Shades Of Obsession

by JR King

  In the town car, Mitchell enfolded me in his arms, fanning me with his breath. “I’ve missed you so fucking much.”

  Off came the blouse and the skirt in his penthouse. Off came the lingerie, too.

  To apologize for abandoning me to meet Anna, Mitchell took me to a concert of the Symphony Orchestra. The Pops were playing. With whimsical recitals, they catered to a wider audience, the BSO being plain formal, and yet, a few young girls notwithstanding, alongside dishy silver foxes more than twice their age, the majority of classical music lovers was easily fifteen years my senior. When I muttered a comment, Mitchell reminded me that he was thirteen years my elder. We were escorted to our seats just before the first set opened.

  The house lights went down and the podium lights went up. Mitchell wrapped his hand around my neck and twisted my face into his. “You kissed him backstage here, didn’t you?” Before I could give him an answer, he kissed me, gently at first, sliding his tongue between my parted lips, giving me a moment to open up to him. The second I relaxed and gave in he gripped the back of my neck and mauled me, shoving his tongue deep inside my mouth, prying it open.

  He let go when a sob erupted within me as if from a trapped, primitive place. “I’m sorry. I should have told you we…kissed.”

  “You chose me, that’s all that matters. Now the dinky-do asshole knows he’s a worthless lover. Probably pops Viagra like candy.”

  Torrential applause arose from the crowd when the maestro stepped onto the podium. With pomade slick hair and balletic grace, in formalwear, he walked toward a lectern. Always sprightly, his full head of hair was dark brown, a little less at the temples. Like the forever striking nobility of a flowering orchid, he stood still for all to see. In fluid motions, he deftly twirled his baton around his thumb, reverse flipping it over his middle and forefinger as he spoke to a violinist.

  “How’d you find out, Mitchell?”

  “A friend told me you disappeared for a short while, came back with your hair undone. Easy guess. He didn’t fuck you. He wouldn’t do that here. This is a fresh start, baby. No more Anna, and no more Alexander.”

  I shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny, scared to tell him the truth. “A fresh start,” I agreed affably.

  Followed some hot smooching, damp and breathless. When Mitchell pulled his head back, his eyes were alight with satisfaction. “This is it.”

  The soprano, who was groomed within an inch of her life, embraced the maestro in a reciprocated hug. They remained unflustered during the impulsive standing ovation, chin up and postures held every bit as analogous and vertical as the surrounding pillars. When her voice pierced the air, Mitchell took my jaw in his hand and turned me to face him. The glint of full-frontal lust in his eyes paralyzed me shortly in the seat. “Kiss me, Elena.”

  Primarily, Mitchell didn’t want banquet-style seating because of the simple view. We had the best seats facing the stage, the side seats all the way in front on the first balcony on the left, and yet we didn’t see much. Quietly kissing and caressing, I heard the amphitheater erupt into applause, the crowd clamoring for more. I could hardly hear myself think as people brought down the house. I was even prepared to stick my fingers into my ears in case it was going to be a five-minute standing ovation, but the applause floated out as the maestro tossed his shoulders back and invited the sopranos back on the stage.

  When we got to Mitchell’s penthouse, we fucked like rabbits. The next day, the first snow fell, and my car went to the garage to be outfitted with snow tires alongside grandpa’s car. The full measure of winter would soon be settling, and as per usual, the winds and icy precipitation would blanket the city until the next year. I got it back the same day, and the first thing I did was driving out to pick up lots of red and white poinsettias. No cutting corners, quality first, Winston Flowers it was. The shop didn’t disappoint. Because of the array of gourmet crates with seasonal treats, this shop was tricky. Artisanal goodies from local purveyors, that Christmas feel hovering about, how could I resist? Just like me, a rush of people shopped about for decorations and hand-curated goods, stocking up on things like shortbreads and cheeses. Yep, I returned home with a violently raped bank account.

  After several in-and-out trips, I toed off my ankle boots before stepping inside the kitchen. “Grammy, come look at this!”

  “Are you…interested in Alexander Turner, El?”

