Leaving Me Behind

by Sigal Ehrlich

  “Pardon?”

  “Why are you hiding your sexy body from me?” My already warm cheeks color a shade darker. If there’s a subject I’m not comfortable discussing with him, or anyone for that matter, it’s my body. Even though he’s seen me naked, touched every inch of my nakedness, I’m still less than inclined to parade full-frontal around him. My round belly, round thighs, and basically, round everything is not something that makes me too enthusiastic to put all out for display. Although, the “everything round” package excludes the girls, those I have no problems with. Au contraire, I wear them most proudly.

  “Ah, I . . . I’m . . .” I just drop it. I’m not about to explain a few decades of entrenched body image issues or, as I like to call it, my “skinny challenged matter of contention.”

  “You’re too uptight, Liv,” he states. I snatch the fabric he’s still holding from his hand and tuck it tight around me.

  “You’re kidding, right?” I fold my arms over my chest.

  He shakes his head. “I let you inside my house before I knew your name. I practically let you dry hump me after we exchanged less than three sentences. After everything we’ve done, you think I’m uptight?” I frown at him, and my frown deepens at the hint of a smile that plays at the edge of his lips. “After what we’ve just done?” I murmur under my lips.

  His lips stretch, and he tips his head for our eyes to square. “Hey, come over, ven aqui.” He gestures for me to sit next to him. Still with furrowed brows, I take a step and sit on the sofa, leaving a substantial “I need some space, you’re starting to piss me off” gap between us.

  His hand rests on my knee while his eyes penetrate deeper into mine. I can’t help but bite my lip at the exquisiteness that is Sebastian post sex – tanned pecs, bare and glorious, toned, curved arms, unruly “you just messed my hair like crazy” mane, swollen lips, and glistening eyes. Do I want to nip this conversation in the bud and help him back inside of me right now? Oh, yes, I do. Will I do it? No, because it’s not what I do. I’ll never jump him just because I feel like it. Or it could be that I’m just uptight, but that’s for me to know and for him to never repeat. His lips stretch even wider with a knowing glee to his eyes.

  “Yes, beautiful, you’re uptight.”

  Jerk. “I can’t believe you. Honestly. Well, do educate me, what makes you believe I might be . . . less adventurous?”

  A small chuckle leaves his lips.

  “Well, you run and cover yourself the minute you stop panting. Second, whenever you’re naked, you turn your back to me. The first time you let me in here, you locked yourself behind a door. After you came twice for me, you didn’t have the nerve to face me, or to even ask whatever you wanted to ask me . . .” Humor lines his dark eyes.

  “Why would you assume there was something I wanted to ask?”

  “You wanted to know my name,” he states, and I inwardly cringe. “Since everything that happened between us freaked you out, excited you, but freaked you out. And you thought if you at least knew my name, in a way you could tell yourself you knew me.”

  Okay, I officially hate him. I officially hate him and he reminds me of a certain diamond pattern, mustard sweater, hair slicked to the side doctor. I glare at him and the jerk has the audacity to grin wider. He winks at me next and says, “Don’t worry; we’ll work on it together.”

  I ball my fists and scoot back. “Why do you even care if I’m uptight?” There’s a harder tone to my voice.

  “Well, we haven’t known each other for long, but the part I got to meet, well, I like it. A lot.”

  My fisted palms relax and my lip starts to pull up at the side, but I trap it with my teeth. He doesn’t deserve a smile given his previous statement.

  “And there’s an abundance of knowing you I’d be more than happy to explore. And it will work better if you loosen up a little.”

  “Which kind of exploring are we talking about? Should I be concerned?” I narrow my eyes at him.

  His palm travels from my knee, under the fabric wrapping me, to the very spot where my thighs connect. “You decide. If my fulfilling every fantasy I have of you should be a matter of concern, then you should be.”

  Not breaking our stares, he inches to stand and drops to his knees before me. His hands slide under the throw and clutch my thighs. He tugs me forward, spreading me wider. I slide forward, my head lower on the back of the sofa and my lower body exposed; my legs on either side of Sebastian’s waist. I lick my lips; eyes focused on this handsome man between my thighs, and untie the fabric from around me, dropping it to my sides. With a strained growl, Sebastian grabs my legs and drapes them on each of his shoulders before leaning in.

