by Nikki Sex
“I can’t do it, Renata. I wish I could—but I can’t,” he finally bites out.
“We have time,” I reassure him. “When someone is brave enough to address a difficult issue, they always start with unbearable discomfort. That’s OK. It’s normal and exactly what you should expect. If your problems were simple, you would’ve solved them all long ago, right?”
Grant gives me a sharp nod of agreement.
“The fact that it’s tough for you will make your success so much sweeter,” I say encouragingly. “Why should something worthwhile, be easy?”
Grant says nothing, but I can tell he’s listening.
I shake my head. “We’ll figure it out, Grant. We’ll get through it together.”
After a long silence, he says, “André told me to start at the ground floor, but what is the ground floor? I’m not even comfortable touching you. I have trouble simply holding your hand.”
“I know, but that’s OK,” I say. “See? Just now, you spoke about the handholding issue. That's progress. You didn’t even try to talk to me about it before. You should feel good about that—I do. Today and tonight, we can try just a little casual touching. We can hold hands, lean against each other maybe, or put our hands on each other's shoulders. Nothing intense. We'll keep things G-rated… mostly.”
I smile at that, because we are so going to go past 'G-rated' tonight, if I have any say at all. Hopefully, we'll head straight to 'MA-rated' due to adult themes, nudity, sexual content and coarse language.
“I don’t know… if I can.”
“Fine,” I say. “If that’s too tough, we can start by just looking at each other, all right? Whatever we do, we’re going to have some laughs, OK?”
He glances over at me and I shoot him a bright confident smile. It’s easy because I am confident. I’ve had a ton of success with my surrogate clients. It isn’t too long a jump to imagine I’ll get there with Grant.
“Fine.” His smile is wry, but there’s a glint of humor in his eyes.
“No pressure,” I say. “I know how to make this easy and fun. We both deserve to have fun, right? How does that sound?”
His relief is palpable as he exhales and says, “Good.”
“You’ll get there, Grant.”
His slow smile isn’t forced. “I’m beginning to think I just might.”
I decide to give him a break and change the subject. “I love your car, by the way. It’s super-slick. What kind is it?”
“It’s a Cadillac,” he says and his lips twitch up in a smile. There’s a flicker of amusement in his gorgeous grey eyes, but at least he doesn’t roll them. I’m acting out some sort of girly-girl stereotype, I guess. When it comes to cars, I haven’t got a clue.
“So, sue me,” I reply snarkily to him. “I’m not a car person. How old is this one anyway?”
“A couple of months.”
I knew that. No one can mistake that new car smell. “André is nuts about cars, too.” I chuckle. “You boys and your toys.”
Chapter 6.
“If you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need."
― Marcus Tullius Cicero
~~~
Renata Koreman
“Where to now?” I ask, after we make a quick stop at a gas station. Putting my seatbelt back on, I push back the drumming need inside me.
Grant’s biceps are huge… I want to touch them. His casual, long-sleeved shirt, rather than hiding his body, seems to enhance the muscles in his arms and shoulders. Fuck, I want to bite that tantalizing bit of bare flesh on his neck where the buttons end. I long to jump him over and over again, until we’re both sweating and limp with exhaustion.
I surreptitiously glance down at his unflagging erection and desperately curb a bubble of laughter. I recall how he remained pulsing and hard inside of me, even after he came.
“Limp” is a highly unlikely description when it comes to Grant’s penis. His entire body is hard.
“We’re making a quick stop at the Whole Foods Market,” Grant says, as he smoothly navigates the road. The quiet engine of his high performance car hums in the background.
“That’s fine.”
“Maria, the lady who cooks and cleans for me, won’t be back until next week, so we’ll have to fend for ourselves.”
“I can cook.”
“You can?” he asks, slanting me a pitifully hopeful look while making a left-hand turn.
“Yes,” I say with a grin. “I can clean, too.”
