Текст книги "Sex Love Repeat"
Автор книги: Alessandra Torre
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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 13 страниц)
TWO YEARS EARLIER
MADISON
It didn’t take long for Stewart and I to fuck. The sweet circumstance of our meeting turned to heat quickly, chemistry sizzling across the linen tablecloths of our first date. For the second date, two weeks later, I told his icy secretary I’d meet him at his place, intent on putting the little time she had penciled in to good use. She extended the appointment, giving me a full two hours, which I took to be a good sign. Two weeks later, I handed my keys to a freckle-face valet, signed in with the security desk at Stewart’s condo, and was yanked inside the moment he opened the door.
He crab walked me backwards, my hands reaching for his face, pulling it to mine, our first kiss frantic. “Tell me if I’m reading this wrong.” He rushed out, between kisses. “Is this too fast?”
I bit back a laugh, unbuttoning the front of my shirtdress and dropping the material to the floor, nothing but bare skin underneath. “You tell me, is it?” I stepped away, watched his eyes eat me, his expression turning dark, his hand running rough through his hair.
Then his mouth and his hands were on me, and we didn’t have the breath to utter words for a full hour. We started there, against the wall, with kisses and touches, my own hands pulling at his clothes, till he was naked before me, and my breath caught at his build, his body a tight coil of muscles that all seemed to center and point on a package that would have made my first boyfriend duck his head in shame. He lifted me, my legs wrapping around his waist, and carried me to a bedroom.
I didn’t notice the heated floors or the custom blinds or the six thousand dollar rug. I only noticed the heat of our bodies, the perfect fit, the exact blend of control and fury that took my body from above, from behind, and from below.
Forty-five minutes after setting foot in his condo, he straddled me. Breathing hard, his face tight in concentration, his hands running over the skin of my breasts, he leant forward and kissing me, pushing away my hands when I reached for him. His cock bobbed between us, brushing my stomach, a plastic slap of latex against my skin. “Don’t.” he groaned. “I’m too close. Give me a moment.”
But I wanted it, was high on orgasm and his fucks, and anxious to see the result of our work. I smiled at him, reaching down with a firm hand and sliding the condom off, his slick head exposed, my hand working up and down and I looked up into his face.
He squeezed his eyes tight, his breath coming out in short spurts. “Madison, I can’t, you’re-“ He bucked his hips, groaning my name, my hand hard and fast on his shaft, watching in excitement as he came, multiple shots on my chest, his head dropping back as he finished, a long sigh coming out. He collapsed to the side, his limbs heavy on the bed, his eyes closed, a smile on his face.
I rolled, unmindful of the sheets, resting my head on his bicep, closing my eyes and relaxing, my body relaxed from an hour of orgasms and pounding.
Minutes passed, no sound other than our breaths and the whip of the fan, no need to speak, no need for compliments or unnecessary conversation.
Then he moved, rolling to his side, our faces close, his eyes studying mine. “How are you single?”
I looked into his eyes, at the bright blue sparks of his pupils. “I don’t need a boyfriend.”
“Women rarely need the things they want.” He smiled, running a free hand gently along the inside of my arm.
“I’m not exactly normal,” I offered. His mouth curved at the words, light entering them, a sarcastic response at the tip of his tongue. I waved his comeback off. “I don’t mean that in a good way. You and I? Having sex so quickly? It wasn’t because I was blown away by your penthouse or your gorgeous blue eyes. It was sex, great sex, but just for pleasure. What we just did...I’m not expecting anything from you because of it. I don’t need to make ‘this’ anything more than what it is right now.”
He frowned. “So you want to use me... using me. For sex.”
I laughed. “Oh please, it’s every man’s perfect scenario. Don’t give me that guilt trip.”
His frown twitched slightly at the corners. “And what if I want more?”
“I don’t think you have time for more.”
I knew, from the start, what I was signing up for. And I made sure he knew the same. That I was a sexual creature, who wouldn’t stand by and wait to be beckoned. I lived my normal life, with bits of Stewart’s cock sprinkled in when he had time. And that lasted for a bit, till he started getting attached and decided he didn’t want me screwing strangers any more.
