Messalina: Devourer of Men

by Zetta Brown

  “What do you mean?” He rocks gently against me, going in and out, pressing deeper and deeper.

  “We’re speaking in code.” I sigh and my eyes roll back into my head. It doesn’t take long for him to make me come again. When my eyes focus, I see the faraway look in his eyes telling me he’s about to come too. A few more solid thrusts, his body tenses, then collapses. I ease him down to earth, my back cushioning him. He holds me tighter in his arms and sighs.

  “Dear, sweet, Eva.”

  An aftershock trembles through him and then me. I reach up to stroke his face. He kisses my palm. I don’t know why I feel compelled to do so now, but I must ask.

  “Jared?”

  “Mmm?”

  “Is this what you did to Sarah?”

  He is still for so long I don’t know if he’s asleep, if he heard me, or just too angry to respond. Finally, he answers.

  “Yes.”

  It is not until I nuzzle my head against his that he relaxes and kisses my hand again. I hold on to him as tightly as he holds me.

  I fall asleep on my stomach. Our sleep is heavy, like we’ve been drugged. I feel a tug in my hair and open my eyes. Jared’s left arm and leg remain draped over me, the sheets tangled in a mass across the bed.

  He is fast asleep, running his fingers through my hair. He looks innocent like a child, so pale and pink. I touch his chin with my forefinger and he sighs. His caress soothes me back to sleep.

  * * * *

  The next morning is rough. I have to urge Jared not only to get up and drive me home so I can change, but to keep him from begging me to call in sick.

  “Don’t go.” His puppy dog eyes and kiss-bruised lips make it very, very difficult for me to resist but I do.

  “Jared, I have never played hookie on my job. Besides, I have to go. I’m giving an exam today.” I run my hand through my hair, trying to summon the energy to get out of bed as Jared’s fingers trace a design on my back. Then I realize he’s not drawing, but writing, and it’s the same thing again and again.

  L-O-V-E Y-O-U.

  I turn to look at him over my shoulder, and sure enough, he’s watching me, waiting for me to catch on. Normally, I think it wise to ignore confessions of love made during the height of passion, or even in the afterglow, but he’s not playing, not after what we just went through. His message changes.

  L-O-V-E M-E?

  Still smiling, I nod and turn around so I can rest on top of him.

  He gives me a kiss. “Good. Time for a quickie?”

  I frown.

  “Time for breakfast?”

  I look at my watch. It’s seven-thirty and my class is at ten. I smile.

  “Right.” He makes a big show of getting out of bed, stretching, and strutting his nakedness before me as he makes his way to the bathroom. He looks at me, holds out his hand, and I join him.

  “No funny business. I can’t be late.”

  “Madam, have no fear.” He puts his hand over his heart. “I will protect your honor.”

  As it turns out, we do have time for a quickie.

  * * * *

  Now that it’s daylight, I can get a better understanding of my surroundings. His house is huge and his is definitely the “master’s” bedroom. It comprises half of the space on the second floor including the turret, which he created into a loft space where he has his office that includes an oak table, a few file cabinets, and one of his computers. The space can be closed off by a hanging curtain tapestry. Decorated in a masculine, Empire style, his room contains the majestic mahogany bed with matching side tables, an even larger wardrobe, and a blanket chest. Otherwise, it’s minimalist in its furnishings.

  The rest of the second floor has his studio, his assistant’s office, and another, smaller bedroom. Each room has its own full bath and can function as a guestroom if needed. The house could be a bed-and-breakfast if he wanted.

  The first floor has a professional caliber kitchen with walk-in butler’s pantry, a sunroom conservatory, a formal library with hundreds of books, another guestroom, and one and a half bathrooms.

  As he cooks breakfast, I wander about the place. The rest of his home is reminiscent of the arts and crafts period making his home seem airy and open compared to my cozy sultan’s den. Plus, he’s a better housekeeper than I am.

  As to be expected, Jared has a lot of artwork but is also a collector. I’m drawn to his collection of tin toys and other toy collectibles. Did he have these when he was in foster care or is he trying to recreate a lost childhood?

  His art collection consists mostly of work by other artists in practically every kind of media and a lot of animation memorabilia, but I think I’ve found my favorite piece. It hangs over the living room mantelpiece—a huge, 6’x3’ canvas in pale pink and soft brown hues with little contrast. I step back, craning my head right then left, trying to figure it out.

  “So, what do you think?”

  I’m startled and look up to see him standing in the doorway, wiping his hands on a dishtowel, and watching me, grinning.

  “Is that a collarbone?”

  “Could be.”

  “It is, because I can make out the throat now. Ooh, yes, Jared, I like this.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You did it?”

  “That’s what the signature says,” he says with a chuckle.

  I step closer and catch a glimpse of his signature, a reddish squiggle that looked like J. A. Delaney, but I’m not certain. So that’s why Talley wanted to know what I thought of his nudes. “They’ll knock you on your ass,” she had said—and she was right.

  “Come on.” He reaches out his hand. “Your waffles are getting cold.”

