Use Me

by Mj Fields

  Oh. My. God.

  Chapter Nine

  Angelo

  This woman is confusing the hell out of me. I’m here because I can’t shake her. As hard as I try, she’s in my every thought.

  She wants to use me, so be it.

  One month, I can endure. One month, I can have someone take me in the only way I can give them, which is through my body. Then she will be gone, and I will have a slight reprieve from the demons. I will also know she’s not out on the streets of Detroit at night, trying to find her “inspiration.”

  “I like the book, Tatum. I like knowing what you want. You want to use me, then do it without all this.” I point at her head.

  “Right,” she squeaks then clears her throat. “Well, let’s get to it.”

  I step up to her and pick her up, which causes her to grip my shoulders, her eyes widening in surprise. Again, fucking confusing. It’s what she wrote, so why would she be shocked?

  I lay her on the bed, then stand up, taking off my jacket and shirt. Her mouth is gaping slightly as she looks at me.

  I have been looked at like this many times. Lust, desire, need. She wants me, and I appreciate that. Hell, it feels damn good.

  I’m hard already.

  Thing about her, though, is that I would have been hard as soon as I saw her, had it not been for the little river incident.

  I also see something different in her than any other woman who went to their knees for me. I see appreciation. The way she looks at my body, at my ink, at my face... unmistakably, appreciation.

  “Tatum or Annie?” I ask as I hold my hand out for hers. Then I see it again. The confusion.

  She recovers quicker from it this time and asks, “Which do you prefer?”

  I shrug. “Doesn’t much matter to me.”

  Now I see pain.

  “Don’t look at me like that.”

  “Like what?” she asks, sitting up and pulling the covers over her fully clothed body.

  Unwilling to dive deeper into this conversation, I grab the journal off the table that I set it on and hold it up. “I like the name Tatum better than Annie, but this says Annie. You’re leading here. This is your game; you decide.”

  “Tatum,” she answers, her cheeks flushing.

  I nod then look at the book to avoid reading her expressions. “Tatum, take off your coat.”

  She does as she’s asked, while I drop the journal and do what she wants.

  I lean over her, holding myself above her, slowly lowering my face to hers.

  Easy, I tell myself. But her lips. Fuck, I want them.

  “Are you pulsing?” I focus on her lips and what her words told me.

  Anticipation.

  She whispers, “Yes,” as I lean in closer.

  “Hands above your head, Tatum,” I remind her this is what she asked for in her writing.

  I hold both of them in one of mine. Then, unable to stop myself, I kiss her lips, scolding myself because that’s not what she wanted, but I can’t help it. Then I move to her chin, her jawline, her neck.

  Her skin is so soft. So soft and smells so good.

  I kiss her lower down her neck, across her shoulders, as her tits rise and fall against my chest. I kiss between them, then down her belly, where I pull her shirt up, kissing her pale belly.

  She’s soft. So fucking soft. My lips on her skin excites me almost as much as them against her lips.

  I kiss up now, pushing her shirt with my nose, just like she described, and when I get to her tits, I find them covered in black. Black lace.

  I glance up. “Tatum?”

  “Please,” she whispers, pushing her covered tits against me.

  Again, not exactly what she said in writing, but fuck it.

  I release her hands to pull her shirt up. “Gonna have to take this off.”

  She nods and lifts her arms as I pull the shirt up and over her head.

  Her neck, it has a mark on it. I lean in and kiss it.

  “Hurt?”

  She shrugs.

  Without thought, I tell her, “No more of that. None. No more putting yourself at risk.”

  “Why do you care?”

  Her question shocks me, and I answer the only way I know how—honestly. “I like your lips. Pretty sure I’m gonna like your tits, Tatum. So, no more of that.”

  I reach behind her and pull her up. Then I fuck with her bra, which is a pain in the ass. I don’t remember this being so fucking hard.

  “Fuck it,” I say, pushing her shoulder straps down, and she pulls her arms out. Then I lay her back and look down at her, chest heaving, skin flushed. Need and appreciation looking right at me.

