by Ellie Rowe
I tighten my muscles, and he groans, pushing me back onto the bed. He braces his hands on either side of my head and I let my fingertips brush his chest and his powerful abdomen, appreciating every line of muscle.
He lets me go and slides out of me. I whine at the loss of contact before he buries his face in my chest, kissing and sucking my nipples. It feels so fucking heavenly.
I rake my nails through his hair as he kisses my stomach... my belly button.
“Come back,” I whisper, and he kisses up my abdomen, my collarbone, my neck... His hard cock finds my wetness once more as he slips inside. I wrap my legs around his back and hook my ankles, pulling him tight.
“Natalie, Natalie,” he moans into my ear like a song. With my thighs squeezed tight around him, he’s hitting every spot, giving me everything I need to come.
I love the sound of his voice; the caring way he’s cradling me. I love the way he makes love. I love his body, his hair, his eyes, his fingertips in my back...
“I love you,” I whisper, and he moans, thrusting faster, pulling me closer. He lifts my chin to meet his face and kisses me tenderly, driving harder and harder. I groan into his mouth, coming closer to breaking.
“Natalie!” he gasps, just as I hit my peak. I cry out and clamp my thighs around his middle, letting him fill me, squeezing against him with all my might. My head is swimming with ecstasy; blissful and wrecked all at once.
We ride our high together, gently grinding until the wave finally passes. He shudders, giving one last explosive burst within me before letting his head fall into my chest. We pant together for a moment, basking in our afterglow.
“Natalie…” he starts, but I shake my head and press him back against my chest. He nuzzles into me and I stroke his hair. Something in the back of my mind is telling me I’m crazy. I’m crazy for telling him how I feel.
But I don’t want to think about that now. All I know is — this moment is perfect. This moment is for us. And I want nothing more than to hold him. I feel his lips against my chest before he slides up to my side.
He opens his arms and I nestle in, feeling the warmth of his chest against my back and playing with his fingers. Before long, our breathing relaxes, the lights grow dim, and we fall asleep in each other’s arms.
The next morning, I wake up fresh as a fucking daisy. Last night was fantastic, and in such a wonderfully unexpected way. I mean, I’ve come to expect a certain level of pleasure with Roger, but that was… I touch my lips and try not to giggle like an idiot.
I turn over and, to my surprise, Roger’s still asleep. His arm is still slung around my waist, so I slowly slip away from him and head for a shower.
“Jesus Christ,” I hiss as I take in the roman bathhouse that serves as a master bath. There’s a double shower, glass wall, marble tile, jacuzzi tub, and I can’t be sure, but the door off to the left looks like it leads into a sauna.
I’ll explore later, I think as I tiptoe to the shower. There are quite a few buttons and knobs, but after a brief mishap with the abdomen height shower jet, I’ve got myself well-situated. I scrub my body, sliding my fingers between my folds and already wishing they were Roger’s hands.
I guess Josie was right, and I’ve got it bad. In fact, I’m so excited to be near him again, I make my shower quick and efficient. There’ll be enough time for a spa day later. Toweling off with the hugest towel I’ve ever seen (I actually checked to be sure it wasn’t a blanket) and slipping out to meet him again.
Still asleep.
I smile at him and decide to pull my old wear-his-shirt-thing again. By the time he wakes up, that’ll be the first image of me, lounging in his penthouse. Ooh, he’s gonna love that. I giggle as I pull on his shirt.
I breathe in the smell of him as I pad to the kitchen to check my phone. Josie deserves a medal, but a thank you will have to do for now. When I pull out my phone, my smile slides off my face. There’s a series of texts from an unlisted number.
My heart immediately starts to pound. They’re pictures. All time stamped from the first night Roger and I were together. And at all hours of the morning — after he was with me.
Roger’s clearly hammered, clubbing and with his arms around all kinds of busty, rich bimbos. Their long nails snake across his abdomen and neck as he grins sloppily into the camera.
