Lustfully Ever After (14 page)

 

Since the orientation for my program ended at noon, I decided to skip the class tour of the university art museum and head home for a nap. I slipped into my Japanese sleeping kimono and was just about to get into bed when I heard the jiggle of a key in the lock of the apartment’s main door. A moment later Alex walked in, briskly, like a man with a mission. He stopped short when he saw me.

“My apologies, I didn’t mean to come in without your permission. It won’t happen again.”

“That’s okay. I sort of gave you permission to check the mattress this morning,” I said lightly, although this did indeed feel like a violation of my privacy.

“I’d forgotten that I’d stored a few old things under this bed, and I thought I’d remove them for your comfort,” he said hurriedly, avoiding my eyes.

“Oh?” Instinctively I knelt down and peered into the shadows under the bed. A single cardboard moving box was stationed dead center under the mattress, but it wasn’t even touching the box spring. I laughed. “I don’t think one little box is causing the problem.”

Alex cleared his throat. “Yes, that would be unlikely. I’ll order another mattress right away, a different brand.”

“Thank you.” As tired and indecently dressed as I was, I was tempted to ask him to stay for a chat.

“We’re not getting off to the best start, are we? Freak storms, lumpy mattresses, rude intrusions. I feel like I owe you a homemade dinner tonight at least.” With this, he met my eyes and smiled.

I felt a sexy pang between my legs. “You don’t owe me anything, but I’d be delighted.”

He’d hardly closed the door behind him when I was back down on my knees gazing at that intriguing box. I didn’t want to snoop, but then again Alex had showed himself capable of bad manners. Plus, now I had the weirdest hunch this box had something to do with my lascivious dream.

With some difficulty, I reached under the bed and coaxed the box out into the open. It was marked “Laura—Personal.” My friend Lily had given me a thumbnail sketch of Alex’s past. A family with a history of prominence in the community,
pressure to abandon artistic interests for something “real” like law school, a beautiful fiancée who betrayed him but also gave him the excuse to escape from lawyering to live the life he’d always wanted as a photographer and restorer of old houses. Was Laura the fiancée? I decided a quick peep inside wouldn’t be too terrible an infraction. If it were full of moth-eaten sweaters, it would at least put any supernatural fears to rest.

Taking a deep breath, I opened the loose flaps of the box. A cold hand closed around my heart. Folded on top of few photo albums was a length of pale peach silk. I picked it up and shook it out. It was the same robe I’d been wearing in the dream.

With a shiver, I tossed it on the bed and pulled out the album on the top of the stack. The first photograph was a professional quality black-and-white headshot of a lovely, dark-haired woman. In the next, she wore a black veil over her face, but her eyes shone through the lace, drawing the viewer deep into her soul. The next series of pictures showed her lounging on a couch in the silk robe. None roamed beyond the bounds of tasteful sensuality: a glimpse of bare thigh, a hint of cleavage, the generous curve of her buttock outlined in silk.

And then, gradually, just as in the dream, the woman loosened the robe. At first the camera merely appreciated her body at a distance, then in close-up, the nude as art. As I turned the pages, my hand trembling faintly, the poses became more willful and dynamic. Eventually she was fully reclining, her legs spread to reveal her most intimate secret, a split, ripe fruit framed by dark curls. In the last photograph, her blurry hand was positioned over her vulva, her mouth gaping in a cry of ecstasy. This woman was obviously coming for the photographer, the man she loved. The twist of lust in my own belly told me that.

I reached for the next album. I shouldn’t have been surprised,
but I jumped and let out a soft cry at my next discovery—a black satin teddy, crushed into wrinkles by the weight of the books. I lifted it out of the box. The garment was like a soft corset with dangling ribbon garters. The chest area was nothing but a sheer black nylon, which would leave the wearer’s breasts fully exposed. It was the kind of thing a woman would put on if she wanted to feel like a prostitute.

I was finding it very difficult to breathe.

But I had to know the rest of the story. I turned the first page to find close-ups of the same beautiful model as before. However, this time her mouth was hard, even triumphant, as if she had taken something important from the photographer but wanted still more. She certainly gave more to the viewer. Quickly adopting sinuous, pornographic poses, she seemed to taunt the camera, fondling her own breasts, bending over the couch and smirking over her shoulder, her exposed cleft glistening, as if to say, “
He
took me this way, like an animal, and I liked it.”

Just looking at these images made me feel dirty—and fiercely aroused.

The final photo was the most revealing of all: a close-up of her dark eyes, disdainful yet adulterated with something I could only call regret.

Betrayal
.
He’s captured it well
.

In spite of the ache in my heart for him and my own past heartbreak at the hands of a faithless lover, the pulsing knot of lust between my legs required my immediate attention. On impulse, I shoved the box back under the middle of the bed and positioned myself face down above it, naked. Within moments, the sheet began to feel warm and spongy, like flesh.

“In spite of what I’ve done, you still want me, don’t you?”

This time the voice was female, a rich alto. Confident,
teasing, a bit cruel. I began to rock my hips into the bed, as if I were fucking my lover oh-so-slowly.

“Your lips might deny it, but I can see you’re hard in your pants, Alex. You’re hard for your Laura, aren’t you?”

Was it my imagination or did I hear another voice, male, sighing in reply?

“I want to make you suffer like you made me suffer all those months when you abandoned me for work you didn’t even love. And what else could I do on those lonely nights? I’d masturbate all night, crying out your name as I came over and over again until I collapsed. If only you’d been there to do it for me, we wouldn’t be here now.”

I began to pinch my nipple rhythmically. Moisture pooled under my abdomen. The sheets were going to be soaked.

