The Hooker and the Hermit

by L.H. Cosway

  I began to move my hips in a slow rhythm, fixating on the belt secured snugly around her belly. It was such a sexy look. And wow, the feel of her around me was incredible. I’d never felt anything like it. Had never made love to a woman I felt such a fierce, soul-deep attraction to.

  I rested my forehead against hers as I started to increase the speed of my thrusts. “You cannot imagine how unbelievable you feel, Annie. I don’t ever want to leave.”

  “I don’t want you to, either,” she breathed. “I feel so surrounded.”

  I rose then, unable to contain my need to fuck her senseless any longer. My hips jutted in and out almost violently, and she took it all, soaked me in and let me back out again, gave me something that I didn’t ever want to forget. She absorbed me. She was everything in that moment. All I could see.

  “You drive me crazy,” I said and then let out a string of select swear words.

  I could feel myself getting closer, closer to the divine heaven of coming inside her perfect, beautiful, celestial fucking body. I stared at her face, her eyes big and taking everything in. She was still all tied up; and I saw how not touching me was painful for her, yet she was getting off on it. I thrived on that pain. I was still thrusting in and out, her thighs holding me in place, when I ran my hands from her neck down to her breasts and all the way along her torso.

  She arched, straining for my touch, “Ronan, oh—oh God….”

  Annie came apart, swift and fierce, saying “please” over and over, begging me. She shook from the force of her orgasm but was unable to reach for me.

  I had all the power, and she had nothing. I could do anything to her, and she was simply there to enjoy the ride. A willing, submitting participant in this game for two. This was the dynamic I’d craved my whole life, but I had never found a partner as perfect as my dear, sweet, gorgeous little hermit.

  In the next second I came with a deep, strangled groan as I melded my mouth to hers and thrust my tongue inside. I’d never climaxed so hard on my life. I felt empty, drained in the most wonderful sense of the word. I drew away and cupped her face in my hands, planting tiny, worshipful kisses on her cheeks, her mouth, her forehead, her eyelids, and murmuring desperate declarations. “You’re perfect. The feel of you. Can’t get enough. I’m addicted. I love you.”

  I was still kissing her, working my way down her neck and nibbling on her earlobe, when I realized I’d said that last part out loud.

  Chapter Nineteen

  New York’s Finest

  Blogging as *The Socialmedialite*

  April 11

  It’s time for everyone’s favorite blog post! That’s right—it’s time for DILFs!

  Sometimes “DILF” stands for “Dudes I’d Like to Flip Off.”

  Sometimes “DILF” stands for “Dogs I’d Like to Fix” (I think everyone remembers the prodigious leg-humping incident of 2014).

  And sometimes, “DILF” stands for “Donalds I’d Like to Fire” (spoiler alert, it’s always Donald Trump).

  But I think everyone’s favorite kind of DILF post is when it stands for “Dads I’d Like to Fuck”☺

  It may be crass. It may lower me in your eyes. You may object to the fact that I’m looking at these dads with lustful intentions and licentious lewdness. But—come on—if our society has MILFs, then we need to have some DILFs for the ladies.

  Amiright, ladies?

  So, feast your eyes on the pictures below, my sisters in avariciousness. Today I’ve included a record-setting 36 desirable, drool-worthy dads.

  You’re welcome.

  <3 The Socialmedialite

  *Annie*

  I didn’t say it.

  Not in the car on the drive back.

  Not when we made love again that night in the shower…although I almost said it then. I said a lot of things in the shower—like telling Ronan he was a sex god, and that I needed him, and begging him to make me dirty so we could take showers and baths together eight times a day—these things made me blush scarlet every time I thought about them once the sex haze had cleared.

  I didn’t say it when he woke me up the next morning by blindfolding me and trailing ice cubes over my bare skin, promising me pleasure only if I could lie still and silent.

  Nor did I say it over the next two weeks as we went from event to event or when we came back to the hotel every night.

