He is on the phone, his face tired, small lines outlining his handsome features. He looks up, surprised, a smile stretching over his face and he turns in his chair, away from his desk, tapping his thigh, and pulls me into his chest when I sit. I stay there for a while, his hand on my back, rubbing as he listens, stopping when he speaks, his other hand scribbling figures on a pad of paper. I can hear the voice in his ear, the phone stuck in the crook of his shoulder, a fast-paced dialogue about product placement, market awareness, and sales trends.
I bore quickly, sliding off his lap, into the opening between his legs, my hand running over his belt, my eyes moving up to catch his. He watches me wordlessly, his eyes urging me to continue, the push of bone under my wrist letting me know that he is ready.
He is always ready. His cock seems engineered to spring into action at a moment’s notice. It is one of the things I love about him. I unbuckle his pants and stand, pulling my sundress over my head slowly, letting him see every inch of what he will soon get.
STEWART
She is beautiful. I knew that from the moment I first saw her, through snow flurries, a grin on her face like she captured the world and just threw it back. But I didn’t know how beautiful she was until I knew her. Until I saw into her soul and became lost in her goodness. The final step of my capture came when she lost her clothes. Bared her body, that body that I see in my dreams, jack off to in the morning, and worship in her presence. And now, with her pulling every inch of that yellow sundress up and off of her curves... I am lost. I am lost and she has found me. I hang up the phone mid-sentence and unplug the cord from its back.
I roll my chair forward, running my hands along the back of legs, traveling up the curves of her ass, gripping the skin there as I lean forward and kiss her skin, tasting the hint of salt that tells me she has been in the ocean. I slide my fingers under the cloth of her underwear, simple pink boyshorts that I tug down, over the tan curves of her hips, faint strips of paleness showing me her tan lines. Then it hits the floor, and she is bare before me. I start to stand, but she pushes me down, pins me to the chair as she kneels back down, a playful smile on her face, a gleam of fire in her eyes. I love her eyes. Love how I can instantly tell if she is mad, excited, or in love. Whatever the emotion, whatever her temperature that day, there is always sex in those eyes. It floats off her skin, gleams in her eyes, and is in every move of her delicious body. This woman cannot exist without sex. It is her food, her body-sustaining air. I discovered that early, knew it from the moment of our second date. She cannot contain it, does not even try. She embraces it, owns it, loves it. She does not fuck out of insecurity or to get something or someone. She fucks because she loves it, and loves through it. It is her gift to the world and I am lucky enough to be a part of that world.
She feels the strength of my arousal, her smile brilliant in my dim office. Then she unzips me, and I am in her mouth.
Fuck. I will never be able to accurately describe her mouth. It is like a throbbing pulse of wet, hot moisture, seconded only by her body. It knows how hard to suck, how deep to go, how fast or slow to take my cock, and when to give it a moment to regroup. Her eyes flicker to mine, heat in their gaze, and I want nothing more than to pull her to her feet and bend her over my desk. I place my hand at the back of her head, watching in drugged awe as my length slides deeper into her mouth, her pink lips tight around me, the playful gleam in her eyes making my cock harden even further.
I pull back on her hair, trying to lift her up, but she shakes her head, burying me greater, her eyes closing as she gags on my cock. She grips me tightly with her hand, sliding it up and down my shaft, squeezing it, and I feel every bit of stress in my body leave, as if she is milking it out of me. I sigh, leaning back in my chair, content to let her work.
She is beautiful when she sucks a cock. Her cheeks hollowing, the curve of her mouth when she pulls off, the mischievousness in her eyes that telegraphs how much she truly enjoys the act.
I groan, feeling the pressure of buildup. Feeling the push, I’m throbbing in her mouth, close to climax, the three days without her taking their toll on my self-control.
“Fuck baby.” I lean forward, cupping the back of her neck, watching intently the movement in and out of her mouth. “Here I come.”
She takes me fully, her mouth massaging and squeezing the length of me, my head deep in her throat when I come. Wave after wave of release, my hand unintentionally tightening on her neck, my pleasure audible in the groans that I can’t contain.