How… how could he do this? I thought that night led to everything. I’ve been betrayed. I’m furious and hurt, and horrified all at once as I feel a warm pair of hands snake around my waist. His scent fills my nostrils as his lips brush the back of my neck.
“Good morning, beautiful. When’s breakfast?”
Twenty-Six
Roger
Sexy morning time ends in a fucking flash.
She whirls on me. The dragon-fire in her eyes making me take a step back. What did I do?
“What the fuck is this?” she demands and shoves her phone into my hand.
Oh, fuck me… It’s a bunch of pictures from the night I went out after she and I first had sex. The good news is, these pictures help fill in some of the gaps I still have about that night. The bad news is, what fills those gaps does not make me look good.
“You want to explain this?” she asks again.
Not really. “I mean…” I stammer.
“We had just had sex, and you snuck out to go clubbing?”
“No, I snuck out to –” I stop because I swear to God, I see smoke come out her nose as she huffs. Let’s backtrack a second.
“First of all, I didn’t sneak out! It was – we’d just – I thought it was best if we didn’t wake up together the next morning because I didn’t know where things stood, y’know? So I went back to my place to take a shower and… and…” I find myself at a loss for words, so I end lamely with, “And then I went clubbing.”
She purses her lips in a rage and yanks the phone out of my hand. “You son-of-a-bitch.”
I try to defend myself as best I can. “Look, I don’t even remember doing half that shit.”
“Is that supposed to make it better?”
That’s probably a trick question, but I answer it anyway because I’m an idiot. “I don’t know… Does it?”
“No! It makes it a lot fucking worse!”
She storms away from me, into the bedroom. She throws sheets and pillows around, looking for her clothes. As she goes, she throws off my shirt, so she’s just in her panties. It’s both sexy and terrifying; like ‘Woman: Unleashed’, the feminine mystique weaponized against me.
I stand in the doorway of the bedroom, watching her helplessly. “Please, Natalie. Would you let me explain?”
“Oh, sure! I’m all ears.” She stops her search, hands on her hips and stares me down.
I make sure to maintain eye contact as opposed to staring at her exposed breasts.
OK, I think, Fuck. Well, let’s see if I can crawl my way out of this hole.
“So, we’d just had sex,” I begin. “Really, really incredible sex, and then you fell asleep. So, I went back to my place, but I still had all this energy because of what we just shared. You made me feel… incredible. And I didn’t know what to do with all that energy. So, I did the only thing I knew how to do. It was all because of us though, you see? I had to do something with all the – the stuff you made me feel.”
She nods like she’s considering what I’ve said. “I should be flattered then?”
That’s definitely a trick question. I’m proud of myself as I side-step it. “It’s just that, if you hadn’t fallen asleep so quick, I probably wouldn’t have needed to go out clubbing.”
I’m definitely only digging myself a deeper hole with that one. I can’t testify under oath that she breathes fire, but I’m pretty sure she does. I brace myself, expecting her to slap me again.
But it’s worse than that. Her voice goes eerily calm and quiet.
“Get out,” she says.
“What?”
“Get out. Get the fuck out. Right now.”
I look around me
, totally at a loss. I look back at her. “It’s my penthouse.”
You wouldn’t think it’s possible for her to become even more enraged, but she surprises me yet again.
Her anger is palpable. It’s scorching; like, if two volcanoes erupted on the surface of the sun and I was dipped face-first into it all, it might burn as much as what’s coming off her. The room seems to get several degrees hotter.
Even as my body goes cold.
“I can’t believe I let you lull me in like this,” she says, still in that calm, terrifying voice. “I actually thought there was some depth to you. You even had me going with that sob story you told me last night.”
That hurts. It’s a knife in my heart. I open my mouth to speak, but my throat closes up on me.
It doesn’t matter. Natalie’s not done. Her eyes burn into mine as she says, “You are shallow. You are a drunk. You are a player.” With each accusation, she backs me up. “You are insecure, and you are a child playing with grown-up feelings. Playing with my feelings. But, most of all, you are a goddamn asshole!”
