Secret Shared s-2

by Marie L. Adeline

  And I did, in a trance now, eagerly flipping around to face his perfect torso. I had never seen a man built like him before, ripples on top of muscles, hairless, made just for this.

  I propped myself up on my elbows, boldly watching as he unspooled the condom. He yanked my hips down to the edge of the table, teasing my cleft with his slickened head, inching it inside of me, then out again, never taking his eyes off me. He stopped every few seconds so I could yield to his thickness, helped by his wetted fingers across my clitoris. When he was fully inside, I collapsed back on the table, his hands now caressing my breasts, freed from the bra. My nipples responded, tightening under his touch. When he saw how turned on I was, he moved with greater urgency. I reached back and grabbed the other edge of the table for better leverage and then we became a blur of frantic thrusts. Oh yeah. So good.

  Then came the first wave, as his thrusts found my sweet spot deep behind my pelvis, and I lost it, my arms flung behind my head, bringing my wall down, letting go of that residual fear. Our eyes met just at the apex when my orgasm struck hot and fierce, then his did too as he pumped me hard and fast, murmuring, “This is all for you, Dauphine. This is for you.”

  He jerked and shuddered at the end, but remained in me and above me, coated with a gorgeous sheen of sweat, as I clenched and spasmed around him. Slowly my breathing steadied.

  He smiled. Laughed.

  “Wow,” he said.

  “Did you get … all the information … you needed, Officer?”

  “Yes, and then some. Now I have something for you.”

  He eased out, then bent down to take something from one of the pockets of his uniform pants, which were lying on the floor by his feet. When he rose, he was dangling a gleaming charm between a thumb and forefinger.

  “What does it say?” I asked, still splayed across the table.

  “Courage. And rightfully so, Miss Mason.”

  He shot the charm into the air with his thumb like a coin, letting it fall on my damp stomach. Then he slapped a hand over it.

  “Heads or tails?”

  “What do I get if I call it?” I asked.

  “Anything you want, Miss Mason.”

  “Tails.”

  He slowly lifted his hand from my stomach and peeked beneath it.

  “Well, what do you know,” he said.

  His eyes scanned my body, and he lowered himself to kiss the charm on my belly. Farther down he went and I closed my eyes. His mouth worked me into another fever, bringing me back to that incredible precipice, that ecstasy, then letting me fall over it again.

  Afterwards, I lay on the table, my fingers entwined in his thick golden hair, his breath on my stomach, my other hand dangling over the side of the table, clutching Courage in my palm.

  9

  CASSIE

  I ASKED MATILDA for a last-minute meeting a few days after Dauphine’s cop fantasy. Being her Guide meant spending less time with my own, but my one-night stand with Mark had left me feeling a little off.

  As she made her way to where I was sitting in Audubon Park, she looked the picture of Southern gentility. She had on a straw hat, dark glasses and an off-the-shoulder coral-colored sundress that showed off her red hair and the smattering of freckles across her smooth décolleté. She was nearing sixty but looked as fresh and sexy as someone half her age. And by the way she walked, you could tell she knew entrances were her particular talent. It was her idea to meet near the pickup soccer pitch by the Saint Charles entrance. She moved towards the bench, and even the players during a breakaway had to stop to take her in.

  As we sat together, I caught her up on Dauphine, explaining how she was learning to give over control.

  “That’s a tough one, control,” Matilda said, eyeing the soccer game. “Too much and you never allow yourself to know others. Too little and you never truly know yourself. How about you, Cassie, how are you faring out there in the wilds?”

  “Fine. Good. I … I did it. I had sex,” I blurted out.

  “Oh? How lovely. With whom?”

  “Some guy I just met,” I said, sounding oddly triumphant. “The one from Ignatius’s that day. He’s not really my type. But sexually, he was fun.”

  “So you’re not going to see him again?”

  “I don’t know. He’s almost ten years younger than me. Young. Self-centered. Sexy, though. Maybe I will see him again. The beauty of it is, I don’t care whether I do or not. But the sex was incredible.”

  “So you don’t want to hear from him again?” Matilda asked.

