One is a Promise

by Pam Godwin

“Trying not to, but fuck, you feel incredible.” He resumes thrusting, fingering me with urgency while his thumb does devilish things to my clit. “You need to come.”

  “I can’t.” Not yet.

  “You will.” His hand untangles from mine and moves to my breast to tweak my nipple. “One more.”

  I melt against him, clear my mind, and ride the pleasure of his thrusts, the play of his muscles against me, and the heat of his breath on my neck.

  “Kiss me.” I angle my neck toward him.

  His mouth latches onto mine, forcing my head back to deepen the kiss. Then I feel it. The tiny pulses of rapture skittering between my legs and blooming outward, flooding my nerve endings, strengthening, consuming, taking over all thought.

  I tear my mouth away. “Ahhhh, God, Cole. I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming.”

  A gust of air escapes his lungs, and he chokes, jerks his hips, and shouts, “Danni! Oh, goddamn. Unnnngh!”

  His cock throbs and swells inside me, and I wish I could see his face, the pout of his lips, the complete and utter look of satisfaction that I know is morphing his expression. He’s insanely beautiful when he comes.

  But I feel him—the tension slipping from his body, the lingering shock waves creeping over his skin, and the caress of his hand easing from between my legs to affectionately rub my body.

  This is when his sweet side makes an appearance, when he’s loose and satiated and wrapped around me without the driving need to fuck. It’s a fleeting moment—the man has a ridiculously fast recovery rate—but I’ll take it. I’ll take him anyway I can get him.

  He washes me, and I wash him. Then we towel off and collapse naked in bed. I lay sprawled on top of him, legs entwined, with my chin propped on my fist on his chest.

  We stare at each other, content to do so without words or motion for long minutes. His hands rest on my lower back, and every once in a while, his fingers creep along my butt crack, as if seeking that opening he loves to play with.

  When my eyelids start to grow heavy, his timbre breaks the silence.

  “How’s your ass?”

  “It misses your cock.”

  “Insatiable.”

  “Says the three-times-a-day guy.”

  “You’re the only woman who can make me hornier after sex.”

  “Am I supposed to take that as a compliment? I’m starting to think I’m not satisfying you.”

  He yanks me up his chest and hardens his eyes. “I’ll never get enough of you.”

  My bones turn to goo, and I lower my face to his Cole-scented neck. “I was going to dance on the pole for you tonight, but you wore me out.”

  “You can do that tomorrow after I put a ring on your pussy.”

  How do I feel about that? I chew the inside of my cheek, trace a finger in the hollow of his throat, and decide it sounds like fun. “I’ll do a labium piercing. I don’t want any needles in my bean.”

  “They wouldn’t be able to anyway. You have a tiny clit.”

  “I do?” I lift my head to see his eyes.

  “Incredibly tiny.” He leans up and kisses my lips.

  I had no idea. It’s not like I go around comparing clit sizes with my friends. And I don’t want to think about how he knows the female anatomy well enough to make such a claim, but the thought is already there, gnawing at my confidence. He knows his way around a pussy because he’s unbelievably attractive with a sex drive that rivals Genghis Khan, who is reputed to have sired hundreds of children.

  “Did you know Genghis Khan had two- to three-thousand women in his harem?” I twist the silver band on my finger.

  His brows pull in as he watches me fidget. “I haven’t been with that many women, Danni.”

  He doesn’t sound so sure, and my nerves flare. He’s never worn a condom with me. Not even the first time. He swore he was clean, and I have an IUD. It’s pricked at me for a while, but not enough to bring it up. Until now, with his ring on my finger.

  I slide off the band and rub the shiny surface. “Is there a chance little Coles are running around in the world? I mean, it wouldn’t change anything between us. I just want to be prepared and—”

  “No.” He grips my hand. “Danni, look at me.”

  I lift my eyes and sink into the devastating depths of his.

  “I’ve always been careful,” he says with earnest. “I’ve always used protection.”

  “But you didn’t with me.”

  He pries the ring from my hand and holds it in front of my face, catching the light from the nearby lamp. Is something etched on the inside? An inscription?

