by Helena Maeve
His domineering streak should have made me anxious. I knew it with every rational, feminist fiber of my being. But the same spidey senses quivered when he got all rough and high-handed with me in bed. I didn’t know what to make of it, so for now I relented. It seemed to work best.
I nodded and parted my lips against his fingers to lick at the lines etched into his palm. Two could play that game. Ashley had only said I should be quiet, not that I wasn’t allowed to tease him right back.
My efforts were rewarded with a twist of fingers around my nipple. I bucked into his hands, a moan tearing loose from my throat. I loved having my nipples played with. Sharp electric shocks curled deep in my belly with every tug, my breaths quickening. I squirmed in the V of Ashley’s thighs as need pooled in my belly.
“Look at you… I barely touch you and you’re already a mess.”
Yeah, I’m a slut. So what? I didn’t care enough about having the last word when I could have his touch casting leisurely down my belly to cup my pussy instead. He chuckled, breath warm on my skin, as I rolled my hips up to draw his hand where I needed it. I wanted to smack him.
I wanted to kiss him.
I did neither, fisting my hands into the leather couch instead. I trusted Ashley not to disappoint me.
He ran a fingertip between my folds, so gentle I thought I might weep, then pulled back. Through slitted eyes, I saw his digit glisten with my juices.
“Open your mouth,” he purred. And I did.
I knew what was coming, I’d seen the pornos, thank you very much, but to my surprise I didn’t feel humiliated by the act. I sucked his finger into my mouth, tasting myself as we both trembled with want.
“That’s it,” Ashley breathed huskily in my ear, “get my fingers nice and wet…” He pressed another against my lips and I opened my mouth wider, taking whatever he gave me. All I had to do was follow his lead.
Ashley took over after that.
He circled my clit with spit-slick fingers, getting me riled up, then thrust gently into my clenching vagina. I groaned—a shameful, greedy noise I might have regretted if not for the reward of a caress against my flank as if to say Good girl. I craved his praise. I was ready to do whatever it took to please him—including staying as still as I could while he toyed with my pussy.
My self-consciousness had checked out earlier, but it flared to life again as Ashley curled his fingers and stroked me from within. He wasn’t screwing around. He’d started slow, but he was building up to strokes I would’ve been hard-pressed to keep steady on my own.
The timid flame of my excitement became a full-blown, blazing inferno. I sucked in breath after breath, trying to temper the torrent rising inside me. Ashley’s whispers in my ear didn’t help at all.
“You’re close, aren’t you?” he goaded. “I can feel you pulling at me… A little more and you’ll be done for, is that right?”
I nodded like a maniac. “Please, please…”
“Please, what?”
“Let me come,” I choked out. My face was flushed hotly. I turned my head to press a burning cheek to Ashley’s shoulder. “Please let me come, I need it. I’m so fucking—”
I howled when Ashley pulled his hand away. The sense of loss was immediate and cruel. I writhed in his grasp, but he held me tight around the waist, grabbing my hands in his hard enough to bruise when I made to finish what he’d started.
“Did I say we were done?” He sounded irritated, and yet the heat in his voice only served to stoke the fire sweltering inside me. “Did I?”
I shook my head, biting back the sting of frustrated tears. “You didn’t. Asshole.”
The last time I’d cussed at him in bed, he’d fucked me so hard I’d still been able to feel him inside me hours later. It was a gamble, but I both hoped and dreaded that history would repeat itself. Carpet burn was preferable to the receding tendrils of pleasure unspooling at my core.
Ashley snickered against my cheek. “Sweetheart, you haven’t seen anything yet…” He swatted my cunt in retribution. I cried out, because it fucking hurt, but not enough that I lost my resolve.
It bothered me a little that immediately on the heels of a sharp, humiliating sting followed an overwhelming wave of pleasure. I shelved that thought to pick apart later, when I wasn’t hovering on the edge of release in my torturer’s arms.
“Keep your hands to yourself, understood?”
