Accuse

by Nikki Sex

  I wouldn’t put it past her in the least.

  I’ve never met a woman who wants sex more than Renata does. Actually, she doesn’t have to tease me. I’ve never wanted to fuck anyone as much as I want to fuck her. Just thinking about her makes me horny. Around her, I’m constantly hard.

  Mostly, I try to ignore it.

  This strategy isn’t working.

  She straightens with a sexy grin, walks across to me and keeps the ladder steady with both hands.

  “So, Mr. Up-Early-and-Energetic,” she says. “Where did you say we’re going today?”

  I climb the ladder, hook the first swing in and attach the clamps with nuts and bolts. “White Rock Escarpment—hand me the other swing, will you?”

  She pushes the ends of two chains into my hands. “Do you go there often?”

  “Nope. I haven’t been there for years.”

  I climb down. Renata and I stand back, admiring the swing set I’ve built for her. From the moment she expressed a love of swinging, I began to envision how to build her the perfect swing set. These are like swings on steroids. This way, we both get to swing together, like we did on that special day at the park.

  “I love it,” she says, turning toward me. “Thank you so much.”

  I shrug, it really wasn't a big deal. I’m strangely self-conscious, yet delighted by her happiness. Pleasing her is easy.

  My body tightens as I recall what I have planned for her tonight. Renata knows nothing about it, so I don’t have to go through with it.

  I relax instantly at that thought.

  “You’re welcome,” I say. “I think we both deserve a second childhood, don’t you?”

  I adore the glint of delight I see reflected in her eyes.

  “Can I kiss you?” she asks hopefully.

  I clear my throat and move closer to her. Touch still unnerves me, and kissing is too intimate, but I’m working on it.

  I bend my head down, pressing our foreheads together. Renata puts her hands on my shoulders, I place mine upon her slim waist. My palms flex around her soft flesh and my cock stiffens further.

  I knows she’s wearing a bra and panties, but Renata feels naked under her thin dress.

  For the love of God, she smells good.

  I take a deep breath, let it out and then we kiss. It’s not a real kiss with tongue, mouth and urgent demands. It’s more like a gentle press of lips. After only a moment, I pull away and both of us then drop our hands to our sides.

  Renata smiles at me. “You’re getting better at this.”

  “A little,” I say quietly. I'm improving, but it's still a struggle.

  After the incident with the police, I put the brakes on everything physical between us. I stopped and rewound my foray into the sexual realm back down to the ground floor. Instead of picking up where we'd left off, we’ve been taking it very slowly. I've been dating Renata.

  This is the first time in my life I’ve dated anyone. I might be flattering myself, but I think it’s going pretty well.

  Rushing ahead faster than I'm ready for can't be good. She means too much to me. I already have enough pressure from my body, which is in a constant state of arousal.

  It seems as though this thing with the police might not be a problem. So what’s the hurry? I want to relax and enjoy this experience. Doesn't it make sense just to let things progress naturally?

  Truthfully, I’m worried. Things are going OK so far, and I’m afraid I’ll screw this up.

  Yes, I have intimacy problems I need to overcome. Yes, I want to make love to Renata so much I burn and ache, relentless with need. But, I also want to bask in this strange, foreign sensation of simply being happy.

  “Hola!” my housekeeper, Maria says, as she strolls out to the backyard.

  A small, thickset, grandmotherly woman, she’s always full of energy. It must be 8 a.m. Maria, who usually starts at nine, assured me she’d come early today.

  I put on my shirt as I smile and greet her.

  Maria’s been with me since I was a child. She taught me Spanish and was as close to a mother as I ever had. My own mother was never the nurturing or mothering type. Of course, my uptight mother didn’t want me associating with ‘the help,’ so Maria and I had to keep our interactions and mutual admiration for each other secret.

  Of all of the secrets I kept as a child, this was the only good one.

  Renata, Maria and I, exchange greetings and last minute details. As a mother of seven and grandmother of six, Maria is well able to care for Briley.