TWO YEARS EARLIER
“I want you to find a boyfriend.” Stewart said gruffly, while I was pinned against the wall of his office, his rigid cock inside of me. It was nine o’clock on a Tuesday night, everyone with any sanity gone, a uniformed cleaner already sticking his head in and catching us in the act.
“What?”
He thrust upward, making me moan, pulling my hips downward slightly, till the depth made me ache. “A boyfriend. Someone to fuck you when I am busy, someone who can take you on dates, and rub your feet, and listen to you talk about your day.”
“I fuck when you’re busy.” The statement caused his eyes to darken, his thrusts to increase in force and speed.
He knew this. Knew I wasn’t exclusively his. It was a choice he made, his addiction to success and files and stock prices too time consuming to allow for more than a night or two a week of fucktime. And our sessions were often like this – squeezed in at a time when stress lines his face, and meetings or emails are only a step or two away.
“I don’t like you fucking a bunch of strangers. It’s not safe. And you deserve more than that.”
I wished he would stop talking, the words causing his movement to stop, his serious expression putting a damper on my arousal. “Let’s talk about it later.”
He continued on, ignoring my suggestion. “You deserve someone who will be there for you everyday. Who will rub your feet and take you to dinner, and take you to the doctor when you’re sick.”
“So you want me to ditch you for someone with more time?”
He growled, gripping my skin and lifting me, my arms wrapping around his neck for security, as he carried me across the room and deposited me on his desk. “Fuck no. I will never allow someone to take you from me.” He ran his hands possessively down my front, pulling up my tank top and caressing the bare breasts beneath, his hands firm and strong, cupping my breasts like he owned them, dropping his face down and taking one in his mouth. “But I will lose you soon enough to someone who can shower you with time and affection. You need an everyday man to satisfy those needs.” He glanced up as his pace resumed, that dark glitter of intensity that I loved returning to his eyes. “But I will always own your heart. And this man would be second to me in your heart.”
I smiled, wrapping my legs around his hips and squeezing. “You can’t control my heart, Stewart.”
He lowered himself to me, bending over the desk as he fucked me, deep, possessive fucks that shot drugged pleasure through me with each stroke. Gripping my arms and pinning them to the desk, he took a long, deep taste of my mouth before breaking away and staring into my eyes. “I can sure as hell try.”
I closed my eyes, gripping his hips, and let him fuck me through another two orgasms before he came, in my mouth, his eyes glued to mine as he pumped himself onto my tongue. I thought he would drop the ‘boyfriend’ talk, thought that it was mid-sex ridiculousness that would never be spoke of again. But he pressed the issue, revisiting the topic enough times that I realized his sincerity. He worried about me. My safety, my happiness. Worried about losing me due to lack of attention. He wanted me to have a steady fuck, wanted someone to make up for the slack he couldn’t provide. He wanted someone safe, friendly. Someone I wouldn’t leave him for, but that would make me happy. He wanted Paul, I just hadn’t found him yet.
So I continued fucking strangers, my libido as aggressive as ever. And then, on that day in Santa Monica, I met Paul. I fucked Paul. And he was different. Paul was, as he stared into my eyes and fucked me in the surf, someone Stewart would approve of.
Safe.
Friendly.
Sweet.
Paul has changed since that day. He is more possessive of me than he once was. Not during our daily life, but often our sex is fired with competitiveness, his cock claiming me as if he has something to prove. He is not safe, and Stewart has every cause to be worried. They both own my heart now, an equal division fought over by two sets of blue eyes.
VENICE BEACH, CA
My phone rang and I glanced at it. “Lover” displayed across its front. Stewart. I opened the phone. “Hey Babe.”
“Hey. You free Thursday night? I have a work thing – need a date.”
“Sure.”
“Perfect. I’ll connect you to Nicole.” There is a click and a few tones, before the cheerful voice of his assistant fills my ear. We chat for a few minutes, and then I hang up.