“Fine,” I growled. I couldn’t tell the difference between arousal and rage anymore, but I knew which took over when Ashley filled me with two fingers.
I rocked up, trying to take his digits down to the knuckle, then rocked back down again when I thought of his cock stretching me instead. He’d begun to harden against the small of my back, which was its own kind of compliment, but if he wasn’t going to acknowledge his erection, neither was I. I flexed my muscles where I could—insofar as it didn’t distract him from fucking me with his hand.
It didn’t. Ashley was nothing if not dedicated in turning me inside out as he rubbed my clit with his thumb. The angle was as familiar as anything I would’ve done when I masturbated, but I had no control. He meted out my pleasure as he chose—now and again gentling his thrusts so I could catch my breath, then flicking my clit so roughly that my hips nearly shot off his lap.
Every time I neared the edge and my moans rose to a pitch, he’d pull away completely, laughing if I hurled slurs or impotent, teeth-grinding pleas. I lost track of the number of times he teased me to the verge of sanity without granting me that final push.
Tears stung my eyes—not because it hurt, but because forcing myself not to take matters into my own hands was a brutal exercise in self-denial.
Ashley ran his slick palm over the length of my sex as I came down from my most recent near-miss, idly brushing my anus with a fingertip.
I shook in his arms. I wasn’t averse to that kind of play, but I doubted I could take any more teasing. My thighs were quaking as though I’d run a marathon. I couldn’t get my breathing under control.
“Next time,” Ashley promised, cupping my wet pussy with a proprietary hand. “Think you deserve to come?”
“Don’t know,” I mumbled. I was afraid—irrationally but completely—that if I said Yes he’d come up with another reason to deny me.
Ashley laughed, but he sounded choked. I felt slightly vindicated—I wasn’t the only one struggling to keep it together. Good. “I think you deserve it. You’ve been such a good girl for me…”
He flattened his palm to my cunt and plunged three fingers into my vagina. They slid in easily, my muscles stretched loose. I made an embarrassing noise deep in my throat as he started to stroke me back and forth, friction swiftly building where I needed it most. I knew I wasn’t allowed to touch him, but I hooked a hand around his forearm anyway.
“Let go,” Ashley urged me. “Let go now. I want to see you…”
I still didn’t believe he’d allow me to crest over the edge as need coiled tighter and tighter at the center of my being. When my orgasm hit, it was with gale wind force. I’d been so close, so many times, that I had no rudder and no ability to temper the violent shakes that ripped through me.
I felt myself gush as Ashley pulled his hand away, my hips bucking against empty air and a thin stream of liquid spurting out. Mortification gripped the last coherent inch of my brain, then Ashley stroked me again, notching up the savagery of my aftershocks, and I forgot to care.
I was sobbing by the time he let me bring my legs together, my shudders as violent as the tremble of an earthquake. Ashley clutched me to him, his hold warm and safe even though he’d been the one tormenting me for the past half hour.
“You’re okay,” he kept murmuring into my sweat-soaked hair. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.”
For long moments, I could do nothing more than suck in harried breaths and try to recover my voice. Even after I’d stopped quaking, I still felt raw and used, a far cry from the femme fatale I once aspired to be.
“So
rry about your couch,” I slurred, low and nearly incomprehensible.
“Fuck the couch.”
“I peed all over it.” My face burned just to bring it up. How did he not mind? I would’ve been pretty ticked off with surprise watersports if our roles were reversed.
Ashley’s strokes faltered, his hand warm on my shoulder blade. “You’ve never squirted before?”
“What?” I thought that only happened in porn.
“Female ejaculation,” Ashley clarified. He didn’t sound repulsed. If anything, I thought he seemed slightly smug.
I pulled back to meet his eyes and, sure enough, he was smiling. “You look pleased with yourself.”
“Always nice to make an impression.”
I smacked his shoulder weakly. It was the best I could do. “What about you?” I’d felt him harden earlier. Tired as I was, I wasn’t above reciprocation.
Ashley shook his head. “Think I’d rather get you to bed before you fall asleep on me.”
