. “Are you friends with the rest of the team?”

He nods. “Basically siblings, really. We’ve been around each other for decades. Anyway”—he points at my phone with his chin—“if it’s bad news, I’d rather be here. With you.”

So difficult, pretending that his words don’t make my stomach flutter. “To pat my back?”

“If that’s what you want, sure.”

I tear my eyes from his, and they catch on his sleeve. I’ve seen his tattoos so many times, touched them, dug my nails into them, gripped them when I felt like I needed something to hold on to or I’d dissolve into nothing. But I’ve never asked him about them.

It, more precisely. There are a lot of interlocked parts, but they all work together to form a coherent landscape. With my eyes first, then my fingers, I trace the spruces and oaks and pines, blackbirds and sparrows, snowy patches and rocks.

“What is this?” I shake my head and correct myself. “Where is it?”

“My hometown.”

“I thought you were from Stockholm.”

He lifts his most I know you bookmarked the bio section of my Wikipedia entry on your Chrome browser, on Safari, and maybe even on Internet Explorer eyebrow.

I roll my eyes. “If I were the current record holder for the one hundred freestyle, you’d know where I was born, too.”

“You were born in Lincoln, Nebraska, on August thirty-first. And yes, I did grow up in Stockholm, but my mom was from Skellefteå.”

I try to shape my tongue around the name. Instantly give up. “That sounds like . . .”

“Say, ‘A piece of IKEA furniture not even the Swedish king would be able to assemble,’ and I will throw you back into the pool.”

I smile and bump him with my shoulder. “When did you get it done?”

“Eighteen. My brothers have similar ones, too. According to my father, after Mom died we took the easy way out and decided to get tattoos instead of dealing with our feelings.”

“That’s a serious accusation.”

“Right? But on the upside”—he holds out my phone—“you get to book a despair tattoo if you don’t like your MCAT score.”

“Oh, god—fine, fine.” I laugh softly, shaking my head, tapping at my email app.

Then stop to say, “You don’t have to, you know?”

“Hmm?”

“Just . . .” My throat feels too full. “I appreciate this. The way you care. That you want to be my friend. But I don’t want you to feel like you have to be my emotional support. I’ve been a . . . a wounded bird, stealing your hoodie, while I should be some kind of black-laced, collar-wearing, sultrily submissive—”

“Scarlett.” He looks at me like he’s having fun. “I don’t think you get it.”

“I . . . maybe I don’t.”

“You and I have an agreement, don’t we? And the agreement says that until you say stop, I can do what I want with you. Even if it breaks you into pieces. Even if it makes you cry.”

I nod.

“I love that you opened up to me,” he says, pressing his mouth into the side of my head. I feel his inhale, and something sweet and thick drips inside me, warms me in my very core. “But they’re sides of the same coin. I get to take you apart and split you open—but if anything else, anyone else makes you feel sad, upset, cracked, I also get to be the one who puts you back together. Until you say stop. You get it?”

I wish I could see his eyes. I wish my world was more than his stubble brushing my temple, the scent of sandalwood and chlorine carving its way in my brain. “I get it.” I just do.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, kissing my cheek. And then: “Now open that fucking email.”

I laugh, and laugh, and laugh some more while the score report loads, and—

I blink. I’m unable to process what I’m seeing.

“Oh my god. Is it . . .”

There’s a five. And a two. And a six. Three numbers that together make another number, one I should be able to make sense of, but it’s high, so high, so much higher than I expected . . .

“Congratulations.” A low, scratchy voice. Another kiss in my hair. Around my waist, a strong arm pulls me into warmth.

I whip my gaze up to Lukas’s, dizzy. “You knew,” I half state, half accuse.

He says nothing. His lips twitch.

“How? How did you know that it would be good? Oh my god—did you hack my email? Is it because I made my password kink related?”

He looks intrigued. “Tell me more about this password of yours.”

“How did you know?”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

He shakes his head. “I just know . . . you.” His thumb smooths the furrow in my brow. “I’ve worked with you on the bio project. Spent time with you. I’ve—”

“Fucked me?”

He smiles and pushes back a lock of my hair. “I know that you are a perfectionist, and studied to the point of being overprepared. And that you’re anxious, which clouded your perception of your performance. Above all, I know how much you want to get into med school, and I’m starting to suspect that you might be unstoppable—”

Lukas has more to say, but I don’t let him finish, and reach up for a kiss. My phone clatters against the floor with a dull thud, but I don’t care, arching upward to get closer to him, exhaling in relief when he lifts me to straddle his thighs.

This is not the way it usually goes. He’s the one who initiates, and we both vastly prefer it that way. But for a few short moments, it’s nice, being the one with the upper hand. Setting the pace. Feeling the restraint in his hard muscles as we approach the point where he’ll make me feel good. And I’ll make him feel good.

Except—I pull back, a hitch in my breath. “Sorry. Sorry—but you and Pen . . .”

Lukas blinks, lips stung, eyes glassy.

“Are you . . . are you two still having sex?” I swallow at his confused silence. “I know it’s not my business, and you and I—but when she called you last week, I thought . . . And Pen is sleeping with other people, and you and I are not using condoms, so—”

“Scarlett. It is your business.” His hand rises to my cheek. It always does, when he wants to make sure that my eyes won’t leave his. “Last week I helped Pen because she’s my friend, and she was stranded, and she didn’t know who else to call. But I haven’t touched her since we broke up. And I have no interest in having sex with anyone but you. Haven’t in . . . a while.”

