Use Somebody

by Megan Hart

Your hand slows. Your breath is harsh. You’re sweating from the heat of the water and your arousal. I know too well the taste of you, that salt-musk flavor. You tip your head back to let the water wash over your face and down your chest. Over your cock still gripped in your fist.

  When you come, is mine the name on your lips? Mine the face in your mind?

  It took him a long time to reply, all the way until the next morning, but when he did, it was worth the wait. Three words that made her grin all day long.

  Yes. It was.

  Chapter 13

  “It’s not fair.” Debbie leaned against the opening to Eve’s pod. “That’s the third time this week you’ve had computer problems.”

  “I’m not thrilled, Debbie.” Eve gestured at the monitor, where no fewer than three chat windows hung, frozen. “It’s really screwing with my performance stats.”

  “Yeah,” Debbie said, lowering her voice. “But it means you get to have Lane come and work on you.”

  As if summoned by the sound of his name, Lane appeared just behind Debbie’s shoulder. “Problems, Eve?”

  “Same old thing.” She lifted her chin toward the computer. She pointed under the desk. “And the tower’s making a lot of noise, too.”

  “I’ll take a look at it.” Ignoring Debbie, who sniffed and disappeared into her own pod, Lane moved toward Eve’s desk.

  He was on his knees in front of her before she knew what to do. His shoulder brushed her knee as he angled his head to look beneath her desk. Eve completely lost her breath at the sight of him that way.

  He looked up at her with the panty-dampening smile and it was all she could do not to put her hand on his head to press him down between her thighs. “I think it’s your fan.”

  “Can you fix it?”

  “Yes.”

  They stared at each other until she looked away.

  “Eve,” Lane said in a low voice that drew her gaze back to him as surely as honey draw flies.

  She pushed her chair back the tiniest bit, just enough to move her knee away from his shoulder. This was crazy. Crazy! His gaze went to the place on her thigh where her skirt pulled up, and his hands dug into the carpet briefly but fiercely. Heat flared in Eve’s face and along her throat. Hell. Through her entire body. And Lane leaned forward…

  “Lane?” Debbie appeared in the doorway. “Now mine’s doing it, too. My chats are all frozen.”

  “I’ll be right there.” His tone was pleasant and gave away nothing.

  Eve didn’t move. She couldn’t. She was as frozen as her computer. Lane didn’t move either, not until Debbie made a quizzical sound, and then he got up off his knees. Up, up and up, the entire length of him, and then he left Eve alone at her desk.

  Her computer, at that moment, chose to go back online. Her queue blinked for attention. From Debbie’s pod she heard the low murmur of Lane explaining something, but not what he was saying. Her hands shook a little as she started typing. She thought he’d come back to check on her, but he didn’t.

  Chapter 14

  This is what I want.

  My dress spreads out around me in layers of satin and lace. The skirts are heavy, but when I’m seated their weight causes me no trouble. My silken stockings whisper when I rub my legs together, though it’s more a feeling than a sound.

  I have listened for hours to supplicants begging me for favors. To ministers admonishing me. To suitors attempting to woo. But what do I want, more than anything? I want to rid myself of the weight of this dress and the crown on my head. I want not to be a queen, but a woman.

  Your hands hold clear glass globes, three in each palm, and the subtle motion of your fingers is enough to send them dancing. Back and forth they move, astonishing all who watch, though many in this court are too jaded to admit it. No magician, they sniff. It’s all parlor tricks. I’m thrilled to study the ease of your movements, to lose myself in the grace of your performance.

  I dismiss the others, but bid you to stay. You do, of course, for though I phrase my command as a request we both know your only real option is to obey. Somehow, I don’t think you mind.

  You’re on your knees in front of me without me having to order it. Your hands, those graceful hands, push up the heavy dreadful skirts. Your fingers make whispers of their own up my legs, which I part for you with a gasp at your audacity. Nobody touches me.

  You touch me. The back of my knees, the insides of my thighs, the small curve of my belly. And finally, you touch the soft, wet slit of my sex. Without asking and without my command, you kiss me there. You lick. You move my body forward on the chair until you can suck and stroke me with your tongue until I writhe.

  The sound of footsteps should make you leave me unfulfilled, but instead of springing away you pull the folds of my dress down over you. It’s full enough to cloak you entirely. Your face presses between my thighs until I have to bite my tongue to keep from crying out.

  They’re back again, the ministers and beggars, the suitors. I could turn them away but I owe them my time in exchange for their allegiance. Today I fail to listen properly. Today you lick me in secret until my body clenches and convulses, and I have to fight back the cries wanting to tear from my throat.

  You use the thrust of your fingers as you would your cock. As you will use it, later, when I take you to my chambers, but for now your tongue and hand move in tandem until I can’t keep from squirming and pushing against you.

  “Are you well?” Ask my ministers. “You look flushed.”

  I climax again and again through the long hours under the attention of your talented tongue and fingers.

  No magician, they say, but I know differently.

  You’ve certainly worked your magic on me.

