I’m the one element that doesn’t belong, that doesn’t make sense. Antoine can hardly explain it himself – why would he, handsome and charming, resort to a mail-order bride.
I flop on my bed in my room – the only room that really feels at all somewhat mine – and stare up at the ceiling. The answer shouldn’t matter, shouldn’t really make a difference, but it does. The answer could very well kill me if I’m not careful.
At any rate, we’re a bad pair – there’s no denying it. We’re both closed-off, cautious. If it weren’t for the way he’s looked at me once or twice, I’d swear he wasn’t attracted to me at all.
I sit up, then leap off my bed. There’s no point in laying around trying to figure out something I can’t. No, I might as well do something to distract myself from the anxiety ballooning up in my chest.
I go outside, but walking doesn’t help much either. It’s too sunny, and the hot rays only make me ruminate more about how stupid I acted yesterday. By the time I get back “home,” a few hours of TV do nothing to cheer me up. Finally, I march into the bathroom, glare into the mirror at myself and decide: Maybe I can’t change that I messed up yesterday, but I can change what I do about it today.
With this proposition in mind, I set upstairs; there’s no wondering what men like: good looks and good food.
So, I finally unfurl some of my luggage and get to work with some makeup. It’s like one of my old missions, where I would disguise myself with thick coats of the stuff. This time, however, my aim is different. My smoky eye is meant to be purely alluring, my deep red lips equally so. The black bodycon dress I extract from my mass of clothes that I put on which brings my “alluring” efforts to new heights.
A quick glance at my phone reveals that it’s still only 3:30 pm, so I have time to complete the next part of my plan.
At this thought, I sigh.
After all, my next attempt will admittedly be less foolproof. Cooking has never been my strong suit – off-tasting and sometimes downright inedible dishes are a testament to that. Besides, I’ve never really seen the point – of slaving and slaving over a meal, only to devour it an hour or so later. But now this is no longer about me and my wants – it’s about surviving. And if I want to, then I better get used to being less of an irritable bitch and more of a sexy well-behaved housewife.
“Just a year,” I tell myself as I rifle through the kitchen cupboards to find what I need, “Just one year and then I won’t have to cook ever again if I don’t want to.”
This uplifting thought alone is enough to propel me into action. I take out the burner phone I bought a few days ago, pull up my favorite Rolling Stones playlist on my phone and then get to work. As I put the frying pan in place on the burner, and mash the bananas into their full smooshy glory, the Stones’ melodious voices telling me that I can’t always get what I want are humorously apt.
Next, I add the eggs and mush-stir the two together. The result is a globby consistency that looks like than appetizing but will be tasty if I get this next part right. All I have to do is turn the burner to medium, wait here and watch them. Indeed, I picked this very recipe for how hard it is to screw it up: all it involves is mixing bananas and eggs and watching the two, stirring every so often, flipping them when need be. Yes, all I have to do is stay here and not leave, that’s it.
The problem is, that’s not just “it.” I mean, I have to go to the bathroom. Anyway, I still probably have a good 15 minutes until Antoine gets home anyway.
My quick trip to the bathroom is interrupted, however, by the doorbell. I’m just washing my hands when a melodious “dong-de-dong-dong” echoes into the small marble room. So, hurrying out, I rush to the door to find Antoine, looking irritable and flustered.
“Forgot my keys, bad day at work and-”
His eyes are stopping on me; he falls silent.
“Well. You look good.”
I smile. The way he said it, it makes me think that this won’t be as hard as I thought.
Stepping aside to let him in, I start the spiel.
“I’m really sorry for yesterday; I don’t know what I was thinking. Well – that’s the thing: I wasn’t. It’s true I’ve had a few… difficulties recently. But that’s no reason to take it out on you; you’ve only been trying to show me a good time. I should be thanking you instead of punishing you for my bad behavior. And that’s what I want to do, to thank you.”
