The Reason for Me

by Prescott Lane

  She’s very impatient when it comes to her orgasms. That’s a great quality in a woman; she wants what she wants and doesn’t apologize for it. As I slip myself inside her, she lets out a breathless moan. It’s amazing how well I know her sounds, her body already. Holding her hips, I slide in and out, slowly. Grinning, I know she’s going to hate and love that at the same time. She likes to come quickly. It’s almost like she’s afraid there’s not enough time. She starts to move faster, wanting me deeper, and harder. And I’m powerless to resist her, incapable of not giving her exactly what she wants.

  And when she screams out my name, I follow right behind her. My body covers hers as we lay collapsed in our orgasmic hangover. Moving her hair off her face, I look down at her closed eyes, missing seeing the way she looks when she comes. “Every night,” I say quietly, “I want you in my bed, naked, waiting.”

  She doesn’t open her eyes, but a little smirk crosses her lips. “Orders, orders.”

  Kissing her neck, I nibble her earlobe. “Say you’ll be here.” She rolls over, her eyes meeting mine for the first time. A subtle guilt rises in my chest; I just fucked her to feel better, to forget. And I want to do it again.

  The Dirty Truth Blog

  November 9

  Who do you love?

  Have you ever asked yourself that question? I think you can tell a lot about someone based on their answer. Is their list long or short? Does it take them a while to answer? Is their list comprised of mostly family or friends?

  Or have you ever wondered whose love list you’d be on? Anybody’s list you want to be on, but aren’t?

  Loving someone who doesn’t love you back, whether it’s a parent, sibling, lover—how do you live with that? I read somewhere that falling in love is the most dangerous thing you’ll ever do. That just might be true. Because there’s no guarantee that you’ll get love in return. To love someone is to be exposed, to surrender, to relinquish control.

  Control?

  What a crock of bullshit that is. Why do we fool ourselves into thinking we’ve got control over anything in this life? One lottery ticket and we can be millionaires, one drunk driver and we could be dead, one hot, gray-eyed man and we could be in love or lust.

  And loving someone is a gamble. So is your list long or short? Are you a high roller who takes your chances over and over again, or do you play the odds, waiting for that one time you should go all in, hoping for that big reward?

  I’ll tell you the list of people I’ve loved has been short. If you’re on it, then I love you hard. And when life takes you off my list, I grieve even harder.

  But I’ve learned the heart is flexible. It breaks, it bends, it skips beats, and thunders in your chest, but it goes on—waiting and hoping and fighting.

  So for everyone whose heart is hurting . . . Remember, the heart is flexible. When you think, I could never survive that, love that person, or forgive, that’s when your heart bends and stretches. It might be dangerous, but who doesn’t need a little danger every now and again?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ANNALYSE

  Waking up with Holt is like waking up in the middle of an erotic movie. He managed to strip me naked and get me wet before I even opened my eyes. My arms sink deep into his mattress as he pins my wrists down, the delicious weight of his body pressing into mine. I know I said making love on your side is the most intimate, but there is something about feeling the weight of a man’s body on top of you that makes a woman feel so secure and warm.

  And I’ve woken up like this every day this week.

  Every morning, he leaves breakfast on the nightstand, and every night, he comes to me if I’m not at his place. Sometimes I wake up with his head between my legs. Other times I wake up finding him at his drawer, his mood dark. Those are the nights he smacks my ass, flips me over, and buries himself deep inside me—deep enough for him to forget whatever is haunting him.

  I’m sure he doesn’t think I realize what he’s doing, but I’m on to him. And I know he thinks he’s using me—I can see the guilt in his eyes. And if I felt used, I’d stop it. But I don’t. We make each other feel good. There’s nothing wrong with that. Besides, if he were really using me, he’d get off and go. But that’s not his way. He couldn’t live with himself. I know what kind of man he is, even if he’s trying to hide it.

  Instead, he holds me the rest of the night. And not the usual throw one arm over the girl to appease her. No, he wraps both his arms around me, tightly, his head buried in my hair. And I’m not sure the man ever sleeps. I have yet to wake up before him. And this morning is no different, as I’m currently pinned beneath him.