  I backed away from the kitchen island a beat too fast and sprawled flat on the floor, open-mouthed. Felt the warmth on my cheeks as a hot flush was spreading. An awful dryness crept up my throat.

  Grandpa crouched gracefully beside me and helped me get back on my feet. He wore dark-rimmed glasses, thick frames streaked with tortoiseshell, eyebrows knitted together. His wavy salt-and-pepper hair was tousled, a few hanks flopping over his forehead as he looked at me with a fixed, expectant expression. “Someone raided Winston’s.” He went to the fridge and opened it, reaching for the water carafe. Before sitting down at the island, he poured two glasses of water.

  I sat down across from him, drank my water. Felt anxious. Grandpa could read me too well.

  He passed his hand down his face and looked at me, taking my hands in his. “What’s on your mind?” he sighed wearily. “You’re hurting. You go shopping for the house when you’re hurting.”

  Someplace in my mind, a warning voice whispered: think before you say things that cannot be unsaid. I gripped his hands as though I was afraid of letting go. “I’m happy with Mitchell.”

  He gave me an irritated look, raising his eyebrow. “Do you love that boy?”

  “I care about him.” I smiled, my lips not quite steady.

  He pulled his hands out of my grip and put them up, like he was warding off an evil presence. “That’s not good enough, Elena. You deserve more.” He stood up and looked down at me, annoyance written all over his body language. “A few months ago you looked so radiant. It was Alexander, wasn’t it?”

  A tear slipped from my eye, racing down the familiar path over my cheek and chin. “He’s out of my league, grandpa.” There, I had said my piece. Faced the fact that the man I desired was too high on the social ladder, and deep inside me, I felt crestfallen and thwarted and gutted.

  “Out of your league?” he snorted. “You sound like a—,”

  “A spinster,” I filled in.

  “A spinster,” he echoed with a bright smile. “A poor widow, even.”

  Worrying my lip, I went to the window. Feeling the warmth of some sun on me, I let my head fall back a little so it was on my neck. My hair dangled down, the ends brushing the top of my behind. What was Alexander doing right now? I combed my fingers through my hair and tossed it back, shaking my head. “It won’t work, gramps. The 5% rich type could work, but the 0.5% full-of-malarkey elite type? Imagine the breadth and depth of his power, the itch to manipulate with it. Not just a singleton, he’s a Turner, grandpa—a Turner.”

  “Turners never cloak themselves in aristocracy. However, any addition to the family has to grasps the importance of high moral standards that are concomitant with their name. They’re no sellouts, protecting their privacy is first and foremost, only the insipid new-rich are whores to the cameras. No one better than you understands this, El.” Taking a deep breath, he swelled his chest. “They’re humble, good Catholic people. Not that religion, or money, matters. I want you to be happy.” He raised his eyebrows and peered at me over the top of his glasses.

  I smiled, somberly though. “I would have loved to see the look on you face when mom introduced dad.” Remember when I told you Alexander has that Jack Welch thing down pat? Me, I didn’t have the Nora Jones thing down pat, just shared background similarities. My father, Alessandro D’Souza, was Boston’s handsomest lawyer, and author. His half-Portuguese/half-Indian genes—think Gandhi when I say Indian—made him extremely compelling, if anything, and his exotic name stayed stuck with people forever. Reporters kept track of me, writing lengthy essays about the prodigal daughter, so, taking my m
other’s name became inevitable. I was neither smart like my father nor did I have psychopathic tendencies. I wished I were smart and graceful like him. I wished I were smart enough to create some memorable thing in the private sector that could stay stuck in people’s head and remind them who invented the strategy, said the line, showed brilliance.

  “Grandpa, were you relieved when you found out he was Catholic?”

  “We were surprised. I really liked him, right away, but felt intimidated. I was a simple chef, then, and your grandmother a stay-at-home wife.” I watched the pallor of sadness creep across his face. His eyes went a little opaque, as if he were staring at me without really seeing me. “Elena, whatever happened…it was a consequence of an ongoing struggle in their marital life.”

  “Tell me more about him.”

  He did. I listened. Later, I took out my dad’s Montblanc pen and tried writing a haiku with it.

