Obsessive Surrender

by Bobbi Cole Meyer

  Now, as Ivan lifted her in his arms and laid her down on the king size bed, Andrea’s forest green eyes fixed on his like a hungry tiger as he asked, “ Tell me, my insatiable pet, what would be your pleasure this time, my dick or my tongue?”

  Not waiting for her to answer, Ivan leaned to suckle her breasts, then trailed his educated tongue down her side, creating a cascading line of goose bumps as he tongued his way to her stomach and delved into her naval.

  Ivan smiled at the way Andrea responded, her body automatically arching toward him as she breathed a sexy, “Both.”

  He chuckled as he nibbled her inner thigh.

  “Afraid that is impossible, at least simultaneously speaking.”

  Closing her eyes with that improbable vision, she breathed, “I wish it were possible.”

  “So do I, but you’ll have to settle for one at a time.”

  Having said that, Ivan’s seeking tongue found and began flicking her clit before molding around it to suck gently as he knew she liked for him to do. Andrea inhaled a quick breath of wild anticipation as Ivan created havoc within her senses.

  Urging her legs farther apart, he thrust his rock hard shaft to the core of her hot, wet channel and began stroking, watching her open-mouthed, and closed-eye reaction.

  Mid-thrust he asked, “Now that you have had a taste of both, which do you prefer, Andrea?”

  Ignoring the question, lost in the heated climb toward climax, Andrea demanded, “Spank me, Ivan, now!”

  He obliged, spanking her with every thrust, marveling at the way her body clenched around his cock with each contact, taking them both over the edge in a shattering, synchronized release.

  Ivan was unaware he was muttering, “Yes, dammit, yes,” as his erratic heart rhythm slowly became regulated. He continued to clasp Andrea’s lower body to him, linking their sex while leaning back to stare into her face, enjoying the waves of climatic pleasure he saw smoldering in her eyes; loving the way she nervously licked her lips as though her inner fire had left her parched and thirsty.

  Watching her, it suddenly dawned on Ivan that of all his treasures—the estate, the Rolls Royce limo, the bank accounts, the thriving casino, even his latest expensive acquisition, the Boeing 777 jet—none were more valued to him than his insatiable, virgin bride.

  With a shock, he realized, Andrea is the only prize I know I cannot live without.

  But that silent admission was one Ivan did not allow to register on his face as he silently vowed, never will I give her that much authority over my life though. I know what that kind of concession does to a man. I will never allow a woman to emasculate me as Mother did Father!

  Ivan frowned as he was suddenly bombarded with unwanted memories of his father being verbally castrated by his dominant, viper-tongued mother, envisioning him being held captive to those lustful desires his mother knew controlled him.

  Again, Ivan silently cursed his photographic memory that kept those haunting pictures so vividly within his mind, at the tip of recall whenever triggered by similar incidences.

  Clenching his jaw, he was torn with the truth that a parallel was indeed being drawn. And as much as he wanted to deny it, Ivan knew should he ever be faced with the decision of choosing between his wife and all his possessions, he would probably be the same fool his father had been.

  That revelatory thought abruptly shifted Ivan’s mood. He disengaged, withdrawing both physically and mentally.

  Moving back from Andrea, he swung his feet off the bed and stood, eager to distance himself emotionally as he often did following their most intimate moments to avoid the question he saw in Andrea’s eyes at his sudden brusque manner.

  He kept his face impassive as he silently vowed, that emasculating cliff is one I will not allow you to tempt me over, Andrea. I will be my own man, by God!

  * * *

  The casino was doing a roaring business and Ivan was grateful for a lull in activities as he retired to his penthouse office. A glance at his framed Yale diploma took him spiraling back to his college days and the way he had studied like a demon to establish himself in the top ten of the graduating class because he knew his grandfather would accept no less from him.

  God, I was little more than Granddad Cyrus’ puppet.

  How well he recalled those obligatory ‘hard mental labor days’ he’d put in at Myerson International Oil after graduation, kowtowing to his grandfather’s demand that he, as the heir apparent, make the company business his number one priority.

