by S. J. Bishop
I don’t know when Burke had managed to call a limo, but there was one waiting for us, and after Burke gave the driver his address, he closed the tinted screen and was all over me again. He hauled me into his lap so that I was facing him, my dress riding up my thighs and my knees digging into the leather seats. Burke’s hand twisted in my hair, his mouth devoured mine, and his hands wrapped around, pressing me close.
My head reeled; the whole backseat seemed to spin, so I held onto Burke like a lifeline and kissed him until I was burning alive from within.
The car stopped so abruptly that I gasped and toppled off of Burke and into the door. We’d arrived at his apartment. I had to adjust my dress and take Burke’s hand as he guided me out of the car and into the building. I knew my lipstick was smudged and that my hair looked wild, but I didn’t care. I could barely see where we were going, and I leaned on Burke for support. Inside the elevator, he lifted me into his arms, pressed me against the wall, and wrapped my legs around his hips. I rode him, and he ground into me, his belt buckle creating delicious friction.
“You’re so fucking hot,” he growled into my mouth. “Sarah, you’re so fucking hot.”
“I want you,” I gasped against his mouth. He fastened it on my neck, and I moaned as sensations assaulted me. “God, Burke, fuck me! I want you so badly.” I was rubbing up against him, yearning for more friction, needing that hot hard length buried inside me. The elevator dinged, and I hung onto Burke for an awkward moment while he fumbled for the key. Then we all but fell out of the elevator.
Burke didn’t put me down but let me cling to him as he walked us toward his bedroom. The next thing I knew, we fell onto the bed, Burke’s hard body atop mine, crushing me into a down comforter. His hands were on my dress, sliding it up my thigh, and then he pulled back suddenly.
I cried out at the loss of his heat, and he all but collapsed next to me on the bed, tugging at his shoes and laces and kicking his pants down, revealing hard muscles calves, quads, hamstrings, and sexy black boxer briefs. He ripped his shirt over his head, popping just a few buttons, and then he was on me again. He rolled over, crushing me beneath him - no finesse, no gentleness, just raw, wild instinct. His mouth found mine, his hands peeling my dress up until he had it over my head, and then he flung it across the room.
“Oh, baby,” he said, groaning at the sight of me in my dark purple bra and panties. His mouth came down over the bra, sucking at the lace where it covered my nipple. Sensation streaked through me like lightening, and I arched against him, letting out a loud, wordless cry. His hand massaged my other breast, rolling the nipple into a bud. I could feel his free hand working its way down my abdomen in lazy, sensual circles. Then, without warning, he flipped me over onto my stomach. His hands ran down my back, and I found myself arching against his touch. He smoothed his hands over my ass, his fingers curling around my thong and peeling it down. The bra followed until all I was wearing were my high heels.
His lips brushed across the back of my neck, his teeth nibbling at the sensitive skin there, and while I moaned and writhed, one down reached beneath my cheeks and found the hot, wet center of my desire.
“Oh, baby,” he said, his voice sounded slightly slurred. “Fuck, you’re so wet.” One finger sank deep, in and then out. I cried out when a second finger joined in, filling me, stretching me to an almost uncomfortable fullness - and yet I wanted more. I pressed against him, taking all he would give me.
With his free hand, Burke grabbed my chin and turned my head, his mouth finding mine, his lips capturing my cries in a searing kiss.
The next move took me by surprise - he grabbed my waist and flipped me onto my back, coming down between my legs and butting against my entrance with the enormous head of his erection. I twisted my fingers into his hair, pulling his head down and sucking his tongue into my mouth.
I was burning from the inside. I wanted all of him. “Please, Burke,” I was begging, “please…”
“Please what?” he murmured hotly against my ear.
“Please, fuck me,” I gasped. I wanted him. I wanted all of him.
“Oh, Yvette…” he murmured.
I gasped, but there was no time to think, no time to back away for he was probing my entrance, stretching me impossibly. I whimpered at the uncomfortable fullness, but my body had a mind of its own, arching into him and he sank, inch by slow inch into me. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned into his pillow, his hands came up to grab mine, holding them near my head. He put his weight on them, trapping me, and then he began to move.
