It was the first time he called me that. I liked hearing it on his lips, even if it was attached to such a horrid decision. I left his place fifteen minutes later, wanting, hoping, he would say the nickname again so I could hear it roll off his tongue one last time. But he didn’t. He only hugged me close, kissed the top of my head, and studied my eyes, as if he could find out some secret answer in their depths.
One week later, he showed up at the bookstore, his face flushed, eyes intense, and told me that he changed his mind.
“I don’t like it,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair, biting his bottom lip with a look of raw need that had me gripping the paperback in my hand a little tighter. “But … I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. If it’s what you want … what you need, I’ll give it a try.”
We celebrated our new union right then and there. I pushed books aside and locked the doors, and he lowered me to the floor, his mouth frantic, ownership in every touch of his hands.
I think he was surprised at how easy it turned out to be. Our lives took on a seamless union, thanks to the separation of my two worlds. They don’t meet. They don’t talk. They don’t ask questions about each other.
The separation was, and still is, the key that keeps this whole production running.
Now, I lie face down on his back. His muscles working smoothly underneath me as he paddles farther and farther from shore, the sounds of the city disappearing, replaced with seagulls and ocean surf. The waves subside and he rests. I close my eyes, enjoying the smooth rock of the board, the blanket of silence. A perfect, peaceful moment.
“I love you.” His words are quiet.
I know. My unspoken thought floats away from our bodies. “I love you, too.”
15
Hollywood, CA
My men are so different, yet similar in so many ways.
Their eyes. A similar tint of blue, but Paul’s smile at me with carefree abandonment and Stewart’s pierce my heart with their dark intensity.
Their bodies. Paul’s is naturally muscular, his arms developed from hours of surfboard paddling, his abs ripped from balancing on a board, his thighs and calves strong from jumping, balancing, and kicking through currents. Stewart’s body is attacked like everything else in his life, with fierce devotion, his aggression worked out with miles on a treadmill, weight-lifting, sit-ups, pull-ups, and calisthenics.
Their love. Paul loves me with unconditional warmth, his affection public and obvious, frequent and often. Stewart loves me with a tiger’s intensity, one that takes my breath away, his confidence in our relationship strong enough to not be bothered by the presence of another man. He stares into my soul as if he owns it, and shows his love with money, sex, and rare moments of time.
Tonight is one of those rare moments. I have Stewart’s full attention, his cell phone is away, and he is staring at me as if I contain everything needed to make his world whole. I step toward him, my new dress hugging my form to perfection. He sits up in the dining room chair, spreading his knees and patting his thigh, indicating where he wants me. I sit sideways on it, holding his gaze, and his hand steals up and runs lightly along my bare back. “You are breathtaking.” His voice gruff, he leans forward and places a light kiss on my neck. “And you smell incredible.”
“Thank you. You clean up pretty well yourself.” And he does. In a tux that costs more than my dress, he looks every bit the successful executive he is. Short, orderly hair. Clean-shaven. Those intense eyes staring out of a strong face. “Is the car here?”
“It’s downstairs. But it can wait.” He runs a hand up my knee, sliding the material of the Versace cocktail dress up.
My breath shortens, my concentration focused on the path of his fingers as they travel higher, taking their time, the tickle of rough skin against soft flesh. He leans over, brushing a quick kiss over my lips and then moves lower, his kisses making the path down the line of my jaw, whispering across my neck, and deepening when they reach my collarbone. His hand caresses my thigh, the brush of his thumb moving higher until it is just breaths from my sex. I groan, sliding my hips forward, but his hand grips my thigh and holds me still. “Not yet. Let me enjoy you for a moment.”
There is the sound of approaching footsteps, and I open my eyes to see our driver round the corner and stop short when we come into view. His eyes drop respectfully, and he speaks softly. “Mr. Brand, I’ll be downstairs with the car when you are ready.”
Stewart mutters something unintelligible, and the man takes the cue and leaves, pulling the door firmly closed behind him. Stewart pushes apart my legs, moving the fabric aside and leaving me bare and open to his eyes. He looks down, examining the exposed lips, and his mouth curves into a smile. “No panties?” His gaze flicks up to mine.