  And damn, how I hated every minute of it.

  In brooding retrospect, Ivan’s thoughts degenerated into that familiar inner rage that had dominated him back in those days. It made him wonder now if all that inner turmoil had contributed to the final blow up between him and Alan.

  Alan must have been as frustrated as he was in those days. Why didn’t he see that then? If only he had handled things differently, maybe Alan wouldn’t have run away. Maybe today he’d still have his brother.

  Feeling nostalgic, Ivan exhaled an exasperated breath, mentally acknowledging that he had taken out his frustration on Alan.

  But Alan didn’t make getting along with him easy.

  The memory of his younger brother following him about like he was God those years before their egos had started clashing, resurfaced to haunt Ivan.

  He remembered feeling suffocated, which was why he sometimes verbally struck out in deliberate cutting remarks meant to belittle his pestering brother and drive him away, at least long enough and far enough away for him to catch a breath.

  But now seeing that selfish, thoughtless time through mature eyes Ivan wondered, how could he have been such a bastard? Alan practically worshiped him and he had acted like a pompous jerk.

  Face it, Ivan, he silently chastised himself. What you really wanted to do was lash out at Claudia and Grandfather Cyrus, but since you didn’t have the courage to do that, you took that rage out on Alan.

  How well he remembered all that pent-up resentment exploding the night of his infamous New Year’s Eve party, held at his parents’ house in lieu of his apartment.

  Moving out of the opulent Littlefield mansion into an apartment that would have fit into their living room had been his way of asserting a modicum of independence, at least from his parents, although he was still irrevocably tied to the dictates of his grandfather and the job of CFO at Myerson International Oil.

  Mad at the whole damned world, he took it out on Alan that night.

  Recalling all that led up to that big and final row with Alan, Ivan wondered how both their lives might have been different if their parents hadn’t gone off on a cruise over the holidays, leaving him to house sit and keep an eye on his sixteen-year-old brother.

  The memory of the way he tried that night to dull his building frustration with alcohol, something he had never done before, resurfaced and Ivan could almost smell the cigarette smoke in the air—a forbidden taboo in the Littlefield house that he did not enforce with his invited friends that night as he wallowed in his glorious rebellion.

  In retrospect, Ivan realized the disjointed feeling that had prompted him to act the way he did was all the alcohol he had consumed. It had lowered his inhibitions and loosened his tongue.

  It all came back now, like an old black and white mental movie, flickering in his mind.

  Sixteen-year-old Alan downing liquor he was told not to touch as his New Year Eve party was going strong; the couples beginning to pair off to kiss at the midnight hour; a slightly drunk Alan trying to kiss a shocked and belligerent Jeremy Lakens, one of the college buddies Ivan had invited, and the brawl that followed; then the cops arriving.

  Ivan remembered how he had done some fast talking to smooth it over and how the subdued crowd had left, casting derogatory looks at Alan and pitying looks at him while he stood red-faced in embarrassed rage, exploding on Alan the minute they were alone, spewing vile things at his brother he wished now he could take back.

  The mental movie faded as Ivan shook
his head.

  Dammit, I should have handled it better. I definitely shouldn’t have called Alan a fucking queer!

  The memories continued to come at him, relentlessly persistent—the pandemonium that followed when his parents returned to find Alan gone—the fruitless search for him that they finally abandoned after years of no results, and the guilt that still had him by the throat.

  But then the birthday card arrived.

  That had shocked all of them; that card he had received on his twenty-eighth birthday. Until then, for those two lost years, there had been no word from Alan and they all had assumed the worse.

  But after reading that card, he realized Alan had waited until he could show them something they could view with pride before contacting anyone.

  Inside the card was a picture of eighteen-year-old Alan, dressed in fatigues and holding a rifle, standing in front of a Humvee, which he explained was the Command Communication Vehicle.

  The note said, “I’m one of the radio men. Can you imagine? Got my GED, joined up and found my calling. And I’m damned good at it. Sorry I didn’t make it back for the grandparents’ funeral. Sure I wasn’t missed. Anyway, have a good 28th and a drink on me, bro.”

