Old Enough

by Charmaine Pauls

  To his credit, he waits until I’m finished before he says, “Ain’t gonna cut it, sugar.”

  “Why not?” I ask with no small amount of exasperation.

  “Too costly, too time consuming, too hands-on.”

  “Too hands-on?”

  “We’ll have to hire people to wear a fish costume in which they’re going to sweat in the middle of summer.”

  “Potential lawsuits for heat exhaustion,” Alex interjects.

  “We’ll have to fabricate hundreds of fish costumes,” Toby continues, “not to mention the logistics of coordinating with the stores country-wide.”

  “Yes, it involves a lot of work, but it’ll give the results Monroe’s after. Kids love Freddy. They’ll visit the stores in hordes for a live performance. The stores will sell plenty of Freddy products, Monroe will make its margin, we’ll get our commission, and everyone will be happy.”

  “We don’t have the manpower.”

  I look around the table for support, but everyone stares at me with sealed lips.

  “We’ll outsource,” I say.

  “Too costly,” Bernard says.

  “That’s relative. Look at the profits we can make.” I open my budget projection.

  Bernard has studied it in advance. He doesn’t need to look at it to agree with Toby. “Nope. Too risky. You can’t say for sure it’ll work.”

  “Oh, come on. Where’s your guts? No risk, no gain, right?”

  Toby purses his lips. “Not what the client wants.”

  “How can you say? We haven’t run it past them.”

  “I know them, Jane, for much longer than you. I know Mr. Monroe, and I knew his father. I can tell you now, this isn’t what he wants.”

  Pressing the back of my fingers against my lips, I suppress a sigh. “What then?”

  “Innovation. Think outside of the box. Think keeping up with the times. Definitely don’t think roadshow. That’s old school.” Toby pats me on the shoulder and gets to his feet. “Keep on working. You have another month.”

  One by one, the people file out of the room until only my laptop screen with two months’ worth of pitching stares back at me. Lowering my forehead to the table, I blow out a long breath. Looks like I’m starting from scratch.

  Between working on the proposal, household chores, hunting for a place to rent, and driving Abby to modern dancing and tennis practice when I’m not helping her with homework, I almost forget about Brian. To say he doesn’t pop into my mind from time to time is a lie. What happened on Monday night? Did I misinterpret the heated look in his eyes? Did the way he touch me mean something, or was it a fragment of my needy imagination?

  Whenever these questions whirr through my mind, I chastise myself. I shouldn’t even be asking them. What am I thinking? I can’t think about him like that. I’m not going to perve over someone I don’t know, someone with a sister my daughter’s age, for Christ’s sake. I’m not going to notice him in that way, because it’ll make our very superficial relationship awkward. I’m not going to turn into an old, sodden fool, mistaking a random touch for something deeper, darker, something I buried with Evan. I don’t want to wake that dragon inside of me, because when she lifts herself from the ashes, she’ll be ravenous. It was hard to put her to rest when Evan passed away. I don’t want to suffer through the burning need only for that wanton desire to become a madness eating into my heart and brain. There’s no man like Evan, and there will never be. When he died, he left me broken with a starving dragon clawing in my chest. Part of it was emotional, and part of it was physical. The mental grief merged with the physical longing, until I couldn’t distinguish one from the other. All that was left was hell and an eternity of suffering in it.

  The law of energy is simple. For every action there is a reaction equal in force. The higher you fly, the harder you fall. The unparalleled highs of being fucked by a man who knows what he’s doing leave you wanting with a devastating need when all that skilled, obsessive, abundant loving is gone. Francois rescued me from the dark hole I was tumbling into by giving me a purpose to live–Abby. It didn’t take the hurt or yearning away, but every year I cemented a new layer of life over the ache, burying that dragon who’ll settle for nothing less than the fire that burns your soul naked until you’re stripped to your most exquisite passions. I’m not waking that dragon I feel stirring in my belly. It scares me more than anything, even more than losing my husband and home. When Brian has installed the gym equipment, he can’t come back. I’ll make it clear. He can’t come back. This is the mantra I repeat when I catch myself wondering about that touch.