She swallows it all, her face, when she finally pulls off of me, clean, a smile stretching across it. I collapse back in my seat, tugging softly on her skin, pulling her into my arms, her body curling onto my lap. “Thank you baby. I needed that.” I rest my head on hers. “I’m surprised you’re here. Thought I wouldn’t see you ‘til this weekend.”
“He had to run down to San Diego. I thought I’d stop by, give you some lovin’, stay the night. Maybe kidnap you into a breakfast date.”
I frown against her hair. “Can’t do breakfast. I have a six AM call with Helsinki.”
She tilts her head up, brushes her lips across the rough shadow on my neck. “Then how about I cook you breakfast at five?”
I wrap my arms around her, including her arms and legs in the grip. “That would be perfect. Need me to take care of you?”
She bites my neck lightly. “No baby. Get back to your work. I’ll wake you at five.” She pushes at my arms, breaking free of my grip and standing, her naked skin glowing in the light from the lamp. I pull at her arm, bringing her closer, getting one last taste of her mouth, before plugging my phone back in and returning to the documents on my desk. As she leaves, tugging the door shut behind her, the phone rings.
ACID DROP: When you take off on a wave
and suddenly have the bottom fall out
as you free fall down the face.
DANA
It is Wednesday night; I am in PJs and socks, a face mask beginning to dry on my face, in front of the television, popcorn in the microwave. Cross-legged, my back against the edge of my way-too-expensive-but-I-love-it couch, I am flipping through channels, and trying to resist touching my face, to stick my curious fingers into the wet mask, which has not fully hardened.
Soap opera. Flip.
Infomercial. Flip.
Football. Flip.
Surfing.
I wait, my remote extended, waiting to see what the show is about, which hotspot or event is being covered. And then I see him, trudging through sand, a board tucked under his arm, that one-in-a-million smile lighting his tan face. My breath catches as I see pure, effortless happiness, no sign of the haunted Paul I remember. Then, there is a blur of blonde, a streak before the camera, a bundle of bikini and cover-up throwing herself into his arms, gripping his neck and placing a kiss on his cheek. A girl. Maybe she is the reason for his happiness, for the light that shines from his eyes. Or maybe she is a groupie, one of the hundreds of beach Barbies that follow the surfing circuit. I listen to the announcer, to his recount of Paul, of his awards and standings, watching as he swings the girl in a tight circle before setting her down. Pulls her into a full kiss before she bashfully pushes him off. She turns, and I see her face.
It hurts, the expression I make, the contortion of my face as my jaw drops and eyes open wide, dried edges of the mask pulling and protesting as I stare in shock.
Her.
Tucked under Stewart’s arm, their faces beaming, as they walked past me in Livello.
A carefree wave to the valet as she left Stewart’s world and headed elsewhere.
On her knees, surrounded by books, spewing out friendliness as she gave away lighthearted mysteries.
Her. Stewart’s love, the reason for his smile. Hugging Paul. Kissing Paul.
The camera flips to another surfer, and my world blurs, my thoughts moving too quickly for rational thought, question after question pounding through my mind. In the background, the microwave shrills a persistent beep, repeating and r
epeating, like the countdown timer to a bomb of horrific proportions.
What. The. Fuck. Is. Going. On?
HOLLYWOOD, CA
MADISON
I enter the bedroom, flipping on the lights and heading to the shower. Twenty minutes later, I crawl into bed and turn on the television. Halfway through a stain-remover infomercial, I fall asleep.
At some point in the night, Stewart joins me, his arms pulling me tight to his body, his mouth soft against the back on my neck. I nestle into his body, murmuring his name, and sleep steals back over me. The next thing I hear is the soft ding of my alarm.
I move, half-awake, through the motions of cooking. Preheating a skillet. Pouring oil. Beating eggs. The bacon is sizzling in the pan when I lick my fingers and move down the hall, pressing the button next to the light switch that opens the blinds. They move, a soft hum of motors, light peeking through the large windows, the room still dim, dawn on the edge of our city’s horizon.
