by Clare James
She leans in toward my touch, and I come alive in a way that I’ve never experienced before. My mind is thankful to be on pause for one a rare moment.
“I know what you want,” she says. “What you came for.” She bends over and takes the leotard with her, sliding the rest of the way out of her dance clothes. The only thing that remains is her high-heeled dance shoes.
“Then give it to me,” I tell her, no longer fighting it. “We don’t have much time. There are still people roaming around. We don’t want them to stumble in here, do we?”
She winks before turning her back to me.
Doesn’t matter. I watch her face in the mirrors. They’re all over the room, making the scene so damn erotic. This incredibly naked woman is smiling at me from every direction.
She reaches for the barre and tips over ever so slightly. That’s the thing about dancers. They know how to use every fiber of their bodies. The most subtle and the most dramatic moves. They speak in movement. This is a sexy-as-hell offering. One I’m finally willing to accept.
I kick the inseam of her feet, pushing her legs farther apart, reaching between them to cup her smooth mound. A low moan escapes her lips, and she grinds her ass back into me.
“More,” she orders.
My head throbs, a brief moment of reality sinking in. The guilt is palpable. My hands shake, and my eyes dart to the door.
What’s even more difficult—and pathetic—is that I don’t think I’ve ever been so turned on. This girl in front of me? She’s not broken. Doesn’t need extra care or attention. Definitely doesn’t need (or want) to go slow.
She wants it fast and rough. No names. No emotion.
So that’s what we’ll do.
I’ll use her. She’ll use me. And we’ll walk away smiling.
Gripping her hip, I pull that tight, lithe body against my thickening cock so there will be no mistake. She’ll get more. My crude actions make her skin pepper in goose bumps. She’s so responsive to me, and I know in this moment she’d let me do just about anything to her. I hate that it makes me feel like a fucking god. But it does. It’s heady and addictive, and I want nothing more than to possess her.
These urges are nothing new. I’ve been pushing them into submission since I can remember, because I’m supposed to be the good Adler son. The gentleman, the caring boyfriend, the guy who has it all together.
It has to do with more than just sex, I know that. But this is where it’s the most difficult to suppress my needs.
Not tonight, though. I will get it all out of my system—every last craving and desire.
Then I can go back to the guy I’m supposed to be. I know I’ll feel the loathing later, but for now, it’s not enough to get me to stop.
I slide two fingers inside her. Wet heat lights me up and draws from my throat a low, guttural growl that has her eyes growing wide.
She grinds against my hand, taking everything I give. And when she reaches around and finds my waiting erection, she squeezes.
Christ.
Gone is that good guy. Gone is caution and anxiety. In this moment, I let myself go as much as she does. In the mirrors, I watch in wonder as I handle this woman. And I do handle her—move her as I see fit, touch her as I like, grip and push and take.
I don’t recognize my own reflection.
In a practiced motion, she tips her ass back and up to give me better access. Her musky scent fills the air and clouds my brain. Now, I’m the one who needs more.
My balls ride up, tight and heavy, and my dick pulses against my zipper. Then a goddamn frenzy begins.
“Is this what you need?” I ask, opening her deeper with my fingers, boldly stroking inside her slick folds.
Fuck, I’m not going to last.
It’s like the first time I’ve ever touched and been touched. I’m hungry for every part of her, and I want to give her every part of me. Still, there’s an agonizing voice in the back of my mind telling me that this could become a painful addiction.
“Mmm,” she moans. I know she doesn’t like to talk, but I have to be sure I know her limits. So far, I haven’t come near them, which means I can give a few orders of my own.
“Hands to the ground,” I say, and she bends over with that graceful dancer’s frame, effortlessly placing her palms on the floor. Just knowing I could put her in any position I desire gives me such a jolt of power. My body buzzes in delight, and my erection strains harder against my fly. It’s impossible to think about anything else.
“You’re so wet,” I tell her. “I think you’re ready for me.”
