by Jess Bentley
Okay.
Do it, I command her. Are you doing it?
In a few moments, I get another picture. Similar angle, but this time there is more light. Her skirt is drawn back, and her fingers are buried within her panties. I see the strain her hand, see the outline of her knuckles as her fingertips are hidden between her juicy, plump folds.
My hand drifts down, and I find my cock already hard and pulsing. Staring at the photo, I spread my fingers to expand it until it is as close up as I can get. My groan fills my chest as I fist my cock, bringing myself to a clenching, explosive climax, fueled by frustration and longing.
When I'm done, I realize that I'm glad that she obeyed me, but I don't feel satisfied. Like a drug, I need more. It is just a taste, and that only makes me hungrier. Every time we communicate, it's just another morsel. Another tease… another taunt.
This is not the path to satisfaction, not like this. I need more. I'm not some pimply teenager who is going to be happy beating off to the fantasy of a girl. I need a real woman, the real satisfaction of a live woman underneath me.
When can we meet?
…
I scowl at the phone, waiting for her to answer.
What's your name?
Who is this?
She doesn't answer right away, and I set the phone down, counting to ten, then ten more, then ten more. I might be overreacting, but this is on my nerves. If it's Trina, the game has gone long enough. Even if it's anybody else, the game has gone on long enough.
Soon, she finally says.
Soon what?
Soon we can meet. I promise.
I want to throw the phone. What the fuck does soon mean anyway? It’s just one of those stupid things people say to each other, a fairytale about a meeting that doesn't actually exist. It’s not even a real time. Some made up word that means not right now.
Instead I close Instagram and scroll through my contacts, looking for Dahlia’s cell phone number. I find it and pause for a moment considering what to say to her. I do not want to come off badly, considering the foul mood that Melanie has put me in. But I need to take care of this, right away.
Chapter 15
Dahlia
As soon as I get back from the storeroom to my desk, my phone double vibrates, the alert for a regular text message. I assume it's going to be Bunny, but when I turn the phone over, the name on the alert stops my blood in my veins.
It's August. He's contacting me directly?
Heart pounding, I tap on the message to open it, but quickly flip my phone back over when Lori’s blonde hair catches my attention from the corner of my eye.
“I want to thank you for following up about Kirkman,” she starts, her eyes sweeping the room distractedly. I'm grateful that she's not looking at me directly, because I know that my cheeks are flushed, and she could probably see my heart beating like a cartoon right now if she looked at my chest.
“Oh, yeah, sure…” I croak, swallowing nervously. I can't get August out of my mind and I try desperately to push thoughts of him aside and focus only on Lori. I need to be in this moment right now.
“I got a hold of his manager, or whatever she is. Was she there too?”
“Manager?” I repeat, confused.
“Yeah, I figured it was Melanie. Anyway, she wasn't sure that there was an opportunity available there.”
“Oh,” I mutter, not sure what to say. The realization of what she's saying starts to sink in: she actually reached out to Kirkman to try to get this contract. She failed, but that's not really the point. I almost created a nuclear catastrophe. What if Melanie had said yes?
Another tidal wave of guilt washes through me as I remember that I've got an unanswered text from August sitting right here on my cell phone.
“So, anyway, I wanted to thank you for trying, Dahlia. It really means a lot,” Lori says distractedly. It seems as though she's giving me this speech out of obligation, as though it's an item on her to do list.
“Don't mention it,” I mumble in response, but I don't think she's listening. She knocks the top of the cubicle wall twice as a way of saying goodbye and then strides off, veering between the rows, looking at everyone like she's trying to pick her next prey.
A sick feeling sloshes through my stomach as I pick my phone up again. The message from August is right there, glowing from the small screen.
I need to speak with you. Please call.
My mouth is as dry as sand as I press the tiny phone icon and listen to the imitation ringing noise. He picks up before it completes.
“Dahlia,” he growls.
“Yes…” I whisper. My heart is beating so loudly I barely hear his voice. Even though I'm terrified he's angry at me, I'm also still sweating and trembling from touching myself in the storeroom not five minutes ago. August may not realize it, but he was just telling me to touch myself, and I was doing everything he asked. I'm so confused, I barely know what to say.
“I think it's better if we do this in person,” he says in clipped, restrained syllables. “Can you please meet me at my home office?”
“Home office?” I repeat, realizing that I'm not going to be even in a public space. I will be trapped with him, alone, unable to conceal anything from his piercing, steely eyes.
“I'll text you the address,” he says, and then the line goes dead. Three seconds later, the address pops up on my screen.
My hands tremble as I try to go back to work, typing the same phone number into the data entry field three times before I get it right. My fingers are shaking so hard they're not even obeying simple commands to type the right keys. After ten minutes or so I realize how useless I am, how distracted. Just hearing his voice — so raw, so direct — is almost too much for me. Though I'm terrified to go, I know I will. I have to. I don't have a choice.
The ride to his house is only a few minutes and passes like a dream. I'm just being drawn in, doing as I'm told, unable to resist. When I press the security button on the panel to the front door, he doesn't even answer. I only hear the click of the bolt as he remotely allows me in.