Our gazes are boring into each other, except now it’s for an entirely different reason. I can see it in the brown of his irises, in the black pricks of his pupils – he’s buying it, hook, line, and sinker. And, as my lips brush against his ever-so-slightly, I find myself reflecting that, who knows, it just might be the truth after all.
His lips are gentler than I would’ve thought, yet they pull away all-too-soon.
“Is that burning I smell?”
At once, I remember.
“The pancakes- oh shit!”
I rush into the kitchen to find my not-even-ambitious cooking attempt reduced to a burned black circle. Striding in behind me, Antoine takes one look at the charred remains in the frying pan and turns to me.
“Phoebe?”
Snapping off the burner, I can’t even look at him.
“Pancakes. Banana pancakes – I tried to make them for you.”
Silence, then, softly, a chuckle. Next thing I know, Antoine’s laughing, head was thrown back, mouth open wide. It’s irresistible, his booming laughter, and soon I find myself laughing too.
Now, his arm’s around me, and he’s saying, “Oh my poor Phoebe.”
“It was going to be a sorry meal. To make it up to you,” I explain sadly, and he laughs some more. In one fluid motion, he takes the frying pan and dumps it in the garbage. After putting it down, he pats me and gives me an indulgent smile.
“That was very considerate of you. Although cooking may not be your forte, I think we’ve already seen that there are many things you are good at.”
At this, I can’t help but smile.
“You haven’t seen nothing yet.”
“Oh yeah?”
He says it lightly, but there’s something in his eye that tells me that we’re thinking of exactly the same thing.
“Anyway,” Antoine says, taking out his phone, “Tonight I was feeling like pizza anyway. We had quite a whirlwind day yesterday, after all.”
As he completes the call and makes the pizza order, Antoine’s other arm stays around me all the while.
In fact, when he’s done, the whole time we wait, on the beige suede couch nearby, his arm stays around me, patting my side, squeezing it, caressing it. It’s ridiculous but this single hand, this single unhurried series of motions, slowly but surely makes me wet.
By the time the doorbell rings, I’m ready to kiss him, almost disappointed at the interruption.
But when Antoine sweeps into the kitchen with hands piled three pizza boxes high, my disappointment quickly becomes elation.
“You didn’t!”
Antoine shrugs.
“We have company.”
Then, seeing my face fall, he offers a well-timed “Kidding!”
When I lightly punch his arm, he grabs my wrist
“Haha… careful now.”
Playfully, I wrench myself away, only to find that my arm didn’t so much as budge. Antoine has an iron grip. Even as I twist and wrench myself away, harder and harder, his grip holds. Until, with my most desperate flail yet, I finally rip myself free.
Now, neither of us is smiling.
“I’m sorry, I…” Antoine begins.
“You’re stronger than you look,” I say simply, leaving to go sit at the kitchen table.
Something isn’t right here. Because, now that I think about it, Antoine isn’t just stronger than he looks, he’s entirely different from how he was supposed to be.
Antoine brings the three pizza boxes to the table, along with two plates.
“Take as many slices as you like.”
He says it in a light tone as if he hadn’t nearly torn off my arm with the almost superhuman-strength he wasn’t even supposed to have in the first place.
We start eating in silence. However, when I start devouring my tenth ham and pineapple piece, Antoine says something.
“Saying “take as many slices as you like” was a figure of speech…”
I toss him a smile.
“You said it yourself: there are many things I’m good at” – I tear off an extra-large bite – “Eating pizza is one of them.”
“Careful,” Antoine says, as a smile works its way on his face.
“Of what?” my own smile shoots back.
“Of this.”
With that, he bites down on the edge of my slice, which is basically just the other end of the crust at this point.
Our eyes lock, and I shrug, bite down closer.
Next thing I know he’s biting down closer, and the pizza crust has fallen to the table, and our lips are meeting and re-meeting. Now, he’s not gentle at all, no, he’s forceful, and he tastes like pizza, or maybe it’s me. His hands holding my face are soft, gentle, all the force is on his tongue, his stabbing, the insistent rod of a tongue, thrusting into my mouth, foreshadowing what’s to come. What’s been bound to happen the second I walked through that door. His hands are stroking up and down my sides, what mine feeling at his muscled chest, all have in common.
