Positive/Negativity

by D. D. Lorenzo

  “Yes,” I breathed.

  “Yes, what? Tell me,” he said. “Tell me what I want to hear.” He continued kissing and claiming my sensitive skin.

  “Yes, I want this,” I said. I’d never wanted anything more than I wanted him at that moment. I didn’t think I could verbalize much more.

  That was Declan’s powerful effect on me. Intellectual thoughts were a luxury I no longer possessed. I could only conceive thoughts of him. I craved, needed, and desired only him. The overpowering ache that beat within me was one that only he could satisfy. All thoughts were of him; his power, his stance, his jaw against me, and his tattoos underneath my gripping fingertips. I wanted to see him and feel him—naked.

  “You want me, baby?” his teasing mouth was against my throat. He was aware he was pushing me over the edge, and the knowledge intoxicated him.

  I gathered all my courage and pushed my school girl modesty aside. He had caused the woman in me to surface, and she was screaming to have her say, but it came out as a hoarse plea.

  “I want you—naked—inside me—taking me.” TTTT

  “Yes, my beautiful girl,” he spoke low and rough into my ear. “I’ve waited patiently to give you what you want. Now, tell me what you need.”

  He knew me; knew that I hadn’t let go of my “good girl” mindset. He wanted me to let go of all thought and give in to what he could make me feel. I finally understood what he was asking of me…to completely let go, and give it all to him.

  I fisted his hair with my hands and pulled him to me. I released any reservations, telling him the words I had been too afraid to say.

  “Make love to me, Declan. Make me forget my name, while you make me scream yours…”

  He growled in satisfaction. It was a deep, carnal, animalistic sound. I knew it was what he’d waited long and patiently to hear. He made me know that he wanted me enough to wait for me to be ready, and that made me want him all the more.

  He released me for a brief moment, giving me a hard stare and said, “I love a woman who knows what she wants.”

  All passion carefully held for the past weeks broke loose in the firm hands holding, feeling, and gripping me. Declan began to claim what he had been patiently waiting for. His tongue entered my mouth, and I forgot everything except the sensation of the powerful, silk thrusts that invaded and claimed me. He lifted my legs up and placed them around his waist. That was how he carried me upstairs. He laid me down in his huge, delicious bed. As he removed my clothing, he allowed my hands free access, and I removed his. I explored what I had longed to touch. He took control, but he was attentive to every need my body longed and cried out for. His hands, lips, and tongue were equally talented, and he tortured and tantalized my body.

  For months we had stopped when he could feel my reservations. The graduation of our relationship had been sensual and left me longing with an immediate desire, but a reality for patience. He told me that he knew I was a “relationship girl”, and I wanted to see where we were heading. I couldn’t have prepared for the orgasmic and emotional experience that I was now feeling. The ownership that I had felt with the thrusts of Declan’s tongue, he now mirrored in the same delicious propulsions with which he was claiming my body. The luscious and swirled patterns he used to massage my shoulder, he was using in a creative way with his thumb as he stroked me. He filled my body to full with his. He left no part of me untouched by his lovemaking. Tempting and talented he branded me with his mouth, his tongue, and his sex. Goose bumps formed on my skin, though I was flushed all over. My breasts had become so full and tight that they were woefully painful with desire for his touch. I was warmed and chilled simultaneously with his sensuous skills. He relentlessly stroked, thrust, and claimed, formally announcing that I was no longer the possessor of my body and soul. He had declared me as his with his love making, of that I was certain. He claimed my heart. I so much as told him so with each labored breath…

  …and a torrent of powerful emotions erupted for both Aria and Declan, as thoughts of breathing, and all else, became irrelevant…

