by D. M. Barr
“Why would I do that?”
“So you can see my breasts.”
“Are you asking me to look at your breasts?”
You’ve got something better to look at? No, no, no. No smartass sarcasm now.
“I think you would enjoy it, yes.”
“Show me and I’ll let you know.”
She lowered each strap and then reached behind and undid the clasp. She caught it before it fell and dropped it on top of her dress.
“Lovely. Please touch them as you would want me to.”
She did as he commanded.
“Mmm, that’s nice. And squeeze the nipples like I did before. Harder. I want to watch you wince, be sure you know how I might punish you if you disobey my orders again.”
She pinched tightly and imagined it was his fingers at work. If he didn’t take her soon, she would orgasm just from the sound of his voice.
“Do you want me to take off my thong?”
“No, darling. I want you to walk over here and politely ask me to do that.”
“You’re going to strip me of every bit of dignity and reserve, aren’t you?”
“Every ounce. You are a caged, wanton tigress. And I want to be the one to tame you.”
She went to him, desperate to do whatever he asked so he might relieve her longing.
“I beg you, sir. Remove the last thing that separates you from what you desire. I want to do whatever it takes to please you.” She ended the request with a soft growl.
That was all it took. He reached forward and grabbed her by the hips, pulling her past him and heaving her onto the bed. He ordered her to stay still as he unbuttoned his shirt and pulled off his pants. Then he was on top of her, yanking her wrists above her head toward the pillows. He held them with one hand as he reached down and put his finger inside her thong and felt her wetness. He brought the finger back up to her mouth and pressed it to her lips.
“Open up. Taste your hunger.”
She licked it clean and then took his finger into her mouth, rhythmically sucking it as she watched the yearning grow in his eyes.
“Now it’s my turn,” he said.
He released her wrists, pulled off her thong, and maneuvered until he was perched between her open thighs. He submerged himself in her sweetness, sucking and licking her clit in quick spurts, and then stopping until she implored him to continue. He alternated between bringing her to the brink and relaxing his attack until she begged him for release, promising to do whatever he wanted if he would only allow her to come. She wrapped her legs around his back and lost herself in pleasure. He relentlessly pursued his prize, bringing her closer and closer until she surrendered in an earth-shattering climax that made her scream.
As she came back to earth, he excused himself, walked into the bathroom, and returned wearing protection. Not sparing a second, he jumped back atop her and pounded her with an intensity that again took her breath away. She sank her nails into his back as he plunged into her again and again. Finally, he exploded inside her and then collapsed by her side with a long, satisfied groan of pleasure.
They both lay silent and sweaty, trying to catch their breath.
“What were you saying about my age, Ms. Torres?”
She rolled on her side and played with the few hairs that adorned his chest. “It’s truly one of the things I like best about you. You’re a man, not some gangly boy.”
He propped himself up on one elbow, cupping her breast with his free hand. “You were speaking earlier about the dangers of Chamorro lovers being separated?”
“There are at least two stories warning of it in our folklore,” she said, running her fingers more possessively across his chest, exploring the terrain that was now hers to claim. “One is a very Romeo-and-Juliet-type story, but here the girl is named Elena and the boy, Nicholas. Long story short, at the end, the doomed couple are to meet under a special tree with white blossoms. He believes she is dead and plunges a dagger into his chest, and his blood spurts out and covers the tree’s roots.
“Elena finds him, barely alive, and they share one last meaningful glance before he succumbs to his wound. She spies a machete on the ground, and weeping uncontrollably, she plunges it into her abdomen, praying that they will be buried together. The gods look down with compassion and turn the blossoms of the tree into a burning red like the lovers’ blood. From then on, that type of tree has been known as a flame tree, and when its crimson flowers burst out each year, it is a reminder that love alone should rule the world.”
“Interesting. Tell me the other story, please. Don’t stop, no matter what. When you stop, I stop.” He pushed her onto her back and started licking her nipples while his hand explored lower.
