Masterson

by Lisa Lang Blakeney

  "Yeah, I guess so."

  "There's no need to be ashamed of it, Elizabeth. It's cool that your parents gave a shit. "

  "Are you angry with your mom or Joseph?"

  "No." He says again shortly. He obviously doesn't want to talk about this, so I leave it alone.

  I notice a large sign that is advertising a palm reading for ten dollars, and I beg Roman to stop. I considered getting a reading online once, but I'd rather have a live in-person experience.

  "Roman, stop there."

  "For what?"

  "I want a reading."

  "A reading? You do know that these people are frauds right?"

  "No, I most certainly do not know that. The Long Island Psychic is real."

  "Are you kidding me right now magna cum laude?"

  "Summa cum laude."

  "My bad, but that makes it even worse. You've got to be kidding about this reading."

  "No I'm not kidding. I want to get a reading."

  "Palm readings are the ultimate hustle. You're just itching to spend that money in your pocket aren't you?"

  He parks the car.

  "You're getting out too?" I ask.

  "Uh ... yes. Someone needs to make sure that you don't spend all your damn money in there."

  "Will the car be okay?" I whisper.

  "Why are you whispering?" He laughs at me. "You watch too many movies. The car will be fine. Let's go."

  An olive-skinned woman who doesn't appear to be too much older than me, dressed in a long orange and gold maxi dress with spaghetti straps greets us at the door.

  "Welcome. Would you like a reading?"

  "Yes I would."

  "Who's first?" She gives Roman an approving once over from head to toe. Even the palm reader wants in his pants. It never stops.

  "I'm just watching." He gives me an I told you so look, but I'm not swayed. I'm still a believer. The fact that she wants in his pants doesn't make her a fraud. It just makes her human.

  "Ok then. Have a seat at the round table behind that curtain miss."

  I give Roman a wink and make my way behind the curtain. The room is not exactly what I envisioned a palm reader's place to look like. I imagined lots of colorful, flowing drapery, candles and incense burning when in actuality it had more of a low key, calming energy. Pictures of sunrises and waterfalls on the walls. Natural wood shelving with tarot cards, candles and other trinkets for sale. An indoor waterfall sits in the corner of the room with a large wooden bowl at the base of it filled with cash, and some sort of recording of a Native American flute is playing through a speaker hanging in the corner. It's very relaxing and spa like.

  "May I have your hands please?"

  The woman holds my hands, palm side up and rubs her thumbs back and forth across the center of my palms. It tickles, but I try to hold still, because she is as serious as a heart attack about it.

  "Something big is in the works for you. Something you've been working towards a long time."

  Ding! Ding! Ding! I'm sold already.

  "Yes," is all I reply. Remembering not to give details. I want to know what she sees, not what I want her to see.

  "It's going to happen soon and it's going to happen fast, and there will be decisions you are going to need to make in order for it to work out long term."

  "Okay."

  "He will be one of those decisions."

  "Who?"

  "The man outside."

  "Are you sure?"

  What does Roman have to do with my business? This is where she's starting to lose me, because I think she assumes that he's my boyfriend or something. An obvious mistake to make, but a mistake nonetheless.

  She lifts her head from my palms and looks directly into my eyes.

  "I am sure."

  "What about my love life?" I wonder if she sees anything about Ethan.

  She pauses for a moment as she holds my hands, then looks at me curiously.

  "He will be the love of your life."

  "Who?"

  "The man outside."

  I almost laugh.

  "Not likely,” I mutter under my breath.

  "But be careful, because the passion between you two may consume you."

  I tune much of what she says out after that. I've been successfully rattled. I don't think the reader is a complete fraud, because I feel (or at least hope) she was spot on about my business, but her comments about Roman have thrown me off kilter.

  She instructs me to leave my offering, instead of a payment, in the bowl at the base of the waterfall. Then she recommends that I purchase a homemade candle to burn for further reflection. I've got the money in my pocket, so I say what the hell and purchase a vanilla and lavender soy candle for twenty bucks.

