“Yes, Patrick.”
“Get on the bed. I want you to lie diagonally across it and I want your legs open as wide as you can get them.” He moved ahead of me to shove the pillows and the quilt in its creamy raw silk cover aside. “Lie down. Your arms above your head.” I felt the pull and tug as he tied the silk tie around a bed post. The smooth sheets were cool and gentle against my skin and the faint scent of rose petals filled the air.
Patrick leaned against the bedpost, arms folded, and surveyed me, entirely serious and quiet. He shifted positions a couple of times and I guess he’d toed off his shoes and socks. He sat on the edge of the bed next to me but not looking at me, and unbuttoned his shirt cuffs. I might have been invisible, but I could tell from the tension in his shoulders, the pace of his breathing, that he was as aroused as I was.
He stood again and, with his gaze fixed on mine, unbuttoned his shirt with great care and infinite slowness. I think at one point I moaned. His hands stilled and he raised his eyebrows. “I need those legs to be farther apart,” he commented, and resumed unbuttoning.
I spread my legs, exposing my cunt to him. He could see me, wide open, my secret parts swollen and wet, my clit erect.
He was busy at work on his pants now, or rather, busy at work at a slow, languorous unfastening. He stopped to remove a packet of condoms from his pocket and place them on a table next to the bed. He created a further delay by investigating the basket placed there, holding up items one at a time to show me: more condoms, a bottle of lube, a small vibrator in a sealed plastic bag. “Very nice,” he commented.
Only then did he pull the zipper on his pants down and step out of them. His cock pushed against the black silk boxers. I wanted to see him as badly as I wanted his touch, but he left them on and stretched out beside me, resting his head next to mine.
“Jo,” he breathed, and I saw then the Patrick I was used to, the Patrick I loved, not the imperious, exciting stranger who had revealed himself tonight. “Jo, you’re so lovely. Give me a safe word.”
“I trust you. You won’t hurt me.”
“You might get a terrible cramp.”
“Okay, then. My safe word is…Scheherazade.” I was out of breath. He still hadn’t touched me and our bodies were inches apart.
His fingertips skimmed my hair and cheek and finally, thank God, we were kissing, the kisses wet and greedy and hungry, both of us murmuring incoherently of our need and lust, and possibly also of love; in that moment desire created its own language for us. He pulled his mouth from mine.
“I’m going to do what I want,” he said. “And you’ll do anything I ask.”
“Yes,” I said. I wanted him to fuck me right away, but he moved to kneel between my spread legs. The boxers had gone.
“Your cunt is beautiful,” he said with a sort of reverence. He stroked his cock as he talked, lightly at first, and then more roughly. “You’re so wet and shiny. Like pink silk. Plumped up for my cock.” He reached to touch my breasts and dropped onto all fours over me. “But first…”
His tongue snaked over my clit and delved briefly inside me. I writhed against him. I’d thought I would come at the slightest touch but although I tensed and quivered against his mouth and lips my body held back. He gave a murmur of appreciation and moved his hands to my thighs, clamping them open and preventing further movement.
He lunged back to my mouth. “Taste your cunt,” he said, and I did. More kissing, our legs tangled, although his held mine down as soon as he realized I attempted to rub against him. I wanted him so badly I was beyond dignity—heck, I was wearing a wet dream outfit and tied up with his tie; how much dignity could I possibly possess at this point?—and heard myself, thrillingly, begging him to fuck me. Fuck me hard. Shove that lovely, intact Irish dick right into me and make me scream. Please, Patrick.
“God, yes.” He reached for the condoms.
“No. Don’t use one.”
“What?”
“Scheherazade. Don’t use a condom. I want to feel you. I’m on the pill. Please.” I gulped for breath.
He paused, condom in hand. “Oh, fuck, yes.”
The condom was tossed aside and he pushed against me for one lovely moment and then slid inside me, very hard, very large.
I think I let out some sort of strange squawk. He stopped moving and hesitated, cradling my face in his hands. “Okay, Jo?”
“Yes. Please, don’t stop.”