  . . .

  Two orgasms later when Sebastian tucks his shirt inside his slacks and buckles his belt, his eyes lift to mine. I quickly shift my eyes to the window, trying to appear as if I wasn’t ogling him while he was getting dressed.

  “Come with me to dinner,” he says, futilely trying to comb his hair into submission. I walk to the dining room to collect his jacket from the back of a chair. I hand him his jacket and shake my head.

  “Let’s keep our ‘enjoying each other’s company’ an indoor activity, okay?”

  “No, not okay. I’m starving and you should be, too. Let’s go grab something together.”

  I shake my head again, smile at him, and inch up on my toes to plant a small kiss next to his lips. I then rest my palms on his chest and lightly push him backward. His eyes drop to my hands as he takes a step back.

  “Are you kicking me out?” he asks in a confused yet somewhat humored air. “If it's some sort of reverse psychology thing you’re trying, don't worry, you don't have to do that. I want back in, more than you can imagine.”

  I beam at him and take another step, shifting around him to open the door. My hands return to his chest; I add a little more pressure, and with a final soft push, he’s out the door.

  “Hold on,” he says through a soft chuckle. “Can I at least get your number?”

  I say the first digits as he hurries to fetch his phone from his pocket. “Let me just,” he slides the screen to light. Not waiting for him to add the numbers, I just continue with the last four digits. He cocks his head.

  “Try to remember it.” I send him a side smile. “If you really want to fulfill every fantasy with me, you’ll remember.”

  He repeats the numbers I just gave him with dancing eyes. Dimple full-on. I slowly start to close the door after blowing him a kiss and a small wave. Not a moment passes before I hear an incoming message from my phone that’s on the dining table. My lips widely stretch as I read the message.

  Unknown: To be continued…

  A gigantic grin plasters over my face as I save the new number to my contacts under The End of Me. A giggle escapes my mouth moments later as I make my way to the kitchen, thinking about how I’ve just pushed him out.

  I push him out of my house five more times after he comes, every following night, and makes me come. Every night. More than once.

  . . .

  I drop the piece of rustic, sliced perfection of bread, topped with freshly chopped tomatoes and aromatic olive oil, to the plate. My eyes widen as I listen to the small exchange between Embar and Dominique.

  “How do you feel about men showing emotions?” Stephy asks no one in particular. Clad in black, she pervades a sweet with a touch of sexy, curvy appearance. We are all having a late lunch at the back kitchen of Vivian’s café. Vivian in a deep red cotton dress brings a pot of soup over and settles at the head of the table.

  “Define ‘show emotions,’” says Alma, while filling her glass with the water jug, looking stylish in an asymmetric blue and bottle green V-neck dress, her bouncy ‘do complementing the look.

  “I don’t know, cry for example,” Stephy answers with a shrug, pulling her heavy, auburn mass of hair up in a band.

  “Oh, dzose. Dzey have a name,” Dominique deadpans with her nasal French accent. A vision of cold chic, in a Boho blou
se and designer jeans, her silky blond clusters drop over her back.

  “Is that so?” Stephy frowns at Dominique, who pats her lips with a white, paper napkin.

  Dominique throws the napkin aside and squares her stare with Stephy’s. “Mais oui, dzey are called gay.”

  “Dios mio,” Vivian breathes.

  “That’s such bigotry,” Alma chides. Dominique just rolls her eyes in a blatant “whatever” way, which I’ve learned is a theme with her.

  “I think that it’s very individual and should be judged on a case by case basis,” I say. “I must admit that I’m not so much into bawling men. However, there are extenuating circumstances. Sometimes a small tear or glossy eyes could even strike the right chord. Seeing one of my friends’ husbands hold their newborn in his arms, looking at his son with watery eyes, well, I’ve never seen anything sexier.”

  Silence enfolds us as we all ponder my last words. Our brief, quiet moment is broken by the bell declaring the front door has been opened. Vivian stands up to take a few steps to peek inside the café. Her lips stretch into a welcoming grin, “We’re back here, Amor.”

