by Lisa Cach
She reached down and helped guide him to her entrance. He pressed into her and after a moment of blunt pressure she felt herself open to accept him, the hard width of him forcing its way inside. It was what she'd been yearning for in all her lonely nights, and the first moments were almost enough to send her over the edge.
He entered with short thrusts, going deeper into her each time, her moisture easing his way. But as he stretched her, discomfort slipped in alongside her pleasure. It had been so long since she'd had sex, her body was no longer used to stretching to accept a man. But her body was still ready for pleasure; still seeking it; and she wrapped her legs around his waist and held on, urging him onward.
Supporting himself on his arms, he looked down at her as if asking for permission, his face tense with passion.
"Go for it," she whispered.
He went for it. He lowered himself to his forearms, holding her shoulders to keep her from being rocked against the brass bars of the headboard as he thrust like his life depended on it. She wrapped her arms around him and clawed gently at his back as he took her. His face was beside hers and she could hear and feel his breath near her ear. Sweat stuck their skin together, her thighs against his sides, his chest against her breasts.
The discomfort had lessened and she now felt nothing but the force of his passion; then thrust by thrust, the pleasure began to return. Just a tickle; a tease of excitement deep within her. A spot that his manhood stroked, bringing it slowly to life.
She clung to him more tighdy and rocked her hips against him, trying to steal more of that faint pleasure. She tightened her inner muscles.
"Oh God, Emma," he said on a breath, his motions slowing, his whole body tensing.
No, not yet! she silently begged. Just when she was starting to enjoy it again!
One more thrust and then he was gripping her shoulders, and through the sensitive flesh at her entrance she felt the throb of his orgasm.
Dammit! Dammit dammit dammit!
He eased gently down on top of her, his body relaxing.
"It's okay, I can take your weight," she whispered, sensing that he was holding himself partly off her.
"Are you sure?"
She nodded, and was rewarded with his body heavy against her own. She closed her eyes, her arms still around him. She unwrapped her legs from his waist and lowered them, shaking with weariness, to the mattress. She gently stroked his back with her fingertips, as if soothing him to sleep.
"You didn't get your turn," he said.
It took her a moment to understand what he meant. "That's not what this is about. I'm here to please you."
He didn't answer, and she didn't know if he liked what she'd said or if it had reminded him too much of their arrangement.
"I'm crushing you," he said softly.
"No. I like it." She meant it, too. She liked the weight of him; liked being pinned beneath him, his member still embedded inside her. She felt vulnerable and protected all at once. It might not be an orgasm, but it gave her satisfaction to have him there.
They stayed that way for a short time longer and then he shifted, and they carefully disengaged their bodies. Emma cursed herself for having forgotten to have a towel ready, and grabbed the sheet from the bottom of the bed to put into makeshift use.
"You can take a shower if you'd like," she said.
He stood beside the bed, his staff still rigid. Til just clean myself up a bit," he said, and gathered his clothes, carrying them with him to the bathroom, his nakedness looking a bit awkward now; almost embarrassing, now that the passion had been spent.
Emma found her robe and threw it on, then started to clean up. The bowl of pudding went to the kitchen, the sheets were stripped, the candles were snuffed, the fishnets and maid's cap taken off. It would be more romantic to leave it all in place until he was gone, but her nervousness was returning. How did one say good night to one's lover/ employer?
If he were her boyfriend he wouldn't be leaving at all, but would snuggle with her on the couch, eating ice cream and watching TV. He wouldn't be getting dressed and driving home, leaving her with dishes and laundry, an empty bed and a flush Visa card.
Russ used a washcloth to clean himself up and quickly got dressed in the bathroom. A glance in the mirror revealed mussed hair and a smear of pudding on his cheek. He washed it off and used wet hands to smooth his hair.
Emma's comb was on the counter, but to use it would be too intimate.
He breathed a laugh at that. Too intimate to use her comb without permission, after what they'd just done?
