by Logan Belle
“Are you talking about last night?”
“I’m talking about everything. Remember when I told you I went to my boss with the idea about bringing in an organic line of make-up? Well, today she presented the idea to the entire store as her own idea. And apparently, the reps from corporate love the idea. They’re going to do it!”
“Romi, you can’t get this upset just because one thing didn’t work out. Keep playing the game ‘til something clicks.”
“You know, I’m getting a little tired of advice from you. And besides, you admitted yourself the other night that you play it safe. That failure is not an option.”
“Why are you lashing out at me?” he asks calmly.
Good question. And I owe him an honest answer. I can’t be angry at him without at least giving him a chance to come clean with me.
“Because I have told you everything, revealed myself to you completely, and you don’t do the same. Yes, I have avoided sex for years because I’m afraid of getting hurt. So what’s with your ‘no relationship, one-night stands only’ thing?”
He takes a sip of his drink, saying nothing at first. I’m not expecting him to respond, not in any real way. It just felt good to say what I’ve been thinking for so long.
His eyes are intense, wide. Unblinking. Again, unwillingly, I think how attractive he is. How much I want to touch him. How much I always want to touch him when we are together. Even now, when I am so upset, and so angry, standing in my decidedly unsexy kitchen, I feel the stirrings of attraction. But it’s more than attraction, because I can’t deny how much I’ve come to enjoy his company, the way he smiles at me. The way he laughs. His propensity for sexual innuendo. His confidence. The way he shakes his hair out of his eyes. Looking into his eyes. Talking. Not talking.
He pours himself another hefty tumbler of the vodka he allegedly does not even like.
“I tried the whole serious relationship thing once. I was engaged.”
I look at him in surprise. “You were?” Who was this wonder woman who managed to snag a ring from Mr. Confirmed Bachelor?
“Yeah. But then things got tough, and I couldn’t hack it. I bailed.”
“Things got tough in what way?”
He hesitates, but I think the look on my face tells him that either he talks now, or this is the last time we have a confessional. I’m tired of it being one-sided.
“She got sick,” he says. “Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma. We were both in our twenties. I tried to handle it. But during chemo, I just couldn’t take it. And by the time I realized what a huge mistake I made, it was too late. She wouldn’t take me back. And I can’t blame her.”
There are so many questions I want to ask. How did you meet? What was she like? How long were you together? What was it about her that made her the one?
“Did she get better?”
He nods. “Yeah. And she’s happily married now.”
“You’re still in touch with her?”
“Not in a long time.”
I try to imagine that. It was bad enough losing my husband, but at least I had the luxury of being angry at him — not at myself.
“A lot of people have a tough time dealing with illness. And you were so young.”
He shakes his head, looking as wistful and downtrodden as I’ve ever seen him. “It was a major failure on my part. But I learned something. That whole ‘for better or for worse, in sickness and in health’ thing? Not for me. I can make women happy in small doses, and they make me happy in small doses.”
“So you’re saying you wouldn’t do anything different if you could?”
“No. If I could go back in time, I would do everything different. If I could make it up to her, I would. But I can’t. I’m saying that moving forward, I’m not going to get myself into a situation where I let someone down.”
Neither one of us speaks for a few minutes. And finally, I get it. He didn’t help his fiancé through her cancer, but he’s trying, albeit in a bizarre way, to help me.
I’m his now or never.
He’s staring off into space. I want to hold him, to tell him it’s okay. But I don’t think he’d want that or accept that from me. So I say the only thing I can say.
“You know what? I’m starving.”
He smiles.
Chapter 23
I show Justin where to find the cutting boards and pots, and he immediately seems at home. He peels the zucchini into noodle-like ribbons, tosses them with sea salt, and then leaves them in a colander.
“What’s the red stuff?”
“Dulse. It’s red seaweed.”
He gives me small tasks to do, and we work side-by-side. My agitation ebbs, and we fall into a comfortable silence.
When the food is ready we move back to the living room and sit on the couch, using the coffee table. I wish I had a bottle of red wine in the house, but in my push for healthier living I don’t buy it any more.
“You really are an amazing cook,” I say, digging into the food. “So inventive.”
“Glad you like it,” he says, smiling at me.
Midnight curls around the edge of the table, tail held high, sniffing the air.
“I think your cat would understand if we went out,” he says. “Go upstairs and change. Let’s go out for a real drink. I can’t drink this shit.”
“It’s a she,” I say, stalling.
I’m not sure I want to go out. I don’t want to share him with a room full of young women. I don’t want to pretend not to care that his eyes are wandering. I don’t want him trying to fulfill one of my sexual fantasies. Because for the life of me, I can’t imagine a fantasy that is better than the way I feel right now, on my couch, just the two of us.
“I shouldn’t leave her,” I finally say. I don’t want to pursue The List any more. I don’t want him pawning me off on other men to fulfill my sexual fantasies, when my one fantasy is to have him. “But you should go if you want. The night is young.”
I don’t look at him — I don’t dare.
Not until he says, “Without my wingman? No chance,” grinning at me.
My stomach flips, as hollow and shaky as if I’ve jumped off a cliff.
