by Kim Holden
“You have an answer,” she challenges. “I can see it all over your face. I can see it in the way your posture slouched. I can see it in the way your eyes dropped.”
I turn my head and look at her and then I sigh and slump back against the couch cushion behind me. “I have faith in decline; the decline of my health, the decline of my sanity, the decline of my happiness. Miranda’s going to make sure I hit rock bottom with everything she’s got. She’s going to strip it all away. I hate her, Faith. I really, truly, hate the woman.” She narrows her eyes as if she’s trying to figure out what’s going on and I answer the question. “She’s taking me to court in two weeks to fight for full custody.”
“What? She can’t take your kids.”
“It’s all up to the courts. It’s not fair, you know? That total strangers are going to decide my future and my kids’ future. All because Miranda has a hard-on for revenge and power and flaunting her money. Have I mentioned how much I hate her?” The last sentence I mix malice with sarcasm because I’d rather do that than cry. Or scream and punch a hole in the wall. And I’m on the verge of either now.
“You have to fight. With everything you’ve got.” She looks determined. The kind of determined I want to feel in my heart, that leaves no room for doubt.
I have too much doubt. It’s the bastard child of fear. I hate fear. So doubt sidles up next to determination in my heart. It doesn’t outweigh it. They coexist.
I nod in agreement with her. “I can’t lose them, Faith.” My voice is thick with the sadness and frustration that’s clogging my throat.
“You won’t,” she assures me. And then she stands and walks to the front door and opens it. She bends over and picks up the W…E mat, steps back inside, and closes the door behind her. Then she walks toward me and sets the W…E mat down on the floor directly in front of me. And after she steps onto it she smiles and says, “I need to hug you. Now.”
I take her hand she’s extended to help me up.
She looks down at the mat we’re both now standing on and back up to my eyes. “We,” she says. “You’re not alone, Seamus. I’m here.”
I hug her, and I let everything bad drain out of me. But I don’t give it to her. I let it siphon down from my head through my torso and legs and out my feet, just like opening up the drain in the bathtub. I can feel the fear and tension escape, if only for the moment.
And I feel her doing the same thing. The hug that started out strong, more physical than emotional, as if we both needed to prove that we were here and present for each other, lessened in grip and shifted to something more emotional and supportive. And it feels every bit as intense in strength.
“So much more than thank you,” I whisper in her ear.
“So much more,” she whispers back. And in those words I hear my soft place to land again, but I also feel a change in both of us. That wasn’t just acceptance of my appreciation, it was also an admission. A desire.
I’m at odds with my conscience. All too aware of the woman pressed against me. A woman I want to get lost in, if only tonight. I’m mapping out boundaries and lines in my mind. Lines I shouldn’t cross. And then my mouth is working on the specifics without me. “Do you have a boyfriend, Faith?” I ask it softly, like a wish, into the indentation of her collarbone.
“No,” she whispers.
I hear the word. I understand its meaning. But what makes heat thread through my veins is the hesitant, sadly hopeful tone of her voice. Hope that pleads for consequences…immediate consequences.
Consequences that have me arguing away lines and boundaries and touching my lips to her skin. Her shoulders lift slightly into the contact before settling out on a silent sigh.
I chase the sigh with my lips…and then with the tip of my tongue, tracing the hard line of her collarbone to the base of her neck.
Her hands twist up the back of my t-shirt in response.
I’ve always romanticized that physical intimacy should be a conversation. A loving exchange back and forth. I’ve never had a partner who was a willing conversationalist.
Until now.
Fingertips brush faintly up the backside of an arm, wrist to shoulder, raising goosebumps in response.
Warm breath against skin, exhaled on a patient pause between kisses below an ear, elicits a shiver.
A shifting of stance tucks one leg between two, the two hug it in return.
The initiation of a kiss, soft and tentative, is welcomed by parted lips.
A shirt removed is reciprocated with the shedding of the other.
Touch for touch.
Kiss for kiss.
Heart for heart.
Trust for trust.
It’s all traded until the line I drew in my mind earlier is approached, if not mildly crossed already. I don’t retreat, but I don’t take it any further. She doesn’t push it either and seems perfectly content to continue the conversation without the introduction of sex.
Even when we move to the couch and she sits on my lap straddling me, all of the conversation happens from the waist up. The pace and intensity vary like the waves of the ocean I love to watch. Some swells are low, no break, just a gentle ease. And some swells are high, all whitecaps, intensely crashing in with passionate frenzy. The ebb and flow is so natural that I obey every instinct without hesitation. Hesitation requires doubt or uncertainty, neither of which are possible when I’m touching Faith.
An easy hour passes, and as it does our bodies begin to meld with each other as the blissful, satisfying blanket of exhaustion envelopes us. Slowly, so slowly, we’re pulled under until her head is resting on my shoulder, my head tilted, her forehead against my neck, our torsos contently accepting each other’s touch as the precursor to a final hug. And the last thing I hear before we both fall asleep, is a whisper, “So much more.” It sounds like an appeal to my soul.