  “You are good for him,” Maria tells Renata, speaking about me as if I’m not even here. “Without a woman, a man is unhappy.” She nods wisely. “Señor Wilkinson is a good man—a very good man. He will make a good husband.”

  Renata laughs, tilts her head and asks her, “Do you think so?”

  “Si! Si! Marry him and give him many children,” she eagerly advises, emphasizing her enthusiasm for her plan by flinging her hands into the air. “It is best for you both, I think.”

  Renata eyes me speculatively. “Oh?”

  I shake my head, unable to stifle my smile. Encouraging Maria to elaborate on this subject is very naughty. Maria's always had a soft spot for me.

  “He is very good looking, don’t you think?” Maria turns and regards me appreciatively. “Together, you will make very beautiful children.”

  This is awkward. I stand utterly still, trying to remain composed. Contradicting thoughts and emotions rush through me, ranging from embarrassment to delight, from unworthiness to hope.

  How did I manage to find two such wonderful women?

  They say beauty is only skin deep, but that isn’t true at all. Real beauty can only be found much deeper.

  The scars on my face don’t bother me much anymore. Why should they? Renata touches my scars with love. Maria and André also see past them. My scars don’t bother the important people in my life.

  I spend long periods each day completely forgetting I was ever wounded. André was right—I’ve put too much importance on my scars.

  I wonder if I focused on them because I felt those ugly wounds reflected who I really was inside—the monster I'd kept hidden for so long. I not only believed I deserved them, but as a monster, the scars served a purpose. As if my toxic past was contagious, I wanted to warn people away, so I wouldn't run the risk of contaminating anyone.

  I’m not that person anymore.

  Mitten is playing with his new friend, a jet black kitten from next-door. He knows Renata’s going out and seems OK with it.

  Renata kisses Briley and we wave good bye to Maria. I open the door so Renata can get into the car. Our picnic lunch is already packed. Nervous tension tightens my muscles as I think about the surprise I have in store for Renata, for tonight—unless I lose my nerve.

  The woman I adore has been quite direct in expressing a desire to continue my therapy, so I finally booked a hotel room to provide us with alone time. Renata doesn’t know it yet.

  This way, I can always change my mind and back out at any time.

  Supportive and understanding, she'd let me out of it if I wasn't ready. This gives me peace of mind, yet I don't want to let her down.

  I’ve spent the last two weeks reading three different books, each detailing various sexual positions, female anatomy, and how to please a woman in bed. I’ve also watched a ton of YouTube videos.

  Sex is a subject I’ve avoided all my life, but I’ve put myself through a crash course. I’m terrified—and electrified, yet I’m determined to try every single suggestion.

  Maria is going to stay overnight, babysitting Briley. Tonight, I intend to finally share the same bed with Renata.

  I hope I can go through with it.

  Chapter 32.

  “It is not a lack of love, but a lack of friendship that makes unhappy marriages.”

