Sex Love Repeat

by Alessandra Torre

  The second time I heard the nickname was one week later, when he showed up at the bookstore, his face flushed, his eyes intense, and told me that he changed his mind.

  “I don’t like it,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair, biting his bottom lip with a look of raw need that had me gripping the paperback in my hand a little tighter. “But ... I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. If it’s what you want ... what you need. I’ll give it a try.”

  We celebrated our new union right then, right there, pushing books aside and closing the doors, and he lowered me to the floor, his mouth frantic on me, ownership in every touch of his hands.

  I think he was surprised at how easy it turned out to be. The seamless union our lives took. The separation played a big part in that. The separation of my two worlds. That was, and still is, the key that keeps this whole production running.

  Now, two years later, I lie on his back, its firm strength golden in the morning light. He paddles, his muscles working smoothly underneath me, stroke after stroke that carry us farther and farther from shore, the sounds of the shore disappearing, replaced with sea gulls and ocean surf. He takes us out, till the waves subside and there is only calm, smooth rocking every ten seconds, my eyes closed, head flat against his back. Silence. No need to say anything, do anything that will break this perfect moment.

  “I love you.” His words quiet.

  I know. My unspoken thought floats away from our bodies. “I love you too.”

  HOLLYWOOD, CA

  My men are so different, yet similar in so many ways.

  Their eyes, a similar tint of blue, yet Paul’s smiles at me with carefree abandonment and Stewart’s pierces my heart with its dark intensity.

  Their bodies. Paul’s naturally muscular, his arms developed from hours of surfboard paddling, his abs ripped from balancing on a board, his thighs and calves strong from jumping, balancing, and kicking through currents. Stewart’s body, attacked like everything else in his life, with fierce devotion, aggression worked out with miles on a treadmill, weight-lifting, sit-ups, pull-ups, and calisthenics.

  Their love. Paul loves me with unconditional warmth, his affection public and obvious, his arms pulling me into his warmth, his mouth littering my body with frequent kisses. Stewart loves me with a tiger’s intensity, his need taking my breath away, his confidence in our relationship strong enough to not be bothered by the presence of another man. He stares into my soul as if he owns it, and shows his love with money, sex, and rare moments of time.

  Tonight is one of those rare moments. I have his attention, his cell phone is away, and he is staring at me as if I contain everything needed to make his world whole. I step forward, towards his seated form, the dress hugging my form to perfection. He sits up in the chair, spreading his knees and patting his thigh, indicating where he wants me. I sit sideways on his thigh, my eyes held by his, his hand stealing up and running lightly along my bare back. “You are breathtaking.” His voice gruff, he leans forward and places a light kiss on my neck. “And you smell incredible.”

  “Thank you. You clean up pretty well yourself.” And he does. In a suit that no doubt costs more than my dress, he looks every bit the successful executive that he is. Short, orderly hair. Clean-shaven chin. Those intense eyes staring out of a strong face. “Is the car here?”

  “It’s downstairs. But it can wait.” He runs a hand up my knee, sliding the material of the cocktail dress up.

  I wait, my breath becoming shallow, my concentration focused on the path of his fingers, as they travel higher, taking their time, the tickle of rough skin against soft flesh. He leans over, brushing a quick kiss over my lips and then moves lower, soft kisses making the path down the line of my jaw, whisper soft against my neck, and deepening in touch when they reach my collarbone. His hand caresses my thigh, the brush of his thumb moving higher up my thigh until it is just breaths from my sex. I groan, sliding my hips forward, but his hand stops me, gripping my thigh and holding me still. “Not yet. Let me enjoy you for a moment.”

  There is the sound of approaching footsteps, and I open my eyes to see a suited man, our driver, round the corner and stop short when we come into view. His eyes drop respectfully and he speaks softly. “Mr. Brand, I’ll be downstairs with the car when you are ready.”

  Stewart mutters something unintelligible, the man taking the cue and leaving, the firm pull of the door behind him leaving us alone. Stewart’s hands push apart my legs, moving the fabric of my dress aside and leaving me bare and open to his eyes. He looks down, examining the exposed skin, his mouth curving into a smile. “No panties?” His eyes flick up to mine.