He retreated a little, pushed forward again. “Relax, will you. It’s only a dick.”
I giggled then and shifted beneath him, craving the right angle, the right friction, and found it. Oh, yes. He followed, adapting to my unspoken request, with another teasing withdrawal almost to the tip—he caught his breath and paused— then back in, with a long delicious slide. His chest hair scraped my nipples.
I couldn’t use my hands but I could use my legs and my hips to encourage him, to urge us both on, to rub my clit against him and impose my rhythm, my wanting and heat, and build in counterpoint to his. I bit his collarbone, snarled at him to wait, wait—stop, now, let me move, and came in a great burst of wet heat and relief. Can you feel that? Feel me come. And astonished myself because it didn’t happen that way too often and I was filled with irrational, stupid gratitude and love.
“Good girl,” he said and for once I didn’t mind being called a girl. “Oh, good girl, lovely girl, oh, Christ, you do such things to my cock.” He slung my legs over his shoulders and I felt real fear that he’d do me an injury as he pumped away. I knew he’d come soon; I could tell from his breathing, the increased speed and urgency of his thrusts. His cock stiffened and jerked and heat flooded me. He groaned and rested his head on my breasts. “Oh, God. You okay, Jo? Sorry I couldn’t last longer.”
“I’m fine. It was wonderful.”
He laughed and released my legs. His cock slid out in a gush of fluid. He reached to unknot the tie and rub my arms. “Move your arms, otherwise you’ll be stiff as a board and there’s only one sort of stiffness we want around here.”
I stretched my arms, luxuriating in the ability to move and enjoying his weight and the dampness and scent of our mingled sweat; even the considerable amount of fluid pooling on the sheet and trickling down my thighs was pleasant.
A door opened and the room flooded with light and sound, voices and applause.
“Nice job, Jo,” said a familiar voice.
23
CURSING FLUENTLY, PATRICK THREW THE QUILT over me to protect what modesty I had left—very little—and leaped to his feet. Even then I noticed the beauty of his lean wiry body, the sway of his half-erect cock.
Next to the mirror was a door, which was now half-open, and a dozen or so masked people spilled into the room.
“Nice job,” Harry said again. “Very nicely done, Jo. I—”
I didn’t even see Patrick hit him, just heard a strange, fleshy thump and Patrick standing where Harry had been.
In some sort of gesture of support for Patrick, I rolled off the bed and moved to his side.
He turned on me. “Get away from me!” And then to the people in the room, “Get the fuck out!”
He thought I’d set him up. “Patrick, I didn’t—”
“Shut up.” He pulled on his pants and shirt. I looked on helplessly as he grabbed his jacket and backpack, and shoved his feet into his shoes. In a very short time he’d left the room.
Harry got to his feet and sat on the bed. One eye was swelling up. “Your boyfriend is quite the caveman, honey.”
“I trusted you!” I was wearing a garter belt and stockings, I had semen trickling down my leg and I was close to tears, but so angry I didn’t care. “You asshole! You lied to me!”
One of the women handed Harry a handful of ice from the ice bucket for his eye and snuggled beside him, her hand on his thigh. He shrugged. “The Association comes first, Jo. One of the things I like about you is how trusting you are. Mild bondage and no protection for your first fuck with the Irishman—nicely done. I
’ve never heard someone use their safe word for their partner not to use a condom, though. That was a first.”
Someone placed something warm and soft on my shoulders, one of the bathrobes the room had provided. The simple act of civility made my eyes sting and water. I struggled to get my arms into the sleeves, the belt tied. “Will you please all go away?”
“Come on, Jo, don’t be a silly girl,” Harry said.
Another couple settled on the bed, the woman on the man’s lap, her skirt pulled up around her waist. Dimly, I realized they were fucking.
“Wow, look at this,” Harry said, unfastening his pants and exposing his erect cock. “Who’s gonna help out with this one? Jo?”
The woman who’d brought him the ice dropped to her knees to service him.
A guy settled into the armchair to watch, cock in hand.