  Elena Anderson

  The Not Secret Rendezvous

  On Sunday afternoon, the moment my grandparents departed to play bridge with some friends, as if on cue, my phone started vibrating.

  I glanced at the screen. Alexander had wasted no time.

  Muttering a swearword under my breath, I listened to his pleading voicemail all the way through, sitting on the stairs. Unfortunately he wasn’t about to let me go that easily. A minute later, the phone buzzed again, and I looked down at my latest text: You can’t do this to me. We have to talk. I’m coming over.

  Oh shit. On a whim, I answered his message: You can’t. Mitchell will be here.

  His reply came in seconds: That got your attention. Mitchell is on a flight to Shanghai, little liar. See you in a few.

  How does he know these things? I tried not to panic. I couldn’t let this happen. I didn’t want to see him.

  That would be a lie. I wanted to see him, desperately. To see him naked…to do unspeakable things to his body…

  Maybe he was looking for closure. It’s the sort of thing experienced men seek before moving on to another girl, right?

  Closure it is.

  He must have been nearby, because the next sound I heard was that of someone ringing the gate. The unwanted resonance sent a jolt up my spine, making me jump up. I allowed him access without protest, fearing neighborhood gossip if he honked his horn. A few moments passed, then he was at the door.

  It was then that I remembered I was dressed in a short Paule Ka chiffon dress. I fussed with the hem before I let him in, wishing the fabric would stretch and cover the entire length of my thighs. Why bother? I wasn’t like I’d invited him over for a secret rendezvous or anything.

  With the efficiency of a drill sergeant, I moved dauntlessly toward the front door and opened it. He stood on the front stoop for a long while, his gaze raking me from head to toe, pausing at the high heel platform pumps. In turn, his casual look stunned me. He looked devastatingly yummy in dark slacks and a V-neck sweater over his dress shirt. Wouldn’t take long to undress him…

  “May I come in, Ms. Anderson? If you disapprove of my appearance, I can go change.”

  I stirred into action, feeling a cold breeze filter in through the open door as I moved away. “Come in.”

  He stepped inside and closed the door behind him, locking it. His searing gaze both pierced me and pinned my body in place. It seemed as if his eyes became darker, stormier as his gaze swept over me, devouring my features. I felt excited but a little exposed.

  “How do we move on, Alexander? What do you need for closure?”

  “Closure?” The sculptured line of his jaw was sharp and taut, something pulsing under the skin of his temple.

  “Why else would you come to see me? Don’t you know what that word means?”

  “Unlikable, that incredible mouth of yours. When I ask you a plain question, I expect to soundly hear a plain answer. I do not expect the simplicity of the question to be pointed out to me.”

  I couldn’t help the quiver in my voice. “I figured…,”

  “We haven’t even begun, Elena,” his voice was flat and dead, cutting across mine in a way that brooked no argument, “your line of reasoning is as pointless as it is stupid.” He looked pointedly over my shoulder. “Could we sit down?”

  “This is dastardly. And stop using your sex eyes.”

  “What sex eyes?”

  “You’re joking.”

  “I don’t see you laughing.”

  “You can’t be here. I have—,”

  “Save that soliloquy for another time. Be a good girl, for me. You know you want to cooperate, don’t you?”

  “No.” My firm tone had diminished into a brittle mumble.

  He came closer and traced the seam of my mouth. “The word no is capacious and unfavorable. Don’t sprinkle anomalies, you mean you want this. There’s no blind alley behind you, so let’s sit down and talk. I don’t mean maybe.”

  Gooseflesh prickled up my arms and neck. “You know how to leave.” Wanting to escape the moment, I took a step back then fled toward the living room.

  He followed me, his footsteps barely a whisper on the parquet floor of the foyer. Somehow that made it worse, like he was some kind of big jungle cat and I his hapless prey. Big Cat Diaries. Too late I realized I was cute little Toto.

  Wait, isn’t this my house?

  “Look at me, Elena.”

  I whirled around. I couldn’t refuse his low, dangerous purr, even if I tried.

  Jaw clenched, he raised one eyebrow. “What’s this shit about you and Mitchell?”