He was so big, so incredibly big, that he hit every single nerve cell I had. One deep stroke, then another, and then another. I was crying beneath him, arching my hips so that every single stroke brought him deeper and brought me higher.
He picked up speed, bearing down on me, seeming to sense my need. His hands left mine, and he reached down and grabbed my hips, surging against me, bringing me to meet him thrust for thrust.
I shattered. My climax came on me so fast that I screamed with the power of the release. Above me, he slammed in deep and held me still. A slow shudder came over him as he spurted hotly inside me. He ground against me tighter, sending me into another sharp orgasm.
“God. Oh my God,” he gasped into my ear. “Fuck.” He rolled over, pulling out of me, and pulled me with him, trapping me against his chest.
“Fuck, baby. You’re so hot,” he said.
I was still throbbing, still burning. And as I came back to myself, the room was spinning violently. “I’m going to be sick,” I said, and he let me go, his arm flopping heavily to the side. He murmured something, concerned, but if they were words, I couldn’t discern them. I rushed to his bathroom, just in time to puke my guts out.
When I stumbled back to bed, Burke was dead asleep.
I awoke the next morning with a vicious headache and no clear idea where I was. The wall I was staring at had an unfamiliar, abstract painting in blues and reds. Ugh. My mouth was sticky, my stomach was sour, and my head was throbbing in time with my heart. I was hungover. I sat up, trying to remember where I was and trying to figure out how I’d gotten here.
Oh God.
Beside me, Burke Tyler lay half-under, half-on-top-of the white duvet cover. The night came back to me in a graphic rush that made my cheeks burn with embarrassment. I’d only ever blacked out a few times, and unfortunately, this wasn’t one of them. I remembered the whole thing. God, we’d kissed in front of half of his team, and everybody had seen us leave together.
I looked down. The t-shirt that I was wearing was huge, and I had a vague recollection of finding it inside one of his drawers. Oh God. This was terrible. This was terrible.
I had to get dressed and, of course, the only clothing I had was the teal dress I’d come up in the night before. Walk of shame. I was going to have to do a walk of shame.
It took me a while, but I found my bra and underwear and slid back into my dress. I wanted to borrow one of Burke’s sweatshirts, but they’d have come down to my knees. In the end, I took his ruined blue silk shirt and tied it around myself, rolling up the sleeves… Oh, who was I kidding?
I found my purse and checked to make sure I had my wallet and my phone. I didn’t want to be the worst asshole in the world, so I found a piece of paper and a pen and left him a note.
Burke, I wrote, Sorry to leave before you were awake. Had a lot of work to do. I signed it S and beat a hasty retreat.
I’d never been so grateful for Yvette’s crazy family. Her mother had appeared the night before in New York (Maman lived in the South of France, usually) and demanded Yvette show up and attend a gala with her. Yvette wouldn’t be back until tomorrow, which meant I had all day to nurse my hangover and regret every single decision I’d ever made in my life.
Once back at my apartment, I’d slept until noon, and when I’d woken up, I was feeling even more miserable than when I’d gone to sleep. I knew that Burke and Yvette weren’t officially together. But that didn’t make me fe
el any better. He’d even called me Yvette.
I tried to distract myself by working on my blog. I had at least two hundred new pictures from Italy to edit and a few new articles to write, and since I was effectively getting a day off, I should write them. Anything to take my mind off what a terrible person I was.
Roz came in around noon but, mercifully, didn’t knock on my door. When my phone buzzed, I was afraid to look down, yet desperate to know if it was Burke. It wasn’t. It was Andrew. I took a deep breath, calmed my nerves, and picked up the phone.
“Hey, lovely,” he said.
“Hey.” I tried to sound cheery, but in obsessing over Burke, I’d forgotten about Andrew. “Are you back from Croatia?”
“Got back a week ago and had to transition into a new project at work. But the good news is that the project is here in Boston for the next six months. Care to get dinner tonight? I’ll tell you all about my trip…”
“I’m a bit busy tonight,” I lied. I wasn’t busy, but one heartache was all I could take in a day. And Andrew wasn’t an idiot. He’d be able to tell that I was upset, and he’d ask me about it, and what would I tell him...
