He was trouble from the start, but I couldn't resist.
She was the best kind of trouble. The kind that was so wrong, it felt right.
I’ve tried and failed to stay away from him.
I’ve done everything in my power to make her mine and keep her.
He’s almost impossible to say no to.
She never tells me yes.
We’re always fighting.
When we’re not fighting, we’re… well… making up.
He makes me laugh so hard.
I miss her laugh the most.
I'm a liar.
She knows the truth, but won’t admit it.
Sometimes, I wish I'd never met him.
I wish we could meet all over again. I'd do better.
His girlfriend knows.
The guy she’s with is a fool.
I’ll never love anyone like I love him.
She doesn’t love me enough to choose us.
It was the wrong place.
It was the wrong time.
It should have been him.
It will always be her.
***This book contains adult situations and is recommended for adult readers***
Saturday, February 14, 2009
THE WEEKEND WASN’T GOING to make anything better, but I had to give it a shot.
I was shaking. Running the razor up my soapy leg. I’d been nervous all day.
It had to be the last time, but I wanted to make it count. I knew how twisted that was. Finish on top, as they say. After tonight I’d go back to being the adoring fiancée.
I’d be faithful.
And if that was my last night with Casey, I’d need to make it count. I wanted to remember every second.
After my legs were smooth and everything else was in order. I put my face under the hot stream of water coming from the showerhead. I thought about the shower we took in Seattle. About how his hands roamed my body and touched me everywhere a man could touch a woman. My hand ran down to my core, feeling my trimmed hair.
God I want to feel you bare. I don’t want anything in between us.
His words echoed through my mind and I reached for the soap and the razor. I’d gone down to naked skin before, but it was a very, very long time ago. I thought it was probably in college.
I took my time, doing a thorough job. When I was finished my skin felt new and sensitive. Like the hair had been hiding me from wondrous sensations. I ran my fingers over myself and anticipated Casey’s doing the same.
After I had dried myself and applied his favorite-smelling lotion, I blow dried my hair, then stained my cheeks and lips and darkened my eyes and lashes.
I pulled a black garter up each leg. I wasn’t going to be wearing much, but I wanted to enjoy him taking his time removing them. I pulled the black, thigh-high stocking up my calves and fastened them to the garters with the clips that hung from ice-blue bows. I slipped my legs through the black silk underwear and prepared myself for the icing on the cake. The set that I’d ordered, and was currently dressing in, came with a corset.
It was black with ice-blue ribbons matching the bows on the garters and panties. It laced up the front. I’d looked at the ones that laced from behind, but they looked like a nightmare. I’d already have a struggle getting into one I could watch myself lace.
When the last hook and eye was latched, I straightened it and pulled. Instantly my chest looked bigger, fuller and heaved from the already very low-cut fabric that held my breasts. I ran my hands up the sides, feeling the rigid and straight boning, and yet I felt so comfortable and held together.
I pulled on the blue silk robe that completed the ensemble and went out into the main room to find the shoes and start a fire. I plugged my phone into the suite’s speakers and got out the champagne, putting it on ice in a bucket on the coffee table in the main room. I brought a plate of cheese and fruit to the table and then I went back to the kitchenette for the last piece.
The courage. The kind from a bottle. I had ordered a small decanter and placed it on the table as well. I was going to need a few shots if I ever had a prayer of pulling this off. Seduction wasn’t my forte. But he deserved it.
I usually felt so awkward and clumsy during sex. Well. Not with Casey.
With him I felt worshiped and desired. He acted like he craved me in the way he moaned from kissing my neck sometimes. It made me feel special. Made me feel sexy and wanton.
I arranged the extra pillows and blankets, that I’d ordered up, and they looked so inviting there on the floor in the center of the room.
I’d given it some thought on my plane ride here this morning. I wanted the night to be unforgettable. It was already unforgivable.
I downed two shots. Back to back. The cognac tasted sweet and bold. The taste lingered on my tongue.
