One And Done

by Cynthia Sax

“Stop that.” He ravishes my mouth.

  I murmur again. Because Smoke is right. I can be a bitch when I want to be.

  “Ugh.” He makes a strangled sound. “I can’t hold back.”

  I suck him harder.

  “I’m coming, baby. Where do you—?”

  I slap his shaft with my tongue and he bellows, shooting hot cum down my throat, bathing me in his essence. I swallow again and again, greedily milking him dry as he shakes against me.

  “Fuck.” Smoke falls to his knees and burrows his face between my cloth-covered breasts. He wraps his arms around my body, keeping me upright. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” He shudders, his shoulders shaking.

  I stroke his back, his black blazer and gray silk shirt concealing his scars. “I’m pretty good at blow jobs, huh?”

  “Hell no. Your technique is all over the damn place,” he mumbles against my chest. “You’re enthusiastic, I have to give you that, but you have no fuckin’ clue what you’re doing.”

  “Oh.” I had no idea I was that bad.

  “You’ll be sucking my dick at least once a day until you get it right.”

  He wants to do this again, to see me tomorrow, and maybe the day after that. I smile. “If you insist.” I hold him.

  “I do.” Smoke rests against me, his breath wafting against my skin. His tremors stop. His form becomes still. His muscles loosen.

  I pet him, cherishing the quiet, the calm after the storm. He needs me, and I need him.

  For more than sex. This isn’t merely physical attraction. He’s seen a piece of my soul, revealed to me an equally secret part of him. We’re connected.

  “Thank you, Jenella.” Smoke’s voice is muffled against my curves.

  I thread my fingers through his ink-black hair. “For the blow job?”

  Moments pass.

  “For not letting go,” my tortured man finally whispers, his answer tearing at my heart.

  Chapter Twenty

  We hold each other for several minutes. Then there’s a knock on the door and Smoke has to return to work.

  Although the club closes at two, it takes employees another couple of hours to close tills, clean up, cash deposits. I volunteer to help. Smoke turns me down.

  I don’t argue. He needs me but he’ll come to that realization eventually. I won’t fight him on his decision.

  He’s been through enough today. I gaze at the shelves lining the wall behind his desk. Yesterday, they had been fully stocked with beautiful liquor bottles. Now, the shelves are half empty, the scent of alcohol and sex hanging in the air.

  There’s no need to question Smoke. I know what happened. Thinking our relationship had ended, he’d grieved the only way he knew how, by smashing things.

  My player cares for me.

  I curl up on one of his couches, that thought warming my soul.

  My head lowers to the leather cushion. My eyes close.

  I can’t recall my entire dream. I remember falling, thrashing my arms and legs, reaching for something, anything to grasp onto. My fingers close around warmth and I hang on for dear life.

  “Motherfucker.” A blood-curdling bellow wakes me. “Are you trying to castrate me?” Smoke detaches my right hand from his cloth-covered groin. “Those are my balls you’re squeezing the hell out of.”

  “Sorry.” I turn within the circle of his arms. He rubs his crotch. I help him with the task, enjoying the length and width of him. “I had one of those falling dreams.”

  His eyes soften, his anger dissipating. “Were you scared?” He removes my hands from his hardening cock and hugs me closer to him.

  “Yes.” I splay my fingers over his chest, the silk decadent under my palms. “But I’m not scared anymore.”

  “Because my balls saved you.” Smoke’s lips twitch. “According to Freud, a falling dream means you’re about to give in to a sexual impulse.”

  “Why am I not surprised you believe my dream was about sex?” I laugh. “You’re insatiable.”

  “I’m out of commission for a while, thanks to that grip of yours.” He bounces off the couch. “Let me play you something.”

  Smoke touches a wall panel. It opens, revealing a collection of albums. He selects one, removes the record from the sleeve, puts it on the turntable, drops the needle.

  “You’re playing vinyl?” I expected something more modern.

  “The sound quality can’t be matched.” He returns to my side. Music fills the room. “Dance with me.” He holds out his hand.