“How about tomorrow, then? I’d really like to see you.” Andrew’s voice was a warm and familiar anchor against the raging storm of my emotions.
“Sure,” I said. “Tomorrow. Just text me.”
“I can’t wait.” And Andrew hung up the phone.
The phone rang again. I picked it up without looking, figuring that Andrew was calling me back. “Hello?”
“Hi, Sarah?” The voice was deep and rumbling. Burke. Warmth bloomed in the pit of my stomach, and my mind raced back to the night before - to one of the most mind blowing orgasm of my life.
“Hi, Burke.”
“Listen,” said Burke, sounding hesitant. “If this isn’t you, I feel like a total ass…”
“If what isn’t me?” I asked.
“Last night. I remember you were at The Sky Bar. I had a ton to drink, and the last thing I remember, really, was walking over to where you and Mclaughlin were chatting. You were there, right?”
“Yah.”
“So, this morning, it was clear that someone had stayed over last night, and someone named S left me a note. I…” he stopped. “Fuck. I haven’t blacked out in years. Did you stay over last night?”
“Yah,” I said. The word hurt coming out, my throat was so tight.
“Shit. Sarah, I’m sorry.” In his defense, he sounded really apologetic. “Did we… did we do anything…”
“No.” The lie came to me quickly. It was simple. I regretted doing it, and he didn’t remember, so why not make it like it never happened? “No. You thought Mclaughlin might take advantage, so you stepped in. We went back to your place and passed out.”
His sigh of relief cut me to the quick. “I’m sorry, Sarah, if I said anything or did anything...”
“No,” I said. I could feel the tears streaming down my face. “No, you were great last night. You were really nice. I’m sorry I had to cut out early. I grabbed your shirt, too. I’ll make sure it gets back to you.”
“Thanks,” he said.
“Okay. Well, I’ll see you around, I’m sure.” I tried to make myself sound bright, but my heart was breaking in my chest. I hung up the phone.
Well, I told myself, it could have been worse. At least I’d still have my job with Yvette. At least Burke doesn’t remember any of it and doesn’t have to regret it.
10
Burke
2 ½ months later
“Have you ever tried escargot?”
Sarah eyed me over her menu, her black-lashed hazel eyes the only part of her face I could see.
I shook my head. “I told myself I was going to wait until I got to Paris.” The moment the phrase was out of my mouth, I felt like a total idiot. What kind of badass tells someone that they’ve been waiting to get to Paris to eat snails?
“Well?” Sarah’s eyebrows rose up and she put her menu down, revealing her pretty, tanned face and inviting smile. She gestured to the restaurant around us. La Closerie de Lilas. One of the many places in Paris that Hemingway had visited during his ex-pat days.
Yes. I know that. Don’t judge me, but I’ve always wanted to go to Paris. My grandmother was a huge Francophile who played Edith Piaf records and loved old French cinema (Godard and Maret and all those other dead guys). She got me really into the culture, and I had taken a lot of French language and culture classes in high school and college. But I’d never visited France. Everyone knows: You want to go pro, you gotta put in the time.
Even now, taking time out of my schedule to spend a few days in Paris was difficult. But Yvette and I had spent the last two months attached at the hip, and no way was I going to turn down an invitation to see the city of lights with a native Parisian. Two months – holy fuck – two incredible months. The woman is a fucking phenom. She was so savvy and sexy and damn good in bed. She was always working, but I found that to be a huge turn on. I’d had to move my schedule around a bit to be able to fly to Paris – but it had been worth the effort. I was now in the world’s most beautiful city with the world’s most beautiful woman.
Correction. I was currently with the world’s most beautiful woman’s assistant.
Yvette had an obscene schedule (I couldn’t believe her schedule): Maison de Dior, Maison de Chanel, a few French companies for whom she advertises, and a club opening later tonight...
