Текст книги "Tryst"

Автор книги: S. L. Jennings

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

To his surprise, she knocks away his offered hand and hugs him like an old friend. I’m actually shocked to see her here, considering Justice makes it a point to keep her away from all of this. Not to keep her in the dark—complacent and oblivious to his dealings. But to protect her. With Ally’s background and growing up the crème de la crème of the Upper East Side, she may very well know some of Justice’s clients. And in order to avoid any awkwardness for all parties involved, she stays a good distance away. It’s not like she doesn’t know what his job entails. She was one of his star students, after all.

“So, Heidi, did you hear who was going to be here tonight?” she asks, turning her attention back to me.

I open my mouth to feign ignorance when I am instantly stunned into silence. Actually, the entire room falls from a jovial roar to a hushed quiet when Ransom enters it, wearing all black from head to toe, a crown full of sexily mussed hair and confidence like a damn war medal.

I think I hear her squeal something to the effect of, “OhmyGodheissofuckinghot” but I can’t be sure. I’m so completely disarmed by him that I can’t hear anything outside of the rapid pounding inside my chest. I don’t know if I should be seriously worried for my health or exhilarated by his mere presence.

He doesn’t see me at first. Or maybe he does and just won’t look at me. I can’t deny that things were left in an awkward space the other night when I ran from his room, embarrassed and aroused. We took things too far, and I’m afraid we’ll never be able to retreat from that.

I know I’m being watched, analyzed, so I take a sip of champagne and turn back to my husband. Ally gives me a quick peck on the cheek and focuses her energy on greeting all the couples, between stealing kisses from Justice when she thinks nobody is watching. And I try my damnedest to act like I’m ok with this. More than ok. I’m downright stoked about the prospect of having to watch my young lover/client fuck someone else while my husband and I get busy doing the same. It just seems like too much. Too much at one time. And I don’t think I’m ready for that.

Reading the panic in my expression, Tucker leans over and whispers in my ear, asking if I’m ok. I tell him yes. Then I tell him the truth.

“Tuck, I don’t know about this. Doesn’t it seem like we’re moving too fast too soon? It’s just . . . maybe we should talk about this before something happens that one of us isn’t prepared for. Something that could seriously affect our marriage and our feelings for each other.”

Translation: I need you to tell me if you want to sleep with a man, so when it happens, I’m not totally caught off guard. And I need to decide if I can be ok with that, and not see you differently.

I mean, could we stay married if Tucker hooked up with a dude? And what if he liked it? Doesn’t that make him gay or bi or whatever? That’s cool with me. I’m just not so sure it should be cool for my marriage.

“Relax, baby. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Ok? Here, try this.” He flags down a server holding a tray of miniature glasses, all smelling of strong liquor.

“What the hell is that?” I cringe, accepting the shot glass. It’s a shimmery, iridescent liquid, unlike any alcohol I’ve ever seen. It smells sweet, but is still potent enough for me to know that it packs a punch.

“Easy. It’s just a little something to help you loosen up. I figured you might need something a bit stronger than champagne. Go ahead—drink up. I promise, you’ll be one hundred percent fine. I am a doctor after all.”

I look down at the mystery pearlescent elixir in my glass then up at his charming smile, and shrug. It’s one shot. What’s the worst it could do? And like he said, he is a doctor. He’d never give me something that would potentially harm me.

I put the glass to my lips and tip it back, letting the cool tang of the liquor slide down my tongue and ease down my throat. It feels warm in my tummy, yet icy on my tongue. And I instantly know that it was a tad bit more than just alcohol I consumed.

Tucker leans in to kiss my temple and whispers, “That’s my girl.”

The more we talk and smile and laugh, the more I drink and the less apprehensive I feel. I’m so relaxed that I’ve almost forgotten that Ransom is here. Well. Almost.

“Tucker. Heidi. Good to see you tonight.” He grins when he approaches, totally catching me off guard.

He shakes Tuck’s hand then turns to me, mischief gleaming in those dark eyes. Then, in slow motion, he leans in and kisses my cheek. But his lips land closer to my ear, giving him the perfect opportunity to rattle me with his words.

“You look fucking delectable tonight. Good enough to eat,” he half groans for only me to hear. Then as he pulls away, his lips run over my cheek, leaving behind a trail of flames that seem to flare and scatter throughout the rest of my body. I think I thank him. I can’t be sure though.