  When he’d shown the card to his Father, Richard had choked back a sob, commenting that it was an answer to prayer, hearing from Alan and knowing he was alive and well and fighting for his country. But Claudia had been her usual, detached self, saying only that she hoped it would make a man out of him.

  It was that card that gave Ivan the push he needed to get out of the cocooned Myerson/Littlefield trap he had settled into, so he owed Alan one.

  Knowing Alan had the guts to break away and make it on his own had given Ivan the courage to do likewise.

  God, Alan, there’s been a lot of water under that bridge since then. There’s so much I could tell you, if you were here, a lot of mistakes I would like to cop to, brother.

  Ivan tried to visualize the man Alan had become and wished his brother was there to rehash the good times, what little there were of them. But most of all, he wished they could forgive each other for the bad and he wondered if he’d ever get the chance to say all that to Alan.

  Pouring himself a scotch, Ivan lifted his glass.

  “Here’s to overcoming regrets, living with recriminations and to you, brother, wherever you are.”

  Chapter 11

  Alan’s Journey

  Alan Littlefield boarded the bus and settled his thin frame on a seat toward the back, his shaking hand raking through his shoulder-length, peroxide streaked hair, an unconscious act much the same as his brother’s.

  So intent on his own thoughts, Alan was unaware of the appreciative stares he’d received from the few women on board, both young and old.

  The resemblance between Alan and his older brother Ivan was unmistakable. Both Littlefield men had inherited their mother’s striking good looks and their father’s impressive stature and penetrating gray eyes.

  Though Alan did not possess his father’s broad-shouldered physique to the degree Ivan did, he did match his height, making his lithe frame appear thinner than it was. He resembled the kind of modern, male model that walked runways, sporting a sultry, sexy and introspective gray glare that presented him as both aloof and irresistible.

  As he shifted on the seat, turning to stare out at the beginning shadows of evening, Alan tried to relax. He reminded himself, it’s going to be a long ride to Palm Springs, California, so the key is relaxing.

  Easy to say. Hard to do. God, I can’t remember the last time I relaxed.

  Worn out from the ordeal he’d just lived through, Alan leaned back and closed his eyes, hoping for sleep, but doubting it would happen because of the ton of garbage shifting in his head. He suddenly recalled Ivan had a photographic memory and was thankful he hadn’t been cursed with that, as well.

  God, I can’t imagine how awful it is, not being able to forget anything. Just remembering the last six months is driving me nuts!

  Maybe getting back with Michael for this gig will clear the cobwebs some. Rehashing the good and bad of the war should put things back in perspective. At least I hope so.

  Alan was glad he had made the decision to take his former army buddy and friend, Michael Stanley, up on his invitation to sing at his newly opened nightclub in Palm Springs, California.

  Michael had a way of always making him smile. He was one of the few people Alan had kept in contact with after their stint in Afghanistan, both of them having served in the same capacity and both having escaped death a couple of times by the ‘skin of their teeth’, as Michael liked to say.

  Alan chuckled softly as he recalled his friend’s off-the-wall sense of humor and remembered a time or two when they both were on the edge of an emotional cliff and Michael had broken the depressing urge to jump with some crazy inappropriate quip that not only served to shake him out of the lethargy, but more times than not, cracked him up.

  The fact that Michael had named his club after his college football jersey, Club #41, didn’t surprise Alan. He recalled the times Michael had shared about those ‘glory days’ when the worst thing that had happened to him was not winning and then failing to ‘bag the hottest chick’.

  Shaking his head, Alan exhaled a weary sigh. He closed his eyes and let his thoughts drift back to when he’d first met Michael; when they’d been paired as a team his second day in Afghanistan.

  As a raw recruit, he’d been determined to pretend otherwise, doing his best to copy the nonchalant swagger of some of the veterans.

