One Year With Him

by CD Reiss

  I said, “I know you don’t like Kevin.”

  “Understatement of the year.”

  “He’s harmless. And I’m trustworthy.”

  “The latter, I believe. But men know other men.” He stroked my cheek. “Can you not be alone with him? Can you promise me that?”

  It was a lot to ask. Darren was involved, but who knew what situations would arise? I covered his hand with mine. He needed me to make an honest effort. I could do that. “Yes.”

  “Thank you.” He kissed me and got back onto Los Feliz Boulevard. We made the rest of the trip in hand-holding silence. Whatever anger had manifested in his face got pushed away. He pulled into his driveway, and the gate shut behind us with a clang. He walked around the car and opened my door. I had never seen his house in daylight, never seen the art deco woodwork on the windows or the detailing of the roof shingles. He took my hand and led me up to the porch. The front door was open, and he went in, expecting I’d follow. But I stopped at the threshold.

  “What?” he asked. “Cat got your feet?”

  “I’ve never entered your house with my clothes on before.”

  “Ah. Well, first time for everything.” He tugged on my hand until I crossed into his house. The living room was as it had always been but bathed in light from the setting sun. If the room could look warmer, more inviting, I didn’t know how. He looked back at me and the sunlight dashed off the tips of his eyelashes as he pulled me through rooms and out to the backyard.

  The pool was a huge, bean-shaped expanse in the center of the yard. Close to the house, a flower garden, sectioned by paths of flagstones, spanned from the main house to the pool house. Smaller, cozy areas with benches lined the right hedge, and on the left, wall-sized sliding glass doors opened into the sitting room where I’d had tea.

  Aling Mira approached us in a modest black suit, carrying a tray of white wine.

  “Hi,” I said when I took a glass. She nodded and walked toward a little table set for two. A middle-aged man lit the last candle on one of the flagstone paths and then the two on the table. I told Jonathan, “You have a nice yard.”

  “Come walk with me.” He held out his arm, and I took it. We headed toward the pool on the candle-lined path. “Aling Mira cooked a Filipino specialty for you called kare-kare. It’s made from—”

  “Oxtail stew?”

  “You’ve had it?”

  “I live in Los Angeles.”

  He smiled and squeezed my hand. “She saw you slept in my room. So she’s very impressed with you.”

  “How long has she worked for you?”

  “A long, long time. She’s seen it all. She wants me to be happy as much as my own mother. Well, maybe an aunt or something.”

  We strolled around the pool while the staff set up dinner. The sun was setting fast, and the candles lining all the pathways became more visible as the sky darkened.

  “You lived here with your wife?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “The bed?” I cringed. “Was that…?”

  He laughed. “New bed, don’t worry. You’re the only woman I’ve had in it, actually.”

  “I feel like a groundbreaker.”

  “You’ve broken some ground on a few things.”

  “Such as?” I swung to face him.

  “This date?”

  “And?”

  “And showing you off at the L.A. Mod.”

  “And?”

  “And taking care of you. And wanting to see you again and again. And dressing you for my eyes.”

  “You’re making me feel very, very good.” I kissed him gently and breathed in that leather and sawdust smell that was his choice, not his ex-wife’s. “I have to talk about you dressing me.”

  He put his arms around my waist and pulled me close. “Yes?”

  “It makes me uncomfortable when you buy me expensive stuff.”

  He kissed my jaw and neck, as if to belie my discomfort and turn it into heat. “But the diamond was all right?”

  I pursed my lips. “No, it wasn’t, but before I could think about it, stuff happened. So you got that one in under the wire. Don’t let it happen again.”

  He put his lips to my ear and said, “I have a piano. A Steinway. Would you play it for me after dinner?”

  I kissed him and whispered, “I’d love to.”

  “And you’d sing for me?”

  “Yes.” I dragged my lips across his cheek, listening to him breathing and feeling his hands at my waist. The idea of making music for him was so intimate, so arousing, I didn’t think I’d be able to make it through dinner.