  I clasp his wrist and angle it closer, twisting it in his grip.

  One Promise ~ One Forever

  My chin quivers, and my voice abandons me.

  “You’re my forever, Danni.” He returns the ring to my finger and caresses my cheek. “I didn’t need protection with you.”

  I nod and inch closer, touching my lips to his. “Thank you.”

  He holds me for several minutes before taking a breath that hitches his chest. “We need to talk about the wedding.”

  “We have plenty of time—”

  “We don’t.” He nudges me up, and the wrinkles around his eyes alarm me.

  “What is it?”

  “I have to leave town for a while.”

  “What?” I slide off him and sit up. “When? For how long?”

  He shifts, putting his back to the headboard and pulling the sheet across his waist. “It’s work. I have to take these trips sometimes. Out of the country.”

  If it was a weekend or even a week-long trip, his expression wouldn’t be so grave.

  My stomach sinks. “For how long, Cole?”

  “A year.”

  My heart stops. “No. Tell them you can’t do it.”

  “Can’t do that, baby.” He bends forward, dropping his head and avoiding eye contact.

  A dead giveaway. When he can’t look at me, it means the worst news is coming.

  “Why?” It’s all I can ask. My entire body is in shock.

  “I work for a government agency that deploys—”

  “You’re a fucking auditor!”

  “Let me finish.”

  I sit back and cross my arms to hide my shaking. This shouldn’t upset me so much. We’ve only been together nine months, but dammit, I haven’t been separated from him for a single night since we met. I’ve never been this person, this dependent, needy creature who can’t live without a man. But now I am, and I hate myself for it.

  “I’m sorry.” I roll back my shoulders and meet his eyes. “Go ahead.”

  “I audit records for freedom of information, and I’ve been assigned to the al-Bashrah oil terminal in the southern waters off Iraq. I’m stepping in as a project manager to make sure the government isn’t getting screwed by the contractors.”

  “You’re going to Iraq. For a year.” I let that sit for a second and measure my breathing. “When do you leave?”

  “Next month.”

  “Next month,” I echo hollowly.

  “When do you want to get married?”

  “I don’t know.” I can’t even think about that, but I know I have to. He’s leaving. “I kind of hate you right now,” I say without conviction.

  “Hate me all you want.” He grips my chin and waits until I meet his eyes. “We’re getting married. We can do it now or a year from now, but it’s happening.”

  I’m going to spend a year alone. I can do it as his fiancé or as his brand-new bride. Tears flood my eyes and spill down my cheeks, collecting in a salty pool at the corner of my mouth.

  “Damn you, Cole.” I lift a hand to shove his touch away, but my fingers curl around his forearm instead, holding on with aching desperation. “A fucking year.”

  He hauls me onto his lap, arranges my legs around his hips, and hugs me tight to his chest. “I can’t stomach the thought of being away from you.”

  “I’ll go with—”

  “No. It’s not even an opti
on.”

  My eyes widen. “Will you be in danger?”

  He laughs—an empty sound I’ve never heard him make—and strokes a hand through my hair. “No.”

  “Then why can’t I go?” Mother of God, am I whining?

  “You have a dance company to run. Besides, civilians aren’t allowed near the offshore oil platforms. You can’t be there.”

  The gravity of the situation sets in, and the lump in my throat burns red-hot.

  No Cole smiles for a year. No riding on the back of his bike. No strip teases on the pole. No holding hands at Cardinals games. No sharing beers in the backyard.

  “No sex for a year.” I trail my fingers across his bottom lip.

  “I’ll be jerking off to memories of you dancing naked.”

  I smile sadly. “You’ll come back to me?”

  “Yes.” He lifts my hand and touches his lips to my ring, his eyes bright and unyielding. “I promise.”

  One promise.

  One forever.

  “I’ll wait for you.” I fold my arms around his neck and touch my mouth to his ear. “I’d wait for you forever.”

