Tight

by Alessandra Torre

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m about to fuck you.”

  “No.” I shoved against him. “I’m going upstairs, and I’m packing. You can fuck one of these sluts.”

  His hand was hard when it palmed my cheek, holding me back, his legs straddling my feet and caging me into place. “Listen to me, Riley.” My struggle did nothing to stop the bare brush of his cock against my thighs. I clenched my legs for protection and avoided his eyes. “You think I’m here for them?” He tilted his head to the club. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you since I left the room. You’ve been the only thing on my mind since I saw you five months ago in that casino. I’m steps away from putting a ring on that perfect little finger just to convince you to move to me. I am not here to fuck anyone except you.”

  I stared straight ahead and struggled to keep my face passive. “Let me go.”

  “You don’t mean that,” he whispered, pressing closer to me, his mouth dropping to my neck, softly pressing kisses into the skin there. I blinked, tears hot on the edges of my eyes, stinging bits of weakness. I didn’t even know why I was crying. I didn’t have a good reason, didn’t even know what emotion to feel right now, just that I was one raw ball of nerves. I hugged him to me, wanting to hide the tears, the action pressing his pelvis tighter, his exposed cock pushing into the tight opening between my thighs. He hissed against my neck, gently grabbing the skin with his teeth as he rocked his hips once, sliding it out and then in. I clenched my thighs tighter and reached down, wrapping my hand around the length of him. I squeezed, his head coming off my neck, his hand brushing the hair away from my face, his mouth greedy as it found mine. I grabbed it a little tighter as he thrust against my grip, his breath puffing out in between our kisses.

  There was something so untouchably hot about having him in my hand, in that hallway, the vibration of the club at my back, the chance of interruption, the forbidden kiss of a man who, apparently, didn’t give a damn.

  We were quiet, no words to say, just the rustle of our clothes, the hard blows of his breath, the sounds of his breakage. He pulled his mouth off mine and leaned his forehead against the wall. “You won’t fuck me?” he panted.

  “No,” I whispered, squeezing tighter, his hips continuing their thrust into my grip, the speed increasing, his breath growing ragged at my response.

  “Then I’m about to fucking come everywhere.”

  I debated stepping aside, letting him blow his load all over the club’s floor, considered parting my legs and letting him, for a few deep thrusts, push inside. Instead, I squatted, keeping my hand on his shaft, and covered his head with my mouth.

  The sounds, as they ripped from his throat, the shake of his thigh underneath my hand...

  It was beautiful and uncontrolled and all for me.

  Brett didn’t do any more business after that. He rubbed sunscreen on my back, had roses delivered to the room, and woke me up with kisses. We didn’t discuss the club or our mini-fight. Looking back, I should have brought it up, should have pushed on that soft spot until my finger broke through to the truth. I could have, and our relationship would have survived, would have strengthened. But I didn’t. I rolled over in his bed, took his kisses and roses and I love yous and ignored it. I was too afraid of what I didn’t know. Too afraid that, if I thought about it hard enough, I’d find something wrong and I didn’t want to damage the first true love I had ever had. He had mentioned proposing. I didn’t know if he meant it, but I knew how I felt at the words. A hundred whatifs bounding through my mind and collecting bits of excitement and love along the way. This had become something—not a relationship to kick to the curb over paranoid suspicions. I needed to analyze it once I was back home. Make sure I was prepared for when the moment came, if the moment came. It’d only been five months; we weren’t naïve kids. I was thirty-two. He a thirty-seven year old man who’d never been married. I wasn’t expecting him to drop down on one knee after a few romantic escapades. But still.