  “They’re in my purse. I figured they would be useless until we got to the event.”

  “That,” he says softly, his fingers teasing the edge of my lips, circling the edge of my sex in slow, tantalizing brushes, each touch closer but not yet there, “is why I love you. You know me so well.”

  His eyes stare at me, dark pools of lust and want. While Paul and I talk, incessantly, often, about anything and everything, important or not, Stewart and I fuck our way through this relationship, our time often too short for anything more than physical contact. Sex is how we connect, share our feelings, emotions, and love. I stare back into his eyes, my eyelids closing slightly when he slides one confident finger over the knot of my clit, that finger effortlessly sliding down and into me, the small invasion a tease of perfection. “Look at me,” he breathes. “I want to see your eyes.”

  I reopen my eyes, my mouth parting as he cups my sex, slipping a second finger in with the first, both of them working together, stimulating me in their movement, his thumb staying firm on my clit, soft pressure that moves slightly with each stroke of his fingers. He watches my eyes, sees the moment that the fire of my need hits them, sees the crescendo and burn of my arousal, adjusting the pace and pressure of his fingers in accordance with my want. I feel the curl of pleasure, growing in my belly, our eyes caught in a web of want, pulled to each other, my eyes barely noticing the sexy pull of his mouth into a smile as my breathing increases and I thrust into his hand. His other hand steals around my waist, sliding up my chest and pulling on the fabric there, tugging my neckline down till a breast is exposed, his hand gripping and tugging on it just hard enough to make me gasp.

  “I want you like this forever,” he whispers. “Spread open on my lap, your skin in my hands, your pussy hot and tight around my fingers. You are so fucking beautiful.”

  I buck under his hand, my heels finding the floor and pushing off, my hand sliding up his pant leg, desperate to feel the heat of him in my hand before I come.

  Blackness.

  My eyes shut and I moan, my legs convulsing around his fingers, the strum of his thumb on my clit softening, whisper soft, stretching out my pleasure as I moan over and over again. When it fades, when it softly pulls delicious heat from every area of my body, the need grows. Intense, animalistic desire, a craving for every bit of him in every place on my body. My eyes snap open and find him watching, a curve already in place across that sexy mouth, his hand on his open fly, pulling out the object of my desire and stroking its hard length against my bare leg.

  I push his back against the chair, stepping over his leg, straddling his waist and lowering myself down, my sex so wet it drips, my need so great I moan. His hands catch me, carry my ass down, impaling me with his cock, his own groan sounding in the large room, his eyes darkening as I tighten around him. “God, you were made for me.”

  “I’m your dirty little slut,” I whisper, sliding up and down, my heels firm on the ground, his hands tilting and pulling my ass how he likes it, in a way that causes my clit to hit his pelvis, the tight squeeze on my ass pleasurable in its slight bit of pain.

  “You are my slut,” he grounds out. “You need my cock.”

  “So bad,” I agree. “I can’t get enough of you.”

  He thrusts from below, pulling me down, the extra depth causing me to gasp, my body to grind, the p
leasure shooting a spike of arousal through my core. “Tell me you love me.”

  “I love you.”

  “Again.” He thrusts, sitting up, looking into my eyes, our faces inches apart as I look slightly down on him.

  “I love you,” I whisper, gripping the back of his chair.

  Then his eyes close and he leans back, sliding his hands up and tugging the other side of my dress down, exposing both breasts to his hands. And I know what he wants. I know, just like I know every inch of his body, exactly what he wants. I lean back, my hands resting on his knees, my back arched, my body open before him, and fuck his cock. Pumping up and down on his so-hard-it-will-break shaft, my legs carrying my body, his eyes opening and skimming greedily along my skin, his hand reaching forward and lifting the hem of my dress, strumming the bead of my clit until I come, body tightening, mouth screaming, world exploding.

