Six Flavours of Sin

by Poppet

  "What happened to your girlfriend?"

  He reacts as though I slapped him. He pulls away sharply and folds his arms. Outlining biceps and triceps. Gulp.

  "She's not interested."

  "Uh huh."

  "Stef ..."

  His voice chokes and I watch him fighting himself. He looks away, out of the window, as tears escape his simmering eyes. I'm already back, but I'm not going to make this easy. I can feel his magnetism from here. It's calling me. I can't resist the pull. I'm fighting myself as much as he's fighting his own weakness.

  He looks back, his shoulders moving with silent sobbing. "I'm sorry. I don't know how else to say it."

  I nod, and exchange my coffee for the fading cigarette in the ashtray on the table next to me. Nonchalantly, I demand, "Gary, we can't go back to the way we were. Things are going to have to change."

  I flick the ash and look up at his desperate expression. He nods enthusiastically.

  Waaaaayhaaaay! Finally, my opportunity for a few rules.

  I smile, I can't stop myself. I'm deriving a certain amount of pleasure from this one-eighty about-face turn.

  "My name is not ‘woman’. It's Stefanie."

  He nods.

  "If you ever go out, or are late, I will phone you and check up on you, even if it's two in the morning. If you don't answer, it's over. If I have to wait ten minutes to get hold of you, it's over."

  Ha! What a grim expression!

  "Okay."

  "And I want normal. Gary, you are going to take me out for dinner. I am not here to serve you. And it's time you stopped the weird shit. I can't do that anymore. I want love. I want to feel that you love me. If you love me, then make love to me. What we do isn't love, Gary. I need you to give me that."

  He nods. He's looking calmer. More confident.

  "And tell me you love me."

  "Why?"

  Oooh, that is so the wrong response. "Why?" Grrrr.

  My adrenalin has just overpowered the spell of his charisma. I grind out with unrestrained anger, "Because if you love someone, they need to hear it. How can I tell when you're lying to me if you never say it? Because you didn't love me when you went behind my back to fuck that teenager!"

  "I didn’t!"

  I glare at him in obvious disbelief and stand up, "I've got to go back to work."

  I'm not going to say goodbye because I seriously want to cry. I love this hateful bastard. He was the one that was in the wrong, not me. But somehow he can't own up and be a bloody man about it. I can't do this. I just can't.

  As I reach the open front door his voice reaches me, "Wait!"

  I stare at the freedom waiting for me beyond the door. Blue sky. The sun is out. I hear birds and traffic. I want to claw and cry. I want to give him my grief. I want him to see my pain, but my pride is ingrained. The stiff upper lip. I take a deep breath and swivel to face him. When in doubt, feel anger. It's the only thing holding me together right now.

  He's standing, his face alarmed.

  "Please believe me. I never got that far with her."

  Why do I believe him? Because I want to? Or because he's telling the truth?

  He covers the distance between us in three steps. Shit. He's so close I can feel the heat emanating from his body. It's like standing too close to an open flame. You just know you're going to catch fire. And the fire-starter is the only fireman with the equipment to put it out.

  "I love you. I didn't think I had to say it. I thought you knew. I try to show you, not tell you. I thought it would mean more that way."

  A hand reaches for mine and holds it. It's a gentle hand, imbuing a loving touch. It dissolves my resolve, and my own tears finally escape the prison of my pride. He pulls me into his chest and wraps caressing arms around me. Human fusion. It's basic chemistry. Just as hydrogen wants, and can't help, to bond to oxygen, so my body just bonds with his. I feel home. I feel comfort. I feel that I belong here. It's the only place I want to be. I react to him. He is a catalyst for me, he always has been. From the day I laid my naive eyes on him in a kitchen in a stranger's house, I react to him this way. A catalyst usually induces heat and a chemical reaction. More often than not, an explosion. I wallow in his arms; his scent; his heat. My body is oscillating to the point of dissolving. The carnal pyre is consuming my intelligence.

  He pulls away, bends his head and kisses me. It's tantalising and excruciating. I have never experienced such tenderness from Gary. I wrap my arms around his neck and get my fill of body length touching, moulding, melting.

