Creep

by Jennifer Hillier

  “Don’t you even think about checking that.” Morris’s hands were under her shirt.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  She continued to kiss him, but then it occurred to her the e-mail might be from Randall. She’d been in contact that morning with a sweet-sounding woman from the New York branch of Amnesty International who’d promised to get back to her with new contact info for Morris’s long-lost son.

  The game came back on and a moment later a loud cheer erupted from the TV. Morris turned his face toward the screen midkiss.

  “Yes!” he barked in her ear. “He makes the extra kick and they’re going into overtime. Are you excited?”

  “Oh, hell.” She pushed him away and stood up, looking around for her purse. “I can’t check my phone while we’re making out, but you can watch football?”

  “Aw, honey, it was just one quick look.” He feigned sorrow but his eyes were still on the TV.

  “Where’s my purse?”

  “Kitchen.”

  She found it sitting on the shiny black granite of the large center island. She loved this kitchen. Morris had designed it himself because he loved to cook. It was one of the things they often did together. Like the rest of the house, the kitchen was huge, with cabinets that stretched up to the ceiling, sleek stainless steel appliances, a chef’s cooktop and double wall oven, even a pot rack hanging over the island. She wouldn’t miss her townhouse.

  Scrolling through her BlackBerry, she saw that she actually had two new messages. The first was an e-mail from Katrina Lebert, the nice Amnesty woman. The other was a text message from Ethan. She ignored the text and clicked on Katrina’s e-mail first.

  Subject: Randall Gardener

  Hi Sheila,

  Good news. Randall and his team should be passing through the AI office in Honduras sometime this week and my sister just happens to work there. I’ve let her know you urgently need Randall to contact you and will have her pass along your info.

  Hope this helps!

  Katrina

  Damn. It didn’t really help. She’d been told before that Randall would be passing through one of the Amnesty offices, but if he’d gotten her messages, he’d never contacted her. Every phone number she had for him was disconnected, every e-mail address was either inactive or he just wasn’t checking. Time was running out. The wedding was in three weeks.

  She could understand the issues Randall had with his father. Morris had admitted he’d been a distant parent to all three of his sons, and unfortunately Randall, as the oldest, had taken the brunt of it. Morris’s drinking had damaged his son deeply. All Sheila wanted to do was help—first, by reuniting the two of them, and later, by helping Randall work through his issues, whatever they might be.

  Sheila poked her head into the living room. Morris was yelling at the television, lost in the world of football. After a second of hesitation, she clicked on the text message from Ethan. It only took one second to read what he wrote.

  What do u see in that fat fuck anyway?

  Sheila gasped, then looked up quickly to make sure Morris was still in the other room. She took several deep breaths in an effort to stem the rage building inside her.

  The goddamned son of a bitch! Who the hell did he think he was?

  Suddenly she didn’t give a rat’s ass about the sex video that could destroy her career. Ethan wanted time off and a reduced workload? Fine, whatever. But nobody talked about Morris that way. Nobody. Careers weren’t everything. If Ethan was determined to get her fired, there was nothing she could do about it. But there was still a chance she could protect what she had with Morris, and that mattered more to her than anything. She had let this scumbag into their lives and it had to stop.

  Shaking with anger, Sheila’s thumbs flew over the keyboard of her BlackBerry.

  He’s 1000 times the man you will ever be. Go fuck yourself.

  She pressed SEND before she could change her mind.

  A sense of utter satisfaction washed over her. God, it felt good to stand up to this asshole once and for all. Closing her eyes, she allowed herself a small smile, picturing the shock on Ethan’s face when he got her reply.

  It was a full minute before panic set in.

  Oh, no. What have I done?

  Morris came into the kitchen and Sheila looked up, wondering if her burgeoning hysteria was written all over her face. She stuck her phone back into her purse as Morris opened his enormous Sub-Zero fridge to peruse its contents. He selected a can of Diet Coke and popped the tab.

  “Anything important?” he asked, taking a long sip.

