Toying With Her

by Prescott Lane

  “You cook?” she asks. “You don’t own a stove!”

  *

  There was a serious flaw in my plan when I suggested I make her dinner. I don’t know how to cook. I can grill anything. Give me a pound of meat and I’m good, but the grill at her house is broken, so I’m left to the kitchen.

  Thank God for moms. She sent me what is supposed to be an easy recipe for some chicken dish, but then she started talking about a salad and sides and dessert. When I told her I couldn’t handle the salad, she actually laughed at me. And I picked up a carton of ice cream for dessert, which Sterling started in on as soon as I got back from the store. Pistachio almond is her favorite, has been since we were kids. I just have to get through the chicken and fried potatoes, and I’m golden.

  Sterling’s offered to help a couple times. Apparently, she likes to cook and does it a lot back in New York. I shooed her away each time, not wanting her in the room to witness this disaster. I’ve used every pot in the kitchen and started over twice already. This is the last batch of chicken. I can’t mess it up again. And I’ve got my mom on FaceTime, whispering my way through it.

  “Thanks, Mom,” I whisper back. “I’ve got it now.”

  “Rorke, make sure to cut into the chicken to check if it’s done, otherwise you could get her sick.”

  “Cut the chicken, got it.”

  I hear Sterling coming down the hallway. “Got to go now, Mom. Bye.” Hitting the end call button, I flash Sterling a confident look over my shoulder.

  “Smells good,” Sterling says, placing her empty bowl of ice cream in the sink. At least I know she’s got something edible in her stomach.

  “I’ll set the table,” Sterling says as I plate the food.

  “Already done,” I say, nodding towards the porch.

  I know I got that part right. The setting sun will provide the lighting. And I put a couple daisies on the table for decoration.

  Sterling plants a little kiss on my cheek, and I carry two plates outside. I pour us some wine and hold my breath as she takes her first bite. I can’t explain the relief that fills me when she doesn’t die right then and there. My cooking is actually not that bad.

  She flashes me a smile, holding up her fork. “Make sure to thank your mom for me.”

  “Ah hell, you heard that?”

  She giggles. “It’s very sweet you did this.”

  Sweet? Being sweet is not the reason most men cook for their new girlfriends. We want to get laid. The box of condoms I just happened to pick up while shopping for groceries for dinner pretty much confirms where my head is. Actually, I hated buying them. No man enjoys condoms. Sterling and I didn’t use them before, but I’ve got no idea if she’s on birth control, so it’s better to be prepared.

  As a teacher in a Catholic school, I’ve sat through speaker after speaker talking about abstinence. It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes. The health program does involve a chapter on safe sex and STDs, and the woman who teaches that class always makes a point that if you can’t talk to your partner about birth control and your past sexual partners, then you probably shouldn’t be having sex with them. Easier said than done, lady.

  “Rorke?”

  “Hmm?”

  “You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?”

  Oh shit, nothing worse than getting caught not listening. “You said how sweet I was.”

  She smiles, her head shaking. “That was like five minutes ago. I was asking about our trip to New Orleans. What were you thinking about?” she asks.

  Remember me saying that men can only think about their cocks when they’re sporting wood? This is a perfect example. “I was just wondering if you want more ice cream for dessert.”

  She knows I’m lying, and if she didn’t, she knows when I stand up, my dick pushing against my shorts, filling up all the extra space. But she ignores it. I tell her to relax, and she moves over to the porch swing. As quick as I can with this rock in my pants, I start to clean up.

  “Let’s do that later,” she says. “Come sit with me.”

  She angles herself, indicating she wants me to sit behind her, and I pull her between my legs, wrapping my arms around her. Her ass pressing up against my dick is not helping my situation. She cuddles down into my chest, and I move her long brown hair to the side, gently kissing her neck.

  She’s got to know that every time we’re together is an opportunity for me to get in her pants. I missed too many of those when we were younger. Her body trembles slightly, her back arching just enough for her ass to push into me. Moving her hair, I let my tongue caress the other side of her neck as a little moan falls from her lips.

