by Lexie Ray
The wave of my orgasm washed over me, dragged me to the bottom of the sea, robbed me of all my breath. I cried out again and again, watching his warm eyes watching me, not believing how sexy this whole thing was. It was like he was here, but he wasn’t. I was giving him a performance while giving myself a climax. I’d do this every night of the week, and could only imagine how sexy it would be with him actually in the room here with me. I didn’t care if Amelia herself heard me. I voiced my pleasure as loudly as I could until it ebbed enough for me to come back to my senses.
“That was wonderful, baby,” he said, smiling. “You’re so beautiful. I love you.”
“I love you,” I said, breathless from my release. I took my fingers from my pussy and wiped them clean on the bed sheets, wondering if Lucy would notice when she changed them. I found that I didn’t care. I was just as wet as I would’ve been after he’d given me the same treatment. I was too sated to care. It was incredible.
“I wish I could stay here longer with you,” he said. “But I need to get going.”
“Wait! What about you?” I protested weakly, still shattered from my intense orgasm.
“What about me?” he asked, grinning.
“You talked me through all these things I did to myself,” I said. “Can’t I do the same for you?”
“Oh, you’ve done plenty for me,” he said. “Believe it.”
The camera shifted downward until I realized I was looking right into his lap. He had boxers on, but his cock was drawn out through the slit in the material. I recognized a flagging erection when I saw it, but that didn’t make the sight of his manhood any less appealing to me.
“Wait, is that…” I squinted and leaned in closer to the iPad. His cock — and the hand wrapped around it — were glazed with cream. I’d made him cum all over himself. The realization of the power I’d wielded over my husband made me horny all over again.
“Are you up for another round?” I asked, raising my eyebrow. “I’m in the mood to be the bossy one, now.”
“I wish I could,” Jonathan said, redirecting the camera back to his smiling face. “I have an outing with a chairman in thirty minutes.”
“Thirty minutes?” I repeated, my mind’s eye turning back to the sight of him covered in his own cum. “Are you going to be late?”
“If so, it was completely worth it,” he said. “I love you, baby, so much.”
“I love you, too,” I said, tears springing unexpectedly into my eyes. We were approaching our goodbyes, and I never wanted them to come. If I could just talk like this to him whenever I wanted, I knew I could handle this physical separation a little better than I had.
“I’ll be home before you know it,” he promised me. “And you know what we’re going to do?”
“What?”
“Go straight to the cottage,” he said. “And fuck like rabbits. We’ll only stop to eat and sleep.”
I laughed in spite of my despair. “I look forward to that very much.”
“Everything’s going to be all right, Michelle,” Jonathan said. “I have to go now, though. I’ll call you as soon as I can.”
“Don’t call me,” I said. “Skype. I’ll get to somewhere private.”
He laughed and shook his head. “You’re insatiable.”
“And you need a shower.” My face softened and I had to hold in a sigh. “Go. Don’t be late. Impress the chairman. Show them who’s boss.”
“I love you.”
“I love you.”
The iPad blipped, and the Skype call ended. Even though my limbs were loose and satisfied from my orgasm, and my heart was restored from seeing my husband, I still dissolved into tears.
It wasn’t fair that we had to be apart. It wasn’t fair that I could only see him like this. How was I going to get through the remainder of his world tour stuck by myself in the Wharton compound?
There was one positive thing out of all of this, though. My mind-blowing climax had drawn the blessed curtains of sleep down over my thoughts. I barely had the energy to replace the cover over the iPad screen before sinking into a blissful doze.
Chapter Three
Classes online were a decent distraction, but classes in person would’ve been better. As awkward as it would’ve been to be older than everyone else on campus, I thought I would’ve been less likely to daydream, to miss Jonathan, to pine for the time we’d be together again. I could people watch, be forced to leave the black hole of a compound, maybe even try to make some friends.
And now I had that sexy Skype call on my mind. It was hard not to just shove my iPad out of the way, ignoring my work in favor of reliving that sweet, erotic time with my husband. If we could have a session like that every day, I was sure I’d make it out on the other side all right. I just needed to know that Jonathan was thinking of me as much as I was thinking of him.
Shopping was another fine distraction — and one I was getting very good at. I was turning into a regular shopaholic. With my makeup perfectly done and my big sunglasses in place, I fit right in to the rest of the crowd cruising Chicago’s Miracle Mile. I had fond memories of the first time I’d gone shopping after moving to the city with Jonathan, but it had been Lucy who’d gone with me that time. Now, I was too afraid to ask her, too afraid that she’d say no. I went on my shopping excursions alone, one of the fleet of drivers the Whartons kept on call my only company.
