I’m overthinking things, I realize.
It’s a defense mechanism of mine. It deflects me from something uncomfortable or painful. Like the fact that I should talk to Paul. I can’t kiss two men within a day’s time. Although, wincingly, I already have. But I’m not the kind of woman who can keep doing that. Yes, I should have a talk with Paul.
But I don’t want to. I’m a coward. I’ve never rejected anyone before. I’m a thirty-two-year-old pathetic woman who hasn’t done…so much.
Finally, the minutes tick by and I give myself permission to leave five minutes early. I can figure out what to say to Paul, and call him, and talk. I hate that I’m going to do this.
Paul seems nice.
Maybe I should have this talk with Chris. I know him less than Paul.
God, I’m a mess.
“Hey.” A deep voice interrupts the craziness of my internal rantings.
I jump and turn, shaken by Paul standing in my doorway. His hair is a wavy, rock ’n’ roll mess. I love it. He’s a slightly younger version of Johnny Depp. His passion is easy to see in his dark gaze. Not that he’s passionate about me. He’s just passionate. He is a poet. His black jeans and white t-shirt scream Bad Boy, but he’s actually well-behaved and can recite Yeats if I just ask.
Oh god, what am I going to say to him?
“Hey, yourself.”
He walks into my office, closing the door behind him. I stand in an awkward move, only thinking of what I should say, how to confess I’ve kissed another man.
His gaze bounces down my body. “I like the skirt.” And with that, he kisses me.
And not the way he’d kissed me the night before last. He’s kissing me like he’s a dying man and my lips are his cure. He’s greedy and needy and pushy. His hand is on my ass, pulling me against his hard cock. He’s lean, and only a few inches taller than me, especially in my heels. I don’t have to tilt my head far back to kiss him in return. It’s easier than kissing Chris.
Great, now I’m comparing the two men.
That’s a no-no, and I know it.
Paul kisses down my neck. “Fuck, that skirt is all sorts of naughty.”
It’s a plain black pencil skirt. It’s nothing. I have no idea what he’s talking about. But I like it, the way he’s talking. He’s never sworn before, and I feel like he’s showing me the real him. I feel honored.
And how the hell am I going to tell him about Chris now?
His hands slip down my ass to my thighs. “Are you wearing stockings?”
I shake my head as he bites his way across my collarbone.
“That’s too bad.” He sucks in a mouthful of skin at my neck.
I moan. I don’t mean to, but I do. His hasty kisses thaw me from the inside out. After I ran away from my past, I was hospitalized for exhaustion and frostbite. The gradual warming of my toes and fingers felt like needles of electrical shocks stabbed into every centimeter of my skin. It hurt. It ached, but it also felt good. So good to be warm again. That’s what Paul’s passion feels like—I ache, but it feels so good too.
“Are you wearing pantyhose?”
“No.”
“So nothing under this skirt of yours?” He’s pulling said black fabric up my legs.
I giggle and put my hands over his, trying to stop him. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to see what you have under this skirt. I heard two of your students talk about you today.”
“Yeah? What’d they say?”
“They were nineteen year-old jocks who want to know what kind of panties you wear. Or if you wear them.” He kisses my earlobe.
I can’t help it, but my back arches, pushing my breasts against him as he tries anew to lift my skirt.
“They did not say that.”
Paul softly chuckles. It’s low and throaty. I like it as much as I like Chris’s.
I have to stop comparing the two.
“They did say that.”
I shake my head.
He laughs then pins me with another kiss. He’s inside my mouth with his tongue, penetrating me, making me hope he’ll lift my skirt all the way.
I’m huffing for air, but I pull away. Guilt and shame eating at me. “I kissed another man last night.”
Well, that’s one way of talking things out.
I’m such a moron when it comes to communication. I tend to blabber too much if I feel comfortable around someone, like with Anne. Or just blurt out what’s on my mind if I’m uncomfortable. I know how you slept with seven other women in our first year of marriage. Surprise, surprise, but Tim didn’t like it when I blurted that out.
