“It’s all right,” she says, crossing her legs.
What a classy woman! Not only beautiful, but also polite, sweet, forgiving, and knows damn well how to make me horny by dangling her shoes.
My cock didn’t even twitch watching the porn of a message from my young self, but looking at her, dangling shoe from her toes, is giving me a raging hard-on.
I put a pillow on my lap to hide my boner. I don’t want her to get any wrong idea about my intentions with her. Although, I really want her on top of me—riding me like a stallion.
“Who are you?” I ask her the question I wanted to ask her in like forever.
“I can be anything you want me to be,” she says, smiling mesmerizingly.
It sounds like music to my ear. That’s what every man wants to hear from his wife or girlfriend, and I am no exception either. I imagined countless possibilities of role play in the next 10 seconds.
She is my mistress; I am her slave.
I am the pool boy; she is the horny boss.
I am the dominant boss; she is my maid.
I am the judge; she is the lawyer looking for a reduced sentence for a client.
Oh, God!
I hold on to the pillow as tight as I could; it becomes more difficult for my slim tight pants to contain my massive erection.
“Are you all right?” she asks. “Your face is turning red.”
“Is it?” I say in a restraint voice. “I am all right. Suddenly feeling hot, that’s all. Must be some kind of reaction from my medication.”
Yeah, the reaction of imagining her as a slutty lawyer fucking me—an honest judge—on the desk of my chamber.
I take a couple of deep breaths and then ask her the bombshell of a question. “Are we married?”
“In a way, yes,” she says with a slight nod. “Your heart married mine since the day we first met. Our souls are intertwined forever. I am yours, and you are mine. Does that answer your question?”
No, it doesn’t. She told me everything except if we are legally married. She does this all the time. Answers my every question with a mystery, and then, leave the rest to my imagination. She is a mystery in herself, and if I ever have a chance to solve her, I need to at least know her name.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“You don’t remember my name?!” she asks with her brows furrows. “How can you forget it? It means everything to you.”
She is disappointed in me, as she should be. I forgot the name of the woman whom I love. It’s a travesty. But I hope once she knows the cruel turns of events that led me to it, we can put this all behind us and move forward.
“Well, in my defense, up until a fortnight ago, I didn’t even know my name. They call me a clean slate now.”
“Oh . . . the accident.” She shakes her head in disappointment with a look of pity.
No. No. Not that look. I feel more and more of a victim than a survivor. I don’t need this pity, at least not from her. I just wanted to know her name.
“Please . . . tell me your name.”
“It’s hard to believe that you don’t remember it. But anyway, my name is—”
There is a loud knock on the door. She stops.
“Your name is?” I ignore the knock and wait for her full mouth to voice her name.
“My name is—"
The knock on the door becomes louder.
“God, damn it!” I stand up, annoyed with the constant knocking on the door. It could be none other than Jeremy.
“Please, please . . . don’t go anywhere.” I plead as I rush to open the door to get rid of Jeremy. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
“Milk and cookies have been served, sir,” Jeremy tries to get through, probably to show me where my night suits are, but I stand tall and blocks his way.
“Give me a minute.” I try to close the door, but he gets his foot in the door.
“Are you, all right? You look flushed,” he asks.
He glances down, and I follow his glance, only to meet at my crotch, causing a layer of awkwardness surrounding us.
Son of a bitch! I forgot the pillow behind on the bed.
But this time, I won’t feel guilty about natural body phenomenon. Besides, I have nothing to be ashamed of. I have a monstrous dick.
Jeremy clears his throat as he jerks his head up.
“Shush! Keep it down,” I whisper. “You are going to scare her off again. She doesn’t feel comfortable around you.”
“Who?”
“All right. Don’t look, but the tall blonde is on my bed,” I whisper to him in excitement.
I couldn’t help it. Maybe I’ll get lucky tonight. What a welcome home present would that be?
“From the hospital?” He stands on his toes to look over my 6’2 stature even when I told him not to. “Oh! She is not here now.”
