He crunched it and said, “Come on in.”
I stepped past the threshold, and he closed the door behind me.
The living room was impeccable in dark woods and Persian carpets. The bookcases
were full. The whole place was the exact opposite of the cold modernity of his
hotels.
Jonathan stood in front of me, watching my eyes take in the
details of his house. The paintings. The stained glass. The clean corners and
fluffed pillows. He kissed me again and, having forgotten the edict about the
position of my hands, I put my arms around him. His hands warmed my back, his
touch solid and strong. He kissed my cheek and neck. “Go upstairs. There’s a
room with the light on and an open door. Sit on the end of the bed. I’m going to
lock up down here.”
“Okay,” I said because I needed to hear the sound of my own voice
at the end of so many commands. I backed up, and he watched me as I turned and
went up the stairs.
The room he wanted was right in front of me. There were other
doors, all closed. I heard him banging around downstairs with locks and lights.
I could peek in one room, just to see, then say I was looking for the bathroom,
but the idea lasted the time it took for me to step into the room with the
single, glowing lamp.
I sat at the edge of the bed. It must have been a guest bedroom.
There were no pictures, no personal effects, just a hardwood bed and matching
craftsman style dressers.
He seemed to take forever, and just as I was about to get up and
see if he was all right, I heard him coming, one slow step at a time, up the
stairs.
He was still dressed and had a bottle of water. He held it out to
me.
“I’m good. Thanks.”
“You look uncomfortable.”
“You took a long time.”
He kneeled in front of me and touched my knee. “I’m sorry, Monica.
Can you forgive me?”
Before I could answer, he kissed inside my knee. “I think so,” I
said. “If you keep doing that.”
He looked up at me, all green eyes and messy red hair. He moved
his lips up my thigh, spreading my legs. A tingle went up the inside of my
thighs as he ran his hands up them, the edge of his watch a light scratch on
sensitive skin. He picked my leg up, and I fell back as he lightly kissed the
outside of my mound.
“Ah, Jonathan,” I whispered, stroking his hair. He spread my legs
farther, kissing between them. He slipped his finger into my wetness, and I
gasped and remember the afternoon and Sam’s desk. This time was different. When
I looked down at him, his eyes were closed with intensity as he flicked his
tongue over my clit. I think I said his name again. He flicked again. He was so
light with it. Like he didn’t want me to come.
As if he read my mind, he stood up, undressing so quickly I had
only a second to admire his body, with its light hair and perfect angles. He
flipped a condom out of his pocket and got it on without missing a beat, then
lodged himself on top of me, his dick like a rock and everywhere it should be
except inside me. We kissed. He tasted perfectly of whiskey and desire. I
wanted him. I wanted every inch of him. He was right outside, pressing in, the
head of his cock a tingle at my opening. I twisted my hips to move him in, but
he backed off, picking his head up to look at me.
“Please,” I said.
“Not yet.”
He slid his dick up my snatch without entering me, rubbing the
length of him on my clit, sending waves of pleasure through me. I was so wet,
he slid back and forth. I spread my legs as far as I could and moved with him.
I could come like this, but I didn’t want to. I wanted him inside me. This
would feel like masturbation compared to his cock being where it belonged.
“Please,” I said again.
“Not yet.”
“Jesus, Jonathan. What do you want?” My sex ached for him. It
didn’t feel empty. It felt full to bursting, a throbbing, pounding hunger
filling my skin.
“I want you to want it,” he said.
“I do. My God, I do.”
In response, he pushed harder, increasing the pressure without
entering me. “No, you don’t. Not enough.”
I knew what he wanted, and I was willing to give it to him.
“Please. I’m begging you. I’m begging. I’ll do anything you want. I’ll be
anything you want. Just don’t—“
He drove his dick into me with a ferocity that shocked me and
turned the last word into a cry. He stopped for a second, as if he’d been
shaken by the violence of his initial thrust.
“Don’t stop,” I gasped. “Don’t make me beg again.”
He buried his face in my neck and fucked me, pushing inside,
pressing his body against my clit, his cock rubbing with each stroke, until I
couldn’t take it anymore, and then he stopped.