I’m going to throw up but try my best to clench my mouth shut, nickel-tasting saliva pooling on my tongue.
Paul blinks. I see it. I’ve hurt him.
God, I wish I hadn’t kissed Chris. But it was such a good kiss. Still, I wish I had better control of myself.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper and clear my throat so I can say louder, “I’m so sorry.”
He’s still pressing his erection against my stomach, his whole body against mine. He’s given himself enough space to look at me, though. Self-flagellation sounds appealing compared to waiting for his judgment.
After a big inhalation, he says, “Well, we’ve never said anything about monogamy.”
I sigh, feeling even more embarrassed. Why didn’t I think of that?
“I’m sorry.”
He smiles. “Was it a bad kiss? Is that why you keep apologizing?”
I have no clue how to answer that. And what surprises me is Paul flirting, his smile.
He leans in, nips at my neck. I hiss, but love his sting.
“Tell me, honey, was it a good kiss or a bad one?”
He bites me again and my hips buck against him. He’s playing a game with me, and I’m ashamed at how much I want it.
“Tell me, Jane.” He scrapes his teeth down my neck, pulling me even tighter against his hard length.
“It wasn’t bad,” I whimper.
He softly chuckles just the way I like it. “Did he kiss you like this?”
He rams his lips against mine, punishing, bruising. His tongue is inside me, thrusting. His hips begin to push against me in sync to the dance in my mouth.
I clutch at Paul, fisting his t-shirt, so desperate for him to keep doing what he is. He pushes me hard against my desk, wedging one of his thighs between mine, where his hard leg rubs against my clit. I moan in our kiss, feeling my body drip with moisture. I’m ready for sex. Now. And I want it.
Just as I’m catching up to his frantic, domineering kiss, he pulls away.
“Did he kiss you like that?”
The friction between my legs makes my vision blurry. My head is swimming in need.
“No,” I finally say hoarsely.
“Did he touch you here?” He presses his thigh against my clitoris all the more.
I arch my head back. “No.”
He bites my neck. “Does he know how you like teeth on your skin? How I’m making you forget how to breathe when I do this?” He rakes down my throat again. I grind wildly against him.
“No.”
“Did he touch you here?” He cups one of my breasts.
I gasp, surprised he’d be so bold. He’s the man who didn’t kiss me for three dates and two coffee get-togethers. He’s the man who kissed me so sweetly for our first kiss. No tongue, but lingering.
His thumb glides over my nipple and I whimper. I can’t help it. I hurt for him. I want him to make me feel better. I want him inside of me.
“Fuck.” He glances down at my breast. Through my white silken blouse, through my white bra, he opens his mouth and sucks me in.
I arch my back, wanting him to take so much more. Tunneling his dark hair between my fingers, I pull him even more on my breast, amazed at the invisible string he’s tugging from my nipple to the apex of my legs.
“You drive me crazy with your little outfits,” he growls as he takes my other breast in his mouth. “Like you
’re this little innocent who just happens to wear sexpot threads.”
He has no clue how innocent I am. Granted, I’ve been married. And while I thought my husband was faithful, we had an enjoyable sex life. I guess. But Tim never made me feel like this: desperate for Paul. I want him so much I can feel the moisture spread through my panties and down my thighs, right where his leg is rubbing me. I’ve never been this sticky with my own wetness.
“I want you,” he whispers in my ear, then licks around my lobe.
“I want you.” My voice is shaky at best.
“Yeah?”
“Yes. God, yes.”
He pushes himself away from me to heft up my skirt. I let him. I’ve never had sex in my office, and I can imagine him inside me on my desk. And tomorrow I’ll have fantasies about it. Of course, when tomorrow comes, Paul will more than likely no longer respect me, and I’ll fantasize about this sex with a tinge of sadness mixed in.
He growls. Really growls when he sees my black panties. They’re not a thong. And not exactly grandma underwear, or what Bethany and I call orthopedic panties. But they’re not that sexy. A little lace. A lot of satin. However, he’s acting as if they’re exactly what he wanted. As if I’m exactly what he wanted. Even though I kissed another man last night.
