Текст книги "The Other Man"

Автор книги: R. K. Lilley

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

CHAPTER

FIVE

I was still reeling, still completely caught up in what had happened mere seconds ago, but not him.  He was up, standing, peeling off the used condom, tossing it into the closest wastebasket, then pacing the floor at the foot of my bed, eyes intense on my limp form.

No, wait, not pacing . . .

Stalking.

Prowling.

Like a lion, his narrowed eyes on me.

I was his prey, and he was ready to pounce.

Again.

“Is everything all right?” I asked him, my voice hoarse like I’d been screaming.

Had I been screaming?  Had he literally made me scream?

Oh yeah.  Shit, he had.

It was an embarrassing thought, and I let my mind shy away from it, even as the sound of those desperate cries still echoed in my mind.

“All right?” he mused, his tone low, voice more road-worn gravelly and rough than ever.  “Yeah, I’m all right.”

I blinked at the way he said it, though I couldn’t read him well enough to know what to make of it.

His lip curled up like he was annoyed.  He reached an arm up, running it impatiently over his short-cropped hair.

Why did every move he made turn me on?  Every minuscule shift of his body made mine respond, breasts tightening, sex clenching.

He elicited reaction without trying, controlled me without even touching.

My eyes ran down his ripped to within an inch of its life body, moving over each mark and scar.  I found those marks to be fascinating and beautiful.  He didn’t wear them like they were flaws, and so they weren’t.  If it wasn’t so obvious what they were, I thought I could have been convinced that he’d been born with them all.

I knew better than to ask, I knew the answer, but I’d have loved to photograph him.

The artistry of his hard, massive, tortured body needed to be captured, even if its owner never could be.

I shook off the thought.  I couldn’t think things like that.  I barely knew this man, so why on earth would I want to capture him?

He’d never be mine.  I knew it instinctively, and so I didn’t let myself even wish for it.

My eyes widened as they finally made it down to his spent cock.

No, not spent.  Hard and getting harder, though I knew he’d gotten off when I had.

That was when I really started to appreciate the younger man thing.  My husband hadn’t taken good care of himself for a good decade before we’d split, and the softer he got, the softer his dick had gotten with him.

It’s funny how sometimes you don’t realize how much you need a thing before it’s right in front of you.  And suddenly, I needed that hard, tireless, randy, young cock like you wouldn’t believe.

I licked my lips.

“How old are you?” my mouth asked him, even while my brain didn’t actually want to know.

I mean, it was a little late for regrets.

He scowled, like really scowled, and on him that was a scary thing.  He was intimidating enough when he smiled.

When he scowled he looked like he wanted to kill someone, and I didn’t doubt for a second that he was a man who got what he wanted.

“Who cares?” he shot back.  This was clearly as sore a subject for him as it was for me.

“I care,” I answered softly, but more because I thought I should care, thought I should ask, thought I should need to know.

Really, though, I’d have just as soon avoided knowing.  My level of cougardom on this felt pretty irrelevant at that moment, all things considered.

“Twenty-five,” he said, tone abrupt.

I winced.

I’d been hoping for a higher number.  The higher the better, really.

“Not much older than my firstborn,” I said tightly.

He didn’t like that, as in really didn’t like it, going by the sudden and mean twist to his mouth.

Well, I didn’t like it either, but it was still the truth.

“What the fuck does that matter?” he asked.

It mattered, of course it did, but I didn’t have a chance to vocalize an answer, as it was clearly a rhetorical question, because he was on me, kissing me again, fisting a condom on and fucking me again, between one gasp and the next.

Good.  Even though I’d brought it up, I didn’t want to talk about it or think about it any time soon.  We clearly had better things to do.

I took his weight on me, his hardness in me, with a soft, needy moan.  It felt so fucking good, like the first time hadn’t even happened, like I was as hungry for him as I had been not an hour before, with over a year’s worth of celibacy under my belt.

He was holding my wrists above my head again, needing only one hand to do so, the other palming my breasts, assaulting the soft flesh of my chest with his hand while his cock assaulted the soft flesh of my cunt in desperate earnest.

It was faster that time, as though he’d used all of his patience with the first mating.  He sucked the tip of one straining tit into his mouth while his free hand snaked down and started working my clit, bringing me over so fast that it caught me off guard, my breath sobbing out in one long, “Heeeaaaath.”

He growled like a wild animal into my skin, planted himself inside me, stayed planted, and I felt his thick cock twitching, bucking out his seed.

I said his name again, faster, wanting, needing to watch his face, and he lifted from my chest, eyes meeting mine, giving me that look again, the one that replaced the coldness.

More than any crave-able thing about him, I craved that brief, unguarded moment when he lost himself inside me.