Her breath grew shallow as she fought to remember the tale over the peals of pleasure he was inspiring. “Um…the other story…ahhh…is about a girl whose father insisted she marry a Spanish sea captain, though her heart belonged to a young warrior who…oh, oh…”
Her body was pulsing gently to the rhythm of his fingers inside her, but he paused when her storytelling did. “I’m waiting,” he said patiently. “What about the warrior?”
“He was gentle…oh, yes…with a strong build and had eyes that…mmm…that searched for meaning in the stars…”
“Go on,” he said, his finger again rubbing her clit but torturously slowly, drawing out the ecstasy.
Camarin fought to retain her composure and complete the tale. “She escaped to visit her lover, and her father had them pursued by soldiers…oh, yes, please don’t stop… They were chased all the way to the top of a high cliff above Tumon Bay…ahhh… When they realized they were trapped, with the army on one side and the cliff on the other…oooh, yes, right there…they tied their long hair together into a single knot…kissed for one final time and leaped over the cliff to the roaring waters below…yes, oh, yes… Since that time, that couple remains a symbol of true love for the Chamorro people…uh-huh, ahhh…linked together for eternity… The point on that cliff is known as Two…Lovers…Point. That’s the end of the story…please don’t stop.”
Torn between his one palm grazing her erect nipples and the other, finger fucking her pussy, she arched her back in rapture as he pulled another mind-bending orgasm from her yielding body. She lay in silence for a long while, luxuriating in the release.
“Sounds like falling for a Chamorro woman might be a death sentence. I’d better watch my step,” he said, making a dramatic show of licking his fingers clean.
“As long as she’s not denied what she wants, everything ends up okay. Speaking of which, Mr. Fletcher, I’m not sure I’ll make it to work on time today.”
“Ms. Torres, that’s fine. You can come in late, or even work remotely if you choose, but I will need you available. In about an hour, I expect an issue may pop up that you’ll need to attend to.”
She giggled in delight and reached over to stroke his cock, already rock hard and pulsating. “A whole hour? Are you sure?”
“Maybe less,” he said with a chuckle, rolling onto his back. “I’m sure someone as hardworking and diligent as you understands how to solve a problem when one arises.”
“Indeed, I do,” she said, positioning herself between his legs and licking her lips. “Though this might require some overtime.”
* * * *
His phone alarm began chirping at 7:00, stirring them both from an abbreviated but much-needed sleep. She was surprised at how refreshed she was despite only getting three hours’ rest. She looked over at Fletcher, who opened one eye and then closed it again.
“Coffee. My kingdom for a pot of coffee,” he said.
“I’ll call room service. What else would you like?”
“Maybe just two fried eggs. I can’t eat much in the morning. But you order whatever you like.”
I can’t eat anything ever. She pulled the sheet up to her waist, suddenly aware of how the sunlight streaming through the partially opened drapes illuminated every inch of her naked body.
&
nbsp; She reached across him to pick up the phone, making sure that her breasts pressed against his face, hoping for a morning repeat of the previous evening’s festivities.
He kissed each one as she placed their order but didn’t go for the bait as she’d hoped. Once she’d returned to her side of their king-sized bed, he sat up, turned from her, and stretched his arms high in the air. She admired his rippling back muscles and resisted an urge to pull him into her arms.
“I’m going to take a shower. I’d invite you with me, but I fear that we’d barricade ourselves in this hotel room and never leave. So, please know that I expect a raincheck. Agreed?”
“Agreed, sir.”
“My wallet is in the pocket of my pants, wherever they are. Please hand the waiter a five when he comes. Wouldn’t want to earn a reputation as a bad tipper. You never know when we may want to use this hotel again.”
He wandered naked into the bathroom, an excellent opportunity for her to admire his tight ass. She listened to the whoosh of the shower water, reminiscing over the more lascivious moments of the prior evening, wondering how long it might be before he invited her out again.