  Chapter 15

  Eve still replied to all her comments, but she’d given up the pretense she was writing for any other reason than the replies from tell_me. Her fingers flew over the keys as she wrote her latest entry. She sat back when it was finished and waited. Her reward came a few minutes later when her instant message icon bounced a moment later.

  How was work today?

  It wasn’t the response she’d been expecting, and so her answer took a moment.

  Fine. You?

  Frustrating.

  Why frustrating?

  He didn’t answer for so long she thought he’d gone, though he hadn’t signed off. Then, You liked me on my knees for you?

  I always like a man on his knees for me.

  Another long, long pause. Eve’s heart thumped and her tongue tasted like metal. What, exactly was going on? The casual, sexy banter had disappeared. The words looked the same, black on white, but something had changed.

  Her inbox filled with a few pleas from the abandoned Puppetboy. The shuffle function on her music program delivered her some interesting songs. Her fingers clenched into her fists as she leaned forward to stare at the screen and willed him to answer.

  Any man? Or me?

  Eve didn’t know how to answer. She blinked at the rush of sudden, unexpected emotion. How had they gotten to this conversation?

  I don’t really know you.

  Five minutes passed, then another five, before tell_me went offline without saying anything else.

  Chapter 16

  In the pause between customers, Eve gave in to temptation. She’d read the memos and knew the consequences, but now…she had to. She had to see if he’d commented since the last time she’d checked, just before leaving for work.

  With an eye on her queue, she logged in quickly to her blog. She didn’t have access to her personal email here and would have to be content with refreshing her browser. She opened her last entry and experienced the familiar roller-coaster drop of her stomach when she saw the number of comments had risen by a few, but she had to take the time to enter a new customer chat before she could check.

  Back and forth she went, cutting and pasting responses to stupid questions that made her jaw ache and her head pound. Refreshing her browser. New comments but none
from tell_me.

  Her stomach hurt.

  She cursed herself. It was an online thing, nothing more. She had lots of comments, from lots of people. What was so important about his replies? About him?

  At long last his familiar icon appeared and she held her breath, almost too afraid to read what he’d written in response to her entry about the queen and the magician. The counter clicked on her queue, her response time to the chat too long. It would show up on her performance stats, but Eve didn’t care. Let the moron who couldn’t figure out how to hook up his printer wait a minute. Maybe he’d get a clue in the meantime.

  What makes it magic?

  Her fingers flew. Magic can’t be defined, can it? Or it loses what makes it magic?

  Would knowing me make it more magical?

  He was replying in her blog to the instant message exchange they’d had the night before. Eve imagined a tone of dry sarcasm, but that was the problem with written words. Without the benefit of inflection or facial expressions, they could be so easily misinterpreted. He could be angry, not amused or curious.

  Part of the magic is the mystery, don’t you think?

  She expected him to agree. She wanted him to agree. After all, he’d always given her what she wanted.

  No. I don’t.

  Eve didn’t know how to respond. Her queue wasn’t getting any shorter, and she had yet to finish off her open chat. She stumbled on the keyboard, making too many typos. She inserted the wrong text into the chat and had to apologize. It wasn’t the first time she’d had a “no” from a client when she asked if she’d been helpful, but it was the first time she knew she deserved one.

  I want it to be that way.

  And it’s all about what you want. How could I forget?

  There was no mistaking the tone this time.

  If you don’t like it, she typed before she could stop herself, you don’t have to read this blog.

  Eve closed her browser abruptly so she wouldn’t know if he replied, and told herself she didn’t care. She got back to work, but it was a long, long day.

  Chapter 17

  She wouldn’t IM him. She just wouldn’t. Not if her house were on fire and he really was a fireman.

  She was going to ignore the bouncing yellow smiley face of her instant message program. Absolutely. In fact, Eve was going to do something unheard of. She was going to get away from her computer and do something else tonight. Read a book. Take a bath. Watch bad tv.

  Anything, anything, but talk to him.

  She made herself some dinner that didn’t come from a box or a can. She threw in a few loads of laundry. She read a magazine, but restlessly, flipping past ads for “sexual intimacy” videos and articles on “How To Please Your Man.”

  When she got back to her desk, the yellow smiley chastised her. She clicked on it and read his message to her. He’d sent it hours ago. Surely he wouldn’t still be waiting?

  You didn’t post tonight.

  I didn’t have any inspiration.

  Because of me?

  Yes.

  I’m sorry. I just want you to know me, that’s all. For real. Not just words on a screen.

  I don’t think it’s a good idea.

  Why not?

  That was a good question. Too bad she didn’t have a good answer. He didn’t wait for one.

  I can make you happy.

  What makes you think that?

  A minute passed.

  Because I know what you want.

  Reading a blog isn’t the same as real life.

  You could let me try.

  But she couldn’t, could she? She didn’t know his name, or where he lived, or what he looked like. And wasn’t that what she wanted, really? An anonymous, faceless lover who gave her what she wanted, all the time, without needing anything from her? As long as she didn’t know who he was, for sure, she could still have that.

  Right?

  Her mouse hovered over the small “x” in the corner of the chat window, preparing to close it without answering him, but she couldn’t do it.

  I’m sorry. I can’t.

  What are you afraid of?