  I almost quip that I have no rhythm, that he’s putting himself in danger by asking, but then I notice his fingers are shaking. This dance means something to him.

  “I’d love to.” I slide my palm into his and allow him to draw me to my feet.

  Smoke clasps my right hand, hooks his other arm around me, and pulls me to him. He’s warm, smells delicious, is solid against my curves.

  We move, my body instinctually following his, the connection between us a living, breathing thing. I rest my cheek against his and listen to the beat, to the lyrics. The words sound familiar.

  “I know this song.” I smile up at him. “Were you named after it?”

  He nods. “Smoke Gets In Your Eyes was my parents’ favorite song.”

  They had a song. Smoke turns me, moving me around the room. He gets his love of music from his parents. “Did they play it often?”

  “Yeah.” His gaze loses focus, his eyes softening. “Late at night, I’d sneak out of bed, slip downstairs, and watch them dance to it. They’d sway in time to the music, cheek to cheek, their arms wrapped around each other.”

  As we’re doing right now. “They loved each other.”

  His head dips.

  We dance, our bodies entwined, our breathing in sync. He doesn’t have to say more, doesn’t have to say he cares for me.

  I know the memory of his parents dancing is special for him, that he protects it, not sharing it with many people. Yet he revealed this part of himself to me.

  The song ends. We continue to dance, moving to our own beat, our own music. Smoke nuzzles against my neck. I tilt my head to give him more skin to ravish.

  I wish I could stay here with him forever.

  That’s not possible.

  “Fuck.” He sighs, his breath wafting over me. “We should leave.”

  “We should.” I have that brunch tomorrow with Edward and his mother.

  Smoke steps back, removing his delicious heat. “Let me drive you home.”

  I smooth down my skirt. “Has Bruiser already left?” His number-one employee normally delivers me to the apartment building.

  “I doubt it. The man’s always here.” Smoke links his fingers with mine, pressing our palms together. “But both of us are off the clock and we can do whatever we damn well please. I want to drive my beautiful yet stubborn-as-hell woman home.”

  He called me his woman.

  Stunned, I follow Smoke through the club. This mind-blowing statement from my commitment-shy player is the equivalent of another man’s declaration of deep and abiding love.

  Bruiser isn’t the only employee lingering in the club. Heads pop into the hallway. Gazes track our movements. They were all family-less like the boss, Bruiser had said.

  Smoke gives them a home. I squeeze his hand.

  He squeezes back and opens the door to the parking lot. The air is warm, scented with car fumes. I gaze up at the sky. The streetlights conceal the stars.

  I slow my pace and Smoke does the same. His breathing grows ragged. His shoulders creep upward.

  We’re moving too fast for him. He’s on the verge of freaking out again and I can’t have that. “I read that kissing burns five calories a minute. Do you want to work out?”

  A grin spreads across his countenance. “That was bad.”

  “I’m learning from the master.” I smile. “Your hand looks heavy.” I lift it. “Let me hold it for you.” I smack my lips against his knuckles.

  “That was worse.” He folds me into his body as
he laughs, his chest shaking against mine. “What am I going to do with you, baby?”

  I capture his beautiful face between my hands. “You’re going to do whatever you want.” I hold his gaze. “We’ll take this one minute at a time, player.”

  Smoke brushes his lips over mine, his flesh tantalizingly firm. “I think I can manage one day at a time.”

  I don’t think he can. “There’s no need to manage that.” I dance away from him, pulling him toward his car. “I don’t mind living in the now. I’ve never done that before.”

  “I’ve never done anything else.” Smoke twirls me in a circle. I laugh, dizzy on life and love. This handsome man is mine for the moment, perhaps for longer.

  He helps me into the Lamborghini, fills the seat beside me and we drive, the windows down, the music blasting. I feel young and free and happy, lighter than I’ve felt for years.

  Laugh lines feather the skin around Smoke’s eyes. His smile is wide and genuine. The collar of his silk shirt flutters in the wind.

  Pedestrians turn their heads as we pass them. Their expressions are envious. They want to be us, to be me.

  All I want is to be with Smoke, my commitment-shy man.