I’d been looking forward to having Yvette show me around Paris, but I’d barely gotten to spend an hour alone with her since I’d arrived. Call me a bitch (I’m calling myself that, currently), but I’d wanted my first time eating escargot to be with Yvette at Le Cinq.
Sarah looked at me expectantly, so I shrugged and said, “No thanks. I’m good to go actually. We were going to eat at the Market, right?”
“We can eat whenever and wherever we want,” said Sarah, brightly.
“Well, yes,” I responded wryly. “I suppose we are adults.”
“Sorry,” Sarah shook her head. “I’m just excited. I love Paris, and usually, when I’m here, I’m on Yvette’s schedule. I don’t get to do any of the things I like.”
“Well,” I grunted, getting up from the tiny metal chair. “Let’s go do something you like. What’s on the list?”
“The Market and then the gardens,” said Sarah, waving her expensive camera. “I’ve got some photos to take.”
“After you.” I followed her out, realizing, as we were walking, that I was staring at her ass. I looked away. I couldn’t help it. Girl had a nice ass.
As we walked through St. Germain de Pres, I had a difficult time not gawking. I could usually keep my cool but seriously, have you been to Paris? I mean, I know we hear all that stuff about how gorgeous it is and what a great city it is, and you think to yourself, it can’t possibly live up to the hype. Wrong. It can. It’s fucking mind-blowing.
If the neighborhoods were mind-blowing, the market was a total mind fuck: rows upon rows of vendors selling sausage, cheese, bread, wine, and produce, and all of it’s just fresh as fuck and tasty as goddamn. We spent more time in the market than we really needed to because Sarah took a shit ton of pictures. I might have minded, but she was so damn cute - going giddy whenever she saw a stall that was particularly colorful or well-displayed. She apologized for the delay a few times, explaining that the photos were for her blog. She’d spoken about the blog a couple of times today while we were walking along the Seine. It sounded interesting, and I made a mental note to check it out.
Sarah’s plan was to picnic in the gardens, and I’d let her pick out the bread, cheese, and sausage. But when it came time to pick out the wine, I’d butted in.
As we strolled the gravel paths of the gardens, through rows of flowering hedges and box-cut trees, Sarah made light conversation. “Do you and Yvette have plans to go to the D’Orsay museum?”
“Yes – although the pieces I really want to see aren’t there,” I said, distracted
by the sensory overload of the scene before us. We’d come upon the Luxembourg Garden’s famous fountain, the one in all of my college textbooks. It was large and ornate and surrounded by children carrying long sticks, running around its edges and prodding at small wooden sailboats.
“Oh, no? What did you want to see?”
“The Van Goghs.” I’m a huge fan. Those colors, man – he was just incredible.
“The D’Orsay has a ton of Van Goghs...Oh! That’s right,” said Sarah, snapping her fingers. “They’re on loan to an exhibit at the Museum in Boston.”
“I’m going to that exhibit, actually,” I said. “To the opening. It’s a few days after we get back.” Sarah stopped by some empty chairs that were facing the fountain. She took a seat and began to dig through the picnic bag, pulling out paper plates and silverware and passing me the baguette.
“I’m jealous,” said Sarah. “I read about that. Sounds like a cool exhibit. Andrew was talking about going soon after it opens. He’s a big Van Gogh fan, too.”
I didn’t know why, but I got annoyed when she mentioned Andrew’s name. I didn’t like that dude. I’d only met him once, but Yvette had given me the full story on him: Sarah’s on-again off-again college boyfriend. I had to agree with Yvette – the guy gave off the vibe of listening and of being considerate, but he was one of the most self-absorbed people I’d ever met (and trust me, I play pro football - I know a shit ton of narcissists). Just watching Andrew with Sarah made me want to hit him.
Instead of criticizing, I tried to be supportive. “Coach is a big donor to the MFA; I can get you guys some tickets if you’re interested.”
Sarah gasped and looked up at me, her eyes wide. “To the opening? The Gala?”
“Yah,” I shrugged. “No big deal. Are you interested?”
“Yes!” She smiled so brilliantly that I couldn’t help but smile back. “That would be amazing! Andrew would be so grateful.”
