by Kyra Davis
“What are you scared of, Kasie?”
I tremble even as I smile. “You tell me.”
“All right.” He takes a step forward and caresses my body with his stare one more time. “You’re scared of the part of yourself you have begun to unleash.”
“Partly.”
“You’re scared of how much you want me. Maybe you’re scared because right now I can do almost anything I want to you without your issuing a single protest because you know that the things I want to do are the things you want to happen.”
I swallow, hard. But I won’t look away from him. He takes another step and runs his hand up my inner thigh until he presses against my panties, only the thinnest fabric between his fingers and my clit. I know this dance now but I still gasp as his fingers begin to move.
“I see who you are, Kasie,” he says. “And it’s the only thing I want to see.”
My legs are shaking and I reach forward and grab his shirt, holding on to him out of both necessity and passion.
“Take me to your bedroom,” I whisper as the shivers take over every part of my body. “I want to make love to you on your flame-colored bed.”
His hand moves away and in a moment I’m up in his arms, being carried like a princess down a discreetly placed flight of stairs. The room he leads me to is massive, easily as big as the living room above us. I see his desk with his computer. I see the expensive chair.
In the center of it all is the bed, which I feel as he lowers me onto it. I feel it against my skin as he removes my panties. But when he takes off his shirt, his jeans, and all the rest . . . well then I can only feel him . . . the pressure of his muscles as they press down on top of me. His lips as they devour my neck. I pull off the sheer top. Every inch of my skin must touch his. The flames are not coming from the bed but from inside me. My hand goes to his erection and I feel my own potency as it twitches in my hand. Every ridge is familiar to me now. I know how to touch it to make him go crazy and I toy with him, enjoying the staccato nature of each breath he takes. But I don’t object when he pulls away, lowering his mouth to my very core. I shake as his tongue plunges deep inside of me, tickling me, making me wetter than I have ever been before. I can’t keep quiet. I moan and cry out as I grab on to the comforter beneath my arching my back, almost pulling away, almost afraid of the intensity of what he’s making me feel. But he holds my hips still, refusing to let me go, using his thumb to pull my skin taught around my clit so he can lick and taste every hidden corner, forcing me to experience what I’m afraid of and what I long for.
The orgasm is so strong, I think it’s going to split me apart. I have no control. I don’t even have the ability to want the control I’ve lost. I don’t recognize the guttural sounds that are coming out of my mouth. I have no power to resist when he comes back up, hovering over me, taking a long, hard look at my trembling naked body before kissing me, his taste mingling with my own. I feel his erection pressing up against me but he won’t enter. He’s teasing me and my desire is driving me absolutely wild. I struggle to push myself down, struggle to force him inside but he grabs me by the arms and holds me in place. I have to wait, and the wanting, the lust, the impatience . . . it’s bringing the intensity to heights I hadn’t even known it could reach.
“Please,” I say, arching my back, trying to touch my breasts to his chest. “Please.”
“You are the only woman I know who is as sexy when she unapologetically takes what she wants as she is when she pleads for release.”
I can’t engage in conversation right now. Can’t remark on the peculiar compliment. All I can do is listen to my body. The flames are consuming me.
“Please,” I say again. “I need you.”
And now he’s the one who groans and in an instant he pushes into me. I cry out, unable to do anything but experience what he’s giving me. Every thrust brings on new sensations. He releases my arms, and my hands run up and down his back, around his neck, through his hair then down to his ass. I have all of him but I want more.
And he can do what he wants to me because what he wants to do is what I want to be done.
And as he presses deeper and deeper inside of me, another orgasm comes. And this time he comes with me. Our cries intermingle into one primal chorus.
And as he relaxes, as I feel the complete weight of him on top of me, I think of the yin and the yang.
And in that moment I truly feel whole.