  The drive ends too soon for my liking. Smoke parks the car in front of the apartment, exits the vehicle, pries me out of my seat.

  “It’s late.” He continues to hold my hands in his, gazing down at me. “I’d walk you up.” He shifts his weight from his right foot to his left. “But—”

  I press one of my index fingers against his lips, stopping his sure-to-be lame ass excuse. “No buts required. We’re taking this one minute at a time, remember?”

  “Yeah.” Smoke sucks on my fingertips and my eyelashes lower. The pressure of his mouth is exactly right, sending a tugging sensation to my pussy. He sucks and releases, sucks and releases.

  God. He knows how to drive me crazy. “If you continue that, you’ll have to walk me up. I’ll need you so much; I won’t be able to let you go.”

  “Anticipation is always the best aphrodisiac.” He chuckles as he steps away from me. “Dream of me tonight, baby.”

  “Do I have a choice?” I enter the building, knowing he’ll be all I fantasize about.

  ***

  The next morning, I debate whether or not to tell Smoke about today’s brunch with Edward and his mother. Yes, we’re taking our relationship one minute at a time, but we’re still in a relationship.

  A man would want to know if his woman was seeing her ex.

  Taking a risk, I text Smoke.

 

  I wait and wait and wait. Smoke doesn’t respond to my text. I don a pastel-pink suit and head to the hotel Edward’s mother always eats brunch in.

  During the trip, I worry about my text to Smoke. I could have ruined everything, pushing him too hard.

  Or

  Maybe he doesn’t care and I’m putting too much emphasis on the situation and on our relationship.

  Or

  He could be sleeping.

  I smooth my slightly flared skirt and walk into the hotel’s main restaurant. There’s no need to wait for someone to seat me. Edward would have reserved the regular table, close to the window yet not in direct sunlight, secluded so not everyone gawks at us, public enough to view everyone else.

  Mrs. Langston is particular…about everything. But she isn’t my problem anymore. Chelsea is younger than I am and she might be easier for Edward’s mother to train.

  Edward and his mother have already arrived. He’s looking like his normal self once more, dressed in a navy-blue suit, white shirt, and the ‘I heart my mother’ tie. Mrs. Langston’s stick figure is swathed in pale yellow, her fine, blonde hair coiled on top of her regally held head.

  “Edward.” I force my smile. “Mrs. Langston.”

  Edward jumps to his feet, appearing relieved to see me. “Jenella.” He holds my chair for me, positioning me close to him.

  Mrs. Langston studies me as I sit. “Aren’t you going to force him to kiss you, embarrassing everyone around us?”

  Aren’t I going to force him to kiss me? I wince. She doesn’t realize how close to the truth that is. “There will be no kissing. Those days are over.” I place the cloth napkin over my lap, smoothing the fine fabric.

  “Jenella.” Edward’s eyes widen with alarm. “Should we do this now?”

  “Likely not but we are.” I won’t spend the entire meal pretending I’m still his girlfriend, still the woman he loves. “Edward and I broke up, Mrs. Langston.”

  She blinks once, twice, three times. “Excuse me?”

  I glance at Edward. He avoids my gaze, says nothing.

  It’s up to me to explain. He’s silent as usual on any difficult personal issue. “We’re no longer together. We wanted to tell you in person because we respect you.” I lay it on thick.

  “If you respected me, you’d come to your senses, realize what a wonderful man you have sitting beside you and stop creating this unsettling drama.” Mrs. Langston straightens the silverware in front of her, touching the knives, forks, and spoons with fluttery fingers. “You won’t do better than Edward, not at your age. You’re fat, set in your ways, not very pretty and desperate for affection. It’s pitiful, really.”

  She’s in a bitchy mood and there’s nothing keeping me here, nothing except the help Edward, as lawyer, might give my best friend in the future.

  I lean toward him. “I deserve five get-Azure-out-of-jail-free cards for this.”

  “Done,” he whispers back.

  I turn to Mrs. Langston. “That’s likely why Edward broke up with me. I’m not good enough for your son. He could do better. In fact, he’s done exactly that.”

