by Jordan Burke
I lowered my hand again, circling my clit a little faster, then slipped one finger inside.
“I love watching you finger yourself,” he said, his voice raspy. “It’s just like I imagined so many times.”
I watched his hand close around his cock harder, as he began to stroke himself faster, all the way from the base to the head, where his hand made a twisting motion before sliding back down his length.
It was a beautiful thing to see, and I could have watched for much longer, if we both hadn’t been about to come.
I gasped and shook as I began to feel my orgasm rising within me.
“Come with me…” His voice was low and breathy.
I had been close, but his words made me come faster. I struggled to keep my eyes open because I didn’t want to stop watching him.
As my orgasm shook through me, I watched Watts stroking himself harder, the muscles in his arms and chest straining, his face tight in concentration, his breath hissing through clenched teeth, working himself—like a slow burning fuse until…detonation, and I watched and felt him come on my belly and chest.
It was as if he was marking me again, as he had done moments ago but this time in a more primal way, just as I had wanted.
He lowered himself to my face, licking and nipping at my lips, then tongue-fucking my mouth.
We lay like that for a few moments. The room was silent, other than our heavy post-sex breathing and the sound of the steady rain outside through the open doors.
“Just a second,” he said, rising off the bed and disappearing into the master bathroom. I heard the water running, and Watts came back with a warm wet towel.
“Too hot?” he asked when he touched it to my thigh.
“It feels great.”
He gently bathed me with the wet towel, then got another to dry me off.
He lay back on the bed and I curled into him. With my arms crossed on his chest and my head resting on them, I looked at the face of this man who had so unexpectedly appeared in my life and who I knew at that moment had already changed it forever.
I felt a single tear building in the corner of my left eye as that realization cemented itself in my mind. I blinked. The tear rolled onto my cheekbone. I saw Watts’s eyes shift to it. He bent toward my face, his lips capturing the teardrop with a kiss.
Days earlier, I had thought that I was sure I was falling in love with him, but as we lay on his bed I realized that I’d had no idea what love even was just a few days ago.
Now, though, I knew because it was a feeling I had never felt before and I knew it must be love.
I felt blissful, safe, confident, trusting, and beautiful. I felt like a piece of me had just been returned to make me whole, when I didn’t even know I was incomplete.
And it wasn’t just that Watts had brought all of those feelings into my life. An equal part of the wholeness was the fact that I had seized what was before me. I hadn’t hidden from it. I had, in fact, run to it.
I had let myself out of my self-imposed emotional prison because of this unique, intelligent, intriguing, wildly sexy man.
I was stronger now that I knew his story. For the first time in my life, I knew someone who could relate to the idea that you can’t truly know sweetness without first knowing bitterness. And for the first time in my life, there was hope.
I knew, going forward, none of this would be easy. I knew it would test me. It would rattle and bend me, but because of love, nothing would ever break me.
Chapter Twelve – Watts
Catherine stayed Friday night through Sunday morning. We ordered in lunch on Saturday, I cooked for us later that night, and we barely slept—the balance of our time was spent having sex. Late Friday night we made a pact not to talk about anything serious. It was going to be an easy, lazy weekend, and that’s just what we made it.
On Saturday morning, after we picked up her car from where she had parked it near my bookstore the day before, I made breakfast—scrambled eggs with onions and peppers for starters, and miniature banana pancakes with crème fraiche to top off the meal.
As we ate, I asked her what her favorite book was.
“I don’t have one.”
“Sure you do. People always say that. They just don’t want to admit to what it is.”
She put a forkful of eggs in her mouth, then pointed at her lips.
“Nice try,” I said. “But you’re not getting off the hook that easily. Stall all you want. I’ll get it out of you.”
I got up to get us each some more orange juice and coffee.
Returning to the table, I said, “Out with it.”
“This is an amazing breakfast.” She lifted the fork to her mouth, closing her eyes and making a mocking humming noise. “So good,” she said with her mouth full.
“Flattery isn’t going to buy you time. All you’re doing is making me more curious, you know. It’s a wonder we haven’t talked about this before.”
She cocked her head. “We haven’t?”
“Nope. I’m certain I would remember.”
She paused for a moment before saying, “I really don’t have one.”
I ate some pancake, making sure I grabbed a good chunk of banana, chewed and kept a straight face, staring at her.
She lifted her napkin to wipe her lips and said, “Oh, alright. If I had to pick, I guess it would be…Cat’s Eye by Margaret Atwood.”
I was silent for a moment.
“You haven’t read it,” she said.
I shook my head.
She smiled. “Ah, finally I have stumped you.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. You’ve stumped me plenty of times. Now, tell me why that book is your favorite.”
She told me that the novel taught her a lot about acceptance and rejection and humiliation….
“I’m not saying it was like I was reading about myself,” she said, “but the themes were there, you know?”
I nodded.
“I like some of her other books too,” Catherine continued, “although sometimes she’s a little heavy on the feminism stuff. But I’d have to say that’s my favorite book and she’s my favorite author. Your turn.”