  I wiggle my wrists, and he releases me. His dark hair is messy in that perfect kind of way. I hate guys who put all kinds of product in their hair. Holt’s just seems to always look sexy without him even trying. And he’s got that stubble on his face that’s so hot. I don’t think he even knows how hot he is. He rolls off of me, the sheet slowly sliding down my naked body, and on instinct, I move to cover the scar on my belly. The bright morning light from the crack in the curtain seems like a spotlight on it.

  “Don’t hate your scar,” he whispers.

  Reaching for my panties, I put them on and stand up. This is not a topic I care to discuss, especially when I’m naked and vulnerable. Taking a step towards the bathroom, Holt reaches for me, hooking his finger in the side of my thong, yanking me back to him. Good God, that little tug of my panties rubs me just the right way, and he knows it. His warm lips land on the small of my back as his hands gently caress my backside.

  “You’re a very strong woman, Annalyse. Your scars are just a sign of that.” Turning my head back to him, his eyes look soft. His hand slides from my hip towards my belly, a place no one has ever touched.

  I grab his hand. “No.”

  He turns me around in his arms. “Do you know what scar tissue is?”

  “Holt, I’m not in the mood . . .”

  “Scar tissue is impossible to get rid of, and a bitch to try to cut through. It’s very tough. So look at your scar and know you are a badass.”

  May sound silly, but having him believe I’m strong creates some shift in me. I think people usually look at me and think, “Poor little widow, Annalyse. What a sad story.” But not Holt. He sees me and sees strength. Holding his gaze, I slip off my panties and pull him to my mouth. Our tongues, our lips, our very breath mingling together in the best kind of fire.

  He yanks me on top of him and looks up at me completely naked. He’s got a view of all of me—including my scar. But it’s my eyes he’s staring at. It’s my fucking soul. I’m breathing so hard, I can see my breasts rising and falling. I slip him inside, not taking my time to think about it—not taking my time to explore his still undiscovered body. I just want to feel good—now! Delayed gratification is not my thing this morning.

  He sits up and leans back against the headboard. “Make yourself come.” It only takes those three little words for me to realize that I can’t remember the last time I was on top during sex. Uncertainty makes me slow down. “Umm,” he moans.

  His hands go to my hips, helping lift me up and down on the length of him. It’s a powerful feeling to bring a man to his knees like this. His neck arches back, and he bites his bottom lip. I want to watch him lose control. “Come, Holt.”

  His eyes spring open, and he pulls my hips to him, stopping me. He flips me over, his eyes burning into me. The man does like to be in control. And for the moment, that’s perfectly fine with me. I figure either way I’m going to win. And I’m right. I may not have made him orgasm first, but I got three orgasms to his one—so take that!

  And more than that, we giggle and talk in bed all morning. I finally get to run my fingers over every edge of his muscles. He kisses my forehead, takes both my hands, and pulls me up. “Come on. I haven’t made you breakfast this morning.”

  I reach for the sheet, laughing. “I’m naked. And the whole back part of your house is windows.”

  �
��Shit, can’t have that,” he says, looking around for my clothes. I point to the top of his dresser, where I left them neatly folded. We both get dressed and head to the kitchen.

  The wind is whipping around outside, a few leaves swirling across his patio and against his windows. Obviously, the weather is changing, and autumn has arrived. But the last thing I want to talk about is the weather. He’d call me on it, anyway, knowing I hate idle chitchat. Besides, it’s nice not to have to talk with someone.

  Plus, the view is amazing. And I’m not talking about the lake, surrounded by the vibrant colors of the fall leaves, creating a frame of red, yellow, and orange around the water. I’m talking about Holt. Even though he’s dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, every one of his muscles flexes as he moves. The nurses must drool over him. How has the man not had sex in five years? He is the reason sex was invented.

  He puts down a plate of pancakes in front of me then heads towards his office. “I should check in with the service.”

  “Eat first,” I say.