Ten minutes passed, and she realized room service might arrive at any time. She walked to the front of the bed to find their discarded clothes and slipped her dress back on so she’d be presentable enough to answer the door. Catching a glance of herself in a mirror above the dresser, she playfully sucked in her cheeks and posed like a model displaying this year’s most ‘in’ look: disheveled but well-fucked.
She heard Lyle turn off the water in the bathroom and realized she hadn’t yet taken the money from his pants. It would be a tragedy to miss out on such a perfect invitation to steal a glance at his driver’s license and find out how old he really was. She picked up his trousers, pulled out the black leather wallet, and sat down on his side of the bed. Knowing she only had moments to spare, she pulled out a five and then thumbed through the plastic inserts: a platinum American Express card, his license—wow, thirty-nine years old, not that much older—and then a picture that made her freeze.
It was his wedding photo with the wife he’d mentioned he’d lost. He looked so dapper in his gray morning coat and top hat, her radiant in a beaded mermaid gown. Camarin felt a twang of jealousy and silently berated herself for her stupidity. The woman was dead—what was she envious about? Yet there was something about that bride’s face that was so damn familiar. Where had she seen it before?
A rap at the door signaled the arrival of room service. She carefully closed the wallet, left it on the nightstand, and then headed into the living room. After the waiter had placed the tray on the dining room table and thanked her for the generous tip, she closed the door behind him and turned to find Lyle in the bedroom doorway, bare-chested, a towel wrapped around his waist.
Unable to resist, she strolled over and reached for the one thing keeping her from the breakfast she most desired, but he caught her hand in his.
“Someone’s a bit greedy this morning, isn’t she?”
“Greedy or just eager to do my job?”
“Perhaps both. But this morning we must edit that article of yours. So, please, I beg you, go make yourself less desirable, if that’s in any way possible, so I can concentrate on my coffee and on revamping our magazine.”
She batted her eyes, slowly and seductively pulled off her dress, bulges be damned, and turned toward the bathroom. “As you wish, Mr. Fletcher. After all, you are the boss.”
Chapter 29
Fletcher poured himself a cup of coffee as he watched his new lover saunter into the bathroom and wondered exactly what he’d gotten himself into. She was gorgeous, passionate, smart, and sarcastic—really everything he’d ever craved in a woman. It was a dream come true. But. There was always a but.
Why no mention of attending the revival? Of her heartfelt confession on stage? And while he regretted that she had managed to wheedle her way into Mangel’s world, why not even the slightest clue about why she ran from his trailer yesterday morning?
And that middle name—Monaeka. How she must suffer, being forced to relive her guilt over her sister every time she jotted down her complete signature. What were her parents thinking, using the same moniker for both twins? So odd. Maybe it was a Chamorro thing.
But perhaps worse than the demons Camarin battled daily—a war he might soon have to help her win—was the struggle he was fighting within himself. He was at a crossroads, sacrificing everything, cautiously inching toward his goal. The last thing he needed was a woman in his life. Hell, he didn’t even have an apartment to call his own. Thank goodness she hadn’t asked why they’d spent the night in a hotel room instead of his place since he currently lived chez Hans and Austin.
And yet despite all the progress he’d made, here he stood, teetering on the brink of losing himself to her, something he had experienced only once before. It was frightening to be so vulnerable, so susceptible to someone else’s whims, their heartaches. He longed to again live a life spurred by joy rather than vindictiveness. Would Camarin ultimately prove to be his deliverance or his undoing?
He pictured her in the shower, the cascades of water tumbling over her firm, tan breasts, her ample hips, her shapely ass. Margaret might not approve of many of the choices he’d made lately, but this one, a woman as determined and headstrong as she? He believed she would consider Cam a worthy successor.