“Forget cleaning.” He chuckles. “I’m much more interested in your cooking.”
And I’m interested in seeing you naked, I think, but I say, “Have you ever had boeuf à la Bourguignonne? Also known as beef Burgundy, it’s made with garlic, onions and mushrooms.”
“No beef?”
“You made a joke,” I exclaim. “That was funny!”
“Not that funny.” He says with a wry smile. “French stew sounds great. Can we have it for supper?”
“Sure. It doesn’t take long to make. It’s prepared with beef braised in red wine, flavored with garlic, thyme, bay leaves and sage.”
His forehead creases in a frown as he pulls into the grocery store parking lot. “I’m a recovering alcoholic, Renata, so I never drink. Am I right to assume the alcohol burns off during cooking?”
“Not fully. We can buy dealcoholized wine to use instead.”
“That’s good—but what about you? We can get you wine, beer, or whatever you want. I’m OK with that.”
“Thank you, but I’m not much of a drinker,” I assure him. “André introduced me to the basics, but my father was a real prick and he used to drink all the time. Somehow that lessened my interest in the subject.”
“I’m sorry about your father,” Grant says quietly, but he leaves it at that.
I shrug. “Thank you.”
I don’t want to talk about the asshole who’s given me my nightmares, my last name and half of my DNA. My reticence on this matter must be obvious as Grant changes the subject.
“You sound as though you know your way around the kitchen,” he says. There’s a cute kind of hopefulness in his statement.
“I’ve spent many hours with André’s chef, Pascal and his wife, Anne,” I tell him. “They taught me French cooking.” I raise my eyebrows. “And I’m a good student.”
“French cuisine!” he chortles enthusiastically. “I love French cooking!”
I’m charmed by Grant’s plainspoken honesty. I didn’t know he was an alcoholic. He didn’t try to minimize it by just saying, “I don’t like to drink.” This is another facet that will help me in unwrapping his history. Ashamed and isolated, Grant must have turned to alcohol to numb his pain and to forget, as many victims of abuse do.
I turned to sex for comfort and connection instead.
He’s definitely loosening up, and it only makes him more desirable to me. There are high, unassailable walls surrounding him, but maybe he’s starting to open a small window to give me a peek inside.
André’s cautionary warning runs through my mind. You cannot rescue someone from themselves. People are never as helpless as they feel themselves to be. When they improve, it is not because of you—it is because they have chosen to help themselves!”
If anyone is seriously working toward getting his life on track, it’s Grant. He’s such a good guy and I’m so ridiculously drawn to him. I’m going to do everything I can to help him figure out how to help himself.
The sound of a horn captures our attention for a moment. I look around, but whoever it was wasn’t honking at us.
I leave Mitten in the car when we get out, assuring him we won’t be long. I don’t think anyone would appreciate me bringing a cat inside a grocery store.
Dallas is a thriving city with nice parks, a fascinating skyline and interesting buildings. Everyone is amazingly friendly here. Complete strangers look you in the eye, smile and give welcoming nods.
People here have an overwhelming sense of pride in the
ir state. Texas maps are everywhere, including embossed into the walls on the freeways. Flags fly on many houses—US of A and Texas—American Pride and Lone Star pride.
The service is mind-blowing. Men smile and open doors for women. Bags at the checkout are packed by clean-cut high school students—or by polite, elderly folks working part-time.
It’s like being on the film set in Back to the Future, when Michael J. Fox drives his DeLorean back to 1950. There’s a homey, welcoming, wholesome vibe. The truth is, I kind of like it.
I’ve looked, but there’s not a tattoo in sight.
I snicker because I know Grant has tattoos under that long-sleeved shirt of his. What kind of tats does he have? I can’t wait to see them… and to see him without his shirt. Even fully clothed, the man is such a turn-on.
He’s needy and vulnerable underneath all that confidence. I swallow, because being around him makes me super-needy and vulnerable too. My constant state of arousal is hard to ignore.