“Was that him?” Paul’s strokes across the board continue, slow patient swipes of wax protection. We are in the garage, the door up, our cars pulled into the alley, bikers occasionally whizzing through the open space. I’ve already waxed my board, my job quickly and haphazardly done, no real desire present to do a thorough job. But Paul takes his time, stretching the task out, his eyes careful on his work, his strokes sure and familiar.
“Yeah. I’ve got a thing to attend tomorrow night. I’ll be back in the morning. When do you leave for Costa Rica?” I watch his shoulders for tension, his jaw for rigidity – but he is calm, peace in his eyes, an easygoing manner in his movements.
“End of next week. I’ll be gone four or five days, depending on the flight.” He sets down the wax, walking around the board and leans back against my car, pulling me by the waist, into his arms.
“I’m gonna miss you Madd.”
I smile, leaning into his chest. “I’ll be here when you get back.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.” I lifted my chin and he kissed me, his hands pulling me tight, his mouth needy on mine. This is Paul’s worry. That one day he will return, and I will be gone. That I will choose Stewart and not him. He doesn’t mind sharing, but losing me terrifies him.
I flip through book titles, pulling out spines and sliding in new ones, running the alphabet over my tongue, making sure that everything was in its proper place, J.D. Robb sitting after James Patterson and before Nora Roberts. I feel him before I see him, the creak of the floor behind me announcing a visitors weight, the air carrying the scent of sunscreen and sweat.
I don’t pause, my fingers pushing and pulling on titles, intent on filing these last three books before my mind gets sidetracked and I have to start the whole damn alphabet again.
“You know ebooks are going to replace these pretty soon.” The slow confident male drawl slows my movements, my mouth curving into a smile despite my best attempt to keep a cool exterior.
I squeeze the last book into place and stand, turning toward Paul. “Hey—words like that’ll get you killed around here.”
He scoffs, crossing his arms across a broad chest, covered in a sleeveless tank and a golden tan. “You don’t have a dangerous bone in your body.”
I walk around the half bookcase between us, ‘til I stand in front of him. “You’re right about that. I’m in sore need of a dangerous bone inside of me.”
He groans, his eyes turning from playful to feral in a moment, his hand reaching around me and pulling me tight to him. His other hand joins in, both of them gripping and pulling my ass, my pelvis, up into his body, tight enough that the ridge of his erection digs into me. He lets out a loud, shuddering breath as he lowers his mouth to mine. “You want me to fix that situation?”
“Oh yeah.” I grin, reaching up and tugging his head down, my tongue taking up the playful game, flicking into his open mouth, exploring the taste of him as his hands pull me tighter against his hard body.
“I want to fuck you right here,” he whispers against my mouth.
“So do it.” My hands slide under his shirt, traveling over the lines of abs, his mouth catching as I move my hands lower, under the hem of his board shorts, my fingers encountering the curly patch of hair there.
He chuckles, moving his mouth of mine and kissing the top of my head. “I’ll take care of you later. I just wanted to stop in and say hi.”
I look up at him. “Fine. I’m closing up shop at four. Want me to find you on the water then?”
He cradles my head in his hands, his eyes trailing over the lines of my face, as if he is memorizing the features. “I’ll be there. Tonight is when you have that thing?”
I nod. “I’ll be back in the morning.”
He grins, my playful boy back. “Then I’ll be sure to take care of you this afternoon.”
I yank him forward, wanting to feel the brush of hardness before he leaves me alone. “You better.”
He gives me a final kiss before releasing my face, tossing out a carefree smile before ducking through the entrance and disappearing into the bright Californian sun.
I understand that you hate me. That you curse me for my greed. But if I am okay with it, and they are okay with it, how is it anyone else’s right to judge?
VENICE BEACH, CA
CAVEFISH: [noun] Pale Surfer
DANA
I stub my cigarette out and watch the bar, listening idly as Shannon Marks blabbed the explicit details of last night’s blind date. I tune in occasionally, nodding politely and cracking a smile when the occasion seems to call for it. But mainly, I just watch the bar. I had seen her. Stewart’s blonde princess. I was sitting here, minding my own business, sipping fresh coffee and munching on a biscotti when she had trotted by. Flashing a smile to a pothead who sat on the curb, she had entered the bar without a second glance around. That was forty-five minutes ago. I light another cigarette.
