by CD Reiss
“From the top then.” He relishes my forgetfulness, thrusting into me with each character. “Dee-seven-four-nine-ex-four-two-two-eye.”
I repeat after him, and he gives me a push with each syllable. By the time I get to the last one, the pressure between my legs is massive.
“You’re very close,” he says. I nod with heavy lids. “That won’t do.”
He leans forward and gets his arms behind me, lifting me. When he places me on my feet, his dick frees itself. I’m not disappointed long. Gently, he guides me to the dresser and kicks my legs open. I bend over it. My face is inches from the mirror when he enters me from behind. He’s deeper and I’m wider. The discomfort quells the arousal, which must be his plan.
He puts his hand on my lower back and repeats the sequence, driving slowly inside.
I get to “Ex” before descending into grunts.
“Finish.”
“Four-two-two-eye.”
He cups his hand under my jaw until I’m facing the mirror. “Again.”
I repeat it, not knowing what or why, but loving every minute of it.
“Good girl.”
“Do I get the prize?”
He fucks me hard enough to push me to the edge of the dresser. “Maybe. Keep your eyes on us, and repeat it before I tell you the rest.”
I repeat it over and over, realizing he can add as many random numbers and letters as he wants to as I realize my memorization of them is the only thing between that moment and an earth-wrecking orgasm.
In the mirror, he looks down at my ass. His hands slide along my sides, my outer thighs, and work inward. He uses both hands to reach around and spread me apart.
“Very good,” he says after I finish it for the third time. “Tee-six-zero-twenty-four-twelve-el.”
On the third to last, one of his hands finds my clit.
“I can’t,” I gasp. “I-I-I…”
“Tee. Not eye.”
He repeats it, and when I don’t answer, his finger and his hips stop.
“I hate you,” I tell him in the mirror, meaning something completely different.
“From the top.”
I can barely breathe. I’m totally under his control and mad as hell.
I also love it.
I start with “dee” and he pounds me, stopping when I stop. Rubbing and fucking when I continue. When I stumble, he pinches my clit and I scream in pain and pleasure.
“Six,” he says, and I finish all the way to “el.”
“Again.”
I know he’ll let me come if I keep repeating it, and I’m right. I’m in a cyclone of pleasure, with the number sequence in the center cone, anchoring me. I say the number and letter sequence over and over. Far away, I hear him telling me how good I am. How sexy. How I’ve overwhelmed his senses.
I hold back until I finish a sequence and let go, shuddering under his touch, filled with him. My knees bend until my toes are holding my weight, and Keaton has to hold on tight to reach around me. I’m an automatic weapon, discharging over and over, hot in the hand, until I’m spent and empty.
“Thank you,” I say.
“My pleasure.” He kisses my back and holds my chin up again. We’re two faces in the mirror. “Watch me.”
“Yes. Okay.”
I get up on my elbows. In the mirror, he straightens and takes my hips in his hands. He strokes twice, as if taking aim, then fucks me in a rhythm meant for his pleasure alone. I watch him in the mirror. Our eyes meet as he slams deep inside me. His jaw tightens. His eyelids droop. I watch him push as far inside as he can go, grabbing the flesh of my hips, pulling me toward him. He’s lost control. His refinement is gone. He’s lost all sense, making himself completely vulnerable inside me. There’s nothing scary about him now. He’s not a threat or a nemesis. He’s not an asset. He’s helpless.
That feeling lasts for a minute as he curves his body over mine and catches his breath.
“I think I forgot the numbers,” I say.
“No, you didn’t.” He stands and lightly slaps my butt. “Try it.”
I rattle them off.
“Brilliant.” He kisses my back and steps away from me.
I turn, stand. My body aches in the most delightful way. “I’ll never write the number twenty-four again without thinking of you. You might own the letter D.”
He twists the end of the condom into a knot and drops it in the little pail under the vanity. His naked body is long enough to reach across half the room. “The night is young. I can give you feelings about the entire alphabet.”
“That’s some kind of access code, right? To the Third Psyche forum?”
“Nope.” He wraps his arms around my waist and kisses my shoulder. “But you should remember it anyway.”
“Dee-seven-something-something-ex-something?”
He pinches my side, and I squeak. He tickles me until I writhe, giggling onto the bed.
He kisses my lips. “Let’s start over. Shall we?”
25
cassie
The bathroom light makes a tinny sound when it’s turned on. The fan whirrs. Soap, shampoo, deodorant sit on the counter in single-use containers.
Like me, stuffing feelings for Keaton into a single-use container.
I look like a hostage. I haven’t slept more than an hour. I’m sore. Sticky. My hair is a rat’s nest.
I’ve been rendered stupid and dull by orgasms. Even though I can barely put together a string of words in my head, I remember the code Keaton gave me. I turn on the shower, stretch my arms over my head to crack my shoulders and spine. Check the water. Ice cold. I get in quickly and I’m shocked awake.
That’s better.
I don’t rush, forcing myself to get used to the cold.
Best sex you ever had.