“They’re in my purse. I figured they would be useless until we got to the event.”
“That,” he says softly, his fingers teasing the edge of my lips, circling the side of my pussy in slow, tantalizing brushes, each touch closer but not yet there, “is why I love you. You know me so well.”
He stares at me, his eyes twin pools of lust and want. While Paul and I talk, incessantly, often, about anything and everything, important or not, Stewart and I fuck our way through this relationship, our time often too short for anything more than physical contact. Sex is how we connect—where we share our feelings, emotions, and love. I stare back at him, my eyes closing slightly when he rolls one confident finger over the knot of my clit, then down and into me, the small invasion a tease of perfection. “Look at me,” he breathes. “I want to see your eyes.”
I obey, my mouth parting as he cups my sex, slipping a second finger in with the first, both of them working together, stimulating me in their movement, his thumb staying firm on my clit, giving me soft pressure that moves slightly with each stroke of his fingers. He watches me, sees the moment that the fire of my need hits my eyes, sees the crescendo and burn of my arousal and adjusts the pace and pressure of his fingers in accordance with my want. The curl of pleasure grows, our eyes caught in a web of want, pulled to each other, and I barely notice the sexy pull of his mouth into a smile as my breathing increases, and I thrust into his action. His free hand slides up my chest and pulls on the fabric there, tugging my neckline down until a breast is exposed. He grips and tugs on it just hard enough to make me gasp.
“I want you like this forever,” he whispers. “Spread open on my lap, shuddering in my hands, your pussy hot and tight around my fingers. You are so fucking beautiful.”
I buck under his touch, my heels finding the floor and pushing off, my hand sliding up his pant leg, desperate to feel the heat of him in my hand before I come.
Blackness.
My eyes shut, and I moan, my legs convulsing around his fingers, the strum of his thumb on my clit softening, whisper soft, stretching out my pleasure as I cry out, over and over again. When it fades, when it softly pulls delicious heat from every area of my body, the need grows. Intense, animalistic desire, a craving for every bit of him in every place on my body. My eyes snap open and find him watching, a knowing grin already in place across that sexy mouth, his hand on his open fly, pulling out the object of my desire and stroking its hard length against my bare leg.
I push his back against the chair and step over him, straddling his waist and lowering myself down, so wet I drip, my need so great that I moan. He catches my weight, carrying my ass down and impaling me with his cock, his own groan sounding in the large room, his eyes darkening as I tighten around him. “God, you were made for me.”
“I’m your dirty little slut,” I whisper, sliding up and down, my heels firm on the floor, his hands tilting and pulling my ass how he likes it, in a way that causes my clit to rub against his pelvis, the tight squeeze on my ass pleasurable in its slight bit of pain.
“You are my slut,” he grounds out. “You need my cock.”
“So badly,” I agree. “I can’t get enough of it.”
He thrusts from below, pul
ling me down, the extra depth causing me to gasp, my body to grind, the pleasure shooting a spike of arousal through my core. “Tell me you love me.”
“I love you.”
“Again.” He thrusts, sitting up, looking into my eyes, our faces inches apart as I look slightly down on him.
“I love you,” I whisper, gripping the back of his chair.
Then his eyes close, and he leans back, tugging the other side of my dress down, exposing both breasts to his hands. And I know what he wants. I know, just like I know every inch of his body, exactly what he needs. I lean back, my hands resting on his knees, my back arched, my body open before him, and fuck his cock. Pumping up and down on his so-hard-it-will-break shaft, my legs supporting my body, his gaze skimming greedily along my skin, his hand lifting the hem of my dress, fingers strumming the bead of my clit until I come—body tightening, mouth screaming, world exploding.