After that, something in the evening air shifts. Not just for us, but for everyone. Voices dip into hushed whispers. Eyelids lower into sultry, hooded gazes. Wine and spirits are still present, but it seems as if the servers and their silver trays have been dismissed. Which is smart; Justice is a stickler when it comes to overindulgence and consensual sex. Oh so easily are those lines blurred, opening the gates for speculation and damaging claims, not to mention valid accusations. It’s just not good for business.

I watch as couples pair up with other couples or singles. They huddle together as if they share some salacious secret that just begs to be told. This is what they came for—to meet others like them. Not only to share their varied interests, but also to explore them . . . enjoy them.

I feel eyes on me . . . hear whispers inquiring whether or not we’re available for play. When the crowd begins to thin out as people make their way downstairs, I cling to Tucker like my life depends on it. Oddly enough, he seems oblivious to the obvious interest we’re garnering.

“Hey,” he coos softly, kissing the crown of my head. “How about we just go down and watch? No pressure. We don’t even have to take our clothes off. We don’t have to do anything at all.”

I look around the room and instantly lock eyes with Ransom, who is surrounded by two couples and even a few singles, all vying for his affections. With his statuesque frame, he easily peers over the horde, gazing at me with perplexity. Maybe he feels it too—this uneasiness. This doubt. Maybe we’re not cut out for kink. Or maybe we’re just not cut out for it with anyone else.

That can’t be true. It won’t be. Not anymore.

I look up at my husband and give him a slight smile, stowing my apprehension for the sake of this beautiful, loving man. I don’t get to worry about Ransom’s feelings. I don’t have the right.

“Sure. Let’s go.”

Chapter Twenty-five

There’s a sort of out of body sensation that one experiences when they step out of their comfort zone and do the unthinkable. It’s as if you take on another life, switching from existing as the executor to the bystander, watching, anticipating, but not really feeling. Your body feels pleasure, but mentally, you check out. If you don’t, reality will creep in, shattering the illusion and allowing insecurity to slither its way into you like a black oil serpent. And once it settles inside you, purging its disease, you realize that you weren’t just witnessing this depravity. You were living it.

At least that’s how it is for me.

We do as Tucker suggests. We watch, we talk; we bite our lips in fascination and desire. And when our own feelings of arousal become too intense to put off any longer, we touch. In front of a room full of people, all of whom are too caught up in their own sexual exploits to give a damn, I let my husband touch me.

It’s almost chaste at first—a brush of my hair off my shoulders, a soft kiss on my neck, a gentle caress across my collarbone. And while I am somewhat tentative of each touch, my body betrays just how much this experience has truly affected me. Watching people kiss, fondle, lick, suck, and, oh yeah, fuck, is hot as hell. And the carnal, ruthless part of me craves that too. To be kissed, fondled, licked, sucked, and fucked. Desperately. In any and every way I can get it.

We settle on one of the unoccupied odd-shaped lounge chairs, which is barely wide enough for the both of us. It’s a good central location, giving us a view of the entire room. At every angle we hear people moan and gasp in pleasure. We see them testing the limits of their sexual restraint before thrusting into it headfirst. We even smell the arousal in the air, mixed with the scents of strategically placed jasmine and lavender candles.

All of it creates a heady cocktail of seduction that tempts my senses yet soothes my trepidation. So when Tucker leans over to kiss my lips, I don’t hesitate. I open for him, allowing his tongue to sweep into my mouth to taste the remnants of champagne and strawberries. I let his body settle over mine, even open my legs as far as they will go in my skintight dress. And I’m not even going through the motions now. I’m enjoying it. I’m present for it. That is, until something nudges me in the back of my head. Call it a hunch or intuition. Maybe it’s my body’s animal instinct. But I know Ransom is here. And I know he’s close, yet not close enough.

I open my eyes, but I can’t see much more than Tucker’s face. His legs are on either side of the chair, the part of it that’s enhanced with a smaller wave than the one my head rests on, and my ankles are hooked around his ass. He gives me his sexy smile—the one that means he wants me. The one he once used only on designated sex nights. But here we are, deviating from the routine. Doing something so out of the box for us that I can’t understand how it ever existed. How were we ever placated with mediocrity? When both of us are so extraordinary in our professional lives? Shouldn’t we be mad, ravenous beasts in every sense of the word?