CHAPTER 12
TEN, FIFTEEN, PERHAPS even twenty minutes pass. Or is it years? It’s hard to tell. I’ve lost all sense of time and space. Reality was left tucked away somewhere in my office. This moment, lying in Robert’s bed, is not part of the space-time continuum. He’s beside me; his eyelids are half-mast as he stares up at nothing. Our breathing has only now become steady. He seems mellow, even peaceful, nothing like the man who held me down as he pushed inside of me, his desire as fierce and unrestrained as my own. No, the man by my side is quiet, tender, and maybe a little vulnerable.
Tentatively I let my hand move across his chest. It’s a subdued gesture that speaks of a different kind of intimacy.
He smiles a lazy smile, his eyes still staring up toward the high ceiling. “I’m actually craving a cigarette right now,” he says.
The comment takes me off guard. “You smoke?”
“A long time ago, yes. I haven’t thought about smoking for ages but . . . a cigarette after sex is calming, it brings you back to earth, and after that, I don’t know if I’ll be able to find my way to earth again without at least one to navigate me.”
“I hate cigarettes. I hate how the scent of the smoke lingers in people’s hair and clings to their clothes for days. My first lover was a smoker. I’ll never be with a man who smokes again.”
“Damn, okay,” he says, the mischievous twinkle returning to his eyes. “How do you feel about cigars?”
I take my pillow and hit him over the head with it. He laughs and tries to fend me off but I straddle him and hit him again and again as he playfully begs for mercy. Finally I toss aside the pillow and grin down at him. His hair is ruffled and he looks so young despite his salt-and-pepper hair . . . almost innocent.
He’s observing me, too, drinking me in. “You’re so free right now. You’re beautiful when you’re free.”
I feel a twinge. I’m not free. Not yet. I haven’t officially ended things with Dave.
But I don’t want to think about that right now. I want to think about this man underneath me with his mussed hair and easy smile.
I lean over and kiss his lips. “You see, if you smoked, I wouldn’t be doing this.”
“That is the best antismoking campaign message I’ve ever heard in my life,” he replies.
“Yes, well the American Cancer Society can have their tactics of fear and guilt. Me?” I lean over and kiss him again, letting it last a little longer, making it just a little more intimate. “I believe in positive reinforcement.”
Robert’s hands move up to my waist as I continue to kiss him, his mouth, his chin, his neck. The sweat from our most recent lovemaking still clings to our skin but I feel him harden against me as my path of kisses continues south.
What I’m feeling . . . it’s unfamiliar—carefree, playful, light. . . . I feel light.
God, have I ever felt light before?
My mouth reaches his hips and I feel his hands in my hair, I feel the radiance of his anticipation.
He said he saw who I was. He said that’s the only thing he wants to see.
I let my tongue flick across the tip of his erection. His breathing is no longer steady.
Yes, Robert Dade does make me feel powerful, vulnerable, light . . . and sometimes a little scared.
But I don’t feel scared now.
My tongue travels to the base and then slowly up, over each ridge. He is at full attention. Looking at him I’m amazed that I was able to welcome the full length of him into my body without even a bit of discomfort.
But there is never any p
ain when I’m with Robert. Even when he holds me down, when he pulls my hair, presses me into a wall, even when he tells me what I’m not ready to hear, there’s no real pain.
I take him more fully into my mouth, my hand wrapping around the base of his cock while my other hand touches the tender flesh behind it. He groans as I move up and down, tasting him, knowing him.
Nothing about this feels wrong. No distress or conflict. The pleasure doesn’t leave any space for regrets.
I love his taste; I love what I can do to him. I can literally feel him throbbing against my tongue. He leans forward, pulls me up, but I stop him from flipping me over.
“No, no, Mr. Dade, this is my ride now. I make the rules.”
“Is that so?” he breathes, his smile appreciative, caring.
“Mmm, yes. Now, would you like to have sex with me again?”
“God yes.”
“Really? That’s funny, because I don’t think I heard the magic word.”
And now his smile widens to a full grin even as his chest heaves with desire. “Please.”
