“Ah,” was all I could manage to say. My hips lifted from the mattress involuntarily, tilting upward to give him better entry.
“I’m coming in now,” he said. He wasn’t asking permission, he just made an announcement. I’d already given him permission in so many other ways, there was no reason for it to involve words.
He positioned himself above me, balancing his weight on his arms, then reached down to guide himself inside me. He teased me at first, delicately dancing the tip of his cock at my entrance gates, willing me to open up enough to accept him. I cried and moaned, raised my knees and legs even higher. I had to have him inside me, had to. “Now,” I breathed. “Now. Fast. All at once. Please.” I didn’t want him to be gentle with me. I didn’t care that I was a virgin and that to rush things might hurt. No, I wanted him to fuck me, hard. I wanted to know what that felt like. I wanted to feel it, now.
As if reading my thoughts, he thrust into me, hard and fast. Oh.
He filled me up. The dull ache that had plagued me ever since our first meeting two days earlier disappeared, now replaced with an indescribable state of bliss. I’d never felt so complete before. I never knew that I could hold something like this so deep inside me, never knew that these parts and voids within my body served one purpose and one purpose only----to hold the hard, fast flesh of a man.
My insides stretched to accommodate him. There was the briefest instant of pain, but it soon disappeared and was replaced by pleasure. The fullness was mind-blowing. My hips tilted back further and further, my legs went up and out, helping to stretch me open even more. I needed to give him more space. There was so much of him, and so little of me----oh.
Oh, oh.
But just being filled with his thick, hard flesh was no longer enough. I needed friction. I needed him to move. I needed to move.
Oh, God. There is more to this? The thought barely passed through my mind before I had an answer.
Oh yes, there was definitely more. Much, much more.
Peter began to move.
He thrust with his hips, and the friction of his cock against my inside walls was beyond description. I never knew it could be like this, a hard pounding that under any other circumstances would be traumatic, but under these was like a thrumming, vibrating cacophony of yes. Yes, yes, yes. Every cell of my body cried out in the affirmative. This is what I was born for. This is what I was born to feel, to do, to want.
This.
My hips rose to meet his of their own volition. Thrust, counter-thrust. Pound, counter-pound. Yes, and another yes.
He grunted, I moaned. He groaned, I cried. We both muttered words, unintelligible words that had no meaning outside of doing this, this this.
The pace quickened, the strokes grew harder, faster. He pounded into me with such force I thought he might come out on the other side of me. But my body just took him in, deeper and deeper, expanding and contracting as he thrust in and out, stretching me, filling me, making me understand once and for all what all those poets and Victorian novelists and rock stars and my giddy girlfriends were all talking about.
This. This is why I was born. This is why people exist. This is why the whole world does everything it does, just so every living thing on it can have a chance to maybe, just maybe, do this.
Have sex. Get laid. Reproduce. Do the nasty. Screw. Fuck. I knew what all those terms meant now. I understood. And I wanted more, more, more.
The core of my being clenched tighter, tighter, tighter. I felt like a wire coiling inward on itself, a gun with its trigger pulled only partway. Then everything sprang free and exploded.
What I’d felt before---those tiny little trembling orgasms, if that’s even what they were---it wasn’t like this. Oh no, not like this.
My nether parts began to pulse. The pulsing became fast vibrato, and then that vibrato started to spread and fill my whole body, like a soprano’s aria filling an opera house. My whole being reached a fever pitch, and then in an instant, I shattered into a thousand pieces, like a champagne flute in a singing diva’s hand.
Peter’s release came just after my own, but I barely registered it. I was gone, gone, gone, lost in some deep, dark parallel universe. I was watching myself from high above, shocked at my hooded eyes, panting mouth, arched back, and thrashing limbs as my climax overtook me. Peter shuddered over me and collapsed onto my shoulder, resting his head there in the space between the crook of my neck and the pillow.
