Tempted

by Megan Hart

  James glanced at me before fixing his attention back at the road, where late spring rain had made the roads slick. “When did she say that?”

  Of course he hadn’t noticed. James had long ago perfected the art of tuning out his mother. She talked, he nodded. She was satisfied. He was oblivious.

  “When doesn’t she say it?” I crossed my arms over my chest, staring ahead through the rivulets of water turning the windshield into a piece of abstract art.

  He was silent as we drove, an admirable talent of his. Knowing when to be silent. It was something his mother could have learned, I thought vehemently. Tears pricked the back of my throat, but I swallowed them down.

  “She doesn’t mean anything by it,” he said finally as he pulled into our drive. The wind had gotten stronger as we neared the lake, and the pine trees in our yard whipped angry branches.

  “She does mean something by it, that’s the problem. She knows exactly what she’s saying and she plays it off with that little simpering laugh, like she’s making a joke, but she’s not.”

  “Anne…” James sighed and turned to me as he keyed off the ignition. The headlights went dark and I blinked, eyes adjusting. The patter of rain on the roof seemed much louder with darkness surrounding it. “Don’t get so upset.”

  I turned in my seat to face him. “She always asks, James. Every time we’re together. It’s getting a little old, that’s all.”

  His hand caressed my shoulder and tugged down the length of my braid. “She wants us to have kids—what’s wrong with that?”

  I said nothing. James took his hand back. I could see him now, a faint silhouette, the flash of his eyes in the hint of light from across the water. Cedar Point Amusement Park still glimmered despite the rain and the line of cars streaming off the causeway.

  “Chill, Anne. Don’t make such a big deal—”

  I cut him off by opening my door. The cold rain felt good on my heated cheeks. I tipped my face to the sky, closing my eyes, pretending the wetness on my cheeks was only rain. James got out of the car. His heat embraced me before his arm went around my shoulder.

  “Come inside. You’re getting soaked.”

  I let him lead me inside, but I didn’t talk to him. I went straight to our bathroom and turned on the hot water of the shower. I left my clothes in a pile and when the room had filled with steam I stepped into the tub and beneath the water that substituted for the rain outside.

  That’s where he found me, my head bent to let the hot water stream over my neck and back, working on the tension. I’d untied the braid, and my hair hung down over my breasts in kinked strands.

  My eyes were closed, but the brief chill as he opened the glass door told me he was there seconds before I felt his arms around me. James held me against his chest. It took seconds for his skin to heat beneath the water. I pressed my face to his skin, hot and wet, and let him hold me.

  We said nothing for a while as the shower caressed us both. His fingers traced my spine, up and down, the way he sometimes traced his scar. Water pooled in the space between my cheek and his chest, burning my eye. I had to move away to let it drain.

  “Hey.” James waited until I’d looked up. “Don’t be upset. I can’t stand it when you get so upset.”

  I wanted to explain to him that being upset once in a while wasn’t such a bad thing, but I didn’t. That a smile could be as painful as a scream. “She makes me so angry.”

  “I know.”

  His hand stroked my hair. He didn’t know, not really. I’m not sure a man can ever understand the complicated matter of feminine relationships. He didn’t want to understand it. James preferred the surface, too.

  “She never asks you.” I tilted my face to look at him. Water splashed, making me blink.

  “That’s because she knows I won’t have an answer.” He traced my eyebrow with one fingertip. “She knows you’re the one in charge.”

  “Why am I the one in charge?” I demanded, but I already knew the answer.

  It was easy for him, being blameless. “Because you’re so good at it.”

  I frowned and pushed away from him to reach for the shampoo. “I just wish she’d lay off.”

  “So tell her.”

  I sighed and turned. “Yeah. Right. That goes over so well with your mother, James. She’s so open to suggestion.”

  He shrugged and held out his hand for a handful of shampoo, too. “So she’ll get a little pissy.”

  What I wanted was him to be the one to tell his mother to back off, but I knew that wouldn’t happen. He, the son who could do no wrong, didn’t care if he made his parents angry. It wasn’t his issue. So, impotent and knowing it was my own fault, I swallowed my anger and concentrated on washing my hair. “We’re going to run out of hot water.”