  There is a question in her eyes. I can’t determine what exactly it is, so I refocus, kissing her neck, making her squirm beneath me and making that sound that gets me harder. Then I slowly move lower and lower.

  “So fucking soft,” I say, because she is.

  She whimpers as I brush my lips across the globes of her breasts and pull the cups down. Her nipples are tight, little pebbles, the color of rose buds.

  I lick across the left one, and she cries out, “Angelo.”

  I lick again, and she shivers and whimpers, “Please.”

  I lick the right and, as she moans, her hips rise against me.

  I move back to the left and suck in her tight, little nipple, and she cries out, “Oh God, yes, Angelo.”

  I cup her right breast, squeezing the soft, round globes of flesh, and her hands grip my hair.

  “Oh, God... Oh, dear God.” She pulls my head closer to her breast, and I squeeze her tit harder, suck harder, while meeting her thrusts, rubbing my covered cock against her covered pussy.

  I look up at her as I suck her tit hard, knowing damn well it will leave a mark, but giving a shit less. And watching her cry out, watching her so tense, and then watching her fall apart under me nearly makes me come in my pants.

  Don’t give a fuck.

  I do the same to the right.

  “Yes, oh, yes,” she whimpers, pulling at my hair again. I fucking like it.

  More than her falling apart, I like the fact that she keeps pulling me closer.

  Closer.

  Closer.

  Closer.

  “Feels,” she pants, “so good.”

  She’s tired. I can see it in her eyes, hear it in her voice, feel it by the way her grip loosens.

  I look up and allow her tit to fall out of my mouth. She licks her lips and looks at mine, so I kiss her.

  There are times in my life that I want so fucking badly to get lost in something; something that doesn’t remind me of who I am or what I did. I have never been able to escape it, not without knocking myself out with a fucking pill, not until now.

  Nothing about her reminds me of my past, my crime, my choices, or the loss caused by it all.

  Women on their knees sucking me off because why? I have no fucking clue, but they asked for it, so they got it. Nevertheless, those moments were lucid. I did not get lost in them. I found no escape in them. All I found was a release.

  There is no release here. This is a moment that consumes me. A moment that I am neither sinner nor saint. I am Jonathon, a man in a story, with a woman who wants nothing more than to be consumed for that moment with me.

  She travels her hands down my back to my ass as her legs wrap around me. I give in to the pleasure of being touched while tasting her lips, her mouth. I grind against her as she grinds against me. It feels so good... So fucking good, so I grind harder, causing her to moan, to whimper. I grind against her, and her head falls back, our lips no longer touching as she bites hers, and then it falls open in a silent moan. I rub and grind because it feels so fucking good, and she feels good, and we feel fucking good.

  She moves her hand again to my hips, then under my pants, where she wraps her hand around my cock, and I thrust into her grasp.

  Feels so fucking good.

  I let out a growl before taking her lips harder as she strokes me. When I am al
most ready to come, I pull away from the kiss and look at her.

  “I want you,” she pleads.

  “I’m gonna come.”

  “Please, Angelo,” she begs as her hand works faster.

  My balls tighten at my name. Mine. Not Jonathon. It fucks with me.

  I start to pull away.

  “Come for me. Come on me,” she begs, gripping me again, pumping me quicker, tighter.

  I need to stop this, but I want the release. I want to come for her and on her. So, I do.

  My come spurts out all over her waist as she watches with that same look in her eyes—desire and appreciation, but no fucking confusion.

  I have never shared a moment like this. I want it, and it pisses me off at the same time, but my release swallows it all.

  As soon as I am empty, I pull back, now pissed at myself. “Fuck, that wasn’t supposed to happen.”

  I storm into the bathroom, grab a washcloth, and then storm back out to clean up my mess.

  “It’s okay; I can do it.”

  “My mess, I’ll clean it up.”

  I’m so fucking pissed at myself, but then she squirms beneath the cloth and giggles, and I’m not so pissed anymore.

