by Auden Dar
Twenty-Three
The clock reads 6:03 a.m. I turn to my left, and I’m surprised to find the man I love sound asleep. I, on the other hand, am restless. Julian’s account of his mother’s death keeps me up. My heart aches, knowing that he not only witnessed her death, but also blames himself for it.
How did a thirteen-year-old manage to survive such a horrifying experience? How could he believe I would hate him?
I continue to watch him sleep with both hands tucked under my left cheek. Watching him comforts me. I replay his confession in my head for the next hour. I suddenly find myself hearing his proclamation, “Everything I have done … everything that I do … it is all because of you.”
What the hell is wrong with me?
He confessed to witnessing his mother’s murder, and right now all I can think about are his utterances of it always being me.
I love him, but where does that leave us? On the nightstand are our pictures that were taken over the past few weeks. I reach for them, and all I see are moments in love. Do I hold on to the possibility of us? Do I throw away everything I have ever wanted? I’ve come to admit I want a child desperately. With Andrew out of the picture, I imagine having children again. Does Julian even want a family? I could adopt a child and take care of one on my own. I can have a family with a child. But Julian has never had a committed relationship and has only offered something temporary. Does his confession change our arrangement? Do I reveal I want more and jeopardize what we already have?
All these thoughts exhaust me, and I decide a cup of decaffeinated green tea would help calm my nerves.
The massive kitchen houses the state-of-the-art appliances that would make any Michelin-rated chef salivate. A six-foot-long Grand Palais range instantly intimidates me. All I want is a cup of tea. And although I’ve been in this apartment for weeks, I have yet to cook in this kitchen. With my eyes fixed on the massive range before me, I decide to forgo making tea. Instead, I open the fridge, reaching for something cool to drink. The juice staring at me reminds me of an article I had read recently. The writer suggested drinking pineapple juice to make one’s essence taste sweeter. Yup, I immediately reach for it.
As I quench my thirst, I peruse several magazines before reaching for the latest edition of The New Yorker. All is quiet, so I savor the few minutes of solitude. There are too many unanswered questions running through my head. Although I’m glancing at article after article, my mind still wanders to thoughts of him.
Julian’s presence startles me. I can feel his intense eyes watching my movements. Although I am affected, I continue to stare at the pages, drinking my juice at the kitchen bar. Before I can turn around, he’s suddenly behind me, an erection pressed against my back. His hot breath is on me as he pushes my hair to the side. I am so aroused. Grabbing my waist, he slides his tongue to where my neck and shoulders meet. A spot he knows that makes me weak.
“I can’t believe I slept through the night. I woke up only to find you missing.” Nuzzling my neck, he murmurs, “You’re here, even after what I’ve confessed.”
“Of course, I’m here.”
I feel his sigh of relief against my neck. “Thank you for being here. For being with me.”
I warm all over hearing his words.
“Lina, I want you,” he whispers in my ear. “I want you always.”
Julian slowly takes my robe off, revealing that I’m completely naked. As it falls to the floor, his fingertips feather along my skin. With my back facing him, I bend my head and start to moan, a clear invitation to do as he pleases. With his left hand on my waist, he slowly cups my ass, roughly kneading it. An act of his that sets me on fire.
There’s an edge to his voice when he mutters, “I am going to have all of you.” I swallow hard. He had fingered my virgin hole not too long ago, admitting that he would enjoy nothing more than fucking it. I become timorous. The thought of his enormous length fucking my ass excites me and frightens me at the same time.
I can do this.
Breathe, Lina. Breathe.
I turn around. Without a trace of makeup, my hair uncombed and tangled, I’m completely physically and emotionally naked. Julian murmurs, “I need you.”
“Then take me,” I say with a hint of desperation.
Cupping my mound, his thumb traces my swollen bud. “I’m going to lick your sweet, juicy lips, before I fuck it”−he pauses as his hand makes its way to the crack of my ass−“and I’m going to take this.” A single thick finger slightly brushes my virgin hole.