“Wakey wakey,” I sing, running my hands lightly through Stewart’s hair before planting a soft kiss on his lips. They move beneath my mouth, smiling, and he speaks against my kiss, his eyes still closed.
“It can’t be five already.”
“It is, baby. I don’t joke about interrupting sleep. I’ve got bacon in the pan, so I’ve got to get back to the stove.” I steal another kiss and then leave, trailing my hands across his bare chest, then jog back to the kitchen, snagging a pair of tongs and turning crispy bacon a moment before it burns.
I have the bacon on a plate and am scooping eggs out when I feel him enter, his heavy presence as palatable as a burst of hot air. I grin, knowing what is coming, before I feel his hands on my ass, gripping and squeezing before he slides his hands around my stomach, coming up and brushing my breasts. He nuzzles my neck. “You can’t possibly expect me to eat food when you’re naked.”
“I’m not naked. I’m almost naked,” I protest, slipping out of his hands and carrying our plates to the bar. “Now sit. I didn’t get up at 4:30 to have you ignore my breakfast.”
He obeys, moving my plate till it is next to his and pats the stool. “Well, almost naked, if that is how you call it, looks damn tempting.”
“Thank you. You can thank Valentine’s Day, last year for that.”
He tilts his head. “Is that what I got you?”
“And a watch. But I didn’t feel like dripping diamonds while flipping bacon.”
He grins. “Understandable.”
“What’s the call with Helsinki about?”
“Rebranding. We’re splitting an entity into two parts and need a new brand for the new arm.”
Stewart works for a venture capitalist firm. They purchase assets that are typically struggling, then paint a new face on them, streamline their production processes, and use their bulk buying power and outsourcing to reduce costs. Many of his subcontractors are in Finland and India, which makes every hour of the day a business hour. He treats his new assets like children, becoming emotionally invested in their futures, their successes and their failures. I love his passion, and understand the time commitment and place in his life that his work possesses. In his life, work is first, and I am second. I am okay with that standing, just as he is okay with the fact that I will not make our relationship exclusive as long as I have that second-place ranking.
It doesn’t stop me from loving him any less. It doesn’t stop my heart from tugging when he smiles. It doesn’t stop my recognition that he loves me back, as much as his heart and schedule will allow. I don’t want our world to be any different than it is right now. A change in his priorities will mean a change in our relationship. A change in our relationship will mean that I have to choose between him and Paul. And I can’t do that. Not right now. I’m not ready for that jump.
He glances at the kitchen clock and bends over, placing a soft kiss on the edge of my lips. “Leave the dishes, babe. Estelle will be here soon. I’m gonna take that call.”
I nod. “I’m gonna head back to bed.”
And I do. I lose the lace underwire bra and matching thongs and crawl back to bed, the motorized blinds dragging the room back into darkness. My heavy breakfast and early morning causes sleep to come quickly, and I don’t wake ‘til late morning.
VENICE BEACH, CA
The bookstore is busy, a rare occurrence, and the afternoon passes quickly. I sell a grand total of sixty used books, bringing in a whopping hundred bucks. The new books do all right, too, bringing the owner some much-needed revenue and guaranteeing me at least one more month of employment. I lock up at eight, heading next door to the bar that shares our awning.
It is crowded, half tourists and half locals, familiar smiles greeting me as I grab a bar stool. Bip, the bartender, a pretty brunette that has managed to look eighteen for a good ten years longer than physically possible, pops a Corona top and slides it over to me.
“Thanks.”
“No sweat babe. Where’s your sexier half?”
“Somewhere on I-5. He’s with Nick and Moses, headed back from Del Mar.”
“They catch good conditions?”
“According to the text I got, the waves were great, but too many shoobies, it was a zoo.”
“That’s the problem with this time of year. Tourists everywhere.” She lowered her voice, glancing around before shooting me a smile. “Not that I’m complaining.”
“Hey, me either.” I toasted her, taking a swig of the beer and glancing at my watch. “Can you put in a large philly to go? I’m gonna head home before it gets too crazy.”