“What?!” I turn around only to find my bed empty.
I look around the room, under the bed, just in case she is hiding from Jeremy. I even check the bathroom, hoping she might be slipping into lacy lingerie for me.
But she is gone.
Again.
Without telling me her name.
“I told you to not look.” I grasp my hair in frustration. “She was just here a minute ago. How come I never see her leave? Where did she go?”
“Out of the window,” Jeremy says the stupidest thing ever, pointing at my bedroom window.
“Don’t be a fool, Jeremy! We are on the 14th floor.”
“How do you think she came here in the first place?” He crosses his arms and then cocks his head to the door. “Not from the front door!”
Jeremy has a point. But, from a window?! Really?
“It’s a little hard to believe that she can come and go as she pleases from the window that is hundreds of feet high,” I say.
“Oh . . . it’s perfectly doable for an acrobat.” Acrobat?! “There is a ledge outside the window, and from there, a short climb to the rooftop. From the rooftop, she must have taken the stairs to make her way out of the building.”
I am one lucky son of a bitch!
“I see you have not changed clothes. The casual ones are in the closet. They also have shoes, slippers and . . .”
She is an acrobat. My God! The number of sex moves in her arsenal could be hundreds. Together, we can invent hundreds more. It’s doable; our sexual energy is already off the charts.
With all that money in the bank, I better start a publication house because I am going to co-author a modern-day ‘Kamasutra’ with her. Make space on your shelves, people. The upcoming New York Times bestseller is on its way.
Chapter 11
IN THE NEXT FORTNIGHT, some things became clear to me.
First, I love to cook.
The moment I chopped that celery, I knew I had something special. By the time I learned to fry the bacon to perfection all by myself, I had already decided to pursue further in that direction.
And who could have been better at this job than a former renowned chef who lives in my house? I asked him to make me his successor, pass on that knowledge of exquisite cuisine to me like a father to his first born. He agreed, but without showing much enthusiasm.
For the first three days, he acted like Mr. Miyagi from the movie ‘The Karate Kid’ and gave me stupidest tasks ever—-Feel the bread in your hand, guess the weight of chicken only by looking, stir the empty pot in tree pose. On the fourth day, I fired him—not from the job of the butler, but from the job of my cooking sensei. He was holding me back. He must have feared that if I learned to cook, his job could be in danger. The old man doesn’t know yet what he means to me.
I ordered a couple of cookbooks online and decided to learn on my own. I got very skilled in only a week. But my biggest breakthrough came a day before yesterday when I finally perfected the molten lava cake. Maybe it was the wet dream all along that fueled my desire to cook. Or maybe, deep down, all I want is to turn that dream into reality.
But in order to do that, she has t
o at least stay over for a few hours. Sadly, most of the time she comes to me at awkward times and doesn’t stay for long. She pops in my shower when I rub one out for her, making me feel guilty, but at the same time making the whole scenario enticing. Late at night, when I am half-asleep, she teases me by blowing her breath in my ear and caressing my hair. But the moment I open my eyes, she disappears. Just yesterday, she rose from under the Jacuzzi, wearing a skimpy gold bikini, and stopped my heart with a wink just when I was about to make sense of my tax statement. But today, she sits very graciously at the kitchen counter, wearing a white blouse with a black polka dot skirt. In this modest dress, she still looks sizzling that I wish could be said about my spaghetti sauce.
“Little more salt.” She directs the traffic of spices as she crosses her legs. “But not much. Just a sprinkle.”
With my eyes focus on her long slender legs I let out a soft sigh. “What about the pepper? Did I put it earlier? I was a little distracted.”
“Yes, you have.” She smiles, pulling her skirt down to her knees.
“Still not enough.” I reach out my hand to grasp her legs. And who knows, from there—if she wouldn’t mind—I’ll run my hand between her legs.
“You will overcook it,” she shouts. “Simmer it down.”
“Yes. Sorry.” And just like that, my hand is diverted from the intended target to the knob of kitchen stove.
