by Zetta Brown
Inside the suite, our bed has been turned down and the little lamp on the bedside table is lit, casting a nice, cozy circle of light on and around the bed. He positions me just inside of that warm ring. He peels my dress straps off my shoulder and lets the dress float down into a sheer mass at my feet. The strapless bra is no obstacle as he removes it with finesse and with one hand.
My eyes never leave his as he slowly strips away layer after layer until I stand completely nude. He steps back. Being nude before him doesn’t make me uncomfortable anymore, but it’s the way he looks at me, as if in appraisal that’s unnerving and I force myself to keep from trembling.
He walks around me, his eyes stroking here, caressing there, and raising little goose bumps along the way. I hold my breath and finally, after circling me three times, he stands in front of me again.
“I want to remember you as you are now. Silent.” He moves near. “Vulnerable.” His hand reaches out and his palm brushes against my right nipple, coaxing it to attention. “Mine.”
Blood rushes from my head, making me lightheaded, but he turns and walks into the bathroom. I hear water running. When he returns, I can’t see what he holds and I’m afraid to ask, fearing that speaking will break the spell. He gently—almost reverently—kisses me on the shoulder and gets behind me.
I feel it before I see it. A cool, damp washcloth slides down my back from my shoulders to the base of my spine and I sigh. Not stopping there, he kneels and strokes down the side of my thighs. Turning my head, I see him get down on his knees, holding a tiny bottle in his mouth. Then he fills his palm with a liquid and I smell the light scent of baby oil. His hands smooth up from my ankles and between my legs. Up my left leg and down my left leg, then up my right leg and down again. He does this once, twice, each time getting closer and closer to my narrow passages, front and rear.
The third time is the charm.
Jared’s fingers slip inside me as another gently caresses the sensitive door to my other secret entrance.
“Oh . . . my . . . God.”
My legs start to buckle but I force myself to keep balanced. He grasps my hip with his free hand and clamps his mouth just above my left buttock.
“Mmm,” he groans, giving me another hard nip before moving around to the front. He gently kisses my bandaged hip before he buries his face between my legs. I stroke the top of his head as he uses both hands to help make access for his tongue. For several minutes, muffled sounds of contentment come from below my waist until he rips himself away, picks up the bottle of oil, and resumes slicking me up. Over my stomach and up my chest his hands go until they reach my breasts. By the time he stands on his feet, his breathing is quick and ragged compared to me trying to breathe again. He strips, quickly, his eyes lock onto mine, his nostrils flared as if preparing himself for his greatest battle. This is our grand finale.
We fall onto the bed. I straddle him, guide him into me, and apply some hip movements a dancer friend of mine taught me.
“Ah! That’s m’girl! Ride it!”
I’m working to make the Rough Riders proud in an effort to burn off a fraction of the heat and passion I have for this man. It doesn’t take long for his body to get as oil-slicked as mine. To keep from slipping out of each other’s grasp, we cling to each other. Fingernails and bandages be damned, we’ll both be mauled come morning.
I can only imagine how the back of my hips will look with four, small, half-moon indents from where Jared insures I stay clamped onto him, or the couple dozen tracks running the length and breadth of his back. As I ride on toward my next orgasm, I see it before me, the Road to Nirvana.
I’ve been on this path before because of this man, but this time I am closer than ever before. I hold onto the headboard as the kaleidoscope colors of Nirvana’s gates come into view. The first time we had sex was intense, but this time is very different. This time, the gates are starting to open.
We’re not having sex; we’re making love. And the realization that this could very well be the last time I travel this road with him makes it hard for me to keep my emotion in check. My orgasm has me throwing my head back, crying out a loud, bellowing sound that leaves no room for passers-by to speculate about what we’re doing. Tears well up in my eyes and spill onto my cheeks, but I don’t care.
Jared catches me unaware and soon has me on my back with my ankles pinned on either side of my head. His strength amazes me with the way he can toss me about like a rag doll as I’m sure my flexibility surprises him. From the strained look on his face, I suspect that he’s saving himself for one big climax. But when he stares down at me, that semblance of frenzy turns into one of barely constrained helplessness.
“Eva . . . look what you’ve done to me.” He sighs as he comes, filling me to the brim, and I act like a sponge wanting to absorb it all. I press my lips to his and swallow the guttural moans from his mouth. There’s a ringing in my ears and my body starts to unwind and ease into the mattress.
But my vision of Nirvana is gone, and I want it back.
Our energy is spent. He rolls off me and we lie catching our breath. I turn my head to see the clock on the mantelpiece. It chimes once. My flight leaves in exactly seven hours.
I sigh and close my eyes. I’m sore, bone weary, and emotionally drained. We lie in silence for a long time.
“You scare me, Eva.”