Botox, overcoats, and destiny
past
Seamus goes through ups and downs with his MS. It appears to subside and then returns in a furious, vicious, illogical circle. Not that I’m a supporter; I bear witness to the struggle when I’m home, which isn’t often. The feeling returned in his legs but was replaced by pain. He doesn’t complain, but I see how it affects him when he moves, when he walks. His gait isn’t fluid, there’s tenderness and a tentativeness that gives him away. It’s unattractive. I know that sounds callous, but even though his face still looks like a goddamn model, I can’t get past the incompleteness I know exists physically.
For the year after Kira was born, I turned to Seamus because Loren backed away from me sexually. I ignored the lack of attraction because in the darkness of our bedroom his performance was never lacking. I could have sex with Seamus and think of Loren.
That didn’t last. After months of wallowing, I took charge; Botox and a personal trainer have me looking better than ever, and when I show up at Loren’s front door wearing only an overcoat, he wastes no time in stripping me of it and taking me right there in harsh form up against the wall of his foyer.
I stay two days. I think the news that I’m sterile turns him on. His appetite is insatiable like he’s been starving for a meal only I can serve up for months. I’m on my way, my destiny back on track.
I throw up another middle finger to the universe as I pull away from his estate in a taxi. I’ll be back to stay someday. With a new last name. Or I’ll go down in flames trying.
Blackmail sounds so harsh
past
I’m thirty-three years old.
I’m successful beyond belief career-wise. I’m vice president of a tech company that’s increased its profits tenfold the past several years—all thanks to my direction and leadership. My reputation in the industry precedes me. I’ve constructed it with precision, an intricate master plan at work: money, titles, power.
I am fearless.
But more than that—I am feared.
My grandmother would be so proud.
The money is rolling in. My salary is exorbitant, though I
always lobby for my next raise. I stash it all away in bank accounts and investments that Seamus doesn’t, and will never, know about. My day is coming, and when it does he’ll be sorry he was stupid enough to sign the prenup I insisted on all those years ago, stating that all of my future earnings would remain with me should there ever come a time we should split. Let him keep his measly forty grand a year. That shit’s gone the minute it goes into his account anyway, spent on utilities and food and insurance and his meager car payment and whatever the kids need. The thing about Seamus is, he’ll probably be okay when he’s living hand to mouth someday. Money doesn’t mean anything to him. He’s all about the kids, and helping people. Fool.
Despite my successes, I’m at a stalemate.
I’m still with Seamus. Still with the kids. The façade intact.
I’m so fucking tired of the façade.
I thought the façade would sustain me. A good husband, two point five kids, and a white picket fence looks good. It’s the layer that society expects and grants you merit points based upon. Merit points, even fictitious ones, offset my ruthlessness. Even if people think I’m a bitch, they’ll say, “Oh, but her husband and children are lovely, she can’t be that bad.” It balances me out. And it worked until my eyes were opened to bigger and better. My destiny, it’s the façade on steroids. Remove goodness and insert excess. Excess, what a magnificent word.
I need my destiny.
It’s long overdue.
Kira just turned four.
Loren still hasn’t met her. Acknowledged her.
I fly to Seattle a few times a month. We have sex like rabbits, and then I come home. Empty. Even while I’m with him, I’m empty, because I know I’ll just be cast out when it’s done. I don’t want to be cast out. I deserve to be there with him. The motherfucking queen to his king.
I used to think I loved Loren, the man, and I think to some degree I did, but what I love most is the idea of Loren, the things that make up Loren. I love his estate. I love his money. I love his power. I love his business prowess. I love his cold, calculating confidence. I love his winner-take-all attitude. He’s basically me with a penis. And who wouldn’t love that. Put us together. Combine our assets. It’s the wet dream of wet dreams, a fucking financial fantasy.
And it’s time to take it because it’s clear that Loren isn’t going to buy the cow when he gets the milk free.
It’s late, after eleven in the evening. This trip was last minute. Instead of going home from the office, I went to the airport and hopped a flight to Seattle. I’m in a taxi on my way to his estate to show him just how much this bitch’s milk is going to cost him.
The Louis Vuitton bag hanging from my shoulder contains the ticket to my future, my destiny. I’m tired of waiting. I need action. I’m bored with the lack of upward mobility. The documents housed in the files inside have been painstakingly crafted over the past few years, just in case I needed a firm hand to make him see things my way.
As the driver turns onto his street, I dial his cell phone from mine.
He answers on the third ring, “Miranda?”
“Open the gate. I’m here,” I tell him. He loves it when I give commands. He does the same to me. It’s a sparked, charged, battle of wills; a twisted mating ritual.
“You’re here?” he questions, though he doesn’t sound surprised. It’s Friday night, this happens often.
“Right out front,” I say as the driver pulls up to the gate.
“I’m just leaving a business dinner that ran late.” Business dinner means sex with a high-priced escort. I hired a private investigator to follow him. I know what he likes: dark hair, big tits, and kink. I have photographs. Unbeknownst to him, he also has a proclivity for underage girls. Though they look mid-twenties, a lot of them are under eighteen. He’s been a very, very naughty boy.
“Take your time,” I say with a smile.