“I am,” she whispers, giving me permission to fall further into oblivion.
I unlatch my belt buckle and shove my pants down so I’m ready when I lift her legs into the standing wheelbarrow. Not in my usual repertoire, but this situation is anything but usual. I cradle her thighs as we adjust; her hair tumbles down over her face. I hesitate for a fraction of a second, knowing that this is the point of no return. Then I ease her onto my throbbing length—slowly but surely.
All doubts flee and all remaining thoughts travel south of the border as the most erotic pleasure consumes me from the inside out. Any remaining decency I have dissolves into the air, and I have to question if it was ever really there in the first place.
This feels so natural. So right.
My mouth goes bone dry, and I’m desperate to kiss her. Not that I could possibly get to her lips right now. She wouldn’t allow it anyway.
Instead, I still my hips to relish in this impossibly deep position, savoring the firm hold she has surrounding me.
Not yet, Adler.
With a little breathing and visualization, I can go for at least an hour. Everyone thinks I meditate because of my love of hippie shit, but there are also very practical reasons. I’m no Sting, but I can last a long, long time. Or so I think. But when she rears back on me with a punishing thrust, I begin to lose my resolve.
So that’s how we’re going to play it?
I can do that, but then it’s going to be quick and it’s going to be over. That’d be a damn shame when we’ve come this far.
She feels like heaven. Tight as hell. Warm and perfect. I can do this. Just one time. And then everything will go back to normal.
Readying myself, I yank her legs higher so her hands nearly come off the floor. With a shift of my hips, I fill her hard and deep.
That earns me my first cry.
Then I do it again and again.
Chapter 3
After what feels like hours or days, her eyes finally open. Soft and hazy, they search my face, and my girl comes back to me.
We’re wrapped in a tangle on the cool floor. It’s a pleasurable contrast to our overheated bodies.
“There you are,” I whisper to the heap of dancer draped over my chest. We’re both still fighting for breath, still shaking from the aftershocks of what felt like the world’s longest orgasm.
“Hi, baby,” she purrs, looking sated and beautiful.
“Hi, Tab,” I say, feeling the ache in my chest.
“How’d you like the show?” she asks.
“Which one?” I pretend to joke with her when all I really want to do is hit something or scream my ass off at how wrong it was for me to have treated her that way.
Right. I’m too spent to move. All I really want to do is roll into a ball and lose my shit. I’m such a fucking mess, and she has no idea. Maybe it’s because she’s wanted this for so long, she can’t see beyond the act.
She’s been unhappy with things between the sheets for a while now, so she’s taken matters into her own hands. And she’s definitely not too timid to make the moves she finds necessary to improve the situation. I have to admire that part, at least.
It’s true, we have settled into a routine. I no longer have to take the reins to get her to respond to me. Most often, she’s more than ready, willing, and able. But then she changed our M.O. It started with small requests: hold me tighter, pull my hair, move faster, harder. The
requests soon became pleas. “Trust me,” she’d say. “Can we just try this?” she’d ask.
And that’s what lead us here, and why I fucked my girl like some anonymous asshole. Because I’m losing her and this is the only she’ll come back to me.
Tab nudges me in the ribs, waiting for my reply.
“You were amazing out there tonight,” I say. “I loved it.” That part isn’t a lie.
“Really?” she asks, always so unsure.
“I couldn’t be more proud.”
“I needed to hear that,” she says. “And I needed to do this.” She pats me on the chest. “That was—”
“Something,” I answer for her.
“Something for sure,” she says.
Our sex life has never been typical. After Tabby’s assault in Illinois, she couldn’t be touched without going into a panic attack. Her ex, Thomas, roofied her during sophomore year so she could provide entertainment for him and his friends at a party. He documented the whole thing with photographs. And when Tabby pressed charges, he papered the campus with them.