  By the second week, I’ve convinced myself I imagined his interest. I’m such a fool. It’s embarrassing. It’s just a phase. The divorce. Psychologically, I’ve suppressed my needs, and with the tie between Francois and me severed, all these Freudian issues are surfacing in my psyche. Phew. That makes me feel a whole lot better, so much so that it’s not awkward when Brian is there when I return from my Saturday morning run two weeks later. The squat rack is already set up, tools splayed out over the deck.

  I stop next to him with my hands on my hips to catch my breath. “Broke in, again?”

  “Good morning to you, too.”

  “How did you get through all the security wizardry you installed?”

  “It doesn’t apply to me.”

  “So, you can walk in whenever you want.”

  “Only when you’re not here to open the gate. I couldn’t wait. I needed to get an early start. I’ve got somewhere to be later.” Wiping his hands on a cloth, he studies my face. “This is your cue to say thank you.”

  “Thank you,” I parrot. “Will it take long to finish the pull up bar?”

  “A few minutes.”

  “In that case, I’m going for a quick shower.”

  It’s as hot as it gets in summer. Sweat is trickling down my back, and my skin is sticky. I don’t feel the need to lock the door behind me this time as I rinse down quickly and dress in a cool summer’s dress and sandals. Brian is securing the last screw when I come back outside.

  “I appreciate you doing this.”

  He crosses his arms and takes a step back to study his work before he lavishes all of his attention on me with a smile.

  Shit, that dimple is trouble.

  “Do you know how to use it?” he asks.

  “Of course, I do.”

  He looks between me and the top bar. “You’ll need a step.”

  “I’ll have to buy one.”

  “Let’s try it out. Come here.” He points at the space in front of him. “I’ll give you a hand.”

  Stepping around him, I go on tiptoes and lift my arms. I won’t reach, even if I jump.

  “Ready?” he asks. “Grab hold of the bar when I lift you.”

  When his hands close around my ribs, what we are, were, and will be changes forever. Our banter, conversations, and the air we share will never be the same. The battle I’ve been fighting for the past two weeks is lost. I become wholly and irrevocably aware of him as a man. The awareness hits me like a meteorite–his strong grip, his hard body, his unusual height, his sexual vitality, and his masculine dominance. The impulses catch me off-guard, not giving me time to hide my reaction to his touch. Embarrassingly, my body freezes. Inwardly, I cringe.

  Please, don’t let him notice.

  It’s futile. He knows. The minute I tense, so does he. His hold on me grows marginally tighter, but I feel it where it matters. I feel it in the lurch of my heart and the somersault of my stomach. I feel his quick intake of breath rather than hear it, because I’m suddenly in tune with his energy, his every vibe. It’s as if we’ve entered the same wavelength where words are mundane and senses tell all. We’re suspended in our bubble of sexual awareness in time, locked in the act of him lifting me off my feet. Even when my hands grip the bar, he doesn’t let go. It’s a minute, a second, or hours. Our mutual awareness is thick. It darkens the air and fills my lungs until all I breathe is him.

&nb
sp; Slowly, he lowers me back to my feet. Our bodies aren’t touching, but he’s standing close. His heat burns through my thin dress, and his quickened breath envelopes my naked shoulders. Goosebumps break out over my arms and legs. His fingers are still locked around my ribcage. He cups my body like it’s something he doesn’t want to let go, and it feels right, like his touch belongs there.

  Wrong. This is a thousand shades of jaded. I should say something to break the pending disaster, something to pretend our cognizance hasn’t shifted. I should at least give him a way out.

  “Brian, I’m–”

  “Shh.”

  He brings a hand around and presses two fingers on my lips.