I was lying on my bed, flat on my back, completely naked, covered only by a sheet.

My head was still spinning.

What the hell had just happened?

I’d never, never, NEVER had my body, my world, rocked like that before.  Heath fucked like a force of nature—fierce, powerful, unstoppable.

I knew I was good in bed.  I was fit, flexible, and adventurous, but with Heath, all I’d managed to do was hold on for the ride.  And come.  Repeatedly.

The force of nature I was currently worrying over had gone into the shower exactly one second after he’d finished getting us both off.  He apparently didn’t like to wear his sex around, not even to sleep.

Would he even stay to sleep?  It was barely noon.  I guessed he’d be leaving as soon as he was done with his shower.

I could expect nothing else from this whole crazy thing, but I felt tender (not just my body) about it all.  I’d never done casual sex.

It was perhaps an acquired taste.  One I wasn’t planning to acquire.

I was still lying there (nearly exactly how he’d left me after fucking my brains out) when he came back out of my bathroom, wearing nothing but a towel, his mind-boggling body still slightly damp.

The look on his face had me losing my breath.

He dropped the towel.

My mind was on a very specific part of him, one that should not be looking quite so eager after our earlier activities, as he approached the bottom of the bed.

Without a word, he bent, grabbing my sheet, and pulling it slowly.

It surprised me enough that I made an embarrassing little noise and tried to hold onto my only covering.

“Let go,” he growled.

God, he was scary.  Why did that do such delicious things to my body?

I dropped the sheet.

He tugged it off, then snagged first one of my ankles, then the other, his shoulders and arms flexing as he dragged me down the bed.  When he’d finished dragging, he started spreading, pulling my legs wide apart.

He just stared at my sex for the longest time, his gaze so hot that my hips started squirming restlessly.

I glanced down at him.  He was fully aroused, his heavy cock pulsing.

Sore or not, sated or not, I wanted it again more desperately than ever.

Finally, he let go of my ankles, grabbing my wrists instead and pulling me to sit up, my splayed legs jolting together.  He perched a foot snug at my hip, burying both of his hands in my hair.

I licked my lips and stared.  He’d brought me within a few inches of his eager cock.  I didn’t have to guess what he wanted.

I leaned forward, looked up to meet his eyes boldly, and tongued his tip.

He cursed and surged against me.

Keeping solid eye contact, I sucked his thick, plush head between my lips.

I had to break eye contact soon enough as he pushed deeper, and his jagged breaths became the only thing in the room louder than the sounds of my busy, sucking mouth and my milking, stroking hands.

There was no polite conversation about whether or not I swallowed, but as I felt his balls draw up tight, his orgasm close, I pushed back to suck at his tip, hands working him, my eyes on his face.

That was one thing that had stood out to me from the last few rounds.  I loved to watch his face as his eyes went unfocused and wild, all of the coldness leaving them.  I watched it happen again, relishing the sight.

He stroked my hair after he’d finished, my tongue still laving his tip, his eyes directed on me again, cold again, but admiring, at least.

After he finally pulled away, I lay back on the bed, not sure if I wanted to get off or pass out.

Without a word, he moved to my dresser across the room, unerringly going for my hidden vibrator, knowing which drawer it was in, exactly as though he knew just where to look, like he’d done it before.

My aroused, smitten brain didn’t linger on that, focused more on him and what he was about to do to me than on the things about him that should trouble me.

As he pulled the thing out, though, I managed to find my voice for something, at least, “Not that,” I said faintly.  It was an intense toy.  “I’m a little sore for that.”

He raised his brows, looking fascinated by the notion.  He dropped the vibrator back in the drawer, hand going for his randy cock.  He was already semi-hard again and looked in danger of easily losing the semi part of that.  “Too sore for this, too, I take it?”

I bit my lip.  I really wanted that again, but I was sore.  I nodded regretfully, watching him handle himself casually and thinking that it was the hottest thing I’d ever seen.

His white teeth flashed at me in a smile that was more sinister than happy.  “I’ve got just the thing.”

And he did.

My hands clawed into the sheets as he introduced me to the skill of his wicked tongue.  He lapped at my sex, making himself at home down there, soft and gentle in a way I hadn’t thought he had in him.

Something occurred to me as he made me come, yet again.

If he was as complicated of a man as he was a lover, I was in trouble.

He moved up my body, kissing my lips, his sex nudging between my legs.

All soreness was forgotten, by both of us, apparently, as he pushed himself into me.

He did recall it briefly, though, when he was buried nearly to the root.  “Too sore?” he murmured.

I bit his lower lip in answer, whimpering into his mouth as I didn’t feel coherent enough to talk.  He took it for the answer he wanted.

With a rough groan, he shoved himself home.