Venice beach. Not the location I would have expected her in. From my first impression, at Livello, she had seemed too upscale for this area—her glowing skin and sparkly white teeth speaking of good breeding, the dress one that appeared to be four-figure fabulous. I almost didn’t recognize her here, in cutoff shorts and a plaid, long-sleeved button-up, aviators perched on her head, long tanned legs ending in a pair of leather flip flops. But it’s hard to miss a girl like her. And I’ve thought about that night too much to be sane. Replayed it over and over again in my head. The glow on her face, the look in his eyes. Stewart, barely aged, 100% the man I knew—save the grin on his face. The grin, the glint, of a man in love. That, sadly, was unfamiliar to me. I take a sip of coffee. Venice Beach. Yep, not what I would have expected. Then again, who am I to talk? I’m sitting here in a wool suit, sweating my ass off, all in hopes that I might run into Paul.
Paul. The other man in my heart, also MIA in my life. His absence pulls at my heart. Paul, the lost lamb of our family. What happened to Jennifer wasn’t his fault. Things happen, regardless of all of our best intentions and precautions. Things happen, and when disaster struck, we lost him. He was always too sensitive, too caring, too loving. Quick to accept blame when it wasn’t cast on him, quick to perceive if someone was mad or if feelings were hurt. He carried the happiness of our family on his shoulders, as if his young frame could support so much pressure. And that summer, ten years ago, was a bomb to that structure, a heavy cannonball dropped onto a little boy’s house of sticks. We should have known he wouldn’t recover. We should have known that it would push him away. Now, he lives as if that event never happened. As if Jennifer, and the rest of us, never existed. I think the mere presence of us causes him pain. We are nothing but a walking billboard of what used to be. So he pretends we aren’t here. And he walks through life with a smile on his face.
I don’t know if that makes me happy or sad. I am relieved that he is happy, in press photos his grin stretches wide and easily, videos show that his step has a bounce in it. But I am sad for the brother I have lost. One who seems like he will never return home.
He lives around here somewhere. I don’t have his number, can’t find anything but a manager’s number on the promotional website bearing Paul’s pseudonym. The pseudonym irks me, a visible sign indicating his separation from our family. Linx. What a stupid last name, picked by a nineteen year old kid with more pussy and dreams than he knew what to do with.
I exhale a burst of dirty air and glance towards the waves. The videos on his website show him here—attacking waves with the same ferocity he exhibited as a kid. So when Shannon wanted some gossip time, I suggested Venice Beach, hoping to kill two birds with one stone.
I take a sip of coffee and glance at my watch, my mind bouncing off Paul and back to the surprise sighting of Stewart’s blonde. Fifty-two minutes. Who sits in a bar at two o’clock on a Monday afternoon for almost an hour? I push back from the chair; Shannon’s dialogue pauses, my eyes glancing down to see her looking up with a look of surprise. “Where’you going?”
‘Just a minute,” I mutter, throwing my bag over my shoulder and zig-zagging through the crowd. Then I pulled on the handle and stepped into the bar.
A woman should be dressed properly to go into battle. But I wasn’t expecting to confront Stewart’s Barbie Doll this morning. I was only hoping to see Paul. So I had worn an outfit Paul would recognize me in. I could envision the exact moment when he saw me. How his eyes would light up and he would toss an arm over my shoulder, a soft kiss snuck in and placed on my cheek. And, in that moment, everything would be perfect. He would understand that I still love him. That I will always love him—no matter what. And he will hug me and tell me that he loves me too. That he will allow me to be a part of his life once again.
So I wore a suit, my normal skin for work and my non-existent social life. Paul would recognize a suit. It would stand out on the boardwalk. Cause him to stare a little longer, long enough to see my face and know that it was me. But now, walking into the bar filled with flip flops and tan bodies, I wish that I had at least worn my good heels. Prada would help me have the confidence to approach this woman. Prada would hold my hand and whisper in my ear that I am cool enough, hip enough, to approach this woman who is probably ten years my junior.