We’re in and out of the grocery store in under twenty minutes. Another twenty minutes in his car and we’re pulling into his driveway.
“Oh my God! This is a wonderful home, Grant.”
It’s a cream-colored Spanish Mediterranean style stucco design, with green shutters and red terra cotta shingles. A huge dogwood tree with big white flowers stands out front, nestled within a well-manicured garden.
He drives into the garage and hits the remote button, closing it. When he turns toward me, he’s wearing a boyish grin.
“You really like my house?” he asks.
“I’m blown away.”
His grin widens into a broad smile. “I’ve spent a lot of time doing it up just the way I like.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“I love this house. It was built in the 1930’s, but honestly?” he grins. “I bought it for the garden.”
“No way.”
“C’mon. Let me show you my pride and joy.”
He leads me through a side door out into the backyard, with Mitten happily following behind us. I lift my hand to shield my eyes from the bright, setting sun. The first thing I notice is the fragrance of flowers. There are cherry blossoms in bloom, awe-inspiring puffs of pink and white, not to mention rhododendrons, azaleas and who knows what else.
Grant escorts me down a path where a little stream runs through. A small picturesque wooden bridge crosses over it until it reaches a shallow little pool. A number of colorful Koi fish languidly swim around in lazy circles.
“Oh, I love Koi!” I gasp. “Are they friendly?”
“Sure,” he says with a smirk. “If you feed them.”
There’s a rock garden with lavender and other ground covers. Rock steps have been artistically placed throughout. Crepe myrtle trees blossom in mauve and white, and jasmine perfumes the air. A large grassy area is near the house.
It’s like a secret Garden—this open space seems larger than a normal city block. Lavish, thriving, and full of life, it isn't highly manicured as some gardens are. I much prefer it this way. It's wild but not overgrown or messy.
It’s nothing like what I expected, but then, what had I expected?
This creative hands-on interest is another fascinating part of Grant’s character. Betrayed by humankind, I sought love, trust and fulfilment from Mitten. Obviously, in the same boat, Grant turned to flowers, trees and plants for the same reason.
Why not? It makes sense to me.
Chapter 7.
“The only creatures that are evolved enough to convey pure love are dogs and infants.”
― Johnny Depp
~~~
Renata Koreman
Grant studies me, closely watching my reaction to this important place in his life.
“You did this?” I gasp.
“Many of the established trees were here already, but yes, I did. Marie’s nephew, Michael, is my gardener. He looks after the mowing and watering, but I created it.”
“It’s absolutely incredible,” I marvel. “It’s like the botanical garden in a big city—only much nicer.”
Grant’s smile is broad and open. His garden means a lot to him and it charms me to know my opinion matters. I love that he's able to share this part of himself with me.
I turn my head, checking out the abundance of flowers. It’s April, a time of early spring blooms. There will be an even greater riot of colors as spring rolls on. Mitten rubs up against my legs, so I squat down to stroke him. Mitten loves this place.
Grant walks through his garden, telling me the names of his flowers while pointing them out; chrysanthemums, daisies, daffodils, irises, peonies, marigolds, petunias and colorful impatiens.
There are unique garden sections, hidden places to sit, and a variety of trails. Proud and enthusiastic, Grant is transformed by his garden. The stress lines in his face have eased, he looks content and completely in his element.
“Gardening makes you happy,” I say, pleased to discover yet another glimpse of the real Grant.
“Yes, it does.”
“This is the most beautiful garden I’ve ever seen.”
“Thank you,” he says with quiet intensity. Our eyes meet—his are smoldering. A zing of sensual energy blasts between us, almost bringing me to my knees.
My chest tightens and my heart flip-flops as a sudden insight makes me realize how important I am to him. He wants me, he needs me and my libido is now officially on overload.
Burning sexual desire and anticipation will be the death of me.