  It was time to tell him everything. Her e-mail had just cemented her demise, and if she didn’t tell Morris now, Ethan certainly would. She had to explain before the bastard splashed her naked body all over the Internet. She had to prepare Morris.

  “Not sure yet. We’ll see.” She came toward him with her arms outstretched. He accepted her embrace as he always did, resting his chin comfortably on the top of her head. She burrowed her face in his chest. “Is the game still on?” she asked, her voice muffled. There’s something I need to tell you. . . .

  “Done. Longhorns lost.”

  “I’m sorry, babe. They’re just not as good without you, huh?” It was a sad attempt to be lighthearted and she hoped he wouldn’t notice her abrupt mood swing.

  He kissed the top of her head. “You sure know how to butter me up.”

  How do I tell you what I’ve done? “I know you miss being a superstar hotshot college football player,” she said, still muffled.

  “I do, can’t lie. Best days of my life. Till I met you, that is.”

  The anxiety was too much. It was seeping into every pore, right to her bones. She pulled back and looked up into his face. “Hey. I think I know of a way to make you feel better.” It was really a way to make herself feel better, a surefire way, but Morris didn’t need to know that.

  He grinned at her, putting the soda down on the granite island behind them. His hands moved down to her butt and squeezed. “Oh, yeah? How’s that?”

  She took him by the hand and pulled him toward the stairs. “Come and see.” I need you, she thought, but couldn’t say it.

  Morris followed a few paces, then stopped. “Wait. Are you teasing me?”

  “Not this time,” Sheila said, pulling him close. Her hand went to his crotch, and she massaged him purposefully through his jeans.

  He pulled back, breathing hard. “What about the wedding? I thought you wanted to wait.”

  “I changed my mind.”

  “Out of the blue?”

  No. I’m panicking and I need to feel close to you before I lose you. She swallowed and managed a smile. “What can I say, I’m ready.”

  He took her face in his hands, looking intently into her eyes. “Honey, I’ve waited a whole year. I can wait another three weeks. I know how important it is to you.”

  His sincerity almost broke her heart. Goddamn you, Ethan Wolfe. “Are you turning me down?” she whispered.

  Morris stared at her, the realization spreading over his face. Yes, she was completely serious. “Hell no!” he said.

  Despite her turmoil, she couldn’t help but laugh. He picked her up and slung her over his shoulder, heading toward the stairs. “Let’s go before you change your mind. Hoo-ah!”

  He carried her all the way up the stairs, and while it was exhilarating to know that her fiancé was strong enough to haul her weight over his shoulder, Sheila couldn’t help but worry he was going to drop her. After all, Morris was fifty, no spring chicken.

  They got to the bedroom and he placed Sheila gently on the bed, out of breath but still grinning. The exertion on his red face didn’t stop him from reaching for his belt buckle immediately. Sheila touched his arm to slow him down.

  “Take it easy, big guy. We have all day.” She gave him her most seductive smile, not wanting him to know that her real reason for slowing down was because she was worried about his health.

  She’d never had to worr
y about Ethan’s health, but she pushed that stupid thought out of her mind. She needed to focus on the man in front of her. The man she loved with all her heart. The man she was finally ready to make love to.

  She reached for his belt buckle, unfastened it, and pulled down his jeans. Through the thin fabric of his boxer shorts, she could see he was already hard.

  He gazed down at her with an expression full of wonder. “You are something else.”

  “I’m just getting started.” Her voice was throaty. “Take off your shirt.”

  He immediately began to undress, his large fingers fumbling with the small buttons on his shirt. A few buttons in, he yanked it over his head, impatient. Underneath he was wearing a thin, white, sleeveless undershirt, but he made no move to take it off. Sheila didn’t ask him to, either—she knew he was self-conscious about his stomach. His jeans stayed bunched around his ankles and he stood like a statue, waiting to see what she’d do next.

  She slid off the bed and got on her knees. After pulling his boxers down, she took him into her mouth with a passion that felt totally natural even though she’d never performed oral sex on him before. Hell, she’d never seen him this naked before. She’d never let him get past second base.