And yet it was true, and he dressed without using any of her things beyond the washcloth, which he tossed into her hamper. When he finished dressing he glanced around the small room, at the embroidered details on the shower curtain; at the porcelain toothbrush holder; at the framed series of small black-and-white photos of various foreign toilets. A bit of her humor there, he thought.
He glanced around once more, remembering the noises she had made before coming to the bedroom. What had she been doing? There was no clue to the mystery, and he couldn't ask her.
He left the bathroom and found her in the kitchen, wearing a silky floral robe and loading the dishwasher. The bright overhead light and the homely chore dispelled whatever lingering hint of romantic intimacy there might have been, and he felt he had overstayed himself already.
"I'll be going, then," he said, feeling exposed and vaguely ashamed of himself.
She straightened and turned around, holding a dirty dish in one hand and a too-cheerful smile on her lips. "Oh, okay! I hope that tonight… Well, you know. That it was what you were hoping for. Was it okay?"
Christ. She was asking for a performance evaluation.
"Everything was wonderful. You obviously put a lot of thought and hard work into it." He grimaced at his own words. "I mean, into the meal. Into the other bit as well." He snapped his lips shut before he could dig himself in any deeper.
"I'm glad you liked it. The meal, I mean. And the rest." She bit her lip, then her eyes widened. "Oh, I almost forgot!" She grabbed two plastic containers off the counter and thrust them at him. "Leftovers, if you want them."
"You don't?"
She shrugged. "I can cook. You can't. Besides, I still have the ice cream."
He accepted the containers. "Thanks. This should last me through the weekend."
"Good." She smiled, and a silent moment stretched between them. "I'll-" she started.
"I'll-" he said at the same time, and stopped. "You first."
"I was just going to say, Til see you Monday, then?' Same time?"
"Yes."
"Great!"
They went to the door together and there was another moment of tense awkwardness. "Good night, then," he said.
"Yes, good night."
He opened the door and looked back at her, trying to read her expression. Trying to see if she wanted a goodnight kiss, or if she just wanted him gone. He couldn't tell.
"Sleep well," he said, and then gestured to the containers. "And thanks."
"You're welcome. Drive safe."
"Good night."
" 'Night."
He turned and walked down the corridor, and heard her gently close the door to the apartment.
When he was back in his car and driving home, his brain began to torment him with self-doubt as he mentally replayed the events. He'd bored her at dinner; he'd been stiff and awkward in conversation and action; he hadn't given her an orgasm.
He felt the burn of embarrassment on his face. He hadn't given her an orgasm.
Maybe she hadn't enjoyed any of it. Maybe the moans and writhing had all been for show, to make him feel good about his prowess. He'd never been with a woman who made so much noise. "Vm here to please you," she'd said. Maybe writhers and moaners existed only in the land of make-believe.
Ah, Christ. He'd just had the most surprising, most erotic, most weirdly exciting sex of his life, and all he could think was that she probably hadn't enjoye
d a bit of it. She'd probably been imagining herself anywhere but in bed with him, her mind a thousand miles away. He may as well have been masturbating.
This was no way for a man with self-respect to entertain himself. He'd call her tomorrow and end it.
Chapter Seven
1 can't believe you lucked into this place so fast," Daphne said, rinding a spot on the windowsill for the plant she'd brought as a housewarming gift.
"God, I'm envious," Emma's friend Beth said, from the futon couch that was the only piece of furniture in the living area. "You're single, thin, and living in a posh apartment in Belltown."
"Don't give me that. I remember how loud and long you moaned about being single. You couldn't wait to get married and pregnant and move to the burbs."
Beth put her hands on her eighth-month belly and made a face. "That was before I knew what was in store for me, or that Ty was only pretending to know how to use a washing machine. Do you know, he leaves his dirty clothes all over the house. You'd think a grown man would know better than to take off clothes at random and drop them on the floor. I'm pregnant, for God's sake! Does he think it's easy for me to bend down and pick them up? It's frickin' impossible!"