“Harry,” I said. “This is it. I’m leaving the Association. I never want to hear from you or your friends again. You’ve fucked me over one too many times.”
“Point taken,” Harry said, breathing heavily, his hands on the woman’s head.
I pushed aside another couple fucking against the wall to grab my backpack and left the room. Outside the corridor was quiet and empty. The door closed behind me with a click. The next door stood open and I caught a glimpse of their viewing room, the air heavy with the scents of sweat and semen, and wineglasses and a few garments discarded on the floor. And the two-way mirror inside revealed a roiling mass of half-naked, entwined bodies.
Most of the mirrors are two-way…
Too late I remembered what Mr. D. had told me. How stupid I’d been.
I unfastened my garter belt and rolled the stockings down, kicking them away, then pulled out the jeans and sweater and underwear I’d packed for the next day from my backpack. I dropped the bathrobe and dressed, then retreated into the corridor, closing the door and shutting off the sights and sounds. As I crouched to tie the laces of my sneakers the first tear rolled from my eye.
“Jo.” The voice was deep, familiar. Once it had been the dearest voice in the world to me.
“Fuck you.” I swiped the tears away and stood to face him. “It was you who put the robe on me, wasn’t it?”
He bowed his head in acknowledgment.
Face to face with Mr. D. The moment I’d yearned for and feared. Now I felt only a weary despair.
He handed me a handkerchief of crisp, folded cotton. Old school. I looked at him, at the man who’d fed my fantasies and kept my secrets (had he?) for so long. I knew his voice, I’d seen him that time before to know that he was tall and slender with dark hair flecked with silver. He was unmasked, his eyes deep brown under straight black brows, his skin slightly olive. He was handsome, his bones beautiful and sharp, wonderful cheekbones and a slightly aquiline nose. Not young, pushing fifty, but the lines around his eyes gave his beauty depth and mystery.
And yet, he left me unmoved.
I spoke first. “Don’t tell me you thought I knew. Don’t insult my intelligence.”
“I’ve caused you pain. I cannot tell you how sorry I am.”
“Then don’t even try.” I picked up my backpack and swung it over my shoulder. Too late, I remembered my down coat was inside the room, probably being used as a surface for some enthusiastic screwing.
“Jo,” he said, “don’t you even want to know how our story ends?”
His gentle words hit me where I was raw. I leaned my face against the wall and cried for all I’d lost—Mr. D. and Patrick, everything, even that blob of bloody tissue I’d bled out a year ago.
He had the sensitivity to not attempt to comfort me or touch me. He stood waiting until I’d finished and had scrubbed black smears from my eyes into his pristine handkerchief.
“Our story?” I said. “Not mine. It was your story, you were the storyteller all along but I couldn’t see it. I was just a—a thing to be manipulated.”
“Jo, don’t.” He reached out a hand to me.
“Okay,” I said. “Okay, you tell me how your story ends. Meet me on Tuesday at four at the Brown Palace Hotel in Denver. No secrecy, no hidden agenda, no clowns tumbling out from closets or mirrors, just you and me. And that’s an end to it.”
I turned and walked away. I hoped he wouldn’t follow. I took the elevator down to the kitchen, where I called for a ride home, the numbness settling in again. There was no sign of Patrick and I didn’t feel strong enough to face him even though I hoped he’d got home safely.
The night air was freezing, the stars obscured by cloud. Too cold for snow, and dark, so dark. I stepped into the limo and was joined by three people whom I recognized from the Great Room, but whose names I didn’t remember. They took little notice of me, but huddled together, whispering and kissing. I took refuge in the cowl neck of my sweater and leaned my forehead against the glass, arms wrapped around myself for comfort. I dozed a little on the drive back into town, blocking out the moans and sighs produced by my companions.
At my house a light burned in the apartment. Patrick was home. I unlocked the front door and walked into the house, dropping my backpack on the floor. I would have liked Brady to run to me so I could pick him up and hold him, take comfort in the soft touch of his fur and his purring, heavy warmth. But the house was empty and quiet.