Tentatively I push open the security door and cross the foyer, wondering what to do next. The stairway door opens at the end of the hall, swinging inward and he steps out. His gaze is fiery and crystal-clear all the way from the end of the hallway as he jerks his chin toward me, crossing his arms over his broad chest. His forearm muscles are ropey and knotted, his stance wide as he holds the steel security door open with his back.
Meekly I come forward, following him up the three flights of stairs to another security door. He slides his hand across the biometric panel and it opens silently.
I can't stand it; he's not saying anything. Helplessly I simply follow him through the large, loft-like room. It's a high-ceilinged space with minimal furniture in it. Bare brick walls loom twenty feet up, disappearing into the gloom around the ceiling. Banks of reinforced glass block filter light into the sparsely decorated living spaces. Simple, sturdy pieces are arranged in geometric patterns: a boxy leather sofa, two chrome chairs, a slab of petrified wood among them serving as a coffee table.
I can't help but look around, curious. In comparison with his generic Instagram feed, this is startlingly authentic. This is his real life. This is his home, which I've never seen before.
It's vast, stretching on for what feels like a whole football field. The furniture is laid out to create rooms even though there are no walls. There are voids between the furniture groupings, indicating to any observer that he intended for the living room to exist because there’s a sofa. He intended for the dining room to exist where the table and chairs are. He intended to for the bedroom to exist where the bed is…
Which is right where we are heading.
My footsteps echo on the polished concrete floors, bouncing off the brick walls and coming right back to me. I cross the room swiftly, trying to keep up. Finally, he comes to a table and snaps open a laptop, tapping angrily until a photograph appears on the screen. Then he steps asid
e.
“This is you?”
I squint at it, trying to make it out. At first I don't understand, but then… Oh my God.
“This is supposed to be what, exactly?”
“That is Kirkman East's penis,” he growls. “What do you know about this?”
I shake my head, wanting to cry but not even understanding exactly why.
“I don't know anything about this. Why are you showing this to me?”
“I need to see your hands.”
He walks toward me with his hands out. I lift my arms, holding my hands in midair, unsure what to do. When he reaches me, he holds my wrists, flipping my hands over. As soon as our skin touches, I feel faint. I want to crumple where I stand.
“You're not wearing any nail polish.”
“No,” I croak.
“When is the last time you wore nail polish?”
I shake my head. “I usually… I mean, I don't? Just my, um, toes?”
He raises an eyebrow at me. I dare to look him right in the eyes, to see what he's really feeling. As our eyes meet, I feel him soften slightly, but he is still on edge, dangerous.
“Your toes?”
“Do you need to see those too?”
Suddenly, a small smile curls the corner of his lips. Relief floods me. I feel like I can finally let my breath out.
“No, I don't need to see your toes,” he sighs, dropping my wrists. My hands fall limply back to my sides, and immediately I miss his touch.
His shoulders slump slightly as he walks over to the bed, and then he turns around and sits heavily on the end of it, leaning forward to cradle his head in his hands.
“I'm so sorry, Dahlia… you must think I'm insane.”
I shake my head. What is he talking about? Did he figure it all out? Is he here to accuse me?
“God, I really hate musicians,” he groans. The groan dissolves into a chuckle and he looks up at me, shaking his head apologetically.
“This job can really make you crazy,” he shrugs helplessly. “Sometimes… these clients…”
“Oh, I understand,” I smile back, relieved that we have something in common to talk about. “It's like herding cats or something.”
He scrubs his palms over his stubbled chin, rolling his eyes and nodding. “That would be easier. Cats make more sense.”
Crossing my arms over my chest, I shift my weight from hip to hip uncertainly. My eyes drink in all the details of the space. King-size bed, with a charcoal gray comforter spread neatly across it. Not a fluffy comforter like mine, but a light, thin cotton one with rectangular quilting dividing the surface. Three pillows stretch across the head of the bed, precisely arranged to meet the edges. Even though it is tailored looking and angular, so different from my fluffy floral bed, it still looks inviting. Part of me aches to try it out, like Goldilocks.
He stands up again, more relaxed this time. His eyes drift over me, lingering at the straps of my sandals, the sash of my dress around my waist. Then he seems to catch himself again and he forces his eyes to meet mine. He blinks several times, shaking his head tightly.
“Well, thank you so much for coming,” he says, clearing his throat. “I'm sorry to have disturbed you. I just really need to see… nothing. Never mind. It's just work.”
I take a tentative step toward him. “You just needed to see, what?”
He shrugs. “Your nail polish. I’m looking for blue nail polish.”
I shake my head apologetically. “Blue nail polish isn’t really my style.”
He smiles at me. Such a relief to see it, such a relief to see him up close. There is such a new dimension to the communications that we've been having, and being close to him in real life now adds so much to the experience. In a way, I feel so much closer to him than I ever have, and now it seems inevitable. We've already shared so much…
“I'm glad to hear that,” he says, his voice low, “your nails are fine the way they are.”
His eyes drift down again, to my sandals.
“Pink,” he says.
I wiggle my toes lightly, watching his eyes track the movement. Then, holding my breath, I take another step toward him.