Oh.
My.
God.
Lifting my jaw, he crashes his lips against mine. Touching my heavy breasts, he places his fingertips on my bare nipples, circling them until they harden. He moves from my swollen lips and his hungry mouth is on my breasts, kissing and sucking them one by one. They become so tender that they hurt. Just when I think he’s done pleasuring me with his mouth, his lips begin to travel down my belly, making his way to my bare mound.
Julian slowly kneels before me, staring at my slick sex. Without any commands needed, I spread my legs. His right forefinger enters my wet sex, slowly teasing me by pulling in and out. He takes his finger out before rising to meet my eyes. Surprising me, he pushes his wet finger into my mouth. “Suck it. Enjoy how sweet your pussy is.”
Julian’s eyes enlarge while I suck his finger, and his other hand tugs at my hair. Tilting my head, he inches toward my mouth, licking my jaw with his finger still in my mouth. Pulling his digit away, he kisses me slowly, setting the pace. This is my favorite dance. Our hunger escalates as I help him out of his gray, cotton pajama pants. Without any underwear, a hard erection commands my attention, its veins popping out. He moves slightly backward, without his ink blue eyes leaving mine. The biggest grin I have ever seen astonishes me. I want you. The electricity between us is undeniable. And as I close my eyes, the sound of him pushing the magazines and glass aside startles me.
The now empty glass falls to the floor, and there’s no doubt his need for me is paramount. Our desire, palpable. I continue to stand right in front of the island countertop, my back against it, unable to move. I’m mesmerized as I watch him stroke his thick length. Up and down. Up and down. I lick my lips, dying to have him in my mouth. I am soaking wet with no way to hide my excitement as some of the juices travel down the inside of my thighs. His eyes meander down my body when he exhales. “Oh, sweet fuck.” Cupping the curves of my ass, Julian lifts me off my feet, placing me on top of the counter.
The Calacatta white marble countertop is surprisingly cool and hard, but my body remains heated. Please fill me, stretch me. I sit on the edge, and Julian spreads my legs. Leaning back, I place the palms of my feet on the countertop where I’m completely bare and open for him.
Without hesitation this man with a voracious appetite for sex dives in, and I am his meal.
Dear God, thank you.
While his tongue sucks my protruding nub, he strokes my walls with two thick fingers, thrusting, mimicking the cock that he is going to pound me with. I hold on to the edge of the countertop, unable to control my desire because watching him devour me is crazy sexy.
“Mmm,” he groans. It’s not going to take me long to come. He’s been teasing me even during his own slumber. I grab his hair with my left hand while I continue to grip the countertop with my right. “Julian … that’s it … that feels sooooo …” I pant and start to move my hips, urging him to continue all the while still trying to keep my feet planted on the cool surface.
My toes begin to curl, my heartbeat accelerates, and my mind goes blank as my orgasm approaches. With a hoarse voice, I scream, “Ohmygodohmygod … yes, right there ... I’m … I’m coming.”
Unabashedly, I grind my core against his face and come so hard that my eyes roll back. That wicked tongue of his is relentless, still licking, still sucking even though I’m completely spent. “Please. Please, I want him,” I beg while my forefinger points down at his raging erection. After burying his face
in my satiated core for what seems like hours, he raises his head. His face glistens with remnants of an extraordinary orgasm that he, alone, can only give me. He’s branded me with his mouth. Slowly straightening his legs, he moves his head upward. He leaves a trail of kisses along my belly before pausing at the valley between my swollen breasts. Taking my right breast in his mouth, he bites my tender nipple and I shriek at the sensation.
Grabbing the back of my head, he pulls me closer. “All I want to do is bury myself inside you.”
