by Noelle Adams
“What?”
“You’re...” I wave my hand in the general vicinity of his underwear. He’s visibly erect beneath them.
“I’m what?”
“You’re hard.”
He glares at me between his eyelashes. “What’s your point?”
I’m giggling helplessly now—at his expression more than his physical condition. “When did you get that way?”
“I was anticipating on my way here.”
“Please tell me you didn’t have an erection on the flight!”
“Give me a little credit.” He gets into bed and is on top of me again before I know it. “I didn’t start anticipating that early. Not until I got to the hotel.”
“Aren’t you a little old to lose control of your body that way?”
His glare gets even cooler. He’s holding himself above me so he can meet my eyes. “I’ll have you know I never lose control of my body.”
“Never?”
His mouth quirks up. “Almost never. Certainly not until I met you. I’m not sure what’s gotten into me lately, if you want to know the truth.”
I’m still laughing, but I’m feeling a lot more than just that. I try to hide it by saying, “I notice you very skillfully bypassed the subject of your age.”
“I wasn’t bypassing it. I just didn’t think it was relevant.” He ducks his head down to nuzzle the curve of my shoulder. “I’m forty-six.”
“Oh. Well, that’s not too bad. I’m thirty-two. I guess neither of us are spring chickens.”
He shakes with amusement on top of me, still teasing my bare skin with his tongue. “Spring chickens?”
“That’s what my mom always used to say.”
“I suppose that’s one way to put it. Now if you’re done investigating my age and physical condition...”
“Honestly, I couldn’t care less about your age, and I haven’t even begun investigating your physical condition.” I stroke his hair, loving the texture of it beneath my palms. “Do you not want to take a shower?”
“I’d much rather do this, unless you want me to shower first.”
I make a show of sniffing at him. “Nah. You’re fine. Especially since you’ve been anticipating so much.”
“So you’re saying you haven’t been anticipating?” He moves onto his knees so he can pull off my little gown, his eyes running up and down my naked body with open lust.
“I might have been anticipating a little. But remember you were so late that I had to give up on you and go to sleep. It might take a few minutes to work up my momentum.”
“Your oomph,” he corrects, leaning over to trail his mouth down from my neck to my breasts.
“Yes. My oomph. I’d almost forgotten about that.”
“I haven’t.” He tweaks my nipple without warning, making me gasp and arch up. “And if you need a few minutes to regain your oomph, a few minutes you shall have.”
He’s as good as his word. He spends a lot time kissing and caressing me, teasing all my favorite spots until I’m flushed all over and panting with rising desire.
I expect him to bring me to orgasm with his hand. He almost always does when we have sex. So I’m surprised when he doesn’t move his hand into place. He just keeps kissing his way down my body until I can’t stop whimpering.
“Richard,” I finally mumble. “Richard, I need... I need...” I roll my hips and tug on his hair and try desperately to maneuver my body into a position to get some friction where I need it.
“I know what you need.” He parts my legs and lowers his face toward my groin.
I stare down at him, momentarily frozen by the sight of him breathing deeply. Like he’s smelling my arousal.
Smelling me.
“Richard.” I writhe again in frustration, the throbbing between my legs driving me crazy. “Please.”
He nuzzles between my legs, and I squeal.
Lifting his head, he gives me a questioning look. “Okay?”
“Yes, but what... what are you...?”
“I think you know what I’m doing.” He gives me a wolfish smile before his expression sobers. “Unless you don’t want me to.”
“I do. I do!” I arch my neck and lick my lips, trying to process everything I’m feeling. “I just didn’t expect you to...”
“I’d like to, unless you don’t want it.”
“I want it.” The admission comes out before I can stop it. “Richard, please.”
He looks pleased—hot and flushed and sexy and pleased—when he lowers his face again and gives me a big hard lick that feels so good that I buck right up off the bed.
Laughing, he uses his fingers to hold me open so he can get down to business more easily.
It shouldn’t surprise me he’s good at this. He’s good at everything. But he definitely knows what he’s doing with his lips and fingers and tongue. He works me up to the edge of orgasm and then holds me there for far too long until I’m writhing and begging him to make me come.
Literally begging. Babbling out helpless pleas for release.
He finally gives it to me, sucking hard at my clit. I come apart loudly, shaking and arching and sobbing with the pleasure of it. Before I’ve come down, he slides two fingers inside me and starts to pump, teasing my clit with his tongue until I’m coming again, just as powerfully as before.
He makes me come one more time before he finally straightens up. The lower part of his mouth is wet from my arousal. He wipes it away in a carnal gesture that’s a startling contrast to his typical sophistication.
I’m limp and replete as he gets up to grab a condom and then shucks his boxer briefs before rolling it on. Then he kneels between my legs, lifts my hips, and raises me until I’m in the right position. He fucks me like that—strong and fast and vigorous—until I come again, turning my head to muffle my cries in the pillow but not quite hiding the sound.
Then he pulls out and turns me over, taking me from behind. He’s losing control now. There’s a deep tension shuddering through him as he fucks me. He’s harder. Faster. Just on the edge of rough.
