So many opportunities. So many alternatives. But I go with Option A. The only option that I truly deserve to have.
I tickle her.
I tickle Ally until she begs for mercy, until tears sprout at her eyes and her throat grows hoarse. I tickle her just to hear the sound of her laughter and the endearing little snorting sounds she makes between gulps of air.
I tickle her just have her in my arms.
“No fair! You’re a much better swimmer than me! Off me, Ryan Lochte! Or I’ll pull down your banana hammock!”
“Do you surrender?” I ask, going for the ticklish spot under her arms. She screams and thrashes like a beautiful, wounded animal.
“Never!”
“Fine by me.” I really let her have it, and she throws her head back on my shoulder in hysteric exhaustion. “Give it up, Ally. I win! Just admit defeat, and I’ll stop!”
“No! I’ll just pee down your leg!”
I shake my head at her crudeness and move down to tickle her stomach. I’m a sick puppy. The prospect of this girl pissing on me from laughing so hard isn’t totally revolting. It’s funny as hell.
“Ok, ok! Not there! I give up! Uncle!” she screeches. We’re both out of breath and panting. A sheen of sweat covers my forehead.
“Ah, so you’re the most ticklish on your stomach. That’s your kryptonite.”
“Don’t you dare tell anyone. Or use it against me!”
I’ve stopped tickling her, but I haven’t let her go. She looks down, and I know what she sees: my arms wrapped tightly around her torso. I release her and take a step back.
“You’re scary when you’re mad.” She turns around and a soft, thoughtful smile kisses her lips. “Well, when you’re pretending to be mad.”
I run a hand through my wet hair, sending droplets flying. “Yeah. My mom made me take drama one semester in high school. She always wanted me to be a movie star. Said I had the look.”
“Well…she’s on to something.”
There she goes again. Subtly complimenting me and making me blush like a prepubescent fangirl. I hate it. I love it. I don’t know what to make of it. I’m embarrassed by my reaction to her. Hell, I’m embarrassed by my mental ramblings.
I look away towards the edge of the pool, just to give my brain something else to focus on. “Well, we should probably get out and dry off. I was serious before. I don’t want you getting sick.”
“Fine, fine,” she sighs. “You’re lucky I’m too cold to feel my toes. I was about to kick your ass.”
We climb out of the pool, and the cold night air instantly covers us like a frozen Snuggi. Ally shivers, and her teeth chatter violently. I jog over to the lounge chairs where I left her sweater, and drape it over her shoulders. But somehow, as I smooth the fabric over her freezing, wet skin, she curls into my chest and under my arm, burying her face just a breath away from my nipple. I awkwardly freeze where I stand, arm still jutted out to the side to avoid holding her close. To avoid what instinct and emotion are begging me to do. Fuck.
“Oh…God…so…cold.” Trembles wrack her small frame, and I reluctantly let my arm surround her to keep her upright. She’s cold, yet something about her is inexplicably warm.
“Come on. Let’s get in the house.”
Now, a rational, thinking man would’ve ushered her into the main house. It’s closer, and that’s where all her dry clothes are. She’s cold, and warmth and comfort are only a few feet away. But the rational, thinking part of me was deprived of precious oxygen and blood-flow the moment I felt her soft, porcelain skin against mine, and her warm breath tickling my chest.
That’s why I took the extra steps to my house, away from prying eyes and the prospect of saying goodnight. I wasn’t done with her yet. I couldn’t have her, yet I still wasn’t done.
“Here, let me get you some towels.” I release her from my arms and power walk to the linen closet to get fresh towels. I even grab a soft, flannel throw. When I return, Ally is standing in the kitchen, still shivering. I wrap her with two giant, oversized towels and put the throw around her, winding it around her body and creating the cutest, sexiest burrito.
Lame.
I wipe the water from my body with my own towel, then put on a kettle for tea. Then I excuse myself to change. As I’m slipping on my sweatpants, I spy some old sweats that have grown too small, stuffed in the back of my closet. What the hell…what else do I have to lose?