  “When we met, you said you wouldn’t,” he said.

  “Things changed.”

  “So, you’d take this talent, gifted to you from birth, and use it as an expression of how you feel about me?”

  I pulled away. “Aren’t you clever.”

  “Money is a blunt tool for expression. It’s vulgar compared to art, I agree, but it’s all I have. I want you to accept it. It would make me happy.”

  I didn’t know how to argue without making the gifts he was born with somehow coarse and ugly, while mine were worthwhile enough to give. He really had me cornered. “You just did a number on me,” I said.

  He bowed. “Captain of the debate team at Loyola.”

  “Ah, a good Jesuit education,” I said, walking away. “I suppose now I get to wear all my new underwear without guilt.”

  He grabbed my hand and pulled me back. “You said you were Catholic, so you have guilt somewhere.”

  “Only until eighth grade. I performed ‘Invictus’ for my graduation recital and earned my escape from parochial school. I entered Los Angeles Unified guilt-free.”

  He took me in his arms and kissed me. “‘Classic. We did that in sixth. Eighth grade was Kipling. ‘If.’”

  “Oh, that’s a long one.”

  “I had to recite it with feeling.”

  I smiled. “Yes, me too. I still remember ‘Invictus’. Let me see, ‘Out of the night that covers me, Black as the pit from pole to pole—’”

  He completed the stanza. “‘I thank whatever gods may be, for my unconquerable soul.’” He grabbed the base of my braid and pulled my hair as he drew his mouth to mine. He was so sweet. His kisses were hard and passionate, a controlled lack of restraint in every flick of his tongue, every grasp of his fingers. I pushed into him, feeling his erection against me. He pulled away at the sound of a throat clearing.

  Aling Mira stood behind me. “I’m sorry to interrupt. You said I should let you know when dinner is ready.”

  “Thank you,” Jonathan said. He rattled something off in Tagalog. Aling Mira nodded to each of us and went back to the middle-aged man who stood in a secluded area.

  “What did you say?” I asked.

  “I thanked her and gave her the rest of the night off.” He put his hand on my back. “I’m perfectly capable of spooning you stew. And I’d like to.”

  We strode slowly to a table set with silver and porcelain. On the side table was a full setting with stew in a silver serving bowl. Aling Mira and the man went to a back gate.

  “Who’s the guy?”

  “Her husband, Danilo. They live in the back house.”

  The metal gate clacked behind them, and we were alone in the yard. Jonathan pulled a chair out for me. I stood in front of it, between him and the table. I was ready to sit, but I wanted another kiss. I tilted my face to him, until I felt his breath on my face, and parted my lips.

  He reached for me, and I thought he would put his arms around my waist. Instead, he met my lips with his and leaned into me. In one wave of his arm, he yanked the tablecloth, knocking the dishes off the table. They clattered everywhere, smashing and spinning. His weight continued forward, throwing more plates out from under me, until he pinned me to the table.

  I opened my legs, wrapping them around him as we kissed. My dress rode up to my waist. I pushed into him. His cock was so hard, like a tight fist against me. He groaned into m
y mouth, then pushed his fist of a dick into me again. He fingered under the garter belt, twisting his fingers in it.

  “I want you to wear these all the time. Under jeans. To bed when I’m not there. I’ll buy you more. You be who you want when we’re not together, but under your clothes, this is the reminder that you’re mine. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  He unbuckled his pants. A shiver went up my spine as I watched him take his dick out. My panties were no more than a damp string at my crotch, and he pushed them out of the way, handling me roughly. His fingertips probed for my soaked opening. He jammed two fingers in me. I cried out in pleasure and spread my legs farther, kicking a bowl and sending it crashing to the ground.

  “You’re ready,” he growled, sliding his fingers out and jamming them in all the way. He ran his finger across the front wall of my hole until I felt a shudder I’d never felt. He pushed, stroking, curving his finger over a hard nodule of nerves inside me while pressing the heel of his hand on my clit. I went weak with a radiation of pleasure.