“Yes,” I breathed as I rejoined my body, as consciousness and flesh again became one. I’d just entered another world and lived to tell the tale, and what a strange trip it had been.
We lay there in the afterglow for what seemed like a long time. The passing seconds and minutes seemed to slow down a bit as we caught our breath and returned to our normal states. Or what passed for that, anyway. I wasn’t sure I’d ever feel the same way again.
My hands were still bound with the filmy length of silk. I released them myself, just as Peter promised me I always could. While I appreciated his taking things slowly and gently as far as that was concerned, I still felt a little cheated. If this experience could be so incredible even when I wasn’t totally submissive and restrained, what would it be like when I was? Had I just lost the opportunity to ever know for sure? What if this whole experience turned out to be a one-off, a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am that just disappeared along with the coming dawn?
I didn’t want to think about that.
I ran my fingers up and down Peter’s back, which was drenched with sweat. I realized then that I was, too. Even my hair was damp. My chest was still heaving and my body felt spent, as if I’d just run five miles. I sank back into the pillows and dozed off, and was deep in sleep before I could form another thought.
****
I woke some hours later. It was the middle of the night, and the suite was enveloped in pitch darkness. I glanced at the bedside clock; it read 3:38. I’d wrapped the thick goosedown duvet around myself tightly, a fluffy coffin, and tried to settle back to sleep. But it was no use----I was wide awake. And I needed the bathroom.
I flicked on the bedside lamp and saw that the filmy strip of silk that Peter had used to tie my wrists lay in a puddle on the floor beside the bed. My clothes were scattered about---my dress draped over a chair, my bra balanced precariously on a porcelain knickknack. The pointed toes of expensive designer shoes I’d borrowed from Hannah peeked out from underneath the bedskirt.
I scanned the room for Peter, searching for any trace of him---his scent, his clothes, his breathing---and found none. The room was cluttered and disheveled following our lovemaking, but the space beside me in bed was empty. I was alone.
I gingerly stepped out of bed and padded across the room in my bare feet, searching for the toilet. There was an elegantly appointed marble master bath just off the bedroom. I found a plush white bathrobe with an embroidered Ritz-Carlton logo on the lapel pocket hanging from a hook and wrapped it around myself to block the chill. There was a matching set of cushioned terrycloth slippers set just below it, I stepped into them. Everything fit perfectly, as if they were made just for me.
I sat down on a wide teak bench that also held a supply of fresh towels, contemplating what had happened. I felt sated, satisfied---and more than a little sore.
I shifted back and forth uneasily on the bench. “Ow,” I said aloud, wincing at how tender I was down there. Yes, I had definitely done something new and different. My legs and arms ached, too. But despite all of that, I still felt better than I had in years. I felt almost the way I did after eating Thanksgiving dinner, taking a long hot bath, or taking a midafternoon nap---content, satisfied, fulfilled. All was right with the world, it seemed.
Only it wasn’t. I was no closer to getting what I needed to write my articles. I was no closer to knowing who and what Peter Rostovich really was. I’d lost my virginity, and gained what, exactly? Other than a few fleeting moments of intense pleasure, nothing.
Not that I was complaining. I was far past du
e to enter into womanhood. And I’d done it with a bang. How many women out there could claim they’d lost their virginity in a Ritz-Carlton presidential suite with a mysterious, filthy-rich artist with an international reputation? How many virgins agreed to be tied up with lengths of expensive silk, and had multiple orgasms the first time out? Not many, I was sure. It was all very exotic and exciting. I’m not sure I would call it romantic, though. It was more like the plot of a seamy pulp novel, or perhaps a modern twist on the Victorian “fallen woman” narrative. For some strange reason I was reminded of Daisy Miller, the title character in a Henry James novel I’d read for nineteenth-century American literature class last semester.
Daisy Miller? my inner self queried, looking up from her glossy magazine. Hmph. No good could possibly come of that. She was right. Like all Victorian literary fallen women, Daisy Miller had come to a very bad end. At this rate, I’d end up dying broken-hearted of consumption or something. Not my scene. I had to get back on track somehow.
