by Myers, Mia
But I try to explain to George. I start at the beginning, how at first, it’s amazing; Caleb was amazing. You understand him, he says. You’re his world. What you don’t understand, not at first, is what he means by his world. It is his world, and his alone. Slowly, he will pare away those things he doesn’t like about you and your world. Friends? Nope—they take you away from him. Family—why do you care? They are grasping and needy and probably neglected you. He won’t neglect you.
You can’t tell the narcissist’s love story without looking weak-willed. You can’t be the strong woman who graduated summa cum laude, who speaks three languages and translates scientific documents and still bend to someone else’s bidding so easily.
I go back even further, to my mother’s drinking, to my father’s death, to Athena, at nineteen, clutching my hand at our mother’s funeral and vowing to take care of me. At last I admit my disgrace: how Caleb almost had me convinced Athena’s love was neglect—or worse, abuse. How I almost believed him. How I almost shut her out of my life.
How at last I wrote him a letter because I knew if I broke up with him in person, he’d talk me out of it. How I wrote the pages in a notebook, then carefully tore them along the perforation, because I knew he’d criticize the ragged edges. How even then, on the verge of casting him off, I bent to his will.
How I left for a week, only to return to find Caleb had been busy—both in bed and out. How he turned all our friends (his friends, really) against me. How for months, I talked to no one except a widower in his seventies and a housewife in her fifties.
“So you’ve told Athena this?” George asks, and his voice is as soft as the terry cloth.
I nod. “Most.”
“What does she say?”
“That if you don’t date an asshat, or a sociopath, or a narcissist, you’ll end up marrying one.”
“Excellent advice, but I don’t think she wanted you to date them all at once.”
I clamp a hand over my mouth, but tears rush in after the laugh, drowning it out, flooding my face in a torrent I have no hope of stopping. And George is there, taking me into his arms, smoothing my hair, letting me drench the last piece of dry clothing he’s wearing.
He cradles me against his chest and tucks me into bed. Then he sits by my side, and I think he must be the most patient man in the world.
“Don’t leave,” I whisper.
He closes his eyes, a near grimace on his face. “Peri, sweetheart. After everything—”
“He’s gone,” I say. “And I’m not fragile. I won’t break in half when you’re not here in the morning.”
“That’s just it. I want to be here in the morning. I don’t want to catch the redeye out of here.” He runs his knuckles along my cheekbone. “Maybe I’m the one who’s fragile. Did you think of that?”
He has me laughing, and perhaps it’s this that changes his mind.
“You are strong, Persephone Jones. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.
* * *
Still dressed, George crawls in beside me. He throws the covers over our heads. I stifle a giggle. He goes for the buttons on the flannel pajamas, working them slowly, deliciously. I tug at the soft, cotton undershirt, desperate to get it off him, to press my hands against his chest, to feel his heartbeat beneath my palm.
His abdominal muscles are taut and they flex beneath my touch.
“Are my fingers cold?” I can’t tell, since his skin is, as always, so warm.
“No, no. I’m just unusually …” he trails off.
“Horny?” I suggest.
He laughs and the sound surrounds us. “Yes, that. And it’s no small part due to you.”
This steals my breath. That this man wants me as much as I want him? My head swims with the notion, and I squirm closer to him, trying—without much success—to undo his tuxedo trousers. Something rips and I freeze, petrified I’ve ruined this last piece of clothing.
He merely laughs. This, I think, is what makes him so strong, his ability to laugh at the world. Then he yanks on the pajama top and the pop of buttons fill the air. We wriggle out of the rest of our clothing. Then his hands, his mouth. They’re everywhere and I’m not certain I’ll survive the onslaught. His fingers skim my breasts, teasing my nipples, making them ache, making me ache. I arch my back as if in search of his weight. I need more of him, all of him.
His kiss is slow, deliberate. I open my mouth to take all of him in. I capture his moan and it mixes with my own. He moves lower, blazes a trail across my throat, and lower still to capture one of my aching breasts in his mouth.
I shudder, desire pooling in my belly, wetness between my legs. He wedges a thigh between mine, and he must feel how wet I am, how wet he makes me. I clutch his back, my fingers exploring the fine cut of his muscles.
“Jesus,” he whispers, his mouth near mine again. He kisses along my jawline, my neck. “I don’t know how I’m going to get enough of you.” This time, when his mouth dips lower, covers a breast, it doesn’t stop there.
He strokes my hips, lips hot on my stomach, then on my thighs. His fingers go exploring. They tickle and my hips hitch. His breath is hot against my folds, and the sensation sends a shiver through me. I feel the rush of desire, his fingers tracing patterns in the wake of his breath.
The strokes are slow, parting me, touching me. I think back to the tiny coach-class restroom. Not even my wildest fantasies can compare to him.
“I wanted you from the start, you know,” I tell him. “In the airplane.”
“The airplane?”
“I was going to ask you to join me in the mile high club.”
And if his breath is hot on me, his laugh is double. “I’m glad we waited, if only so I can touch you, taste you.”