  “Do you want it?” he asked.

  “Yes, Jonathan. Please, fuck me.” He removed his fingers and lodged his dick in me. “Oh, God,” I said, barely coherent.

  He moved above me, his every stroke hitting the mark, bringing breaths of gratification. He put his fingers in my mouth, and I sucked on them, tasting myself. His dick spread me, pushing against my clit, the edge of my opening, and sending shockwaves through me as his thrusts found their rhythm. He removed his fingers and pulled my leg over his shoulder. He went so deep, I cried out. I pushed forward, wanting him inside me, a part of me. I was so close, and as though he could sense it, he slowed down.

  “Take it easy, little goddess.”

  “Oh, I can’t. I’m going to come.”

  “No, wait.”

  “I can’t.” I was desperate, on the edge of a cliff, a rope tied to my ankle and a boulder. The boulder was tipping over the edge of the cliff, and I would follow it to the bottom of the crevice.

  “‘Invictus.’ Second stanza, Monica.” He leaned over, still moving his hips. “Do it. ‘In the fell clutch of circumstance…’ Slowly and with feeling, or you start over.” His voice was a beacon of control and sense in the chaos of his every stroke, every inch a burning fuse to an explosion.

  “You’re joking,” I gasped. “I can’t recite ‘Invictus’ now.”

  He leaned down and sucked my nipple, leaving a trail of saliva when he looked up and said, “Do it.”

  Oh, God, how could he expect me to recall eighth grade while getting fucked on a dinner table? I had to stare through the pressure to give in to my orgasm, hold it back to remember. “‘In the fell clutch of circumstance, I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance.’ Oh fuck, Jonathan…”

  He pinned my hands over my head and started on the next line. “‘My head is bloody…’ And no rushing, baby.” His thrusts got faster, deeper, more willed.

  I picked up, “‘But unbowed. Beyond this place of wrath and tears, looms the horror of the shade, and yet the menace of the years…’”

  “Ah, Monica. Go. Make it.” His face was reddened with effort. He wanted to come too, and that, coupled with his searing thrusts, sent the boulder over the edge.

  “‘Finds and shall find me unafraid,’” I cried to the heavens. He moved to the rhythm of the poem as I continued, watching that boulder get smaller in the distance. “‘It matters not how straight the gate, how charged with punishments the scroll.’”

  He said the last stanza with me. “‘I am the master of my fate. I am the captain of my soul.’”

  “Yes, Monica.”

  “Yes!”

  I was dragged off the cliff first. I cried out his name as I fell into a chasm of blackness and tingling lights. I clenched my thighs around him. My arms wanted to flail, but he had them tight as my pussy ignited, clutching for him, pulsing for him to be deeper. The orgasm came from deep inside, undulating up my spine and down the backs of my thighs. I lost myself in it.

  I heard him grunt, miles away, then moan into a snarl of satisfaction. I gasped as he tightened above me, the base of his cock pulsing as he came. His eyes squeezed shut and his arms bent as he let go of my wrists and fell on top of me.

  We twitched together, spent, still breathing in the rhythm of a poem.

  Chapter 6

  JONATHAN

  I’ll cop to having plenty of sex, much of it of the “wild” variety. I’ll admit I have memories that would beat most men’s imaginations. I’ll tell you I’ve had beautiful women do exactly as I tell them and we’ve gotten off on the control. But that? That was a new classification of fucking.

  “Jonathan?” she whispered from under me. Her uttering my name brought me to my senses. I pulled my face out of her neck and kissed her collarbone.

  “Monica.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Really?”

  I put my nose to hers. “Joking.” My shifted weight made my cock drop out of her.

  “Ah,” she moaned as if she’d miss it. “I should use the bathroom.”

  “I’ll set up dinner in the kitchen.”

  She smiled, and my world went on fire. “Let’s eat it this time.”