"You'd better take her out to lunch," Daphne said in a stage whisper. "Blood sugar. Dangerously low."
"Just you wait," Beth said. "Derek will be just as bad. Oh, they pretend to cook for themselves and to keep their bathroom clean before you're legally bound to them, but the moment they've got you locked up in their pumpkin shell, there they keep you very well!" She angrily plucked at the fringe on the pillow.
"What happened to the glow of pregnancy?" Emma asked.
"Fuck the glow! It's a fucking lie!" Beth started to cry.
Emma and Daphne exchanged wide-eyed glances; then both went to sit on either side of Beth and comfort her.
"It's nothing like I thought it would be," Beth said, wiping at her running nose with the back of her hand and snuffling. "Everything on TV makes it look so lovely and beautiful and like it's going to be the best thing in the world. They don't tell you what's going to happen to your body. They don't tell you that you can hardly breathe, or sleep at night, or that you have to pee every ten minutes. They don't tell you that you can't stay awake for more than a few hours, or that your emotions get all wonky so that you start crying for no flippin' reason. They don't tell you that you'll be frickin' scared to death about everything that could go wrong, and that your husband will just say, 'You worry too much. Women drop babies in rice paddies in China all the time and just keep on working, no problem. You'll be fine.' I'm not a fucking farmer in a rice paddy! I'll bet they're just as pissed off at their husbands, anyway! Who leaves a woman to give birth in a rice paddy?"
Beth snuffled. "I haven't even chosen a theme yet for the baby's room. What type of mother am I?"
Emma wrapped her arms around her and gave her a hug. "Maybe a normal one."
Beth sniffled. "You think so?"
Daphne's cell phone rang, playing a snippet of The Rolling Stones's "You Can't Always Get What You Want." "Hi, sweetie! Yeah, I'm about done here…" Her voice faded out as she went into the other room to finish her conversation.
"Are things really so bad?" Emma asked Beth.
Beth shrugged. "I don't know. I can't tell anymore. It's like I have the worst case of PMS ever, times ten. It messes up my perspective, but I swear, Ty doesn't understand anything about what I'm going through."
"Ty adores you."
"I think he's afraid of me." Beth smiled through her tears. "For good reason, maybe. The happy woman he married has turned into a lunatic." Her smile faded. "And the tender, affectionate man I married has turned into someone who plays deaf if I try to talk during a 'big moment' in a ball game on TV."
"Oh."
"Yeah. I make him pay for that, though," Beth said darkly.
Daphne emerged from the other room. "I gotta run. I'm meeting Derek at his house and then we're going furniture shopping. Woo hoo! He knows I hate his black leather sofa, and I love how he's making compromises for me."
"It's sounding pretty serious," Emma said. "How much have you guys been talking about the future?"
Daphne's grin wavered only the faintest bit. "Oh, it's too soon to get into that."
Emma and Beth exchanged a quick, silent look, but Daphne caught it. "What?! I'm not going to rush him! I don't want to scare him off. This is a big step as it is, moving in together."
"Just as long as you're both on the same page about what you want for the future," Emma said.
Beth added, "You've talked about whether he'd like to be married eventually and have kids, haven't you?"
"It's too soon!" Daphne insisted. "Asking me to live with him is a huge step, and I don't think he would have taken it if he didn't see a future for us."
Emma put up her hands in surrender. "Okay, okay, you know him a lot better than either of us do. I'll be here if you need me, but I know you're confident you won't."
"Thanks for the thought." Daphne came over to give Emma a hug. "I'm going to miss living with you. You'll come over to our place for dinner sometime, won't you?"
"Sure. And you can come down here and we'll go shopping and have lunch."
"Okay."
Daphne said her good-byes to Beth and then left.
"I hope that works out as well as she hopes," Beth said.
"Daphne and Derek?" At Beth's nod Emma shrugged. "I guess I hope so, too."
"You don't like Derek?"