But first things first---I at least had to make myself presentable before I went back after my scoop. I didn’t know what had happened to the toiletries I’d brought along with me in my press bag, so I searched the room for other options, and found plenty. There was a selection of toiletries set out on the marble counter next to the sink. A new toothbrush, still sealed in its plastic packaging, along with a travel-sized tube of Colgate. Facial cleansing wipes, lotion, deodorant, a lady’s razor and shaving cream, even a fresh set of satin panties with the tags still attached, in my size. I chuckled to myself, wondering just how much trouble and advanced planning Peter had gone to providing all of these things. Then again, I figured the Ritz-Carlton staff had probably done it all for him, had probably even anticipated what was required and provided it without even being asked, just like Laverne had done for me in the private washroom downstairs. To think, Peter lived in a world where you could get anything you ever wanted or needed without even having to ask for it. The very notion made me feel warm all over, even as a niggling voice in the back of my brain scolded me for it. Sure, there were people starving all over the world, there were millions out of work and struggling to survive in my own country---but you’d never know it from the looks of this place.
I stepped into the marble steam shower and stood under the jets, relishing the scalding-hot water that poured onto my body from all directions. There was a bottle of jasmine body wash and a brand-new loofah sitting on the shelf, and I used both liberally, scrubbing myself hard from top to bottom. The loofah’s texture was thick, rough, even hard, and it left marks on my skin that might have made some women feel raw and chapped, but only made me feel refreshed, even a little excited. It occurred to me as I stood among the body jets, inhaling a little cloud of scented steam, that I’d always liked things done the hard way---whether it came to reading heavy classical tomes instead of partying, working instead of playing, pushing myself and my body hard at the gym instead of relaxing, studying instead of dating. Did that make me a masochist? Did it matter? In Peter Rostovich, had I finally found someone who shared my true tastes?
That last question frightened me a little. I didn’t want to explore that line of thinking any further, so I switched off the taps and stepped out of the shower. I made use of all the proffered toiletries, including the silk panties, which felt delectable against my tender skin. After brushing out my damp hair and freshening up a bit, I surveyed myself in the mirror. I looked the same as always, and yet not quite. There was a ruddiness to my cheeks now that I’d never been able to achieve without acres of blush before. My eyelids were hooded, softer. My shoulders seemed lower, less hunched. I looked relaxed, even a little older. Wiser, too.
I was a woman now, to put it simply. I’d walked into this hotel a gawky schoolgirl, and now I was a vixen. A vixen with a past.
Good God, I was being ridiculous. A single romp between the sheets that took place less than five hours ago didn’t exactly add up to a past, at least not in the modern sense. Had I been living in 1830s London, I’d be royally screwed now, and probably doomed to work as a courtesan or even a guttersnipe in the East End. But this wasn’t Victorian London, it was modern-day Cleveland, where everything from out-of-wedlock births to neck tattoos were commonplace. I could walk out onto the street right now carrying a sign that read “I JUST LOST MY VIRGINITY” and nobody would even give me a second glance. This was the twenty-first century, and if I wanted to get anywhere in life, I needed to stop comparing myself to centuries-old literary heroines. I was a modern woman living in modern times, and I had a job to do.
I finished primping and went out to wander the suite in search of the elusive Peter Rostovich. I found him sitting at the dining room table, staring at the iPad he’d set up for the interview that never took place. I hung back in the doorway for awhile before announcing my presence, just watching him. He wore a pair of plaid flannel pajama pants, and nothing else. His tawny hair was mussed, and a shadow of beard had crept out on his cheeks. I could smell his musky male scent from across the room----I could tell he hadn’t showered since our bodies had touched. For this I was glad. I wanted to smell myself on him, maybe even taste myself, too. The very thought thrilled me to the core.