  I got off her and she sat up. Her hair was falling out of her braid and the hem of her dress was bunched around her waist. One shoe had fallen off. I found it and slipped it back onto her foot, then helped her off the table.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “My pleasure.” I kissed her because I had no choice. When she walked toward the house, I touched her neck as if I needed to tether her to me for another second. I brought the stuff on the sideboard into the kitchen and set the table. I had a handful of silverware and stopped myself.

  Fork on the left, spoon above.

  Or if it was a soup spoon, did it go on the right?

  If she noticed I’d done it wrong, she’d tease me. I’d like that enough to throw her across the table again, which was not what I wanted to do. We didn’t have all night, and I wanted to actually share a meal with her. I put the spoons on the right and set the tureen between the bowls.

  I liked her. She was great. Outstanding. Gorgeous and smart. All those words seemed cheap, though. My rejection of them alarmed me, because they weren’t good enough. I was losing control, and I needed to figure out why.

  The lack of a condom was definitely something, but only part of the story. The fact that we were far enough along to feel each other’s skin spoke volumes. Her looks were something also. She was beautiful, but not my type. I usually went for blondes, so maybe not. Her singing that night at Frontage ticked it up a few notches for me, but I had fucked other artists since Jessica. Monica was honest, real, and honorable. Those were commodities I didn’t see every day, and those were words worthy of her, but those qualities didn’t seduce the mind or calm the heart the way she did.

  I forgot where the napkins went. Fuck. Where was Aling Mira when I needed her?

  The issue with Monica was obvious, but I wouldn’t allow myself to utter certain words, even in my mind. Certain commitments and feelings were simply inaccessible and needed to stay that way. I’d rejected my ex-wife, but the passions she’d thrown away were dead. I regretted that, grieved their loss, because if anyone deserved true, deep feelings, Monica did.

  An honorable man would have given her up before she fell in love, choosing a small hurt over a bigger one later. But I wasn’t that honorable. I wanted her more than I’d wanted anything in a long time, and I would have her until she couldn’t bear it any longer.

  I felt like an animal.

  I heard her clopping down the hall in those cheap, sexy shoes. When she came into the kitchen, I sighed. Her hair was down, except for a thin braid at the side of her head. She was well put together, yet she looked like someone had just fucked the shit out of her. I held out my hand and she took it.

  “I’m starving,” she said.


  I pulled out the chair for her. She glanced at the setting and said nothing. Instead, she tilted her head to see what was inside the tureen. What made me think she even cared where soup spoons went? She made me unsure about the simplest things.

  She sat. “That looks good.”

  I ladled her stew, and then mine. She put her napkin on her lap and waited for me to sit before she took a scoop and blew on it.

  “I’m sorry. I think it’s pretty cold,” I said.

  “Ooh, good, she used banana blossoms.” She pointed her spoon at a smaller dish. “Is that pinakbet?”

  “Yes.” I speared a piece of okra and held it to her lips. She parted them, allowed the fork in her mouth, and slid it out, her teeth barely scraping the silver tines.

  “That’s nice,” she said, chewing.

  “Have you been to the Philippines?” I asked.

  She smirked. “I’ve been to Mexico.”

  “No farther?” I placed another forkful of pinkabet before her.

  “No.” She took the food I offered.

  I poured wine for us. “I’m surprised. You seem more… worldly than that.”

  She shrugged. I noticed a little redness around her ears. “I’m not sheltered. There’re plenty of ways to get into trouble in a thirty-mile radius.”

  “Do tell.” She shrugged and took a spoonful of stew. “Come on,” I said. “We’ll make a trade. I’ll tell you something that will make you run away if you tell me how to get into trouble in Los Angeles.” The way she glanced at me made me think she had something more than a harmless exchange of stories on her mind. She obviously didn’t realize the depth and breadth of the stories I could tell without touching the things I didn’t want her to know.

  “Deal,” she said.

  “Ladies first.”

  She took a sip of wine and straightened her shoulders, as if daring me to think less of her. Then she swallowed a little too hard, and I knew that down deep, she was afraid I might. I tried to remain impassive, but I was jumping out of my skin.