  My stick-my-head-in-the-sand bliss lasted until 4 AM, when I got up to pee, Brett’s body not stirring as I gently rolled out of bed and walked to the bathroom. The wood floors in the room squeaked, like tattletale elves, the noises unnoticeable during the day, thundering at night. I flushed, then washed my hands, a nightlight putting an upward glow on my face. A horrible angle, it highlighted every wrinkle, every bag. I looked fifty, my stringy hair hanging around my face like old curtains around a dirty window. Thirty-two. Still young, but God, I didn’t look it. Not right now, not right here. I looked down, at my hands, red from the hot water, my fingers gripping the edge of the sink. Why was he in that club? How many nights had I sat alone in hotel rooms thinking he was working? And what had he been doing instead? My eyes moved from my hands to the counter. To the white towel laid out, Brett’s items set neatly next to mine. I picked up his toothbrush, a silver electric one. It was heavy. Felt expensive, like every other thing in Brett’s life. I set it down. Moved to the electric razor. This was older, worn. I had joked with him about the razor, told him I finally knew what to buy him for Christmas. He’d shook his head. “That was my father’s. Invest in lingerie instead.” He’d smiled, kissed my cheek, and I’d understood. Now, I hefted it in my hand. Thought. Considered. At what point am I a patsy, and at what point am I paranoid? I set down the razor and leaned forward. Stared into my eyes. Closed them. Opened them. I sighed, settling back on my heels and reaching for my makeup bag. Pulled out a Ziploc bag and pulled out my Q-tips. Popped off the top of the razor and dumped the clippings into the bag. Zipped it shut and replaced the razor’s top. Set it down.

  For a short time, I considered becoming a cop. It was over a decade ago, when I was still dating John, and we had this romantic notion that we would both go into law enforcement and work alongside my father, solving Quincy’s crimes and stealing kisses in between high-profile cases. I read some forensics books. Tagged along with Dad for a few weeks. Did some ride-alongs. Quickly realized that being a cop in Quincy was comparable to babysitting drunken toddlers. Changed my career path to psychology. Then ten more times before I settled on finance. It was over a decade ago, but I remembered reading about a murder investigation that was solved with DNA pulled from razor clippings. I hesitated, then grabbed the mini toothpaste tube with a Kleenex.

  Collecting prints and DNA. Had my suspicions really come to this?

  I’d give my father permission to run them both through the system. He’d be clean. I knew it. My polished, beautiful man wasn’t doing anything wrong, at least not that my father would find. I was certain of it. This would just close one door and give me a little more information. This would just give me a little peace of mind.

  I knew what I felt. I loved him. But I didn’t know him. And I didn’t trust him. The man I had fallen for hid something. I could feel it, slipping into bed with us at night, slithering up my bare legs, looking for a vulnerable place to bite.

  I wanted, needed, to know that secret.

  I crawled quietly back into bed, the soft sighs of Brett comforting. And the next night, I packed my bag and we headed back. I landed back home a little after nine, the plane empty, Brett dropped in Lauderdale where we fueled up.

  “Thanks, Abe.” I ducked through the door and down the steps, waving through the glass at the airport’s desk clerk, her acknowledgement barely visible through the dusty glass. Behind me, I heard the hum of propellers as the plane rolled on. It felt good to be home, it felt as if I’d been gone a month and needed to play catch-up with my thoughts.

  I hefted my bag open and dug for my keys. Found ‘em. I popped the trunk and tossed in the bag. The bag containing Brett’s DNA. Funny how that made the tote that much heavier. Glanced quickly around to make sure no abductors were lurking in the shadows, then unlocked and got into the car. Stifled a grin when I thought of Brett’s concern about my house. Abductors in Quincy. Another thing that wouldn’t ever happen. Our worst crime last year was when Beau Thomas exposed himself to old Mrs. Huddleston
in the library. She snapped a picture and posted it on the bulletin board with a small rose sticker over his private parts, ‘Tiny’ written in her delicate script beside the photo. The police came, scratched their heads over the situation, and finally decided the photo was punishment enough, provided Mrs. Huddleston would leave it up for a year. Mrs. Huddleston did one better, getting it published in the Quincy Quarterly as well. Now, every soul in Quincy knew how perverted, and underendowed, Beau Thomas was. I already knew; I’d found out in sixth grade.

  Yeah, Quincy wasn’t Jamaica; we didn’t have armed guards and disappearing spring breakers, but it didn’t mean I was stupid. I was fine in that club despite Brett’s posturing. I was fine in this town without his directives. I put the car into drive and pulled out of the empty lot.