  “Tickles,” she tells me.

  I look away as I hurry to finish cleaning her up. Then I go shower.

  When I come out, she is in a white hotel robe, sitting on the bed and leaning against the dark wooden headboard. The robe is short, exposing her long legs. So fucking beautiful.

  “I ordered room service. Nothing big; just a few snacks.”

  “I’m not here for a meal, Tatum.”

  “Okay.” She looks down and scuffs her barefoot, toes painted pink, back and forth across the carpet. “Will you tell me about you?”

  She’s sits there, looking up at me and waiting, expecting, and I can’t say a fucking thing. Telling the truth has never been a problem for me, but it always seems to cause problems.

  “Okay, then.” She looks back down.

  I want her to look at me again, so I make sure she does. “What do you want to know?”

  “Well, you own a gym...” she begins.

  “Co-own,” I correct, wanting to make sure she understands I’m on the up and up about who I am and what I have.

  “You aren’t married and have no children,” she says, her cheeks turning pink. “I asked the woman who instructs the self-defense classes. Just in case you were wondering, I’m not married, nor do I have children, either.”

  Never even considered asking. Probably should have.

  “And you’re here for a month to write a book and need a muse,” I state.

  She nods and looks down. “Yes.”

  “Well, I suppose I’ll see you around,” I say, ready to leave, liking it better when I didn’t know shit, because now I’m wondering, and I didn’t want to open that box. Wondering leads to learning, and learning may lead to caring. The last woman I cared about... Well, it got us both a death sentence different sorts.

  “Wait,” she says, standing up and grabbing a few pieces of paper, folding them and putting them inside her leather-bound journal. “Here. I wrote more.”

  I take the book and start to open it.

  “No, read it tomorrow,” she says, wide-eyed.

  “Why not now?” I ask, starting to pull out the papers.

  She jumps off the bed and tries to grab the book, but I hold it above my head, and she jumps for it.

  “Not fair. You’re, like, a foot taller than me.”

  “Then I suggest you do some growing.”

  The playfulness I hear in my own voice shocks me. Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to notice.

  She jumps again and smiles while she does it. “At thirty-one years old, I’m pretty sure I’m done growing.”

  “Thirty-one?” This revelation shocks me. She’s gorgeous, toned, and not a sign of aging, which led me to believe she was my age.

  She stops jumping and looks at me, placing a hand on her hip, and asks, “Yeah. Why, too young for you?”

  I shrug. “I suppose not.”

  She tilts her head. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-five.”

  Her jaw drops in disbelief. “No.”

  “How old did you think I was?” I ask.

  “Older than that,” she replies, still eyeing me.

  “I would have guessed you to be not a day older than thirty,” I tease, yet not letting on that I am.

  “Gee, thanks,” she grumbles. “Where did you go to school?”

  “Why?”

  “Just curious.”

  Not wanting to lie, I shrug and twist the truth. “I spent seven years at State.”

  “Impressive.” She smiles.

  If you only knew.

  “What did you get your degree in? Physical something or criminal justice?”

  I wonder why she asks that specifically.

  “Little of both,” I answer, being honest again. My time at State was definitely educational.

  A knock at the door saves me from being asked anything more.

  “See you around,” I tell her as I walk toward the door and open it.

  The man who pushes in the cart has a tattoo on his hand I recognize. It’s a gang sign.

  I let him push the cart in and wait for him to leave.

  When he walks out, she cocks her head to the side and looks at me curiously.

  “Don’t answer the door when you’re dressed in a robe, Tatum. You never know who’s on the other side.”

  She smiles. “I didn’t answer it; you did.”

  “Okay, smartass. Just, seriously...” I shake my head and look away from her. “I don’t know. Don’t go out at night alone, and don’t wear that when you answer the door.”

  She tries not to smile, but fails.

  I sigh. “See you around.”

  “Wait!” she almost yells.

  “Yeah?”

  “What’s your last name?”