  Roman stands as I exit the room, and he looks relieved that it's over.

  "How was it?"

  "Interesting."

  "How much did you spend?"

  "Thirty dollars."

  "For a ten dollar reading?"

  He throws a friendly hook arm around my neck as we walk to the car, and it feels so frackin' good. I pray that my attraction towards him doesn't grow any stronger than it already is, but I think I already know the answer to that.

  "Did the hustler tell you something life shattering behind the curtain?" he asks smugly.

  It's complicated.

  16

  Roman

  “WE NEED TO TALK.”

  Those are four words most men dread hearing from a woman, but for me there is nothing worse than when those four words come out of my father's mouth.

  Why?

  Because I know that whatever follows those words is never going to be a good thing for me.

  "About?" As if I don't already know.

  "Elizabeth."

  Shit.

  17

  Elizabeth

  OVER AN HOUR LATER AFTER our day together, a very shower damp Roman is standing in the doorway of my bedroom in nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist, holding my favorite hot pink bra and black lace panties in his hands. I'm terribly embarrassed because I don't make a habit of allowing men to touch my lingerie, but because I've been slacking on doing laundry, I had to hand wash a few things in the bathroom sink.

  Of course my traitorous eyes are magnetically drawn to Roman's bare sculpted pecs, lean torso, and his well-defined abs, but his lack of boundaries infuriates me enough to snap out of it. I'm freshly showered and sitting up in bed in only a long t-shirt and panties with my laptop on my lap. He needs to stop dropping by my room whenever he feels like it, and he definitely needs to wear more damn clothes.

  "Why don't your bra and panties match?"

  I just need to breathe through his totally inappropriate question, as I try to divert my eyes away from what I imagine is under that towel.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  "Women's underwear is expensive," I explain. "I buy things on sale, so they don't always match." An honest answer, but delivered in a slightly patronizing tone. "Matching underwear is a frivolous expense for women who can afford it. Understand, rich boy?"

  "Your coke sniffing boyfriend couldn't buy you any matching underwear?"

  That was a low blow.

  "I'm sorry but what crawled up your ass in the last sixty minutes, and why are you even taking a shower here? Don't you have your own place, pervert?"

  Roman flashes me a devilish smirk. One he must use that wobbles a woman's knees upon sight, because it was working wonders inside my panties. I rub my legs together under the sheets of my bed like a cricket in an effort to stop the buzz that is slowly building between them.

  "I was using the bathroom in my father's house, and your skivvies were hanging on the shower rod for anyone to see and touch. It was almost as if you wanted someone to see them, cousin."

  Roman chucks my favorite bra and panties across the room and they land on top of my lampshade. I wonder if I let them stay there and sizzle a bit, if I could get him arrested for arson.<
br />
  He's in a stinky mood.

  "And there's definitely nothing perverted about touching your itty bitty bra and granny panties."

  "You're such an ass sometimes."

  "Not as big as the one you're lying on. Speaking of that. Why are you in the bed? You're supposed to be getting dressed. We're going out in thirty damn minutes. Leave the coding or whatever the hell it is you do alone for one night, nerd."

  This jerk!

  He's been missing in action for thirteen days (yes I'm counting), and then today he just whirls into my life like a hurricane. Forcing me to hang out with him all day; bossing me around; threatening the landlord with bodily harm (although I appreciated the end result). Standing in my doorway, giving me attitude, like we've known each other all our lives. It's infuriating; and possibly addictive. I'm afraid that I'm starting to like his brand of crazy a little too much.

  "I repeat. What crawled up your ass?"

  "I'm just wondering why you're in the bed talking to some dude in New Delhi when you should be getting ready to go out. You've known all day that we're going out."

  "All right already! I'll be ready in thirty minutes."

  "Not thirty; fifteen minutes."

  "What! Why?"