The fact that the kid was some hotshot athlete and that his family was rich as fuck made it the worse scandal the university had ever seen.
Tabby took the fall for it.
She came to Minneapolis to start over, to take control. She had it all mapped out.
The first night I met her, she tried to pick me up at a bar. Well, she did pick me up at a bar—it was all part of her plan to take back the night. She thought that if she could make the decision of who and where and when, she could get control and get her life back. She could recover everything Thomas had taken from her that night.
It wasn’t that easy. Despite her best efforts, and my utter willingness to participate in any plan she cooked up, Tabby couldn’t go through with it.
Embarrassed and frustrated, she tried to get rid of me, but that didn’t take either. So we took it slow.
Eventually, we were able to train her body to respond, to fight the fear and feel pleasure. We did it together. It took time and patience for both of us, but it was so worth it.
I groomed her for my touch, for my body. It started to work, and it wasn’t long after that sex was off-the-charts fantastic. Tabby was so much better; she was healing. She opened herself up to me and her vulnerability began to fade. She grew stronger, I fell in love, and we became glued at the hip.
I’d never known someone so determined to fix herself. In my opinion, she didn’t need to fix anything. She was perfect just as she was. She just needed someone to look after her. Of course, she’d have my balls if I said that out loud.
She hates looking weak.
I almost lost her once because of it, and I can see the signs popping up again. She’s distant, and I know she’s searching for something new because what we had isn’t working anymore.
She’s lashing out and wants to be used in bed—and out. Trouble is, I know that it’s the residue from the assault rearing its ugly head. I also know I have to stop it. Tabby deserves to be worshipped, not fucking used like this.
It’s not right. My brain knows that. Someone just needs to tell my dick.
“Don’t be so coy.” She brushes my sweaty hair off my forehead. “I know you loved that as much as I did.”
She’s not wrong. Oh yeah, I’ve used every possible type of rational, but the bottom line is I’m selfish and I’d do just about anything Tab asks of me.
Now, some people might be into this shit: role-play and getting off in public places and fuck all. I am not one of them. Regardless of what just happened, I swear I’m not one of them.
I do it because it’s what Tabby wants. When I could tell she was slipping again, I tried going slow. Tried doing those trust exercises that had worked so well the first time. But she began to shut down. Until one night, she brought me into the dance studio, pretending we were strangers. No talking, no emotions, just the promise of damn dirty sex. I couldn’t do it the first time. But I guess that’s the only way she can handle being near me now. If she pretends I’m somebody else.
It’s beyond fucked up.
I do as she asks. It’s that simple. Make her happy. Protect her. Heal her. They were the thoughts that played on a loop in my head ever since we met. It’d become my mission. Because maybe, just maybe, if I could heal Tab, I could heal myself.
Truth was that I also loved the control. Loved caring for her, bringing her pleasure. Being the only answer to her question. This thing between us is more than attraction. More than friendship and even more than love. It’s deep, and sometimes as dark as the things we’ve been through.
What has me worried, though, is the unsettling feeling in my bones. Something flicked on inside me tonight. And I liked it. Who am I kidding? I fucking loved it. I loved pushing Tab; I liked taking what I wanted from her. But I also knew that it was wrong. Unhealthy. An escape. It wasn’t real, and I need to get all of it out of my head.
We’re moving in reverse and it’s scaring the shit out of me. There’s no doubt I’m going to Naraka or Gehenna to pay for it. In other words, I’ll be spending the afterlife in the fiery depths of Hell.
“Let’s get you home,” I say as I slide her off me and reach for her clothes in a feeble act of redemption. “How does a bath and Jimmy Fallon sound?”
“Amazing, but only if I get Jimmy in bed with Cherry Garcia.”
“So demanding.” I tease. “But yes, you can have Jimmy and your lame cherry ice cream in bed.” I plant a chaste kiss on her head. Then I help her get dressed before saying goodbye to the guy in the mirror.
It’s the last time I’ll be seeing him.
