Lessons in Love

by Lessons in Love [Bold Strokes FF] (retail) (epub)

  I turn on the television and move toward the fridge. “Another beer?”

  “Sure.”

  I hand off the bottle and sit down first, so she can choose. Next to me, on the futon? Or in the armchair a few feet away?

  She hesitates for a moment before picking the space to my left. Sliding her right ankle under the opposite knee, she takes a long pull from the bottle. Not touching me, but close. Eyes focused on the television. CNN isn’t exactly romantic, or even fun, so I hand her the remote. She grins, clicks a few buttons, and finally settles on an old black-and-white sci-fi film that’s so bad, it has us both laughing hard within a few seconds.

  She sets down the remote on the coffee table, and when she leans back, she’s closer to me. Our shoulders touch. I spend the next twenty minutes absorbed not in the movie but in how warm she is, how the wrinkled material of her shirt feels against the bare skin of my upper arm. It’s hard to remember to laugh at the funny moments when she leans even closer. Her entire right side is pressed up against me now, and I swear I can feel the slight curve of her breast against mine.

  It’s impossible for me to stay still—to not move my palm so it’s resting, very lightly, just above her knee. So I do. Her powerful quad muscles ripple under my hand, but when I look at her face, she’s still smiling at the television. So I squeeze—gently—and watch as the smile disappears. Her eyes close slowly, then open again. She turns toward me, her face backlit by the intermittent flashes of the screen.

  I can feel myself sliding forward, inch by inch. Allowing her to move, if she doesn’t want this. But I think she does. And then I know it, as her eyelids flutter closed again just before I’m too close to see anything at all.

  Her lips are soft, so soft. Her breath hitches right in the middle of our kiss, and I know what she’s feeling. The first time is always a revelation. How can it be like this? Why did no one tell me? I slide my hand up her thigh, brush across her hip, and squeeze again. She sighs into my mouth. I suck on her lower lip, and the sigh becomes a moan. I’m dizzy with lack of oxygen, but I don’t want to stop kissing her. If I do, she might—

  She pulls away, gasping. “God,” she murmurs, looking at me. Touching her lips—now swollen—with two fingers. Her eyes wide and dark. “That…God.”

  “Okay?” I ask softly, willing my voice to be steady. I will not lean forward and take her mouth again, like I want to. I will wait. I find the remote with my right hand and fumble with it until the television goes black. No distractions—not now.

  “Okay,” she breathes. Her slight laugh is edgy, her eyes focused on my lips. “Definitely okay.”

  This time, I let my left hand caress the back of her head. My fingers curl in long, thick strands of crimson as my tongue glides over her teeth. She jumps a little and presses closer. My thigh slides against hers as I dip deep into her mouth, swirl, and return. The fingers of her right hand dig into my shoulder as I kiss her, over and over and over. Alternating depth, pressure, teeth, lips. Her hands pull me closer, so that I’m nearly lying on top of her.

  Slowly, so slowly, I walk my fingers across the hem of her shirt until I can undo the last button. I let the pearl-plastic slip slowly through its slot, giving her time to protest. All I hear is the rasp of her breath, mingling with the background hum of the refrigerator, until I uncover her navel and rim it gently with my forefinger. She gasps. I grin, lean down, and tug on the sensitive skin with my teeth before allowing my tongue to spiral around and around the small indentation. When I stop, she whimpers—then moans as I deliberately fuck her bellybutton.

  “Please,” she whispers finally, her trembling fingers tugging at my short, curly hair. I look up and grin, finally absorbing the taste of her skin on my tongue. Salty, and also sweet. I want more.

  “Please?” I’m teasing her, of course, but I also want her to be sure. No regrets in the morning.

  “I need…” Her eyes are dark and hazy with desire, and I feel my body thrill as she stumbles over her words. Because of me. “I…can you…?”

  I think it’s cute that she can’t quite get the words out. And I don’t make her. Instead, I lever myself off her body, stand up, and extend my hand. Her palm is sweaty. I lead her, slowly, toward the bedroom.