“Please?” I repeat. I’m straddling him again, my hands pressing down on his hard chest, my own nakedness completely uncovered. “I was looking for ‘abracadabra’ but I suppose ‘please’ will suffice.” And as he laughs I lower myself unto him.
And then the laughing stops . . . but not the smiles. As I ride him slowly then faster, his hands on my waist, my head thrown back, his eyes on my body, the smiles stay until the passion is so strong that our mouths stop working that way.
But the smile inside me never falters.
And I know without a doubt that his inner smile matches mine.
* * *
HE WANTS ME to stay but I’m not ready for that. Too much unfinished business. For years I’ve loved the idea of belonging to a relationship. I liked the rules, cherished the confines. But now I’m tickled with thoughts of freedom. I know I have to end things with Dave yet I’m not ready to be Robert Dade’s official anything. I want to ease my way into the relationship the way you might ease yourself into a cold swimming pool. Start with getting your feet wet, wade in up to your waist, wait until the water feels a little less shocking, and then throw yourself in.
I’m wading in, but I’m not ready to fully immerse myself yet.
I get dressed while he watches me. He wants to pull me to him but instead he reluctantly pulls on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. My eyes wander away from him long enough to take in a few more details of the room. There’s the expensive chair that he had sat in while he watched me remove my robe from miles away.
My eyes move past that to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city of LA is always the most beautiful at night. It’s as if the stars that can’t be seen in the sky have fallen to the ground and paved the streets with their brilliance. I give Robert a sideways glance. “Have you always lived like this?”
“Like what?”
“Umm, in affluence? In totally hedonistic opulence? Have you always driven cars with values higher than the GDP of third world countries?”
He laughs and shakes his head no. My eyes keep moving; this time it’s a framed photo of a couple that catches my attention. The frame is a little out of place. It’s made of an inexpensive wood that’s on the rustic side. I pick it up and see a woman who looks like she might be Latin . . . Mexican, Argentinean, maybe even Brazilian . . . I can’t quite tell. I can see that she must have been beautiful at some point. She has that thick, dark hair and a bone structure that plastic surgeons wish they could re-create. But even in this old photo—more than twenty years old, easily—you can see the dark circles. You can see the slight sag in her shoulders and you can see how the man by her side, his skin as white as vanilla ice cream, is helping to hold her up. But he’s tired, too. Look at the way his skin folds as he looks up at the camera. Look at the heavy smile as if the effort of saying cheese is almost too much.
“My parents,” Robert says as he comes up behind me.
“They look like they love each other,” I say, putting down the frame.
“They did.”
I hear the change of tense and understand the meaning. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right,” he says with a sigh, leaning against the dresser. “It’s been a long time.”
“May I ask what they died of?”
“Oh, various things.” His voice is suddenly weary, like his father’s smile. “But mostly it was misplaced trust and disappointment. When taken in excess, disappointment can kill.”
I don’t know how to move forward in this conversation so I wait to see if he is going to volunteer more. When he doesn’t, I give him a nod and turn away from the photo, find my shoes, one by the corner of the bed, the other kicked clear across the room.
“How about you?” he asks as I fasten the straps around my ankle. “Are your parents still around?”
“Alive and well,” I say, scanning the room for my purse.
“Any siblings?”
I pretend not to hear him. “I can’t find my purse. I did bring it inside, didn’t I?”
He studies me for a moment. He knows I’m purposely ignoring his question but senses that this is not the time to push me. After all, I’ve already gone out on a limb tonight. I’m so far outside of my comfort zone, I might as well be in Mozambique.
And I hadn’t planned on ending up in Mozambique. I don’t know the language or the laws and I’m completely unfamiliar with the currency . . . but, God, is it ever beautiful here.