I am no longer clenching on to the cool countertop. Instead, I wrap my arms around his neck. My ass, which he raises, is over the edge. My sex throbs and juices run down my slit. I glance down between us and thank the heavens again for the image before me. Good God, he is deliciously big. Teasing me, Julian’s thick crown strokes my wet lips. Running it up and down. Taking a deep breath, I urge him, “Please, I can’t wait. Don’t hold back.” His length slowly eases into me, and every inch is sweet torture. Even in my state of arousal, it takes him several thrusts to enter me. God, I love the thickness of his length, the way it stretches me−consumes me. Beginning with slow, deliberate strokes, he rocks us back and forth, handling both our bodies with strength and confidence.
“I love fucking you raw. I love your bare pussy. Your sweet cunt is so fucking tight.” And with those words, I surround him, squeezing all of him with another intense orgasm. “You like that?”
I bite my bottom lip and nod.
Widening my thighs, he thrusts deeper than I thought humanly possible. Burying himself inside me, he leans slightly forward, muttering, “No one, no one could ever compare to you. You will always be mine.” With my legs on his forearms, Julian picks up his pace. His deep thrusts are faster, each one slamming into my sensitive walls. He hits every single nerve, pushing me closer to the edge, and a desperate cry escapes my throat. I move forward and hold both of his arms when our foreheads touch. Without missing a thrust, he admits, “I promised to fuck your sweet arse, but your pussy … this pussy is going to be the death of me.” As his salty sweat trickles down my cleavage, I shut my eyes to chase another orgasm. With one last thrust, he instructs, “Baby, look at me.” After locking eyes for a brief second, I stare down and watch as his body trembles and fills my body with his seed.
Julian pulls me close to his damp chest, allowing me to feel the rapid beating of his heart. We remain still for a moment−a moment I wish would last until my last dying breath. Gently lifting my head, he places tender kisses along the side of my neck, he whispers, “Stay with me. I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give me.”
A tear escapes, making its way down along my cheek. Placing my head back on his chest again, I finally whisper the words I’ve been hesitating to say for the past few weeks. “I love you, Julian.”
After our intense lovemaking session in the kitchen, we take a quick shower and head to bed. Julian cradles me in his arms with my back touching his chest as exhaustion takes over him. Although I’m tired, sleep manages to escape me. Slowly turning my body to face him, all I want to do is marvel at the man I’ve fallen in love with.
Realization hits me. After dating Andrew for half of my life, I’ve never been intimate with him. We have been physical, but we have never been emotionally connected the way I have been with Julian. Even after losing Elisa, Caroline, and my grandfather, Andrew wasn’t there the way I needed him. He was there physically, but I can’t ever remember a time when he revealed any sort of vulnerability. Andrew was always supportive, always prepared to be there for me, but he’s never screamed, never showed any sort of passion. He’s always retreated to himself. And when I left him, he didn’t fight for me. He didn’t fight for us. Maybe it’s just not in his DNA. There’s no doubt he loved me the best he could, the only way he could. However, my former fiancé doesn’t understand or crave intimacy because he has his work. With Julian, he yearns intimacy with me. It’s as if he needs it to live. The more he reveals, the more he is open to love. The door he had closed several years ago is slowly opening, and I pray to be the one to push right through it.
My lover’s words from tonight attack me. “Stay with me. I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give me.”
I want to give him all of me. But what if I want more than what he’s willing to offer? He believes he can’t ever let me go. But what if things change in a month, in a year?
When I told him I loved him earlier, Julian remained quiet.
Nothing.
It pained me not to hear him say those three words.
What if I’ve deluded myself into believing our time together is something more? The torturous reminder that Julian’s never had a real relationship taunts me. Just a few short weeks ago, he revealed, “I don’t do relationships. I have arrangements and they have worked well for me.”
His long black eyelashes flutter as he rests. If I could only know what he’s dreaming about. Even in his sleep, his male beauty astonishes me. His hair is a bit messy. His stubble is growing, allowing him to look a bit older than his twenty-seven years of age.