  T If I Could be Her – ZZ Ward

  TT Question Existing – Rihanna

  TTT Oh My – Gin Wigmore

  Marisol Franzi was considered one of the world’s most beautiful women, and her photographs graced the covers of practically every fashion magazine. She was consistently in high demand with nearly every major fashion designer. Due to her fame and success, virtually everyone who was anyone wanted to be in her presence. Marisol never lacked invitations to the most exclusive parties, the latest popular night clubs, or paramount elegant events. Paparazzi followed her constantly. She could be seen keeping company with the world’s most eligible bachelors on multimillion dollar yachts, private islands, or posh European villas. Reports of her activities and escapades were continually chronicled on nightly news and gossip shows. She was a woman who lived by her own rules; she did as she wanted, where she wanted, and with whom she wanted. She was refused nothing because she didn’t take “no” for an answer. Another reason she was rarely declined anything she desired was due to reports of her malevolent temper. The one thing she coveted most that she hadn’t been able to obtain was Declan Sinclair.

  Declan and Marisol were frequently photographed together. Their looks complimented each other dramatically, which made them highly desirable to clients. The two were incessantly in high demand. Marisol was well aware of how magnificently striking a couple they appeared. She, herself, thought that Declan was a beautiful and desirable man. Marisol, who rarely gave thought to anything other than herself, found that she was lingering on thoughts of Declan more times than she cared to. At times, she thought of him to distraction, which caused her distress. Marisol didn’t like not getting what she wanted—Declan. T

  Marisol admired and was attracted to the powerful way in which Declan carried himself; it intrigued her. He displayed himself with a strong and quiet confidence, and she found herself drawn to that air of self-assurance. He was physically pleasing to watch, and she found that her eyes lingered while viewing his preparations for photo shoots. As the hair stylists coiffed his hair, she longed to run her fingers through it. She stared as make-up artists ran their fingers and brushes over his cheekbones and down his strong jaw line, and she imagined her hands lingering there. When Declan was completely dressed for a particular campaign, she admired him in a fully dressed suit. Marisol had found that, over the years, she preferred Declan in less clothing, rather than more. The skimpier the attire he wore, the better she liked it. They were frequently posed so that they’d be touching each other intimately, and she did not protest those stances, not one little bit.

  There was little of Declan Sinclair that Marisol Franzi did not find to her liking. What she had found distasteful was the company she found Declan keeping of late.

  Declan had been accepting less than a normal amount of commercial print work. The rumor amongst their circles was that his thoughts were to gracefully bow out of the spotlight and invest himself in more of the business side of the modeling profession. It was said that Declan had been trying to keep it quiet, but theirs was not an industry without a generous amount of gossip, as tabloid sales would confirm. Marisol loved gossip as much as the next person, but with regard to Declan, she only wanted more of the facts. He hadn’t yet succumbed to her charms, and charm him she would. She was determined to have more accessibility to him, not less. She, herself, had no intentions of taking less work; she wanted as much visibility as possible. She knew that she was more marketable with Declan as they were a photographic dream team. Photographers said that they were stunning together, and they were offered more jobs in unison than separately. She wouldn’t be slowing down any time soon, and if Marisol had her way, neither would Declan. In her opinion, Declan’s aspirations were foolish.

  Marisol wanted—no, she needed to get more information on what Declan was doing when he was away from the influences of New York. She believed that, once she discovered what his diversions were,
she could form a plan to occupy his attentions and divert them back to New York, Marisol, and the limelight that she coveted for them both. Once she had that, she was certain that she could distract him until he was, once again, immersed in his former, and more appropriate, work ethic. He was slacking, and she did not approve.

  Marisol held an envelope in her hands with the report of a private investigator she’d hired to observe Declan. As she opened the report, read the results, and viewed the photographs, she began to familiarize herself with the personal details of Declan’s life, something she had never cared to do previously as she saw no benefit for her could come from it. Marisol saw a photo of Declan having lunch with a man who looked very much like him. He was handsome, though not as handsome as Declan. Looking at the report, she learned that the man was his brother. There was also a woman in the photo, and she was listed as Declan’s sister-in-law. The report said that Declan’s brother was in law enforcement. What a menial thing to do for a living, she thought, quickly dismissing him.

  She then saw a photo of Declan attending a grave site. That was curious. Consulting the report once again, it said he was visiting the resting place of his Mother. Marisol had never given thought to Declan having parents, so of course she didn’t know his mother had died, much less when she died. I wonder if I knew him when that happened? she thought, but she dismissed the thought as quickly as it came.