He glances at me, startled, and begins to step back. Before I know it, I've reached out a hand to stop him. He stares down at it, surprised. My fingers close around the fabric of his shirt. And I don't want to let go.
“Dahlia, no. We can't…”
“I feel like we have to,” I breathe, hearing the truth in my words as I finally dare to speak them out loud.
“Dahlia,” he says again. I love the sound of it. He's been saying tell me so many times, and I imagined his voice every time. But now, hearing my name on his lips, I have crossed the threshold. I can't go back again.
Chapter 16
August
Everybody makes mistakes. As soon as Dahlia arrives at my apartment, I know exactly what happened. She took that selfie with Kirkman, and somehow it got to Lori. She showed it to Lori, or maybe Lori just happened to see it. Then Lori took the initiative to try to snake my contract with Kirkman out from under me.
It happens all the time. It's nothing I really need to be concerned about.
But the look on Dahlia's face was heartbreaking. I could see the fear in her eyes, the terror that I was going to find out what she done. I'm not mad... how can I be mad at her? Especially once she stood there in the foyer of my building, trembling like a leaf, her eyes wide and pale, fidgeting with the hem of her skirt.
She followed me obediently, and as I climbed every stair I could feel my anger ebbing away. After all, she hadn't tried to argue with me at all. She had arrived of her own free will, ready for whatever I was going to say to her.
And I have to admit, I'm on edge. I am frustrated with Kirkman, frustrated with Trina or whoever is jerking me around on Instagram, frustrated with myself for even getting into the situation. I'm not a teenager. It's ridiculous to get caught up in this kind of drama.
“Let me see your nail polish,” I say, turning around to face her. She flinches again, but doesn't try to escape. She's very strong, resilient even. She's a fighter. I suppose I've always known that about her.
She holds her hand out toward me and I step closer. Her nails are bare, but still I circle her wrists in my hands, holding them lightly for just a moment. I feel the tender bones against my palms, so delicate.
She blinks as she stares at me, her lips parted. Her breath comes out in tiny animal gusts. I stare at her lower lip, thinking about what it would taste like…
No.
I'm just frustrated. I'm just beyond aggravated with everything and I need a release. I know that. This is not the right time, and this is not the right situation.
I try to turn away, and I feel a bit of resistance. To my surprise, when I look down, her fingers are wrapped around the fabric of my shirt. She's holding onto me, not letting me go.
“Dahlia, we can't,” I say, hearing how thin and hollow the words sound.
“I think we have to,” she whispers. Her voice is tremulous but convincing.
“Dahlia," I sigh again. What is she doing? She pulls me closer to her, but I'm not sure she understands what she's asking for.
“I can't be gentle,” I warn her. “That's not who I am. I'm not going to treat you like a delicate flower.”
“But…” she starts. Her eyelashes flutter ash she blushes and turns away.
“Dahlia, talk to me. What is it?”
“I’ve just… I’ve never… done this. I’m a virgin.”
My body clenches when I hear the word. Is that possible?
She smiles apologetically, somehow not understanding what that information is doing to me. I know I should retreat, but now I know that I can’t.
“That makes you incredibly precious, Dahlia, do you understand that?”
She shakes her head. “No, that can’t be right. I just needed you to know. But I’m not precious.”
I take her face in my hands. I need her to hear every word, to make sure
she understands what I need from her now.
“Dahlia, I meant what I said. I want you so much now that I don’t think I can stop. And still…. I won’t be able to hold back.”
“I know that,” she nods urgently. “I don't need you to be gentle. Be who you are.”
The words unlock me. She unleashes what I've been holding back for so long. I reach forward, pulling her closer, sliding my arms around her so that I can draw her body against mine. She gasps lightly as I lift her from her feet, sweeping her toward the bed.
There are no more words. My hands are in her hair, her mouth is crushed beneath mine. I want to taste her, every bit of her. I kiss her lips, the line of her jaw, the salt in the pit of her neck. I tear the skirt from her hips, flinging her panties to the ground.
She moans beneath me, matching every impulse with the long, lithe lines of her body. She flings her ankles behind my hips, crossing her calves and drawing me closer to her. I feel her wriggle beneath me and struggle to keep from plowing right to the center of her.
She's so supple, so willing, I hold her knee back and aim the head of my cock toward her, sliding along her ruffled pink lips, letting her juices coat me. She arches her back and moans, ready and wanting.
“Tell me,” I growl. Her eyelids flutter she opens her eyes, struggling to focus.
“Tell me you want it,” I say. “Tell me now.”
“I want it, August,” she whispers, the words unsteady and broken.
“No, that's not enough,” I caution her. “I told you already, I can't be gentle. I want to know that you really, really want it. Tell me!”
“Give it to me!” she moans, lacing her fingers behind my neck and pulling me closer to her. I am off balance, there is only one place to go, and I am unable to stop.
She's tight and closed, almost too tight to take me. I hold back as much as I can, but I need to be inside her, need to feel her warmth all around me. Slowly, but undeniably, I bear against her, impaling myself slowly in her sweet, wet pussy. Her lips are open, her head thrown back. Still she pulls me closer, drawing me in until I'm buried within her, finally.