She takes a good whiff of the aroma coming from the spaghetti and says, “It’s coming along very well. I want to taste your sauce.”
“What?!” I say with a raised eyebrow. “You want to taste my sauce. Did I hear that right?”
“Yes, spaghetti sauce.” She smiles. “What were you thinking?”
“What a bummer!” My excitement fades away.
“Were you really thinking I’ll go down on you?” She laughs into her hands. “We haven’t even kissed yet.”
“Then, kiss me,” I say. “Come here.” I move my face closer to hers. Her breast heaves, breath shortens, as she reciprocates to my gesture and leans down to kiss me with those rosebuds.
“What the hell you are doing?”
A loud yell ruined our moment. And in the nick of time I looked at the door and back, she is already gone.
“GOD FUCKING DAMMIT!” I break the wooden spoon in half in my state of agitation. “How many times have I told you to not disturb me when I am cooking?”
“It wasn’t me.” Jeremy cocks his head to the right, driving my attention and anger at the short black man standing beside him.
“Who is he?” I ask.
“You don’t remember me?” he says, taking a step forward. “It’s me. Todd. How are you doing?”
“My childhood friend?”
I imagined him to be taller.
“See, I told you he would remember me,” he says, slapping Jeremy on the arm. “And you were like, ‘No, Mr. Grisham, he doesn’t remember anything. Hah!’ We have known each other since we were five. We are like chocolate-vanilla ice-cream—inseparable.”
“You are not my friend.” I break another wooden spoon in half—still frustrated about the missed opportunity of kissing her.
“Where is this anger coming from?” He throws his hands up. “Is this because I am Black?” Bastard! He is deliberately trying to turn this back on me by portraying me as a racist.
“Is he an idiot?” I ask Jeremy, and he cautiously nods his head in a yes.
I come around the kitchen counter to set him straight. “Listen, dip shit—”
“Dip Shit! You called me a dip shit? He calls me a dip shit, Jeremy.”
He looks at Jeremy and me back and forth with surprise as if he doesn’t deserve this. I don’t know how I was even friends with him before my accident.
“I don’t care if you’re black as asphalt, green as a gremlin or of rainbow color. Any friend of mine who went for a trip around the world while I am fighting for my life is no friend of mine.”
“You were on the world tour?!” Jeremy shrieks. Until now, he was under the impression that Todd went out of the country for business purposes.
“I was hiding our money in the Cayman Islands. Then, I went to our Swiss bankers to renegotiate interest rates. You may not remember this, buddy, but the IRS had us by the throat. If I hadn't left, we would be left with nothing to fall back upon.”
“I am not at all surprised that I am involved in the tax fraud. What surprises me, Jeremy, is that he didn’t bother to come back. From Switzerland, he went to Paris, Italy, Rome, Malaysia, Thailand. I was tracking his movement by corporate credit card charges. He blew $80,000 in the last 30 days. That’s embezzlement of the company’s fund.”
“Hey, hey . . . Take your words back, Brandon!” he says. “It’s not embezzlement. There is a clause in my agreement for a company-sponsored annual trip with expenses up to $1,00,000. It’s in lieu of my bonus. I saved the company $20,000 in this trip. That’ something! Now, I know that it was not the right time to take the trip, but all the arrangements were already made. Packing was done, hotels were booked, hookers were hired. And the cancellation fees would have been whooping.”
“So, you decided to cancel your friendship instead?” Jeremy too is disgusted by him right now.
“Don’t you dare judge me, Jeremy!” He lashes at Jeremy for telling the truth. “It was my annual sex-fest. He would have done the same thing if he were in my place. I am only following in his footsteps.”
Can you believe his feeble attempt to save his face? He is busted, has nowhere to run, but instead of apologizing, he is making excuses. Absolutely pathetic!
“Here, I am feeling guilty of ever keeping Macallan 65 in my house, and he is proudly saying that he saved $20k after blowing $80k in the smoke.”
