by Lily Zante
“You have such heart.” She perches on my lap, her legs on either sides of my thighs as she presses her lips against mine. My heart bottoms out of my chest cavity. The lies and shame, the reality of the situation heats my skin. I turn hard, and harder still by her sitting on me, kissing me and staring at me with her eyes full of undeserved admiration.
“My heart isn't so good, so clean, so decent,” I caution. She has a vision of me that is the complete opposite.
“You were twelve years old, and you'd had such a bad start, Brad.” She presses her soft lips on mine, injecting hope and goodness in one fell swoop. “I'm so happy that you got adopted and were given a better life.”
“Only because I resembled his dead son,” I remind her.
She chews her lip. “Do you hate him?”
I had reason to hate him, right from the start when, a few months after I'd been adopted, I asked him when we could get my brother.
“You don't have a brother,” he’d snarled, his voice chilling my blood and turning it to ice. “We have one son, Brandon. You don’t have a brother. Do you understand? Never ask me again, or I will send you back.”
His face blurred as tears welled in my eyes, threatening to spill over into rivulets of sorrow. I learned then to never show any emotion. I knew in that moment, that I had to forget my past, even if it meant forgetting the brother I loved more than life itself. I had to survive, and this was how I would.
So, to answer Kyra’s question. Do I hate him? No. Not really. “People react to things in different ways. They do things which seem cruel and indifferent, and are inexplicable, but there’s often a reason for it,” I reply. “I love him, and my adoptive mom. They gave me a good life. I can't complain.” Even though it came at a cost too heavy to bear.
She rests her forehead against mine, her hands bracketing my shoulders. I take all the goodness that seeps out of her and I absorb it, because I need something good to hold onto.
“We don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to.”
Talking isn’t what I have on my mind right now.
* * *
KYRA
* * *
He is the best thing to happen to me. The worst thing he could have told me was that he was with someone. Instead, the truth I learned about Brad and his life, makes my heart ache.
He's showing me who he really is, and the shock I felt walking into this place, the fear of deception and lies which riddled my initial reaction, are gone.
Brad has had such a terrible childhood. The pain in his eyes rips me to shreds. When I think back, to all the unanswered questions, and his vague replies, they all make sense now.
“You're just a little rebel, after all,” I say, resting my palm against his face. His brows push together. His member pushes through and I can feel him against my flimsy dress. I wriggle, shifting on his lap, teasing him. “Working on those projects abroad. Was that you wanting to reject your upbringing?”
His mouth twists, he seems unsure. Hesitant to reply. I lean forward and drape my arms around his neck. I take a deep inhale of him, soaking in his essence, and everything he is. He opened his heart to me and told me everything. I want to share myself with him, and tonight there is nothing in the way. We have privacy here. Not a car, or the storeroom, but an entire apartment.
I unbutton his shirt, one button at a time, the heat in my body traverses up from between my legs, through my stomach, to my breasts, making my face flush. I lean forward, like a woman desperate to please, and kiss him for the longest time, as if that might help to make his pain go away,
“There's so much I want to tell you,” he murmurs as our wet lips brush and our breaths mingle. My body is slowly catching fire, heat spiraling and tunneling deep in my core.
“Tell me,” I whisper. “Tell me all.” I'm prepared to listen, even while I’m in a heightened sense of arousal, but then his tongue slips into my mouth and he drops his hand to my breast, massaging it.
In no time at all, he's undone the top buttons of my dress, his deft fingers making easy work of the tiny buttons and loops. He's so fast, the dress falls off my shoulders and in no time at all he’s unclasped my bra. It falls to my waist, along with the top part of the dress. He growls as he sucks, taking big, greedy mouthfuls of my breasts.
My nerves tingle with anticipation, causing my heart to dance out of my ribcage. It falls somewhere between my legs, the thumping and throbbing like a drumbeat signalling a mating call.
I cry out in surprise when he stands up with me hanging onto him like a limp doll, my legs hooked around his waist. But he sets me down, then turns me around, so that my back presses into his hardness. Before I can catch a breath, he pulls my dress down, over my hips. I barely register that the soft fabric is around my ankles when his lips trail around my lower back. His fingers make light work of my panties which also end up around my ankles.
I shiver with excitement, my knees in danger of buckling, as wanton heat courses through me. He lifts my leg, planting my foot onto the couch, his hand falling between my legs, and his fingers teasing, playing, stroking. Pleasure pumps through me as he licks the skin between my shoulder blades. His tattoo fetish makes my lips curl, and then he steps away. It’s only when his hard as steel erection pokes me from behind, that I realize he's completely naked. He slides, and slips and teases his cock around my back, as his fingers grab my breasts and pinch my nipples. My heart bottoms out when he tells me he loves my body, and that he loves my tattoos, and then he tells me exactly what he wants to do to me. How hard he wants to fuck me.
“Then do it.” It’s a voice I don’t recognize as mine. I am possessed by a need so feral, a desire so base that I can barely control my mouth.
He pokes his hot, hard member between my cheeks, making me instinctively push back, needing him inside me, but he moves it away each time I try.