  “Not really … I don’t know. Does that make me a slut?”

  Matilda turned her whole body towards me, her attention fully off the soccer game. She looked as though I’d just slapped her.

  “The word slut, unless employed by iron-clad feminists or ironically by irony experts, has no business coming out of a woman’s mouth, do you hear me? Not when she is describing her own sexual behavior and especially if she’s describing another woman’s. It’s the kind of word that can scar, Cassie.”

  I was stunned. I’d never heard her use such a sharp tone.

  “That word has been used as a weapon against women all around the world, since the beginning of time, to keep us feeling unworthy and separate. It can have especially tragic consequences for young women. Some shut down; some lose their confidence; some lose their desire to explore their sexuality; and still others end their lives over sexual shame.”

  I’d never really given the subject much thought, but I have, in my life, felt that shame, that sense that there was something wrong about wanting and enjoying sex. But since joining S.E.C.R.E.T. that shame had been fading. In fact, it seemed ludicrous to hold on to any of those old ideas. Then something else occurred to me.

  “If shame is so toxic, why isn’t S.E.C.R.E.T. more public? That would be a way to fight the stigma, the double standard. Why should ‘slut’ be an insult to women and not necessarily to men?”

  “Let me ask you something. If we went public, would you admit to being an enthusiastic member of a group of women that arranges sexual fantasies for other women? Would you like to share with the world all the marvelous men you’ve met and all the marvelous things you’ve done with them, in S.E.C.R.E.T.?”

  She lifted her sunglasses to look right into my eyes. She had me. There was no way I could face that potential scrutiny.

  “We can’t change the world, Cassie, but we can liberate one woman at a time. Reduce her shame. That’s all we can do. Now, tell me all about this young man you slept with.”

  “Well, let’s see. I like him. I like being with him. But when I’m not with him, I don’t think about him. Then I feel guilty because I should have more feelings for him, shouldn’t I?”

  “Should. Shouldn’t. Who cares,” she said with a wave of her hand. “I think it’s perfectly healthy, perfectly necessary, that a thirty-six-year-old woman like you has terrific sex with a younger man from whom she wants little else. Let me ask you something: were you honest with him about what you wanted?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was the sex consensual?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did you use protection?”

  “We did.”

  “Well then, good for you! What fun it must be to be back in your body, to simply experience a man. So, no more talk of sluts, all right? No judgment. No limits. No shame. That applies to how you think about yourself too.”

  It felt like a good time to bring someone else up, someone who I did want to see again, for whom I still had lingering feelings.

  “How’s Jesse?” I asked, as casually as possible. “Is he next on Dauphine’s fantasy list?”

  “I believe he is,” she said, looking out over the field. “He was your number three. We think he should be Dauphine’s as well.”

  Ouch. I tried not to look at her, but she was eyeing a cute, sweaty player with his hands on his knees who was catching his breath. He looked about thirty, Latin, maybe South American or Italian. Not too tall, stocky
, fit, with a head of messy black hair and teeth so white they flashed brilliant from ten yards away.

  “See that one?” she asked.

  “He’s kind of hard to miss,” I said. “Do you know him?”

  “We’re in the process of recruiting him. Angela was supposed to be my wing girl today. That task has now fallen to you.”

  “Now?”

  “Get the ball!” Matilda screamed. “Honey, I know what you’re thinking regarding Jesse. You can’t have Will, and you don’t want this young fella, so you’re looking for a little something in the middle. That’s okay. But I’m not sure pulling Jesse off the roster is a great idea. Besides, I have a special trip I’d like you to go on. You know we have to auction off Red Rage?”

  “The painting in the Coach House?”

  “That’s right. We’ve decided to auction it off in Buenos Aires, in Carolina’s home country. We think we can get the best price there, since there are only two paintings left. We need you to accompany the painting and represent our … consortium. You don’t have to take any photos or answer any questions. You’ll just put on a cute dress and sign a transfer of sale certificate.”

  Wow, Buenos Aires. The last trip I had taken was to Canada, where I had my ski instructor fantasy. I was due for a vacation … but with Tracina pregnant and Dell so old, it just wasn’t possible.