  Then he takes over, leaning forward and scooping me into and against his chest. My legs wrap tight around his body, his cock stiff and slick inside my sex, he carries me over to the wall, presses me up against it, and holds me there with strong arms. Then he thrusts, over and over again, whispering my name softly, and then louder, ‘til he comes with a massive groan, his legs shaking beneath him, my own wobbly when he lowers me to my feet. He keeps me there, pinning me against the wall with his body, my breasts tight against his tuxedo, his hands stealing into my hair, his mouth soft and sweet on mine. Drinking from my mouth, tasting me, taking his time, inhaling my scent.

  “I missed you this week. I needed that.” His voice is gravelly, thick with satisfaction and truth. He tilts my head up, looks into my eyes, then lowers his mouth back to mine.

  DELPHINE, W HOTEL

  A-FRAME: [noun] Large wave with distinct

  shoulders on the left and right side

  of the peak. Can result in two surfers

  surfing the same wave;

  one going frontside

  and the other going backside.

  Two hours later, my fingers steal under the tablecloth, reaching over and gripping Stewart’s leg, sliding up his thigh, his hand catching mine, his eyes shooting a questioning look in my direction. He coughs gently, breaking eye contact as he glances to the woman on his right. “That’s correct, Beth. With quarterly projections where they’re at, there should be no need for additional debt. If anything, we should capitalize on our current assets.” He listens to her response, his hand firm on mine, keeping me at bay. But I need him. I need to feel his strength beneath my hand, to feel his arousal in my grip. When the conversation turns away from him, he leans over, plants a soft kiss on my neck, and whispers in my ear. “Do you need something?”

  “Yes. You. Now.” It is an unfair request, one I shouldn’t make, but I am panting for him. I will not make it through this four-hour dinner, through the polite chitchat that will follow, cigars in the men’s club while I sit with dignified wives in the front parlor. I need a release, need firm hands digging into my skin, his mouth on mine, cock inside of me.

  He studies me, a war going on behind those eyes, his glance flitting around the table and then down at his watch. He leans forward again, close enough that I can smell his scent, the masculinity crawling across the table and robbing me of rational thought. He grips my wrist, pulling my hand tightly and places it on his crotch, brushing his lips against my ear as he speaks. “Call him.”

  I pull back, confused, his hand cupping the back of my head, keeping me close to him, my eyes studying the tumulus depths of his blue. “What? Who?”

  “Him. Call him. Have him take care of you. I can’t leave.”

  There is only one Him in our life, our world comprised of only three people. I try to process his words, spoken without anger or light, in a serious, I’m-not-fucking-around tone. I shake my head, his eyes sharpening at my reaction, his hand pushing my own down on his cock. His voice rasps in my ear, thick with arousal and authority. “I want it, Madison. I want him to fuck you in the powder room while I sit here with these stuffed shirts. I want you to come back to this table with your cheeks flushed and his cum inside of you.”

  I feel the twitch of him beneath my hand, see the flicker of excitement in his eyes, and realize the truth of his words. “Seriously?” I whisper, almost afraid to voice the question.

  He slides my hand up, letting me feel the hard ridge of his arousal. It is pushing at his pants, his excitement unquestionably hard. “Call him. Now.”

  I sit there for a moment, the hum of conversation muting as my mind processes this new avenue. My need moans between my legs, its intensity doubled by Stewart’s words, by the twitch of him that proved his sincerity. Can I go there? Can I bring these two worlds so close and still escape with our twin relationships intact? I excuse myself and step away, pulling out my phone, watching the dark gleam in Stewart’s eyes, a sexy smile crossing his lips. He is serious. He wants me to be fucked while he sits a few rooms away, surrounding by wealth and business. I dial Paul’s number, biting my lower lip and step farther away from the table, holding Stewart’s gaze.

  “Hey babe.” Paul’s voice is lazy, as if he’d dozed off on the couch.

  “Come into town. The W Hotel in Hollywood. I need your cock.”

  A minute later, I return to the table, smiling demurely at Stewart, who rises at my entrance and pulls out my chair, his napkin hiding any erection he may have. Leaning down as he pushes my chair in, he softly speaks. “Is he coming?”

  “There are so many places I could go with that question.” I murmur. “But yes.”