  The stream was already becoming tepid. We washed quickly, sharing the body sponge and the shower gel, our fingers tickling and doing more than just cleaning. James reached to pull the lever, shutting off the water, and I grabbed two thick towels from the stack in the closet next to the shower. I handed him one, but before I could use my own, he’d grabbed my wrist and tugged me toward him.

  “C’mere, baby. Don’t be upset.”

  It was hard to stay mad at him. James might be perfectly content in the knowledge he could do no wrong, but that allowed him to be all the more generous with his affections. He dried me carefully, squeezing the extra wetness from the length of my hair and patting my body. His towel-covered hands stroked my back, my sides, behind my knees. Between my legs. On his knees in front of me, he lifted each foot and dried it. When he set the towel aside, my heart was already thumping faster. I expected my skin, already flushed from the shower’s heat, to give off steam of its own. James put his hands on my hips and drew me gently closer.

  When he kissed the small patch of curls between my thighs, I stuttered a sigh. He pulled me still closer, hands drifting around to cup my buttocks and hold me in place while his tongue crept out to flick my clitoris. One, two light licks and I bit my lip against a louder groan.

  I looked down at his dark head. His strong thighs, covered with coarse dark hair, bunched with muscle as he knelt. The thick mass of hair surrounding his thickening penis was in stark contrast to the smooth hairlessness of his ass and chest, only the slightest hint of hair on his lower belly. He leaned in again to kiss me tenderly. His tongue stroked, lips caressed, breath tantalized.

  Any woman who doesn’t feel the power she wields when a man kneels in front of her to worship her pussy must be lying to herself. I put my hand on the back of James’s head. His mouth worked my flesh with eager finesse, urging me to rock my hips forward. Tension coiled low in my belly. His hands moved on my ass, drawing circles I echoed in the shift of my pelvis.

  When my thighs started to shake, he used his hands to move me one half turn, until I could lean against the edge of the claw-foot tub. The cold metal should have sizzled when my flesh met it. The curved lip bit with slight discomfort into my rear, but as James, still kneeling, spread my legs wider and dove into my pussy with his mouth and fingers, I didn’t care about anything else.

  He moaned under his breath when he slid a finger inside me. I groaned when he added a second. James was a lover with a slow hand, just like the song. An easy touch.

  I hadn’t always known how to respond to him. His slow and easy caress failed me in the beginning. I hadn’t expected anything else. I’d gone to bed with James because we’d been dating for a couple months and because he expected it, and because I didn’t want to disappoint him. I didn’t go to bed with him because I thought he could make me come.

  Now he licked me slowly as he moved inside me, fingers curved just slightly to stroke the spongy bump of my G-spot. I gripped the bathtub, my back arched, thighs spread wide. In pain. Not caring. Later my fingers would be stiff and aching from holding on so tight, and my ass would be bisected with a red indentation from the tub’s metal lip, but now, with James between my legs, the pleasure overtook everything else.r />
  The first time we went to bed together, he didn’t ask me if I’d come. Nor the second, not the third. Two months after we started, this time in the bed of a hotel room we’d taken for the weekend without telling anyone where we were going, he paused in kissing me to put his hand over my center.

  “What do you want me to do?” His question was spoken low, but matter-of-factly, without boasting.

  I’d been with boys who assumed a few moments of fingering were enough to send me into ecstasy. Going to bed with them had meant nothing, left no effect on me. Faking pleasure had become the shiny surface of sex with them, and I preferred it that way. It made it easier to find ways to break up with them by making them think it had been their idea all along.

  James asked sincerely, clearly understanding that what he’d been doing so far didn’t work for me, though I’d never said so. He stroked my clit and labia gently, tickling. He looked down into my eyes.

  “What do I do to make you come?”

  I could have smiled and cooed, told him he was perfect in bed, the best lover I’d ever had. I could have lied to him, and a month later I’d have found a way to make him believe he didn’t want to see me any longer. I think I even meant to. I’ve never been sure why I didn’t, why looking up into James’s distinctive eyes made me say instead, “I don’t know.”