  I knew, when I was taken, that my parents would look for me. Brett would look for me. I held on to that with every fiber of my soul. But that fiber, along with my sanity, unwrapped a little bit each day, a wisp of thread at a time, the slow uncurling of the person I used to be. I fought it, clung with greedy hands and stubborn retorts, to my old self, to the memories that I had. But with each new day, each new experience, I lost a bit of them. And he didn’t help. He stood over me with his fucking clipboard and pushed for moremoremore of my soul, was never satisfied, would never be satisfied, not until I was fully worshipping at his feet, my body and soul offered up without hesitation. I struggled, I fought, I clung to the memory of Brett. He loved me. He would find me.

  “Come here.” The voice came from across my cell, from the chair where my tormentor sat, his legs slightly spread, naked thighs leading the way to his cock. It stood before me, upright and beckoning, the shaft bobbing at me as if to wave.

  I looked away, my hands fisting on the sheets. He had once mentioned dog training, had taken that psychology to heart. I felt like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day, this event a complete repeat of the last six or seven encounters. He asked, I refused, he beat me. Today, my body sore and broken, I stood. Walked with tender steps to him. Stopped before him, my eyes down.

  Phase Two had stretched countless days, months. Maybe even years. I had, through the pain and deprivation, further lost track of time. I also had broken on a few things. I now called him Master. Assumed subservient positions. Kept my head and eyes down. I actually liked that part of it. Not having to look at him. Not until the moment that he grabbed my jaw and forced my eyes to his.

  I woke from Brett’s touch, his hand soft on my jaw, brushing over it so lightly, a whisper of contact as I curled into his hand. “Hey beautiful,” he whispered, his eyes on mine, his leg wrapping around mine and pulling me closer.

  I blinked, the dark room hiding much of his features, my groggy mind trying to place our location. My house. I recognized the padded headboard, the dark grey comforter that hung off my bare shoulder. “What time is it?” My voice cracked, groggy from sleep.

  “Around three.”

  I snuggled closer and let my eyes close, resting my head on his chest. “And why are you waking me up?”

  “I didn’t mean to wake you. I just couldn’t keep myself from touching you.” I felt the soft press of his lips against my hair, the brush of his fingers across my hip, the hook of his foot beneath my leg. We were completely fused, his body a warm glove, his chest gently rising and falling underneath my head.

  “I love you,” he whispered.

  “I love you too.”

  I pulled from the past when I felt his fingers, the lean of his body forward as he pulled my face up. I yielded under the pressure, lifting my chin and looking up into his eyes. He slid his hand from my chin to my throat, his thumb gently running along the tender muscles before he continued further back, cupping the back of my neck and pulling me forward. “Keep your eyes open,” he ordered, his hand hard. “Look at me when you suck my cock.”

  I obeyed, held the contact as I slid down the shaft.

  I held the contact as he lifted his hips, thrusting into my mouth, my eyes watering at the depth.

  I held the contact as he called me a good cocksucker and asked if I liked his taste.

  I held the contact as I clamped my jaw down on his most sensitive organ as hard as I could.

  2 weeks before

  The coffee at Sunshine sucked. But it had for sixteen years, and everyone quit bitching about it a decade ago. I pushed the white mug away from me and mentally vowed not to touch it until the food arrived.

  “When will you see him again?” my father’s voice creaked from a lifetime of smoking.

  “Two weeks. He’s got something this weekend and I’m going to work on Saturday. Try to get back in Anita’s good graces. Speaking of which, I’ve got to leave here by eight.”

  He shrugged, taking a sip from his cup. “What made you give me that?”

  I looked into his eyes. “Just a feeling. Something is off. I’m just trying to figure it out. I figured extra information couldn’t hurt.”

  He sighed, reaching for the creamer and adding a little to his cup. “I shouldn’t be drinking this,” he remarked. “Dr. Bonner told me to cut back on my caffeine. My blood pressure’s high again.”

  I held the gaze and our table fell quiet in the minute before a young redhead approached our table, order pad in hand. We put in our breakfast order, then she left.