“So you never did tell me what happened at The Four Seasons the other night,” he says. “I meant to get around to asking you that day, but you flipped out on me before I got the chance.”
I roll my eyes.
“You should know. You set it up.”
“I set it up, but I had no control over the follow-through. You didn’t have actual sex, did you?”
“Why do you want to know?” Is he jealous?
“Just trying to keep track of the items on the list.”
I shake my head. “No. Not actual sex.”
Maybe it’s my wishful thinking, but he seems relieved.
“Care to elaborate?”
“Justin, I do not want to talk about this.” I’m not just being coy. I don’t want to talk to him about being with another man even if we are in on this whole list thing together.
I’m looking down at my plate but I’m acutely aware his eyes are on me. I ignore him, even though I burn with self-consciousness.
“I’m kind of jealous,” he says.
Ah hah!
“That’s the vodka talking.” Yet the words thrill me to my core.
“It might be the vodka talking, but it’s not the vodka feeling,” he says. “It’s tough being a bystander to the whole sexual renaissance you’ve got going on. I mean, I can’t help but feel invested.”
I swallow hard, trying to keep my voice light and casual. “Well, you did buy me the underwear.” I think about how excited I was at the book club, knowing he was aware what I was wearing under my clothes that night.
“And some other guy got to see it on you instead of me.”
I look at him. He’s smiling that devilish grin again.
I remind myself that I know this is just the way he is. It’s his M.O. He goes out, he drinks, he flirts.
And tonight, the
re’s no cocktail waitress. There’s no shiny young thing across the room.
His glances down at my legs, then up again, caressing my body with his eyes.
I know it doesn’t mean anything. But I want it to.
“Excuse me for a minute,” I say, standing up. After a second of hesitation, I somehow find the nerve to walk upstairs to my bedroom.
I switch on one of my bedside lamps, then hurry to my top dresser drawer and search for the garter and stockings. My mind is racing but I let it roll like a movie on fast forward, refusing to let it stop on a thought that will cause hesitation. There’s only one thought I allow through the surge of adrenaline, Now or never.
My hands shake as I pull off my black pants and smock and leave them in a heap on the floor. I shed my underwear and change into a pretty black lace bra that I bought on a whim last year during the Fourth of July Sale. The tags are still on, and I give them a hard tug, then toss them on the floor.
I pull on black lace underwear, not a perfect match but close enough. And then I clasp the garter belt around my waist.
The first stocking is surprisingly easy to hook onto the garter. I’m getting the hang of this sexy underwear thing, I tell myself. But then the other one keeps slipping off.
“Damn it,” I twist behind myself to close the hook on the back of my thigh. I straighten up, taking a second to catch my breath. And I see him standing in the doorway.
“Better than I imagined,” he says, walking slowly into the room.
“What are you doing up here?” A question I should be asking myself, not him.
He doesn’t answer. Just moves closer, until our bodies are nearly touching. He dips his head down, pressing his lips to my collar bone.
“I’m glad I get to see these on you,” he says. “Now what about taking them off?”
My insides turn to butter. I can’t believe this is happening. His arms are around me, his mouth moving up my neck, to my lips. Then he bends down, his hands nimbly unhooking the garters, then slowly peel off my stockings. He straightens and pulls me to him, kissing me.
The feeling of being in his arms, his warm mouth on mine, instantly erases every other sexual or pseudo-sexual experience I have had in the past few weeks. The surge of need pulsing through me is so intense, it’s almost violent. Justin, in this moment, is both the stranger of my deepest fantasies, and the intimate friend no man has been to me — not even my husband during our brief marriage.
His hands roam up and down my back, sliding around to stroke my breasts. He pulls down the lace cup of my bra, dipping his face to suck gently on my nipples. I run my hands through his hair, fully aware I’ve been aching to touch him this way since the night we first met.
The stubble of his faint beard is rough against my skin, and this in itself is exciting. Everything about him thrills me – his touch, his smell, the feeling of his body pressed against mine.
He stops touching me long enough to take off his shirt.
His body is gorgeous. I gasp or something because he asks, “Are you okay?”
And I nod, barely able to catch my breath as he walks me backward to my bed, and lifts me onto it.
“Keeping all this under wraps for so many years? Not fair, Romi.”
“Not fair?” I murmur, stretching out on my back. “To whom?”
“Mankind,” he says, standing beside the bed, unzipping his jeans. I watch his pants slide to the floor, watch his muscular legs kick them off. Did I ever dream I would be with a guy this gorgeous in my forties? No. Never.
He climbs onto the bed with me, reaching behind my back to unhook my bra and tosses it to the floor.
I sigh deeply, closing my eyes as he covers my body in kisses soft as a butterfly’s landing. He slides next to me and pulls me against his body, his mouth covering mine, his hand pulling my ass to press against him. I feel how hard he is for me. I pull back just enough to slip my hand down and trace the length of him over his boxer shorts. My heart is pounding, but in a good way. I’ve never felt so completely in the moment, so fully alive.
“Romi, you touch me like you mean it,” he says, whispering into my ear. I have no idea what it means, but his words thrill me, his touch thrills me. I can’t imagine it getting any better.