  It was also a lie, but a more honest dishonesty than telling him he was doing everything right would have been. I’d opened my mouth to his kiss, but James didn’t kiss me. He looked thoughtful, his hand moving in slow circles over my thighs and belly, dipping down every so often to caress my clitoris.

  “I love you, Anne,” he said then. It was the first time he’d ever said it, though he was not the first boy to ever tell me. “I want to make you happy. Let me.”

  I wasn’t convinced I could do any such thing, but I smiled. He smiled. He bent to kiss me, his lips whisper-soft on mine. His hand moved, slow and easy.

  James had spent an hour licking and kissing and stroking. I hadn’t resisted or protested, content to let him do what he wanted. Until, at last, unable to resist, my body had surprised me and pleasure overtook everything else.

  I wept the first time he made me come. Not in sorrow. With utter release. Relief. James had given me an orgasm, but I hadn’t lost myself in him. I still knew who I was. I could say I loved him and mean it, and it didn’t consume me. I didn’t have to be afraid of drowning in him.

  Now James shifted in front of me, his mouth leaving my flesh for a moment. The respite made me gasp and moan, the pleasure made more intense when he returned his tongue to me. His fingers stretched me. I wanted more. His hand closed around his cock and pumped it.

  “I can feel how close you are.” His voice was hoarse and a bit muffled against me. “I want you to come.”

  I could have, with a moment or two more of him licking me, but I was greedy. “I want you inside me.”

  “Stand up. Turn around.”

  I did. It had taken me a while to learn how to respond to James, but since then he’d learned more about me, too. His hands grabbed my hips as I gripped the side of the tub. I bent forward, offering myself to him.

  James slid inside me all the way. A cry leaked from my throat. He moved, thrusting with slow and easy precision. My cunt felt swollen, embracing his erection, taking him all the way into my body. Sparks of pleasure radiated from my clitoris and ran up and down my belly and thighs, down to my toes curling in the bathroom rug.

  My orgasm hovered, waiting for just the right moment to crash over me. I held my breath. I pushed back against him, and the wet slap of my ass against his belly made me groan. My hair hung down on either side of my face. I closed my eyes against the distracting sight of the spider that had committed hara-kiri on the bottom of the tub.

  James’s hands clutched my hips harder. His fingertips pushed the solidness of bone. His thumbs dimpled soft flesh. His cock filled me. I slid a hand down to roll a finger against my swollen clit and couldn’t stop the low moans from sputtering out of me.

  The phone rang.

  My eyes flew open and our rhythm faltered momentarily. His penis banged the rim of my womb with a sudden pain that made me inhale sharply before we recovered. The phone rang again, a jangling distraction that had undone my concentration.

  “Almost there, baby,” James muttered, regaining the pace.

  Another ring. I tensed but James brought me back to him with a hand on my shoulder. His fingers gripped and tugged, close to my throat. They pressed the beat of my pulse. His other hand slid in front of me to replace mine, and he rubbed my clit without mercy. Taking me closer.

  The answering machine clicked on. I didn’t want to listen. I stuttered on the brink. I closed my eyes again. Put my head down. Gripped the sides of the tub and pushed my ass back toward him, opening myself.

  “Jamie,” said a voice like slow, dripping caramel. “Sorry to call so late, man, but I lost my watch. Dunno what time it is.”

  I let out the breath I’d been holding. James grunted, thrusting harder. I drew in another breath and fought light-headedness. My clit pulsed under his fingertip.

  “Anyway, jus’ wanted to give you a call, let you know when I’d be getting in.” Laughter like a secret curled out of the phone speaker. Its owner sounded drunk or high or maybe just exhausted. His voice was deep and rich and languid. He sounded like sex. “I’m heading out now, man, gonna hit a few more clubs before I leave. Call me on the cell, brother. You know the number.”

  Behind me, James let out a low, breathy moan. His fingers raked my back and sent me tumbling into a climax fierce enough to make bright colors flash behind my closed lids.