I left the robe on. I wanted him to open me like an expensive gift. I wanted to watch his eyes up close when he saw what I was hiding underneath.
I’d told him to be there at eight and it was five to when he knocked. I’d left him a key—as was customary for us at hotels then—knowing he would use it if I didn’t answer.
I rose to my feet, with an extra four inches added from the Brian Atwood heels which Reggie bought me for Christmas. How was I to know they’d come in so handy when I’d sent him a joking picture in a text message version of a fairy-tale princess’s Christmas list?
As I stood there preparing myself, my heartbeat didn’t exactly feel fast; it just felt strong. A powerful pulsing that reverberated throughout my whole body.
The door handle clicked.
I’d turned the lights out, only a few recessed lights over the bar area and the fireplace remained lighting the room. It was tastefully amber and dim. The backlighting behind his body from the bright hallway, when he opened the door, gave me a chill.
He wore a perfectly tailored suit and looked so masculine in profile. It fit to his tight body in magical ways. His hair was tamed back with that miracle product he used to make it look controlled, and in the light, I could see the front was beginning its rebellion, loosening and falling forward more than it should.
He looked like a king. King Casey.
He closed the door gently and pocketed his hand into his slacks making the fabric taught over his already visible bulge.
I licked my lips.
I wanted another shot, but I didn’t dare move.
His blue eyes glittered from the lick of the flames behind me.
The song changed. I recognized it within the first few chords. The single guitar. The arpeggio. Slow Dancing in a Burning Room.
I swallowed. Eyeing him standing there, looking at me, the beautiful confusion of it all made my mouth water.
His eyes wandered over me like a search light, both warning and guiding my body home.
He walked toward me and I started forward to meet him halfway, but he held a hand up and stopped where he was when we were still feet apart.
“You look like my wildest dream.” His perfect hand still hung in the air. “Let me look you at you little more. This memory has to last me long time, honeybee.” He pandered his time. I watched him examine every detail of me. I thought I’d feel self-conscious, but the opposite happened.
I was proud, and having him take the time to look at every one of the things I’d done to get his attention felt so gratifying. I had prayed that at least one would capture his interest.
The corners of his lips quirked when his eyes shifted focus down toward my garter clips. He faked coolness by biting his bottom lip, but he didn’t fool me.
Finally, he said, “Come here.”
My right leg, my left leg and I, we all went to him together. My entire body working on its own. It was so easy.
“Wait, one more thing,” he interjected. Then did the international sign for spin-it-a-around, his smile bleeding through every feature on his face. His eyes looked like neon in the darkness.
I did a slow twirl, looking over my shoulder on my way back around. I batted my eyes to get a reaction.
“You look like the definition of temptation.” His eyes squinted and he pantomimed a come-here head nod. God, his claws were sunk so deep into me. If I looked like temptation, he looked precisely capable of charming-the-pants-off the Queen of England.
With my shoes, the height brought my eyes to his lips, my favorite latitude on planet Earth.
He ran a hand over my hair and pushed it behind my shoulder. “I can almost taste you, you smell that good,” he said, hushed. “You did all of this for me?”
“I did.” I was fixated on his mouth. I wanted to put my lips on him. I wanted to touch and undress him, but this was his show and I was only too happy letting him run it. The energy coming off him was palpable.
“Do you know how hard I am? I don’t know if you considered my lack of restraint when it comes to you this close to me.” His hands grazed way down my arms. “What is all of this?”
“I wanted to do something for you.” I looked up at him through my lashes. “I want to make you happy. I want to be your Valentine.” I took a deep breath, the anticipation of his body hot against mine at the forefront of my thoughts. “Open me.”
Ten fingers rushed my face and his lips crushed mine. Then he lifted me into the air. Eye to eye. Mouth to mouth. His arms wrapped around me and held me close. Mine went straight into his hair, my fin-gers spreading to get a grip on my unavoidable man.
“You taste like the night we met,” I heard him say.
He walked us farther into the room, me in his arms, our mouths tasting one another, his tongue circling mine to a beat unheard before.
