Kiss The Flame: A Desire Exchange Novella (1001 Dark Nights)

by Christopher Rice

  Michael’s hard, hungry kiss makes her feet feel like they’re leaving the floor. She breaks suddenly, takes a step back and lifts a single admonishing finger into the sudden space between them.

  “Not so fast, Professor,” she says.

  His eyebrows arch. His half-smile is indulgent, but there’s a flicker of real fear in it, which is exactly what she was hoping for.

  “The power deferential between a teacher and a student can be very, very damaging to intimate relationships like the one you seem determined to have with me.”

  “Is that so?” he asks.

  “It is so,” she says, brushing past him. “It is most certainly so, Mister Brouchard. Just ask one of the counselors at the Student Health Center. They even have pamphlets on the subject.”

  “And I take it you’ve read every—”

  “I’m not finished,” she snaps. For now, she is the teacher and he is the student. What better way to vent all the stress and pressure of their previously bottled up attractions for one another? Well, there’s probably five or six or maybe even eight better ways. But they’ll get to those soon enough.

  “There are, however, certain steps we can take to try to correct that difference,” she explains in her best schoolmarm tone. “Make the playing field a little more even, if you will.”

  “Oh, I will,” he says under his breath.

  “Focus, Professor.”

  “I am, believe me,” he says. “I’m very focused on you, Miss Foley.”

  “Good. Then take off your clothes. All of them.”

  There’s a mischievous glint in his eyes, but his body’s gone rigid. He might like the idea of this script she’s started to write for them, but he also loves being in control. Loves it so much that stripping down in front of her while she sits on his bed a safe distance away, her arms crossed over her chest, has caused his desire to short-circuit for a few seconds.

  Slowly, carefully, he unbuckles his belt and unbuttons his jeans. He’s taking his sweet time. She figures it’s his best attempt to appear calm and indulgent. But she can practically taste his nervousness; she loves the flavor of it as much as she loves the sight of his muscular chest as he peels back the wet flaps of his dress shirt, of his powerful hair-dusted thighs as he tugs his jeans down his legs.

  His chest rises and falls with breaths quick and shallow enough to suggest fear. He’d probably like nothing more than to cross the room and tear her clothes from her body, if only to make them equals. But that’s not on the syllabus. Not yet.

  “Turn around and put your hands on the edge of the table,” she says. “Both of them.”

  He complies. When he realizes he’s turned his naked body squarely into the harsh light of the drafting table’s lamp, he squints and takes a deep breath to steady himself. But his cock is rising and throbbing. If it’s fear he’s feeling, in another few seconds, his fear will have him hard as a rock.

  When she reaches past him for one of the paintbrushes in the coffee can, he flinches. That’s when she’s realizes he’s kept his eyes closed and her sudden movement has startled him.

  “Relax, teach,” she whispers. “Everyone’s got something to learn.”

  She sinks to her knees on the floor, sets the brush to one side; she’ll need it in a minute if all goes according to plan. But in the meantime, all she needs are her own hands. And her fingers.

  “Wh—what are you going to—?”

  “No matter what I do,” she interrupts him, “keep both hands on the edge of the table and both feet on the floor. The second you let go or step off the floor, we’re back to square one.”

  “And what’s square one?”

  She hears the slap of her hand against the hard flesh of his ass before she realizes what she’s done. She just spanked him. Well, she didn’t spank him. She just slapped her former teacher on his bare ass. He lets out a short, startled grunt. She’s just as startled as he is. Startled by how quickly and easily she’s taken control, by how much the sight of him, in his tall, muscled, nervous glory has filled her with energy and hunger. She feels like she could run a mile without breaking a sweat. It’s like her body—no, her soul—has taken control of her actions and found the perfect way to exorcise the frightened little girl who ran from him the night before.

  Lilliane was right. Crazy, perhaps. But right. She didn’t need Bastian Drake’s candle at all.