“My favorite book?”
“Book, author, or both,” she said.
“I don’t have one.”
She threw her napkin at me. “That’s not fair.”
“I’ll make it up to you,” I said, picking her up and carrying her to my bed.
. . . . .
Catherine left late Sunday morning and I spent the rest of the day not reading, not watching TV, not listening to music, just thinking. I came up with every possible scenario that could arise from my being with Catherine, and her knowing the whole story. I thought of various contingency plans I would have to put in place should something go horribly wrong.
My worst immediate fear was that our secret would be discovered during one of the routine FBI checks on her personal life. There wasn’t much I could do about that. It would come up sooner or later and we had to be ready, somehow, for sooner.
. . . . .
Monday was another slow day at the bookstore. Even with the store pulling in such paltry revenue, I never had to worry how much longer I would keep this place open.
Mr. Atherton had given me the money, believing that it was the perfect front. I didn’t have to punch a time-clock or answer to a boss, so it freed me up to do what I wanted. Working with rare books was just an additional perk.
I’d heard that he had done similar things for some of the other guys who were doing what I do. One owned an electronics repair shop outside of Seattle, another owned a barber shop in Dearborn, Michigan, and I’d heard of a third one who had started a small bakery. All of those required having employees, a distraction I was glad I didn’t have to deal with.
I had heard estimates of Atherton’s net worth, ranging anywhere between twelve and twenty billion. Giving guys like us money to open small businesses was nothing to him. And paying each of us a twenty-thousand-dollar mont
hly stipend wasn’t much more for a man of his wealth.
I’d done a good job saving a lot of that money over the last ten years, and had made even more with the occasional sale of an extremely rare book. It was enough so that I’d never have to work anywhere if I ever stopped working for the old man.
Around 11 a.m. I wrote Catherine an email.
To: Catherine
From: Watts
Subj: Have a seat
It has occurred to me that you are quite fond of the way I provide pleasure with my mouth. Unfortunately (for you and me both) we have only carried out that act in two positions—you sitting up with me between your legs, and you lying down with me between your legs.
So I write to you today with a proposition: Next time, I’ll be on my back, and you’ll be kneeling over me, straddling my face.
Give it some thought. See if that interests you at all. If your answer is yes, then consider it done this weekend.
Now, if you’re not too distracted, please tell me the name of that restaurant in Washington you mentioned the other night that requires a reservation and charges preposterous prices for small portions. You said you were curious about it but would never go. I think you should see it at least once in your life.
Enjoy lunch.
Watts
Not even thirty seconds after hitting SEND, the door chimed and a customer entered the store. She looked like she’d stepped right off the cover of Vogue. Maybe even Playboy.
“I’m looking for a first edition of The Velveteen Rabbit,” she said as she walked down the aisle toward the counter, and before I had uttered a greeting.
“Sorry,” I said, “I don’t have it.”
She looked disappointed, dropping her purse off her shoulder but catching the strap in her hand. She looked to be about twenty, give or take a year. Tall, with auburn hair that reached her shoulders. She wore a yellow tank-top, showing a great amount of cleavage, and the kind of short-shorts I wasn’t even aware they still made, showing off her long tanned legs.
“My sister’s having a baby and I thought it would be the perfect gift.”
I eyed her suspiciously after she said that. “Are you aware that book goes for around four-thousand dollars?”
“No.”
I nodded. “Well, it does. That would be quite a nice gift. Sorry I can’t help you.”
“All right,” she said, turning to walk down an aisle.
She browsed for about ten minutes before leaving with a flirty wave and a smile.
. . . . .
After closing the store, I decided to go for a run but that didn’t last long. I was lucky enough to catch the usual group out on the basketball court, and we played until the sun went down. With a good workout finished, I went home, showered, and fixed a quick salad with grilled chicken. I ate while I read Catherine’s response.
To: Watts
From: Catherine
Subj: Re: Have a seat
Funny you should come up with an idea like that. You have great timing. I was going to go shopping for a new chair this weekend, but your face will do.
The name of the restaurant is McDonald’s.
Sorry, I’m just feeling a little sarcastic today. Maybe it’s because you have me flustered with that proposition. The restaurant is Au Bistrot.
Catherine
I liked her wit and sarcasm. I liked even more the fact that she admitted I had her a little rattled.
Feeling like having a drink, I went to the pub around the corner. It was busier than usual. Isabelle was working the bar by herself, and I waited patiently until she noticed me and brought me a beer, saying it was on the house. I put a ten dollar bill in her tip jar, raised the bottle to her in a one-sided toast, and found a table that had just freed up.
For some reason I was enjoying the noise and bustle of the place. I suppose it might have been just what I needed—something to overload my senses and take my mind off of Catherine for a little while.