  “I’ve never,” she whispers as we cross the threshold. “I mean, I did with –”

  “Shh.” I turn to her and kiss her again, and by the time we break apart to breathe I’ve undone two more buttons. My hands slide beneath the crisp material of her shirt to caress her stomach. Her muscles, strengthened by hours of training on the water, flutter beneath my fingers—velvet over steel. I tease her gently, sliding up over the crests and troughs of her rib cage until my hands find the edge of her bra. I dip one finger under the hem and run it lightly just below her breasts. She shivers.

  “I want to take this off,” I murmur, lips brushing her earlobe. It’s so hard to keep my voice even, my hands gentle, when all I really want to do is back her up against the bed and push.

  Her swallow is audible and when she speaks, her voice hitches. “I—I’m not stopping you.”

  My fingers fumble with the third button as I suck on her earlobe. It’s only for a moment, but she groans. “Why not?”

  She pulls away then—far enough to touch two trembling fingertips to my right cheek. But her voice, when she speaks again, is clear and strong. “I want this.” I watch, searching her eyes as a lopsided smile chases away her intent frown. “But…I don’t know what to do.”

  I grin back and reach up to caress the hand that’s still pressed against my cheek. Lacing her fingers through mine, I guide her slowly down, down the side of my neck, along the prominence of my collarbone—down until the warmth of her palm soaks through the tank top over my left breast. “I’ll teach you,” I whisper, struggling to speak over my body’s tumultuous response. Suddenly, I want to be taken—to feel her hands on me, in me. When she squeezes lightly, I can’t stop the shudder—so I take a step forward, crush my body to hers, and kiss her hard enough to distract us both.

  When the kiss ends, we’re on the bed. I’m half draped over her, and her shirt is somehow completely open, even though I don’t remember undoing those last two buttons. Her chest rises and falls in rapid succession, and it’s a struggle for me to look away—to meet her eyes. Her pupils are dark and huge, almost entirely eclipsing the blue irises. As I watch, the tip of her tongue darts out to lick swollen lips—and I know I can’t wait any longer.

  “Off,” I mutter hoarsely, tugging at her shirt. She sits up a little to shrug out of it, and I take advantage of the movement to hold her there, one hand splayed against her back. I push up her bra with the other. She gasps at the friction of the cotton, and then again as I begin to tease her with my tongue. Decreasing circles, spiraling closer and closer, until my tongue flicks against one nipple as I gently pinch the other. She arches above my hand, and I stroke her more firmly, thrilling to the sounds of her low, hoarse cries.

  “Oh—oh God,” she whispers as I let my teeth close around her. The long muscles of her back shudder against my hand, and I finally lower her down to the bed, shifting so that I’m kneeling between her thighs. Her eyes are closed, her body taut. Sweat glistens in the hollow of her throat, in the narrow valley between her breasts. She is need incarnate, vulnerable and open.

  “Take off your bra,” I order. My voice sounds thick and low, even to my own ears. As she stretches in obedience, I curl my fingers under the hem of her shorts and pull, taking her underwear along for the ride.

  She lets out a startled little cry, the swatch of gray cotton hanging forgotten from the fingers of her left hand. She’s exposed now, completely—tight brown-gold curls swirling around swollen, red lips. Glistening—for me.

  She whispers my name, her voice saturated with desire and something that sounds like fear. Or hesitation. It’s so very, very hard to move my eyes up her body, but when I do, the vulnerability of her expression slams into me—an unexpected wave.

  “You’r
e beautiful,” I whisper. Fiercely. I hold her gaze for another long moment before finally allowing my eyes to feast again—to linger over the strong lines and gentle curves of her figure. I want her, need her to understand—to know just how desirable she is. To feel my appreciation, to absorb it into her skin. I undress quickly, feeling a rush of pleasure at her low intake of breath when I kick off my jeans and reveal my body.

  “He’s such a fool,” I murmur as I stretch out on the bed beside her. But words and glances are never, will never be enough; there is no way to speak the message she needs. There is only my finger, trailing slowly down the center of her body, moving in teasing fits and starts. She relaxes and tenses simultaneously—thighs opening even as her stomach muscles clench. I return my mouth to her breast as I let my finger zigzag through the crisp maze of her hair, tracing both lips before finally settling against the slight ridge of her clitoris. Her body surges up as I touch her, and my finger slides down, into the waiting pool of moisture. I can’t help but groan, before slipping gently inside. “You’re so wet.”