I could see what he was studying on the iPad over his shoulder. He was scrolling through the pictures of his art, or what I presumed was his art. It was radically different from what I’d seen at the Flaming River Gallery two days earlier. Photographs, sketches and paintings of drab-looking gray buildings, mostly. The colors and tones were stark, the lines and composition depressing---and yet, their simplicity made them strangely beautiful. I wondered what he’d wanted to evoke with images like that. My journalist’s mind began to spin, searching for any possible angle to explore.
“Were you planning to show me those during our interview?” I asked.
His shoulders jerked back and he looked up, startled. “Oh. Nancy. I---I didn’t realize you were up.”
“I woke up about half and hour ago.”
He set down the iPad, exchanging it for a half-empty highball glass that held amber liquid and melting ice. I noticed an open bottle of Jameson’s on the sideboard. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“Not at all. I woke up on my own, and wanted a shower. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course I don’t mind. Did you find everything you needed?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Good.” Peter took a few sips of whiskey, then set down the glass, studying its contents for a moment before speaking again. “I don’t sleep well with others,” he mused. “I prefer to sleep alone. I prefer to do most things alone, in fact.”
I pulled out the chair beside him and sat down. I had a feeling I was seeing the real Peter Rostovich for the very first time. Maybe not all of him---probably just the rough edges, the parts that he couldn’t keep well-hidden underneath that worldly veneer. After all, how much can somebody reasonably hide about himself at three o’clock in the morning? “So you’re a loner. You wouldn’t be the first artist who felt that way.”
“Sometimes I wonder if I’m the only artist in the world who lives and works the way I do.”
I leaned closer to him. I could smell his scent full-on now; it took me back to the heady moments of our joining just a few short hours before. I wanted to touch him. I wanted to feel those things again. But I also wanted to get my story, and now might be my only chance. I resisted the urge to reach out and caress his stubbled cheek, and reached across the table for my reporter’s notepad and digital voice recorder instead.
“Why do you say that?” I asked, pen in hand. Perhaps it was a bit too obvious, but I wasn’t about to let this opportunity slip past me.
He stared out the window for a moment, took another sip of whiskey, set down the glass. He turned to face me, took note of my reporter’s tools, didn’t comment on them. “These past few years I’ve been thinking a lot about the choices I’ve made, what led me to this life,” he said. “I wonder if I’ve made the right de
cisions. I wonder how my life might have been different if I hadn’t gotten into the things I did when I was a teenager.”
“You mean the, um, investments?” I wanted to say organized crime, but I still had no proof of that. I wasn’t sure there even was any proof. My editors at the Plain Dealer would surely be disappointed.
“You say that like what I did was a bad thing,” he scoffed. “But what you people don’t understand is, when my people step off the boat or the plane or whatever it was that brought us to this country, we simply didn’t have access to the resources that people who grew up here take for granted. We have to find alternate ways into the system. We have to find other ways to succeed. Not wrong ways, necessarily. Just different.”
“You’re still being needlessly vague about what exactly it was you did back then,” I retorted. “You have to admit, it seems suspicious.”
“No, I don’t think it seems suspicious at all. Not to me. But I come from a different world than you do, a world where nosy journalists don’t poke around asking silly questions about things that happened almost twenty years ago.”
“You mean, you come from a place where corruption and secrecy are the norm, and where presidents and prime ministers silence their enemies by poisoning them with radioactive isotopes.”
He laughed. “Yes, that’s exactly right, Nancy. I can see why the Plain Dealer hired you to dig up dirt on me. You’re very, very good at your job.”
“I haven’t managed to dig up much of anything yet. Except maybe your bedsheets.”
Peter reached over and grasped both my hands in his. He took the pen out of my hand and set it on the table, though he didn’t disturb the digital recorder, which was taking down everything we said. “About that,” he said. “I hope---I hope what we did was an enjoyable experience for you. Because I enjoyed it. Immensely.”
Domino (The Domino Trilogy) Page 15