And I love it. I love to feel him like this. It’s a lot to take, but it’s not too much. I can do this. I want to do this. I want to give this to him the way he’s always given me what I need.
“Y’okay, baby?” he rasps out, surprising me with the question at my ear.
“Yeah. Yeah. Good. I like it. I like it hard.” I’m telling him the truth, and I can see how he likes to hear it when I look at his face over my shoulder.
We’re shaking the bed. It’s primal. Carnal. I really can’t believe this is me.
Gillian Meadowbrook.
Letting Richard fuck me this way in a hotel room in the middle of the night.
He’s grunting now—like he does just before he comes. I squeeze around him as best I can, and he makes a stretched sound in response just before he loses it.
He says something. Low and hoarse and not quite comprehensible. Then he’s jerking against my bottom, coming just as powerfully as I did before.
I feel hot and sticky and a little strange afterward, so I take the condom he ties off and throw it away in the bathroom before I pee and wash up a little. I find my gown and pull it back on before I take a few swallows from a bottle of water and get back into bed.
Richard is lying in a limp sprawl. I caress his chest gently. “You all right?”
He turns his head to smile at me. “Yeah. I’m good. You?”
“I’m good too.”
I close my eyes but can’t keep them closed, so I stare up at the ceiling for a few minutes.
I’m definitely feeling the sex we just had. He’s never been so rough with me before. But I liked it. More than liked it.
I loved it. Loved the way he made me feel and loved the way I could see he was feeling just as much.
For a moment my heart flutters. Maybe I’m not quite as in control of this as I thought.
He shifts beside me, and I’m suddenly surrounded by the smell of him. My heart f
lutters even more.
“You all right?” he asks softly.
I turn my head and see he’s watching me. “You already asked me that.”
“Yes, but now I’m asking you again.”
“I’m fine. Good. Just thinking weird, post-sex thoughts. Do you ever get those? Where you suddenly have all these deep reflections out of nowhere?” I’m pleased that my voice sounds light and casual since that’s not how I’m feeling.
He chuckles, reaching over to stroke my cheekbone with his thumb. “I do get those sometimes. What are yours? Anything worth sharing?”
I shake my head. “Definitely not.” I smile and curl up at his side.
He puts an arm around me. I feel his body gradually soften beside me. He’s as warm as a radiator, and I gradually let go of my emotional jitters. This is good. It’s what I want. I don’t need more than this.
It’s not long before both of us go to sleep.
Five
THE NEXT MORNING AT about ten o’clock, we’re walking along a boardwalk by the beach. Richard is quieter than normal, but as far as I can tell, he’s enjoying the peace, the sunshine, and the breeze as much as I am.
We slept until about eight thirty and ate a little bit in the room with our coffee. Since there wasn’t anything either one of us really wanted to do today, we went out to wander around for a while.
There are already quite a few people out and about this morning but not enough to be annoying. Since Richard isn’t in a talkative mood, I don’t try to force conversation. I just enjoy the walk.
Occasionally I wonder about what people think when they see us together like this. Whether they think we don’t belong together. Even Richard’s casual clothes are expensive. The silver in his hair glints in the sun, making him look like a hero from an old-fashioned romance.
And me...
I think I look nice in the cute, casual dress and cardigan I brought specifically for this trip, but I don’t stand out in any way. I don’t really think I’m a predictable match for him.
Not for the first time, I have to wonder what he’s even doing with me.
I don’t dwell on it. It doesn’t really matter. He wants to spend time with me. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t keep asking for more weekends. It doesn’t mean anything more than that, and since we’ll never have a real future together, it doesn’t matter if we don’t fit as a couple.
We pass by a few carts and vendors, and when I see someone come away from one of them with an impressive-looking ice-cream cone, my eyes follow it involuntarily. I hear myself saying, “Ooh.”
Richard glances over, chuckling when he sees what has diverted me.
“I’m just looking,” I say, an edge of defensiveness in my voice.
“Uh-huh.” He’s grinning as he puts a hand on my back and steers me toward the cart where he buys me an ice-cream cone just as impressive as the one I just saw.
I have a very good time getting started on it, but it’s a rather messy endeavor, so we find an empty bench so we can sit down while I work on it. I’m focused on eating it without ending up with melted drips all over my dress, so it’s a few minutes before I notice that Richard is watching me.
I’ve never seen that particular expression in his eyes before. I’m not sure how to label it. He’s not a soft man—not soft in any way. He can be warm. He can be funny and clever and thoughtful and careful. He can be as hard and cold as ice. I know it although he’s never shown me that side of him. And he can definitely be hot.
But I’ve never known him to be soft.
What I see in his eyes right now as they rest on my face, is almost—almost—there.
“What?” I say, my cheeks flushing with a self-consciousness I simply can’t help.
“Nothing.”
“Do I have ice cream all over my face?” I’ve been using my napkin whenever I feel even a hint of it, but it’s certainly possible that I’ve missed some.
“No,” he murmurs. Then he leans forward, adding, “Well, actually.”
