“Maybe. If you’re lucky.” She looked up at him as she played. “I’ve always loved your cock.”
“Hopefully not just my cock. I have some skill using it.”
“Been a while. Not sure I’ll enjoy you.” Although if the way he’d gone down on her was any indication…
With a very sweet smile, he eased her hands off him. “Well, let’s see, shall we?”
“I was going to give him a kiss.”
“Give him a kiss later. He loves your kisses, but right now he wants to be inside you—and so do I.” His grin was goofy. “Both of us want you.”
“A ménage à trois?”
“I guess so.”
As she lay back, he moved over her, kissing her gently, then with more urgency, his tongue hard against hers. She reached down and played with him as he moved into position, then she let go as he pushed into her. She moaned at the feeling of being with him again—of coming home.
“Don’t move, don’t move,” he said, and it sounded like a prayer. “I want you so much…”
He closed his eyes and she wondered which ritual he used to stave off coming, if he still tried to remember the periodic table like he had when they’d first been together. Whatever he did now, it seemed to work, because he opened his eyes and gave her a satisfied smile, then began to move, dipping in, then out, slowly at first, then with greater force.
“I remember you liking it this way.” He seemed to be holding back.
“You remember me liking it even rougher than this. That hasn’t changed.” Even if she’d only told one of the lovers she’d had since James about that preference. Then he had taken it too far the first time and hadn’t taken it far enough the next.
James knew exactly how far to take it.
She felt another orgasm building, and by the way his smile changed could tell he knew she was close.
“Touch yourself,” he said, watching as she did what he wanted, and then he began to thrust faster, and she felt herself going, falling down and down, landing softly and to the sound of him saying, “I love you, Mir,” as he came.
He collapsed against her and she wrapped her legs around him and held him tightly, as if he might disappear, a figment of her imagination, only here for the moment.
“I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart.” He rolled off her and pulled her to him, kissing her softly as she nuzzled against him. “And neither are you. Not for the rest of the night. Or the night after that. Or the night after that. Or…”
“What if I get bored?” she asked, with a laugh.
He reached down and teased her clit; she was so sensitive it almost hurt, and she moaned against his neck. “Somehow, I don’t think that will be a problem.”
She smiled as he stroked her back. “Somehow, I don’t think it will be either.”
A FEW GRAY HAIRS
H. Keyes
Autumn had finally killed off the dreaded humidity of Tokyo’s infamous summers and left in its wake a fragrant, mild stretch of weather that rivaled anything that spring and its ubiquitous cherry blossoms could offer. It would soon be time for the Christmas illuminations to be put up and the city would become as crowded during the week as on the weekends, but that was how it had always been. Sarah Blevins hefted her purse up onto her shoulder and entered the small shopping arcade; similarly she had had no expectations of change when she’d started out that morning and indeed was quite comfortable with the status quo given all that had happened.
Weaving her way between the rows of books, Sarah lost herself in the musty smell of used novels and took her time searching for what she wanted in the unusually empty shop. She pulled down various texts on European textiles and traditional Japanese kanzashi designs, some written in Japanese, others in English. Formerly a resident of Wales, Sarah had moved to Japan in her early twenties—one of those gap years that turned into a gap decade, and then ultimately a change in citizenship. Living as an expat in Japan had certainly improved her language skills, but if she wanted to keep up with the fast-paced world of accessories design, especially as she had just celebrated her thirty-fifth birthday, she needed to be on top of her game in all areas. That morning had been spent at an interview for a small fashion magazine and accordingly Sarah was dressed in one of her favorite outfits—a black polka-dot-print wrap dress and a custom-printed denim jacket, all of her own design. She’d had pictures taken from every angle, compliments thrown her way and a business card with a cell phone number from the cameraman’s assistant. She felt confident and wanted to spend the day amongst humanity—maybe she would even call that number. It was finally cool enough after the unrelenting heat of Tokyo’s summer for her to dress in more than one flimsy layer and Sarah was enjoying the lighthearted atmosphere. This day seemed to be promising; in fact, she felt younger and more carefree than she had in years.