  Blood zings in my ears. My heartbeat pounds like a pendulum. The sensations coursing through me are deafening. My breasts tighten, my nipples harden, and my lower body tingles with heat. Symptoms I haven’t felt in twelve years, not since Evan, rush bone-deep through my body and surface on my skin. My skin turns hypersensitive, contracting and rippling as he slides his hand from my mouth to my neck, caressing me with the back of his fingers. At the physical sign of how he affects me, a soft groan vibrates in his chest. Gently, he turns me to face him. What I see in his eyes thrills and scares me. His lust is the dangerous brand, the type that can make your fantasies come true and ruin you. I know where this is going even before he starts walking me backward to the house and into the kitchen, but I’m powerless to stop it. He’s cut the chains that held the dragon, and now it’s too late. I’m lost in the moment, past conscious thought or self-control. When my backside hits the counter, he leans his weight against me, lowering his forehead to mine and caging me in between his arms. When the thick, hard heat of his erection presses against my stomach, I lose another battle even before it starts.

  4

  Brian

  I’m pushing teacups and saucers aside. The distressed sound of splintering porcelain as bone china hits the floor fills the space. It’s not the brusque noise of a cheap mug breaking, but expensive and refined, like private tuition, Catholic schools, and good girls.

  Jane regards me with huge eyes. Her chest moves rapidly, but no sound, not even a puff of air, escapes her lips. She braces her hands on the counter at her back, her perfect oyster-pink nails turning white on the cloudy apple marble. Colors, sounds, and scents imprint on my mind. My senses are in overdrive. She watches me as I put a step between us, giving myself the space I desperately need to hold onto my control. No parts of us are touching any longer, but her heat soaks through my shirt and jean-covered groin, scorching me. With her neck craned up and my head lowered, our gazes are locked. It’s important that I read her reaction. If she doesn’t want this, if there’s as much as a shadow of doubt in her eyes, I’ll stop. I’ll scrape the barrel of my control, but I’ll stop. I’m so tuned to her body, I don’t need words. I feel every ripple of sexual tension that pools in the air around us, every ounce of throbbing need, every murky, sticky gram of guilt.

  My palms make contact first, two hands closing around the small diameter of her waist. Splaying my fingers, I trace the definition of her ribs through her dress. She knows what I’m doing. My cock is hard, stabbing against her flesh.

  The tightening of my hands is the only warning she gets before I lift her onto the counter. My eyes never leave hers as I brace my hands on her knees, pushing the fabric of her dress up, inch by slow inch. Her breathing spikes as my thumbs brush over the insides of her legs. I stop just before her pussy to gather more control. Fuck, my dick is about to blow just thinking about the sight that awaits. Bunching the dress in my fists, I push the fabric over her hips. When the dress is hitched up around her middle, I’m still holding her eyes, not only communicating my intention, but also prolonging the sacred wait. I want to make this last. She’s staring at me like she’s watching a show, like my eyes command and hers follow. I drag the sweet agony out as long as I can, and only when I’m close to snapping do I drop my gaze to the center of her legs.

  She’s wearing white panties. The silk clings to her pussy, outlining the shape of what’s hidden beneath. Hooking a finger into the elastic, I pull the fabric aside slowly, as if I’m unwrapping a long-awaited gift. A dusting of golden hair covers her pussy lips, but not enough to hide the little pearl that peeps from between her folds. I’m glad she doesn’t shave. I prefer a woman to a girl. She’s pink and ripe and ready all over, her flesh engorged and glistening with arousal.

  I yank on the elastic. “Hold this.”

  She obeys instantly, pulling the fabric aside to give me access and free my hands. Arranging her heels on the edge of the counter, I push her thighs open as far as they’ll go and lower my head between her legs. Before I take her in my mouth, I use her trimmed pussy hair as leverage to pull her wide open, exposing her slit, her arousal, and her clit. She’s perfect, like I knew she’d be. She doesn’t protest as I take in my fill, the visual alone enough to make me ejaculate. When her thighs start trembling from the strain of the position, I yank harder on her pubic hair, inviting a low moan. Only then do I taste her, pushing my tongue flat against the underside of her pussy and dragging it up her slit. She starts shaking when I reach her clit, her whimpers as elegant as the fragile breaking of the priceless china. God, she’s addictive. I lick her like candy, down and up, a little bit deeper, while keeping her stretched. She cries out louder when I nip my way back to her clit, this time securing the hard nub between the gentle vice of my teeth so I can flick my tongue sideways over the bundle of nerves.