“What?” I groaned.
“You want to come?”
“Yes. Fuck. Yes.”
“Beg for it.”
“Fuck you.” I pushed his chest. I was on fire, so close to
orgasm, nearly unable to think complete thoughts. He pushed himself in me once,
then stopped. It was a burst of sensation between my legs, then nothing. I
looked up at him. He was enjoying himself, and he could keep going as long as
he needed to.
“Please. Fuck you.”
“Close.” He stroked again, a taste of what I could have. He went
slowly, too slowly, moving enough to keep me hot, but not enough to get me off.
I put a hand between my legs and he grabbed both my wrists, holding them
against the mattress with all his weight, rocking his hips back and forth just
a little.
I had never felt anything like that. It wasn’t an orgasm, because
I had not an ounce of release, only the firing nerve endings and blasting heat
between my legs. I was sweating everywhere. Tendrils of hair clung to my face,
but his hands held mine down, and I couldn’t move them.
“I want to come,” I groaned.
“I want you to come.”
“Let me. Please.” I said it so softly I didn’t even think he’d
hear me. “Please. Please.
Please
…”
With every
please,
I got more
desperate and more quiet. On the last plea, he pulled out of me and pushed back
in, all the way, and then again, until everything went hot red. I said his name
over and over, going limp everywhere, and still the orgasm went on and on. His
mouth was at my ear, and I could hear his groan as I finally stopped coming.
His arms wrapped around me, tightening as he came, a guttural
ahh
rattling his
throat with each slowing thrust.
“Holy fuck,” he whispered into my neck.
“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you.”
He propped himself up on his elbows and kissed my face from my
chin, to my right cheek, to my forehead, and back down my left cheek, and to my
chin again. His eyes flicked to his watch.
“Sun rises at 5:38 a.m. You’re mine for four more hours.”
“I don’t think I can take four more hours of that.”
“Don’t sell yourself short.” He rolled off me, and we just stared
at the ceiling, letting our breathing get back to normal.
I had never experienced anything like that, not with Kevin and
certainly not with Darren. I didn’t know I could sit on the brink for that long
or just how many brinks there were. I didn’t know I could give someone else
control over what I felt.
It felt as though, after that orgasm, I should have to sleep for
hours, or I wouldn’t want sex for at least a month, but neither was the case. I
was energized, and I wanted it again.
“Where are you flying off to tomorrow?” I asked.
“Korea. I’m putting a hotel up in Seoul.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Uh oh.”
“Your house. You have all the original everything in here, and
the hotels are, like, white and chrome.”
“This house was built for a family a hundred years ago. It was a
home. People want to feel like they’re
away
from home when they go to a hotel.”
“Right. That makes sense.”
“I thought you were going to bail on me.”
“I got held up talking to my manager. Ex-manager. Jerk-off.” I
tucked my head on his shoulder and ran my fingertips up and down his chest. I
couldn’t keep my hands off him.
“This the guy who disappeared?”
I propped myself up on my elbows and kissed his shoulder and down
his chest. I could still smell some of the dusty cologne past the sheen of
sweat built up from our sex. “This guy from WDE was at Frontage and called him.
He wants his boss to see me. But I fired
Vinny
, and
now he won’t give me the contact.”
“Why’d you fire him?”
“Because he’s an asshole. I’ll find a way to get
Testarossa
to take my call myself.” I worked my way down
his stomach, over his hip bones, with my lips and tongue. I was aroused all
over again. He put his hands on my shoulders.
“WDE? That’s Arnie Sanderson, right?”
Arnie Sanderson owned WDE and was the single most inaccessible
person in the world. Even his own clients had to make appointments to get a
call, and regular
schlub
WDE clients, who were some
of the top paid people in entertainment, never met the guy.
“Arnie Sanderson. Yeah,” I said. Jonathan’s dick was hard again
already.
“I’ll call him for you.”
“I’m not about to suck your dick so you’ll make a call for me.”
“And I’m not making the call so you’ll suck my dick. So, now that
we’ve cleared that up, can you get on with it?”
I looked up at him. He smiled from ear to ear and put one hand
under his head. I licked his dick’s length with the flattest part of my tongue.