  He quickly drops to his knees in front of me, burying his head between my legs, causing me to bust out laughing. He smiles up at me, and my fingers gently graze the stubble on his face. “Have breakfast with me,” I whisper.

  He groans a little. “You’re hard to resist.”

  Am I? My stomach drops. What’s going to happen after breakfast? The other mornings we were together, he had to go to work. That made the goodbye part easier to deal with, but now it’s the weekend. Neither one of us has any commitments forcing us out the door. I shouldn’t linger. Fuck buddies don’t linger, do they?

  “I can make you something else,” Holt says, seeing I haven’t touched my food. “Guess I should’ve asked what you like.”

  I smile because he’s got no clue what the hell to do, either. Cutting a huge bite of pancake, my appetite returns. “I love all carbs. If you never make me anything else, I’d be just fine.”

  The poor man looks so relieved. It’s time to test the waters. “What do you usually do on the weekends?”

  One eyebrow rises at me. “That was the worst attempt at small talk I’ve ever heard,” he says, smirking.

  “You’re right,” I laugh. “I’m trying to figure out when is the appropriate time for me to leave.”

  “Whenever you’re ready,” he says.

  I take a few more bites, not wanting to be rude, but find it hard to swallow. “Then I should go,” I say, trying to be a brave little soldier. This is what we agreed to. As quick as I can without drawing attention to how sick I feel, I head for the door. Suddenly, I know why it’s called the walk of shame. No way could I make this walk with my head held high. And I’m really hoping I don’t see any neighbors along the way.

  “Annalyse,” Holt calls out as my hand hits the doorknob. His arms slip around my waist, and I can feel his heart beating against my back. He turns me around in his arms and tilts my chin up. “Don’t break our rule.”

  “I . . .”

  “I told you not to fake things with me.”

  “What if what gives me pleasure doesn’t bring you . . .”

  He pulls me tight to him, his dick pressing into me, and my breath catches. “Do you want to leave?” I shake my head a little. He smirks at me and says, “I like to play tennis on the weekends. Do you play?”

  Saved by small talk, I say, “A little.”

  After a quick trip to my house for a change of clothes, and him checking in with his office, Holt and I walk to the subdivision’s tennis court, which is right next to the clubhouse. He’s carrying a bag of racquets and balls, but still takes my hand as we walk. He’s never held my hand like this before. Sure, he’s interlocked our fingers during sex, but this feels like something more, like something a boyfriend and girlfriend do. And he took my hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. I really hope my palm doesn’t start to sweat.

  It’s breezy and chilly, which I’m sure isn’t going to help my game. I’m not the most coordinated girl, even on a good day. Holt takes a couple racquets and balls out of his bag and asks, “Have you ever played?”

  “Once or twice. I know the rules and stuff.”

  He gets a naughty glint in his eye and flirts, “I’m sure I can teach you a thing or two.” His hands slip over mine, showing me the various grips, finally settling on a more western-style grip, whatever that means. “Let’s start with the backhand.”

  Holt comes up behind me, wrapping his arms around me, his hands on top of mine on the racquet. He leans his head into my neck, giving my earlobe a little nibble. His voice lowers to a whisper as he pulls my arm and the racquet back with his hand and slowly moves it forward. “Relax, don’t tense. Now you try.” He releases me and takes a small step back. I pull the racquet back and swing through.

  “How was that?” I ask, smiling at him over my shoulder.

  Placing his hands on my hips, he gives me a little squeeze. “Looked good from back here.” Wiggling my hips at him, he chuckles. “Just one more thing.” He slides down my body, kneeling behind me, and runs his hand down my leg. “Got to have a little bend in the legs,” he says.

  Why is everything he does a turn-on? “What about forehands?”

  He takes his time standing back up, admiring my ass, then places his hands back on my hips, pulling me into him. His dick presses against my ass, one of his hands slides on top of mine, showing me the swing motion from low to high. Unless I want to fuck the man on the court, I better stop this. “I think I got it.”

  Smirking, Holt grabs a few balls and walks to the other side of the net. “I’ll start slow. Forehands first.”