  Being disappointed, she typed. Being let down.

  I won’t disappoint you.

  You can’t know that. Nobody can.

  I can be what you want.

  Eve closed the window. He didn’t ping her again. She stared at the computer screen for a few minutes, then opened her blog and began to type.

  Chapter 18

  This is what I want.

  Far away there is the sound of machinery. A mower, or a tractor. But inside the barn the only sound I hear is the rustle of the hay as you thrust the pitchfork into the pile, the sweet, soft chirp of nesting birds high in the rafters, the quiet snuffle of the horses pawing at the earth with sharp hooves. The occasional hitch of your breath as you work.

  I watch you from the doorway. I don’t want you to turn around yet. I like to watch the easy way you move. How strong you are. My eyes follow the bunch and curve of your muscles as you work.

  You wear low-slung denim, low on the hips I want to bite. Worn work gloves protect the hands that have moved so often over my body and brought me such pleasure. You grunt, teeth caught for a moment in your lower lip as you concentrate on your task. You haven’t seen me, and that’s all right.

  For now.

  Dust dances in the shafts of sunlight, golden, buttery, that have found their way through cracks and crevices in the walls. The barn is old, made of stone quarried a hundred years before you were born. A hundred and almost thirty before we ever met.

  Yet here we are, inside it, in the buttery sunlight. A horse neighs from a stall far down the aisle and you turn.

  You smile.

  You straighten, bare-chested and gleaming. I could reach forward and pluck the stray piece of straw clinging to the rim of your collarbone, but I leave it for now. For now, I don’t touch you.

  You say my name and the pleasure in your voice is so rich I feel as though I can reach out to touch it. You’re glad to see me; I want you to be glad to see me.

  You lean on the pitchfork to stare, and I can guess what you see. My dress is white, sheer, with thin straps of lace that will tear when you tug them. If I let you tug them. I haven’t yet decided.

  You don’t ask me what I’m doing here, which would be a foolish question, indeed. You already know. You knew the moment you turned and saw me standing in the doorway, when your eyes caught the shape of my body, outlined beneath the white eyelet. When your gaze traced the curve of my hip, the place your hand fits so perfectly.

  You knew.

  The barn is silent but for the soft, sweet chirping of nested birds and the far off drone of the tractor, for the occasional stomp of a hoof…and now, for your breath as it catches in your throat and trips on the dual syllables of my name.

  There is a room in the back, fragrant with the scent of leather and horses. Momentarily blinded, I blink against the shadows. I don’t need to see you to know where you are.

  Inches apart we face one another. Now is the time for me to reach for single, lonely piece of straw stuck to your skin with the sweat of honest work, and I let my fingers skim up your side, over your belly. The straw bends between my fingers when I pull it off you, and it’s dropped, forgotten, to the floor.

  I like the smell of you. Sweat and effort. It reminds me of how you smell when I’m done fucking you, when you can’t stand, when you can only lay like a broken doll on the twisted sheets. When I’ve used you up and worn you out, that’s how I like to smell you.

  “Put your hands on the wall.”

  You hesitate, of course, not expecting this. The jingle of metal is like a melody to my ears as you press your palms flat to the wall between the hanging bits and bridles. You could have fisted your hands against the wood, but you spread your fingers wide. Your shoulders, those broad, muscled shoulders, hunch, just a little.

  Are you afraid I’m going to hurt you?

  I won’t, love.
Not too much. I just want to see you this way, giving me what I want without asking me why I want it. I am unaccountably pleased at how you move, at once, to obey my request.

  And it is a request, because I don’t want it to be an order.

  You must want this as much as I, else the point is lost. I can’t make you do anything you don’t want to do. You’re bigger than I am. Stronger. I know because you’ve pinned my hands above my head, bruised my flesh and soothed the hurts with kisses and the flat of your tongue, though in truth I didn’t mind the blossoms that served so well to remind me of how it felt to have you holding me down so tightly.

  You wait for me to speak, and I hear the sound of your breath again as you shoulders rise and fall.

  “Spread your legs. Wider.” Impatient, I nudge them apart with my foot, though my slipper-clad toes are no match for your thick leather boots. Boots made for work. Your legs move easily enough, though.

  Your head dips, emphasizing the way your shoulder blades protrude. For a moment I imagine you as an angel shorn of your wings. An angel in dirty denim.

  You are an angel to me.

  Behind you, my hands find a place on each side of your belt. I hook my fingers in and pull your hips back until my crotch bumps your ass. I love the sound you make. Mingled surprise and arousal. I picture your eyes closing, those straight white teeth tugging the softness of your lower lip again.

  If I were a man I could fuck you. I could fill you with my cock, make you groan, reach to stroke your erection in my fist while I moved in and out of your body until we both came. But I’m not a man, I don’t have a cock to fuck you with, and I have to be satisfied with running my hands down your hips and around the front of your thighs.

  You groan again when my hands find the front of your belt and undo the buckle. When I unzip you. When I ease the worn denim and the blue cotton of your boxer briefs over your thighs and down past your knees, my cheek presses the hot, damp flesh of your back, and I feel the muscles there quiver.