I bought a swimsuit in case I ever went to the beach — unlikely, without Jonathan, but still a tempting thought. I’d never swum in Lake Michigan. I bought a new suitcase for when my husband returned and we went to the cottage for our honeymoon. I bought silk scarves and light cardigans and pretty earrings that sparkled and caught the sun. It was getting to be summer, and I knew that buying new things for myself would please Jonathan — especially once he returned and saw all of them on me.
During one of my shopping expeditions, I felt my phone buzz in my purse, and I nearly dropped it trying to get it out. It was the middle of the day in Chicago, but it could be my husband, calling me from some exotic locale in the middle of the night or at the end of his workday.
Looking at the screen made me sag in disappointment. It wasn’t Jonathan. It was Ash Martin, the plastic surgeon Jane had put me in touch with when I’d been seriously considering getting my scar fixed in time for my wedding. Ash had given Jane her impressive breasts.
“Hello?” I said, perplexed, as I answered the phone.
“Michelle Smith,” he said, his effervescent voice lifting my spirits a little. “Or is it Michelle Wharton now?”
“It is Michelle Wharton now,” I said. “And your call is an unexpected pleasure.”
“Well, congratulations are in order,” he said, his tone clearly one of delight. “You simply must let me take you out to lunch or something.”
“That’s too kind of you.”
“The main reason I’m calling is to ask why you skipped out on our follow-up appointment,” Ash said, cutting right to the chase. “I thought that we agreed you were a pretty good candidate for surgery.”
I was struck speechless. We had agreed that the surgery would be a positive thing, but then I’d run into Jonathan outside of Ash’s offices. Jonathan had been furious at the idea that I would fix my scarring for him, and I lost myself in the memories of that day.
“Baby, I don’t want you to have surgery,” Jonathan had said. “I don’t want anybody cutting on you. You’re perfect the way you are. Haven’t I told you that? You’re beautiful, Michelle. This is who I fell in love with, the girl with this face. This is who I’ll always be in love with — the girl with this face.”
Thinking back to that day was as painful as it was uplifting. Jonathan was gone, but those words had stayed with me. He was the only reason I could even venture out in public. He’d given me the strength to face people staring at my scar. I only wished I could have my husband by my side.
“Michelle? Are you still there?”
“I’m sorry,” I said, Ash’s concerned
voice yanking me back to the present and out of the realm of fantasy and dreams. Jonathan wasn’t going to be back for two months. I had to just suck it up and stay busy.
“It’s a personal decision to have plastic surgery,” he said. “I completely understand. That’s why I’ll wait until you let me take you out to lunch for your explanation.”
I had to laugh. “You drive a hard bargain, Dr. Martin,” I said. “When would you like to go? I’m sure your schedule is a little fuller than mine.”
There were always my online classes to consider, but I was pretty sure going out to lunch wasn’t going to spoil my studying or wreck my academic career. It wasn’t as if I had a blistering social schedule or anything.
We ended up meeting later that week at a restaurant that had just opened up. I found it hard to believe that I had all these elite friends who could get a reservation at some of the most exclusive places in Chicago. If it had just been me, I’d probably never get a table.
“It’s marvelous to see you again,” Ash said, standing up and kissing me on both cheeks as a waitress led me to the table he’d already been sitting at. “You’re looking well.”
“Not as well as I could, I’m sure,” I said, sitting down. “In your professional opinion, of course.”
“I’m a fan of modern medicine, Michelle,” he said. “You know how I feel about you maintaining that scarring. You don’t have to bear that burden. You know you don’t.”
“It was my husband who talked me out of the surgery,” I said.
“What changed your mind?” Ash asked taking a sip of champagne. Champagne for lunch? My first thought was that it must be nice to be able to afford that kind of thing. My next thought was the realization that now, as a Wharton, I could regularly enjoy something as decadent as that.
“I think I realized that I wanted the surgery for the wrong reasons,” I said.
“I don’t know a wrong reason for it,” the doctor told me, pouring me my own glass of champagne as if he’d read my thoughts on the subject. “I’m confident that we could successfully treat this.”
“I have complete faith in you,” I said, raising my glass in a toast. “It’s just that the only reason why I was ready to get my face fixed when we first met was because I wanted to look good for my wedding.”
“I think that’s as good a reason as any,” he said, clearly confused, as we clinked glasses and sipped. The champagne was sweet and fruity. I laughed lightly. I had to remember that this was a man who gave rich little girls D-cups and higher just for the hell of it. There didn’t have to be a good reason for any kind of plastic surgery.
“If I ever get this scarring fixed, I want it to be because I want that outcome for myself,” I said. “I don’t want to get it fixed because I’m afraid of what other people think of me. I want to do it for me. When I’m ready to move on.”
“Do you not believe that six years is enough time for you to move on from your parents’ deaths?” Ash asked.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to move on from my parents’ deaths,” I admitted quietly. “I guess I was prepared not to, prepared to spend the rest of my life in seclusion because of it. It wasn’t until Jonathan that I decided life was even worth living.”