“You smooth-talker, you…”
I didn’t resist. He was right—our tryst had left me wrung out and achy in all the right ways. I wanted nothing more than to doze off.
“I’ve got work,” I mumbled as Ashley pulled the comforter up around my shoulders. “In the morning…”
Ashley shushed me. “I’ll wake you up.” He curled up around me, the big spoon to my little spoon, and urged me to get some sleep. It was sound advice, but the way things were shaping up, I probably would have heeded him if he’d told me to run naked through the hallways of our building.
I was too tired to fret.
* * * *
I didn’t realize we had fallen into a sort of routine until Thursday morning, when Ashley apologetically told me he had a work thing that evening. He didn’t call it a work thing, but I was too caught up in my disappointment—and the sound knowledge that it was completely irrational—to grasp the details.
“…unless you want to join me?” he offered, expression wary.
I zipped up my skirt and brushed imaginary lint off my thighs. “Do you want me there…or would it be awkward?” I knew that Ashley was divorced, but I’d mistaken his daughter for a girlfriend for a reason. The age difference between us wasn’t insignificant.
“Both,” Ashley admitted. “It’ll be mostly people I work with…”
I could hear the addendum loud and clear. People who follow the news.
With the Internet being what it was, one newsworthy rumor in the States became a bee in the bonnet of journalists in Paris.
“Oh. Right.” I cast around for the black dress shirt I’d brought with me yesterday. “I guess it would be awkward if you show up with Kane’s elusive daughter.”
Ashley scoffed. “Yes, but not for me.”
We hadn’t broached this topic since the night he’d come clean to me about his job. I had questions, but I was wary of bringing them up and making Ashley feel like he needed to defend himself.
I stiffened as Ashley came up behind me. His hands were warm at my hips, searing my flesh through the thick wool skirt. “I have to get to work,” I mumbled.
He kissed my nape, heedless of the interjection. “Don’t make this into something it’s not. If you want to come with me, I’ll be thrilled. I just don’t want to be the one exposing you to scrutiny you’ve been trying to avoid.” His sigh stirred that part of me that felt impossibly tender toward him no matter how many hurdles made us stumble. “Does that make sense?”
“As frustrating as it is,” I breathed. “Can I see you afterwards?”
Ashley nodded, his lips warm on my skin. “How about I come knock? If you’re up, great. If not, you can catch up on sleep and we’ll see each other tomorrow morning.”
“You’ll bring croissants?”
“Sure, unless some crazy Frenchwoman knocks me off my feet over first…” He pulled away with a chaste kiss against my shoulder blade.
I felt it beneath my clothes for the rest of the day, a pleasant distraction when dealing with a particularly difficult client or Yvonne’s needling questions. The hours seemed to tick by at a glacial pace without Ashley’s company to look forward to. I busied myself with reordering shelves as the stream of clients thinned after lunch, then took my break at a bistro two streets away, all by my lonesome.
I let Yvonne perfume me with Fleur de Chine and told myself I liked it.
My brave face slipped as soon as my shift ended. The press of bodies on the train annoyed me. The reckless driving of Parisian motorists put me in an even fouler mood.
Then my phone rang and I saw Javier’s name flash on the screen.
“What?” I snapped. My gracious invitation to let him rummage through my things had been met with silence. As far as I was concerned, the window of opportunity had been latched shut.
Javier clearly disagreed. “Are you still at work?”
The driver of a Renault Mégane honked pointedly not ten feet away. I curbed the urge to tilt the cell phone his way.
“Does that answer your question?” I retorted.
Javier heaved a sigh on the other end of the line. It was his Jedi calming technique. “Is it okay if I come by to get my glasses?”
It wasn’t. I didn’t want to see him, I didn’t want to watch him scoff and shake his head at me like I was the one being difficult. I didn’t want him to be right just because my guard happened to be down tonight.
“Yes, fine.”
“Great,” Javier drawled. “I’ll see you in an hour.”
I hung up without a goodbye, feeling less smug than I did foolish. So we were broken up. Did I have to punish him for it from now on to eternity? It’s tempting.