  Michael, twice his age at thirty-six, was a real man’s man. He had informed him after their introduction, that he had been in Afghanistan for nearly a year and knew the score; that all he had to do was ask, if he had questions.

  So he’d asked, “Tell me, what’s it really like here, man?”

  Michael had suckered him in but good, saying with a straight face, “It’s a piece of strawberry cake, newbie—if you're allergic to strawberries, prefer pie, can’t stand to get your fingers sticky and don’t have a fucking fork.”

  Remembering how he had just stared at the guy like he was nuts, before Michael burst out laughing and offered his hand, Alan chuckled again.

  Crazy sonofabitch! That’s Michael in a nutshell, off kilter and irreverent as hell, definitely different.

  The one thing he learned he could count on with Michael was that he never knew what he would say, but he always knew he had his back.

  The memory of that late, sweat-soaking afternoon when their buddies in the Humvee ahead of them rolled over an IED that ripped their vehicle and them apart, suddenly resurfaced.

  Alan shifted on the seat, frowning, recalling how he had lost it, throwing up and shaking and when he couldn’t get himself in control, Michael had taken him aside, gripped his shoulders, shook him hard and demanded he listen.

  Then he had said something so unexpected, and yet so typically Michael, it had calmed him down.

  “Hey, man, we've already got two dudes with body parts everywhere, so you can’t go splintering on me now! The road’s already cluttered. And look at it this way, those guys have just bought the farm, man. Their debt is paid. They are now out of this hellhole. They’re up there in the clouds, plucking harps, hobnobbing with angels and having a heart-to-heart with Jesus, man!

  “We’re the ones to be pitied, especially me because I’ve gotta make it out of this godforsaken sandy hole and back to Palm Springs so I can open my nightclub, and you, man, well, you’ve gotta make it out because I need you to sing in my nightclub. So, do we have a deal? When I get the club up and running, do you promise to show up for the gig?”

  In some crazy way, Michael’s irreverent and selfish slant on the carnage before them had snapped him out of the mental pit he had almost fallen into, and he had given that promise.

  “Yeah, I’ll show up for the gig.”

  “Solid! Now, as soon as the road is clear, we get on with our job. You got your head back in the game?
You with me, kid? You and I are not going to die today. I’ve got a club to open and you’ve got a guitar to pick and a song to sing. Okay?”

  And that was just one of the many times Michael had shocked him back to basic reality; got his ‘head back in the game’ and put him one more step toward veteran maturity.

  Smiling to himself, Alan thought, at least Michael has his life on track now. Finally got that club up and running. Wish to hell I had my own life on track.

  Alan frowned at the headache pounding behind his eyes.

  Damn! I need some sleep, preferably without nightmares.

  Nightmares had been the norm since he’d watched Gary waste away. It had gotten to the point that he hated to even lie down, knowing those visions of death and pain were waiting to swamp him like a black tidal wave.

  He wished he had some of Michael’s eternal optimism.

  Maybe it’ll rub off on me when I get there; when Michael imparts some of his cockeyed wisdom as only he can.

  Alan shook his head with that thought, believing if anyone could snap him out of the depressing hole he’d crawled into for the last six months while he had watched death approach the man he loved, it would be Michael Stanley.

  And after the gig, I’ll make that trip to Vegas. That will be my next stop and the next promise fulfilled. Not that I feel like singing again, but a promise is a promise.

  He was suddenly inundated with memories of the shows he and his partner Gary had done as a duo. They had perfected a great act and were just beginning to be in demand when Gary got too sick to continue; before his world had downshifted to one step above hell.

  Alan fought to control his emotions as he remembered Gary.

  God, if he hadn’t had heart problems; hadn’t been so fragile to begin with, maybe he could have had more time.

  Alan shuddered as the memory of how rapidly Gary had deteriorated, his HIV status quickly degenerating to full-blown AIDS, which he was too weak to fight off.

  Yet, even in the midst of his pain, even facing death, Gary had thought of him. He had made him promise to look up his brother ‘after’—that word cut like a knife in Alan’s heart as he recalled Gary saying it—‘after’!