Suddenly, Antoine pulls back. His gaze flicks to my lips, as if he wants to continue, then it flicks up to my eyes, and he draws back.
“The roof,” he says, “You haven’t seen the roof.”
I nod, let him take my hand and lead me out of the kitchen, upstairs. Into his room, then onto the balcony, I hadn’t even noticed. On it, there’s another staircase, which, as it turns out, leads to a roof. Antoine’s “roof” isn’t exactly your stereotypical roof – it’s flat and concrete. So, it isn’t hard for us to walk across and sit at the edge. There’s a blanket there already; clearly Antoine’s done this before, maybe was even planning this.
After we sit down, a second later, Antoine’s saying in a hushed tone “Isn’t it something?”
His warm hand clasps mine, and I’m quiet for a moment. To really look out at the sight before us, to really see if it is something. There’s not much light, so not much is visible in the dark, but it doesn’t need to be. What is visible, what can be seen, it’s enough. The dark trees of the horizon and the sky of twinkly stars spanning out in all directions, it’s enough. More than enough, more than “something,” even, it’s…
“Spectacular,” I say.
And Antoine doesn’t say anything more because, his warm hand in mine, our lazily lacing and reenlacing fingers are doing the talking because this night view and this night sky is saying more than we ever could.
His fingers moving up my arm are just the next logical step, as is his lips on mine. It’s so natural, all of it so needed. His lips, mashing against mine, tugging on the lower, then the upper. He’s hungry with the same hunger I have. Now, it’s my tongue that’s insistent, forceful, my hands that are running up his sides. My minds tried to avoid it, to worry, distract it away, but right now, my body’s finally telling the truth: I’ve wanted this the moment I laid eyes on Antoine.
Suddenly Antoine pauses.
“Phoebe, even though we’re married, I just wanted you to know. I don’t want to feel like you have to do this.”
His eyes are shining.
“Maybe you’re right,” I say, and that’s when he kisses me again.
“Then tell me to stop,” he says, “Tell me.”
When he holds my neck to kiss me, I can’t seem to find the words, the ones I’d need. Because, as his hands held me in place, as his tongue slips in and out of my mouth with the same hunger I can’t deny, I know. I want this just as bad as he does.
And now it’s his hands continuing the dance, pulling down one of my dress straps, then the other, slipping over and reveling in the bare skin beneath. My bra is another obstacle he slips off fast enough too. Each of his hands grabs each of my breasts at the exact same moment – sending an electrical current of pleasure rocketing through my body. Fuck, I’m so wet.
My hands can’t contain themselves as it is, as he kneads my breasts ever-so-slowly, they’re clawing at his belt, ripping it open and off. Then, as Antoine’s hands slide down my torso, my hands slide off his pants. The bulge of his dick under his briefs is thick. In one fluid motion, Antoine rips off the rest of my dress, taking my panties with it. I lay there as he takes me in, as his eyes cloud with hunger once more, as he devours my face like an animal. Sucking and nibbling and licking, I’m twisting with how good it feels.
On top of me now, Antoine pauses to look down on me.
“What was it you were saying about other things you were good at?”
“Let me show you,” my smirk says a second before I start snaking my kisses down his torso. His muscles are tensed and glisten in the moonlight, but I don’t have time to notice how poetic this all is, fucking under the stars. No, right now, all I can think about is that dick, that rock-hard pole that I’m about to reach, that’s waiting for me.
I keep it waiting a little longer. I kiss around the edge of his briefs’ waistband, flick my tongue under too. I rub my face all over the hardness, then, with one hand, yank the briefs down. His dick rises to meet me. But still, I torment it, kiss and lick and nibble at the crease between his leg and groin, suck on his balls. Now he’s pawing at his head, but still, I make him wait, kiss all around the dick until he’s groaning until he takes my head and shoves it where he wants it – right over his cock.