  ― Friedrich Nietzsche

  ~~~

  Detective Bronowski

  Roman Bronowski stood at the entrance to the room, g
enuinely surprised by the setting, as well as by the man standing before him.

  As a seasoned detective, he thought he'd seen it all, yet André Chevalier was nothing like Roman expected. Clearly wealthy and urbane, he had the muscular physique of a fighter with broad shoulders and a flat stomach. Impeccably dressed and well-groomed, he was much younger than Bronowski had anticipated

  How did a man his age manage to live like this? Maybe he comes from old money, Roman decided.

  “This is quite some place you have here, Mr. Chevalier,” Roman said, as he took in the antique furniture and palatial décor of the man’s home.

  He smiled to himself, briefly picturing those two overly-excitable furniture appraisers, the Keno brothers who regularly appeared on Antiques Roadshow. They'd have way too much fun determining the value of the precious objects filling this room.

  Roman was sure there were no cheap knock-offs here. Everything he saw spoke of class, wealth and taste.

  “Merci, Detective,” André said, in a heavy French accent, as he rose to greet his guest.

  Roman took the counselor’s hand and shook it—it was warm, dry and firm. The fellow was dressed in a three-piece suit that probably cost more than his oldest daughter’s braces. André Chevalier had that classy, understated look which could only be achieved with the skill and expertise of a very fine and expensive tailor.

  “The counseling business must really pay off, eh?” Roman commented.

  The Frenchman laughed and the sound of it was warm and carefree. Roman found himself liking the guy despite his suspicions about the legitimacy of his wealth.

  “But yes, of course!” André said. “That is true. I am well compensated for my services.” He gave an eloquent shrug, his dark eyes bright with intelligence. “But, that is because I am the best, you understand.”

  Roman found himself smiling. There was an aura of natural humor about the man, as though he took nothing in life too seriously. He oozed confidence. Was it real, or was this part of the show he put on for his clients?

  “Please. Call me André,” he said, and directed Roman to sit on his classy, white couch. Roman didn’t share his own first name with André.

  Just as they sat down, Chevalier's servant brought in refreshments, a silver service bearing coffee and tea, milk and sugar, fine china cups and saucers and little cakes. The manservant appeared to be about fifty years old and he projected a quiet dignity. If Roman didn’t know better, he thought the man might easily have stepped out of Victorian-era England.

  “Merci, Gustave,” André said.

  “You are most welcome, Sir,” the servant replied, also in a thick French accent.

  “Now, Monsieur,” André said, addressing Roman, “Please help yourself to refreshments and tell me how I may assist you.”

  “I flew all the way out here because you wouldn’t talk to me on the phone,” Roman admonished, annoyed by the inconvenience.

  "Ah, most unfortunate. I am genuinely sorry for your waste of time and effort, Monsieur," he said calmly, pouring himself a cup of very dark coffee. "I was informed you wished to discuss a client. As you know, I am unable to do so.”

  “What exactly do you do, Mr. Chevalier?” Roman said, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “Don’t be offended, but from the look of this place, I’d suspect that you were into gambling or drugs.”

  André grinned. “Mais, non! Such undertakings do not interest me and I am not offended. I am, as my servant told you, a counselor. I specialize in treating PTSD and sexual difficulties.”

  Roman narrowed his eyes. “What exactly do you mean by sexual difficulties?”

  André tilted his head and arched one thick, dark eyebrow. His features were expressive. There was something about him that made Roman want to smile, but he didn’t. Frustrated by the case, Roman wanted answers.

  “It is perhaps exactly as you imagine, my friend,” André said with a shrug, taking a moment to gracefully sip his coffee. “I counsel couples and individuals, relating to sexual concerns, interests and identity.”

  Roman stared at him blankly, wondering if Grant Wilkinson had sexual ‘concerns.’ Maybe, just maybe, he had daddy issues? Problems severe enough to kill for? Yet, as a man who had gone to war and returned home badly scarred, it was more likely Wilkinson suffered from PTSD.

  Roman’s eyes narrowed. “You really make a good living as a counselor?”

  The Frenchman placed his hand on his chest. Roman thought his expression was reminiscent of George Washington’s, “I cannot tell a lie,” look.

  “Me?’ André said. “I am financially compensated very well. Why? It is because I am very clever.” He gave Roman a smug, yet boyish grin. “I will show you what I do, yes?”

  Roman scowled at his lack of humility. Arrogance irritated him.

  “Oui, oui, I assure you,” André said. “I have very great skills and with both men and women?” He kissed his fingers, flinging them outward in a gesture of perfection. “I am par excellence. It is a gift from the bon Dieu, comprenez vous?" he said with a wry smile.