She shoves me and I stumble backward, finding myself in my bathroom. The tiles are cold against my feet. I stagger as I try to catch my balance. No sooner do I have it than she slams the door shut so hard I fear the mirror behind it is going to shatter.
I lean my head against the door. “Natalie? Natalie?”
No answer.
I sink into the seat of the toilet, my head in my hands. I can hear her stomping around out in the bedroom. What a pathetic picture I must paint. Me, in my boxers, moping on the john in one of the fanciest bathrooms in New York City, while the girl I’m crazy about rages around on the other side of the bathroom door.
Let me tell you, I feel supremely stupid.
It was stupid to go out that night. Stupid to get so drunk and high. Of course, pictures were going to be taken. Of course, someone was going to try and blackmail me with them. I have no idea who sent the texts to Natalie — whether it’s her ex-husband or Jared Barron or whoever.
But it doesn’t matter. That sort of thing was inevitable, wasn’t it? For all the comforts and luxuries I have, I still live and operate in a cruel, ruthless world.
What was even stupider than my behavior that night though? My behavior last night. It was stupid to trust Natalie. You’d think I’d learn from Tabitha, right? But, no, I had to go ahead and open myself up once again.
Maybe I should go out there and give her a piece of my mind. But what would be the point? Why prolong the agony? That’s not my sort of drama.
Love is a trap. That’s a certainty. The only variable is how long it takes before she springs it on you, how much damage it does, and what limb you have to gnaw off to escape.
The same feelings run through me once again – confusion, hurt, helplessness. Who needs these feelings in their life?
I sure as shit don’t.
I breathe deeply in and out, willing myself to calm down, to let the anger, and surprise, and disappointment go. Eventually, it does.
What’s left is a hollow emptiness. Thing is, I know how to fill hollowness. I do it all the time. I can only imagine the sorts of pictures that are going to circulate as I work to fill up this latest vacuum.
After several minutes, I hear the front door of the penthouse slam shut downstairs. I wait another few minutes, wondering if she’ll return, either to apologize or to rail against me some more.
There’s only silence.
Finally, I grab the knob of the bathroom door and brace myself for the destruction she no doubt left in her wake.
I open the door a crack and peek out, expecting the worst.
Except, to my surprise… everything is fine. Neat. Opening the bathroom door wide, I see she even made the goddamn bed. That throws me for a loop. Is there such a thing as rage-straightening-up?
The shirt of mine that she was wearing is lying at the foot of the bed. She folded it very precisely. It’s folded like in a store. I’ve never been able to fold a shirt that neatly. It’s like sartorial origami.
A note sits on top of the shirt. I walk to the foot of my bed to stare at it. It’s folded over, with my name spelled out in her large, loopy handwriting.
My hopes rise a little. For all her accusations of my shallowness, it’s not like she’s the most communicative person when it comes to difficult emotions. I mean, I confessed my feelings for her last night and she answered by blowing me. It was a heartfelt blowjob, as those things go, but still. She didn’t spout poetry or anything.
Carefully, as if it were wired to explode, I lift up the note. I hesitate before opening it.
I figure, after she calmed down, she saw how unreasonable she was being. Rather than face me and risk us getting into another altercation, or another emotional confession, she must have scribbled this note of apology or explanation. To kind of lay the groundwork for our future reconciliation.
Nope.
I open the note to find a very brief, but very clear message —
“Fuck you.”
Twenty-Seven
Natalie
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” I groan as I chuck another moldy food container into the ever-filling trash bag. As if I wasn’t in a bad enough place mentally, now I’m dry heaving over spoiled groceries. So much of what I had in my fridge was ruined during the fumigation.
Like I can afford it. Just another moldy cherry on top this already shitty sundae.
I close the fridge and vow to do a proper clean later. I’ve had all I can take. I lug the trash bag to the door and give it a spray with some perfume from my purse.