When I lift my head up off his shaft, I let a long trail of spit fall on his dick, so it’s nice and wet for me to suck. And suck it, I do. Suctioning my lips around it, I go up and down, up and back down again. Now, it’s even harder than before, the tip burrowing into the back of my throat with each descent of my head. As I suck, I play with his balls to the same slowly-building pace. On my knees now, I look up at him, so he gets a nice view of me rubbing his cock all over my face. God, this is all making me even wetter. So that I’m the one who starts speeding up, who sucks his dick for all I’m worth – as hard and fast and deep as I can bear. When his dick starts shaking, I know he’s on edge. So now I throw my face over his dick. I mash it so far into my mouth, I almost gag. There, I suction up and down at a breakneck pace, over and over and over again – and oh, fuck yes, it’s so good – and oh, fuck yeah, now he’s about to cum. He takes his head and slams my face all the way down his shaft just as he cums. And there, I choke on his dick, thick hot stream after stream shooting down my throat. I gulp it down and, when he’s collapsed back when he’s finished, I give his dick one last suck as I pull away.
As I snuggle up beside him, Antoine’s arm goes around me.
“You…” he murmurs, “You….”
I say nothing, let him enjoy it, the after-cum blur.
After a few minutes, he presses me to him, turns me around so I can feel, burrowing between my ass cheeks, his dick, ready for some more. I don’t move, readjust myself obliviously.
“You’re right,” I say, “I misrepresented myself when we spoke online. Maybe I should be more how I pretended to be… more… passive.”
Silence, then both Antoine’s arms wrap around my body, and he squishes me to him.
“Shut-up,” he whispers in my ear, “You know you want this.”
And then his finger slips in my pussy, and there’s no denying it anymore, my moans give me away. Because he doesn’t wait; he feels my wetness and revels in it, jackhammering my pussy mercilessly from the first second, he’s in. And fuck, already I can hardly take it. Sucking him off already made me crazy-wet but now...
He’s pulsing his finger in my pussy at the same time he’s grabbing my tit. Over and over and over again, pulse and grab, pulse and grab, until the moans coming out of my mouth aren’t mine, are some wild animal’s, some untamed beast who can’t stand it.
When Antoine pauses for a second, I practically choke.
“What’s that?” he asks, pulsing my pussy and grabbing my tit once more, just enough to keep me on edge.
“Please,” I moan, but he only laughs.
“Please what?”
“Please fuck me!” I gasp, shoving out my pelvis.
To which he, happily, finally, obliges.
He twists me around and shoves his dick inside me, and my whole body comes alive. Every nerve tingles feels electrified. This, exactly this – his dick, him, here now – this, was exactly what I needed.
His dick is a perfect fit, and this is a perfect night. Every thrust sends me closer towards oblivion. I’m wailing and he’s groaning, our own soundtrack to the stars, it’s so pleasurable it almost hurts. But we’re locked in the dance, in the timeless in and out, the inescapable building, the addictive dance that must find release.
So, in and out he goes, harder, faster, better, until he’s shaking, and I’m shaking, our joined fuck of bodies are shaking, and my nails are making dents on his back, and his fingers are making indents on my sides and yet, in and out we go, in then out and in then out and in then out and thrust and on, and finally I can feel it coming on, like a slow, inexorable surge, like an irresistible warmth flooding my body, and then, with one last thrust, the hardest of all, he spills himself into me, and I onto him. We climax together, one shaking deliverance of an orgasm. And yes, it’s something like dying and coming back alive – and fuck yes, like this I’m reborn, reborn in pleasure, remade, killed and birthed once more. I tremble with everything and am reduced to nothing.
Afterward, there is nothing but the night and the quiet and the single soft-breathing thing that we are.
And, as we lay there, as his hands still trace every line of my body, still locked in the dance, it’s funny. The craziest thing isn’t that we just fucked, or that I’m starting to feel like – more and more – that Antoine isn’t who he seems to be, the craziest thing is that, despite this, I might just be starting to fall for him.
The Lost Seal: A Seal Romance Page 39