“I brought you some dry clothes,” I say reentering the kitchen. Ally’s managed to unravel herself enough to sit on a stool at the breakfast bar. “Just some old, ratty sweats I can’t fit in. You don’t have to wear them if you don’t-”
“Thanks!” she says, jumping down off her stool and snatching the clothes. “Your bathroom…?”
“Down the hall, two doors to the left.”
I’m pouring tea into mugs when she reemerges, drowning in grey sweats that are three sizes too big for her. She’s adorable. I turn away and place the cups on a tray before bringing them to the kitchen island.
“Thanks. You went to Triton Prep?”
I look over at the prep school emblem that she’s assessing on the sweatshirt. “Briefly.”
“Oh. That’s where Evan graduated. Did you know him?”
I drop a couple sugar cubes in my tea, keeping my eyes set on the tray of teacups, sugar cookies and madeleines. “I was only there for a year.”
“Oh? What happened?”
I shrug. “Transferred.”
“Ok.” She busies herself, sipping her tea and nibbling a cookie. “I went to St. Mary’s in Boston. But I’m sure you already knew that.” She blushes, then looks down.
“I did.”
She lifts her chin and her eyes find mine, burning with curiosity. “Triton is a great school. Probably the best in the country. Your test scores must’ve been amazing to get in.”
I shrug again. Damn these shoulders. “They were alright.”
“Alright? If my parents weren’t adamant about raising me outside the city and subjecting me to an all-girl hell, I’m sure my father would have been making a generous donation to get me in. Where’d you go after Triton?”
“Denton Academy.”
“Oh. That’s a good school.” She tries to recover her smile, but I can already see it.
Denton isn’t Triton.
I’m not Evan.
Just as I’m about to let the comparison worm its way into my head and hatch up a bunch of different reasons why I’ll never be deserving of someone like her, Ally’s face lights up, setting those cerulean eyes aflame. “Consider it a compliment. I’m determined that the prerequisite to attend Triton is you must be at least one-third, pretentious douche-nozzle. I think we’ve determined that that does not apply to you. At least not one-third.”
“Douche-nozzle?” I ask, raising a playful brow. “Are you sure you graduated from Columbia? Because I’m pretty sure that’s not a word.”
“Yup. With honors, buddy. And I would gladly explain the logistics of a douche-nozzle, but I wouldn’t want you to toss your cookies. No pun intended,” she giggles, obviously pleased with herself.
I put down my mug and turn towards the refrigerator. “Well, lucky for me, I’ve got ice cream.”
Ally makes a noise that quite frankly sounds like a mix between a squealing pig and a drowning cat. Either way, it makes me laugh, and I turn to gaze at her with wonder.
What is it about her? What makes every little quirk, every idiosyncrasy that would usually annoy the fuck out of me, seem so goddamn adorable? I laugh like an idiot when she’s around. I worry about hurting her feelings or being too gruff. Hell, I’ve been eating ice cream like a hormonal chick with PMS! I just don’t get it. What’s next? Watching the newest Nicholas Sparks flick and drying each other’s tears?
“You’re not too cold for this, are you?”
Ally shakes her head vehemently. “Hell no. I could be in Antarctica, floating on an iceberg while ice skating with a family of penguins, and I’
d still want it.”
I grab the pint and two spoons, handing her one. She digs in, and I quickly follow.
Ally scoops up a heaping spoonful and extends it towards me. "Cheers." We clink our spoons and devour that first creamy, cold bite of Mint Chocolate Chip with corresponding Mmmms.
"So...if you had to give up one, would you rather sacrifice your sight or your hearing?" She asks, going in for more.
"That's an easy one. Hearing. I'd definitely give up my hearing if I had to."
"Explain your case, sir."
"Well, for one, you can still communicate even if you're deaf. You can sign or read lips. And let's face it—we live in the age of excessive technology. I could just text or Instagram you."
"Yeah, but you'd never hear music. You'd never get to hear a child's laughter or the sound of someone saying, "I love you." You'd miss out on so much."