  “We’re in the same boat.” My lips twitched with amusement.

  “Which boat is that?” A downturned smirk grazed his lips.

  “Love boat.”

  “Love?” He cupped my face in one hand.

  I blinked twice. With every minute that passed, I was falling under his devilish spell. Unconsciously I took a step back and stupidly tripped backward as the edge of the sofa caught the back of my knees.

  Before I could catch my breath, he knelt on the floor right in front of me and spread my legs. At the warm touch of his fingertips on my skin, I practically went lax. “Alexander,” I managed to squeak, with difficulty, subsequent words trapping behind the lump in my throat.

  He was close to me now, so close I could feel his seductive warmth and smell the masculine scent of his skin. His tone didn’t change. “I’m not accustomed to being rejected,” he stated, low and dangerous, sending shivers through me. “You think Mitchell can do you better? Love you better?”

  I swallowed—actually, it was more of a gulp—and tried not to think about my dampening underwear. I needed to keep my wits about me. “It isn’t that,” I whispered, painfully aware of just how close he was. I looked down at him from under my eyelashes. “I’m sorry, Alexander. I really am.”

  Say what? Why was I apologizing? And why was I gripping the leather cushions?

  My torturer smiled, like he was the happiest person on earth, pressing his lips into the crook of my neck. “It’s all good.” His tongue traced a wildly throbbing tendon and I relaxed a little, melting a little against him, too. “Oh, little one,” he murmured, “what am I going to do with you?”

  My heart was thudding in my chest like a parakeet trapped in a conservatory. When his fingertips brushed along my jaw, I became aware of my skin’s dampness. There was always an element of primitive want when he was near, so I had learned to rein back on desires.

  “Kiss me, Elena.”

  “We can’t.” Instead of thinking up something sharp and snappy, I leaned into his touch, marveling at his sudden gentleness.

  He laughed, deep in his throat, and then his feather-light breath was gone from my skin. “Enough!” His jaw was set hard as he punched the sofa’s backrest, the pounding resonating in my ears. “Kiss me like you know, like you mean it.” His hands slid around my back, pressing me closer to him.

  I opened my mouth to protest but he sealed his lips over mine and kissed me then, shutting me up. Not a soft kiss, it was so hard tha
t I was sure my lips would bruise. The hardness of his erection against my belly sent a spear of heat straight to the center of my sex. His teeth tugged roughly at my lower lip, his lips licking in a slow manner that made me wonder how it’d feel if he licked between my legs. My nervousness and faithfulness forgotten in a rush of animal want, I all but pushed him away as he pressed rough, violent kisses along the line of my jawbone and bit down on my earlobe, making me gasp. I clutched at his sides, my knees weakening further as his lips wandered from my ear to my neck and then down to my cleavage.

  “We can’t,” I repeated, miserably though. “This is insane. We have to stop.”

  Now he bit my neck, giving life to a stream of choked off whimpers inside me. His mouth made a glissade from my shoulder to the sensitive hollow before my ear, and he whispered, “I can smell your—,”

  “You’re all talk and no action,” I interjected acidly.

  An almost unnoticeable scowl formed on his face, then he tucked my hair out of the way before moving up faster than a snake high on endorphins would shift. His mouth locked onto mine, and his hands half-tore, half-pushed at the low neckline of my dress. A low, husky growl erupted from within him when one breast spilled into his palm. His free hand grabbed my hair and pulled it, hard, while the other one fondled my breast. I felt the heavy thud, thud, thud of his heart, and all the while, he kissed and nipped my lips with feral, frenzied urgency.

  I went wild, clawing at his shoulders, twisting and turning in reaction to his manipulations. I wanted him so badly that I felt I was going to faint. Dragging his mouth away from mine, he slid his hands down to grip my hips, holding me. “I want to taste the rest of you,” he insisted, his tone savage. “Want to come in my mouth?”

  “I do, Alexander,” I answered with a thready pant. My fingers stroked and plucked at my abandoned nipple, making me wild with need.

  “That’s good, such a good girl,” he murmured. His hand snaked its way into my panties and he snickered when he found me wet, ripping the ruined fabric.