  The remainder of the report was full of minor, and what she considered, insignificant details; Declan went to the post office, auto garage, and the home improvement store—the various errands that one does when they don’t have someone to run the errands for them. Nothing seemed too suspicious with the exception of this house that Declan had purchased. What about this house? TT

  The old, ugly house raised her suspicions because Declan seemed to be spending too much time there. It was at a small, insignificant beach town where no one that she knew would be caught dead visiting. There were pictures of him carrying items into the house—personal things that would lead one to believe that this was a more permanent residence. The pictures didn’t make sense to her. The reports listed him going to furniture stores and galleries, while the pictures reflected items that would validate purchases from those places. Why would he go to such a place? What was the appeal? Marisol didn’t see it.

  There were pictures of Declan arranging furniture on an outside porch, painting chairs, putting up a “Welcome” sign, and reclining on the porch in early morning hours with coffee. Those pictures showed Declan to be more relaxed than Marisol had ever known him to be. The report and the pictures seemed to be confirming the rumors that Declan might truly be attempting to slow down and take a bit more personal time. Why would he want to be in that stupid little town and take personal time? Marisol was perplexed.

  It was the last set of pictures that caused a bit of hostility to rise in Marisol; photos of a woman with long, dark, and wavy hair.

  In the last set of pictures, this woman appeared with more frequency than the previous sets sent by the investigator. At first, there were pictures of Declan smiling at this woman on the outside of this house; then pictures appeared of Declan walking on the beach with this woman, which appeared on many different days because their clothing had changed. This woman was photographed entering and leaving the house that Declan was apparently living in. Marisol picked up the corresponding report to read the details of what the pictures implied. The reports did outline this woman’s time entering Declan’s house and leaving an hour later, and at times—hours later, yet there was no report of the woman’s identity. What the hell was she paying an investigator for if he wasn’t getting her detailed information?

  The more that Marisol saw the smiles on the faces of Declan and the unknown female, the more bitter and angry she became.

  Marisol immediately phoned the Investigator. She vehemently instructed him to get more information on this house, this beach town, and most importantly, this woman. Specifically, she wanted to know exactly who she was to Declan. When she had barked her detailed orders to the investigator and concluded her threatening call, she threw the phone in a fit of temper.

  As Marisol paced the floor, she once again looked at the picture of the smiling woman and Declan. She had to admit that the woman was indeed pretty, but then again, Declan Sinclair was one of the most handsome men in the United States, if not the world. She wouldn’t go so far as to say that this woman was beautiful—no, she was far from it. Her hair didn’t look like it had seen the inside of a salon for ages, and her face was pretty enough for an everyday girl, but it was too pudgy. That wasn’t sufficient for Declan Sinclair, and Declan well knew it. The thought gave Marisol some consolation. Perhaps she was overreacting. Perhaps this woman was an acquaintance or an old friend.

  Marisol picked up the horrid photo and thoroughly inspected it. As she scanned from top to bottom, she completely dismissed the woman’s clothing. They were department store at best, certainly not designer. Her shoes were flip-flops, of all things. Tasteless! She carried no handbag! The thought was revolting to Marisol. What was she? A farm girl?! Marisol looked at her again. And her figure! It was laughable. She was much too fat to ever compete with Marisol! A sardonic grin made its way to Marisol’s face. They weren’t even in the same category!

  Marisol threw the photos onto the floor in disgust and reclined onto the sofa. It was there, on the top of the pile, that she saw the one photo that made her take notice.

  With all of the photos lying in a heap on the floor, just one stood out—a photo of Declan and this woman sitting on the beach, and he was handing her a cup of coffee. Although to someone else it may have appeared to be a simple cup of coffee, to Marisol, it appeared to be more.

  Marisol’s bitterness began to rise into hostility. It wasn’t the woman in the photo that concerned Marisol. In fact, her expression was partially hidden by the cheap sunglasses that she wore, and Marisol dismissed her anyway. In this particular photo, the woman was insignificant. What was of concern to Marisol was the expression on Declan’s face.