My eyes take a moment to adjust to the dark, neon lights coming into focus, the floor beneath my heels sticky. Only two figures at the bar, neither which were blond. The bartender, a redhead pixie who shoulda worn sunscreen earlier in life, raised her chin at me. “What’cha need?”
My palms are suddenly clammy and I wipe them down the front of my skirt, trying to think of some plausible need for my presence. “Do you have a restroom?”
She pops her gum, the crude, loud crack grating my nerves. “It’s outside, past the bookstore. Down that hall.” She points, and my eyes follow the path to a dingy hall, just past an open doorway. Glossy paperbacks are stacked on either side of the door, on wooden chairs that seem to sag beneath their weight. Curiosity makes my eyes linger, the reggae music from inside draws me closer to the door.
An arm chooses to snake out the door, startling me, coming from the height of a small child, pushing a heavy hardback out the door until it bumps into an adjoining stack. I step forward, peering inside, and see Stewart’s blonde sitting, cross-legged on the floor, books stacked all around her. She works here. The realization that she is not a barfly is relieving. I step backward but her head snaps up, and our eyes meet for one terrifying moment.
She smiles. “Please don’t leave. I can turn the music off if it bothers you.”
“Oh no – it doesn’t bother me.” I wipe my annoyingly sweaty hands on my skirt, trying to find my mindset. Why had I come in here? What was my ball-busting plan of attack? Suddenly, my lack of designer shoes seemed to be the least of my poor planning. “I was just looking for the bathroom.”
She frowns regretfully, a ridiculously adorable gesture that made me want to throttle her. “Damn. I was hoping for a reader. It’s been crickets today.” She stands, brushing off her shorts, leaving the pile of books behind. “Want me to show you the way?”
“No, it’s okay.” I glance around. It’s a small space, a few rows squeezed into a small room lined with floor to ceiling shelves, shiny new books squeezed next to worn paperbacks with broken spines.
“I know that look. What’s your weakness? Steamy billionaires with foot-long junk? Or a serial killer taking out half the women in Mississippi?” She shoots me a wicked grin, winking conspiratorially.
I blush, hating the smile that is fighting its way to my face. This is not how this is supposed to go. She shouldn’t be cute, or likable. I had expected upper crust, snooty, digging perfectly manicured fingers as far into Stewart’s money pile as they could possibly go. “Janet Evanovich.”
“Oooh! I knew I liked you.” She jogs past me, humming along with the music as she drags a stool over to a shelf and stands, reaching up and trotting her fingers over titles. “You want the latest?”
“Sure.”
“Have you read Stephanie Bond?”
I glance around the store, trying to pick up clues in the brief moment of her distraction. “Uhh.... No.”
She jumps off the stool, crouching down briefly and skimming over a second shelf, snatching a quick book from the rack and tilting her head towards the register. “Anything else before I ring you up?”
I shake my head, reaching into my pocket for some cash.
“If you like Evanovich, you gotta check out Bond too.” She held up the second book. “It’s used, so I’m gonna toss it in no charge. Just ignore the worn pages. She is freakin’ awesome. If you get a chance,” she shrugs. “Check it out.”
I smile, counting out bills and passing them over. “Thank you—I will.”
She bags the books and walks around the counter, handing me the green plastic bag with a smile. “Thanks for coming in. You want me to show you to the bathroom?”
Right. My imaginary need to pee. I shake my head. “I’m good. Thanks for the book.”
I take a right out of the store, walking down the dim hall and locking myself in the dirty bathroom, standing in the middle of the germ-infested space and trying not to touch anything. I take a deep breath and try to relax. Two minutes later, I use a paper towel to flush the toilet and open the door handle. I avoid looking into the bookstore, walking quickly through the dark bar and back into the bright light. The bench where I sat with Shannon is empty, a pink post-it stuck to her spot, an intense frowny face drawn on it in blue ballpoint pen. I glance around, seeing no sign of her, and crumple the sticky note, dumping my coffee into the trash and casting one, final look for Paul. Then me, and my green bag of deception, left the sandy boardwalk of Venice Beach.