She grabbed a couple more texts and then headed off toward the coffee table books—she couldn’t spend all her time studying, she reasoned, and soon got lost in photos of gorgeous snow-covered temples and rows of women in kimono dress. She added a book on traditional tattoos to her pile and decided against one on African landscapes, and then against one of the textile books she’d picked up earlier. Sarah made her way back across the shop with her arms overflowing with books, all great bargains and very nearly all unnecessary purchases in the making. She returned a book to the shelf, lingered over another one that caught her eye and, as she perused the first few pages, was suddenly aware of someone standing just behind her.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she began, feeling a bit rude for having blocked the aisle given how tiny the shop was in the first place, then stopped when she realized who it was.
Seichi Sugimoto, a fellow designer and sometime musician, was tanned, dark haired and well muscled; he was wearing a fashionably tailored black shirt and a thin leather jacket with jeans that left little to the imagination. He smiled at her, as charming and irresistible as he had been when they first met.
It was his sense of style and the strange coincidence of them both wearing the same necklace that had attracted Sarah to him a little over six years ago when he had sent her a very charming message on a dating website. He was five years older than her, had lived a very fast-paced life and was looking for a partner— someone that would be his equal, his match as he had termed it. They had met shortly after that initial message and had become fast friends—they’d complemented one another well, a fact that Seichi had often commented on. He’d loved her style, her taste in music, art, motorcycles—it was as if they had known one another forever, or so he’d said. As their relationship grew, they’d come to rely on each other’s advice in numerous ways— and despite living in different halves of the country, they had made time for each other. Once a month they spent a weekend together, at the very least.
Until five years ago, that is. Five years ago, the daily text messages had stopped, the phone calls and planned weeklong are-we-going-to-finally-sleep-together? visit abruptly cancelled. Sarah was beyond perplexed; at first she’d assumed he was just busy—his designs had been picked up by a fairly well-known brand and he had to focus on that, he was living in another city still and all the other excuses she could imagine. At her weakest, she had even managed to wonder if there hadn’t been some sort of accident: was Seichi lying in a coma somewhere, unable to move, much less operate a cell phone? She’d confessed all of this to her friends and in return had been given a copy of the book He’s Just Not That Into You, which was now dogeared and heavily highlighted. That book had hit all the marks and left her both ashamed and embarrassed. Sarah had learned her lesson; she had promised herself that she’d get on with her life and had done her absolute best to do just that. She’d gone back to college part-time, added various licenses and certificates in metalworking, jewelry design and marketing to her résumé and, once she had finally worked up the nerve, had started her own Internet shop. She was moderately successful, well-known in the subcultures that she belonged to and lived a reasonably comfortabl
e, if single, life.
There hadn’t been a man since Seichi who had understood her or her need to create, and she found it was more often than not far easier to be single that it was to try and adapt herself to someone else, even if it made for a lonely life. She took comfort in the idea that, perhaps in a hundred years, she would be remembered for her work at least.
“Sarah, I thought it was you. I can’t believe it though, what are the odds?”
“Seichi! It really is you. It’s been so long.” Her voice was strange to her ears, strangled with shock and some unnamed emotion. He looked just as gorgeous as the last time she’d seen him despite the extra laughter lines.
“Too long.” Seichi smiled and took a step toward her, giving her a friendly, if initially awkward, hug. The hug very quickly went from one-sided and awkward to warm and somehow frantic; Sarah’s mind raced, her stack of books tumbled forgotten to the floor as tears pricked at her eyes. Damn, he smells good… No! You’re supposed to hate him for abandoning you, him and his stupid strong arms and good-smelling skin and… Oh fuck it. This feels too good to stop.