CHAPTER 13
THE NEXT DAY flies by. I can barely keep track of the hours, minutes, or seconds as they tumble into each other and roll past me. My team brings me their research, outlines of reports, ideas, concerns, and observations—all so I can weave them together into one beautifully cohesive presentation. It’s not an easy task and under different circumstances, it might have stressed me. But it doesn’t. I can’t be touched. The whirling around me is just buzz. It’s the confusion in Robert’s painting and I’m the lover, the strong one who can’t be thrown off balance. I study the profit margins of Maned Wolf’s European operations and I feel his kisses gently brushing against the back of my neck. I study the projections of the cyber securities division and feel him take my hand and press it into the mattress beneath us. I read the plans for new products and I smell his skin, feel his breath, sense his presence.
I’m obsessed.
And when Barbara buzzes my phone to tell me that Dave is calling, I almost refuse to take it. A hundred excuses play through my mind. I’m in a meeting, I’m out to lunch, I’m on the other line . . . or maybe I just don’t want to deal with the pain I’m about to inflict.
“Hi, how you doing?” his voice sounds apologetic, caring. Four benign little words but it’s all it takes to open that little door in my heart and usher in the guilt.
“I’m a little busy right now,” I say vaguely. Maybe there’s a way to get him to break up with me.
“I’m sorry, I don’t want to interrupt your day. But look, I know you’re upset with me right now and . . . well, if we could just talk it out. Tonight? At Ma Poulette?”
“I think I might need to work late.” If I could just convince him I’m not worth the effort. How do you get a man to give up on you after six years of commitment?
My cowardice is overflowing.
“Please, Kasie . . . just . . . I really need to see you tonight. You know the restaurant, right? The new one in Santa Monica? I’ll pick you up at seven thirty?”
Every statement is a question. He’s trying to appease and smooth the road ahead of us.
I hesitate as my thoughts twist themselves into shapes even I can’t make heads or tails of. I’m not on the road Dave is smoothing out anymore. The ground under my feet is loose gravel. There’s a sense of impermanence to it. And if I get hurt along the way, I don’t know if there will be anyone around to help me find my way back. This is the option I’m choosing. I’m pretty sure it’s the right choice for me but I can’t figure out w
hy that is, so how can I explain it to Dave?
And do I really have to?
My cowardice has a strength that my earlier euphoria can’t quite match. The only thing that is clear for me is that I owe this man something. At the absolute least, I owe him dinner.
“I’ll see you at seven thirty,” I say.
Perhaps by then I’ll be brave again. . . .
God, I hope so.
* * *
THE DAY LOSES the surreal quality it had before. Suddenly I’m in it, rushed, critical, and as impatient as the second hand of the clock, always rushing to get to its next place. After a marathon of meetings, Barbara tells me that Simone called; she said it was important. But Simone’s idea of important usually involves a sale at Bebe. Besides, there’s no time to call her back. I rush home and get ready to break a man’s heart.
When I answer the door of my home for Dave at seven twenty-five, I’m wearing a white knee-length dress, sleeveless but not too low cut. It would befit any politician’s wife. My hair is back up; pearls wrapped in gold decorate my earlobes.
“You’re perfect,” Dave says as he offers me his arm.
Ah, that word again. I’m beginning to really hate it.
But I don’t say that as he opens the door of his Mercedes for me. It’s a nice car and it makes the statement Dave wants it to make, one of unobtrusive wealth and comfort. I think about the rush of adrenaline I felt as Robert’s Alfa Romeo rumbled beneath me, remember the thrill as it accelerated through the murky LA night.
Do those thrills last? Would I want them to?
But those aren’t the questions I’m supposed to be considering. I need to tell Dave the truth. Maybe over dinner, or before it, or after—maybe in the car on the way home. What is the etiquette for betrayal?
The guilt in my heart has a voracious appetite. It’s feeding off the leftovers of last night’s happiness.
One foot in front of another. That’s all. If I pace myself, everything will be fine. I will take care of this one grotesque task and then, in time, Dave will heal and I will feel carefree again, like I did in Robert’s arms. Yes, fine, I’ve broken rules, Dave’s rules, my parents’ rules, my own rules . . . but rules are made to be broken.