His lips fall to my throat, and he kisses and sucks a path down to my chest. I don’t object when he tongues the tops of my breasts so he takes that as an invitation to slide the straps of my dress down. When I arch into the movement, he goes a step further, sealing our fate and completely taking us from playground spectators to contributors. He pulls my dress down until it gathers around my ribcage, exposing the hardened peaks of my breasts.

His gaze flickers up to mine as he slowly lowers his face to a pebbled nipple, taking it into his mouth, stroking the stiff bud with the flat of his tongue. I squirm under him, part of me self-conscious of prying eyes and part of me turned on beyond belief. This is different from our time with Ransom. Having Tucker watch me with another man was off-the-charts amazing. But now there are potentially more than two-dozen people watching us, watching the man I love suck and lick my nipples the way he knows I like it, and that . . . that’s beyond incredible.

I fist his soft hair, drawing him nearer, begging him with my body to lick faster, suck harder, and Tucker reads me like a book, giving me exactly what I need. When I feel his teeth squeeze my inflamed flesh, I don’t even hesitate my moan. I just let it live in this space, in this time without apology, just like us.

The fabric of my dress eases down farther, stopping at the lacy waistband of my thong. It feels too heavy, too hot on my blistering skin, and I want it off me. Tucker doesn’t waste a single second yanking it over my stomach and hips when I lift my ass from the lounger. I fumble with the buttons of his shirt, needing him to feel what I feel—this heat that can only be extinguished with the brush of another’s flushed skin, and he aids me in my efforts by yanking it over his head. I move down to the belt of his slacks, then the clasp, until he is just like me—nearly naked in his underwear and exposed. Vulnerable.

Our lips lock as if we have just discovered our weakness. As if we are Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, post apple. Only the discovery of our sin does not hinder us. It only rouses us, making us crave this evil more. Creating a hunger inside that can only be sated with more wickedness.

He pulls his lips away only to lave my breasts once more before moving down to my navel. He swirls his tongue inside the tiny dip, kisses a trail from hipbone to hipbone, and then nibbles the edge of my panties. I know what he requires: permission. A sign that I want this to go further. That I want to do this as badly as he does. Tonight is in my hands. I can say no, and we can keep this right where it is—safe. Or I can raise my hips a fraction, allowing him access to my nakedness, and open the door to everything my marriage was missing before. Excitement. Danger. Passion.

His underwear meets mine on the floor almost simultaneously, and we are skin to skin. Nothing between us—no secrets, no fear, no frustration. Just me and my husband, as it should be.

There’s nothing safe about the way he touches me after that. Nothing gentle about how he pushes my back into the rounded chair. Nothing sweet about how he grips my thighs with enough force to score my skin, and spreads my legs as far as they will go, causing a cool blast of air to touch my wetness. I groan as he sits up and slides his palms to my ass. And when he aligns his dick with my slick entrance, I moan his name, begging him to take me now, fuck me now. And I don’t have to beg for long.

He fills me in one swift, hard stroke. With the position this chair allows—my pelvis tilted and my body curved, I feel him deeper than ever before. We stay locked like that for a long time, him barely thrusting, our joined sex grinding together, as we kiss passionately with uncontrollable hunger. When his hips finally flex and he pulls out just a bit, I shiver with the need to feel him again. That depth, that warmth. His body completely submerged in mine.

He fucks me then. Not his version of fucking. Not the soft-core shit I sometimes find on his computer. My husband fucks me how I need to be fucked. Hard, fast, and violent. Like he hates me. Like he needs to fuck the disgust and loathing out of me for all these years of discontent. All the years of shame and frustration. And for all the ways he couldn’t love me how I needed to be loved because of what had been done to me.

I think I always knew where the root of our problems stemmed. It was in fear. Fear of hurting me both physically and mentally. Fear of him feeling like the monster that had stripped me of my dignity and robbed me of the privilege of being a mother. We were both so scared for so long that there was no more room to feel anything else. We had built our home on an eggshell foundation, and we tiptoed around the truth, hoping that all we had constructed would not crumble under the weight of our own selfishness. And here we are, taking a wrecking ball to that home. Crushing it, dismantling it, together.