  “And Jamie,” said the voice, dipping even lower, a secret-sharing voice. “It’ll be great to see you, man. Love you, brother. I’m out.”

  James shouted. I shuddered. We came together, saying nothing, listening to Alex Kennedy speaking from the other side of the world.

  Chapter 02

  “She’ll be late.” My sister Patricia sniffed as she looked over the menu. “Let’s not wait for her.”

  My other sister Mary looked up from the text message she was busy answering from her cell phone. “Pats, she’s not late yet. Relax.”

  Patricia and I shared a look. We’re the closest in age. Sometimes it feels like our family has two sets of daughters, separated by a decade instead of the four years between Patricia and Mary. There are an additional two years between Mary and our youngest sister, Claire. I’m not old enough to be Claire’s mother, but there are times I definitely feel like I am.

  “Give her a few more minutes,” I told Patricia. “Yeah, she’ll be late but we can wait a few minutes, can’t we?”

  Patricia gave me a stony look and looked back to the menu. I didn’t care for Claire’s lackadaisical attitude any more than my sister did, but Patricia’s attitude surprised me. She could be opinionated and bossy, but she wasn’t usually nasty.

  Mary closed her phone with a click and reached for the pitcher of orange juice. “Whose idea was it to meet for breakfast, anyway? I mean, c’mon…you know she doesn’t get up before noon if she can help it.”

  “Yes, well,” said Patricia as she snapped her menu closed. “The world doesn’t revolve around Claire, does it? I have things to do today. I can’t be hanging around all day long just because she was out late partying.”

  This time Mary and I exchanged a look. Sisterhood is complicated business. Mary raised a brow, passing the responsibility of soothing Patricia to me.

  “I’m sure she’ll be here in a few minutes,” I said. “And if she’s not, we’ll go ahead and order. Okay?”

  Patricia didn’t look mollified. She snapped up her menu again, hiding behind it. Mary mouthed “What’s with her?” To which my only answer was a shrug.

  Claire was, indeed, late, but only by a few minutes, and thus, by her standards, considered herself on time. She breezed into the restaurant like she owned the world, her black hair spiked out around her head like
a sunburst. Thick black liner rimmed her eyes, making them stand out against her purposefully pale skin and crimson lips. She slid into the seat next to Mary and reached at once for the glass of juice Mary had poured for herself. Claire’s bangle bracelets jangled as she tipped the glass to her mouth and ignored Mary’s protest.

  “Mmm, good,” she said when she set the glass down. She grinned, looking around the table. “You all thought I’d be late.”

  “You are late.” Patricia glared.

  Claire didn’t look fazed. “Not really. You guys didn’t even order yet.”

  As if by magic the waiter appeared. Claire’s sultry stare seemed to fluster him, but he managed to take our orders and leave the table with no more than a glance over his shoulder. Claire winked at him. Patricia sighed in disgust.

  “What?” Claire said. “He’s cute.”

  “Whatever.” Patricia poured juice and drank it.

  Chickens have a pecking order; sisters do, too. Past experience has led my sisters to believe I can be counted on to dispense advice and mediate arguments. They rely on me to keep the surface of our sisterhood polished and shiny, the way we trust Claire to shake us up and Patricia to put us all in order and Mary to make us feel better. We all have our place, usually, but today something seemed off.

  “I told them expecting you to be here before noon was ridiculous.” Mary reached for the basket of warm croissants. “What time did you go to sleep last night?”

  Claire laughed, taking a croissant for herself. Forgoing butter, she pulled apart the flaky crust with her black-painted nails and stuffed the pastry into her mouth. “Didn’t.”

  “You didn’t go to bed last night?” Patricia’s lip curled.

  “Didn’t go to sleep,” Claire corrected. She washed down her croissant with a mouthful of juice. “I went to bed, all right.”

  Mary laughed. Patricia made a face. I did neither. I studied my youngest sister, spotting a telltale suck mark on her throat. She didn’t have a boyfriend, or at least not one she’d ever bothered to bring around to meet the family. Considering our family, I wasn’t necessarily surprised.