Venice Beach has been romanticized by Hollywood and an impressively deceptive tourism marketing campaign. They paint our sidewalk stands and street performers in a romantic light, touting our artistic graffiti and muscle beach as unique oddities. In actuality, it is the armpit of LA tourism. Panhandlers and druggies everywhere, homeless getting rich off of intimidated tourists and families of four too far from the safety of their car to say no. We have at least ten murders a year, over three hundred aggravated assaults and around a hundred rapes. The majority of those crimes happen to tourists, prostitutes, and drug users. Paul and I fall in the lower-risk demographic, but that doesn’t mean we are safe. Locals do their best to protect other locals, our misfit band of eccentrics attempting some basic form of civility. But I am a young, attractive female. Walking down the boardwalk after dark alone scares me. I call Paul and let him know I’m on my way home.
“Awesome babe. I’m twenty minutes away. Gonna drop the boys at their place and then I’ll be home. Call me when you get to the house, so I know you’re safe.”
I agree, hanging up my cell, and slip it into the pockets of my sweatshirt, the cash in my pocket burning my skin. Then I grab my food, throw a twenty on the bar, and head into the crowded night, a half-mile from home.
I move quickly through the crowds, my hood up despite the warm night air, ignoring the catcalls from men and the panhandlers who know me yet still stick out their hands. I nod to familiar faces and share words with a few locals. Then the crowds thin and I am on the sparse path that covers the last quarter-mile home. There are still tourists here, ones who didn’t realize that the South Venice parking lot is the wrong place to park, a long walk from the attractions, a much closer lot a quarter-mile north. We all hurry, the night sky unsettling, too many shadows and dark alleys in between the million dollar bungalows that face this oceanfront broken sidewalk.
Then I reach our street, head a block east and jog up the steps to our home, my key out and ready, the deadbolt flipping in the lock as soon as the door is fully shut. I strip off my sweaty pullover and call Paul, letting him know that I am home.
I hear his jeep rumble as I pull two beers from the fridge, popping their tops and carrying them to the coffee table, flipping the dead bolt switch on my way. He bounds up the steps, flinging the door open and crossing our living room in four easy steps, pulling me into his arms and taking my mouth. I jump, wrapping my legs around his waist and he catches me, his h
ands strong on my ass, his mouth desperate on mine, like he has been away a month instead of a day. He carries me to the couch and tosses me down, the worn leather soft against my back, his mouth following my descent before softly releasing me. His eyes linger on me, a smile on his face before he wheels around and shuts the door.
We eat on the couch, sharing the sandwich, juice running down my wrists as I try to bite into the overfull sandwich. I get up twice for napkins and more beer, our conversation dancing over, but not touching, my activities last night. Paul prefers to not discuss the existence of Stewart. While Stewart approaches their shared split of my time as he would a business merger, coolly and unemotionally—it is much harder for Paul. I have all of Paul’s heart—surfing and his career taking a backseat to me, to my happiness. I’m sure he struggles with that—having half of me while giving me all of him. But I was with Stewart first, gave him that half of my heart before Paul ever came into the picture. Paul was just sex to me, a warm body to fuck my body and occupy my days while Stewart worked. But somewhere, over a year ago, Paul took the other half of my heart and I fell for him as well. I know it bothers Paul. I know that he is competitive and possessive and wants me to be only his. But he will not give me up over that desire, so he doesn’t fight it. He goes with the flow, and only asks for my happiness.
We eat, we watch tv, and then fuck—starting in the shower and taking the activity to our bed. Then we spoon, the sound of waves lulling us to sleep.
DANA
The definition of a secret is something not meant to be known by others.
What do you do when you discover a secret? Do you have a responsibility to share it? Or is the responsibility in the keeping of the secret?
I think it all depends on the outcome of sharing the secret. Some cause harm, some good. I need to find out more about this secret. To know what outcome it harbors. So I will watch. And try to find out as much as I can about this woman. And why she has latched onto these men, who hold my heart as much as she holds theirs.
Sex Love Repeat Page 7