  I love that little sound she makes when she’s getting revved up. She makes the same one when she’s coming down. I can’t describe it other than it’s a sweet horniness. Maybe Sterling was right, I should be better at this since I’m an English teacher.

  Letting my hands wander, I lift her shirt slightly, but she catches my hand, pushing it lower. I can’t help but chuckle. My woman wants to get right to the good part.

  Slowly, I let my fingers graze her thigh, lifting her skirt as I go, watching the smooth skin of her inner thighs come into the light. “I need you to touch me,” she whispers.

  Her warmth draws me in, a thankful smile covering my face when my fingers find her and not the silk of her panties. Why did I not discover this sooner? Little tease!

  My fingers move over her with purpose. The purpose being to make her want me so bad she can’t resist anymore. I drive her to the edge then slow down. Make no mistake, everything I’m doing has a purpose. I’m not an amateur who doesn’t know how to read the clues of her body. I know exactly what I’m doing. To the brink again then pull back. This isn’t a game or punishment. I’m not toying with her.

  Okay, technically, I’m toying with her, but only because I know it will bring her that much more pleasure. Only because I know it will make her orgasm that much longer and harder. Only because this is the only way I know how to love her—with every bit of myself.

  Her nails dig into my thighs, her body starting to tremble. This time, I let her fly over the edge. It’s a beautiful sight to witness. Out here with the bay, the moonlight, the trees—none of it holds a candle to Sterling Jamison under my fingertips.

  I hold her, waiting for her body to settle. Her head tilts up to me, and I whisper, “I love you.” She still hasn’t said it back, but I don’t care. In moments like this, I just have to tell her, for no other reason than I know she needs to hear it. Her face grimaces for a second, and she adjusts herself in my arms. “Sterling?”

  She sits up, her hand over her stomach, her head shaking a little. “Um, I need to go inside.”

  “Sterling, don’t run away.”

  “I’m not,” she says, darting inside, her hand still over her stomach. I head after her, but she’s practically running at this point. The bathroom door slams hard. I can’t fucking believe this. I bang on the door. “Don’t come in,” she says.

  I should’ve listened because I’m not prepared for what I find when I open the door. A horrible gagging sound echoes through the walls. She’s sitting on the floor leaning over the toilet, vomiting.

  Tears running down her face, she yells, “Get out!”

  But I’ve already seen it, heard it, and smelled it. There’s no going back now. Grabbing a rag off the counter, I run it under cold water, hold her hair back, and place the rag on the back of her neck while she continues to vomit.

  “Please go,” she cries between heaves.

  “Baby, I’m not going to leave you like this.”

  “Rorke,” she pleads. “I need some privacy.”

  “I’ll be right outside. Just call me . . .”

  “Go!” she yells.

  Sitting outside the bathroom door, I try not to listen. I want to be close enough if she needs me, so I try to block out anything but her voice calling for me. I rest my head in my hands. Did I poison her? I checked the chicken. It was fine. It wasn’t
that. Plus, we both ate it, and I feel fine.

  So it wasn’t the chicken, and the potatoes were fine. We drank the same wine. I have no idea what’s going on, and then it hits me.

  Rushing to the kitchen, I open the freezer and pull out the ice cream. The damn stuff is expired.

  I toss it then head back over and knock on the door, telling her what I found. When I don’t hear her respond, I open the door, finding her lying on the cold tile floor, her hairline covered in sweat. “Shit, Sterling!” I’m on my knees beside her in an instant. She looks up, her green eyes dull, but she manages a little smile. “Let’s get you to bed.”

  “Think I’ll just stay here,” she groans.

  “I’ll carry you.”

  “Oh, God.” Quickly, she sits up and heaves into the toilet again.

  Rubbing her back, I say, “Okay, we’ll stay here.”

  She collapses back down, her head in my lap.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  STERLING

  Spending the night on a hard, cold tile bathroom floor while throwing up your guts wouldn’t be considered romantic by anyone’s standards. But somehow it was.