It doesn’t help. So, I retreat to the opposite side of the apartment, which takes all of three seconds, given how small it is. I pause as I walk. Though we’ve hardly gotten to know each other, and it’s only been a few nights, something about the place feels different.
I can’t quite put my finger on it. There’s far too much unpacking still to do so I let it go. I hear my phone ding and I sigh. Of course, I left my purse near the trash. Holding my nose, I stomp over to retrieve it.
It’s a text from Roger.
Nope. Not dealing with that currently, no, thank you. The last thing I need is the kind of trouble he brings. I pocket it without even reading the preview text and set to work on a box.
It’s been over ten days since my little ‘eruption’ at his penthouse. So, he ought to be over it, right? Because… I mean I totally am. Totally. No question.
My cellphone buzzes in my pocket and a big part of me hopes it’s Roger. What is wrong with me? Chase me, Roger, chase me! I could puke, and not just from the moldy trash.
I pull out my phone to find it’s an unknown number. It’s like being in a horror movie. I half-expect I’ll press the phone to my ear and some heavy breathing will tell me the exact time of my death. I’m wary, but I pick up anyway.
“Well, hello there! I’m calling to have a little chat with Natalie Ashcroft?” Some sort of yippy young thing is on the other end, and I’m baffled for a moment, trying to guess why anyone of this sort would be calling.
“Speaking!” I say brightly. Well, I attempt to say it brightly, I’m sure I sound more suspicious than anything. After all, she could still be a serial killer. It’s rare, but after the month I’ve had, I almost expect that very thing to happen.
“Oh, great! How great! Hiii!” Am I supposed to know this creature? Am I about to find out I’ve got some long-lost sister?
“Hello!” I reply, “To whom am I speaking?”
“Oh, my gosh, oh, my gosh, hahahaha, I’m so sorry! I’m so silly, sorry! This is Tabitha from Dino’s! We got your resume, and we would love to have you come on down for a quick little interview!”
Right, I forgot. In an act of desperation, I applied for a job at this family dining franchise in midtown. I assumed they’d look at my resume, call me overqualified and chuck it, but lo and behold, here we are.
“That’s great,” I lie through my teeth, “I’d love to come in. What time works fo
r you?”
“Oh gosh!” she gushes, and I have to laugh. It’s kind of nice I suppose to hear someone excited about such a crappy job. Maybe I ought to be a little more grateful. At least they’re giving me the time of day.
I thank her and take down the time. As demoralizing as it is, I realize I’m not getting back into publishing anytime soon. And if I want to restock my spoiled fridge, I’ll need a paycheck.
“Well, now can I just say, Natalie, it’s been a wonderful treat to speak to you today! We aim to hire only the best and brightest at Dino’s and we just know you’ll fit right in! I can’t wait to have you down here!” Yeesh.
“Thank you!” I try (I really do), and after another five minutes of midwestern goodbyes, we finally hang up. “Phew!” I breathe as I set my phone down on the table.
Okay. So, this is good, right? I’ve got an interview.
An interview working in a mega-happy-blow-my-brains-out restaurant chain, but, hey! An interview. The smell of moldy food stings my nostrils and any good feeling I’ve mustered is gone.
“Okay, you have got to go!” I shout as I point to the trash bag. I wish it had been this easy to get rid of my ex-husband. I still hear his creepy warning in my head. You’ll regret this, Natalie. I shiver as I lug the trash bag out of my apartment and down to the dumpster.
We’re not supposed to bring it down this early, but we’ve been allowed “special privileges” due to the fumigation. I know, this place really has it all. On the plus side, I’m most likely lice-free. Peachy.
I chuck the trash over my head and hear it hit the other bags with a satisfying clunk. With all this exercise, I’m definitely hungry. But it’s not like I can afford room service, even if they had it. The fridge food is totaled, but what about the freezer?
I make my way back to my apartment, grateful that the house is starting to smell like its normal musty self again. It’s better than trash. I fling open the freezer door, and voila! There’s a pint of ice cream and frozen chicken breasts.