  “Oh—” she breathes, then lets out a tiny whimper as my left hand tracks down her body to join its partner. As I part her swollen lips with my thumb and middle finger, she shifts restlessly, one hand clutching a fistful of blanket for purchase. “Is—is that…okay?”

  “Okay?” I manage to choke out a laugh, somehow, as my index finger presses down hard, then eases off in a barely perceptible circle. I watch her heels dig into the blanket, feel her hips and torso lift in a desperate attempt to get closer. Her urgency is infectious, and I stroke her gently but firmly, up and back, until her head is thrashing against the pillow and I can feel the anticipatory contractions of her internal muscles. “Oh, yeah. More than okay.”

  And then her eyes snap open, boring into me sightlessly as her body convulses, over and over and over. I hold still inside her, letting her clench around the length of my finger, drawing out her pleasure by continuing to massage the swollen knot of nerves with my other hand. She is so very beautiful. Unrestrained, responsive, passionate. Perfect.

  When her body finally stills, I move my left hand up to rub the soft skin of her stomach. Gradually, I feel the muscles beneath start to relax. Her eyes, when she opens them, are bruises—equal parts black and blue. Still gloriously hazy from her orgasm.

  I smile down at her, never stopping the soothing motion of my palm. She lets out a long breath, her eyes flicking back and forth between my own. “I’ve—” she begins hoarsely, then clears her throat. “It’s never been like that. Before.”

  My smile grows, and I let one eyebrow quirk up, mischievously. “I’m not finished, yet.” Her eyes go wide again, and I laugh—just before kissing her gently, teasingly, on the lips. My mouth gradually tracks its way down her body on almost the same path that my finger took earlier—except that it lingers for just a while longer on her breasts—biting and licking and sucking.

  It’s only when I feel her inner muscles begin to tighten once more that I move all the way down, so that the width of my shoulders forces her to open to me even farther. Her eyes—pitch black, now—meet mine just before my tongue darts out to taste her. She cries out and shudders, and I can’t help but grin. When I taste her for the second time—the barest brush of my tongue against her dark red skin—she clenches hard around my finger. I withdraw it slowly, then push back in, all the while delicately flicking her clitoris with the tip of my tongue. She groans, loudly—then again as I slip another finger inside.

  “More,” she breathes, clutching blindly at my right shoulder, her fingers tangling in the curls along my hairline. “Oh God, I need—”

  I lean forward and take her fully between my lips, hollowing my cheeks as I fuck her with my fingers. Her body stills for a long, perfect moment as she rears off the bed, back arched. And then she explodes again, hips trembling as the waves of ecstasy pull her under.

  I don’t realize that I’ve been holding my breath until it’s all over and my cheeks are tingling from lack of oxygen. I release a deep, shuddering sigh as I move up the bed…and cry out when her right hand slips between my thighs.

  “What?” I manage to choke, before my eyes close involuntarily at the feeling of her callused fingertips swirling against me. “Oh, yes—”

  “Tell me how to touch you,” she urges, her voice still thick with the memory of passion. Her fingers move back and forth, slip-sliding through my wetness, searching…

  “There!” I gasp as she brushes one side of my swollen ridge. I can’t stop my hips from bucking at the slight contact, and I know it won’t be long when her single finger is joined by another in its gentle massage.

  “Yeah,” she mutters when I groan at her persistent touch. “Come on—let me feel you.” She circles up and around, torturing me with glancing strokes against where I need her most. The harsh gasps of my labored breaths echo throughout the room.

  “Please,” I manage. “Oh, please—”

  And then she is touching me firmly, pressing down hard on my clitoris with those exquisitely rough fingers, drawing out my pleasure until I am weak and heavy and drained. I can barely muster enough energy to slide closer—to pillow my head above her right breast and hold her close with one arm slung over her waist.

  We lie entwined for a long time, in silence. As my heartbeat slows, I realize that I am breathing in tandem with her—that we have found a rhythm all our own. I smile at the thought and pull her a little closer. But finally she stirs, drawing away enough to prop herself up on one elbow and look down at me. Her expression is serious, nose wrinkled in a frown.