And then he was gone, as sudden as he’d come.

He never said goodbye.

I passed out and he left.

That was it.

He didn’t even leave his number, or ask for mine.

There was no way whatsoever for me to misinterpret what that meant.

I honestly didn’t think I’d see him again.  I was resigned to that.  Not happy about it, but not bitter either.

Not bitter, because he’d given me something.  Something I hadn’t thought to feel again.

Hope.

Sad as it was, for better or worse, my life had fallen apart soon after I’d turned forty, and I hadn’t imagined, couldn’t even conceive of the idea that my best years of my life lay still ahead of me.

And now, because of Heath, anything seemed possible.

The revelation was liberating.

 A heavy weight had left my body; the dead weight of a marriage that I was finished letting deprive me.  Of anything.  Just finished.  

I didn’t want to be deprived of anything anymore, or ever again.

CHAPTER

SIX

It was a few days later, and I wanted to blame the wine, but I wound up telling my girlfriends all about him.  Way too many salacious details.  I hadn’t meant to so much as mention him, but was hard to hold anything back from the girls.  They were those kind of friends.

We had a running bi-weekly girls’ night that I hardly ever missed.  The group had been going on and off for several years, and though I’d only joined up with them about a year prior, it felt longer.  Like I’d known some of them forever.

It was an impressive group of women.  Over a dozen of us.  Successful women.  Beautiful women.  Funny, entertaining.  Some single, some married.  A bit of anything you could want, really.

It was a large group, but it didn’t feel large.  We came in all ages, and no one broke off into cliques.  We all mixed well together.

Well, I should explain more.  It was more than a girls’ night.  It was more of a weekly, impromptu therapy session with friends.  And alcohol.

“How old is he, exactly?” Frankie asked, sounding zero percent judgmental, and one hundred percent fascinated.

I’d met Frankie first.  She had her own reality show, and I’d been shooting her for a spread in a magazine that featured said show.

We’d hit it off right away, but that was just how Frankie was.  I’d been going through a rough time, and we’d bonded, fast and deep.  She’d quickly invited me to a girls’ night and introduced me to the others.

I’d been impressed with her right away.  She was uniquely beautiful and wildly unconventional, in her looks and lifestyle, and the way she handled it never stopped impressing me.  She had so much acceptance for herself and who she was, but also of her friends.  It was hard not to adore someone who was that loving of both herself and others.

I had a serious girl crush on her, but it was purely platonic. A. Because I wasn’t gay.  And B. Because I was pretty sure her wife, Estella, would claw anyone’s eyes out that tried to come between them.

I grimaced.  “Twenty-five.”

Her smoking hot wife, Estella, whooped, high-fiving the air.  “You go, hot mama!  It’s about time.”

“Hell yeah,” Danika said succinctly.  She was one of my favorites.  A sarcastic soul after my own heart.  She was extravagantly gorgeous, a striking, exotic woman of some mixed Eurasian heritage.  Her face and body were flawless, aside from a slight limp when she walked, but I didn’t think that detracted from any of it.

I’d started attending these get-togethers just after she’d gotten married to a great heaping hunk of a man that put on one of the most successful magic acts on the strip.

“He’s not much older than my children,” I said, eyes swinging to Lucy, the therapist and voice of reason of the group.

“Don’t do that to yourself,” said Danika.  “He’s twenty-five.  Hardly a child.”

Easy for her to say, I thought, as she was sitting somewhere in her late twenties.

“I don’t honestly think I’d have done it,” I said, words still aimed at Lucy, “if I’d had a clue he was that young before we hooked up.  Unfortunately, I only asked him his age after.”  I knew that was likely bullshit.  My lust had been too overwhelming to be stopped at the word twenty-five.  I was trying to save face, though I didn’t actually need to, not in front of this group.

“Stop that,” Lucy said gently.  “Don’t beat yourself up.  You didn’t commit a crime.”

“What’s the lowdown on a cougar relationship happening, doc?” another one of the ladies, Candy, spoke up, asking a question I didn’t have the balls to.

Lucy held up her hands in a sort of c’est la vie gesture.  “It just depends on the individuals involved.  I don’t hand out verdicts for relationships.  You know this.”

“But what is the usual pattern for a thing like this playing out?” I asked her.  I knew better than to accept her pat answer.  She had all the likely scenarios, all the usual dysfunctional relationship patterns memorized.

Ugh, I’d thought the word relationship about a guy I’d only met twice.  I was so old school.

I’ve been out of the dating pool too long, I thought.

Lucy looked amused.  “What, you want me to cite off the statistics for you?”

“I wouldn’t mind hearing them,” I mused.