I was barely through the front door of my apartment before my phone rang again. I picked up without checking the caller ID.
“Hi. It’s Piotr. Um, Komorov. We met at—”
“Piotr, hey. Of course, I remember you.” I tried hard to infuse my voice with some other sentiment than irritation. What was this, the floodgates opening because I dared feel lonely for a change? “How’ve you been?”
I hadn’t thought of Piotr at all since dinner at my grandparents’. Then again, I endeavored to put those bi-monthly clashes out of my mind as soon as I was past the town house door. It was the only way I could move forward.
“Good, good,” Piotr said. “I’m leaving tomorrow.” Judging by his sigh, he sounded like he’d reached breaking point.
“Your parents are giving you hell?” I ventured.
He laughed tightly. “To put it delicately, yes. I was calling to ask if you wanted to meet me for a drink? I’m in the neighborhood.”
I peeled back the curtains and looked outside. The scrum of cars and pedestrians four stories below didn’t lend itself to picking out a lone man with a cell phone pressed to his ear.
“You’re in Le Marais? That’s great. Where?”
“Um, does Pagan Street mean anything to you?”
I’d lived most of my life in Paris. I knew my way around, no map or compass required.
I gave Piotr directions to my place and hung up. One look around my flat killed any enthusiasm I might have felt for his visit. I set to tidying up with rare efficiency. Laundry went into the hamper, books into the squat bookcase beside the TV. Dirty dishes were promptly squeezed into the dishwasher—out of sight and, for now, out of mind.
Piotr rang up before I’d had time to change. I took one look at myself in the mirror, decided that I wasn’t preparing for a date, and put on a fresh coat of lipstick.
“I should warn you,” I said as I opened the door, “the only refreshments I have are at least eight percent alcohol.”
“My favorite kind,” Piotr deadpanned, wheezing a little. He was wearing a dark green jacket over black slacks and a checkered shirt. His bow tie would’ve looked ridiculous on another man, but he managed to pull it off. I knew for a fact that nerd chic was in, according to the fashion gurus.
“Sorry. I probably could have mentioned there’s no elevator in my b
uilding.” It was a turn of the century construction, the kind that had miraculously survived two wars and countless attempts at modernization. The floorboards creaked, the windows were drafty and I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.
Piotr grinned. “Considering this is the most exercise I’ve had in years, I should thank you.”
I fetched us a bottle of Bordeaux and two glasses, and we sat down to imbibe in silent commiseration.
“Are we drinking to your parents?” I asked, already halfway through my first glass.
“Why not?” Piotr raised his goblet. “May they lead long and happy lives… And may that happen far away from me.”
I winced, propping my foot against the coffee table. “That bad, huh? I hope we didn’t break their hearts… I’m sure there are plenty more fish in the sea.”
“Indeed, an up-and-coming soprano my mother tutors, two PhD students who have interviewed my father for their dissertations on the Third Reich, and one mayoral candidate,” Piotr recited, counting them out on his fingers.
“Oh! Which candidate?”
He shot me a sidelong glare. “Their attempts are growing more and more transparent. You’d think, after the first three abysmal failures, they’d get the hint.”
“They’re committed to your happiness,” I replied. “Or whatever they think qualifies.” I was the last person to excuse that kind of behavior, but I had long resigned myself to accepting it as an immutable force of nature.
A knock on the door cut short the pity party.
Piotr arched an eyebrow. “Are you expecting someone else?”
I nearly choked on my wine. “Crap, I forgot. My ex said he’d come over.”
Chief on the list of things I wanted to avoid was mixing my grandparents’ acquaintances with my friends. If my life were a Venn diagram, those two circles were never ever meant to overlap.
“Sorry,” I added, lurching up from the couch. ”I promise he’ll be in and out. We have nothing to say to each other.”
My housecleaning frenzy had dredged up Javier’s glasses as if by magic. I counted on handing them over and sending him on his way, our acquaintance severed forever and ever.