"I don't know. There's nothing wrong with him, really, except that he strikes me as kind of dim. No imagination. But maybe Daphne doesn't mind that."
"Who can tell what type of partner is right for someone else? We can't even judge that for ourselves. Speaking of which! What's the full story on this apartment and the guy who owns it, huh?"
Emma felt her cheeks redden. "Why should my getting this apartment have anything to do with romance?"
Beth raised a brow. "No way you can afford this place on your own. Belltown is muy trendy, and trendy means bucks. So come on, spill! Or better yet, let's go have lunch and then you can spill over the food. I'm starving! But let me go to the bathroom first."
There was no shortage of restaurants in Belltown, and the apartment was within walking distance of both tourist-choked Pike Place Market and the main shopping district in the center of the city, home to upscale malls, department stores, and boutiques. They decided on a bistro a block and a half from the apartment and settled into a booth by the window, where the spring sunlight could warm their skin.
Two baskets full of bread, a bowl of lobster bisque, and another bathroom trip later, Beth put down her spoon and sighed. "Ohhh, that's better."
"You're not going to have room for your entree."
"Ha-watch me. But now, tell me what's up with the apartment."
Emma played with the remains of her salad, driving a candied pecan through an oil slick of balsamic vinaigrette. For the past twenty minutes she'd been debating how much to tell Beth, trying to guess her reaction if she heard the whole truth.
"Like I said, the apartment belongs to a rich man whose house I was cleaning. It's been empty for a few months; he hasn't had time to find a tenant and he thinks he wants to sell the place soon, so he's letting me stay there for a very reasonable price."
Beth gnawed a crust of bread. "Mm-hm. And is he single?"
"Well, yeah," Emma conceded.
"How old?"
Emma shifted in her seat. "Thirty-six."
"Good-looking?"
"Maybe."
"Uh-huh.Isee."
Emma met her eyes, trying to keep hers innocent. "You see what?"
"Has he made a pass at you?"
"Maybe." A smile pulled at the corner of her mouth. "And it's not like I haven't wanted to lay my hands on his fine ass."
"Emma!"
"What?!"
"Naughty girl." Beth grinned. "You want him, don't you?"
Emma shrugged.
"He must w
ant you, too. Why else would he let you have the apartment? I bet he's going to make excuses to stop by and 'see how you're doing.' He'll bring instructions to the microwave or pretend there's a leak in the bathroom faucet."
"He hardly needs to make excuses. I offered to make him dinner whenever he wants."
"Emma!"
"There's nothing wrong with making him dinner."
"Of course there's not. I'm just surprised. I've never known you to make a move on a guy."
"They say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach." Emma grinned.
Beth snorted. "I think there's another organ that takes priority. But you're a fabulous cook, and men love food. Have you ever thought about going into catering?"
"No," she said, glad to change the topic. "Being a personal chef crossed my mind, but I'm not going to pursue it for fear of getting sidetracked from architecture." A faint thought flitted through her mind, a distant sense that the pieces of her puzzle had not been put together correctly. She'd offered to cook for Russ the first time she met him…
"Makes sense, I guess," Beth said. "But back to your love slave: I never knew you were attracted to older guys."
The thought Emma had been trying to capture dissipated as she switched her attention to Beth's comment. "He doesn't seem older, except that he doesn't walk around with a baseball cap on sideways, doesn't wear a gold chain around his neck, and I can't imagine him sitting around with his buddies drinking beer and talking about how 'hot' some girl is."
"Since when do guys grow out of that?"
Emma shrugged. "He just doesn't seem that way. He drives a hybrid, for God's sake. Granted, a Lexus high-performance hybrid, but still a hybrid."
"That means nothing. Hybrids are status symbols now: they say, "I'm smart enough to care about the environment, and rich enough to act on it." And a Lexus performance car screams, 'I have money. Fuck me!' Granted, it screams it in a more gentlemanly manner than a Porsche, but it's the same thing."
"So what if he is looking for sex? It's not like I don't want that myself."