  Her mouth worked on him expertly. The carpet in the bedroom was plush with thick underpadding, and Sheila could have stayed on her knees all day. But then something happened. She noticed it right away, and her heart sank.

  Despite her expertise, Morris was starting to get soft.

  Oh, God. She tried not to panic.

  Pretending not to notice his softening erection, she worked him harder, moaning from the back of her throat like a porn star and looking up at him with big brown eyes. At first he met her gaze, but then he squeezed his eyes shut, putting his hands on her head to urge her on faster.

  But it was no use. He couldn’t get hard again. She knew it, he knew it, and worst of all, he knew that she knew it.

  She couldn’t imagine what the problem might be. Morris had never mentioned having difficulties maintaining erections before.

  Sheila stopped what she was doing and he slid out of her mouth. She looked up at him. “Are you okay, babe? What’s the matter? Am I doing it wrong?”

  “No, it’s fine. I guess I’m just a little nervous.” Morris attempted a laugh. It came out harsh and desperate. “I thought I’d be watching football today. Maybe go slower?”

  She did, taking her time. But it didn’t help. Her hands, which were resting on his buttocks while she worked, were beginning to feel clammy. She wasn’t sure if it was her own cold sweat or his.

  The key was not to panic. If she panicked, he would panic, which would only make things worse.

  Standing up, she pushed him back on the bed. “Get comfortable,” she said, favoring him with what she hoped was a natural smile. Flicking on the stereo behind her, she found a station that played soft jazz. She waited till he had kicked off his jeans and removed his socks and was lying down on the bed. The white undershirt stayed put.

  She turned her back to him and unzipped her own jeans slowly. Wriggling out of them, she bent forward so he could have a good, close view of her ass. She was thankful she’d thought to put on nice pink bikini panties that morning. She slid out of them slowly, looking over her shoulder at him and winking. Locking her eyes on his, she pulled her sweater up over her head and unfastened her bra. She tossed it to him. He caught it, smiling.

  Cupping a generous breast in each hand, she licked one of her own nipples, exaggerating the movements with her tongue, which she knew drove most men nuts. Morris watched her steadily, his eyes flicking up and down her body. But still, he stayed soft. She hiked a leg up on the bed to give him a better view. Moving her hands down to her crotch, she touched herself. It never failed to work.

  Not even a twitch.

  She climbed on top of him, sitting in his lap, writhing her hips as she kissed his neck and nuzzled his earlobes, something that usually drove him crazy. He kissed her back passionately, his tongue aggressive and searching, but when her fingers wandered down to his penis, it was still soft. He moved her hand away.

  “Why don’t you let me work on you,” he said.

  Sheila smiled, secretly relieved. They switched positions and she lay back on the bed, placing her arms behind her head on the pillow.

  Starting from her neck, Morris worked his way down her body with his lips. A moment later he was between her legs. Sheila moaned, thrusting her hips into his face, and he worked with her rhythm until she climaxed a few minutes later.

  She caught her breath and sat up, noting happily that he was semihard again.

  “My turn now.” She rolled him on his back and went down for the second time. He seemed more relaxed.

  Five minutes later, he had a full erection and she stopped what she was doing with her mouth so she could straddle him. For a while, everything seemed fine, but a few moments later, it happened again. He was going soft.

  Stifling her frustration, she asked him once more while she was still sitting on him. “Seriously, babe, is there something wrong with what I’m doing?”

  “Nothing’s wrong.” Morris’s tone was curt. He turned his face away. “I think I’m just tired.”

  “Have you ever . . .” Sheila paused, searching for the right words. She had to tread very, very carefully here. “Have you ever had problems before?”

  He still wouldn’t look her, but his face flushed a deep red. “No, I’ve never had problems. Not even when I was drinking. I told you, I think I’m just tired.”

  Sheila glanced at the clock on the nightstand. “At . . . three o’clock on a Saturday afternoon?”