  Rorke stayed with me the whole night, bringing pillows and a blanket, holding my hair and rubbing my back. He helped me brush my teeth and fed me ice chips. I laid in his arms on the floor, my head on his chest for hours. We’ve been sleeping in the same bed for days, but something changed last night on that floor. Something I should’ve always known, but only just realized.

  I don’t let people see me vulnerable often, which means I’m denying them the opportunity to love me. Last night, that changed. Last night, he saw me completely vulnerable, and I let him love me through it. And like anything new, it scares me. But now that I’ve felt it, I think I like it. And maybe I’m addicted.

  “It’s been a few hours since you’ve gotten sick,” he says. “I think we’re through the worst of it.”

  Hear that we? He’s right here with me. “Think I want to soak in the tub,” I say, feeling disgusting, but too weak to stand in the shower.

  “Do you need me to help you?”

  “No.” He hasn’t seen me totally naked, and when I smell like vomit is not the most opportune time to let that happen.

  “I’ll make you some breakfast. Something bland. Toast and a banana.” He flashes me a smile, heading towards the door. “Something that won’t kill you.”

  He’s apologized a half dozen times. It’s not his fault, but he feels horrible. “You think you’re going to get out of cooking for the rest of our lives now, don’t you?”

  “The rest of our lives sounds good to me.”

  *

  Sinking down deeper into the warm water, I lift my left hand up, the ring still resting on my finger. I reach for some soap, like I have every night, to try to coax it off. I don’t try very hard this time, used to seeing it there now. I could go have it cut off my finger, but I don’t. Maybe deep in my heart, I don’t want it to come off. Maybe it’s waiting for my heart to let it go.

  “Sterling,” Rorke says, knocking softly on the door. “I’ve got some breakfast for you.”

  My stomach growls and gurgles, but I’m not ready to get out of the warm water. Lifting my head, I look down at my naked body. I didn’t use bubbles. There’s nothing to mask myself except the illusion the water creates. My stomach rumbles so loud and hard my belly actually moves. There was a book my mom used to read to me, We Eat Dinner in the Bathtub. I suppose it works for breakfast, too. “Can you bring it in here?”

  The door slowly creaks open, his blue eyes locking on mine. He’s a southern gentleman through and through, doing everything in his power not to glance down at me. “Where should I put it?” he asks, a lump in his throat.

  “Just sit beside the tub and feed it to me,” I say, giving him a smile. He kneels, looking like I’m using some sort of medieval torture device on him.

  “Banana, please,” I say, the dry toast not looking that appealing.

  He peels it and rips off a tiny bite, gently slipping it into my mouth. Even though I’m weak, my body starts to tingle when his finger grazes my lips. Looking up into his eyes, I watch him break off another bite, carefully making sure it’s not too big, waiting to make sure I’ve swallowed the first before offering it to me. Everything he does, every move he makes, seems designed to please me. And I should know all about that. I invented a toy designed just for pleasure.

  “You take really good care of me,” I say softly.

  The side of his mouth curves up in a sexy half-grin. “Not exactly the parts I thought I’d be taking care of, but I’ll take it.” Giggling, I shake my head when he holds out another bite, and his sexy smile falls into a frown. “That’s not even half the banana.”

  Rubbing my belly, I say, “That’s all I want.”

  He finishes it off, and the toast, too. “Talked to my friend in New Orleans.”

  “The one that owns the hotel?”

  “Yeah, he’s got us all booked for next weekend.”

  “I’m excited,” I say, my voice not matching how excited I really am. “I haven’t been there since I was little.”

  “I’m going to show you everything,” he says.

  I listen to him talk about his college days, how hard he had to work to maintain his scholarship, but how much fun the city is, how much it has to offer, how romantic it can be. “As long as it involves beignets, I’m good,” I say.

  “And I have to take you to a jazz brunch.”