  Hot tears smudge my forehead. He's crying again. "Stefanie, I need you."

  I need you too, asshole.

  Hot breath against my ear, "I love you. I didn't know how much, until you were gone. I can't do this without you."

  I mumble, as my composure crumbles, and I finally squeeze him tightly against me, "I love you. Gary, you really hurt me."

  Gentle hands caress my hair, "I'm sorry. I know I was wrong."

  I pull away and stare up at him, inside his loose encircling arms. His eyelashes are saturated.

  His hoarse, convincing, voice tells me what a gullible wench needs to hear, "I'll never do that again. I don't know what came over me. I wasn't myself."

  Game, set, match.

  I don't get it, do I? He’s just won again.

  Chapter 17

  I Want you Back

  While he makes me more coffee – (what can I say? I'm revelling in this indulgence) – I comment casually, "If this is going to work, I'll wear whatever I want to and spend my own money."

  His eyes swivel to mine, drawing his attention away from the task of dunking his tea-bag, "Okay."

  (Get your mind out of the gutter! It's not the tea bag; it's him making a cup of tea. Hahaha.)

  He must really want me back. Gary is just agreeing to everything I throw at him … (oh … and I think I need a Lamborghini Gallardo.)

  I sashay back to the sitting room and light myself a new smoke. Exhaling slowly, I examine the room. He's kept this place cleaner than a hospital. Hmm. I am impressed.

  He places a steaming mug next to my chair and presses play on the remote. My favourite band infiltrates the room softly. Oookay, he's seriously trying here. Even I must be impressed. I've known him for years and in one day I get music, flowers, a soft toy, a mystery box in the shower and an apology.

  I glance at the window, wondering if it's going to snow. Maybe a tornado? Surely a balance has just been tipped somewhere?

  His hand blocks my reverie. I stare at the box.

  "Open it."

  There is an excited thrill drumming through me. The same feeling you get when you're five years old and it's Christmas morning. I take the box and peek in. Still not completely sure it won't hold a scorpion ready to sting me. Gold. Ooooooohh! (Move over Liberace, here comes Stef!) I take out a gold bracelet, examine it with as much disinterest as I can muster and replace it. A smirk is tugging at the corners of my mouth. We need to break up more often.

  "Thank you."

  I stare at the card, gold bracelet and soft toy. DING. "Who helped you?"

  A wry grin morphs his austere expression into, Mr Cute-can-I-just-jump-your-bones, "Kristy and Cindy."

  Haha! Yay. You had to drop your pride and ask for help. Now I feel better than Brad Pit when Angelina said yes to having his baby.

  His hopeful expression twinges the heart strings. This day has turned it into heart macramé. "Do you like them?"

  I smile with genuine warmth back, "Yes." I fall into his eyes with my own, "I know you went to a lot of effort. It means a lot to me." As I melt into his irises, I notice puddles forming beneath them.

  "I fucked up. I really fucked up."

  I love this endless confessional. Maybe next time we play dress up I should wear a Catholic priest's outfit. Gigglemania. Sweet sigh. I have waited for a day like today for years. I had given up hope. Lesson? Never give up hope.

  "Can I make you something to eat?"

  My manicure
d eyebrows divorce my face. "Really?"

  He gives me a bone rubberising grin, "I've learned how to cook."

  Okay, you win. I'm definitely in.

  At approximately quarter past four that afternoon, he pulls my engagement ring out of his pocket. We've been teasing, joking, laughing and bonding, all afternoon. It's been glorious. But my heart stops for at least three seconds as I stare at the ring he's holding out to me. Suddenly wound tighter than Big Ben, I gulp in apprehension.

  "Babes, please wear this. You're my woman."

  My gaze moves from the bondage ring to his eyes, "I'm not ready. I think we should date for a while."

  Instantly, he looks angry, (just add water). I'm waiting for the tongue lashing. His warm eyes are doused with cold. He puts it down on the coffee table. "Stefanie, I want you back. I'm going to try to respect your wishes."