It does.
He slips off my underwear, and I spread my legs for him. There is no hesitation on my part, no pretense that we both don’t know what’s going to happen. No pretense that I don’t want it.
His fingers play with me, stroking and teasing my lips until I am slippery wet. He slides a finger deep inside and I moan, arching my back. His touch is so simple, but so perfect. The pleasure that shoots through me is the purest I’ve ever known.
I want him in a way I don’t recognize. In a way that makes alien thoughts run roughshod through my head, thoughts like, I need his cock in my mouth.
His finger pulses in and out of me as he leans down between my legs to lick my clit. The swelling waves of hot, rippling sensation in my pelvis push all thoughts aside. My body moves in tandem with his hand, my pussy clenching against his hand in a fast and furious orgasm that makes me scream so loud I wouldn’t be surprised if my neighbors call 911.
Should I be embarrassed by how fast and hard I came for him? The way I screamed his name? I don’t know, and don’t care. The other thought is back — of his cock I want to tease and taste.
I roll onto my side and push him onto his back. I get onto my knees and position myself between his thighs so I can easily take him in my mouth. I brace myself with one hand on either side of his hips, and run my tongue along his considerable length. I’m not surprised that he has a huge cock, just as I wasn’t surprised he had a Mercedes or a line for any woman who crossed his path or the ability to get me a nameless romp in a hotel room.
Justin is Justin, and I have never known a guy like him and probably never will again. So I don’t over-think what I am doing to him. I follow my natural urge to make him feel good. He gently touches my head, and moves his hips. I understand what he wants. And I’ll give it to him.
When my tongue brushes over the tip of cock, then down the underside of his shaft, it elicits a moan from him that makes my stomach flip. And then I take him into my mouth entirely, as much as I can, moving up and down, until he says,“I have to fuck you now.”
I sit back on my heels, unsure what to do. He pulls me down next to him, touching me briefly between my legs before moving on top. His cock is between my thighs, brushing against my pussy but not inside of me. He teases for a minute, hands stroking my breasts. My legs spread, back arches, pressing against him. I do everything but use my hand to get him inside me. Still he doesn’t move any closer, his mouth sucking my breasts. Tiny darts of pleasure shoot from my nipples to my pelvis. I moan. My hands on his ass, pulling him to me. Finally, his cock spreads me, inching inside, with excruciating slowness. I close my eyes.
It’s been so long since I’ve had the sensation of being full of a man, I can barely take it. I’m tight, and it must feel good to him because he gasps before he even starts to move. He pulls out a bit, then in again. I’m moaning. The way he’s fucking me is so perfect. His strokes are hard, steady, a rhythm I can ride straight to another orgasm.
I’m on the edge of coming when I feel a sort of vibration from his cock, and his thrusts get quicker. I open my eyes, and I see his beautiful face contorted in pleasure.
He cries out in a sharp, startling way, his hands reaching behind me to hold my ass, keeping me against him so he can ride me even harder. And that’s when my own pleasure breaks like a fever. “Oh my god,” I say, my pussy convulsing against him in seemingly endless spasms of pleasure.
But it’s more than just sex. If there was any doubt before, there isn’t any now. I’m in love with him.
Justin gently pulls out, and collapses next to me. His body is covered in a fine sheen of sweat. I turn to him, kiss him lightly on the shoulder, and taste salt.
He reaches over and ruffles my hair.
“Can
I ask you something?”
“Yeah,” he says. He voice is gravelly, satisfied.
“Why did you ask me to go to the pub that first night?”
He smiles, looking at the ceiling.
“I was attracted to you,” he says.
“You mean, you were trying to pick me up?”
He looks at me and nods. “Yeah. I have a radar for horny women.”
I give him a little shove. “Shut up.”
“No, really. But then our conversation went into the friend zone. You were clearly not into it. I didn’t know what to make of the whole thing. And then we got to The List. Congratulations, by the way.”
“For what?” I can’t believe he was interested in sleeping with me that first night. But I was so busy thinking about all the reasons why he wouldn’t be interested in me, and why I shouldn’t be interested in him.
“You can cross another thing off The List.”
“Oh yeah, what’s that?” I ask, smiling.
He sits up, already putting on his clothes. “One night stand.”
Chapter 24
In the morning I’m the first one to open my register. Aimee is the second person on the floor. She makes a point of stopping by my counter.
“Feeling better today?” she asks with a saccharine smile. She is dressed in a red suit, fancier than usual. I guess she’s living by the old adage, dress for the job you want, not the job you have. I’m not exactly sure what’s she’s gunning for, but I have a feeling she’ll get it.
She looks at me, daring me to say something about the way she hijacked my idea. And I thought about this on the drive to work. But what is there to say? She knows what she did. I have no recourse. As long as I’m at the counter, she is my boss. I can’t change her, and I can’t change my job.
“Fine,” I tell her. Just a little exhausted.
I lay awake all night, hours after Justin left. And he left pretty damn fast.
I played the whole night over and over in my mind, including his very pointed comment when it was all finished.