  A quick taste of delicious jambon later, a deep voice greets us. A voice that trickles through my skin and down my spine.

  “Hola, lovely ladies,” Sebastian says to everyone in the room but his eyes dart to mine, holding them with powerful pull. There’s a collective feminine crackle in the form of responding greetings. My face lightly warms up, and I hope it’s an inner heatwave, not a visible one to my companions.

  “I’ll get you your order,” says Vivian, walking toward him. She embraces him with one hand, a semi-hug, before leaving toward the pantry. “Take a seat,” she calls back.

  Sebastian grabs something from where Vivian had been cooking before and pops it into his mouth. He turns to lean his hip to the counter and faces us. I turn to look out the window when his stare burns into me. The way he looks still plays before my eyes as I gaze at the clear sky. Dark gray slacks, soft pink button-down, patterned gray and navy tie, neatly shaved, dark crew cut in a disarrayed order. Sebastian in his business-esque version. Business-esque-uber-fine version.

  “So, Sebastian Noé Balle, who’s dze current lucky fuck-du-jour?” pitches a French accent. Involuntarily, my attention shifts to Dominique and Sebastian. She stretches her lips at him with a sex dripping, predatory smile. Immediately, a verdict is rendered, as of this moment and forever Dominique is to be referred to as the French bitch. Sebastian doesn’t even grace her with a semblance of attention. Instead, his eyes pierce mine.

  Never wavering in his gaze, he asks, “Who is your new beautiful friend, ladies?”

  My cheeks feel warm when everyone in the room shifts to stare at me.

  Alma couldn’t sound more eager to share when she answers, “The beautiful Liv.”

  The actor of the year, followed by everyone’s eyes, walks slowly my way, takes my hand, and kisses it lengthily. “Pleasure to meet you, beautiful Liv.” I counter him with a pointed stare of my own, only mine says, “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Nice to meet you . . .” I tilt my head up to him. “Umm, what was your name again?” I sweetly smile and Sebastian’s eyes take a mischievous tone.

  “I never told you my name.” His thumb starts circling soft patterns inside my palm, where no one else can see. “It’s Sebastian.” He winks at me and I nod, subduing my smile by a clench of my teeth.

  “Here you go.” Vivian returns with two square polystyrene containers in her hands. Sebastian turns to make his way toward her. They start a short, easy exchange in Spanish that ends with Sebastian leaning in to kiss each of Vivian’s cheeks friendly.

  “Don’t work too hard.” She pats his back.

  Sebastian returns to face us. “Ladies.” He nods and a string of good-bye and nice to see you echoes from my friends’ mouths. I nod at him with a soft smile, and he reciprocates with a stare that tells me how our next encounter will play out; a stare that sends heatwaves between my thighs.

  I almost choke on the next sip from my glass and start coughing.

  “If he were a god, I’d turn into a nun and dedicatedly worship him till my last day,” Stephy says once Sebastian leaves the room, and then snorts a light chuckle.

  “Coffee anyone?” Vivian asks.

  “I’ll get it. Cortado?” I say, needing a moment to myself. Vivian’s small nod is followed by a few hums of affirmation from the rest of the ladies. I leave them to fix our drinks, my new favorite coffee – a shot of espresso with a drop of warm, frothy milk, just the right amount to reduce the acidity. I press a button for the coffee machine to come alive and hover my nose above the aromatic steam. A short chime of my phone while filling the first cup distracts me. I set the clear glass aside and bring my phone from my pocket. My first thought when I check the message is thank God I didn’t leave the device on the table. The second thought brings my body to attention.

  The End of Me: Beautiful Liv, I need you sitting on my face tonight.

  This guy is indeed going to be the end of me.

  Not even a beat passes before my thoughts are flung to the little dirty world inside my head that’s dominated by Sebastian, where every moment of our “encounters” is safely cataloged. I chance a glance to where my friends are deeply engaged in a conversation and type a response.

  Me: I’d be more than happy to collaborate with that.

  The End of Me: Come over later.