When I rake my nails over his chest, he answers me by plowing in harder, hard enough to make me yelp with pain. It doesn’t stop him. He leans over to take a nipple in his mouth, his strokes still deliciously brutal, and bites the puckered bud before sucking nearly my entire breast into his mouth like a starving infant. I pull his hair, telling him to take more, telling him he’s a greedy bastard, and he moves to the other breast, assaulting that one as well. It’s only when he comes up for air that I realize that we’ve slid to the peak of the rounded chair and Tucker is standing, his fingernails digging into my ass, his cock so far inside me, I can taste the first drops of his release just begging to be freed.

I gasp for air, the oxygen in the room suddenly becoming too thin, yet thick with lavender-tinged smoke. My chest heaves wildly and sweat rolls between my breasts, making my nipples harder than diamonds. They ache with the need to be touched and pinched. Bitten until the pink peaks become red and raw. I reach for Tucker, searching for him to anchor me, feeling so high that I may float away if he doesn’t hold on. He grabs on to my shoulder with one hand to level his strokes, and wraps the other around my throat.

It’s all I need—those nails biting into my skin, tightening, creating pressure to my carotid arteries so that my brain is denied of precious oxygen. Getting me drunk off carbon monoxide and the sheer eroticism of being fucked until I’m light-headed. His other hand abandons my shoulder and dips to my clit where he rubs the tiny bud that kisses his dick with every stroke. He’s growing for me, swelling, and I tighten around him in response, daring him to do the same. Challenging him to rip me apart and dirty me just a little bit more.

My frantic eyes wide with bliss and lack of air, I’m soundless as the first surge of orgasm overtakes me. I ride it out in rough waves, falling deeper and deeper into black water. I shake violently, unable to control the spasms that roll through my body like thunder. I can breathe now, Tucker’s grip completely loosened, yet climax still squeezes my lungs, wringing out every drop of arousal from my body like a wet cloth. I’ve never come like this before. Never experienced anything like this before. And I did it with the one person I thought would never bring me to this place—my husband.

He collapses on top of me and I wrap my arms around his sweat slickened back, the need to comfort and nurture him almost overwhelming. It’s as if he’s awakened this . . . vulnerability in me. Yet, it’s not borne of weakness. It’s freedom and strength. It’s the irrevocable feeling of unconditional love and acceptance.

Ragged with exhaustion and ecstasy, my head lolls to one side with no bones or joints to support it. I smile lazily, basking in the feeling of being completely blissed out, and allow my eyes to focus, realizing in the haze of afterglow that we’ve done it. We’ve done the unthinkable. And it was everything that I could have asked for and more.

That’s when the oily, black serpent sinks his fangs into my flushed skin, penetrating tendon and arteries. Infecting me with its ugly doubt and shame.

I only see him for a moment before he turns and stalks away. But that’s all I need; a glimpse of the dark pain that paints Ransom’s handsome face, leaving a smeared trail of dejection behind him.

Chapter Twenty-six

I wake up sated and splendidly sore when my cell rings early the next morning. It’s Tamara (who still can’t calculate the time difference) with my daily update, giving me the scoop on all my clients and events in the city. Being this far from home has been difficult, but not impossible. Thanks to the internet and a strong cell signal, I can do my job anywhere. And as long as my clients stay out of the proverbial kitchen, no one has to get burned. Also, my two most controversial, i.e. difficult, clients are merely yards away. Which has proven to be just as much of a curse as a gift.

I look at my sleeping husband, flat on his stomach, his teddy bear brown hair falling over his forehead. I smooth back the waves that tickle his brow and muster a smile. He was amazing last night. So amazing that we came back to our room and went at it again, licking and sucking each other to another earth shattering orgasm. Of course, I struggled to live in the moment and just focus on Tucker and what his tongue and fingers were doing to my body. I’d give myself over to pleasure, only to be jolted back to reality when the look on Ransom’s face would pop into my mind. I hurt him—I know I did. But I don’t see how there was any way to avoid it. Tucker is my husband . . . will always be my husband. And there’s no way Ransom can expect me not to make love to my husband.

I pull myself out of bed much sooner than I should and stretch my stiff, sore limbs before jumping in the shower. When I step out, it takes me a full five minutes to decide what I should put on. I look at my tiny, white bikini, still completely untouched with the tags still dangling from it. I’ve been here for a week and still haven’t gone for a swim in the beautiful infinity pool, or even taken a dip in the more private turquoise lagoon, partitioned by blue palo verde and palm trees. I rip off my towel and grab the bathing suit. It’s still early enough that it should be pretty empty, plus after last night most people are probably sleeping in or going for another round. But with the bright morning sun streaming through the curtains, and the smell of fresh, desert air, I can’t find a good reason to spend another second inside.