“I’ll call the housekeeper and have her let you in. Make yourself comfortable while you wait.” Make yourself comfortable means get naked.
“Like I said, take your time,” I repeat.
The gate retracts moments after I end the call, and his housekeeper greets me by name at the front door when I’m dropped off.
After she takes my coat, she says, “Mr. Buckingham will arrive shortly. He asked that you wait for him wherever you like.” She nods politely and walks away.
“I will,” I say to her retreating figure as I watch her ass sashay in her short skirt. When I move in I’m firing her and replacing her with someone older and less attractive. Someone whose ass sashaying is past its prime.
I walk directly to his office and close the double doors behind me. Everything about this room excites me. The overall masculinity is overwhelming and makes my lady parts tingle. The rich wood, the leather, the dark colors, and the faint scent of cigar are a pheromone.
After pouring a snifter of his finest cognac, I remove all of the paperwork and photographs from my bag and spread them out in a showy presentation on his desk. I’ve been busy creating a scandal; the massive desk is covered. After that I strip down to my lace bra and thong, leaving on my stilettos, and take a seat in his oversized, leather desk chair, patiently sipping my drink. I ponder masturbating because this high I’m riding has me uncomfortably at the edge of release, but I wait because I want him to relieve the ache before I crush him. Fuck him before I fuck him, if you will.
When he finally opens the door, he smiles approvingly at my lack of clothing. “You’re my favorite houseguest, you know that?” He’s removing his clothing, letting each article fall piece by piece as he walks toward me. His naked form is something I’ve always admired. He goes to the gym and runs obsessively; his body looks good if he were half his age.
I stand and remove my thong and bra. I do it slowly, a striptease to wind him up.
He’s watching me with rapt attention as I lie down on his desk atop my masterpiece.
“My favorite,” he whispers as he mounts the end of the long desk prowling toward me on his hands and knees.
When his hands land on either side of my waist, I halt his advance, “Stop right there.”
He does.
“You’ve kept me waiting,” I purr.
He glances down and smiles. I know he smiles for his whores exactly like that, it’s not special anymore.
“Me first.”
His smile widens as he looks up and licks his lips. “You first?” he questions teasingly.
“Now,” I command.
His descent is slow, keeping his eyes locked on mine. It’s part of the buildup with him. The slow pace, the control, he gets off on it. And I can’t deny that I do too.
His mouth devours me. Lips, teeth, tongue—the way they work together is blissful. He throws in a few fingers, and I’m on fire. My hands grip his hair tightly holding him in place while my hips choose to increase the pressure and pace as needed. I’m giving him orders, talking absolute filth and loving it. He’s groaning into me, intoxicated with the act he’s engaged in. “Miranda, I need inside. Now,” he begs.
He begged. The scenario I’ve built up here just keeps getting better.
“Me first,” I remind him.
And that’s when it happens, the most exquisite orgasm I’ve ever experienced. The combination of the trap I’ve set, his submission, and his talented fucking mouth created a trifecta that will never be replicated. I ride it out long and hard, screaming, “Fuck you!” repeatedly, which only serves to turn him on more.
The moment I still and open my eyes, he sits back on his heels and takes in the view.
I smile. “You like what you see?” I ask.
His eyes are dark. His chest is heaving. His dick is pleading. “Very much,” he says.
I wink. “You haven’t seen anything yet.” He grins greedily as he watches me climb off the desk and sit in his chair. “I rather like this chair,” I say, stroking the leather arm with my fingertips. “It makes me feel powerful.”
He’s stalking every i
nch of me with his eyes while he steps down off the desk and stands in front of me. “Down on your knees.” The way he says it would normally leave no room for negotiation.
“Not tonight, Mr. Buckingham.” I lean back in the chair, cross my legs, and steeple my fingers. “Why don’t you get down on yours?” I add with a smile sent straight from hell and gesture to the scattered array of evidence on his desk.
“What’s that?” he says pointing to the papers.
“Oh, those? Those are your balls, my dear,” I say sweetly as I bat my eyelashes. “I’ve got you by the balls. And you know I’m never gentle. This may hurt a bit.”
His face grows red with anger before his eyes begin reading the words, flitting from one paper to the next. Then his head is shaking side to side, it’s supposed to be defiant, but I know terror when I see it. As the color starts to drain from his face like sands through an hourglass, I can’t help make the analogy…his time just ran out. He’s still shaking his head in denial when he looks at me. “What is all of this? What do you want?”
I tilt my head. “I want us.” That’s as simple as I can make it.
His face blanches. “No, I don’t think you do.” He points to the papers and stutters, “This…this isn’t love.”
I roll my eyes. “Who said anything about love?” The irony of us having this discussion naked with the scent of arousal still floating in the air around us isn’t lost on me.
He blinks several times. “Isn’t that why people generally get married?” He’s stunned. “Are you blackmailing me?”
I tap my pointer fingertip against my lips as I think over my answer. “Blackmail sounds so harsh. Let’s call it relationship negotiations.”
He walks to his pile of clothes and yanks on his dress pants before shrugging on his shirt. He stares at me for a moment; it’s disbelief, and then disgust. “Put some goddamn clothes on.”