I let my head fall to his neck and I opened my mouth to wet him with kisses, inhaling his scent—earthy and masculine and something sweet and only him.
The music changed again, but at that time, I couldn’t tell you what the song was.
When my feet touched the floor again, his hands were urgent. He undid the bow where my robe tied in the front and he pushed the silk off my shoulders. The fabric easily slid off me.
The look in his eyes was feral. “Look at you. You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?” He teased as his hands found my breasts and cupped me. Like he couldn’t decide what he wanted to touch, he roamed me. Over the tight trussed-up corset, around to my ass, and back in quick succession.
“I’ve missed you. I know I’m not good to you and I’m sorry,” I said, not knowing where the words were coming from.
With a finger over my mouth he said, “Shhh. I’m a big boy. I can handle it.”
He was right. He did handle it, but what I didn’t know was how. I could barely manage.
He continued, “You’re my Valentine. Tonight you’re mine. Understand me? Even your thoughts.” He caressed my cheek. “Don’t think about anything but me. That’s what I want. I’m going to take every-thing you’re wearing off. I’m going to touch every inch of you with my mouth. And I’m not going to pretend this is just a fling tonight, like I’ve done every time. For one night, I want you to pretend like it’s me you’re promised to,” his thumbs ran over my lips, “Mine to care for and adore. Say yes to me. Even if it is only for tonight. Please?”
His words came honest. I knew he didn’t always say what he felt, because of me. Because I fought my feelings hard and so, battled his as well.
I’d said the most honest sentence I had, “Then I’m yours.” And with all my damned heart, I wished the words were true. He had never offered me more, and I didn’t think he ever would.
He took his time unwrapping me. I luxuriated in the feeling of his hands on me and my body followed his gentle direction. When the cor-set was gone and I stood there in my panties, my hands began wandering him. I couldn't help want to touch his body the way he had been mine.
My nimble fingers undid the button on his coat and he shrugged out of it. My hands untucked his pressed dress shirt and began the climb of buttons separating him from me. I pulled it open and found him, like always, well defined and muscular. His stomach cut with lean muscles that flexed under my hands. His chest strong and firm. The long ridge of his collarbone, my favorite meal.
I didn’t bother with removing his shirt. Having even the slightest access to him was enough for me.
In my panties, stockings, and shoes I bent down to my knees with one thing in mind. I wanted to taste, to touch, and to have all of him. To please only him.
I kissed along the top edge of his dress pants, undoing his belt, and pulling it through its loops. Then, I tossed it away. The zipper went the way zippers do in these situations, and to my wonderful surprise, he wasn’t wearing anything underneath. I smiled at my discovery. It looked like he had finally made a decision about his undergarments.
My mouth continued to water.
His skin, too, was bare. But unknown to him, so was I.
My fingers circled underneath his length and pulled him out. I ran both of my hands under his pants to his ass and pulled them down farther to expose his scrotum, taught and collected tightly against him. Everything about him was beautiful.
I took him into my mouth and felt him flex inside me, growing even fuller. The taste of him was so intoxicating. His skin was like catnip and the more I had of it the more I needed. I looked up at him to see him watching me in wonder, his jaw ticking and every glorious muscle from my face to his was in full view.
I moaned around his cock, the sight of him like this stealing the remnant of every wayward thought from my head. It was only him and me. This night was for us.
I moved to a slow beat, enjoying every twitch, every breath he took while I pleasured him. He stood anchored in his spot. He brushed my hair back away from me, threaded his fingers through it, and pushed himself deep inside me before he pulled out of me and urgently pulled me up his decadent body. He kissed me, still holding my head in his hands with my hair. It was rough and his chest rose and fell in time with mine.
“Go lay down over there, Blake. I want to play with my Valentines’ gift.” A shiver ran through me. He released my hair and I backed up without looking at where I was going. My body on autopilot, I did what I was told.
I felt brazen and daring. I felt like I was living a fantasy. I leaned back on my elbows and drew my legs up then parted them like I’d dreamt of doing so many nights on the phone.