My breath catches. His mouth hovers over my pussy, and I feel it clench in anticipation. He rims my opening with a finger, then his tongue. Then his mouth moves higher and his finger takes over again, easing inside me the moment his tongue touches my nub.
I cry out, knot my hands into the sheets to keep from bucking wildly against him, from losing control. I so want him inside me, but his mouth is unrelenting. He is unrelenting. But I need his weight. I need him.
“George, please,” I say, my words either a plea or a prayer. I can’t be certain.
He draws his mouth away, but doesn’t stop stroking and thrusting with his finger. He explores the tender juncture between hip and thigh, his tongue making circles that drive me crazy. He continues, upward, over my hipbone, darts his tongue into my navel in a move that makes me squeal.
Then I have him, his weight, all of him. He is between my thighs and I wrap my legs around his waist, pull him close. With one hand, he scrabbles for his tuxedo trousers. In seconds, the condom is on. He is not a man to put me at risk, disregard my safety. And I spread my legs wider to take him inside.
His cock teases my opening, much the way his fingers and tongue did. It slips against my clitoris, and I thrust, hoping to capture him. But George is taking this slow, and again his tip dips inside me, stretches me, makes me want him that much more.
When I’m in a frenzy, when I think I can’t take another playful foray, he drives himself deep inside me. We freeze like that, with his cock buried in me, his hand clutching the back of my head, mouth searching for mine.
He feels just right like this.
His exhale is a blast against my ear, the sound of it full of desire. Then he moves again, and I match him, thrust for thrust. One hand stays locked behind my head, the other inches downward, and finds a path between our bodies, slick with sweat, his thumb finds my nub.
When it does, I am no longer ice. Fire consumes me. I clench around him, unable to stop myself from bucking wildly this time. His thrusts go deeper. He rams himself into me harder.
When he comes, I am certain I’ll never be cold again.
* * *
We disentangle slowly. He eases out of me, dispenses with the condom all before I can miss his heat. Then I am in his arms again,
my back flush against his chest. My ass brushes his cock and it twitches, hardens despite what we’ve just done.
“I’m not sure my heart can take another round just yet,” he says.
I giggle like a schoolgirl.
He strokes my face, runs his fingers through my hair. My eyelids grow heavy, although I would very much like to do this again. Perhaps it’s the drama of the day or how secure I feel in his arms, but sleep isn’t far away.
“Just so you know, I would love to be here in the morning. I would feed you breakfast in bed, and make love to you again. And we would shower, and I would make love to you again. I’m sorry—”
“No,” I say. “No regrets. Okay? This night? It was more than I could’ve hoped for.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” He tugs me closer still and buries his face against my neck. He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t need to. His skin is so warm and it is easy to sleep.
Chapter Nine
IN THE MORNING, George is not in my room, or at the breakfast buffet. This does not surprise me. I am not fragile. I do not break in half. Even so, Athena’s sorority sisters treat me gently, like I’m an invalid child who has had a relapse during the night. Even Miriam casts a sympathetic look my way.
“Catch and release,” I say to her.
If she doesn’t fully smile at least it isn’t a grimace.
We see Athena and David off on their honeymoon. I exhale. Despite everything, despite Caleb, despite me, Athena has had a nearly perfect wedding.
At the airport, I wait for my flight, secure that Caleb has paid some exorbitant price to take one long before me. Perhaps he even hopped the same redeye as George. That, I think, is its own special kind of hell. When Caleb tells this story—as I know he will—I will be the evil ex-girlfriend who bilked him out of money and love, left him stranded at a wedding reception, expensive engagement ring in hand. This will elicit concerned murmurs from potential victims. I hope they’re all smart enough to run away.
My name over the loudspeaker jolts me. My heart thrums in my chest. I listen, not sure I’ve heard correctly.
“Persephone Jones to Delta Flight 354 ticket desk.”
But no, there it is. I sling my carry-on bag over my shoulder and approach.
“Persephone Jones?” I say to the woman behind the ticket counter. I pull out my ID in case she needs it.
“Oh, yes. Let’s see.” She scrolls through her screen. “Here it is. You’ve been upgraded to first class.”
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“Totally.” She hands me a new boarding pass. “Enjoy your flight and happy New Year.”
When the first class rows are called, I can’t bring myself to board the plane. I wait and board late, getting shoved and pushed and jabbed in the back by someone’s stroller. But I’m in first class and don’t have far to go. Actually, now that I check, I’m in seat 3A.
And sitting in 3B is George.
“I decided against the red-eye,” he says.
I can’t make my mouth move. It’s hanging slack, I’m sure. I look like a dunce. I’m immobile and blocking the flow onto the plane. At last, George grasps my wrists and tugs me into the row and into seat 3A.
“Okay?” he asks.
I can’t even nod. But my gaze—my treacherous, treacherous gaze—flits toward the cabin’s bathroom. I’m not certain, but I think he smiles.
“I thought we could take things slow.” He nods toward the front of first class, where the flight attendants are already busy in the kitchen. “Maybe with lunch.”