  Now, that won’t happen. Just as I’ve politely rejected his previous invites, I’ll do it once more. I’d rather keep our affair casual and discreet. Since that’s obviously what it is, an affair, I’m not inclined to publicize it in any way or take any actions that would imply it’s anything but supreme, mind-blowing sex. I’m not willing to let our coitus activities take place in any other location but my home, where I can keep it as shallow and discreet as possible.

  Me: My house.

  The End of Me: I have a thing I need to attend later; my place would be more convenient.

  Me: My house.

  The End of Me: You’re impossible.

  Me: There’s always a rain check . . .

  The End of Me: Your place.

  Am I grinning now? Glowing would be more precise.

  . . .

  “Oh, Gawwwd Sebastian, God, Sebastian, yes.” We haven’t even made it past my closed door, Sebastian holds me suspended with one hand, pinned to the wall, withering and panting. His other hand holds my hair in a grip, tugging my head backward for his mouth to better mesh with mine. It’s a rough hold, somewhat primal, and it just adds the last wonderful bit to his almost savage, heavenly attack.

  “You’re so damn gorgeous,” he growls and thrusts harder into me, skillfully having his pelvis rub against my clit. Flashes of my forthcoming ecstasy start to show their delightful signs. I moan and bite his lip, hard, clenching around him.

  “Yeah. Dios, Liv.” He accelerates his pace, harder, forceful, rocking me against the wall, and I cry in incoherent bliss. His hand moves to cradle and secure the back of my head while each of his slams bounces me back against the hard concrete. He grinds into me in tight, close rotations, touching, grazing against each of my oversensitive spots. I come so hard that black spots appear before my eyes while achingly supreme currents run under my skin, inside my belly, twirling around my groin. My weak, boneless body drops to rest on his chest while he pumps in me in hurried, lingered hard slams.

  . . .

  “I have a business dinner in thirty; come with me,” Sebastian says, toweling himself off after the steamy shower we took together. I watch him, resting my hip against the vanity counter, already snuggled in a thick powdery-blue robe.

  “It’s a business meeting,” I say.

  “He’s bringing his wife,” he argues.

  “No. We don’t do that,” I say next, handing him his soft pink button-down, raptly watching him adjust himself in his dark slacks. I’m not sure I’ll ever get over the going commando thing. He sends me a bot
hered glance and drops his eyes to the lower button of his shirt.

  “Says who?” he says to his shirt, working on the second button.

  “Us?”

  Another sharp look is darted my way, sharper than its predecessor. “What’s the problem?”

  “I love this thing we’ve got going on, you showing me all the goodies your people have to offer. Why complicate it, jeopardize it? Why not leave it what it is.”

  Sebastian is fully clothed by the time I end my sentence. His brows sink together and the twist of his mouth doesn’t hold any joy.

  “Are you kidding me? You think that if you joined me for dinner it would change anything? Four adults having dinner together isn’t that momentous, Liv. Lots of people have done it before and survived. Come on, we can have dinner together. We are friends.”

  “Well, it will change the activities we usually engage in together, which I’m perfectly happy with as they currently are. We are . . . Friends?” A quality of doubt enfolds my voice.

  He shakes his head and fetches his phone from his pocket. He starts working his thumbs on the screen. It’s my turn to look at him curiously.

  “What are you doing?”

  He lifts his eyes to mine for a flit peep and bounces them back to the device in his hand. He clears his throat and starts, “So, the definition for the word friend is, ‘a person with whom one has a bond of mutual affection.’”

  “Let me see that,” I add, taking possession of the device. “Ehm, funny. You’ve missed this interesting part, typically one exclusive of sexual or family relations.”

  “I see,” he says next, expression blank but that jaw of his working under his skin. He swipes his finger over the phone’s screen and brings it next to his ear, crouching down to tie his shoe. “Hey Lola, what’s up? So, I have this business dinner in thirty, want to join me?” I gape at him while he listens to this Lola person, whoever she may be. “You’re the best, sweets. I’ll pick you up in ten.”

  He shoves his phone back to his pocket and pivots to face me. With a mildly irate stare, he sends his hand to my waist and swifts me into one hell of a raw kiss that lightly shakes the ground below me.