Then he takes over, leaning forward and scooping me into and against his chest. My legs wrap tightly around his body, his cock stiff and slick inside my body, he carries me over to the wall, presses me up against it, and holds me there with strong arms. Then, he thrusts over and over again, whispering my name softly, and then louder, until he comes with a massive groan, his legs shaking beneath him, my own wobbly when he lowers me to my feet. He keeps me there, pinning me against the wall with his body, my breasts tight against his tuxedo, his hands stealing into my hair, his mouth soft and sweet on mine. Drinking from my mouth, tasting me, taking his time, inhaling my scent.
“I missed you this week. I needed that.” His voice is gravelly, thick with satisfaction and truth. He tilts my head up, looks into my eyes, then lowers his mouth back to mine.
16
Hollywood, CA
A-FRAME: [noun]
Large wave with distinct shoulders on the left and right side of the peak. Can result in two surfers surfing the same wave . . . one going frontside and the other going backside.
Two hours later, my fingers steal under the tablecloth. Reaching over and gripping Stewart’s leg, my fingers deftly slide up his thigh, his hand catching mine, eyes shooting a questioning look in my direction.
He coughs gently, breaking eye contact as he glances to the woman on his right. “That’s correct, Beth. With quarterly projections where they’re at, there should be no need for additional debt. If anything, we should capitalize on our current assets.” He listens to her response, his hand firm on mine, keeping me at bay.
But I need him. I need to feel his strength beneath my hand, to feel his arousal in my grip. When the conversation changes course, he leans over, planting a soft kiss on my neck and whispers in my ear. “Do you need something?”
“Yes. You. Now.” It is an unfair request, one I shouldn’t make, but I am panting for him. I will not make it through this four-hour dinner, through the polite chitchat that will follow, cigars in the men’s club while I sit with dignified wives in the front parlor. I need a release, need firm hands digging into my skin, his mouth on mine, cock inside of me.
He studies me, a war going on behind those eyes, his glance flitting around the table and then down at his watch. He leans forward again, close enough that I can smell his scent, the masculinity crawling across the table and robbing me of rational thought. He grips my wrist, pulling my hand tightly and places it on his crotch, brushing his lips against my ear as he speaks. “Call him.”
I pull back, confused, but his hand cups the back of my head, keeping me close to him. I study the tumultuous depths of his blue eyes. “What? Who?”
“Him. Call him. Have him take care of you. I can’t leave.”
There is only one Him in our life, our world comprised of three people. I try to process his words, spoken without anger or light, in a serious, I’m-not-fucking-around tone. I shake my head, and his eyes sharpen at my reaction, his hand pushing mine down on his cock. His voice rasps in my ear, thick with arousal and authority. “I want it, Madison. I want him to fuck you in the powder room while I sit here with these stuffed shirts. I want you to come back to this table with your cheeks flushed and his cum inside of you.”
I feel the twitch of him beneath my hand, see the flicker of excitement in his eyes, and realize the truth of his words. “Seriously?” I whisper, almost afraid to voice the question.
He slides my hand over him, letting me feel the hard ridge of his arousal. It is pushing at his pants, his excitement unquestionably hard. “Call him. Now.”
I sit there for a moment, the hum of conversation muting as my mind processes this new avenue. My need moans between my legs, its intensity doubled by Stewart’s words, by the twitch of him that proved his sincerity. Can I go there? Can I bring these two worlds so close and still escape with our dual relationships intact?
It only takes a moment to make the decision.
I excuse myself and step away, pulling out my phone, watching the dark gleam in Stewart’s eyes, a sexy smile crossing his lips. He’s serious. He wants me to be fucked while he sits a few rooms away, surrounded by wealth and business. I dial Paul’s number, biting my lower lip and move farther away from the table, holding Stewart’s gaze.
“Hey babe.” Paul’s voice is lazy, as if he’d dozed off on the couch.
“Come to Hollywood. The W Hotel. I need your cock.”
A minute later, I return to the table and smile demurely at Stewart, who rises at my entrance and pulls out my chair, his napkin hiding any erection he may have. Leaning down as he pushes my chair in, he softly speaks. “Is he coming?”
“There are so many places I could go with that question,” I murmur. “But yes.”