The flat, dispassionate tone of his voice jolts me and gets me more than a little worried. Perhaps he thinks I’m asleep, because I don’t believe I was meant to hear his words, but when he reaches out and pulls me to him, I lay my arm across his chest and snuggle into his side. He sighs.
“God, I don’t want this weekend to end.”
I’m surprised, and relieved, that he’s put into words what I’ve felt all evening. I lift my head, but his eyes are closed and he’s breathing deep. He’s asleep.
“I wish we had more time together,” he says suddenly, startling me. He opens his eyes, smiles at my reaction, and chuckles. “I could show you that I’m more than just a pretty face.”
Our laughter helps alleviate the mood. We roll over and he’s on top of me again, but not to make a move.
“Just making myself comfortable,” he says and sighs when I open my arms wide to receive him. “Eva, what am I to do with you?” He kisses my breast and looks at me. “I know what I want to do to you.”
I grin.
“But I want—I need—to do something with you.”
“What do you mean?”
“If I told you, you’d think I was a freak.”
“Too late.” I’m trying to keep our banter going, but when he doesn’t respond, I can tell he’s really struggling with something and my smart-ass remarks should take a rest. I touch his cheek.
“Jared, tell me. What is it?”
He shakes his head. “Don’t think that I get women to come with me on long weekends and subject them to nonstop sex and entertainment.” A soft smile creases his full lips. “You are the only woman to move me to such lengths.” He kisses me. “Only you.”
He doesn’t see my look of surprise in response because he rests against me, head on my breast like one big baby, and I think of what Talley said about his past.
Jared is vulnerable, and he does a great job keeping it inside. Perhaps yesterday, when we stood together in the mirror, or that last climax when he seemed at a loss, was a glitch in his sophisticated system of masculinity. Maybe I’m being too cynical again, but closing my eyes, I swallow and finally speak.
“Jared?”
“Yes?”
“Will I see you again?”
Silence.
My pulse stops and I’m sure that he can hear my heart skip a beat. His lips are softer than a feather when they brush against my skin.
“That may be a bit difficult, sugar.”
I take a deep breath and it takes me an eternity to speak again. “I see.”
“No, I don’t think you do.” He raises himself to look at me. “Evadne . . . I was wrong to bring you here”
Chapter Eight
“Dish”
I will never do that again.
What the hell was I thinking? That’s just it. I wasn’t thinking—my crotch was.
After spending the most exciting, adventurous, sex-filled weekend of my life, I have to start the week in a faculty meeting. I may be one of the few black instructors on campus, but that doesn’t stop my colleagues from calling me Black Monday. I hate Mondays, but today, I’m more murderously annoyed than usual.
Let me back up and say that Jared and I acted like a pair of honeymooners when he saw me to my plane last night. Yes, night . We missed my scheduled flight because he wouldn’t let me out of bed.
He avoided conversation for most of the day, preferring to keep me occupied with fucking, eating, and sleeping. Not bad as far as days go and I didn’t attempt to ask for clarification to what he said the night before until we were on our way to the airport.
“Before you ask, Eva, the answer is yes.”
“What was the question?”
“Do I want to see you again? Do I care about you? Is this more than sex?”
“So why—”
“Eva, please,” he said and reached for my hand. “Let’s not get into it now.”
Well, when? Should I take that as a clue that we’ll really get together again, or assume that he preferred we end on a positive note? But nothing else was said, and the gnawing in my stomach that started the night before as we left the club, and never really went away, came back. This time I thought I would really get sick and vomit all over the rental car, but I closed my eyes and pretended to enjoy the ride. He held my hand all the way. It’s amazing how much can be said by holding hands; the occasional squeeze, the stroking of a thumb, it conveys volumes. The only time we broke physical contact was when we got out of the car.
I was just in time and my gate was just beyond the security check. People were boarding, but I was in no hurry. Despite admitting he wanted to see me again, Jared’s reticence was little consolation. I watched people board the plane and then I looked at him. He pinned me once more with his gaze, but his eyes were red and tired, and the lips I’ve fallen in love with were set in a frown. He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and tilted up my face. Once again, he sighed one of those sighs that sounded more like a growl, but it was tinged with regret. He pulled me close and nuzzled my neck.
“Take care.”
I nodded.
“I’ll be back Thursday.”
I nodded again and he stepped back, smiling. “Don’t you have anything to say?”
I shook my head. I was sulking. I had a lot to say but couldn’t find the strength or the words. An omniscient voice announced my flight and once again he tugged me near, cupped my face in his hands, and kissed me. I felt my resolve give way by the constricting in my throat, but I wasn’t going to cry.
“I’ll call you,” he whispered. “I promise.”
I moved away and gave him a skeptical look, but he was serious.
“Eva,” he whispered as if urging me to believe him. I gave him a little smile.
“Jared, call me if you want to.”