  His maroon face went purple. “Maybe I just need a nap.”

  “Okay.” She climbed off and pulled the covers up over her naked body, lying beside him. “Me, too.”

  “Fine.”

  But it wasn’t fine. It really wasn’t. This was an almost exact replay of her sex life with her ex-husband, Bill, and she couldn’t—wouldn’t—go through that again.

  She refused to let it go. Sitting up, she touched Morris’s face. “Honey, please, if I’m doing something wrong, just tell me.”

  He jerked away from her caress as if stung and said nothing. He still wouldn’t look at her, instead staring at the TV on the dresser, which wasn’t even turned on.

  She sat up straighter, her heart plummeting. “So it is me.” She pulled the covers tighter around herself and swallowed her pride. “Okay, tell me. I don’t mind. Tell me what you like and I’ll do it. Or what you don’t like. Or what I did wrong. Just please talk to me.”

  He didn’t answer for a full minute, and it was agony not to repeat the questions again. She didn’t want to push him, although somehow she felt as if she already had. Finally he said, “It’s not what you’re doing. I usually like everything you’re doing. What guy wouldn’t? It’s . . . the way you’re doing it.”

  Sheila was taken aback. That was not the response she’d been expecting. “What do you mean? Is it my technique?”

  Morris shook his head, his jaw clenching. He finally turned and looked directly at her. “No, nothing’s wrong with your technique,” he said, his words slow and controlled and enunciated. “Your technique is perfect. Especially for someone who said she didn’t like sex and shouldn’t even have a technique.”

  “What?” Sheila’s mouth dropped open. “I never said I didn’t like sex.”

  “Maybe not in so many words, but that’s damn well the impression you’ve been giving me for the past year. Why else would a woman in her thirties not want sex? I honestly thought you didn’t know how. And then, out of nowhere, this?”

  Sheila stared at him and saw for the first time that he wasn’t just embarrassed, if he was even embarrassed at all. Morris was angry. Really, really angry. Red-faced, struggling-for-control enraged. And for the life of her she couldn’t figure out why.

  He wasn’t nearly finished. “Your mouth, your tongue, your hands, that striptease . . .
it’s like you’ve gone from a prude to a porn star overnight. I mean, what the hell? Who are you?”

  Sheila felt her face go hot with shame and fury. She glared at the side of his face because once again he wasn’t looking at her. “I’m me,” she snapped. “And I love you. Just because you can’t get it up doesn’t give you the right to insult me and call me names, you self-righteous son of a bitch.”

  He turned over on his side without another word. Sheila sat beside him, still naked, staring at his broad back. What the hell just happened?

  Forty minutes ago they’d been giggling and teasing each other while watching a football game. They loved each other. She was wearing his engagement ring. But their first real attempt at making love?

  Complete and utter disaster.

  The wedding was three weeks away.

  CHAPTER : 9

  The Seattle Seahawks bobblehead had come with the office. Ethan was tempted to throw the ugly thing out just to piss everyone off. All five of Sheila’s teaching assistants shared this office, all with different hours, and sticking Post-it notes on Sonny (as the stupid toy was affectionately nicknamed) was someone’s fun idea for keeping the TAs posted on important matters.

  Currently Sonny was asking Sheila’s assistants for twenty bucks to put toward her wedding gift. Valerie Kim was planning to purchase a set of wineglasses from Williams-Sonoma. Fancy schmancy. So far Ethan hadn’t contributed anything—and had no plans to.

  There wasn’t going to be a wedding; he’d made up his mind. Her text message telling him to go fuck himself had been the nail in her coffin.

  It had been fun for a while, watching her squirm. The picture he’d sent her had given him great leverage for the past couple of weeks. She’d been handling all his e-mails and taking his student calls, but he couldn’t play that card forever. Sooner or later she’d realize there really was no video, and she’d allow herself to be happy.

  And that was unacceptable.

  The question was, just how much damage could he do? Should he go right for the jugular? Or find some other way to torment her until she cracked?