I look at her, seeing her. Trying to make her see me. "But to not be able to see a pink sunset fade to purple or a million stars in the sky, stretching to eternity...you can't manufacture that. Technology can't create a smile so bright that it makes you smile even when you don't want to. It can't manipulate true beauty. It can try, but it'll never duplicate that exact shade of red, fiery hair. Or the pattern of cinnamon freckles on your nose. Or even the way your eyes change from blue to green like a mood ring. You can't forge what has been perfectly designed. That kind of beauty doesn't require sound or words or even music. It doesn't need anything else. Anything more and it would overwhelm you."
She doesn't speak, and neither do I. I've said enough. I've said too much.
Eventually we resume eating, confusion heavy in the air. I know she's wondering where that came from—hell, even I'm not sure—but one thing is clear.
I've crossed a line. And whatever this is or was...I've tainted it with truth.
"Crap, it's late," she finally says, breaking the uncomfortable silence. She looks at me and raises a brow. "Save the rest for later?"
"Sure," I nod, wondering if there'll ever be a later.
I give her a bag to store her wet clothing and walk her to the door. She turns just before she crosses the threshold. "By the way, I would've picked that too."
She walks away, leaving me with her smile. She doesn't say goodbye. Maybe part of her never really left.
TODAY ON E!... Breaking news on playboy prince, Evan Carr, as a sex tape surfaces, starring he and an unknown woman. The recording was leaked online just last night and has spread like wildfire, garnering nearly five hundred thousand hits in the last twelve hours. The mystery woman in the video is still unidentified, though it’s evident that it is not Allison Elliot-Carr, Evan’s wife of nearly five years. The pair has had a very public relationship, including rumors of infidelity on Evan’s part. Neither Evan nor Allison were available for comment, yet sources close to the couple say that Allison has been absent from their Manhattan home. Could this finally be the beginning of the end for the Upper East Side royal couple? Stay tuned for more on E!
Shit.
Shit shit shit.
I pull out my phone to dial, but it’s already ringing.
“You hear the news?”
No preamble. Just straight to the point. That’s my publicist, Heidi. I’m not surprised she’s already on it. I pay her a small fortune to ensure that stories like these don’t explode into full-on shit shows. As long as things stay somewhat quiet on the outside, I can do my job on the inside. But the moment things begin to fall apart in their absence, we run the risk of the wives catching wind and leaving. And exposing my identity. You see, Heidi also helps to maintain my anonymity. No one actually sees me until Day One, and they’re required to sign NDAs to safeguard against exposure.
“Yeah,” I nearly groan into the receiver. Yeah, it’s a hassle to keep the lid on stories this public, but the fact that it’s happening to Allison… shit. Shit shit shit.
“How do you want to proceed?” Heidi asks.
Under normal circumstances, a story like this would blow away in the wind as soon as a Kardashian sneezed, but the Carrs are prime real estate for gossip rags. And with a bastard like Evan dipping his dick into a different chick every other week, they feed the press like a smut news soup kitchen.
“Contact his PR, but stay mum. We don’t want the media to smell blood and we damn sure don’t want Allison getting hurt in this.”
“Allison?” I can hear the amusement in Heidi’s question. She’s as sharp as a tack and knows I never refer to clients so casually. She’s a shark, just like me. And sharks don’t get comfortable. They don’t slip up.
“Mrs. Carr. You know who the fuck I mean,” I reply sternly. I’m still a shark. Regardless of how guppy-fied Allison makes me feel, I’m a shark, goddammit.
“Fine. You know this wouldn’t be an issue if you would just listen to me sometimes. How many times have I told you-”
I press End.
I don’t need this right now. Allison doesn’t need this right now. And the fact that I’m aware of the demise of her marriage while she’s been hanging out, eating ice cream with me, makes me feel kinda guilty. Yet, not guilty enough to want to stop.
I dress for the day and head to the main house, more determined than ever to make this right for her. To make her into the picture of erotic perfection, so she will never have to face this kind of pain and humiliation again.
To transform her into the whore that Evan wants.
It’s not fair to her– hell, it’s not fair to me– but he won’t stop. He’ll never change his philandering ways. It’s all he knows, all he’s ever seen. And Allison, as smart and funny and fucking amazing as she is, will never leave him.
Welcome to the real game of Life, where we’re all players, but no one ever truly wins.