  I’ve never seen a man so excited to take me out before. Maybe it’s because he’s hoping to score, but I don’t think that’s it. Well, not totally. I think it just makes him happy to do things for me, to take care of me. And I’m going to let him.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  STERLING

  Rorke and I are leaving for New Orleans tomorrow. It’s not a long drive, but I’m not prepared to go. The food poisoning kept me pretty tired and weak for a couple days, so I just vegged out at home or at Rorke’s. I didn’t see a soul other than him for days. I went to book club today, which took up a huge chuck of my morning, but it was worth it because it’s the last one for a while. With everyone’s kids now out of school, the book club operations have been put on hiatus.

  So now I’m rushing to pick up last minute items I need for the trip. I’d hoped to get a new outfit or two, knowing Rorke has so many plans for us. Plus, he’s got a meeting set up with his friend and a bunch of other rich types, hoping to drum up donations, and I’ll be by his side for that. I need to look decent. Unfortunately, there’s no time for shopping now. I suspect the shopping is probably better in New Orleans than it is here, anyway.

  Stopping in at the local drugstore, I pick up a basket and toss in a few things: razor, travel size deodorant, new polish for my toes. What else? My period’s not due until we get back; hopefully, the damn thing doesn’t come early. I grab a box of tampons just in case, not remembering how many I have at home. Why can I never remember whether I have tampons and pads? It’s like I have a mental block.

  My eyes land on the contraception section. Every song that’s played in my head today has been about one thing. Guess I’m being led by the hip-hop gods. Should I buy condoms? I’m on the pill, but maybe doubling up is best. I’ve never bought them before. The few guys I’ve been with always took care of that. I’m sure Rorke has this covered, and if I’m honest, I really don’t want to use them with him, but I pick up a box anyway, staring down at the packaging.

  “Are congratulations in order?” a snippy voice asks.

  I look up, finding Mrs. Quaid, dressed to kill, staring at the ring on my finger. “No.”

  “Then perhaps you should put those down. Wouldn’t want people to get the wrong impression of you.”

  “What impression would that be?”

  “I’m just glad you’re wise enough to use protection. You shouldn’t bring innocent babies into your type of life.”

  I feel a lump in my throat, as if all my tears and sorrows ar
e stuck right there. She’s hit me in a sensitive spot. As I try to choke back my emotions, she steps closer to me, like she’s telling me a secret.

  “I’m just trying to help you out. You’re single and standing in broad daylight holding those things.”

  “I’m not single,” I say.

  “You’re not married,” she says.

  I toss the box at her. “You are. Enjoy!”

  I hear the box drop to the floor, her gasping, as I turn and walk away from her. “Who’s the lucky man?” she calls out.

  Something inside me tells me to be careful, so I just keep on strutting.

  *

  Don’t let that bitch get you to, I tell myself. But no matter how many times I repeat it, no matter how fast I drive, I can’t shake her words. I should have thicker skin with all the crap I’ve had said to me. But I don’t.

  It’s times like these when I wonder if I should just sell my company, pack it in. I’ve got all the money I need, why put up with the bullshit? The truth is, my job can be really fun. It’s not all bad, but it’s hard to remember that when things like this happen.

  No matter how many songs I blast, nothing helps. All my badass chick anthems motivate me to work hard, but there’s nothing on my playlist for this. Britney Spears’ “Work Bitch” isn’t going to cut it. And playing Christina Aguilera’s “Fighter” only reminds me of their supposed rivalry.

  Everything she said, it’s nothing I haven’t thought about before, but since I haven’t dated in years, I just sort of blocked it all out. Thank you, Mrs. Quaid, for bringing it all up again.

  Pulling my car in front of Rorke’s place, I just sit, staring. I know he’s inside packing, planning, excited for us to leave in the morning. An hour ago, I was, too.

  I catch a glimpse of him through a window, only a second, but I can see his smile all the way out here. He’s a good man. A man that wants a nice, regular life. A man that wants to head a charity dedicated to his brother’s memory. We haven’t discussed it, but I know he wants kids, a wife, the whole Norman Rockwell image of family. And after what happened with Levi, he deserves it.