“
He
had time for me when you didn’t.
He
told me I was beautiful. Said it was painful to watch me waste myself on a man who didn’t appreciate me. He was rougher in bed than you are, but I liked that. Because I felt guilty at first, and it helped me forget. But then I became addicted to it. The way he’d tie me to the bed and feed me his cock, then pull out at the last second and empty himself on my face. Then he’d take me from behind, pumping patiently in and out for a full half-hour until I had no choice but to climax around him. I never could manage to reach orgasm that way with you.”

I heard another sound in reply—a groan of anguish—mixed in with the gentle
click, click
of a camera shutter. My hips moved faster, grinding into the mattress, which seemed to push up and back in response.

“But I’ll give you one more chance, Alex. He might know how to fuck dirty, but you make it into art. I’ll never forget that first time when I came for you on camera. I never felt so beautiful, so loved. Is it possible to find that feeling again?”

Someone was moaning now. Me.

“Take me, Alex.”

A pulsing like a hard cock filled my belly. Large hands gripped my ass, possessive and hungry.

Who was rough in bed now?

The throbbing heat rose into my chest, my skull. No one had ever filled me so deeply. My cunt muscles twitched, desperate for release, but I held back my orgasm, hovering on the verge as long as I could bear it. When I finally came, so blindingly hard, it was as if every orgasm in the world—hers, his, mine—were packed into one explosive, bruising finale.

When I returned to my senses, the sun was low in the sky.

 

Alex served a fine dinner, too: grilled salmon, a salad of baby lettuces, a cabernet from a boutique winery owned by a friend, another ex-lawyer who’d followed his dreams. Slightly tipsy, I joined him on the sofa for dessert. Talk came easily to us. He told me about his growing photography business—mostly weddings and portraits, but a few personal projects that were less profitable but he hoped would find a gallery some day. We inched closer as dusk fell.

Then Alex hit me with the bombshell. “To me you look exactly as an artist should, a unique beauty who creates beauty. I hope you’ll let me do a photo session with you while you’re here.”

I almost choked on my Grand Marnier. To my guilty mind, he’d just asked me to put on skanky lingerie and masturbate for his camera.

“Are you all right? I know you didn’t sleep well last night.”

He put a hand on my shoulder.

My flesh seemed to melt into his fingers.

I’m not sure why I confessed my transgression so easily. I’d
always felt a special connection between us, even by email, and now his touch seemed to draw the truth from me as if I’d been enchanted. Besides, I was an idealist. Lies and secrets pained me physically, like rusty shards of metal pricking my heart.

“Ah, so you know all about Laura now.” To my surprise, he didn’t seem angry, only sad. “You probably found those pictures disturbing. I suppose any woman would.”

“To be perfectly honest, I felt them before I saw them. I mean—and I hope you don’t think I’m crazy—I dreamed about those pictures last night before I had any idea there was something under the bed. The first album wasn’t disturbing at all. It was beautiful, very erotic. But the second, well, it must have been difficult, but that’s what a real artist must do. Capture the Truth, no matter how painful.”

Alex turned to me and looked deep into my eyes. “I have something to confess to you, too. I put that box under your bed on purpose. Now you might think
I’m
crazy, but we had so much in common, I was starting to like you even before we met in person. I suppose that box was a kind of test or a way to exorcise my own demons through your innocence. I never thought you’d be affected by it. For that I am sorry.”

I laughed wryly. “I understand these things. I’m a sensitive artist, too.”

“That you are. I have plenty of proof.” He smiled. And leaned toward me.

It was, officially, our first kiss, and yet I know he felt it, too. This was only the next step in our journey together, taking the bitter along with the sweet.

When he finally pulled away, every inch of my body was humming, awake. He took my hand. We rose and walked upstairs together to that magical bed.

“I think it’s finished.” Lips pursed, I ran an appraising eye over the latest watercolor in my series
Summertime on Prince Lane
.

“Does that mean you can come to bed now?” Alex was lounging under the canopy, shirtless, his legs lean and endless in faded blue jeans. In fact, I’d been dying to jump him for hours, but I had to finish my homework first.

“Stay there, I’ll bring over the easel and show you how handsome you are.”

“Ah, I love the way you capture the afternoon shadows. But you made that fellow too good looking.”

“That’s exactly how you look through the eyes of love.”

Alex grinned. “Or maybe your model has that glow about him because I was thinking about making love to you the whole time?”

He pulled me down beside him. The thrum of desire between my legs burst into crackling flame. His brushed my breasts knowingly. I bit my lip and moaned.

“You are such a
sensitive
artist,” he murmured, pulling up my shirt and camisole to take one stiffened nipple between his lips.

I pressed my crotch against his thigh and cupped his erection through the jeans. I was always impatient with Alex, as I’d never been with any other lover. My lust was on overdrive, as if he’d fed me a magic potion the moment I arrived. Yet I knew after my first skull-shattering, selfish orgasm, there’d be another on Alex’s terms, slow and teasing and boundless. But, well-bred gentleman that he was, he always obliged my urgent needs first.

Without another word, he yanked down my pants and ran a delicate finger along my slit.

“You’re so damned wet. It must have turned you on to paint a half-naked man who was dreaming of all the ways he wants to fuck you.”

“Yes,” I whispered. “Because I saw how much you wanted me.”

“My response was obvious, wasn’t it? But you are such a fine lady, you only gave a hint of a bulge for viewers who were
sensitive
to such things.”

I would have blushed, but Alex was right. Although no one could accuse me of crossing any line of propriety, the work I’d done this summer was the most erotically suggestive of my career.