What I wasn’t counting on was the Vogue/Playboy girl being at the pub. I eyed her from across the room as she stood at the bar waiting to order something. Twice she glanced my way, but I was able to detect that she was about to turn her head, and I turned mine away just in time. On her third attempt, though, she caught me.
She walked over to the table and asked if she could sit.
“Sure.”
“Thanks,” she said, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she sat down. “Is this place always so busy?”
I shook my head no.
She looked around, elbows on the table, her fingers nervously twisting her left earring.
I waited.
After a minute or so, she said, “I didn’t find that book anywhere.”
I looked up from her cleavage. “Where’d you look?”
She shrugged. “Oh, all over. You know… Hey, so what’s a good club to go to around here?”
I sipped my beer and put it on the table. “I don’t go to clubs.”
“Why not?” She sounded surprised.
“Why should I?”
She recoiled a little at my answer. “Wow, sorry I asked.”
“No problem.”
She put her purse on the table and started riffling through it. “Goddamn, I can never find my phone in here.”
I sipped my beer and didn’t say anything.
She stopped rummaging through her bag and closed it. “Can I use your phone?”
“Don’t have one.”
She placed both arms on the table, folding one hand over the other, trying to strike a serious pose. “You don’t like me very much, do you?”
“I don’t know you.”
Her brow furrowed. “So you have no reason to be short with me.” She lowered her voice just above the level of noise from the music and the other patrons in the bar. “I think you’re really hot.” She added a big smile to the compliment.
“Thank you.”
“You’re not here with anyone, and since I can’t even get a drink—”
“Are you old enough to drink?”
She laughed. “Yes, yes I am. I’m old enough to do a lot of things.” She tried to make a sexy face, but the pouty-lipped look was too forced.
I finished my beer and placed it on the napkin, lined up in the ring from the condensation. “Like what?”
She laughed again. “Well, I don’t go around talking about it.”
I moved the beer aside, leaning on the small table, almost getting in her face. “I do talk about it. I like to know what I’m getting up front. I also like to know how much I have to pay.”
She lurched away from the table. “What?”
“You know,” I said, “the business side of things. How much is this going to cost me?”
“You think I’m a hooker?”
I gave her a once-over, my eyes scanning down to her chest and then back up to her face. “Oh, definitely. I can’t picture you as anything but a prostitute. Of course that doesn’t bode well for your future. Sure, you’re young now, but we all get older. You’ll turn thirty and business will drop off. Then you’ll hit thirty-five, and you’ll be lucky to get twenty bucks for a blowjob. And when you hit forty, forget it. You’re out of the sex-for-money game, sweetheart. It’ll be over. Then what will you do? You’ll have no skills, and no more of a future than you have right now.”
She looked like she’d never been so shocked in her life. “Fuck you.” She grabbed her purse.
“Sorry, not going to happen. Your loss.”
She started to walk away from the table.
I called out, “Tell whoever sent you that I’m not an imbecile.”
She was too fucking obvious. I knew what that was all about the moment she appeared in the bar, and I knew exactly who had paid her.
Chapter Thirteen – Catherine
It’s a good thing the security point at work didn’t contain some kind of emotion detector. It would have gone off like someone smuggling a hundred pounds of steel trying to get through a metal detector.
There’s no way anyone could know what I had learned about Watts over the weekend. Still, it made me a bit paranoid just thinking that I was now in possession of the kind of information that the FBI and other law enforcement and national security “alphabet agencies” would love to get their hands on.
I didn’t see Tara as I entered the building. Probably because in all of my nervous excitement, I was thirty minutes early.
I was in the locker room getting ready to don the plastic protective suit when I heard a light thumping on the door. I looked up and saw Tony. He had knocked on the door using the end of his flashlight that he carried around like a police baton.
“Morning, Catherine.”
I managed a neutral “Hi” before resuming my morning routine. I hoped he was just saying hello and would leave, but that was wishful thinking.
He strolled into the locker room and took a seat on one of the wooden benches.
“I noticed you weren’t here on Friday.”
“Yep.”
“Tara says you were sick. Cold? Something worse? I hope not.”
Good God, please go away. He was annoying and intrusive enough before this morning’s encounter. I barely knew the guy and he was asking questions that were totally inappropriate for a mere acquaintance to ask.
He was sitting behind me. Thankfully, I had on all of the plastic garb so I felt like there was an extra layer of material separating me from him.
“I’d rather not talk about it,” I said, immediately regretting my answer. I should have lied and said it was a minor cold. That would have ended it. At least I think it would have. But telling him I’d rather not talk about it only increased his nosiness.
“I should give you my cell number,” he said. I closed my eyes as I faced the inside of my locker. “If you’re ever sick, I’d be glad to bring you my personal homemade remedy.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Want to know what it is?” he continued, not waiting for my answer. “I make this chicken soup with mint and ginger. The secret is that green tea makes up most of the broth. It’s amazing. Clears up your head, stomach, whatever else you’ve got going wrong with you. It’s actually good anytime. In fact, if you want, we don’t have to wait for you to get si—”