He sits back down, reaching for his wine glass and smiling at me. “Good.”
I try to pay attention to the conversation. Try to eat my salad and smile politely, nod appropriately, laugh when the overweight man to my right makes a joke. But I am waiting, my leg jiggling nervously. Waiting for the buzz of my phone against my leg, for the moment he is here.
My call had surprised him, his voice hardening when he heard my directive. I could imagine him sitting up, trying to put the pieces together, hearing the raw need in my voice. He knows me as well as Stewart does. He knows that when my blood rushes and need hits me, there is only one thing that can satisfy it. Cock. Thrust roughly, taking my body as its own. He knows I can’t contain it, that the need grows and expands until my fingers or someone else’s body fucks it to sleep. He knows I won’t want to make love. He knows I’ll need my brains fucked out, and he knows exactly how I like that done. As Stewart does. They have memorized my body, learned my tells, and fucked me enough that every movement is delivered before I have to ask.
I am brought back to the present when I hear Stewart speak, his expression calm and intelligent, the rough scrape of his voice only audible to me, who knows it so well. I can see the slight tightening of his jaw, can see the fire in his eyes when he casually glances my way. He is aroused and allows my hand to confirm it when I reach over. Full-blown, hard as a diamond, aroused. It confuses the hell out of me and makes me wet at the same time. Then my phone buzzes, and I am out of time to think.
I stand, gripping my purse, waving the men off as they start to rise. “I’m sorry, I’m not feeling well. I’m going to step outside for a bit.”
False concern crosses Stewart’s features as he rises, excusing himself and escorting me to the door. “You will be the death of me, you know that?” he says softly.
“I could say the same for you.”
He stops just before the door. “Have him fuck you hard,” he bites out, pulling me into his body with sudden aggression. “And whatever he doesn’t take care of, I will. Just give me a few hours to finish up this business. But hurry.” He gives my ass a possessive squeeze, hard enough to sting, my panties soaked at the forbidden nature of this entire experience. I grip my purse tightly and step out of the restaurant, into the hotel lobby and head for the restroom.
I knock gently on the unisex door. “It’s me.” My voice croak
s on the last word. This is the closest my two worlds have ever come to colliding. Stewart and Paul, in the same building. My dark and my light. My dark now seated, surrounded by finery, listening attentively to talks of profit and loss, his cock hard, hidden underneath fine linens and discussions of intellect. And my light, swinging the door open and pulling me inside, slamming it closed behind me and flipping the latch. No words were spoken as he thrust me against the door, his mouth greedy on mine as he tastes champagne on my tongue, our need thick in the air. I reach for him, my hand running down his worn tee and grip the top of his jeans. He has not changed clothes since I saw him last, has not dressed up for his entrance into this hotel, and I love the contrast. His messy hair to Stewart’s combed. Five o’clock shadow to clean-shaven. The smell of sweat to cologne. I normally get a cleansing period, the twenty-minute drive between my worlds clearing my head, my skin, my palette. Now, walking instantly from one to the other, the comparisons are overwhelming. He pulls back, releasing me. Wiping a hand over his mouth, his eyes take a slow tour of my body.
“Look at you,” he whispers. “Dressed up like you are a good girl.” He hasn’t seen me like this. With my hair conservative and a cocktail dress on, pearls at my neck. He slides my dress up, the expensive fabric stiff, a black triangle of lace panties exposed. I stay still, my back against the wall, legs slightly forward and spread a few feet apart. My chest heaves, need gripping me, and I watch him unzip his pants and pull out his cock.
“Suck it. On your knees in this bathroom. Suck my cock while your boyfriend sits at the table.”
There is an edge to his voice, an anger that is not normally present. An emotion that turns my easy-going Paul into something darker. Sexier. I love it, love the bite in his voice, the possession in his hand as he grips the back of my head and pulls me fully onto his cock. He thrusts into my mouth, his eyes on mine, the connection between us unbroken as he fucks my throat, growing harder with every pump, the fire in his eyes making the need between my legs almost painful in its intensity.
Undertow Page 5