  I swallow down a lie that may have wanted to come out and answer the way I have to, knowing if she wants, she can find out anything about me with just a few strokes of a keyboard. “Mazzini.”

  “Italian.” She smiles, and I nod. “Didn’t exactly expect that. You look kind of like that rock star from Detroit, but bigger, stronger. Kid Rock is his stage name,” she rambles, and I like it. I like it too much.

  Time to get out of here.

  “Bye, Tatum,” I say, expecting not to see her again.

  “Goodnight, Angelo Mazzini.”

  Chapter Ten

  Tatum

  I lay in bed, lazily eating the strawberries and whipped cream I ordered from room service. I can’t believe I ordered such a clichéd romantic snack, and that I am eating it alone.

  I sigh and take a bite of the sweet, juicy strawberry.

  When the phone rings, I’m glad to have a dose of reality instead of drowning in my daydreams and desires.

  I see the name display Melanie. For a moment, I want to close my eyes and stay in my fantasy land. I don’t want to be aware that Angelo left, and I’m eating alone.

  Alone. It has never bothered me before. Since Gregory, I have found this weird solace in being alone.

  Rather than dwell on what will never be and my current situation, I swipe the screen.

  “Hi, Melanie,” I answer.

  “You tired?”

  “Yes,” I sigh out.

  “Oh, I know that sigh. It’s a sex sigh. It is, isn’t it?”

  “Melanie...” I groan as I push myself up to a seated position.

  “Oh, my God, you had sex!”

  “Melanie—”

  “AND YOU DIDN’T TELL ME!”

  “Melanie, will you let me get a word in?” I laugh at her obvious excitement.

  “Is it the big guy? The one who I haven’t gotten a damn picture of yet?”

  “We didn’t have sex!” I almost yell, just to get her to stop.

  “We? You said we, now dish!”

  So, I dish. I tel
l her about me leaving my bag, him reading the journal, him following me, leaving out the fingering myself. I mean, we are close, but not that close. Then I tell her about the next time and tonight.

  She and I both sigh at the same time, and then we laugh.

  “Did he really throw a man in the river?” she asks.

  “He did,” I answer as I get up, walk to the window, and look out over the river.

  “That’s so incredibly hot.”

  It’s so incredibly crazy. All of this. I don’t tell her that, though. I won’t disagree, but I won’t agree, either, based solely on principle. Okay, and stubbornness.

  “What’s his name?” she asks in a dreamy tone that is very much Melanie from our days at Columbia and not today’s Melanie, the hardcore agent.

  “Angelo Mazzini,” I answer, flopping back on my bed.

  “Hmm...” she says, and then I hear keys tapping.

  “Melanie, don’t you dare,” I warn, knowing exactly what she’s doing.

  “I can’t believe you haven’t,” she scolds.

  “Didn’t know his last name until tonight. Besides, I know he looks scary as hell, but there is something about him.”

  “Something...?” she asks as she continues typing.

  “He seems... protective, kind, giving.” I roll onto my stomach and think, So giving.

  “Well, there are a few Angelo Mazzini’s. A couple Michelangelo’s.” She laughs. “And a handful are in their forties. How old is he?”

  I swallow, trying to decide if I really want her to know.

  “Spill it, Tatum,” she demands.

  She knows me so well. If it was anyone else, I would probably feel embarrassed, but not with Melanie.

  “Twenty-five,” I answer.

  “Cougar,” she says on a laugh.

  “In my defense, he looks older. And a cougar is ten years older,” I retort.

  “Oh, hell,” she mumbles. Her tone sends a chill up my spine.

  “What? Oh, God, is he married?” I panic.

  She doesn’t answer. She’s quiet until... “Tate, are you sitting down?”

  “I’m lying down. Mel, come on; is he married? I swear to God—”

  “Tate, no, he’s not married. He’s... um.” She pauses. “I’m sending you a link. I want you to tell me if this guy looks like your guy.”

  “Is he six-foot-five and looks scary but hot?” I joke.