  He didn’t say it again, either.

  However, regardless of where we were—a charity garden party fundraiser, a visit to a public school for a photo-op, a youth rugby match—he always found a way to show me how he felt. He made sure that I was served special peppermint tea at the garden party. He introduced me to the kids at the school as his fairy princess. He gave me his coat at the youth rugby game and rubbed my arms to keep me warm.

  At night he showed me by tying me up, taking me how and when he liked, always being in control, initiating lovemaking that was both terrifyingly tender and tenderly terrifying.

  I loved it. I loved how he surrounded me. I loved how ceding control made me feel safe and protected. I loved begging him, following his rules. I loved the freedom I found in complete capitulation.

  And yet…I didn’t tell him that I loved him, even though I did.

  He must know, I thought, staring blankly at my computer screen. I was reading through the latest comments on my DILF post. People’s reactions ran the gamut of appreciative to shocked to Hey! That’s my husband!! Woot!!

  I noticed that WriteALoveSong responded with a photo comment of a very, very nicely built male member of the military dressed in a bluish camouflage uniform holding the hand of an adorable little boy. The boy had brown curls and rosy cheeks and couldn’t have been older than four. She’d added beneath the picture, Add this to your next DILF post (and you’re welcome).

  The charity I was highlighting along with the post was for veterans who were also parents. It helped them train and find work after discharge from the military. I’d tried to include as many dads in uniform as I could, but of the thirty-six, only fifteen were service members.

  I was also avoiding my phone. Ronan’s sister, Lucy, had called and left a message; she wanted to go shopping and out to lunch. I didn’t know what to do. Since the rugby match, I’d gone out for coffee with a few of the team member’s wives and girlfriends. It was like a club, and I had automatic membership as long as Ronan and I were together. There was camaraderie, but it also felt like a no-pressure group. They were happy to let me be the quiet one.

  But with Lucy…Ronan loved Lucy. And I wouldn’t be able to blend in when it was just the two of us. I wanted her to like me; I wanted us to be friends—really, really good friends—but I had no experience with real-life friendship.

  I didn’t want to fuck it up.

  I was startled by the sound of the suite door slamming shut, followed by Ronan’s loud footsteps approaching. Just his footfalls alerted me to the fact that he was upset, and this flustered me; so I quickly shut my laptop just as he stormed into the bedroom. My attention snapped to his as he entered.

  “Annie….” he said, like he intended to add something more but didn’t quite know what to say. Though he looked angry, he also looked aggravated about his anger.

  I stood, watched him with wide eyes, and then prompted, “Is there something wrong?”

  “No! Of course not! Everything is just cunting wonderful!” he thundered and then turned away and stomped out of the room.

  I stared at the spot he’d just vacated for a few seconds, wracking my brain for what I might have done to upset him. I wondered if the source of his fury was my lack of verbal reciprocation of his feelings. My heart tugged painfully at the thought because I did love him.

  Bracing myself, I hurried out of the room, found him splashing Scotch into a glass at the wet bar. It was only 10:00 a.m.

  “Hey…so, I think I know why you’re upset.” I twisted my fingers in front of me, stopping just four feet from where he gulped his drink.

  He set the empty glass back
on the bar, his eyes cutting to mine as he refilled the glass.

  “I doubt that,” he said, shaking his head once.

  “Is it because of… When you said—when you told me—”

  “Nope. And I don’t regret telling you, either, so you can stop fretting I’m going to take it back.”

  I shifted on my feet, feeling a little unsteady. “Is it because I haven’t…I haven’t said—”

  “Nope. I figure you’ll tell me when you’re ready.” He studied the liquid in the cut-crystal tumbler then took another swig.

  “Oh,” I breathed, feeling equal parts relief and confusion. “Then what did I do? Because you’re obviously upset with me about something.”

  Ronan set the tumbler back on the bar and shut his eyes, exhaling a laugh that wasn’t completely devoid of humor. We stood there for several moments, so long I thought he might not respond.