  Phew! My heart is racing. I want him as desperately as he wants me, but I'm just not sure I can face being his slave again.

  "Are you moving back?"

  Crikey. No. Actually, why the hell should I? Work for this cute ass and my phone voice, Gary. Work for it!

  "Not yet. "I smile. I feel better than Bridget Jones

  (Haha! He's going to have to cook me at least three meals before I'll even spend the night. And I'm going to be spending like today is my last day.)

  Chapter 18

  Saturdays do Change

  I have to admit the first couple of dates were awkward. If he picked me up from work, everyone stared at him with transparent, undisguised hate. He now knew where Selene lived and she just glared at him every time she saw him. But when it comes to Gary, I am blind. They say that love is blind, and the only thing I cared about was the cane that kept me mobile in the dark. He made me dinner every night. He wanted me and didn't want to share me with another human being. I just thought it was adoration, a man salvaging an old flame with every free moment he had.

  He teased, he joked, he made me laugh. On Saturday night he took me out for dinner. He held my hand, and he constantly reiterated that he loved me, needed me, needed me, needed me and wanted me back.

  In the elevator on the way to the parking garages, after a good meal at a decent restaurant, he held me close. I leaned against him, enjoying his solid strength and warmth.

  "Come home for coffee."

  Swoon. I love it when he speaks intimately into my ear that way. Slightly tipsy, I murmur into his neck, "Okay."

  The tanned arm around my shoulders tightens and I feel his smile. "My woman." It's a statement laced with pleasure. I sense it and wallow in it.

  His possessiveness is flattering. I feel needed, coveted, special, when he says things like that. It feels good to belong.

  It's like old times when my body helps to close the front door. A hand on either side of me, pinning me to the door. His fervent kiss flips the switch he installed. My nipples are straining toward him and I can hardly breathe.

  Cue: Understand ... my life would have no soundtrack if Andy Chester didn't exist.

  Be my lady and I'll be your man, ooh understand. I know it's hard to believe that a man can be trusted, but a home can be busted, if you don't try. Listen to me baby, not to your friends, oooh all this ends...

  My quivering breath betrays me, and he smiles a cocksure smile before swaggering his sexy ass into the kitchen. I lean heavily against the door frame and watch him deftly making coffee. I'm fighting the heat quickening through me. I’m weak and shaky.

  His eyes trace my body and he drops the teaspoon. I stand up straight as he covers the space between us and holds my chin, "I want you."

  Oh God. My spine is turning into a piece of string. One of his hands covers my left breast and I know he can feel my nipple betraying me.

  His stubble scars a trail down my neck, disengaging my brain. "I want to fuck you ... please ...?"

  I answer by slipping my hands under his shirt. My body is turning into an electrical storm. Somehow, walking backwards towards our prison called a bedroom, he and I both lose every shred of clothing. It's a bit of a blur. All I am is breathing. Deep, quivering, shaking, tingling, breaths.

  I am more nervous than I was as a young, gullible, nineteen year old. My lungs are constricting. Gasping. I need air. I'm horribly self-conscious. I want his approval. I close my eyes. (Please don't reject me now.)

  A moan breaks free from me unexpectedly as his hot mouth covers my nipple. I fall freely with him onto the bed and try not to think about who else has been on this bed lately. His knee moves my legs apart. I'm so dizzy with shortness of breath. I'm terrified. I need him, hate him, want him, love him. My warlock spellbinds me with his staff.

  Gary's presence, heat, passionate eyes that always contain a measure of mischief, are my aphrodisiacs. We've never done foreplay. We've never needed to. Just thinking about Gary saturates my black lace g-string with anticipation.

  So, lying naked with him hovering above me, sliding his warm tongue over my skin, I am wanton! I wrap my legs around his. Needing, pulling him closer. Finally I open my eyes and stare into his deep blue ones. Touched, I feel the prickle of tears. Gary masks his feelings. He keeps them close. But the tenderness mingling with passion ... I'm done for.