He came to crouch next to me and took stock of the table’s offerings.
“May I have a drink, honeybee? Good choice with the cognac. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were sentimental.” His voice was rich with sensuality, but his eyes were alight with happiness. He was going to play with me. I was his toy tonight. His toy.
He fixed himself a drink. Two pieces of ice clanked in the glass, then two fingers of the sweet liquor followed. He brought the short glass to his lips and hummed his pleasure at the taste.
I was on fire and the anticipation of him touching me was thrumming through my veins.
His shirt was open and his pants, although still undone in the front were pulled back up. The runaway lock of hair, which had broken formation from the rest, was gathering company from us running our hands through it.
While I’d been studying him, I hadn't paid attention to my wandering hand that was now rubbing my breast. My mouth was open and I was nearly panting.
After he drank down half of the glass, he touched my leg at the knee and leisurely ran his fingers up the skin to my thigh. His barely there touch wasn't enough.
I wanted more. I needed more.
I spread my legs farther for him and unabashedly ran my hand to my sex. I rubbed myself over my panties trying to satisfy a need that was blazing deep inside me. His eyes watched me touch myself and I saw that his desire matched mine. The usually cool and easy-going Casey, was again gone, and in his place was the take-control lover I dreamed about nearly every night.
On his knees he climbed closer to me, between my legs, and his hand met mine.
“I want you, Casey.”
He replied, with a firm demanding voice, “Say it again.”
“I want you.”
Maybe it was the ambiance and romantic mood of the room. Maybe I felt so free because it was, decidedly, my last time with him.
That singular thought made me panic and I had to remind myself why. I had to recite in my head, Because you’re marrying another man. Because Casey only likes chasing you. Because he doesn’t want the same things you do. He doesn’t want a family. He doesn’t want a home. He likes traveling and being carefree.
And it was those exact things that made me believe I had to leave him and made my heart retch to let him go. Because he would never offer me anything different and I could no longer live with the desperate yearning I had for him, that was entwined with my deeper desires for home, future, and stability.
Then he caught me and halted the runaway train that was my thoughts.
“I told you, honeybee. No thinking like that.”
Had I said all that out loud? Or was it possible my thoughts were loud enough to hear.
Still, even though my mind was playing chess with itself, my body and heart never strayed. They belonged to him.
“Then kiss me. Distract me.”
He reached for the table and his glass, emptying it in his mouth and I watched as he downed every last drop, including the ice. Returning the empty glass to the table, his eyes found mine and I saw a hint of mischief.
He dipped his head to my neck. The sensation was hot, but I could feel the coolness of the ice at the same time. He kissed my chest and when he took my nipple into his mouth the ice across my warm flesh sent a rush of need straight through me. I bucked my hips trying to find the pressure and friction I craved, but he backed away and down my body, taking his ice with him.
When he got to the elastic at the top of my panties he stopped and looked up at me.
“You’re so beautiful, Blake. Your body was made for me.” He kissed above the little blue bow on my panties. He said, low and sultry, “Your smell haunts me.” He dipped his head lower and breathed me in, his eyes flickering as he inhaled. “I crave the taste of you, like a man starved.”
Sitting up a little, he grasped both sides of the thin string that circled my hips on both sides of the expensive lingerie bottoms.
Then they were gone.
He caressed me with his stare. His eyes took in my bared flesh and he prayed, “Mercy.”
This passage is protected under copyright ©M. Mabie 2015
M. Mabie lives in Illinois with her husband. She is the author of the steamy comedy Fade In. Her sophomore release, Bait, is the first book in the angst-filled erotic Wake Series. She writes unconventional love stories and tries to embody "real-life romance."
She cares about politics, but will not discuss them in public. She uses the same fork at every meal, watches Wayne's World while cleaning, and lets her dog sleep on her head. She has always been a writer. In fact, she was born with a pen in her hand, which almost never happens. Almost.
M. Mabie usually doesn't speak in third-person either. She promises.
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