  Finally, he spoke. “So, tell me about this man. What you do know. Then I’ll share my goods.” My dad leaned forward, his fingers rubbing his knuckles, the extra weight on his frame pushing the table slightly in my direction. An imposing man, despite the years and the stress, his full head of silver hair stuck in the buzz cut he’d worn my entire life.

  “Brett Jacobs. He’s a boat—yacht—salesman, but seems to make a lot of money. As you know, he travels a lot. He’s single, never been married, no kids.”

  “Do you want kids?” Brett asked, his hand sliding under the sheet and curving around my hip. I opened my eyes, blinking the impending sleep away.

  “I’d love kids.” I reached out, putting a hand on his chest. “What about you?”

  “Kids are good. Preferably sooner. Before I get too old.” He smiled, the scant light catching on the shadows of his face.

  “You know the problem with kids.” I sighed, frowning.

  “What?”

  “The process to make them.” I roll onto my stomach, away from him, his hand dropping from my hip, the bed shifting as I felt him move closer.

  “What’s the issue with that?” His words, close to my ear, his breath hot on my neck. I smiled against the pillow.

  “It’s so... boring,” I mumbled.

  Then I felt him, bare and hard, his body atop me, his hands like hot stones on my skin, and I shrieked into the dark room and there was nothing boring about it.

  “What else?”

  I shrugged. “That’s about it. I won’t bore you with his eating habits or taste in movies.”

  “I know I’m protective of you.”

  I stopped playing with the creamers and looked up at him. “What’s wrong?” That sentence...from my father. My stomach twisted in a way I hadn’t felt since I was young.

  “You care for him, I know that. But you must have known something was up or else you wouldn’t have let me run full course with this.”

  “You’ve done background checks on every man I’ve ever dated.” And he had. It had been embarrassing. Invasive. Annoying. Never appreciated. Not until Brett. Brett was the first time I had willingly turned over a partner’s DNA. Willingly met with my father and wanted to know what he had found.

  “He’s lying.” The words flat and without enjoyment.

  I swallowed. Pulled my hands off the table and hid them on my lap. Pushed at my cuticles, a habit I had squashed a few years earlier. “About what?”

  “Hell, just ‘bout everything.”

  ***

  Lying about everything.

  Bullshit.

  Impossible.

  I knew this man. Loved this man. Kissed and fucked and wanted him
, not just physically but emotionally. I wanted to go to bed with his arms around me every night. I wanted to walk down an aisle and look in his eyes. I wanted him to hold my hand as we watched a pregnancy stick. I wanted to watch wrinkles multiply and years pass and build a lifetime of memories with him.

  He was not lying about everything. He loved me. I closed my mouth and watched my father begin to speak.

  “His real name is Brett Betschart. He doesn’t sell yachts; he manufactures them. Or, more specifically, he owns the company that manufactures them. He seems like he makes more money because he does make more money. Millions more. Hell, the type of money I don’t even understand.” He reaches for his front pocket and pulls out a can of dip.

  Millions more. The plane, the house, the … everything. It made sense, so much sense, and I felt a burst of relief. That’s what was wrong. That was all! Thank God. Only… “Why would he lie about that?”

  He shrugged. “Men lie about a lot of things. God made us imperfect creatures. ”

  I leaned back, my mind working over the weekend we met. It was a stupid, pointless lie. Why lie about your name? Why lie about your job? Except... if he wasn’t in sales, if he owned the company ... there’s no need for the late meetings, for wining and dining the buyers. There’s really no need for any trips at all.

  “Does he have a record?”

  “No. But all I ran was his prints. The DNA’ll take a few weeks; it’ll show if he’s ever been connected with a crime. But the chances of that are slim.”

  He’s holding something back. I wet my lips. “What else?”

  “That’s about it, pumpkin.”

  “About? What aren’t you saying?” I leaned forward, snagged the empty dip can from his fingers, and stared into his eyes.

  “Just be careful with him, Riley.” He met my eyes, dark brown clouds of worry.

  “Screw that. You aren’t going cryptic on me. What aren’t you saying?”