  She clamps her thighs around my face. The elastic of her underwear snaps as she lets go to find purchase on the counter behind her, leaning on her elbows. Her ass lifts off the surface as I start sucking before running my teeth over her clit. She yelps and jerks. A string of soft curses fall from her lips, making the moment dirty in the best kind of way.

  I pull back to study my work. Her skin is wet, red, and pulsing, her clit swollen to twice the size of earlier. The urge to slam my cock into her is so overpowering that my hand goes to my zipper of its own accord, but this isn’t about my dick. It’s about her pleasure. It’s not difficult to get back on track when she’s laying on her kitchen counter, legs and pussy splayed, all for me to play with. That’s exactly what I do. I tease, suck, bite, and lick until she begs me, until she squirms and pleads, pushing herself deeper into my mouth.

  I want to watch, so she won’t come in my mouth. Not this time. Stretching her pussy open, I flatten two fingers over her clit and rub until I find the spot that makes her back lift off the counter and her knees slam together. A loud moan leaves her chest as her pussy contracts and she comes under my fingers. I feel her tighten and spasm on the outside. I can only imagine the grip she’ll have on my cock on the inside. I’m hypnotized. I can’t stop, and I can’t look away. Even when she fights me, I keep on touching her, stimulating her, until there’s not an aftershock left in her body.

  When the impact of the orgasm is over, I straighten between her legs. The sight is stunning. She’s a beautiful, upper-class lady in a passionate mess. Her face is flushed, but her make-up is in place. Her slender feet and pink-painted toenails belong on the cover of a fashion magazine, especially in those strappy sandals. These two parts, the top and bottom, form a stark contrast with the crumpled dress and eaten-out pussy in the middle. The skin is blotchy where I’ve pulled her pubic hair and bitten her. Together, it makes a perfect picture. My perfect, unobtainable, fuckable princess.

  She doesn’t close her legs to hide from me, and the voyeur in me can’t get enough. The addict in me needs to slip a finger inside that plump pussy. I need to feel her tight warmth to torture myself with images of how hard she’ll squeeze my cock. The pervert in me needs to sink two fingers into her ass, because the sex-craved bastard in me needs to feed on her screams. It’s the optimist in me that yearns for something deeper, something that goes beyond a fuck. But it’s the realist in me that reacts when she opens her eyes and stares at me soberly.

  Her expression says it a
ll.

  Grabbing fistfuls of her dress, she starts dragging it over her hips. I lock my fingers around her wrists and pin them next to her face, preventing her from covering herself up. I’m leaning between her spread legs, my cock pressing against the wet, naked folds of her cunt.

  Our faces inches apart, I say, “Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking feel guilty.”

  She doesn’t fight my hold. The submission slightly calms me, but not enough to let her go.

  “You knew it was going to happen, Jane. The minute I saw you, it was a foregone conclusion.”

  Her eyes tighten, and her lips thin. “That I’ll be easy?”

  “If you were easy, I’d be inside your pussy right now with my cum dripping from your ass.”

  Her hands ball into fists, and her nostrils flare, but still she doesn’t try to throw me off.

  “You’re vulgar.”

  “That’s why you like me, princess. It’s gets you off.”

  “It’s got nothing to do with your filthy mouth.”

  “No?” I drag my nose along the elegant curve of her jaw. “Only my tongue?”

  She doesn’t answer.

  “Tell me how hard you came, princess.”

  “You know the answer.”

  “Tell me, anyway.”

  Her stare is brave, defiant, and soft, all at the same time. “The hardest ever.”

  The admittance catches me off guard, enough to let go of her wrists. My fingers left white imprints on her skin. I’ve squeezed too hard. It’s easy to forget my strength, especially with someone so fragile, someone so intoxicating who makes me forget everything else.

  Taking one, dainty wrist into my hand at a time, I kiss the marks, rubbing my thumbs over the area to stimulate the circulation. Her wrists are impossibly small, smooth, and white in my calloused, oil-stained hands. The contrast is a visual reminder that we don’t belong, that our planets don’t turn in the same orbits. Fuck that. I’ll defy reality, dreams, and the very laws of nature. I want Jane too badly to do otherwise.