  I nod and get down in a ready position, racquet in front. Holt just grins at my serious stance, and feeds the first ball. I turn to the side, pull back, and somehow hit a perfect shot with incredible top spin, landing right at the baseline corner, cross-court. Holt’s head turns, following my showy shot.

  “Liar!”

  “That was total luck,” I giggle. “You must be a really good teacher.”

  “Okay, let’s see what you’ve got,” he says, bouncing the ball, preparing to serve.

  I get ready. I’ve got no idea how good he is, but he just looks like he can play. I wonder how hard he can serve. Please don’t hit me in the face, I silently pray. But I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of looking scared. “Don’t hold back,” I tease.

  “Impossible with you,” he flirts back. And before I know what is happening, the ball comes whizzing by me. “15 – 0,” he calls out.

  “Asshole.”

  “What was that, baby?”

  “Asshole, baby!” I yell loudly.

  “That was my second serve, but since you called me that, now I’m bringing the heat.”

  “I’m sure nothing you have is too hot for me to handle.” He cracks up laughing right in the middle of his serve, giving me the chance to get my racquet out in time to make contact. Unfortunately, my return of serve flies high in the air, sails over his head and hits the fence. I know he’s not giving me his best, but it doesn’t matter. He wins that game without me making contact again.

  We cross sides, and he hands me the balls as we pass each other. “Good luck, baby.”

  “I’ll be handing you your balls in a minute,” I say.

  “You can handle my balls any time.”

  I roll my eyes as he captures me in his arms, and I playfully push him away. “Show off!”

  He pulls me back. “Only because I want to impress you.”

  That’s the only forgivable reason for his grandstanding. I lean up to kiss him softly. “Are you one of those crazy exercise people that even works out on vacation? Because if so, we may have a problem.”

  He captures me in his arms. “The only exercise I’m getting lately is with you.”

  “I know,” I say, giggling. “Meg left me her gym pass, and I haven’t gone once. Sexercise is better than any gym.”

  He laughs. I love making him laugh, even if he’s laughing at me. He takes
both my hands then begins to rub. “You’re cold.”

  “I’m good. I want to keep . . .” His phone rings, and he walks over to get it.

  Giving me an apologetic look, he listens for a minute. “Probably mastitis,” Holt says. “I’ll come take a look. Just give me a few minutes. Tell her she’ll be fine.”

  He hangs up, giving me a little shrug. “I need to go check on Rachel.”

  We start back towards his house. It’s just a couple minutes’ walk, but he takes my hand again. I probably shouldn’t be noticing that, but I am. When we get inside, Holt puts away his tennis stuff and kisses me quickly on the lips. “I’ll be back soon.”

  “Think I’ll walk the trail around the lake while you’re gone,” I say.

  “The weather is turning cold,” he says. “Stay in, and I’ll start the fireplace for you.”

  “I won’t be gone long,” I say then tease, “Besides, you’ll be fondling Rachel’s tits, anyway.”

  “Was really hoping you didn’t know what mastitis is.”

  “It’s fine. Go squeeze some boobs,” I say, and he captures me from behind, each of his hands covering one of my breasts. I playfully swat at him as he laughs. “You know I’m only teasing you, right? It doesn’t bother me.”

  “I know,” he says. “Thanks for understanding. Wait here.”

  Then he disappears to be a boob-inspector. I do a little cleaning up, knowing how anal he is, but he’s still not back. So I decide to head out and walk the trail. Have to say, I’m glad I’m not doing this with Doug or even Holt. It’s nice to be alone. I’ve spent most of the past five years alone. I’m just the kind of person that needs “me” time.

  I’m not far from the houses, but far enough that the only sound is the crunching of the leaves beneath my feet and the thoughts in my head. I’ve barely had any time to think. Usually, it’s the hours late at night when I’d find myself awake and thinking—thinking too much. But now, my nights are spent wrapped in Holt’s arms, sleepy from making up for all the sex I missed.

  I follow the path leading around the lake, but I don’t make it very far before my phone rings. It’s Meg. I could let it go, but we haven’t had a real conversation since she’s been gone. Taking a seat on a rock beside the lake, I answer.