  Then he said in a rush, “I’m the jealous sort. I know that, and I think you do, too. I don’t like sharing what’s mine.”

  I frowned at his words, not understanding and saying the only thing that made any semblance of sense, “Ronan, I would never cheat on you.”

  His brown eyes opened, but they remained on his empty glass. “I know that. But I don’t even like you looking at other guys.”

  This statement only served to deepen my frown. “I honestly don’t understand where this is coming from. Of course I’m not going to ogle other guys in front of you. That would be completely disrespectful. Just like I wouldn’t want you to do that in front of me with other women. But….”

  “But,” he echoed, a small smile tugging his lips to the side.

  “Yes, there is a ‘but.’ But of course I’m not blind, and neither are you. Of course we’re both going to continue to notice other people, even if we don’t act on it.”

  He sighed then laughed again; this time it sounded self-deprecating.

  Ronan said to himself, “Ah, I am so screwed,” as he turned toward me, abandoning his glass on the bar and wrapping me in his arms. “You’re going to force me to grow up, aren’t you, Annie? I’m going to have to stop picking fights with all the boys who give you a second look. You’re going to make me mature.”

  I smiled against his neck, snuggled closer as I returned his embrace. “I hope not too much. I kind of like your dirty mind.”

  “I’m beginning to think I’m not the one with the dirty mind,” he mumbled, somewhat cryptically.

  Before I could question this remark, he bent forward and captured my mouth. Soon all thought—or ability to think coherently—was driven from my aforementioned mind and replaced with a delightful series of completely dirty thoughts.

  ***

  I was waiting for Joan. We were set to have a call about the progress of my projects, not just Ronan’s.

  If Ronan were my only project, then I would deserve five stars, a big bonus, and a standing ovation. He had entirely ingratiated himself to the public. Not quite a reformed bad boy, he continued to be something edgier, more elusive.

  Really, he was the ideal image sketch I’d drafted plus something entirely his own, something I never could have designed or defined, and people loved him. They loved that he was a blue blood with white-collar mannerisms. They loved how unrepentantly ambivalent he was about fame yet how much he obviously loved his sport. They loved his raw talent and his dedication to excellence.

  He did nothing by halves.

  I thought about the latest letter he’d written to The Socialmedialite, about how he loved me, and it made my silly heart do a happy jig and then cry in the corner of despair.

  I felt guilt. Ronan had written to The Socialmedialite thinking of her as an impartial third party, asking for advice, baring his soul. I’d read his private thoughts, I’d been lying to him, and I hadn’t yet responded. His words were so beautiful, so moving, so exactly what I’d needed to push me over the edge. Every time I read the letter, I became lost to my feelings—of swelling love and anxious despondency—and my mind blanked. I didn’t know how to respond.

  I had to tell him the truth—both about who I was and how I loved him—but I feared losing him. I knew it was partially the fear that kept me silent on both accounts. The other part was giving up my anonymity. Being The Socialmedialite was my outlet. Until Ronan, it was the only avenue where I could truly be myself. If I told Ronan, if he knew, then he would have power over me, and I would never be anonymous again.

  The sound of my computer notifying me of a call pulled me from my thoughts. I blinked at the screen and saw Joan’s avatar—which was just a picture of her giant leather office chair—flashing insistently. I took a deep breath and accepted the video call, straightening in my seat and hoping my attention would follow.

  As soon as she came into focus, she started to talk. “Annie, we need your help with The Starlet. She’s tossed out our summer plan and wants us to start from scratch. Beth sent her an email, and Dara responded that she’s not used to having to read actual words. I blame your infographics. You spoil the clients.”

  “Hi, Joan.” I gave her a half smile, feeling strangely nostalgic for my comfortable life in New York.

  “Have you opened the file I sent? Let’s modify it while I have you on the line. I can call Beth in here if needed….”