The clarity of the thought comes as I’m cleaning between my legs. I’ve been sore before, but never so happily sore.
I let the water soak my hair, freezing out the disappointment, washing away the desire for more, for things to be different, for our options to sunset later in the day.
One: He’s a hacker. The FBI can’t prove it today, but everyone knows it. I could lose everything I’ve worked for.
Two: My feelings are irrational, and I know it. I don’t trust them.
Three: There is no three. Two is enough.
I stay in the shower until I’m shivering.
Three: You don’t even know his real name.
I shut off the water. I don’t regret last night, but I might regret it being our last night.
I get out and wrap a towel around me. It’s soft and warm. The door is open a crack. I can see the front of the house through the opening. The blinds glow with the dark blue of sunrise’s beginning, and the end table light is still on.
The front door opens, and I clutch the towel tightly around me. I’ll let it go to spring at an intruder, but it’s not necessary. It’s Keaton with a tray. He’s fully dressed, and nothing about him makes him look like a hostage. He looks like a man who has had a full night’s sleep and just decided not to shave because the scruff made him even more handsome.
He slides the tray onto the table and smiles when he sees me peeking through the bathroom door. He crosses the bedroom and leans in.
“Does the hot water work?” he asks, not looking at my legs or my bare shoulders. Right in my eyes, like a gentleman when it’s time to be a gentleman.
We’d agreed that he’d take me home right away so I could change for work, but now I want to call in sick.
“I don’t know,” I say. He raises an eyebrow, not understanding the answer, so I continue. “I didn’t try it.”
“It’s freezing in here.”
“I made you break your promise. I slept, but I’m awake now.”
“Indeed you are.” He smiles, and only then do his eyes drift. “Hurry, then. No puttering about. I got breakfast.”
I quickly put on yesterday’s clothes and go into the small dining room. It’s ringed with tall windows ov
erlooking a little yard and the forest that surrounds the club. One of the hotel’s golf carts bounces down the driveway, back to the main house.
Eggs, bacon, toast are set up on the table.
“It’s nice that they send room service out here.”
“Anyone will do anything for a price.” He pulls out a chair for me. “You were in there a long time. I’m surprised you didn’t catch your death. Sit. Please.”
I sit because I’m hungry, and because I don’t want to leave this idyllic little bungalow just yet.
Keaton sits kitty-corner from me and puts eggs and toast on a plate. “I’m afraid the eggs might be cold.”
“That’s all right.” I take the plate. While he makes his own, I peek into one of the two hot pots. Tea. I pour for him.
“Cheers,” he says instead of thank you. Before I can get the second pot, he pours me coffee.
“Cheers,” I say, instead of I want you.
The air is thick between us. I work backward from when I’m expected at the office and calculate Keaton and I have twenty minutes to eat.
I want to tell him he was wonderful. I can do that in twenty minutes. Outside, the winter wind flexes its muscle, knocking tree branches against each other, sending long-settled leaves clicking over the ground.
I want to tell him I’m conflicted. He’s risky. We’re risky. I don’t trust him, but I want him. That code he made me memorize and won’t define—it intrigues and scares me. I want him to soothe me, reassure me, clarify his feelings if he has any.
I can’t do all that in twenty minutes.
The eggs are cold. I don’t mind. His presence is warm enough for a few dozen cold eggs.
“So.” I stab a lump in the scrambled eggs and put it onto a triangle of toast. “How long are you in town?”
The question is absurd. I feel as if I’m in a bad movie. He does me the favor of ignoring it.
“I want to see you again.”
He utters the sentence as if it had gotten impatient at the back of the line and shoved a dozen other sentences aside. Yet when I look at him, he’s not trying to cover up or choke back what he said. He means what he says and says what he means.
I go for the least emotional but most honest form of the truth. “I don’t know how to make that happen.” I’m about to take another bite of eggs, but I put down my fork. “When you gave me that Post-It, you became a federal asset.”
“You mean a snitch?” He’s smiling as if the word doesn’t bug him at all.
“Call it whatever you want, but there’s the issue of payment.”
He leans back, laughing. “Please keep the taxpayer dollars.”
“Not all payment is in cash.”
The air goes out of the room. I can’t look at him. My eggs suddenly look like yellow snot and the bacon fat is gathering in my throat. He’s silent. All I can hear is my heartbeat and the click of the leaves in the wind. When I swallow, it’s with effort.
He needs to say something, anything. Give me an opening to tell him I’m in this bungalow because I want to be, not because I’m selling myself. But my jaw is glued shut. I’m locked by inertia. I can’t deny it out of thin air. I can’t explain without a push.
“I’ll wait in the car.” He gets his jacket and bag. His movements are graceful and unaffected by anything I might confuse with tension or offense.
Does he care that I implied I had sex with him as payment? Did he even catch the inference?
Does it matter? We’re a one night thing for a reason. I won’t sabotage my life by getting involved with a man, only to be left by a man, but that doesn’t mean I spent the night with him for any other reason but desire. If I run out there and explain that I’m with him honestly and that my concern with payment was no more than a concern about appearances, what will I achieve? Nothing. Another turn around the hotel when he comes again, more worries about how to fill out the forms, and I have to face the fact. If he gives me another piece of intel, I may not actually be sleeping with him for information, but it’ll feel like it.