Yes, of course. Lunch. In first class.
“We could,” I say, and if my voice is tentative, it’s because so much has happened and I’m frightened about trading ice for fire.
“Good.”
He doesn’t push it, doesn’t insist, lets me settle into my oversized first-class seat. But when the plane rumbles down the runway and his hand slips into mine, something melts inside me. He squeezes my fingers.
I squeeze back and marvel at the feel of it.
His skin is so warm.
About the Author
Mia Myers spent several long winters in the frozen north with nothing but a battered copy of Delta of Venus by Anais Nin to keep her warm. Now she pens stories in hopes others may stay warm as well.
Check back for more episodes in the Crimes of Passion series of erotic romances. Coming soon!
Also by Mia Myers
Small Town Sinners: The Halley Chronicles
Part soap opera, part erotic exploration
Free for Kindle Unlimited!
Welcome to Templeton Fields, a small town where everyone has a secret. With one rash decision, Halley embarks on a journey of discovery, but what she uncovers about her fellow citizens, her friends, her family shocks her to the core. It seems everyone has a secret, everyone has a price, and no one in in Templeton Fields is without sin.
Episode 1: An Apple a Day
Episode 2: A Roll in the Hay
Episode 3: The Devil to Pay
Or … grab the three episode bundle: Small Town Sinners
More to read?
Visit Mia’s page on Amazon for all the latest episodes and standalone stories.
Mia Myers US
Mia Myers UK
Like erotic romance with a touch of suspense? Try The House Sitter:
Naked. Handcuffed. Double-crossed.
When thief Carter Reese wakes after a robbery gone wrong, he doesn't expect to be shackled to a high-end oven. He doesn't expect the resident house sitter to be so … friendly. He doesn't expect this one exquisite encounter before he’s hauled away to prison to mean so much.
But house sitter Emma Sparks has her own secret. And when the homeowners return early from vacation?
One thing’s for sure: breaking and entering has never been so sexy.
Excerpt: The House Sitter
Chapter One: Carter
MAYBE IT WAS the hand-painted Italian tile that bit into his naked hipbone. Maybe it was the handcuff that chafed his right wrist. Maybe it was the heat that rolled over his backside in waves. Whatever woke him, when Carter Reese finally came to—groggy from a blow to the head—he knew one thing:
He was screwed.
Carter pushed from the floor, the handcuff clanking. On his knees, he now sat even with the lower oven of a high-end set. Both oven doors were open. Both threw out heat, the dials set to five hundred degrees Fahrenheit. Carter went from knees to standing, bringing the oven door with him. He slammed the first, then the second, then shut each of them off.
“Christ, Tony, you can’t kill someone with an electric oven.”
Carter probed the bruise near his temple. A few inches either way, and Tony might have killed him with that. He swayed, the room growing dim, then lightening again. He jangled the handcuff that kept him tethered to the oven. He inspected the handle. Even if he could pry it loose, there was nothing within his reach to do so.
He sank to his knees. No, you couldn’t kill someone with an electric oven, but you might induce a slow, painful death from dehydration. God, what he wouldn’t give for a glass of water. He clawed his way to standing again and tested his range. Arms outstretched, straining against the cuff, he could skim the kitchen aisle, the edge of the refrigerator, and the lip of the sink.
“Water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink.”
Damn. What had gone wrong? Other than the obvious? This was the last time he worked with a partner. Tony wasn’t bright. The oven was proof of that. But he had the moving truck, and the uniforms, while Carter had the lanky frame and the know-how. The security system on this place—high tech as it was—didn’t extend to the downstairs powder room with its just-big-enough window. All he had to do was get naked, add a little Crisco, and slip on through.
Unlocking the door for Tony had been the first mistake. No, hooking up with Tony had been Carter’s first mistake, the second was trusting him. The third was turning his back. Never trust. Never turn your back. Never ...
The owners, returned from vacation early? Whoever it was, they’d soon get an eyeful. How often did you find a naked, greased-up man shackled to your oven?
Not very.
The door swung open and a woman stepped inside, head down, her concentration on the doorknob, the bundle of groceries in her arms. She was young, her dark hair in one of those sweet little pixie cuts that made a woman’s eyes look huge and highlighted her lips.
She hummed to herself, a simple tune that spoke of contentment. She was almost to the kitchen aisle when she glanced up.
Carter had never seen shock play across someone’s face so intimately before. Her eyes grew wide—and yes, they were big and brown and under different circumstances, he’d gladly get lost in them. Her mouth made a perfect o, which under different circumstances would be enticing as well. The grocery sacks slipped from her grip, crashed to the floor, the contents scattering. A mustard jar cracked and oozed yellow blood. A pint of ice cream rolled and came to a stop next to his foot.
It was all he could do not to bend down to grab it. Instead, he covered himself as best he could with his free hand.
No scream emerged from that mouth. Her gaze darted, from his wrist in its handcuff, to his face, back down to his other hand, then—almost embarrassed—back to his face.