  “I wish I could, but leaving Will right now … it would devastate the Café.”

  “You really care about him, don’t you.”

  Before I could answer, a runaway ball rolled close to our bench, followed by the guy Matilda had had her eye on. She smiled at him.

  “Hey. Are you our coach now? Or just the ref?” he asked Matilda, breathless from running.

  “You guys could use both,” Matilda teased, tilting her head up to get a better look at his face over the brim of her hat. “What’s your name?”

  “Dominic. Yours?”

  “Matilda Greene. This here’s my friend Cassie.”

  “You guys soccer fans?”

  “No,” Matilda said.

  Dominic laughed while one of his opponents razzed him to put the ball back in play.

  “Don’t go anywhere, Matilda Greene,” he yelled, running backwards and folding into the play.

  Every few seconds he’d glance over to make sure she was still there.

  I was awestruck.

  “How did you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Get the hottest guy in the park to come over and talk to you. Women half your age couldn’t pull that off.”

  She shrugged, her eyes still on him.

  “I singled him out. Separated him from his pack. Everyone recruits differently. But this is my method.”

  Dominic broke away with the ball again, heading fast to the other side of the pitch. “Go! Go! Go!”

  “Are we recruiting right now?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. We’re down one since we dropped Pierre. That’s why I’m reluctant to give you Jesse. Did you spot a wedding ring on our Dominic?”

  “I wasn’t looking.”

  “That’s the first thing you have to look for.”

  I made a mental note as the soccer players headed to midfield. At one point, Dominic pulled his shirt up to wipe his face, revealing his muscled stomach.

  “Whoa,” I said.

  “Yes, he’s really quite beautiful, isn’t he. But they don’t all have to be models to be recruits. They do have to know they’re sexy. They have to be able to hold a conversation, seem interesting, even if they aren’t. Attractiveness is subjective, but we like to stick to the ‘classic’ sexy, confident, masculine trio of attributes. And of course, they need to be in top health. This one is all that. And, what do you know, no wedding ring.”

  She glanced at her watch.

  “Cassie, I need you to close this deal for me. I have to find someone to go to Argentina.”

  “Close what deal?”

  “Get Dominic’s number. Maybe he can replace Jesse,” she said, winking.

  My panic started at my feet, and traveled all the way to the back of my skull like an ice cream headache.

  “But he wants to meet you. He barely looked at me. What if he won’t give me his number?”

  Matilda stood and peered across the pitch, like a lioness lazily eyeing a gazelle.

  “All you need to do is ask. In the meantime, be kind to yourself. This one-night stand’s got you in a bit of a tumult. Don’t let it derail all the progress you’ve made. You’re coming into your own. I see it.”

  Matilda sauntered to the Saint Charles exit, missing Dominic’s assisted goal. He carved a victory lap from the net to center field, where he messed up a redheaded opponent’s hair, made one more circle to slap hands with sitting opponents, then finally landed at my bench.

  “Hey,” he said breathlessly. “Where’d your friend go?”

  “She had to leave,” I said, quickly adding, “but she did ask me to get your number.”

  “What? Very cool.” He beamed.

  All you have to do is ask. I was punching his number into my cell phone when his ginger friend came running up behind him.

  “Meeting and greeting your fans, Dom? Does this one have a name?”

  Was he looking at me? Yep. He was.

  “Cassie,” I said, shielding my eyes and squinting into his face, which, upon closer inspection, was cute. Added to that, he had a thick Scottish accent and freckled, muscular forearms.

  “I’m Ewan. Listen, lose this bugger’s number and take down mine.”

  “How ’bout this,” I said, trying to keep the butterflies in my stomach from affecting my voice. “I’ll give Dominic’s number to my friend, and maybe I’ll keep yours for myself.”

  “Can’t imagine a better plan,” he said.

  Their numbers safely locked in my phone, I stood to leave.

  “Well, fellas, it’s been lovely.”