  “What happens now?” The question is soft, hesitant. Her eyes squint as she asks it.

  “We go to sleep,” I reply, combing my fingers through the unruly strands of her disheveled hair. I do not frown—I smile. Somewhat mischievously. “And when we wake up, we do this all over again.”

  It’s not the answer she was looking for, of course—but maybe, just maybe, it’s sufficient. And sure enough, she grins back at me before settling herself more firmly in my embrace—her back flush against my torso and hips. I hold her close, treasuring that last image of her face in my mind’s eye. Rosy-cheeked, eyes bright and expressive. Alive.

  Pearls of Wisdom

  Rogue

  I watch Carly order port for herself. Our waiter gives her a quick nod of approval, removes her wineglass, now tainted with lipstick, and darts off. Her features are soft in the candlelight and I see the woman I married twenty years ago as if no time has passed. She is still radiant; her high cheekbones have drawn her face a little thinner with the passing years and she wears her fawn-colored hair shorter to compensate. I catch her caramel eyes and they smile at me. If I had just finished a glass of cognac I couldn’t have felt warmer inside.

  “I know this trip to Paris is supposed to be our anniversary gift to one another, but I couldn’t resist.” She smiles as she lays a box on the table in front of me.

  I recognize the shallow square box as one meant for presenting jewelry, though there is no logo embossed on the top. This is not like my wife—to buy me bobbles. As a rule I don’t wear any jewelry except a nice watch, earrings, and my wedding band. I rest my wineglass on the white linen tablecloth and subtly shake my head in a scolding fashion. “You’re awful,” I whisper, my feelings for her just the opposite.

  “I saw these in a store window this morning on my trip to get your breakfast pastry. I couldn’t wait to see them on you, against your porcelain skin, resting underneath your dark hair…” She gives me a smirk that only I can interpret: the one that completes her thought—when I’m fucking you.

  A server returns with her port, the white of his gloves in sharp contrast to the dark purple potion in the small glass.

  I play with the corners of the box, at first because I’m overwhelmed and then because I want to tease her, make her wait. There is no one in the world more beautiful than my wife, no one more clever; certainly no one that can make me feel so good just by looking at me.
She is my one vulnerability. I would be lost without her—me, the investment banker, the leader of the pack, top dog at one of the largest financial institutions in the world—unwilling to live another day without her.

  The black leather box is hinged at the back, and I carefully lift the lid. Before me lie, in a perfect circle, a string of black pearls on a red velvet cushion. I knew such a prize existed, but had only seen pictures. “They’re beautiful,” I say, running the face of my fingers over them.

  Carly stands behind me and fastens the strand around my neck. She takes liberties, kissing me below the ear. “I love you,” she says, holding my shoulders.

  We stroll hand in hand down the Champs-Elysees, the gas lamps casting weak shadows across the promenade. Cafés host small groups of young people—well, young to me—who sit around small tables set at the curb. You can’t visit Paris and not think about love, romance.

  Our lovemaking over the years had slowly changed: lust was replaced with trust, urgency with tenderness, adventure with knowledge; yet I still wouldn’t trade being in my lover’s arms for anything. Such intimacy is not gained in a few weeks, but earned over a lifetime. “How many times have we made love?” I ask and squeeze Carly’s soft hand.

  “I’ve never thought about it. Well over one thousand, I imagine.”

  My number crunching mind does an involuntary calculation. “Two thousand eighty.” Carly turns to me. I can read her mind when I look into her twinkling eyes: she wants to make a smart comment about how lucky she is that I can add, and she wants to kiss me.

  “Twice a week for twenty years,” I explain.

  “Future results cannot be based on past performance.”

  God, I love her wit. “I think we’re about to have a windfall.” I pull her to me and French kiss her, not caring about our lipstick. The kiss is so much more “French” in Paris.

  Our hotel room is filled with blood-red roses, their sweet odor intoxicating. Candles have been placed throughout the room, waiting to be lit. “You did this?” I ask, frozen in the threshold, feeling the tears well in my eyes.