We are a tangle of roaming hands, soaked desire, greedy lust. Searching, prodding, stroking; all the things we so desperately wanted to do before but never had the privacy or permission to fully do. Desperate, I reach back and grasp him, then gasp as his length and girth shock me.
“Fuck,” he groans as I stroke him softly, then he turns me around and guides me onto the couch.
I lie, legs akimbo, watching him fiddle with a condom. I study his wide shoulders, all the more for me to hold onto, then I stare like a two-bit hussy at his engorged cock, all the more to pleasure me with.
“Here?” I express surprise, because I want a whole bed to romp around with him on. I want to fall into bed with him and never leave. His gaze travels south, rests on the wet space between my legs. He bites his lower lip, lust pooling in his eyes as his gaze soaks in every inch of my heated skin. I lift a leg, carelessly, shamelessly resting it against the backrest, opening for him.
“Fuck,” he pants.
I can wait no longer, frustration wars with desperation as our greedy eyes lock and hold.
My insides knot up in a tangled ball of frenzy, the longer he stands there, licking his lower lip, eyeing me as if he's unsure, the more I burn for him.
And then a thought, as random as a stray bullet slices through me. Doesn’t he want me? Anxiety slays my chest and, open and vulnerable like this, naked and ready, I start to doubt. But then he leans forward, a smile spreading on his lips, and I close my eyes, waiting, waiting, waiting. Instead he heaves me up by the wrists, lifting me easily. I’m feather light as he carries me, up the stairs. I nestle my face in the crook of his neck inhaling his scent.
He pushes a door open, then uses my body to shut it. I slide down him and over his shoulder see the biggest bed I have ever set my eyes on. He sucks my lower lip, before his tongue sweeps inside my mouth, the promise inherent in the way he claims me. We kiss as if this is the first and last time. I press against him, my hands clawing at his buttocks. I'm wild with need, hungry for him, and irritated by his dogged refusal to do the deed.
He has an effect on me. He always has, and tonight is the culmination of all
our wanton lust for one another. I don’t think I can last any longer.
My hands cup his face, as our lips refuse to part, and somehow, we move towards the bed. I fall and sink into the downy cover. Softness caresses my back and Brad's hard, tense, corded body rests over mine, his weight shifting to his arms as he props himself up.
Before I can open my mouth to say something, he slams inside me. I cry out, in gratitude, in euphoria. He slams into me again and again. My muscles clenching around him, and my entire body rocking with each thrust.
“Fuck,” he grunts, thrusting his tongue deep inside my mouth, connecting to me on every level as he buries his hardness to the fullest. He groans, it sounds like a release, a long, slow, much needed release. “Fuck, Kyra.”
My fingers sink into the fabric, butterflies skittering inside my belly like they're on a high. I barely catch my breath as he sets up a rhythm, hard and fast, hard and fast. I curse when his fingers find my nub and tweak and play.
So much lingering, simmering passion seeps out and mixes in the hot musty air. It's the most beautiful feeling, Brad rutting into me like a battering ram. It’s too much. Too much feeling, too many nerve endings on fire. Too much, in one small place. I’m about to explode.
Up, up, up I float, rising to a peak, balancing on a precipice, as if I’m at the top of a rollercoaster before it dives down. Just as I’m about to plummet, he flips me over, then pulls me back on my knees. I take the hint and get on all fours, as his hands bracket my hips. It’s only a few seconds rest that I get, before he slams into me, the force shoving my face into the bed. Carnal instinct crashes over us. We lose ourselves, become feral, like animals. He rides me hard, hard, hard, before plunging in for the last time and staying there. We come apart at the same time.
* * *
We have sex three times that night. Hard, rough, glorious sex. Not just in the bed, but on his chaise lounge, up against the shower, on the bathroom floor.
He falls asleep before me, in the dimly lit room, with only the light from outside barely illuminating the contours of his face, I trace my finger ever so gingerly across his cheek. It barely touches his skin, because I don’t want to wake this beautiful, tender, complex man who has hidden so much pain from me. At last I have met a man who cherishes me and treats me well. Really well.
A man who is obviously hurt and is beginning to open up to me about his pain. I always gravitate towards people who are in pain. This wasn’t supposed to happen, but now that it has, I have no regrets.
I fight the urge to kiss his chest. I want to heal him, and my heart swells with love to think that he has revealed his real self to me at last. He moans something in his sleep. It sounds like ‘rain’. I turn to him, holding my breath, waiting for more. But he’s quiet then, so I let him sleep.
In the morning, I wake up in his arms, sore, but sated and in no mood to want to go to work. I try to drag myself away from him, but he reels me in and then makes love to me again. This time it’s slow, and gentle, our eyes lock together, our souls melded, as we move like one.
Chapter Forty-Five
KYRA
* * *
Simona has returned to work after her week off, and I tell her and Fredrich that Brad is busy this week and won’t be coming in.
“Busy doing what?” Fredrich asks suspiciously.
“You can ask him when he gets back,” I reply. It’s not my place to tell her about what he does on those days, or to reveal about the new insights I’ve had into his life.
“How is it that we still don’t know what he does on his days off?” Fredrich persists.