  The universe stops moving. Gary knows the tunnel of love like the back of his hand. And I'm sailing down it in a dreamlike stupor with the sensation overload he's bombarding me with. Coherent thought, speech, logic, all normal nervous system functions just shut down. My body is a mass of nerve endings singing, tingling, exploding. It's disturbingly too close to an out of body experience. (Am I alive?) It takes me a while for my vision to return. I focus on him. He pouts his lips as he sits back and stares at me. I smile shyly back.

  His hands explore my body as his head returns to kiss my lips. Tender kissing. Gentle caressing.

  Who are you?

  The thing normal people don't understand, is what it's like being addicted to sex. Many wonder where the addiction lies. I'm going to try to explain it to you.

  The more frequently you engage in it, the easier you are turned on. The more acute the sensation becomes. If you engage repeatedly with a drink break, smoke break, music change break and go back for another swing in the ring, it happens faster and each pinnacle is better than the last. (The higher the highs.)

  Until all you are is carnal, savage, instinctual, driven by nerve endings, tastes, smells, sensations. You stop when your legs can no longer hold you up and your arms shake in weakness.

  I am used to silence between myself and Gary. He doesn't use words, he uses actions. I could scream after he takes me down the pleasure ride three more times. Breathless, I force my eyes to focus on him as I link my fingers through his. "What about you?"

  "Are you impressed?"

  I smile. He's so desperate for approval that I feel stupid for being desperate for his. "No."

  I watch the pleasure erase off his face, replaced with anxiety.

  I giggle deliriously, "I'm teasing you! How could I not be?"

  He leans over me again, my nerve endings react and my breathing wants to shut down, "I know how you did it. Now I can go as long as you want me to."

  No. No more. There's only so much my body can handle in one sitting.

  I catch him off guard as I flip his body over. I sit on his thighs as I snake my tongue up his torso, "My turn!" His hands reach for me and I grab them and hold them down with all of the energy I can muster.

  I returned the carnal pleasure trip. I gave him as many as he gave me, between drinking from his lips, living on his breath, tasting his skin, wallowing in his heat. I'm home. I treasure the gifts. A part of him is inside me. A gift from his body to mine. Am I the only one to think that this is a precious gift? He has showered me with attention, adoration, tenderness, affection and pleasure. I collapse against him and hold on, my cheek against the golden hairs on his chest. I treasure this man. His name is tattooed on my heart.

  A languid hand moves my long hair. His voice is velvet. It covers me with aff
ection, keeping me warm, "I love you, Woman."

  So, he slipped up. Old habits die hard. I lift my head and meet his eyes. He means it. His despair is obvious. His remorse plain.

  "You know I love you. But if you ever smack my ass again, I'll castrate you."

  He laughs. I think he's relieved he got away with calling me ‘woman’.

  I sit up and stare down at him. I'm alive again.

  His hands move up me and I'm enjoying feeling owned. He really does have a magical touch.

  "Move back. I miss you."

  He lifts one of my hands and tugs it to his lips. (Shit! I'm horny again.) I nod. I cannot resist this man. He made love to me. It wasn't a game. It wasn't about power. It was pure bonding.

  Smiling, I whisper, "Again."

  Chapter 19

  Enter Neville

  Selene was obviously disapproving when I let her know I wouldn't be home.

  Sunday morning was the enchanting dance of a couple making breakfast together in the kitchen, for the first time in their long history. Between kisses, smiles and chuckling. The gloating kind. We were both high. I was high on him, he was high on me.

  So tell me ... why does that feel so good? We'd just entered the giggly, happy, early stages, all over again. He's so easy to fall for, and I'm falling all over again.

  But, I had no idea that when it comes to falling, I'm a novice. Nooooo sir! Because, as I sit on the floor after breakfast, rifling through CDs and putting them into the player –(carte blanche feels soooo groovy)– the doorbell rings.

  I mean, come on! I have pouty swollen lips from all the kissing I've been doing. I'm still radiating afterglow from my trip to a location called ‘ecstatic delight’, closely related to Turkish delight but different, so I guess it's possible that I'm looking alluring.