I lift my face to the heavens as I greet the cloudless blue sky and the warmest, most brilliant sunlight I’ve ever felt. The only signs of human life are Oasis staff, preparing the day for lots of sunbathing, noshing, and sipping. Ordinarily, I would roll my eyes at those couples lazing around the pool in their designer swimwear and shades, but for some reason, I want to join them. I want to stretch out in an oversize lounger made for two and eat fresh cut papaya and drink ridiculous libations from a hallowed out pineapple.

Overnight, I had become one of those people. The sexually liberated. And even though it was just a one-on-one experience for Tucker and me, which would probably be deemed tame compared to theirs, when we looked up from the fog of orgasm, we realized that we were being watched. Yet, there wasn’t an inkling of judgment or disdain etched in their faces. There was admiration, awe, and definitely arousal. At least that was the case for mostly everyone. For Ransom? Not so much.

I assumed he had stormed off to his room after watching Tucker and me, so overwhelmed with hurt and disgust. I couldn’t go after him—seriously, how ridiculous would it look if I ran after him ass naked?—and I couldn’t fully express my regret to Tucker. We had turned a page, the one that had been holding us back from completing our story. I needed to stay in this moment with him, no matter how badly I wanted to make things right with Ransom. This was our chance to make things better. I had to take it. Any good wife would agree.

So here I am, the morning after. I had not only survived Justice’s playground, I had thrived. And maybe this was exactly what I needed to solidify my love for Tucker. Maybe I was only weak for Ransom because my marriage was weak. And now that we had found the key to our bedroom ills, maybe we could cure everything else that was wrong with us. Whatever that is.

After sitting out for ten minutes, the Arizona summer sun, aka hell’s tanning bed, had become unbearable. I decide to roam over to the shaded lagoon situated behind the pool bar and a row of cabanas. I’d seen it before, obviously, but I had never actually been there. So checking out one of the most romantic spots on the property alone seemed a little sad, yet cathartic.

I step through a barrier of trees and my eyes find incredible beauty in that small space. Shimmering teal waters, limestone boulders strategically placed to create a magnificent series of natural fountains, and a sculpted, sun-kissed back slick with water.

I suck in a surprised breath when I see him, drawing his attention, and Ransom turns around, revealing a bare, chiseled chest that I had seen just days ago. He looks at me with the same shock I stare at him with, yet his expression quickly morphs into contempt. He snorts and cuts his eyes at me, just before turning back around to rest his elbows on the edge of the pool. I stand there, shocked at his demeanor. Just days ago, he was begging me not to leave, not to turn my back on him completely and shut him out. Now it seems the tables have turned.

“Can I help you?” he snaps without looking at me. The tone of his voice is so cold even the desert palms shiver.

“Ransom . . .”

I’m not sure what I should say. I’m sorry? Nope. What would I be sorry about? Sleeping with my husband? Trying to fix our intimacy issues in hopes that it would be enough to fix us? Yet, to shrug and tell him to get over it would seem callous. I’m a bitch when I need to be, not because I enjoy hurting people. And I’m not a liar. At least when I can help it.

“You knew we’d be there. You knew I wanted to repair my marriage. That was my intention all along.”

“Right. Your intention,” he sneers, looking over his shoulder. “Was it your intention when I was inside you? When you were damn near begging me to take you every time we were alone? Or how about the other night? What were your intentions when you had your pussy in my face, so fucking wet that there’s still a damp spot on the fucking chair? Were you thinking of Tucker then? Was that to save your marriage?”

Each accusation is like a blow to my gut, but I recover without so much as a flinch. I won’t let him rattle me. I won’t give this asshole the satisfaction of affecting me. That’s exactly what he wants. Instead, I drop the towel and the paperback I was holding, and march over to him, head held high and back straight. Although I feel about two feet tall right now.

Ransom peers up at me from his place in the pool, his expression a mixture of fury and boredom. Before he can spew one more insult, I let his ass have it.

“What’d you think, Ransom? That this was about you? It was never about you. You were fun to play with, yes, but that’s it. We had fun. But what else could you expect me to want from you? A relationship? A life? You’re a good lay, Ransom, and a great musician. But that’s it. Stick to what you know and leave the marriage shit to the grownups.”