The moment Allison enters the room and walks to her seat, I’m moving towards her. I grasp her shoulders and pull her into me, causing her to gasp with surprise. Those wide, sparkling eyes search my face for a motive for my sudden erratic behavior. I look back at her, searching for the same thing.
“Ally…” I swallow, suddenly nervous to utter the next words. Not because they’re any more shocking than what I’ve said in the past. But because they’re probably the truest, realest thing I’ll ever let myself admit. “Ally, I need to touch you. And I need you to touch me too.”
She doesn’t answer, but her body, so soft and breakable in my firm grip, quivers with compliance. I let my hands slide from her shoulders and down to her hands, where I lace my fingers with hers. Then I pull her to the front of the room without breaking my penetrating gaze. She doesn’t resist me. Her feet move one in front of the other, matching my footfalls in a synchronized dance. She wants this. And maybe, on some level, she wants me.
My voice is loud and clear, but I speak only to her. “The act of love making, of sex, is a feast for the senses. It isn’t about just feeling, it’s about seeing your lover writhing in ecstasy. Hearing her moan your name. Smelling their rich, musky arousal.” I lick my lips in anticipation of my next words. “Tasting her on your tongue.”
Allison’s lips part, but no sound escapes. Her eyes linger on my mouth for just a beat, then flicker down to our locked hands. I’m hyperaware of what she and everyone else sees, and I force myself to pull away. I turn her body to face the class.
“I’m going to show you how to feel your partner with your whole self. To explore the power of sensation and drive them wild before you even open your legs,” I announce, my voice raw and almost choked with self-inflicted torment. “Pair up; it’s time you got to know your housemates a little better.”
I brush Allison’s scarlet hair to one side and lean down to place my lips at her ear. “You’re with me, sweetheart.”
SOFT, SENSUAL MUSIC plays in the background. Every light is dimmed to a muted glow. And the women...blindfolded. Everyone is, aside from me.
“Start at the nape of her neck, slide just the very tips of your fingers to her shoulders. Yeah, that’s right. Just like that,
ladies. Now take turns trailing them up and down her arms to the inside of her palms. Slowly. Go slow. Remember: it’s about the journey. Good. Now slowly move your fingertips to the top of her chest. Slide them down to the sides of her breasts. Yeah, right there.”
They do as they’re told, relying only on the sound of my voice and their other heightened senses to guide them. I hear them pant and gasp at the newfound sensation as the ladies explore each other’s bodies, but I can only see the one in front of me. The one that captured my attention the moment she walked into my life and set fire to my desert oasis.
My fingers stroke the bare skin at the hollow of her throat before sliding down to the tops of her breasts. I want to touch her so badly. I ache to let my hands keep going down this slippery slope to the hard, pebbled nipples that strain against her green silk blouse. She sucks in a breath, causing her chest to rise, and I swear she extends her breasts to me, aching for the same.
“Lean in, ladies. Let her scent surround you. Don’t be afraid to use all your senses. Tell her how good she feels in your hands. How sexy you feel touching her.”
They all comply. I knew they would. We’re going into Week 3, and the women are dying for physical contact. See, believe it or not, women are the more sexually uninhibited gender. While men are more vocal about their desires and get hard if a strong breeze whips through their legs, women can be aroused by almost anything. Gay porn, dirty talk, a gentle caress, a simple smolder…it all works to get them hot. As long as a woman is mentally open, so are her legs. But that’s a different lesson entirely. To teach all the ways to attract and seduce a woman would take longer than 6 weeks. Hell, I’d need 6 months.
“Do you feel that? The way her heartbeat stutters when you graze her breasts? How humid her skin grows when you rake your fingers across it? That’s arousal. She’s hot for you. Congratulations. You’ve made a straight, married woman yearn for your touch.”
I’m not ignorant to the fact that I’m just reciting Allison’s reactions to me. There’s so much more I could do to her, so many more ways I want to feel her squirm in my capable hands. I want to get closer, but I won’t. And with my dick, hard and throbbing, begging to break free, I can’t. So for now, I’ll take this. It may be the only chance I get.
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