Sarah turned her head and Seichi’s mouth went to her throat, leaving a trail of kisses as he pushed her against the nearest bookshelf—a move that killed the mood unfortunately. They were in a bookstore, a very public place doubtlessly filled with security cameras, possibly being watched at that very moment and…they pulled apart. Seichi whispered in her ear, his voice thick with lust and something like desperation, “Please Sarah, come with me. I need to talk to you. Please.”
She didn’t want to follow him, to give in so willingly to him, not after how much his disappearing act had hurt. The fact that he picked up her books and carried them to the register for her, waited politely as she paid and walked away from the register didn’t escape her notice either. It was unlike him to be that patient, to walk next to her instead of going about at his own pace. Perhaps he had been in a coma, she thought, and awoke more humble than before. He looked different, acted more mature than he had been five years ago, and yet when she saw their reflection in the mirrored windows of a shop, they looked as though they had coordinated their outfits that morning. She reached up to brush her bangs into a better shape and hiked her shoulder bag up once more. This is maddening, she thought as she turned to look at him.
He smiled as they fell in step, the crisp autumn air refreshing and clean. Sarah was silent, waiting expectantly for something, anything to be said. He held out a hand and automatically she handed over her parcel, then his arm wrapped around her shoulders affectionately, the contact both warming and twisting her heartstrings. It was as if they had never been apart—their actions were familiar and almost predictable. It was mind-boggling and Sarah found herself wondering whether or not she should just take off running down the streets, books and appearances be damned.
The fact that the bookstore was in one of the most fashionable districts of Tokyo hadn’t escaped her, but who could expect to run into someone from out of town that they hadn’t seen in five years in a half-empty bookstore in a place like that? Maybe it wasn’t some freak coincidence, you know, maybe it’s one of those butterfly-flapping-causes-a-typhoon kind of things, the hopeful side of her mind supplied.
Abruptly he stopped outside a small, freshly painted boutique, newspaper still blocking the interior of the shop from the very fashion-forward public. Seichi brought out a key ring and unlocked the door, holding it open for her as her mind raced. When she didn’t move, he addressed her in an unusually tender tone. “Sarah, please come inside and hear me out. I want to explain this all to you, just…please?” he pleaded, yet another thing she had never expected him to do.
“Seichi, I think I…well, fine.” The earlier tears threatened to overflow as her indignation battled the spark of hope that his hug had inspired in her. She walked into the foyer and looked around—the shop was obviously on the verge of opening. After a brief silence, he spoke again.
“Welcome to my shop,” he said, spreading his hands and smiling apologetically. “This is why I…well…why I was kept away from you for so long.”
There were rows of shelves and racks full of clothing, boxes littered the floor and a mixed punk rock CD that she recognized as being from his car played in the sound system hidden in the boldly painted walls. He gestured for her to take a seat on a very gorgeous, obviously expensive sofa near the changing rooms. She put her purse down next to her and sank into the plush burgundy fabric as he took a seat opposite her on the solid wood coffee table. He put a hand on her knee and looked her in the eyes, forcing her to confront the situation instead of mentally running away from it.
“I’m so sorry, Sarah, for leaving you like that, I really am. Everything suddenly took off and, I know this isn’t any kind of excuse, but I never wanted to lose you. I had to sell my place, got sent overseas and…well, just a lot of things that I couldn’t really control, you know?”
Sarah shifted halfheartedly; the warmth from his hand both delighted and pissed her off. She spoke up before he could continue, her tone betraying her hurt and anger.
“In five years, you couldn’t find a minute, not a single minute to send me a text message to tell me that you were okay, that you were even alive? You could have told me that at the very least—I even wondered if you’d been in an accident or something!” Tears overran her eyes and she swallowed hard, pointedly looking at him; she got the reply that she’d secretly hoped for.
He cleared his throat and nodded his head; tears had filled and reddened his eyes, as well. He coughed, clearing his throat before he spoke. “I know I screwed up, I know I did Sarah, and…I know that sorry isn’t enough, but I am, I really am. Can you…do you even want to forgive me? I…can’t say anything in my defense other than that I…I still have feelings for you—I always did. I…I think love you, Sarah.”