  Chapter twelve

  “Driving Me Mad”

  It’s been twelve weeks, I’m dating a man with notoriety, and I am in complete awe.

  Sometimes, when I’m at his place, I may be sitting in the window seat reading a book while he’s in his office on the phone headset. One time, I actually heard him say: “Have your people call my people.”

  Jared has “people.” Or, to be precise: his attorney, his accountant, and his personal assistant, Trey Harker.

  Trey will talk to gallery owners about exhibits while Jared does his thing. I like Trey. He’s a natural-born Goth if ever there was one and is always dressed in black. His cream-colored skin is flawless and accented by rosy, sensuous lips, which he’s not afraid to gloss a light shade of pink, and his two-toned brown and blonde hair is stylishly sleeked back. Forget Tom Cruise—Trey should’ve been the Vampire Lestat. Piper, Trey’s wife, is a gorgeous Goth, too, but is more like a prettier, younger Morticia.

  But I’ll never forget the time when Jared, clearly annoyed with a caller, said: “You call that a royalty? Well, I ain’t saluting it.”

  I looked over to Trey who was writing something in a notebook. He must have sensed my gaze, because he raised his head and mouthed the words, Contract negotiations .

  I nodded and looked back at Jared who was pacing with his arms crossed over his chest. Suddenly he stopped and spoke in a voice that was soft, polite, and menacing all at once. And although he was looking in my direction, he definitely wasn’t seeing me. I could tell from the set of his jaw that his patience had breathed its last.

  “I think you better regroup and call me when you’re serious.”

  He tapped a button on the keypad attached to his belt. End of discussion. But the chill t
hat went up and down my spine was both frightening and arousing, which disturbed me. I never thought I could be turned on by male dominance. I’m a modern woman after all, and it’s hardly PC for me to admit that Jared’s ability to take control makes me wet.

  Jared then blinked and it was as if he’d woken up. I must have been staring because he seemed surprised I was there and quickly changed his demeanor.

  “Hey there, Sugardrop,” he said with a smile. “Come over here and give me a kiss.”

  * * * *

  This evening, I’m snuggling in the crook of Jared’s arm reading The Life of Lucrezia under the soft glow of the lamp beside the bed. We’re at my place since my work schedule is more formal than his.

  “I am really digging this. The artwork is amazing.” I touch the thick, quality paper the comic is printed on and the light coming from my nightstand bounces off the page at an angle and seems to create a photo negative.

  “Does this mean you’re getting horny again?”

  “You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” I turn a page and he kisses the top of my head.

  This little comic has added an aphrodisiac element to our relationship. I don’t need the theater for my thrills now that I have Jared. Ever since he discovered that I’m not put off by anal sex, it has become a part of our repertoire. The first time, I was caught up only in the experience. Now, I’ve come to realize it’s not just about feeling, but more importantly, it’s about trust.

  Our last encounter has me feeling a bit banged up and I need to rest even though the pictures start stirring my libido. Apparently, Jared is very familiar with this comic or “graphic novel,” to be PC about it. My arts education has resumed and he has taken up the role of tutor.

  From what he tells me, The Life of Lucrezia serial started less than a year ago and comes out every month allowing for longer issues covering more plot. The central character, Lucrezia Spence, works as an elementary school nurse and, needing extra cash, she starts a call girl service with a bunch of bored housewives. It’s a risky proposition in the suburbs, but Lucrezia (alias Lucy) pimps her girls during the day to satisfy visiting executives.

  “Lucy’s Ladies,” as they call themselves, take pride in their traditional, almost plain appearance so when they are out on business with these powerful men, they don’t scream “trophy wife” or “prostitute.” But it’s behind closed doors when the drawings become so intense.

  “There’s something very erotic in a woman, old or young, who can still be a total slut in the bedroom,” he whispers as his fingers toy with my hair. I smile.

  In the issue we’re looking at, Lucy’s in a jam. One of her customers, Patrick Klein, is the school district’s superintendent. This would be fine if Lucy hadn’t allowed a photojournalist to see her picking up one of her ladies outside Patrick’s home early one evening. Patrick’s been using school money for excessive entertainment purposes and rumors of an investigation have reached the media.

  So when Lucy is presented with the “Employee of the Year” award by Patrick, he realizes who she is as she comes forth to accept her honor. Cameras flash. They play it cool, but when a major daily paper puts the photos together—eyebrows are raised and foreheads furrow.

  “Uh, huh,” I say as we look at the last panel in the issue.

  “You sound unimpressed.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say that. I love the noir style and dry sense of humor. Who writes this thing?” I turn to the cover. The creator only goes by the name Ali. “But . . . ”

  “But what?”

  “I dunno. I have a problem with this Lucrezia chick.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.” I close the comic and move so I can straddle his waist. This produces a big grin from him. “From what you’ve told me and what we’ve read, surely you must’ve noticed.”

  He gives me a blank stare.