He parts my legs, pushing me farther up on my desk at the same time. I’m so excited to have sex, feeling like it’s Christmas time and I got everything I’ve ever wanted. I’m that kind of woman who’ll make love on my own desk. Yes. Well, I’m that kind of woman now. I hope.
Reaching in, he surprises me by hooking his finger into my panties at my sex not my waistline.
“You’re so wet.” His voice is low, reverent.
I lean back on my hands, opening my legs wider for him.
His finger is warm and glides along me. “This might sting. I’m sorry.” He leans closer then pulls hard as my panties come apart. One side of my underwear digs into me before shredding into the fabric now tucked into his fist. But, god, that was hot.
Paul looks down at the apex of my thighs, smiling. “You want me, honey?”
“Yes.” I’m nearly panting.
“I can tell. You’re glistening you’re so wet.”
I moan and roll my hips toward him.
He bites his lip as he smells my panties. Then, while watching me, he licks right where my sex lay slick moisture for him.
“You taste good too.”
I swallow, needing him to touch me, my vagina is in beautiful pain.
But he steps away from me. I lean forward, bringing my legs together. “What are you doing?”
“I want you so fucking bad.”
“You can have me. Right here.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t want just that. I mean, I do. But I want all of you, Jane. I like you. No. Amend that. I can’t think of anyone but you. You’re all I want. And I think before you kissed this other guy you liked me too. In fact, I’m pretty certain of it. So the plan is I’m going to drive you crazy. So crazy all you can do is think of me and what I can give you. Because I can fuck you, Jane. I’ll find out exactly what you like and make you come and come and come, make you feel so good. But I’ll do more than that, Jane. I’ll be so goddamned good to you. I’ll do whatever you want. But you’ve got to want me too. And so, I plan to drive you crazy. That way I can have all of you.”
“Well, what I want is…what I want is…” I can’t say it. I can’t say I want him right now. I need to have him inside of me. I’ve never said the words out loud.
“Tell me what you want.” He steps closer.
“I want you,” I whisper.
He shakes his head. “It’s not going to be that easy, honey. Tell me what you want from me.”
I lick my lips. He groans, holding my panties close to his mouth again.
“Tell me how wet you are for me.”
“I’m wet for you.”
He growls, looking frustrated and so sexy. The lines around his mouth are set, stern. His jaw is squared. He’s lovely. “No, honey, I want you to tell me—”
“I’ve never been this wet before.” I don’t know where the words or the courage comes from and I’m scared I might retch, but I keep talking. “Never. I’ve never wanted a man like I want you right now. I’ve never felt my panties get soaked. And it’s all because of you. I love how you touch me.”
Love. I said that. And it reminds me of Chris. My heart pinches at the reminder.
“I love how you touch me too.” His voice is soft, sweet. “Do you want me inside you?”
I nod.
“Show me.” He glances down at my knees pressed into each other.
I glance down too. As a kid, I loved my legs. I ran faster than almost all the boys, except Sean, a distant cousin, who’d snatch me and wrestle me to the ground and kiss me then run away. I loved him for outrunning me, being able to wrestle me. But I also hated him for it. I never could understand my feelings for him.
As a woman I love the small space between my thighs. Oh, I have some nice meat at the top of my legs, but in the middle there’s this gap that I think is pretty. I like how muscular my calves are, because I can still run fast. I’ve always been able to run. Running helped me escape my past life. And I worry I’ll need it again. That’s a worry of mine I wish I could let go. But I never do.
I can’t see my sex. My skirt’s in the way. But I like the way my knees are together, that lovely little gap between my legs, and the white skin of my upper thighs pressed together.
“Let me see your pussy, honey.”
I look up.
“You ever call it your pussy?”
I shake my head.
“What do you call it?”
“I’ve never called it anything.”