“So he’s the reason you were thinking about moving on — as in undergoing the surgery necessary to remove the scars — and also the reason why you’re hanging onto them?” Ash cocked his head at me as he sipped on his champagne. “Oh, young love. I envy your devotion, as confusing as it is to think about. My fiancé and I are both old souls — plus we’ve been together for nearly a decade. We hardly even have to speak to each other anymore. There aren’t any surprises between us.”
“I didn’t know you were getting married,” I exclaimed, delighted. “Tell me everything.”
Amelia had been the one to organize our own ceremony and reception. I’d had very little input, trusting that putting ourselves into her hands was a compliment that would go a long way. It had been silly. I was starting to understand that there was no way that Amelia and I were ever going to get along, no matter how much control of my life I relinquished to her. She’d be happier if I were back at the cottage and out of her life.
I tuned back in as Ash continued to gush over his own wedding plans. It would be held next spring, on one of the bridges spanning the Chicago River. After the ceremony, they’d all throw petals down into the water. It sounded both beautiful and romantic, and well thought out.
“I actually met my fiancé when he came in for a consultation for a procedure,” Ash said, laughing as he covered his mouth with delight. “I can’t believe I’m only just remembering this. He wanted a Botox injection because he thought his forehead was getting too wrinkly, but I managed to talk him out of it, telling him that his face looked weathered and distinguished. I told him — shamelessly, of course — that the wrinkles made him look wise and experienced. I’m not usually in the business of talking my patients out of my services, but it worked — and got me a date.”
I clapped my hands, grinning. “You see? Here you are, judging my decision, thinking my husband is a bad person who talked me out of the surgery, when you’re the one talking your own patients out of altering their appearances.”
“His was just a little Botox,” Ash maintained. “Yours, honey, I swear will change your life. For the better. Promise.”
“You might yet have your chance to work your magic on my face,” I assured the doctor. “The future’s big and bright. I want people to not have a reason to stare at me anymore.”
“Oh, trust me,” Ash laughed. “When I’m through with you, people are still going to be staring at you everywhere you go. It just won’t be because of the scarring.”
I felt bewildered at that statement. What was the point, then, if everyone was still going to be staring at me? Why would I have the surgery in the first place?
“If not the scarring, then what?” I asked finally.
He shook his head. “I can’t believe you don’t see it in yourself.”
“Aversion to mirrors that lasted several years of my life,” I explained. Jonathan was the only reason I could bear to look in a mirror now. All those mirrors used to show me were my failings, my tragedy, and the future I would never possess again.
“You’re beautiful, Michelle,” Ash said. “I know that you don’t think so, and that the scarring distracts you. That’s why I’m such a proponent of you letting me take care of it for you.”
“I’m not beautiful,” I scoffed. “You just want a chance to use all your hard-earned skills to become some kind of miracle worker.”
“Well, I’d be lying if I denied that,” he laughed. “But now I’m being serious. You are a beautiful woman. I think you’ve gotten a little too used to hiding behind that scar. If you’d like, I have a good friend in the psychiatry business I could refer you to.”
I frowned. “I thought that you didn’t like to operate on anyone who required psychiatric help to deal with whatever’s wrong with them.”
“I don’t think you require psychiatric help,” Ash said quickly. “But I’ll do whatever it takes to convince you that you’re beautiful. Maybe it’s a self-esteem thing. Maybe you just need a professional to talk to. It’s just a thought. Just a suggestion. Not a requirement, of course.”
Our lunches arrived, and my mouth watered. Ash had ordered their chicken salad, which had come highly recommended by our server. It was stuffed with unexpected ingredients, like strawberries, mango, and almonds. Served on a toasted bun, it was the perfect dish for an approaching summer.
“Do you still have winter on the brain?” Ash teased me when he saw my order.
I’d asked for a soup that was served in a bread bowl. The soup was a delicious sounding lemon chicken orzo, but the truth was that the menu had me at “bread bowl.” Carbs were my self-professed weakness, but it wasn’t until now that I needed to be careful about it. Living an active lifestyle out at the cottage had pretty much permitted me to eat whatever
I wanted without consequence. I had been working hard and burning whatever calories I consumed.
Here in the city, on the other hand, I was noticing things that hadn’t been there before. I could’ve sworn that my breasts were getting larger. Jonathan wouldn’t complain about that one bit, but I didn’t like the idea of gaining weight because I was being sedentary. I had to suck it up and either go to the gym in the Wharton office building or devise my own workout plan.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Ash offered, pouring me another glass of champagne. The soup was too hearty for the bubbly to stand up to, but I didn’t mind. To me, champagne was delicious no matter what the occasion.
“I was worried about getting fat, but this is so delicious I don’t care,” I said, tearing off a hunk of my bread bowl and dipping it in the soup before enjoying the warm, chewy goodness.