  “She has no control,” I say, throwing my hands in the air for emphasis. Meanwhile, I feel Jared coming back to life. I start rocking my hips in a riding motion and he moans, stroking my haunches. “She’s a wimp. A twit. Dare I say, ‘pussy?’”

  “Damn, Eva, tell me how you really feel.”

  “I’m sorry, but she’s a stereotypical blonde. Reminds me of the joke: what do blondes and turtles have in common? Once they’re on their backs—they’re screwed! How can she stay in business when she lets things happen to her but does nothing to try and stop it?”

  “You’re a teacher of literature. It’s called ‘complication of plot,’ or something, isn’t it? Besides, life’s not predictable.” He coaxes me up so he can sit me on top of his rock hard penis. I slide down slowly, both of us exhaling together, but I’m not ignorant of his grimace.

  “I don’t mean it that way. But she is getting sloppy in her dealings. She lets people railroad her,” I say and grind myself down on him. He bucks his hips in response, making me gasp. “Soon she’s gonna fuck it up and all hell’s gonna break loose. End of story. If I were Lucrezia, I’d be a bit more—”

  “Commanding?” he interrupts and thrusts up suddenly. My words catch in my throat, so it takes me a moment to reply. I look down at him.

  “Proactive,” I say with a smile, “and I’d have more self-control.” I give him a wicked grin and match his rhythm. Then I open the comic, aimlessly scanning the pages as I ride my own personal stallion. “If I were running that service, I’d do it with both eyes open.” I shrug. “I’d just like to see her stronger, harder. But after six issues, Lucrezia showing a spine would be tough for me to swallow.”

  “Well, Evadne, comics are meant to be fantasy.” He grabs me by the waist, stopping my ride, and snatches the book out of my hands. He’s scowling. I guess I am being overly critical of something he likes very much, but the English lit professor in me has taken over.

  “That may be so, but readers are more sophisticated than they think. Besides,” I say, giving my hips a twist, pleased with the sudden pressure on my clitoris the action provides, “wouldn’t this ‘Ali’ person like to think that years from now, people could pick up a copy and be impressed with how well written it is and not just admire the artwork?” I shrug again. “Maybe that’s too much to ask of a comic book—sorry, I meant to say graphic novel.”

  I put my hands on either side of his head, letting my breasts dangle scant inches from his mouth. He looks up at me, not knowing how to accept the gift I present him. Trying not to laugh I ask, “Or would you disagree?”

  He throws the graphic novel across the room and pulls me down. “Enough theory,” he growls. “Time for practical application.”

  * * * *

  It’s a Friday evening in early October and my weekend to stay at Jared’s house. As I put my key in the lock, the door flies open making me jump. “What the fuck!”

  “Sorry, babe.” Jared gives me a quick peck on the nose. “But we don’t have much time.”

  “Huh?”

  He’s dressed in a nice casual suit while I’m in a faded sundress I threw on. I was expecting a quiet weekend at home. I need some R&R before facing the troops again on Monday. He takes my bag and puts it on a chair by the door, then leads me out by the elbow.

  “Come on.”

  “Jared, where are we going?” Now we’re in his car.

  “Evadne, I’ve screwed up royally and if we don’t show up,” he says, throwing the car into gear, “well, we’re both dead.”

  “What are you—”

  “Talley’s in town promoting her new book at the Ulterior Motive Mystery Convention. She sent me an announceme
nt inviting us three weeks ago and I forgot.”

  “Oh. Where is she?”

  “The Brown Palace. Tonight is a combination reception and book signing.”

  “Damn it, Jared, I’m not dressed for that!”

  “Hush, darlin’!” He pats my knee. “You look gorgeous. Absolutely edible.”

  He obviously hasn’t looked at me. He’s dressed for an elegant cocktail party in black slacks, black blazer, and a cream shirt, while I’m dressed for a tea party hosted by Sanford and Son. We soon arrive at the hotel and my eyes grow large at the number of cars and the outfits on the people coming out of them.

  “Just how big is this reception, Jared?”

  “Pretty big.” He gives me a sheepish glance.

  I glare at him, but when I’m helped from the car, I hold my head high despite several conspicuous looks at my attire. My skin heats with embarrassment. Jared comes around to join me and offers his arm and a smile. I take it but I’m too livid to look at him. Sensing my mood, he says nothing but pats my hand affectionately.

  We navigate through the atrium lobby crammed with people and make our way to the Grand Ballroom. I’ve read Talley’s latest suspense novel, Jigsaw , and it’s gotten raves. Now she’s here promoting it and the room is packed. Waiters try to make their way through the crowd with trays of hors d’oeuvres and wine. In one corner, I see a giant book display framed by a giant poster of Talley’s book cover, but no Talley.

  Cameras flash and I cringe. Jared and I are both homebodies by nature when we’re not working. We prefer quiet days and nights together, or we drive out of town to spend time in some romantic hideaway. Hell, I’ve even done the camping thing with the man. But I’m out of my depth here.

  “Do you see her?” I ask.

  “Who?”

  “Talley!”