  "Oh, yeah?" Roman said, curbing his desire to tell the cocky bastard exactly what he thought of him and his over-confidence.

  "Mais, oui," André said complacently. "Shall I tell you what I see when I look at you?"

  Roman frowned at that statement. He didn’t like the way this interview was going. The judge wouldn’t grant him a warrant to release Wilkinson’s personal counseling files—not unless some additional evidence was found that would justify such an invasion of patient privacy. Unfortunately, the case was at a dead end. He was grasping at straws by coming here.

  "You are married and have children?" André asked.

  “No surprise there,” Roman said after rolling his eyes. “I wear a wedding ring and I’m certainly old enough.”

  “You have been married…” André studied him, “I would say perhaps fifteen years, no longer.”

  “OK.”

  “You still love your wife, but you are no longer satisfied in the marriage bed.”

  Roman said nothing, but he couldn’t school his face in time to prevent André from seeing he'd made a direct hit.

  André raised a hand in triumph. “Just so! I do not know you, and I do not know your wife, but I have seen this many times before. Shall I tell you how to correct this disagreeable concern?”

  “Knock yourself out,” Roman said, becoming interested despite himself. It might be an act, but the Frenchman had presence. His voice was soothing and his manner was compelling.

  André’s dark eyes were bright. “Nothing in life stays the same,” he said. “All things? Either they grow or they decline. Treat your marriage like a living thing, my friend. It must be nurtured daily! The last time you brought your wife a gift or even flowers—it was when? On your anniversary?”

  Roman hid his astonishment at this deduction. “Yes,” he finally admitted.

  “And when did you last take her out, just the two of you as a couple? A year ago? More?”

  Roman felt his face heat. He couldn’t recall when he’d last gone out with Angela without bringing the kids along. Chevalier was right. He hadn’t been focusing his attention on his marriage at all.

  André shook his head sadly. “Americans!” He threw his hands into the air. “You are a man who takes good care of your possessions—such as the car—but you do not put the same time and effort into your wife and your marriage! You service your car, as you wish it to run smoothly—yet do you show such thoughtfulness, care and consideration of your wife? Non!”

  Feeling terribly guilty, Roman said nothing.

  “And, after providing no attention, you then expect your wife to want to make love with you? Why would she wish to do so when she does not feel loved or appreciated?”

  Roman sat there in silence for a while, considering what André had said. He often complained to Angela about the fact that she never seemed to be in the mood for sex. Yet, when she did take him to bed, he always felt as if she were doing it merely to g
et him off her back… (or her front) so to speak.

  “Foreplay for a man?” André said. “It is to see a woman smile at him, n'est-ce pas? But for a woman?” He made an eloquent gesture with his hands. “For a woman, desire begins in her mind. Of a certainty, a woman must be wooed! She must feel special, cherished and desirable.”

  Meeting Roman’s gaze, André raised a cautioning finger. “You have developed bad habits, monsieur.”

  The suddenly somber look on the Frenchman’s face surprised Roman.

  “Do you wish to spend your life alone?” André asked, his piercing eyes glaring at Roman. “No? Then you must take care, my friend, for your wife?” he said, a tone of admonishment in his voice. “She is learning to live her life and to be happy without you.”

  Roman was speechless.

  There was nothing to say to that, except it was all too true.

  “Become as you were when you were before when you were first married,” André advised. “Then you were vital to her happiness! For now, you are an irritation, simply someone she must perhaps cook dinner for. How do you propose to do this?”

  Roman turned his head, and looked out the window, over Las Vegas as he thought about it. A number of minutes passed while Roman brooded, trying to remember the times he and Angela had fun together.

  André didn’t interrupt him.

  “Years ago,” Roman said, turning toward him, “before the children were born, we used to go dancing.”

  “Ooh là là! Une très bonne idée!” André said enthusiastically, clapping his hands. “This is a very good idea. Mon ami, you have lost what you once had, but with careful thought and attention, what has gone will return.”

  Bronowski frowned.

  “Do not be unhappy, my friend,” André said. “Your marriage? It will never be as it was. None of us are able to return to the past. Yet as of this moment, you have the ability to make your relationship with your wife better than it has ever been before.”

  Detective Bronowski left André Chevalier’s home with his mind preoccupied. The idea Wilkinson had gotten himself involved in something untoward, some seedy underworld-related problem, had disappeared.