  In this one, seemingly innocent photo, the investigator captured what most people would dismiss. Marisol wasn’t most people. Photos were her livelihood, and she knew that a photo could reflect a product, person, or an image. These photos were taken without the subjects being aware so that the reflections were honest and genuine. As she continued to study the photo, she saw in it what she didn’t want to see—Declan’s response to this woman.

  Declan’s smile directed toward this woman was one that Marisol hadn’t seen before. The lines of his mouth were soft and genuinely raised as he looked at her. His eyes were gentle and kind. Looking further down the photo, Marisol looked at his hand. She saw that, as he passed the coffee to this woman, his fingers were curved and purposely cupping hers. What the hell! Declan felt an affection for this woman! TTT

  Marisol felt the loathing and contempt rise up and over her as a fast-growing malignancy. The friction between her and this woman was instantaneous. Who the hell was this little bitch, and why would Declan Sinclair be attracted to her? The inner conflict that Marisol felt caused her to adopt a vindictiveness directed toward this unknown female. Marisol didn’t know who this chubby girl was, but at that moment, a vendetta had been conceived.

  As Marisol stared at the look on Declan’s face in the photo, the fury grew. He had never looked at her that way. Never! They had been photographed together for years, by some of the world’s top photographers, and some of those photos had been in the scantiest attire. Marisol had rubbed up against Declan in some of the most provocatively posed positions. She had flaunted herself at him. She had made certain he saw her half naked when preparing for a photo shoot. She had suggested sex to him after parties where they had both been present—Hell, she had all but tied him down and tried to screw him senseless! He brushed her off because he said they were friends. This picture showed her exactly what she didn’t want to know—Declan Sinclair didn't want her! With that, she picked up the Mur
ano glass on the table, and with a loud scream, she hurled it against the wall where it shattered into tiny shards upon impact.

  After several moments, Marisol took a deep breath and composed herself; then she quietly raised the photograph. Marisol looked at the woman and contemptuously dismissed her as insignificant. This woman wasn’t even a worthy opponent for a world renowned beauty such as Marisol and she would be dealt with accordingly. She couldn’t compete with Marisol in any way. She could be—and would be—easily dismissed. Marisol justified that the affectionate gaze Declan directed toward this piddly, inferior woman in the photograph was only because she, herself, hadn’t really put forth her best effort to try to get Declan Sinclair. She just needed a little time to form a plan. She smiled, thinking that she would most definitely get what she wanted. She was, after all, Marisol Franzi.

  …and as she snuggled securely into the strong arm that was holding her close, Aria Cole felt that Declan Sinclair was everything in a man that she had ever wanted…

  T I Got Lucky – Susannah Blinkoff

  TT Start of Something Good – Toni Price

  TTT In a Sentimental Mood – Duke Ellington & John Coltrane

  I love waking to the sound of the Ocean. It’s one of the most beautiful sounds in the world to me. No matter the difficulty I faced, I have always been lulled into peace and contentment by the sounds of waves crashing on the seashore, seagulls singing, and a faint ocean breeze. A brand new favorite for me would be listening to the beating of Declan’s heart as my head rests on his chest. Lying here, in Declan’s arms, seems like the most natural thing in the world. His arm is draped over my body, lovingly and protectively. T

  Before last night, I had never seen Declan naked. Now, as he lays sleeping, I knew I’d have an unobstructed view of him if I just moved a little bit. I wiggled from under his arm and turned on my stomach, carrying the sheet with me as I turned, leaving him uncovered. It was as I suspected. Declan had the body of Adonis. His muscles were firm and hard—everywhere. His bone structure was fierce, severe, and chiseled. He seemed to be sleeping peacefully. His upper body, chest, and arms were covered in a very unique pattern of tattoos. My eyes followed my fingertips as they traced the lines and curves of the tattoos in mindless, unconscious exploration. I sighed as my imagination wandered along with my fingers, down the deep “V” of his abdominal muscles, and further and deeper still…