My fingers touch his now closed eyes before moving toward his cheek, lightly touching his scar.
With his eyes still closed, he reaches for me and utters, “Darling.”
I watch the rise and fall of his chest and place my palm against it. “Darling,” escapes his mouth again, and I am suddenly met with his sparkling eyes. In this dark room, with only a slither of light illuminating us, I see him. I see Julian Caine. I see the man I love. I see the man I’ve fallen hopelessly in love with.
God, I love him.
I love you. I’ll always love you, Julian.
And my heart breaks.
Twenty-Four
Exhausted from making love in the kitchen earlier this morning, Julian and I slept in. We could have stayed in the comforts of the large bed all day, but Mugpie needed to go out. I remained under the covers while the two of them went out for a late-morning walk. Surveying the room, I find it feels more like my bedroom than the place I occupied in Santa Monica. When I first came here, this particular room had been sparsely decorated with no photographs in sight. All of the surfaces were bare. It was simply a place to sleep.
Several weeks later, the room not only feels different, but it also looks different. Framed photos of me with Julian are on both nightstands and on a Helena Emerson designed walnut dresser. In addition to the Derek Baldwin painting, the white walls hold two pieces of artwork Julian and I fell in love with at an art gallery on 24th Street. A small Isle of White flower arrangement stands on the dresser as well. Along with a copy of Graham Greene’s “The End of the Affair,” my new hardcover moleskin music notebook remains on the nightstand, a Palomino Blackwing pencil beside it. I reach for the graphite pencil, staring at it.
Who would have thought a pencil would bring me so much happiness?
I recall the moment he had gifted me a box of pencils. At the time, I didn’t understand why presenting me with a box of pencils would be such a big deal. I had always used a regular No. 2 pencil when writing music. After I opened the box, Julian whispered, “A composer needs not only inspiration but also the best tools.” I was already in love with him. However, after using the Blackwing pencil for the first time to write music, I knew then, without a doubt, he was the man who would own me for the rest of my life. Such a simple gift held so much meaning. He understood my love for my craft.
I dress and head downstairs to wait for Mugpie and his dad. I turn on the sound system, laughing to myself when I select Miss Pendleton’s “Gorgeous Brits” playlist. Coldplay’s “True Love” begins to play. I listen to the familiar song and pay close attention to the lyrics. The falsetto in Chris Martin’s voice mirrors the longing in my heart.
By the time the song ends, Julian is by the elevator doors with a loudly panting and snorting bulldog. Walking slowly toward me as he bumps into things, Mugpie finally stops and flops his brindle body in front of my feet. I pet him, and as he gazes up at me with his bloodshot eyes,
he snorts again.
Julian kisses me lightly on the lips. “Did you get some rest?” he asks softly, before offering another kiss.
I nod, somehow still amazed at how affected I am by the man before me. Julian Matthew Rutherford Caine is the perfectly created British specimen who manages to always take my breath away.
His dark hair is messy, and his chin sports a little stubble. His eyes peek out from behind a pair of black-rimmed glasses. Clark Kent really has nothing on this man. I repeat, nothing. Dressed in heather gray sweats that hang loosely on the V on his hips and a vintage U2 t-shirt, he looks devastatingly gorgeous. He takes a seat next to me and places his head on my shoulder. Nuzzling my neck, he whispers, “Everything has led me back to you.”
Peering down, I say, “I love you, Julian.”
He moans in pleasure. “Say it again.”
“I love you, Julian.” And although I can feel him smile against my shoulder, something in me saddens at the knowledge that he hasn’t uttered the term of endearment my heart is waiting to hear.
We remain on the sofa, content with just being together. A new song plays, and this time, it is Robbie Williams singing his remake of World Party’s “She’s the One.”
Breaking the silence, Julian reveals, “I think of you every time I hear this song.” Playing with my hands, he continues, “You’re the one.”