  "Because none of us can eat in this house until you do. Juliette insists that we wait for her beloved niece to come down before anyone can have a bite of food."

  "We just ate you frackin' Neanderthal! You can't possibly be hungry."

  "Frackin'?" Roman lets out a thunderous laugh. "Did you just say frackin'?"

  "What of it,” I say defensively.

  "That's a curse word from Battlestar Galactica if I recall. Damn you really are a nerd."

  He's laughing so hard now that I swear I just saw a tear roll down the side of his face. He's seriously a jerk. I don't know why I even bother.

  "Only another fellow nerd would recognize the term asshole,” I say with venom.

  "Unless I was fucking a nerd who used to watch the SciFi channel on the weekends, and I picked it up from her,” he counters.

  "And how would a man who doesn't do seconds know what a woman was watching on TV over the weekends?"

  "Food, Duchess,” he responds in an obvious attempt to avoid that particular question. "I want to eat dinner before we go. Juliette made pot pies."

  I grin, because I know I won that verbal sparring.

  "All right I'll be there in fifteen. Or maybe I won't. Maybe skipping a meal will do wonders for my ass since you seem so concerned about the size of it."

  "Missing just one meal isn't going to do the trick, cousin," he laughs out loud.

  I really want to laugh too, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of thinking that he's funny. So I do what any immature kid would do, and look for the closest thing I can find (one of my Ugg boots) and throw it as forcefully as I can at Roman's beautiful buzzed-cut head. Not the most effective weapon since they're made out of sheepskin, but it was better than nothing.

  I would have hit him square between the eyes if he hadn't suddenly blocked it and batted it down like some sort of ninja. Of course he would have quick reflexes. Why wouldn't he? He's built just like a frackin' UFC fighter.

  "You missed,” he sticks out his tongue at me like the four-year-old I'm learning he can be too. I roll my eyes at him, and then suddenly something in the air changes.

  Without warning Roman strolls inside my room, shuts my door, and sits on the edge of the bed next to me. It was easy to hold my own when he was standing in my doorway, but now that he's literally two inches away from my semi-dressed body, I feel a bit less sure of myself.

  He gently touches a few strands of my hair, curls them around his fingers, and uses them to softly brush across his bottom lip. I'm staying stock still. It's the second time that I am able to see his entire tattoo, but this time around, I study it. He's so close to me, I can't help it. It's a beautiful tribal mosaic that swirls and curves around the length and width of his back and travels up the left side of his neck where it ends. You can tell that it was painstakingly designed and executed, and frankly it takes my breath away. That and the fact that he is touching me again.

  "What are you doing?" I ask nervously while I quickly sit up straighter and pull my massive head of hair out of his hands and into the neatest top-knot I can. That was a mistake though. When I lift up my arms, the movement raises my breasts up higher and directly in his line of vision. He gazes almost hungrily at my breasts then looks back to my face with a thirst in his eyes that makes me shiver.

  "Duchess–"

  "Yes?" I immediately respond.

  He stops as we both look across at ourselves in the mirror above my dresser. Both of us very still as a moment of silence passes between us. I can no longer hold his stare and am looking away from him when he suddenly pulls my knotted hair free.

  "I like your hair down."

  My panties are sopping wet now.

  He wraps his hand around the base of my throat and uses his thumb to slowly stroke my bottom lip. Back and forth until my lips part.

  He pushes his thumb inside my mouth, and I foolishly shut my eyes and then close my lips around it and suck. I didn't mean to, it was just a natural reaction to the fire he is stoking inside of my body.

  "Lie down, Duchess,” he says closely by my ear.

  He picks up my laptop and places it gently on my nightstand. His hand begins to slowly drag down my neck and to my chest where he begins to rub one of my nipples between his thumb and forefinger. All his movements are painstakingly slow, fluid and careful. He knows a woman's body, and I can tell that he is trying to study mine.