I went into the kitchen and turned on the faucet.
“So you’re home.”
I was so startled to hear Patrick’s voice that I almost dropped my glass in the sink. I hadn’t even seen him sitting quietly on the window seat, with faithless Brady on his lap.
“Why are you sitting in the dark?” I said carefully. I hadn’t expected Patrick to be around and I certainly hadn’t thought he would sound so calm. I expected anger, resentment, harshness. I reached for the light switch.
“Don’t turn on the light.”
“Okay.” I sat at the table with my glass of water. “How did you get home?”
“I asked the guys in the kitchen and they called for a ride for me.”
“I’m glad you’re safe.”
“I’m not sure I am.” I shivered at the chill in his voice. “I had unprotected sex with a woman who invited me to a sex club without telling me that’s what it was.”
“You’re okay,” I said. “I—”
“You seem very sure of that. I can’t be.” He shifted and Brady dropped to the floor and made his way over to his food dish.
“I didn’t know they were watching. I swear it. I did not set you up, Patrick.”
A long silence. “I’d like to believe it. Maybe tomorrow I will. I don’t know. What else haven’t you told me about, Jo?” I didn’t get a chance to think of something to say before he said, “Good night,” and started to walk out of the kitchen. In the doorway, he stopped. “How many of those guys have you fucked, or can’t you remember?”
And he walked out, leaving me speechless, hurt by the venom in his voice but knowing he was right. He had no reason to trust me, no particular reason to believe anything I might say now, having left so much unsaid. I listened to the sound of him going up the stairs and into the apartment, the rattle as he locked the door.
I couldn’t blame him for trying to hurt me, but I wished he hadn’t.
I didn’t sleep well that night and finally at six in the morning, when it was not quite light outside, and I had tossed and turned enough, I sent Patrick a text message.
Talk to me?
I showered and put on jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. I ached a little from the sex with Patrick last night, which made me feel extraordinarily sad since I didn’t know whether it would ever happen again. I hadn’t realized how much I’d strained and pulled, first against the restraint, and then to urge myself to an orgasm.
I didn’t look at my cell until after I was dressed, and to my relief there was an answer:
OK.
Not the most eloquent response, and there was little I could read into that terse reply, but at least he was willing to talk, even if it was only to break up wit
h me. I knew it was more than likely.
I went into the kitchen and brewed coffee as a peace offering, then returned upstairs with mugs and the coffeepot and cream. I wedged the tray on my hip as I knocked on the door.
“It’s open. Come in.”
Patrick sat at one of his computers, tapping away at the keyboard. “Let me finish this.”
I unloaded the tray and sat, waiting for him to finish. When he spun around in his chair I was shocked at how tired he looked, eyes reddened and shadowed, face unshaven. I suspected I didn’t look much better. I’d avoided the mirror that morning. He accepted a mug of coffee with a half smile and a nod.
I wondered what I would say to him, but he spoke first. “You look like hell.”
“So do you.”
“I’ve got a hangover. It’s my own bloody fault. I shouldn’t drink. Anyway.” He stared into his mug and then at me. “So here’s where I stand. I’m in love with you. I feel a right idiot for not realizing the Association was a sex club—can you believe a woman asked me at dinner what I was into and I told her I liked jazz? Why didn’t you tell me, Jo? I might have gone along with some sort of group thing if you’d wanted me to. Your turn.”
“I swear, I didn’t realize we’d be the floor show and I’m sorry to have embarrassed you.” I was crying again. I wiped my face on my sleeve. “I loved making love with you. I hate to think we’ll never do it again. I’m so sorry. I’m leaving the Association and that’s nothing to do with you and me. I’d decided the Association wasn’t a smart thing for me to do even before I knew I was in love with you, but I honestly thought last night would be okay.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, don’t cry.” He swooped down from his perch at the computer and put his arms around me. “Don’t, you’ll start me off. I’m a terrible weeper. I feel so stupid. All those hints people kept dropping about ‘seeing us later’ that I didn’t catch on to. And I shouldn’t have walked out on you.”
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