I have no idea what to expect when he gives the side of my mouth a teasing little swipe with his tongue.
Surprised by an overflow of shivers, I give a little squeal and push him back with my free hand.
He’s laughing and still watching me in that almost soft way when he leans back against the bench again.
I lick a trickle of cream that’s trying to make an escape down the side of my cone. “This is a pretty big cone.”
“It is.”
“It might be a little too much for ten o’clock in the morning.”
“I’m sure you’re up to the challenge.”
I slant him a quick look. His eyes are still resting on my face. I want to ask what he’s thinking. I want to ask why he’s looking at me that way. I want to demand that he let me in to the mysterious recesses of his heart and soul.
I don’t. Not just because I know the effort would be self-defeating.
Also because I’m afraid to know. Afraid I won’t like what I find there.
Or that maybe I’ll like it too much.
I eat in silence for a few more minutes until I’ve tackled the top. I really am full now, so I offer the remainder of the cone to Richard. “I can’t eat anymore.”
To my surprise, he accepts it, biting into the cone and finishing it off with an impressive display of speed and tidiness. He bunches up the wrapper and napkin afterward and tosses it into the garbage can next to the bench.
I’m looking out at the boats on the water when I ask randomly, “Do you sail?”
He’s obviously been lost in his own thoughts because he blinks. “What?”
“Do you sail?” I nod toward a sailboat against the horizon.
“Oh. No, I don’t.”
“Do you just not like it? Or do you not get the opportunity?”
“Neither. I’ve actually never done it.”
This is unexpected enough for me to turn away from the beach and adjust my body so I can see him better. “You’ve never sailed before?”
“Why do you sound so surprised? Are you big on sailing or something?”
“No. I’ve never sailed either.”
“So what’s your point?” His tone is half-curious, half-amused.
“I don’t know. I just thought you would have sailed before.”
“Why?”
“Because you seem to have done everything.”
His smile fades into a thoughtful frown. He reaches out to push some hair behind my ear that’s escaped from the scarf I pulled it back with and was blowing in my eyes. “Why would you say that?”
“Why would I say that? Seriously? Have you seen yourself? You know everything and can do everything and are good at everything.”
He’s almost smiling again. “That’s not really true, you know.”
“I know, but you just give off the impression of being more experienced than anyone else. Experienced with everything. Like you’ve lived more than one life. Like nothing can surprise or rattle you. Like you’re just on the edge of world-weary.”
I didn’t actually intend to ramble out all that, and for a moment I’m worried he’ll take it the wrong way.
He doesn’t. He gives a soft huff of amusement. “Sometimes I feel that way. But there’s a lot I haven’t done.”
“I don’t believe you. Maybe you’ve never sailed before, but you’ve done pretty much everything else. We’re polar opposites. You’ve done everything, and I’ve done almost nothing. Maybe that’s why we hooked up with each other for a little while.”
“You’ve done plenty.”
“I’ve done some things, but inexperience is pretty much the name of the game for me. I’m not complaining. I’ve had a pretty good life, and I’ve got it way better than most people. But I’ve also been scared most of my life. Scared of taking risks. Maybe it’s from having such a strict father. He trained me to expect punishment anytime I stepped out of line.”
The corner of Richard’s mouth turns up in a slight sneer. I’m almost
sure it’s aimed at my father, who’s no more than a memory now. But he doesn’t follow through with that topic. Instead, he says, “There are plenty of things that you’ve done that I’ve never done.”
“Name one.” I’m proud of the challenge. I’m absolutely convinced he’s not going to be able to think of anything.
He doesn’t even hesitate. “You’ve gotten a PhD.”
“Okay. Fine. That’s true. But that’s not the kind of thing I was talking about. I wasn’t talking about career stuff. I know I’ve done well in my career. I’m good at what I do, and I’ve accomplished a lot. I’m proud of that. But it’s not everything.” I stretch my legs out and slump down on the bench slightly, staring out at the boats on the water. “I was really talking about life stuff. And in life stuff, I’ve done almost nothing. I’ve never been married. Never had children. Never been in love for real.”
I lived thirty-two years without even having sex.
I don’t say that. Instead, I add, “I’d never even had a one-night stand until a few months ago.”
“You just named four things. There’s a lot more to life than those four things.”
“And you’re saying there are a lot of those things that I’ve done that you’ve never done?”
“Yes,” Richard murmurs. “That’s what I’m saying.”
“Like what?”
He doesn’t answer immediately.
I reach over and touch his sleeve.
He shifts his eyes so he’s meeting my gaze. “Have you ever gone to a parent for advice?”
I frown, not really following. “Yes. Not my dad, but my mother for sure.”
“Have you had your friends throw you a surprise party for your birthday?”
“Yes.” My heart is starting to race, and a cold chill runs down my spine.
“Have you had a place that felt like home to you?”
“Yes.”
“Have you trusted someone enough to cry in front of them?”
“Yes.” I’m breathing raggedly as emotion rises in my throat. “Richard.”
“Have you had someone take care of you when you were sick?”
“Y-yes.” My eyes are burning. “Richard, are you saying—”