  “Square one,” she says carefully, her voice shaky with excitement. “Is whatever I say it is.”

  “You are a bad, bad girl, Laney Foley,” he whispers.

  “And bad teachers like bad girls,” she whispers back. “Both hands on the table.”

  She starts with just the tips of her fingers, traces swirling patterns over the arches of his bare feet around his hairy ankles, up the sides of his legs. She’s memorizing the location of each spot that makes him wince, jerk or shift his weight from one foot to the other. Kneeling on the floor beside him, she monitors the two-handed grip he maintains on the edge of his drafting table as her own fingers slide up the insides of his thighs. He releases a desperate moan when she hops to her feet and he realizes she’s skipping his cock and balls. Instead, she allows her fingers to travel the hard ridges of his muscular back.

  So far, his most sensitive spots have been the undersides of his biceps and the very back of his neck, so she lingers there, teasing him, testing him, watching his grip on the drafting table turn white-knuckled. Then she sinks to her knees again.

  He’s mine now. My schedule, my pace, my touch. No rules, no risks, no consequences. Mine.

  When her fingers travel the underside of his balls, Michael has to throw his head back and choke out several moans to keep from breaking the rules. So she lingers there too. Back and forth. Back and forth…

  “Laney—Jesus. You h-have to—Laney.”

  “Nice job so far,” she answers, pulling her hand away. “Now it’s time for stage two.”

  Surrendering to just her fingers has rendered him a sweaty, gasping mess. And while her original intent was solely to learn the most sensitive parts on his body, she realizes this ritual has erased the power deferential between them, whatever the hell that is. He was right. She really did read it in a pamphlet. With each inch of his body her fingers have traveled, she’s claimed more of her right to desire him as much as he’s desired her. Hell, she’s claiming her very right to desire, her right to feel lust, to give into it now and then without first jamming it through the ringer of every doubt and fear she can come up with.

  The paintbrush is as soft as it looks. The bristles give easily as she drags them gently across Michael’s flesh. His struggle now is more intense. He whispers her name every few seconds. She can’t tell if they’re encouragements or pleas. Either one is more than fine. Then he gasps her name; he groans and growls her name. But he doesn’t lift either foot off the floor, he doesn’t release his grip on the table even as she paints the underside of his balls with the brush’s soft bristles.

  He shudders from the assault, teeth gritted, gripping the table’s edge, leaning forward far enough that the balls of his feet come up off the floor before he drives them back down again.

  Is this an infraction? She thinks not. He’s doing so well. He’s working so hard. For her.

  As she squeezes herself into the few inches of space in between him and the desk, she keeps up her soft, silky tease of his balls. Despite being on her knees, she feels as if the power is all hers. Michael looks down at her through squinted eyes, his nostrils flaring, his grunts throaty and pained with desire delayed, frustrated, and enflamed.

  “Excellent work, Michael,” she whispers. For the first time, she drags the bristles up the length of his jerking shaft.

  “Am I, Miss Foley?” he gasps. “Am I doing a good job?”

  “Yes,” she whispers. She grips the base of his shaft in one hand and sets the brush aside. “You’ve done a very good job.” The tip of his glistening cock is inches from her lips now. The heady, masculine smell of him fills
her nostrils.

  “Time for stage three,” she says.

  She’s never been this aroused with a man’s cock in her mouth before. Blowjobs are usually drudgery or just plain work, something she gives out to dateable guys she’s sure will lose interest if she doesn’t let them past second base. The idea of feeling this genuinely connected to another man while his cock is down her throat has always seemed like a ridiculous abstraction, something from a romance novel she would never admit to reading. Despite his curses and his pleas, Michael still hasn’t let go of the drafting table right behind her. He’s still following her rules.

  “Laney,” he cries.