  He sits back down, reaching for his wine glass and smiling at me. “Good.”

  I try to pay attention to the conversation. Try to eat my salad and smile politely, nod appropriately, laugh when the overweight man to my right makes a joke. But I am waiting, my leg jiggling nervously. Waiting for the buzz of my phone against my leg, for the moment when I will know that he is here. My call had surprised him, his soft voice hardening when he heard my directive. I could imagine him sitting up, trying to put the pieces together, hearing the raw need in my voice. He knows me, as well as Stewart does. Knows that when my blood rushes and need hits me, that there is only one thing that can satisfy it. Cock. Thrusting roughly, taking my body as its own. He knows that I can’t contain it, that the need grows and expands until my fingers or someone else’s body fucks it to sleep. He knows that I won’t want to make love. He knows that I will need my brains fucked out, and he knows exactly how I like that done. As Stewart does. They have memorized my body, learned my tells, fucked me enough that every movement is delivered before I have to ask.

  I am brought back to the present when I hear Stewart speak, his voice calm and intelligent, the rough scrape of his voice only visible to me, who knows it so well. I can see the slight tighten of his jaw, can see the fire in his eyes when he casually glances my way. He is aroused, and allows my hand to confirm it when I reach over. Full-blown, hard as a diamond, aroused. It confuses the hell out of me and makes me wet at the same time. Then my phone buzzes, and I am out of time to think. I stand, gripping my purse, waving the men off as they start to rise. “I’m sorry, I’m not feeling well. I’m going to step outside for a bit.”

  False concern crosses Stewart’s features as he rises, excusing himself and escorting me to the door. “You will be the death of me, you know that?” he says softly.

  “I could say the same for you.”

  He stops, outside the door. “Have him fuck you hard,” he bites out, pulling me into his body with sudden aggression. “And whatever he doesn’t take care of, I will. Just give me a few hours to finish up this business. Hurry.” He slaps me on the ass, hard enough to sting, my panties soaked at the forbidden nature of this entire experience. I grip my purse tightly and step out of the restaurant, into the hotel lobby, and head for the restroom.

  I knock gently on the unisex door. “It’s me.” My voice croaks on the last word. This is the closest my two worlds have ever come to colliding. Stewart and Paul. In the same buil
ding. My dark and my light. One, now seated, surrounded by finery, listening attentively to talks of profit and loss, his cock hard, hidden underneath fine linens and discussions of intellect. And my light, swinging the door open and pulling me inside, slamming it closed behind me and flipping the latch. No words spoken, his hands thrusting me back, his mouth greedy on mine as he tastes champagne on my tongue, our need thick in the air. I reach for him, my hand running down his worn tee and grip the top of his jeans. He has not changed clothes since I saw him last, has not dressed up for his entrance into this hotel, and I love the contrast. His messy hair to Stewart’s combed. Five o’clock shadow to clean-shaven. The smell of sweat to cologne. I normally get a cleansing period, the twenty-minute drive between my worlds clearing my head, my skin, my palette. Now, walking instantly from one to the other, the comparisons are overwhelming. He pulls back, releasing me. Wiping a hand over his mouth, his eyes take a slow tour of my body.

  “Look at you,” he whispers. “Dressed up like you are a good girl.” He hasn’t seen me like this. With my hair conservative and a cocktail dress on, pearls at my neck. He slides my dress up, the expensive fabric stiff, staying where it is put, the black peep of lace panties exposed. I stay still, my back against the wall, legs slightly forward and spread a few feet apart. My chest heaving, need gripping me, I watch him unzip his pants and pull out his cock.

  “Suck it. On your knees, in this bathroom. Suck my cock while your boyfriend sits at the table.”

  There is an edge to his voice, an anger that is not normally present. An emotion that is turning my easy-going Paul into something darker. Sexier. I love it, love the bite in his voice, the possession in his hand as he grips the back of my head and pulls me fully onto his cock. He thrusts into my mouth, his eyes on mine, the connection between us unbroken as he fucks my throat, growing with every pump, the fire in his eyes making the need between my legs almost painful in its intensity.