  I didn’t see Trace at the casino when I met with HR the morning after our confrontation. In fact, I haven’t seen him or heard from him for the past three weeks. I’ve spent that time shuffling my schedule, moving evening dance lessons to days, and merging classes together.

  So I can belly dance five nights a week.

  At The Regal Arch Casino.

  For three-hundred-thousand dollars a year.

  Holy.

  Fuckamoly.

  “Waz up with you, hoss?” Nikolai O’Shay releases my hand midway through a left-and-right Samba whisk, his Caribbean accent thickening with exertion. “You need to grease dat waistline.”

  In other words, I’m not moving my hips like they’re oiled. I hoped he wouldn’t notice. But of course, he did. We’ve been dance partners since college and entertain at ballroom functions a couple of times a year, like the mayor’s Christmas party. We landed a gig at Anheuser-Busch’s upcoming Fourth of July celebration, and we only have six weeks to nail this routine.

  One More Night by Maroon 5 thumps through the speakers in my dance studio. The choreography is tricky, but the beats per measure work for the Samba. If I find my groove, we’ll be golden.

  “I have a lot on my mind.” I bend at the waist and rest my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath.

  “Tell your boy all about it.” Nikolai shuts off the music, takes a running leap, and slides across the dance floor, ending flat on his back with his legs between my feet and his silver eyes staring up at me.

  Perspiration glistens in his tight curly hair, which he keeps cropped close to his skull and bleached blond. Half-Irish, half-Afro-Caribbean, he was born and raised in Trinidad. His accent sounds like he likes to sing when he talks, and his pale eyes and dark skin give him a head-turning exotic look.

  “I’d rather focus on the routine.” I place a foot on his chest and lift his chin with the toe of my high-heeled dance shoe. “Let’s take it from the top with the traveling lock.”

  He curls a hand around my calf, and his gaze journeys up my bare legs to my spandex shorts and sports bra. “You need to release some of that tension, girl.” He winks. “I can help with that.”

  Nikolai is one of the best dancers in the Midwest. He also models, and recently finished an ad campaign for United Colors of Benetton. But his natural-born skill is flirtation. Coming on to women is as involuntary for him as breathing.

  We had sex on and off through college, and over the past few months, I’ve considered taking him up on his advances again. But I know I’d regret it. One, he’s the closest thing I have to a best friend. Two, monogamy is a language he doesn’t speak. And three, he’s really not that great in bed.

  “How about I dump all my problems on you,” I say, stepping toward the sound system, “after we run through the routine again.”

  “All right.” He jumps to his feet, brushes off his loose pants, and rolls his neck. “Let’s do it.”

  As the song begins, we take our positions and slide through the small light footwork. Swaying right and left, always turning, bending, and straightening, we create a unified twirling motion, two bodies swinging forward and back like a pendulum.

  I concentrate on adding little lifts at the end of each beat, the subtle kicks that bounce in my pelvis and sex-up the movements. My feet ache in the heels, my soles covered in callouses. But I muscle through it, pushing against the floor to roll up on my toes and absorb that lift in my core. Soon, I’m oiling my hips and slipping into the zone.

  “There’s my girl.” Nikolai beams, rolling me in a full turn out and back.

  A knock sounds on the exterior door of the dance studio.

  He pulls me into a closed position, bending me backward as I shout with my head hanging upside-down, “Come in! It’s open!”

  It’s a Friday afternoon. The visitor could be any one of my students. Or my sister stopping by after school. Though she never knocks.

  I sidestep through a circular volta, spinning to wrap my legs around Nikolai’s waist with my back to the door. He gyrates against me, hands spanned across my backside and bare chest flexing beneath my fingers. Then he stops abruptly and drops my feet to the floor, staring at whoever walked in.

  Chest heaving, I turn and come face to face with Trace Savoy.

  Hands on his hips and expression stormy, he aims his crankiness at the other man.

  Oh, now this is interesting. Cole hated Nikolai, but that was a jealousy problem. Who knows what crawled up Trace’s ass?

  “What are you doing here?” I adjust the spandex shorts where they gather uncomfortably around my upper thighs.

  “Checking in.” Trace shifts his testy gaze to me.