When I get outside, he’s standing by the passenger side of the car. He opens the door.
“I didn’t mean what it sounded like.” I can’t get into a car with him without addressing this. I’m not made of stone.
“I know.”
I get in, and he closes the door. He gets in on the driver’s side. He knows, but nothing’s changed. By the time we’re on the highway, he hasn’t said a word and I’m on round three of beating myself up.
It’s a TKO on the interstate.
“You know what’s really stupid?” I say finally.
“What?”
“I’ve given you more trust than I’ve given any man. But you…” It would be great if I could organize my thoughts coherently. “I don’t date a lot because I don’t like wasting my time. If I don’t like a man right away, I don’t bother, so believe me, there’s not a lot of bothering happening. And don’t get me wrong, I didn’t like you. But then I did and now I do, but the obstacles are real and that’s all I’m saying.”
He gets off my exit. “And I told you that I know.”
“So?”
“So. You’re right.”
Right. I’m right. He knows I’m right and I know I’m right. He’d wanted to see me again, but in the front seat of the car, he’s just a guy driving and talking. He’s not looking at me. He’s not reassuring me. He’s not saying he wants to see me despite all of it.
So.
I’m right.
“Should I drop you on the corner?” he asks.
Because of the context, that question hurts more than anything anyone ever said to me. It means he’s heard me, understood me, and agreed with me. I should be happy. I’m not. My lips have been kissed raw, and I’m so sore, I can’t cross my legs. I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve lost something I would have treasured. My mother missed only a few marks in her day. The amount of loss she felt was related to how close she came to making the catch. She said there was nothing worse than having the fish on the boat and letting it slip off the deck, unless it was already in the bucket and it tipped and slid back to the sea.
“The corner’s fine.”
He pulls up to the curb at the end of my street.
How close are Keaton and I to being fish in a bucket? Are we even caught? Were the muscles in my cheek ripped from the metal barb? Or had we both seen a lure and run away before getting bitten by the hook?
“I’d let you out,” he says, “but that defeats the purpose of letting you out on the corner.”
“No. You’re good.” I pull the handle and let the door swing halfway while I take a second to look at him. The perfection of early morning has worn off. He seems tired. Confident, handsome, and assured, but tired. “I enjoyed myself last night.”
“I know.” He lets the two words hang in the air. “I did too.” There’s nothing left to say, but as I shift my weight to get out of the car, he grabs my forearm. “I have to go back to California on business. When I get back, I’ll be in touch.”
“Is that a good idea?”
Say yes. Say yes. Say yes.
“Don’t assume I care about the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Or the government. Don’t assume I’ll ever let the law come between us. I don’t give a bugger about it. I don’t give a shit how it looks or ethics or any of it.”
“What do you care about?”
“Those things, but only because you care. I won’t be the man who makes your life harder. I want to tell you something, and I’m tired enough to tell you the truth.”
I lean against the back of the seat, but keep one foot on the asphalt. “Okay.”
“No matter what happens, never, ever believe I abandoned you. You can forget me. I can go into the dustbin with every other man who wasn’t worth you. I don’t care. No matter what happens, I didn’t desert you. Say you understand.”
“I understand.” I only say it because he asked me to, not because he’s making sense.
“Say
you believe me.”
“I believe you, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He runs his hand along the length of my arm. “You will.”
I say it because behind his words lie his intentions. He cares what I think of him. He wants me to think highly, and I do.
“When? Because you’re freaking me out.”
“Not today or tomorrow. Possibly never. Remember the promise that this was for one night?”
“Yeah.”
“I lied to you. I never wanted this for one night. You’re talking about a transaction, and I’m telling you, I’ve been around the world and I’ve never met a woman like you. You’re cop and criminal. You’re subtle and direct. Everything I know about you is the opposite of something equally true. You’re a coin flipping in the air and I never know if you’re coming up heads or tails.”
“What if I have to hurt you? What if it’s heads and you called tails?”
“I’m infatuated with your head and your tail, darling.”
The stupid pun deserves an appreciative laugh, but it comes out sad and broken.
“I promise you,” he says. “I’m going to disappoint you. I’m going to hurt you. But not today.”
He kisses me, but it’s not the kiss of a man who will never see me again. It’s the kiss of a man promising more. I don’t want more, but I do. I was lying to myself from the beginning. I was both the architect and the mark of my own long con game.
“I’m not dropping you off at the corner next time.”
I nod. “Next time then.”
I get out of the car and walk home in last night’s clothes.
When I open my front door, I turn around, let the screen door shut, and watch his car drive away.
26
cassie
—Be ready 5pm on Friday. We’re
going on a short holiday—
Keaton’s text comes in the late morning. The geographic tag puts him in Uzbekistan, where he couldn’t have gotten to in the last few hours. He’s cloaking his whereabouts.
There’s a guy you can depend on.