He has a point, and I have been wondering why Brad has been so vague about his start-up in the first place. It’s not like it’s something to be ashamed of. It’s strange that even now that I have some answers, I’m still in the dark about other things. Just when I think I know enough about this man, there are always more questions.
But because he is slowly opening up to me, my doubts are slipping away. What I can’t stop thinking about are the unforgettable few days we’ve just spent together.
I change the conversation back to Simona’s vacation and her birthday celebration, and Simona is happy to tell us all about it. She looks all the better for it. I want to take her out for a meal, just a few of us, Fredrich and me, and hopefully Brad can make it. Somewhere nice. “Can we borrow you for one evening? We’d like to take you out for dinner.”
She seems genuinely surprised, and tries to dismiss it with a, “You don’t have to do that.” She doesn’t like being made a fuss of, but she is a prized member of my team, and this milestone birthday deserves to be properly celebrated.
“We want to,” I insist.
“You are sixty-five,” Fredrich winks. “That kind of age needs a good amount of recognition.”
She raises her eyebrow in consternation. “Stop it, young man.”
“Give us a date, Simona. Just one evening.” She has a large family and I’m aware that her celebrations are ongoing.
“I’m free all week. Whatever suits you.”
I look at the invitation in front of me. Jessica Montrose Art Gallery. That vacuous monster I met at city hall has sent me some complimentary tickets to an exhibition there.
“Can you make it on Thursday?” I ask, fingers crossed.
“Thursday is good.”
“Good with me too.” Fredrich gives me a thumbs up.
“Thursday then. We’ll have dinner at eight.”
A visit to the art gallery, which we’ll spring on her at the last minute, followed by dinner at a very nice restaurant. I think Simona would appreciate that.
Brad calls me later that night to say he can’t make it to the food night because he’s tied up in heavy meetings from Tuesday through to Thursday.
“I wasn’t expecting you to make the food night.”
“I was going to try.”
He does make an effort to turn up to those. The transformation has been amazing because I recall how uncomfortable he was the first time he came. “Good luck with your negotiations.”
“Thank you.”
“We’ve booked Simona’s birthday dinner at eight on Thursday, so hopefully you can make it to that.”
“At eight? Uh …” He hesitates. “I’m going to do my best to get out early, but I don’t want to make promises I can’t keep.”
I respect that. “See what you can do. Even if you just pass by later and can only have coffee with us at the end.” There’s no point in telling him about the art gallery invite if he’s not even sure he can make it to dinner. A smile curls on my lips. Even though I left his place only this morning, I’m missing him already and can’t wait to see him again.
He suddenly becomes quiet. “I’ll be out of state, on business.”
“Oh. I didn’t realize that.” Out of state? I was under the impression that his business dealings were all local. Now I discover something else I assumed about him that isn’t true. I’m tempted to ask him where, but I can sense he’s somewhat uneasy.
“I want to come, Kyra. I’ll try, because I really want to see you again. I’d love to be there for Simona’s celebration but there’s a good chance I won’t be able to get away any sooner.”
“That’s a shame. Never mind. We’ll take Simona out another time, just you and me.”
“We can definitely do that,” he says, and like a soppy romantic fool, I believe him.
Chapter Forty-Six
KYRA
* * *
The cab drops us off at another upscale part of the city. The art gallery is somewhere around here. I’ve told Fredrich because I know I needed to prepare him. Art galleries are not his thing. They’re not mine either, but we’re doing this for Simona. She appreciates culture in a way Fredrich and I don’t.
I wonder if Brad would have liked to come here. There are so many things I don’t know about him. He’s like a closed book which I have opened onto the first page and am only just getting to familiarize myself with.
I look at the door numbers as we walk along the street. I’m not familiar with this part of town, but it’s exactly the type of place I would expect someone like that woman to have an art gallery.
How does someone like her know someone like Eli?
I shiver and hope she doesn’t put her claws into me like she did at the city hall event.
“Isn’t it a bit early for us to come here?” Simona asks. “You said the dinner reservation was for eight.”
Fredrich and I exchange sly glances.
“We’re not going to dinner just yet,” I announce.
Simona’s stare indicates wariness. “Where are you taking me?” she asks, her face wearing a mask of dread.
“You’re going to like this.” Fredrich hooks his arm in hers. They look a sight, him the great big giant, and she the slim and slight elderly woman.
We happen to be passing a beautifully made-up shop front just then, and I tell them to stand while I snap a picture. “For memories,” I tell her.
They stand, with the shop window behind them and I take a picture. Then I get them to pose with traffic lights in the distance; this will be a timeless image, I think. Just as I finish taking a few shots, I see a man climb out of a car behind them in the distance. He looks so much like Brad that I do a double-take.
“Let’s get one of the three of us,” Simona says.
“Kyra?” Fredrich touches my arm as I stare into the distance. “A pic of the three of us.”
I stand alongside them, and we all huddle together so that we can get into the shot. Fredrich takes the picture because he has the longest arms and can hold it at a distance so that we all get in the shot.
“Nice,” he murmurs, taking a good look at the picture he’s just taken, but I’m slow to react, and my attention is more on the guy behind them in the distance.