  We settled into our client discussions, no pleasantries, just like old times, and I actually found myself relaxing as we went through the details and proposals. This felt like solid ground. This was my area of expertise, not falling in love with an infamous bad-boy sex symbol on the precipice of dominating the world stage while deceiving him about my secret identity.

  All was well—relatively speaking—until the hotel phone started to ring. I ignored it. It stopped, and then it rang again. After the fourth call back, I glanced at my cell phone and found no messages. Whoever was calling via the hotel phone didn’t have my cell number. Joan could tell my attention was split.

  “Just, would you get that? They’re obviously not going to stop.”

  Relieved, I reached for the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Ms. Catrel, this is O’Hare, the concierge. You have a visitor.”

  “Uh, well, I’m in the middle of a work call. Perhaps my visitor could leave a message?”

  “Ms. Catrel, your visitor is Ms. Brona O’Shea, and she is quite insistent that you’ll be very interested in an envelope currently in her possession.”

  My face must’ve betrayed my confusion and surprise because Joan’s voice was shrewd and her glare sharp as she demanded, “What? What is it? Who is that?”

  My gaze flickered to the computer screen, where Joan was leaning forward in her chair, and I said into the phone, “Please send her up.”

  “Right away, Ms. Catrel. Patricia will escort her to your apartments and will be happy to serve tea while the two of you have a…visit.”

  “Thank you, O’Hare.”

  I held the receiver to my ear for a full five seconds after the concierge had clicked off, my eyes on the glass top of the desk, going through the likely scenarios of what Brona had brought with her in the envelope. Obviously, the most likely answer was that Brona had been bluffing to gain admittance to our rooms and start trouble.

  But if she weren’t bluffing and the envelope actually contained something damaging to Ronan, I would need to separate myself from my feelings for him. Whatever it was she’d brought, Ronan was my client. Regardless of what he’d done in his past and how that might influence my rage levels as his girlfriend, I needed to converse with his ex-girlfriend as though I were merely part of Ronan’s publicity team, as his advocate.

  “Annie, who was on the phone?” Joan’s impatient question pulled me from my internal pep talk.

  I replaced the phone on the charger and lifted my eyes to my boss. “That was the concierge. Brona O’Shea is downstairs and wants to speak to me.”

  “I bet she does,” Joan scoffed.

  “She has an envelope with her and informed the concierge that it contains something
that I will find very interesting.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “I guess I’ll find out when she gets here.”

  “No. We will find out. Keep me plugged in and angle your screen toward the door. It’s a shame I can’t be there in person to negotiate this…Let her know as soon as she walks in that you’re in the middle of a work call with Ronan’s publicity team. She’ll see it as an opportunity. Also….”

  I nodded, mostly listening to Joan’s strategy, clicking through my open tabs on my laptop and closing several windows. If Brona would be talking to Joan via my laptop, I didn’t need her to see my Socialmedialite email account or the blog post draft I’d been writing.

  Joan detailed her plan while I prepared to face Ronan’s ex with as little outward emotion as possible. However, just as the knock sounded on the suite door, Joan surprised me by saying, “…and of course you might need to play the role of jealous current girlfriend—good cop, bad cop—then I’ll make her think I’m on her side.”

  I’m sure I looked a little startled and a lot confused as I squinted at Joan. “Wait, you want me to be the bad cop?”

  She nodded. “That’s right.”

  “But I’m not bad cop. You are bad cop.”

  “No, you’re confusing reality with fiction. In real life, I’m always the bad cop, and you’re always the good cop—which is why we switch roles when we’re playing our parts. The good cop is always pretending to be the good cop, and vice versa.”

  I opened my mouth to respond, but the knock sounded from the door again, firmer this time, followed by Patricia’s voice saying, “Ms. Catrel, I have your tea.”

  Resigned to the oddness of this situation and anxious about its outcome, I angled my laptop toward the room as instructed and crossed to the entrance. After inhaling a steadying breath, I opened the door.