Jesus, if I don’t get laid tonight, I’m going to have to masturbate for hours to have any hope of falling sleep. Maybe a hundred climaxes will ease my aching need for him. I suspect only Grant can truly satisfy me—flying solo won't even come close.
Of course, a hundred is a ridiculous exaggeration.
I’m sure I’ll be OK after ninety-nine.
“Let’s go inside,” he adds, placing his hand low on my back. The heat of his palm rolls through me. I close my eyes for a moment and I bite back a moan.
Turning my head up, I take in his handsome face. “You’re touching me,” I murmur with pleased surprise. “And you’re comfortable doing it.”
He shrugs.
“Maybe it’s because we’re in your garden,” I suggest.
“Maybe.”
“This is such a romantic setting. With a nice thick blanket, right under those cherry blossoms—I’d like to make love with you in this garden,” I unthinkingly blurt out.
Shit! Bite my tongue! I’m pushing him too fast and too hard. So stupid.
My speech filter is off-line—probably because there's an insufficient amount of blood going to my brain for it to function properly.
Grant snorts in a humorless laugh and turns toward me. His poor, neglected cock is bulging in his Levis and my gaze immediately falls to it. He sees where I’m looking and makes a sound that’s suspiciously like a growl.
“Renata,” he says, his voice husky with need.
Our eyes lock. Grant pins me with the hunger of his passionate stare.
I swallow, utterly affected by everything about him—his smell, his fit, muscular build, his heady male energy, his arousal and his desire for me.
“Do you think I want to be like this?” he asks me in a deep, low voice.
His eyes darken and his unblinking stare scorches me with sensual heat. His breathing speeds up, displaying his internal battle over his body's response. I see his throat work as Grant swallows hard.
He doesn’t touch me.
If he did, I might go up in flames.
“Renata,” he rasps, “I need to be inside of you like I need to eat, move or breathe. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anyone or anything before. I want to take you here in my garden, on my bed, on the kitchen counter or on the table. I want to lift you up and fuck you hard against a wall.”
Stunned, I just stare at him with my mouth open and my eyes wide. I think that’s the most he’s ever said to me all at one time. Every single word
aroused me further. Desire and lust boils out of him.
“I can't—not yet, but I don’t like waiting either,” he growls, and then strides off in utter frustration.
I follow him as he walks back inside the garage. We leave the air virtually sizzling behind us.
I am so going to help him fix his intimacy issues—and fast. Otherwise, anticipation and sexual frustration will bring us both to the edge of madness.
Luckily, I’ve got an idea.
Grant shows Mitten and me around his home while we try to ignore the stormy, restrained sexual tension brewing between us. Mitten checks out every nook and cranny, but I doubt he’ll find a mouse.
Grant’s house has four bedrooms, four bathrooms and three living areas, all with high ceilings and an open floor plan. Window seats are recessed into a wall, and there’s a balcony with a table and chairs set up, to sit outside and look out over the garden. Marble floors are on the ground floor; hardwood flooring and rugs are upstairs, along with an open fireplace.
“Wow,” I say, stopping to check out Grant’s shooting trophies. He has a ton of them. “You’re obviously a great shot.”
“I should be. I was a sniper in the army.”
“Do you still shoot?”
He shrugs. “I own an indoor and outdoor shooting range.”
He didn’t answer the question, but I don’t pursue it. I grin up at him with a flirty smile. “Will you teach me?”
He smiles back. “Of course I will, if you’d like to learn. It would be my pleasure.”
“Neat. Do you hunt?”
“Not anymore,” he says, his voice suddenly turns as cold as an Arctic winter, changing the climate in the room.
I still have no idea who hurt him as a child, yet I sense another mystery here. Why did he have such a negative response when I mentioned hunting? Clearly, he must have loved it at one time. Then again, he served in Iraq. Did he kill someone he regrets killing? And how did he get those scars? Are the two subjects connected?
“OK,” I say, as I leave his room. Mental note to self, avoid bringing up the subject of hunting with Grant for now.