When I got to the top, I slid the entire length of it down my throat.
He breathed a deep
ahh
and said, “Where did you learn to do that?”
“Los Angeles High School of Performing Arts,” I said. “They
taught me how to open my throat to sing. Then Kevin Wainwright taught me how to
put his dick down it.”
He laughed. “I’d like to thank LA Unified and Kevin Whatever for
this moment.”
I couldn’t help but grin, which kept me from engaging in the task
at hand. “I like you, Jonathan.”
“Feeling’s mutual, Monica.”
***
We collapsed from exhaustion around five thirty a.m. Two hours
later, I woke up with a sore sex and a dry throat. Jonathan’s arm was draped
over me. His breath came in heavy, slow rhythms. I looked at him sleeping,
closely inspecting him for the first time. His copper-colored lashes fluttered
under soft brows.
Faded freckles
dotted his nose. He was truly beautiful, and seeing him with those eyes, I
realized I could easily fall for this man. I was walking on a precipice even
letting myself stare at him for this long.
I slipped out from under his arm and went to find my clothes.
My dress and underwear were draped over a chair by the door and
smelled like last night’s whiskey and fresh porch air. I slipped into them and
went into the kitchen for water.
I looked onto the backyard, with its dark green furniture and
bean-shaped pool, sipping my water. I ran over the night in my mind, which was hard,
because after a certain point, it just became a blur of skin, sweat, and
orgasms. I must have said his name a hundred times, starting with me begging
him to fuck me and ending with an orgasm he’d delayed eternally. When he
finally let me come, it must have lasted fifteen minutes.
The first time he had thrust into me with such force, it was
almost like he wanted to shut me up. Like he was saying, “here, take it, but
please stop.”
Please. I’m begging you.
I’m begging. I’ll do anything you want. I’ll be anything you want. Just
don’t—
I was going to stay
don’t
stop
, but in a different circumstance, when the love of your life was
walking out the door, you might say
don’t
leave.
The buzz of a phone brought me back to my senses. I was making stuff
up. The phone buzzed again. I didn’t know if it was mine, but I located the
source on the kitchen counter, plugged into the wall. Jonathan’s phone, and it
was facing up.
The caller:
Jess.
Ex-wife.
Fuck.
I threw the rest of the water down my throat and put the glass in
the sink. I had to go. I didn’t want to get in the middle of whatever that was.
“Good morning,” he said, sleep all over his face, T-shirt
stretched over his perfect body.
“I took the glass from the rack and got water from the little
thing in the fridge door. Didn’t even open it.” He shrugged, and I relaxed. He
didn’t seem to feel invaded.
“Can I make you coffee?” he asked. “I can scramble eggs if you
want.”
“No, I’m okay.”
As I rinsed the glass, he came up behind me and kissed my neck, fingering
my zipper. “How about another go?”
“The sun is up,” I teased. I wanted another go. On the counter.
On the floor. His lips caressed my earlobe, and I leaned my head back.
He slipped the dress’s zipper down. “You need to beg again.
You’re good at it.” He kissed my back. I wanted to. I wanted to cry for it, one
more time, before he became a memory. He pushed my dress off my shoulders with
a perfect touch that rode between firm and light, a touch on a collarbone,
maybe, like the one caught on camera from his wedding day.
“Your phone rang,” I said. Stupid. Another go would have been
nice, but it was too late now.
“It’s always ringing.” He reached inside the dress and caressed
my breasts, nipples hardening at his touch.
The phone buzzed. His lips left me, and I knew he was looking at
it. His hands fell, and a palpable chill filled the room. I cleared my throat.
“I think I need to take this,” he said, zipping me back up.
“Sure,” I whispered. “My shoes are upstairs.”
I walked to the door, and when I looked back, he was popping the
cable from the phone. His hands could have been shaking. I couldn’t tell.
I scooped up my shoes from the bedroom floor and went back to the
kitchen. He was on the patio, elbows on his knees, looking at the flagstones
with the phone pressed to his ear. His hands gestured, but I couldn’t hear him.
It wasn’t my business.