He set down his cup, fighting his impulse to interrupt her shower, take her a third time. Just to hear her gasp once again at the moment of release would carry him through his day. Halfway to the doorway, he heard the water turn off and froze, overwhelmed with disappointment. And then he remembered one of his favorite quotes from essayist and poet Ralph Waldo Emerson: Never lose an opportunity for seeing anything beautiful, for beauty is God’s handwriting. He pulled the towel from around his waist, reached for the door handle, and pushed it open. It was time to write some more poetry of their own.
Chapter 30
“You look like absolute shit.”
“Thanks, roomie. Missed you too.” Camarin walked past Annalise, ignoring her jibes as well as the hall mirror, and headed right for the Keurig. One cup, maybe two of Death Wish coffee, topped by a splash of skim milk, might revitalize her sufficiently to make it through the day. She grabbed her NYU Grad mug, placed it under the spout, and waited for black liquid salvation to come pouring out.
Annalise wandered into the kitchen and moved a pile of unpaid bills from one of their mismatched chairs onto the floor so she had a place to sit. Wearing a cutoff tee that barely covered her breasts, along with low-waisted, flannel pajama bottoms, navel ring exposed, she reminded Camarin of an edgier version of I Dream of Jeannie.
“You want to tell me how the weekend went?”
As Cam stood hypnotized by the sight of coffee filling her mug, she realized she no longer felt the need to confide in anyone regarding the Mangel fiasco. “It went, I guess. The Perri Evans thing fell flat. I wrote something, but Lyle thought it was a little too caustic.”
“Ah. So, that’s where you’ve been all night? Editing?”
Camarin twisted her mouth to the side. “Cute. Though I do believe I managed to erase a few question marks and replace them with an exclamation point or two.” She blew the rising steam from the brew as she took a seat beside her prosecutor.
“Ooh, grammar porn. I love it. The way you look this morning, you must have proofread the hell out of each other.”
Cam smiled and said nothing.
“Just keep him away from your colon, baby.”
“Ha, ha, ha,” she said as she took a swig of coffee. “I’m not too concerned. But there was one thing…”
“Ooh, intrigue. Tell me more.” Annalise leaned forward.
“I was in his wallet—”
“His wallet? I thought you were just interested in getting into his pants, but you really go the extra mile.”
She set her mug down and shot her roommate a reprimanding glance. “You wanna li
sten, or you want to write a comedy routine? I was getting money to tip room service. And I saw this picture. It was of his wedding.”
Her mouth dropped. “The fucker’s married?”
“No, he’s widowed. I’ve known that since the day I met him. It wasn’t the picture that bothered me. It was his wife’s face. She looked so familiar.”
“What did Google say?”
Camarin blinked. Some journalist. She’d fantasized about the guy for over a month, and she’d never thought to google him. Or maybe she’d subconsciously feared what she might find.
“What’s his name again? Lyle Fletcher?” Annalise typed the name into her cellphone, clicked on a link, and handed her the results.
Cam grabbed the Samsung away so quickly she even surprised herself. The headline, dating back sixteen years, read Margaret Waldman Weds Criminal Defense Attorney Lyle Fletcher. Of course, she thought, Margaret Waldman. No wonder the face looked so familiar. She’d watched her a thousand times on television years back.
She scanned the article quickly, picking out the key points, such as clues to Fletcher’s pedigree. Wealthy New England family. Yale undergrad, Juris Doctorate from Harvard. Law Review. She studied his photo. Though younger men weren’t her thing, she definitely would have done him.
Curiosity piqued, she searched under Margaret’s name. Thousands of results described her firing by the Lehming Brothers, owners of WRTX, and the ensuing lawsuit over age discrimination. Newspaper editorials discussing whether five pounds and five years should disqualify a crack journalist from reporting the nightly news. Oh my God, she and I were fighting the same fight. No wonder Fletcher reached out.
Camarin kept reading, heart pounding, unable to look away. The ultimate ruling against Waldman. Despite rival network execs condemning the decision, the former wunderkind unable to find work elsewhere. Reports of seclusion. Deep depression. And then—
Camarin gasped.
“What, what is it?”