The lie lingers on my lips, swollen with the stinging remnants of my words. I know they’re harsh, but they don’t even seem to crack his stoic exterior. Instead, he just continues to look up at me, hands on my hips, my mouth a tight slash. All of that, yet no response. It’s unnerving.

I start to turn away, when I feel his arms under my knees, squeezing. Then I’m airborne for a fleeting second before being plunged into cool waters headfirst. I thrash and fight, gulping down a gallon of water before I realize what’s happened. When I finally break through to the surface after what seems like the battle of my life, I hear him chuckling, yet I can’t see him through the wet hair and water in my eyes.

“You son of a bitch!” I sputter through violent coughs. “How dare you! How fucking dare you!”

I still hear him chuckling just inches from me, and I claw at the air in front of me, hoping to connect with his skin. My nails rake across what feels like the hard mound of his bicep, yet he keeps laughing, the dark timbre of his voice both infuriating and disturbing me. When I’m finally on two feet and my sopping wet hair is out of my eyes, I glare at him with pure concentrated malice in my steel gray eyes.

“Who the fuck do you think you are? You don’t get to touch me. You don’t ever get to fucking touch me!”

“Relax, H. It’s water. It won’t hurt you.” He rolls his eyes and crosses his arms in front of his chest. That’s when I see angry bright red scratches lanced in his arm. I drew blood. I made him hurt for me just as he’s made me bleed for him. And now . . . I want to do it more. I want him to ache. I want him to suffer. Just make him feel an ounce of the torment I feel inside. I launch myself at him, pounding his chest, scratching at him like a wild animal. Fighting this demon inside me that makes me want him, even though I have everything.

“I don’t care! You can’t do this! You can’t just throw me around. You can’t just put your hands on me whenever you want to. You can’t have me! I am not yours! Understand? I am not yours to touch!”

I know I’m not making any sense, but it feels good to scream. The freedom of letting go, of purging myself of this affliction for him, is therapeutic.

He grips my wrists, yet I still thrash with elbows and knees and teeth. I fight him for making me feel for him. For making me feel less for my husband. For making me realize that there is something sick and twisted inside me that is wrong, and will always be wrong. And making me accept my disease because there are people like him in this world that are wrong too. Because even though Tucker has tried his damnedest to appease me, to feed my wrongness, I’ll always know that he is only pretending for me because he loves me. And Ransom . . . Ransom is wrong without even trying. And that is so right for me.

I don’t realize I have collapsed into his chest until he wraps his arms around my trembling frame. I try to pull away but I’m too exhausted to fight him anymore—to fight this. Sweat, tears, and water streak down my face, creating a salty, slippery salve between us.

“I hate myself,” I sob. “I hate myself for wanting you. And I hate him for letting me.”

Big, callused hands on my neck, my shoulders, my back. Lips in my hair, my temple. I feel him shake his head as he holds me tighter.

“Don’t hate yourself. And don’t hate him. Hate me, H. Hate me for wanting you just as badly.”

I push away from him, my palms over his nipples, but he keeps his fingers locked around my waist. Looking up at him with contempt and desire battling for my next breath, I tell him the truth. I tell him what I don’t really mean. “I already do.”

“Then show me,” he whispers, stepping in closer. “Show me how much you hate me. Loathe me. Despise me. Detest me. But don’t reject me. Don’t push me away because you think I can’t take it. Because I want it, H. I want that beautiful violence. I want you to scratch and kick and scream. Because you know what’s on the other side of that madness?”

“Don’t say it.” I shake my head frantically, refusing to hear it. “Don’t fucking say it.”

“Passion. Obsession.” He pulls me in closer so that my hands are sandwiched between our chests. “Love.”

It happens so quickly—his arms around me lifting me up, my legs wrapping around his waist, and our mouths fused together, drinking in every drop of each other’s daring desire. I’m in peril with his arms wound around me so tightly that I can only breathe through him, his lungs sustaining mine. With his rock hard length pressing into me through the thin fabric of our bathing suits, I might as well sacrifice myself to him now, lay my head down on the chopping block, and let him end me. I’m helpless to him—utterly defenseless against this chest that was cut from smooth marble and these lips that have whispered the most erotically beautiful lyrics ever conceived.