Those ridiculous tears ran down her cheeks in rivers, as they did down his, and she tried to ignore them, to recall what that book had said, but it was to no avail. His honest confession was breaking her up and she felt herself thawing, opening up to him before her brain had actually decided that he was forgiven. Her heart was set on its own course, it seemed.
“Damn you, I tried to hate you, you know. I tried so hard to hate you Seichi, to make you into a villain.” She shook her head, trying to make sense of it all before she lost her nerve. “But I have to know: were you honestly going to ever contact me again if we hadn’t run into one another today?” Sarah asked; she had to get it all out of her system or else she wouldn’t be able to live with herself.
He looked into her eyes, as if hoping to understand just where he stood. “I did all of this, here in Tokyo, hoping that…well, that we could be together, eventually. I tried calling you once I had secured the lease and everything—but your number was different and I figured you’d gotten married or…I don’t know, that you had found someone better than me.” He paused, and swallowed hard. “If you won’t have me…how am I ever going to find someone like you, Sarah?”
Sarah smiled and placed her hand on the cheek she’d wanted to slap so many times before in the last few years. “You can’t, Seichi. You won’t get another chance, you know. It’s now or nothing.”
She kissed him softly on that cheek and he turned to catch her mouth, not letting this chance escape him. His arms wound their way about her and pulled her onto his lap; somehow they finally found themselves in sync. Their first proper kiss was more mature than she had expected—it started as an offer, a give hoping for a take that built up into a desperate assault on each other. When they finally stopped, both were short of breath but unwilling to pull apart; Sarah’s hands were tangled in Seichi’s hair and his were firmly gripping her waist, bringing their bodies against each other in such a way that Sarah couldn’t help but notice the heat radiating from the rather impressive erection pressing insistently against her through her dress.
“Walking back to you is the hardest thing that I can do…” The CD that had been playing quietly
in the background suddenly changed to a very familiar track by The Jesus and Mary Chain, making the pair laugh.
“Do you want me to be your plastic toy?” Seichi asked, a smile creasing the corners of his eyes. “I’m a bit older now, not quite in my prime, though.”
“I don’t mind a few gray hairs, Seichi, you’re still a handsome devil.”
He smiled hopefully and shrugged out of his leather jacket, then as Sarah stood, stripped off his long-sleeve shirt, releasing the scent of his cologne into the air until Sarah felt surrounded by the familiar, very alluring scent of this man.
“I never did show you my tattoos, did I?” he asked, the faded ink on both pecs demonstrating his first rebellion against Japanese cultural norms in his youth. The dragon and phoenix, both such proud creatures, reminded Sarah why she had fallen for Seichi all those years ago and she smiled.
“I always wondered about that, Seichi.”
“Well, I had a feeling of what would happen if I was ever shirtless around you,” he said, his voice taking on that lusty tone that it had in the bookstore. “And it was safer to keep you at a distance because I didn’t know what I wanted then.”
Sarah laughed as she too dropped her jacket and pulled her dress off over her head, revealing a black lace bra and skull-print boy shorts—a set that she had worn for comfort rather than sex appeal. She tossed the dress aside and turned around to show off all the ink she had added over the years, a body nearly fully decorated in scenes from Japanese mythology, kanji characters and flowers. “But you know now what you want, do you?”
“Oh god, yes…”
Seichi reached out and ran his fingers over the different patterns, over her skin, then over the thin cups of her bra, his touch hardening her nipples as his mouth covered hers once more. They quickly found themselves kissing like teenagers— passionate yet fumbling. Her bra joined the pile on the floor as she roughly tugged Seichi’s belt open, her hands pulling the heavy material down over his hips, releasing his cock from its black cotton prison. Drops of clear fluid glistened and dripped down the thick shaft she’d often wondered about and now ran her hand over, feeling the twitching and throb of his pulse through the hot, hard flesh.
The One Who Got Away Page 14