  He’s asking her for permission. She’s not quite sure for what, but when his cock jerks in the hand she’s using to assist her lips, she gets an idea. He’s close. He must be. And he’s using her name as a warning. If she’s not careful, he’ll unleash his seed inside of her in another few seconds. Her sudden hunger for it makes her head spin. She’s never let someone cum in her mouth before. But she wants him to. She really wants him to. But it’s too soon. Worse, it’s unsafe in ways that have nothing to do with domination and control. But tell that to her sudden hunger for every part of him, a hunger that makes recklessness feel like strength.

  “Laney,” he cries.

  She pulls him from her mouth. “Do it,” she says before she can think twice. “Do it now.”

  He doesn’t come.

  He releases the table instead, twines his fingers through her hair, grips the back of her head in one hand, smoothes her tangled bangs back from her forehead with the other. He’s staring down at her, studying her with parted lips as she works him over. He didn’t want permission to come down her throat. He wanted permission to be released from the rules of her game. Permission to touch, to hold, to caress, to gaze and study.

  Suddenly she’s on her feet and they’re moving toward the bed. He’s undressing her with swift precision and an absence of frenzy, each movement governed by the total focus wrought by absolute desire.

  By the time he sends her backward down onto the bed, she’s naked, the silky comforter kissing her thighs and back as he bears down on her, reaching for the nightstand drawer, tearing the condom wrapper open with his teeth. She’s seen so many erections flag during this pivotal step in the process; given the guys they belonged to that wasn’t always such a bad thing. But Michael is so hard his cock won’t stop jerking long enough for him to slide the condom on. So they both sit there for a few seconds, their rasping breaths fighting with the sounds of the rain pelting the windows. The sight of him sitting on his bent knees, shadows painting the slope of his upper back, steadying his cock with one hand while sliding the condom on with the other makes her lips ache. He’s blocking the desk lamp now so she can’t tell if her thighs are actually shaking, but it feels like they are. It feels like she’s shaking down to her bones as she feels herself opening for him before he even touches her pussy.

  “Michael,” she whispers.

  Gently, he pushes her back into the pillows, his lips inches from hers. He stares into her eyes and he licks the tips of his fingers, holds her gaze while he swirls his moistened fingers around her right nipple. “Yes, Laney.”

  “Fuck me.”

  It’s not a challenge. It’s not a dare. It’s not a porn-star snarl. She’s never given permission in this simple and direct way before in her life. It’s always been, Yes, I’m ready, or worse, Sure, go ahead. What she’s just given him is more than permission. This is beyond simple consent. This is a promise, an offering to match his raw desire with her own.

  At first, she thinks he’s hesitating because he’s still staring into her eyes. Then she feels him pressing against her moist entrance and she realizes he wants, once more, to watch every wave of pleasure ripple through her expression. He wants to turn her into a work of art by fucking her. She’s so hot, wet, and open, he smiles and lets out a small, satisfied laugh of surprise. She realizes how much she’s given her body over to him when she feels her ankles meet against the small of his back.

  “Need you,” she gasps. “Need you, Michael.”

  These words make her feel more vulnerable than anything else she’s done all night, or all week.

  “Need me, want me,” he growls. “Take your pick. I’m yours.”

  He finds her clit with one hand, rubs circles around it while keeping his thrusts varied in a rhythm she can’t predict. The knowledge that she’s on her back beneath him seems more philosophical than real. She feels boneless suddenly, and that can only mean one thing. She’s astonished her orgasm snuck up on her this quickly. She feels as if she’s been filled by it an instant. That’s never happened to her before. There have always been false starts, sputtering engines. Waves of pleasure that seemed to break just short of the shore. But now Michael fucks her hard and deep, and she feels like she’s about to fly apart. This is the moment when another guy would desperately jackhammer into some porn film imitation of a female orgasm. But Michael’s learned enough about her body to know it’s the combination of his cock’s suddenly steady thrusts and the way he’s circling her clit with his fingers that have done her in.