  Nikolai turns off the music and joins my side. “Who’s the stiff upper-lip?”

  “The reason my evenings are no longer available. Nik, meet Trace. Trace, this is Nikolai.”

  They don’t shake hands or exchange customary greetings. Nikolai crosses his arms over his nude chest. Trace maintains his wide stance, hands behind his back, spine straight.

  He’s wearing a black suit today, the shirt stiff and blue like his eyes. No tie. The top few buttons are open, offering a tempting view of his strong neck.

  “I’m gonna go.” Nikolai slips around me, pulls on his shirt, and changes into his street shoes.

  “No, wait. We need to—”

  “I’ve been here before.” He moves toward the door, gesturing between Trace and me. “Once was enough.”

  Trace raises a brow in question. I’m sure he’d love to hear all about the night Nikolai met the bloody end of Cole’s fist, but it’s none of his business.

  “There’s nothing going on here.” I give Nikolai my angry look, which works on exactly no one.

  “Right.” He laughs and shakes his head. “Call me, padna. We’ll have that talk you promised.”

  I fist my hands at my sides as he gives Trace a chin lift and steps outside, vanishing beyond the door.

  “What happened to the mirror?” Trace nods at the splintering hole that’s been there for two years.

  “Self-pity happened.” I leave the broken mirror as a reminder of what I used to look like, so that I never let myself reach that level of numb, grieving drunkenness again.

  “I can have it repaired.”

  “No, thanks.” I grab a towel and wipe the sweat from my face and neck. “For the record, that’s the second time you’ve chased a man from my house.”

  “I did no such thing.” He steps through the room, scanning every detail of Cole’s hard work with his infuriating eagle eyes. “It seems you have trouble hanging onto men.”

  My blood simmers, and my pulse shoots through the roof. “Nikolai is one of my many lovers. He always comes back.”

  He pauses, turns his head toward me, and narrows his gaze. “You’re not fucking him.”

  Though he’s right, the co
nviction in his tone makes me want to cold cock his clenched ass. I spin away and stride through the door that leads to the kitchen.

  “You know how I know that?” He trails after me, zinging electricity up my spine.

  “I don’t care.” I grab a bottled water from the fridge and chug it on my way to the shower.

  “If you were spreading your legs for him,” he says, leaning against the door jamb of the bathroom, “he wouldn’t have left so quickly.”

  “You don’t know—”

  “You’ve turned him down so many times he’s conditioned to accept your rejection.”

  How does he know that? And why is he still here? Even more troubling, why haven’t I kicked him out?

  The black suit hugs his tall muscled frame. As hot as it is outside, I bet his skin is damp and warm beneath the expensive fabric. And hard. Like sun-soaked marble. His chiseled jaw, defined cheekbones, and straight nose form a regal backdrop for the blizzard churning in those cerulean eyes.

  With the collar of his button-up open and a few blond strands falling haphazardly from his raked-back hairstyle, this is the most casual I’ve seen him. He’s arresting in a deliberately edgy yet effortless way that makes it so easy stare at him.

  “You need to stop doing that.” He rests a hand in the front pocket of his slacks.

  “Doing what?”

  “Giving me the look. I’m not going to fuck you.”

  Then he opens his mouth, and I’m reminded why I don’t like him.

  “You’re confusing the look with annoyance.” I reach into the shower and turn on the water. “Why are you still here?”

  He regards me in a way that makes me feel defensive and brittle. But he can’t hurt me. He can stand there all he wants in silent judgment. I’m taking a shower.

  I hook my thumbs beneath the waistband of the shorts and ask with my eyes, Are you going to watch me undress?

  He turns and ambles into the hall.

  I listen for the sound of the back door as I strip and step into the tub, but I can’t hear shit over the spurting water. It would be better if he left.

  Except I’m dying to know the real reason he showed up. Checking in, he said. What in the ass does that mean?

  Is he wandering through my house right now? Other than Cole’s bike and the spare room crammed with dance costumes, I don’t have anything of value. Not that I’m worried about a man of his wealth stealing anything.