He steps closer, a small smile on his face. “You are innocent, aren’t you?” He shakes his head, which I hope means I don’t have to answer. “I love your pussy.” He looks down at my lap again. “It’s beautiful. It’s a pretty pink and shining for me. I love looking at your pussy and hope I can do it again. I’d love to spend all day licking you, making you come. Yeah, I want to do that. I want to lick your pussy. Can I keep calling it your pussy? Or do you want me to call it something different?”
I’ve never liked the word pussy. Whenever I’ve heard it before, it sounded vulgar. But he doesn’t say it like others do. He says it admiringly. Like my sex—the folds, the opening, the blonde curly hair—is a poem. So I like pussy when he says it. But I don’t know how to tell him that. Swallowing, I can only nod.
He smiles wider. “Can I see your pussy, please?”
Slowly, I open my legs.
His nostrils flare, his jaw kicks. “So pretty. Beautiful.”
“Really?” I sound like a child, and I hate that I do.
“Yeah, look.”
After adjusting my skirt even higher, I do. I see myself from his point of view. I see glowing golden curls that turn invisible around my lips, and my sex, my pussy, is an appealing-pink color. And still wet for him. Maybe even more so now.
“I like the way you smell too.”
I look up at him.
“I can’t wait to have my face between your legs. What do you want me to do to your pussy?”
He wants me to talk dirty. I’ve never done that before, either.
Softly, he caresses the back of his fingers against my cheek. “You want me?”
“Yes.”
“You want my tongue to lick against your clit?”
“Yes.”
“You want my tongue inside you, inside your pussy?”
“Yes,” I moan.
“You want my cock inside your pussy?”
“God, yes.”
“Say it.”
“I want your cock inside my pussy.”
He kisses me. It’s fast and tender. “You want that other guy’s cock inside you?”
I’m so startled by the question I jump, trying to pull my legs together. But Paul’s between my thighs, and he places
his warm hands on my knees.
“Sorry,” he whispers. Then he steps away, closing my knees together for me. “Sorry. I push things too far.” But the way he looks me over isn’t apologetic. He’s assessing me. He’s trying to read my mind, and I don’t have the heart to tell him how much I wanted Chris too.
He licks his lips and nods to himself. “I’m going to drive you crazy, Jane. Crazy for me, as crazy as I am about you. What’s his name?”
Again, I’m taken aback by his question. “What?”
“What’s this other guy’s name?” He doesn’t look angry. He just looks determined.
And god help me, but I give in. “Chris. Chris Peters.”
Paul nods. “When he kisses you again, will you do me a favor?”
I shrug, not sure what to say, so confused I’m feeling lightheaded.
“Think of me when he’s kissing you. Think of me rubbing against your clit. When he cups your breast, think of me sucking on your nipples. Think of me asking if you want my cock in your pussy. I want you to think of me. Then, tell me about it. Tomorrow night, I want you to tell me all about it.”
With a quick kiss, he leaves my office with my panties in his hand, a smile on his face, and I’m utterly baffled.
4
I’m a mess. A hot mess. I’m sweating, and it’s an evening in October, which in my neck of the woods usually means snow or at least frozen rain. Weather so cold it left many settlers dead in their tracks. So I shouldn’t be burning, but Paul left me shaky, needy, desperate for him, and sticky hot. God, I want him.
Driving takes new effort I’ve never needed before. I like driving. It’s like running for me. It’s an escape and a means to an escape. I love cars. Fast ones. But, for Tim, for our marriage, I bought a tan sedan that I can lose in a parking lot with thousands of others that look just like it. However, my car is reliable. I’ll give it that. The one thing dependable from my marriage.
When Tim had lost fifty pounds, looking like bones, his eyes bulging from his skull, I began to love my car as the only place I could run away to escape my reality. So, yes, I’ve come to like my car more and more, even if it is a mom car. And I’m heartbreakingly not a mom.
I almost swerve into a garbage bin and overcorrect, steering into oncoming traffic. Luckily, I’m still close to the university, where old homes guard the streets with tranquility. Not even eighteen-year-old students can put a dent into the calmness of the traffic here.
Shine Page 3