His grin said it all. He was gloating and I’d just made the biggest jackass of myself by giving him an easy out. We looked at each other, and goddamn if I didn’t wish I could read what those eyes were telling me: Stay here. Go away. This was fun, but it’ll never last. You’re too big, too poor, too smart.
I looked to the floor and Jared slung the duffel bag containing my “lost weekend” attire onto my shoulder, but the bag hit the sore spot on my hip. I winced in pain and the knowledge that I had a permanent reminder of a four-night stand. Jared gave my hand a squeeze of support and let go. I rushed through security without a problem and at the gate I turned to look back.
But he was gone.
Now it’s Monday morning and I’m fidgeting in my seat as I sit in the faculty meeting. I’m not my usual laid-back, friendly self, and although I’m an assistant professor and not tenured, today I have the same jaded look and attitude of the lifers in the department.
I hardly pay attention, and it’s not often that Dean J. Paul Mathis floats down from his office on high to tell us anything, so it must be important. I really should listen, but I have a crisis of my own, damn it. I have replayed and analyzed every action and every nuance of what was said last weekend. I have broken it into a million pieces in an attempt to make it easier for me to digest. Now, I may be able to swallow it, but I can never put those million pieces back together again.
“C’mon, Eva, let’s go.”
I blink and I’m back in the present with my friend, Glynnis Johns, poking me in the arm.
“What do you want?” I snarl.
“The meeting is over. What’s wrong with you?”
I see faculty members filing out of the conference room, then focus on Glynnis. She’s an attractive, plump, and buxom redhead in her late forties, sort of a cross between a grandmother and a saucy barmaid.
She was the first person I met when I came to Bellingham but it was her goofy sense of humor that made us friends. Her American Literature students love her—that and the costumes she sometimes wears to class, especially the ones she uses while covering the Jazz Age. I know for a fact there are students who have her on a Mothers-I’d-Love-to-Fuck list, only because some people haven’t learned the art of discretion and that voices carry. But it amazes me how innocent and optimistic she can be, and although I’m years younger, I think I’m more worldly.
“Sorry, Glyn. I’m not here.”
“That’s obvious.”
We exit the room and walk down the hall. She links her arm with mine and I wonder why.
“So . . . is that why you were so quiet during the meeting? Do you think you’ll cope now that Hyde’s gone?”
“What did you say?” I stop abruptly. This is news to me.
Glynnis gapes at me. “You really are gone, aren’t you? Evadne, the whole reason for the dean coming to speak is to tell us, officially, that Hyde did get busted.”
“Well, duh.” I scoff. “Any professor stupid enough to get caught fucking his student inside the classroom deserves everything he gets.”
She gives me a wide-eyed stare in return.
“Yes, Glyn, I said ‘fuck.’ Big deal.”
“It’s not that. I thought you liked Terry.”
“I do like him, Glyn! He is—was—my faculty mentor.” I stop to look out of the windows and at the crepe myrtles blooming outside.
“Oh.” She is quiet for a moment. “Is that why you’re upset?”
“Hmm?”
“I never felt it my place to discuss this sort of thing with you, you know? The whole sex thing and all, but . . .”
I turn to face my friend. “What are you talking about?”
“Terry liked you, Evadne. Didn’t you ever notice the way he acted aroun
d you?”
I shrug. “He was like that with everybody.”
She crosses her arms over her chest and looks at me the same way she would a student trying to feed her a line of bullshit.
“Oh, give me a break.” I’m starting to get mad. Terry Hyde is the Ancient Lit professor. He’s attractive and in great shape for a man pushing sixty. But, despite his Sean Connery good looks, his smug attitude kept me from being totally enamoured, unlike other faculty members and, apparently, other students.
“I think it was the day you stood up to him in the faculty meeting that really won him over,” she says. “From that moment on, he didn’t treat you like a mediocrity, but almost as an equal.” She chuckles. “As equal as a female could hope to be in his book.”
“That’s because I’m not scared of him, Glyn. Besides, if Terry Hyde liked me in that way, why didn’t I notice? And why did he get caught screwing a student? The man is married.”
“You refused to notice him, that’s all,” she replies and we start walking again. “Hell, I wish we could all be so blind. We made bets in the department on how long you’d last.”
This stops me dead and I look at her in total disbelief. I had no idea I was the subject of a bet, and a stupid one, at that. She shrugs.
“Terry would’ve slept with the student regardless. He’s done it before. This time, he got careless.”
“No shit. And thanks, Glyn, for telling me the entire department thinks I lack in morals so much that I’d go for a married co-worker. Glad you got my back.” I shake my head. “Just because I like him and he was my mentor doesn’t mean I don’t think he fucked up big.”
We’re outside now and the street is getting loud with morning traffic. Glynnis makes a sound and I look at her.