“I’m not going to do that.  You are a responsible woman.  A good woman.  As long as no one is being exploited, and no one is feeling used, I say do as you like.  How’s that for a lowdown?”

Less than satisfactory, I thought.  But I’d take it.  At least she wasn’t outright cautioning me against it.

“I’m encouraged, frankly,” she continued.  “I see it as a good sign that you’re finally willing to enter the dating world again.”

“Don’t sound like dating to me,” Candy muttered, but there was nothing catty in the way she grinned at me.

I couldn’t argue with her.  “It definitely wasn’t a date.”

“You should never give it up that fast, sweetie,” Sarah, another lady in the group, one well into her sixties, told me.  “I’m not judging you.  It’s just, well, men never come back when you give it up that fast.  Any chance at a relationship flew out the window when it resorted to sex that quickly.”

She wasn’t wrong.  I opened my mouth, mostly to say, rather defensively, something like, oh I don’t know, ‘Who said I was looking for a relationship?’ but I never got the chance.

Bianca, one of the quieter members of the group, shocked us all by butting in.  “That’s just not true.”

Every single one of us looked at her.  She was a woman that stood out in a crowd, no matter how exceptional her company.  She was beautiful, tall, with pale blonde hair and abundant curves.  She had just the sort of eye-catching beauty that one expected to see in the wife of a famous billionaire, and it just so happened that she was one.

Her expression was calm, her face angelic, both in its beauty and peacefulness.     There was something so suppressed about her manner, as though she’d learned to avoid making much noise in a very profound way.  She participated in the group, but she rarely added in her two cents like this.  That role was usually reserved for the louder voices.  And when she did pipe in, I noticed that everyone usually took it to heart.

“James and I,” she continued, a becoming blush breaking out across her cheeks.  “We . . . didn’t wait to have sex.  Not at all.”

“But I’d bet money you weren’t hooking up that soon after you met him,” Candy pointed out.

Bianca’s blonde brows shot straight up.  “You’d be losing money on that bet.  He was going down on me in an airplane galley, it had to be, God, like only the third time I ever ran into him.”

That was met with a pregnant moment of shocked silence, then a brief burst of awkward laughter as everyone came to the conclusion that she was putting us on.

She was not, her expression told us.

“Him getting you off is a far cry from you getting him off, in terms of keeping him on a string,” Candy shot back.

“That is fucking hot, though,” someone put in.  I glanced at the source.  It was Sandra.  She was a bit older than I was and worked in the Cavendish art gallery with Danika.  It was a well-known fact that she was semi-obsessed with Bianca’s husband.  She was always a little too fascinated with the subject when he came up.

Bianca’s blush got a few shades darker, her eyes darting around the room.  “I’d already gone down on him, by then.  Technically, I think that was the second time we ran into each other.  Still turned into a relationship.  A marriage.”

Danika let out a low, appreciative whistle.  “Wasn’t he your first?” she asked her, sounding impressed.

We were getting a rare gem if even Danika hadn’t known about that, as the two women were close friends.

Bianca nodded.

“That brazen fucker,” someone muttered.  Frankie, I think.

We were all just staring at Bianca.  I, personally, wanted to hear the rest of the story.  I’d read some of the tabloids about them, but this was different.  This was the real story, the most I’d ever heard from Bianca about her much talked about relationship with one of the hottest men on the planet.

“What about actual intercourse?” Sarah asked, like it was a perfectly reasonable question.

“That same night, after the galley incident,” Bianca answered matter-of-factly.

“Brazen fucker,” Frankie repeated.

“He’s so fucking hot,” Sandra muttered.

“How’s it going, in general, and also with your ex-husband?” Jackie asked me, bringing the subject back around since it’d clearly gotten out of hand.  Bianca had started to look uncomfortable.  “Is he still being antagonistic?”

“He is, but it’s tapering off, I think.  And things in general have been good.  It took some time.  The divorce was a big readjustment for me, but now I’m . . . content with having him gone.  I have more free time now.  Free time that I value.  I find that I enjoy a good book over a bad husband.  No contest.”

That was met with a round of elaborate toasting.  We had some enthusiastic readers in the group.

“What about your kids?  Has there been any communication between your ex and the kids lately?” Lucy asked.

I shook my head.  “He alienated his children when he mistreated their mother, and rather than take responsibility for that, he’s decided to blame me.  It’s baffling, to be honest.  I knew how my boys would react.  I don’t understand how he’s surprised by it.  They’re overprotective and loyal to a fault.  Frankly, I’m a little worried that they’ll never forgive him.”

“It’s not your job to mediate their relationship with their dad,” Lucy told me in her no nonsense voice.  “That is their business.”

I nodded that I understood her.  I tried to take her words to heart.  It was a burden I’d be happy to set down for good.