  When he moves to the left nipple, the sensation I feel multiplies tenfold because that breast has always been more sensitive than the other. Now my hips start to rise up like they have a mind of their own. Moving. Flexing. Begging for Roman to relieve me of the ache that is snowballing between my legs.

  He rolls and tugs, rolls and tugs, until he hears a slight gasp from me. Then his hand continues on its downward path. And I realize immediately that this is the moment right here. The moment where I have a decision to make. If I allow him to slide his hand inside my panties where I know he's headed, there will be no coming back from that.

  Think, Elizabeth. This is your cousin.

  But I say nothing and I allow his hand to slide right in. It's like a waterslide down there, which seems to emphatically delight him by the self-satisfied grin spread across his face.

  "You're so fucking wet for me."

  "Masterson–" I protest unconvincingly.

  "This is what's going to happen, Duchess," he cuts me off. "You're going to spread your legs, come for me twice, and then we're going to eat a pot pie and head out to the club. You feel me?"

  Before I can open my mouth to say another word his mouth captures mine in a mind blowing, frantic kiss while he simultaneously slides one of his thick fingers between my folds and then inside me. It feels so tremendously good that I want to smack somebody. I've never been touched like this before. He's playing my body like an instrument, and I'm not sure what kinds of animalistic sounds are coming out of my mouth, but they're in total response to the pure ecstasy I am feeling right now.

  "Spread wider,” he commands. So I do.

  He uses his thumb next to rub back and forth over my clit while still pumping both of his thick fingers in and out of my pussy and the next thing I know, I see a million frackin' stars burst into a pure blinding white light, and I let out a shriek that all the neighborhood dogs can probably hear on the next block.

  "Shhh," he chuckles with his lips against my mouth. "I still owe you another one."

  I'm tingly and flushed, and frankly I don't think I can take another Masterson orgasm. Not quietly anyway.

  "Wait–" I beg quietly.

  Why I thought he would listen is beyond me.

  He flips me over in one quick motion (which is damn impressive considering the size of my child bearing hips), smacks me on the right ass cheek, an
d then starts ordering me around again.

  "All fours, baby."

  There's something about being on all fours in front of a man that makes me feel extremely vulnerable. Maybe it's because I can't see his eyes and know what he's thinking (as if I really could know for sure). Or maybe it's because I can't imagine what the view is like from back there. Needless to say I've never done it, and I don't know why the hell I'm propping myself up right now.

  "I've never–"

  "Shhh," he quiets me. "I'm just going to lick that pussy clean, but you have to be a good girl and keep still and quiet for me ok?"

  Oh. My. God.

  If he keeps talking to me like that, I'm going to come right the frack now. He won't have to even touch me again.

  "Can you do that?" he asks again.

  I nod my head.

  Then he slaps my ass again. Harder.

  "Oww!"

  "Can. You. Do. That?" he asks again with a growl.

  "Yes."

  "Good girl. All fours. Knees wider."

  I don't know if I can do this...

  "Wider. Don't hide from me."

  I spread my knees wider and inhale a deep breath. Praying that Juliette doesn't walk in on this clusterfuck.

  Suddenly all I feel is warmth. The warm strokes of Roman's tongue stroking my clit up and down, and back and forth with precision and care. He's not as urgent as before. This time he's taking his time and it's making the climb all that more torturous. I'm tense yet turned on at the same time. I feel super exposed in a way that I've never been before, but it feels amazing.

  "That's a sweet pussy,” he mutters in between licks. "This time I want you to try and hold off coming, Duchess."

  "What?" Is he kidding me?

  "I want you to wait until I give you permission."

  My legs start quivering as I feel the tension swirling inside of me getting ready to burst. My breaths start to become shallow as I'm pretty sure I'm about to come.

  Then he stops.

  He blows a few warm breaths in between my legs, kisses me on my inner thigh, and starts talking again. But I don't want him to talk. I want him to continue on with what the hell he was doing, before I have to pin his ass down and sit right on top of his face.