I’m relieved in a way that I don’t want to examine. “If you change your mind . . .”

I cut off because of the way he’s slowly shaking his head. He clearly cannot fathom changing his mind, and I—can’t breathe. His firm, determined look feels so much like a promise, it sucks all the air out of me. But it doesn’t matter, because now he’s the one kissing me, and we’re back on the trodden path.

“I’m not sure that you get it, Scarlett,” he says in my ear, and it happens so quickly—one second I straddle him, the next I’m kneeling on the floor, his clothes between my knees and the linoleum. My elbows brace on the low bench, and only one person can control where and how I move.

Lukas. Behind me.

“Actually, I know you don’t.”

“I—”

“I’m starting to suspect that you don’t understand a single fucking thing, Scarlett.”

There’s something like barely restrained fury in the icy pitch of his voice. Fear rolls into me, and I respond like a fine-tuned instrument. I’m already so wet, it’s embarrassing, and he can tell. He yanks my panties down, hands sliding under his hoodie to tighten around my waist with bruising force. The hot imprint of his cock presses against my skin through his jeans.

“Remember what you asked me earlier?”

“I don’t—” I choke out, then stop. But it’s fine, because he doesn’t want an answer. His hand wraps around my mouth and I moan against it. I can’t breathe. I feel dizzy. I want more of this.

“I walked into your room, and you looked at me, and you said . . .”

His hand loosens, and I take in a big gulp of air. “I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

“You asked if I was there for a pity fuck,” he whispers in my ear. His anger is terrifying. “And I let it go, because while you may think I’m mean—” His thumb and index fingers find my nipple and pinch it, pushing hot liquid into my abdomen. “I’m actually nice, Scarlett. And you weren’t doing great. Now, though.” He must have unzipped, because I suddenly feel the scalding length of his cock on my lower back, in the crease of my ass. “Does this”—he rolls his hips—“feel like a pity fuck to you?”

“No.”

His hand travels around my hip bone, then lower, softly tracing just outside of my cunt. “Look at you. Soaked. I fucking love it.” He sucks a kiss into my jaw, a scrape of teeth, and then . . .

With an echoing sound, his other hand slaps against the right side of my bottom.

Lukas lets out a low, guttural grunt.

My mind goes completely blank.

“What do you do if you want me to stop, baby?”

I’m trembling. My ass cheek is hot, pain and pleasure radiating from where he hit me. He kneads the soft flesh, the fat, the muscle, and I—I thought I knew what being turned on meant, but I had no idea.

“Scarlett.” Another slap—less firm. To get my attention. “What do you do if you want me to stop?”

“I—I say stop.”

“Good girl. Should I stop?”

I shake my head like my life depends on it, wondering if I’ve ever wanted anything more. But his palm hits once again, and I cannot think, just feel, experience how good it is, the burn and the pleasure mixed together, the perverse, satisfying feeling of knowing that right now I’m as much the center of Lukas’s universe as he is of mine.

“I don’t fuck you because I pity you. But why do I fuck you, Scarlett?”

Slap.

“B-because—”

His teeth scrape against my jaw.

Slap.

A precious, first Communion kiss on my cheek.

Slap.

“You don’t know, do you?”

His hand returns to my cunt, and this time it parts me. “Christ.” His hot cock throbs against my hip, and I cannot help myself.

“Please,” I beg.

“Please, what? You could come just from this, couldn’t you? From me playing with your nipples and your ass. You want to be roughed up, don’t you?”

I nod frantically.

“Hmm.” His finger dips into my opening, and it’s so close to what I need, so close. “Not yet, sweetheart. Not until my cock is at least halfway inside you. Why do I fuck you, Scarlett?”

I don’t know. I whimper, tears flooding my eyes.

“I’m going to hurt you once more. Once more, and then I’m going to get inside you. Okay?”

“’Kay.”

It’s the hardest yet, and I’m crying because of how good, how wrong, how perfect it feels. His large hands cup both cheeks of my ass, slowly massaging them, healing me and hurting me more. His thumb slides between them, catching against my hole, lingering and pressing there for just a second, and he must feel the sudden tension, hear the alarmed hitch escaping my mouth, because what he says over my shoulder is “Next time we’re on a bed.”

It’s not a question. He’s informing me. He’s telling me what he’s going to do with my body, and I—“Please.”

“Please, what?”

“Please, please, please—”

“Not until you tell me why I fuck you, Scarlett.”

My cheeks are covered in tears. I try to squirm, but my hips are imprisoned in Lukas’s hands. “I don’t know. I don’t know, but I—I need you to—” I’m babbling. I’m not proud of it, but I can’t help myself. And Lukas . . . Lukas says something in Swedish, something frustrated and resigned, and then the blunt head of his cock is right there, pressing against me, too big.

I sigh in relief.

He nestles inside, less of an inch. I grip the edge of the bench to avoid coming. “I fuck you—” He pushes deeper. “Because—” Deeper. “It’s all I want to do—” Deeper. “From the moment I wake up.” He hits a spot, and . . . I hope he’s halfway inside, I really do, because I’m already coming, clutching around the too-big, hard width of him, flutters I cannot help. It’s so intense and shuddering and good, I’m lost to everything but my pleasure, and I almost don’t hear the rest of what Lukas whispers in my ear.

“I fuck you because you’re the most perfect thing I’ve ever felt, Scarlett.”

The last thing I see before I close my eyes is Pen’s locker, her name in white and green against the cardinal red metal.