“Macallan 65! Our Macallan 65?!” He runs out of the kitchen like a bat out of hell, and before I could ask Jeremy about his unusual reaction, he returns backs, gasping for air.
“It’s gone,” he screams. “You drank all of it. Half of it was mine. Mine. Mine.”
I don’t understand him. He is mourning over an overpriced bottle of alcohol like his loved one has departed for the heavenly abode.
“He didn’t drink it, Mr. Grisham,” Jeremy says, proudly. “He donated it to charity. The children of Africa thank you for the clean water.” At least, Jeremy thinks it was the right call.
“We were supposed to open it together at the launch of our film production company. That was our dream. And you ruined it.” He jumps up and down, losing control of his emotions. “If you were so smitten to be a philanthropist for a change, you could have written a check for a couple of grand. But you deliberately donated Macallan 65, didn’t you? You conspired against me, Brandon. How could you do this to me? Why?
He gets on his knees like a broken man—almost in tears. Jeremy and I are looking at him in disbelief. It’s hard to tell if he is genuinely hurt—and to what extent.
Between this mayhem, I see her passing outside the kitchen. She stops, licks her lips, and blows me a kiss before curling her fingers. She is calling me, and I am stuck with this idiot.
“Move!” I shove Todd away. “Wait!” I shout as I hurriedly leave the kitchen.
She is walking backward, holding her hand out, and I am mindlessly following her, looking in her blue eyes, barely away from embracing her. She leads me to the living room and blows on my face.
The same rose breath.
I close my eyes as I take a deep breath to soak in that divine breeze of heaven.
When I open my eyes again, I regretted closing them and cursed myself for taking eyes off the prize. She is again playing a game of hide and seek with me. She is a teaser—that’s what she is. But I am going to catch her today and plant a kiss on her intoxicating lips. It’s been far too long since I felt a woman.
She is around here somewhere. She couldn’t have gotten too far. I believe she is hiding behind the couch. Her hideout is now located.
If you have ever played the game of hide and seek, the mos
t important thing is the element of surprise. Appear out of nowhere like a ghost and make the other kid shit his pants. At least, that’s how Jeremy remember playing with his brothers.
I am in the combat mode now. After being teased for a month, I think she deserves it. Instead of walking to the couch, I take a high jump, using the couch as a springboard and lands behind it.
“Aha, busted!” I turn around to see the look of shock on her face, but she isn’t here.
The Jacuzzi! That’s her favorite spot in the whole apartment.
I rush to the balcony.
I don’t see her. I dunk my head in the Jacuzzi to be sure. Nope—she is not here. Only Jeremy’s underwear.
“Are you all right?” Jeremy asks as I pass through the living room to go look for her in my bedroom.
“Never been better!” I shake my wet hair and throw his underwear at him. I am having so much fun in this game. I am so pumped up.
Chapter 12
I AM FED UP LOOKING for her. I looked everywhere—including the sex dungeon which she so despises—but couldn’t find her.
Oh, wait! I haven’t checked the bar. A smile forms on my gloomy face as I run to the bar. I have high hopes that she is scooching behind it.
I see Todd getting behind the bar. “Move-move-move,” I shout, rushing hurriedly, and shove Todd out of the way once again.
My high hopes crumble to dust the very next moment when I didn’t find her here either. “She is not here,” I mumble in disappointment, gazing down on the floor with my glazed eyes.
“Stop pushing me!” Todd expresses himself in a rather loud tone and kick in the air. “What’s wrong with you?”
I wipe my tears and raises my head to meet his eye level. “I’ll tell you!”
Without looking, I pick a bottle from my collection and launch it. Nobody is my intended target. I am just venting out.
Jeremy and Todd get down on all fours and cover their head as the glass window behind them shattered with the impact of that bottle.
“Jesus!” Todd says.
“Sir, calm down,” Jeremy says, cautiously getting up on his feet. “Let me get you some milk and cookies.”
Dreamy Distraction (Quest for Love Book 1) Page 8