  “Edward didn’t break up with you.” Her voice is calm.

  I frown. What game is she playing? “I can assure you he did.”

  “No, he didn’t. Edward would never make a decision like that without talking to me first. He knows I’ve…” She pauses, considering her words. “I’ve accepted you.”

  “You’ve accepted me?”

  “Your need for affection isn’t attractive, Jenella.” She wrinkles her nose. “I like you. There. Are you satisfied?”

  Edward sucks in his breath. I gaze at her, stunned. She tolerates me. I know that. But like me? She’s always been so cold, so critical.

  I thought that, when she grew to care for me, she’d change, become warmer. These awkward brunches would morph into the boisterous family meals I enjoyed with my parents, with my grandma, with my aunts and uncles and cousins. There would be hugging and laughter and happiness.

  That won’t ever happen. Although Mrs. Langston likes me, she continues to treat me with the same chilly reserve, with a coldness I wouldn’t show a stranger.

  “Thank you.” For confirming that Edward isn’t the man for me. He can’t give me the loving future I deserve. “That means a lot to me.”

  “You’ll like Chelsea also, Mother.” My ex finds his voice. “She’s very spirited.”

  Spirited is the wrong description to use with his prim-and-proper mother.

  “What kind of a name is Chelsea?” Mrs. Langton’s top lip curls. “She sounds like one of those dreadful football clubs they have in Europe, the smelly places where those sweaty hooligans hang out at. How old is this creature?”

  Edward looks at me. Does he expect me to answer for him?

  He says nothing.

  He does expect me to answer. “She’s twenty-one, Mrs. Langston.”

  Her eyes widen. “For goodness sakes, Edward. She could be your daughter. Do you have no dignity? People will talk.”

  “Mother—”

  “This will pass, Jenella.” Mrs. Langston pats my hand, her fingers cool against my skin. “His father, God rest his soul, had a midlife crisis at the same age. He gadded about town with a dim-witted flight attendant, embarrassing everyone. That didn’t last long. She found someone her own age. He crawled back to me, hi
s tail tucked between his legs and begged my forgiveness. The talk eventually died down.”

  That future holds no appeal to me. I don’t want to be Edward’s backup plan, the woman he returns to when Chelsea no longer desires him.

  “Edward will come to his senses too, won’t you, Edward?” Mrs. Langston levels a hard glance on her normally overindulged baby boy.

  “I—”

  “He will,” she answers for him. “How are your parents?” She swiftly changes the topic. “Are they still living in that awful place?”

  “Thunder Bay is a wonderful city.” I defend my hometown. “They’re spending the weekend at the lake, putting a new septic tank in.”

  She shudders. “They’re veritable mountain people. I suppose I should call them…if they have a phone service out there. Once Edward gets over this silliness, we’ll have a wedding to plan.”

  Edward gulps. “Mother—”

  “It will be held here, of course.” She nods. “In civilization. We can’t have The Langstons of Forest Hill dining on nuts and berries, can we?”

  “I’m not marrying Edward.” I don’t want to spend a lifetime like this, managing Edward’s personal affairs. I want a man like Smoke, someone who is able to survive on his own but chooses to be with me. “Your son is happy with Chelsea and isn’t that what you want for him—happiness?”

  “Men don’t know what makes them happy.” Mrs. Langston waves her hands. “It’s up to us to tell them.”

  She says this as though she truly believes it to be true. And, weeks ago, my thinking wasn’t that different from hers. I guessed at what might make Edward happy. I didn’t demand he tell me, didn’t place that responsibility in his hands, didn’t give him a voice.

  And we failed as a couple.

  Our preordered entrees arrive. We always have the same meals. The Cornish hen is placed in front of Edward. Mrs. Langston and I receive the Cobb salad.

  She selected this for me four years ago, wouldn’t listen to my alternative suggestions. The salad smells like fart and is…well…a salad. I didn’t like it during that first brunch and I won’t like it today.

  But I’ll eat it because Mrs. Langston has suffered enough emotional blows for one day. I won’t hurt her more by making a fuss about my meal.