  Walking towards Magazine Street, I marveled at the fact that I had just made contact with two incredibly sexy men whose own fantasies S.E.C.R.E.T. might unlock. And if they were amenable and discreet, they’d be trained by one of the Committee members. Then they’d be lined up with a lucky candidate, perhaps Dauphine. I glanced around the park, now packed and buzzing with fit joggers, cute dads and hot cyclists. Had these men always been here and I’d never noticed them before? Or were they noticing something in me for the first time?

  Matilda’s words rang in my mind: You’re coming into your own. I see it.

  10

  DAUPHINE

  ELIZABETH WAS THE first to notice a stale petroleum smell wafting around outside the store. You couldn’t blame Katrina or any of the other famous hurricanes. The infrastructure in New Orleans was long compromised before those epic storms laid bare its awful issues. But a possible gas leak would mean wholesale evacuation, and that meant shutting down eleven stores and restaurants in one of the most pedestrian-heavy parts of town. The Funky Monkey was looking at a month-long shutdown to replace old gas lines buried under the sidewalks out front.

  “You do realize, Cassie, when they say a month in New Orleans, it could mean six. I have not been unemployed since I was a teenager.”

  My whining was taking place over margaritas at Tracy’s. I must have been anxious; I was out-drinking Cassie two to one. We’d become friends. She had even filled me in on her drama with her boss, Will, and how she almost ended up with him. Maybe that’s why I so boldly inquired about Mark Drury. We were talking about men, sex and dating, so it didn’t seem like I was prying about my weird crush.

  “Yeah, we met. His name’s Mark. A musician. Who. Talks. About. Music. Non. Stop,” she said, rolling her eyes. “We’ve been out once but …”

  “But?”

  “He’s just … he’s not for me,” she said. “I don’t know why, or what I have to do to get Will out of my head and my heart for good. But Mark’s not going to help me.”

  I hated to admit my relief. Not that I thought I had a chance wi
th Mark. And I certainly wasn’t interested in pursuing anyone while a stack of fantasies awaited me. But still. Then a look crossed her face, like a new and singular idea had just taken her brain hostage to the detriment of all other thoughts.

  “Wait one sec. Let me make a phone call. I’ll be right back.”

  When she returned a minute later, she was still talking on her cell.

  “Yup … yeah … she’s right here. Hold on.” She covered the receiver, her face open and hopeful. “Matilda wants to talk to you.”

  Baffled, I took her phone from her.

  “Hi, Matilda. What’s going on?”

  “Dauphine, honey, I understand you might have some time on your hands. I have a rather exciting mission for you to consider, and at the same time, you’d be doing S.E.C.R.E.T. a big favor.”

  Then she laid out what to a normal person would be a dream vacation: a free trip to Buenos Aires, where I’d stay in a five-star hotel and attend the auction of a rare painting, with plenty of time to see the sights and do some shopping. It sounded heady, glamorous and exciting. Except for the part about the plane.

  “We’d pay your expenses and give you ample spending money, Dauphine. The auction is already arranged—you just have to show up and sign some papers on behalf of S.E.C.R.E.T.”

  I thanked her and told her it all sounded amazing, incredible even, adding I was flattered and humbled to even be considered. In fact, Buenos Aires was a city I’d always hoped to see. But there was one small problem.

  “The thing is, Matilda, I don’t fly. Ever.”

  Cassie was listening to our conversation, and when she heard that, her eager smile turned to a frown.

  “Oh, honey,” Matilda said, laughing. “Is that all that’s holding you back? Once a fear is exposed it’s no longer a fear. It’s an opportunity for a decision—to stay stuck or to go forward.”

  I protested further, trying to explain.

  “I hate being a passenger. I need to be at the wheel of things. I just … I can’t give up that control.”

  “But you’ve let folks drive you around in a car, haven’t you?”

  I told her at least with a car, I knew I could force it to the side of the road and get out. “A plane ride is not only a full-on commitment, it’s an act of faith, both in the plane’s ability to remain aloft and in my ability to trust a pilot to keep it there. And as silly as it sounds, I don’t have a lot of faith in either of those things, Matilda.” I added, “I don’t even have a passport.”