Chapter 4
Two days pass and I do go without see the “man in the mirror.” I do not, however, go without the earworm of that Michael Jackson song with the same name rolling around in my head.
His high voice singing about how to make that change at all hours of the day and night.
“Dude, hand me the whisk,” Foster says as I happily get buzzed off the guy’s expensive scotch.
I’m not much of a drinker anymore, but I do like one every once in a while. Foster always has the best. He must get it wholesale from his restaurant, because I know he wouldn’t spend that kind of money on us.
My newly reinstated best friend became a notorious philanthropist after he’d started getting monthly checks from the casino. Foster’s family is quite a big deal in the Mille Lacs Band of Ojibway, so money’s no longer an issue for him. He was quite generous with it—unless you were one of his scruffy friends.
I originally thought all the money he donated to the kids at the center was a little ploy to get Jules back, but it turns out it was all legit.
He’s honestly trying to make his own change, not only putting in the money, but the hours as well. He volunteers and spends time with those kids every chance he gets.
I search the utensils and find what he’s looking for.
“Wow, I’m impressed,” he says, taking the tool from my hand. “I didn’t think you knew what a whisk was.”
I take a huge gulp of the amber liquid—probably more than what’s considered couth, but it’s been a long time since I’ve had a drink—and roll my eyes at the insult. Tab insisted on driving tonight so I could have a few. I have the sneaking suspicion she’s trying to get me drunk.
After freshman year, I made an oath. I wouldn’t have a drop to drink if I was driving. That year almost wrecked all of us—Jules, Foster, Jenna, and me. And because we were all too selfish and stupid, Jenna’s brother, Ben, was killed in a drunk-driving accident. I’d known the kid since we were in grade school.
He was visiting us on campus. We were all partying that night, and Ben drove when he shouldn’t have. Jules and Jenna were in the car. They are beyond lucky to have survived. Foster and I should’ve driven them home, but we were off doing our own thing. Read: getting high.
It’s one of the biggest regrets of my life. Not having been there when I should’ve. Even if I hadn’t been the person b
ehind the wheel, I still feel responsible. You can’t go through something like that without it having it leave a permanent mark.
We all went our separate ways for a long time after the accident, which is why I’m such a pussy about my friends now. When you don’t have them in your life for years, you gain perspective, and Foster and Jules are like family.
“Hey,” I say, addressing my friend’s insult. “I have a woman, you know. And sometimes, she likes scrambled eggs in the morning. I do know my way around a kitchen.”
“So you whisk your eggs then?”
“Yeah, I whisk them.”
“Hmm.” He strokes his chin. “I would’ve taken you for a fork guy.”
“You know we are a shame to our gender, right? This conversation is pathetic. Is this the kind of shit you talk about with the other chefs at the restaurant?”
Foster doesn’t answer. He just laughs and goes about whipping up some kind of sauce. His mood is contagious. I never thought I’d see the day when my idiot friend was playing house. Hell, he wasn’t just playing it. He was living it. He and Jules have been married for just over a year now. And he is the sorriest sap I’ve ever laid eyes on. It’s truly amazing. Especially when considering what a tool the guy was back in the day.
“How’s it going in there?” Jules calls out from the living room. “Need my help with anything?”
“Hell no,” Foster says. “You just stay out there and look pretty. Noah’s helping me whip up the vinaigrette.”
“Stop with all that salad dressing talk,” she says. “You two alphas are getting Tab and me all hot and bothered out here.”
“Keep your panties on, ladies. The eggplant parmigiana will be on the table soon.” Foster spins back to the stove and his apron swishes around his hips.
“Jesus, let me just make sure my balls are firmly in place,” I say, thankful for the distraction tonight. “I’m all for cooking and shit, but do you have to wear an apron?”
“Jules gave me this shirt, and if I stain it, she’ll have my ass. And trust me, you don’t want to mess with her right now.”