  She starts by trying to say his name, but this vain attempt turns into a series of cries that have too many emotions swirling through them to be defined. Somewhere in the midst of her bliss, he’s pulled free of her. He’s suckling her clit while stroking himself at the same time, making her feel worshiped and serviced even amidst her near-delirium. She places her hands gently against his shoulders to let him know she can’t take any more, that her body’s fully spent. That’s when he rises up onto his haunches, brings their mouths together. She grips the back of his neck but at the same instant she fears her nails have dug into his skin, he yanks the condom off, and comes all over her stomach, his seed hot and copious.

  He crumples against her as his barking groans turn into delighted laughter.

  And for a while there’s only the sound of the rain and the gentle feel of his fingers smoothing back her bangs. This is going to be his thing, she can tell. Brushing her hair back from her forehead. And the fact that he’s going to have a thing that involves her hair makes his expansive bed’s embrace feel all the more safe.

  “Now you have to lie with me for a night,” he says. “Isn’t that how it works?”

  “How what works?” she asks.

  “If you’d used the candle, I mean. Isn’t that how the story went?”

  “I think it was just a story.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she says.

  “Why?”

  “Because the only thing I need is—” His embrace tightens even as her words suddenly leave her.

  How could her old fears return in this moment, after the amazing night they’ve shared? Hadn’t she done enough to chase her fears away forever?

  Maybe that wasn’t how this worked. Maybe there was no one thing or one act that could make your fears go away forever. The best you could do was to wake up each day and make a resolution to ignore fear’s invitations to false comfort and illusory safety—its invitation to say less, risk less, to love less, to be less. It was a daily decision, being willing to fall in love, and now it was hers to make. That’s why she rolled over and took Michael Brouchard’s face in her hands, staring into his expectant gaze as she finished the sentence that had lodged in her throat only seconds before.

  “The only thing I need is you, Michael Brouchard.”

  14

  LILLIANE

  “What’s a pretty lady like you doing crying in the rain?” The doorman had watched her approach and pulled open the door when she was a few steps from the entrance to the Hotel Montelone.

  Jerry is Lilliane’s favorite doorman, probably because his constant flirting makes her feel young in spirit as well as body.

  “Who says I’m crying?” Lilliane says, trying to effect her brightest tone.

  “You’s missing a skip in your step, that’s all.”
/>   “The rain makes everybody look like they’re crying, baby.”

  He holds open the door as she closes her umbrella, then together they step into the chandelier-lit, marble-floored lobby with its proud grandfather clock and huge, colorful bouquets on every surface. The Carousel Bar is packed as always, spilling a constant stream of drunken laughter onto the short set of carpeted steps just inside the hotel’s entrance.

  “Not good for you to be walking alone out in this kinda rain, Miss Davis,” Jerry says, taking her arm and leading her up the steps, even though there are only a few of them and they’re more than easily managed by a woman of any age.

  She’s been using this alias at the Montelone for almost twenty years now, and soon she’ll have to come up with another or start avoiding the hotel altogether. She doesn’t run this kind of risk at the other businesses in New Orleans she’s fond of; she’ll typically frequent them for five years or so before hanging back and waiting for management and most of the staff to get replaced. But here she’s gone with baggier dresses, hats with veils and bigger sunglasses. Eventually, even those will fail to do the trick and some of the hotel’s long-term staff members will start to wonder why one of their regular guests hasn’t aged a day in years. But tonight, just the thought of saying good-bye to the Montelone, even if it’s only for a little while, is more than she can bear.

  “Well, Jerry, maybe next time you’ll have to escort me on my walk.”

  “That would be an honor, Miss Davis. If I’m not working, that is.”

  “I’m a guest here, am I not? Are tending to my needs not considered part of your job?”

  “Miss Davis. Meeting any of your needs would be my utmost priority. Even if I didn’t work at the Montelone.”

  “You dawg,” she whispers, slapping him lightly on the shoulder. His broad, toothy grin has as much charm as desire in it.

  “Front desk has something for you, ma’am,” he says.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know. But it’s been here a while. They forgot to give it to you when you checked in.”