by Penny Wylder
“Come for me baby,” he says, and sucks my clit into his mouth, giving it the thorough sucking it needs to push me over the edge. My hips buck and thrash as I’m pulled into one of the most explosive orgasms I’ve ever had.
He pulls his finger out, and kneels in front of me. He puts his cock between my thighs, but doesn’t go inside of me. Instead, he presses my legs together, trapping his cock between my thighs, fucking them. The head of his cock protrudes only a few times before he’s shooting cum across my tits.
We’re both breathing heavy. He collapses on the bed beside me.
I raise my hand, fending off the intrusive sun coming through the window. The reflection of it coming off of the lake seems to make the light blaze even brighter. AJ’s large frame had been blocking it. Or maybe I was too busy in the throes of pleasure to notice before, but now it slices into my retinas.
AJ hands me a towel off the floor to clean the cum off of my chest, then grabs the top sheet and wraps it around his waist. As he walks over to the window to shut the curtains, I notice him limping.
“What’s wrong with your leg?” He seems to mull over the question while he’s closing the curtains.
“Oh this?” He taps his knee. “It’s nothing.”
He’s deflecting. I know there’s something wrong but he doesn’t want to tell me. I don’t push him. It’s none of my business.
He walks over to the bed and kisses my cheek. “Care to join me in the bath?”
I stretch languorously across the bed. “That sounds nice.”
Inside his bathroom is the biggest tub I’ve ever seen. It looks more like a hot tub with the jets. He turns on the tap and squeezes bubble bath into the tub. Pine scented steam surrounds us. AJ takes my hand as I step into the bathtub; it’s quite high. He follows me and sits down. I settle between his legs, my back to his chest. As the water level rises, AJ rubs bubbles over my shoulders and down my chest. I feel like I’m floating on a cloud.
“You haven’t changed a bit since college,” he says.
“I have a bit.” In college I never would have stayed after sex. It was my mission not to ever get involved with guys. Sex was okay, but I never wanted it to evolve into anything more. As AJ kisses my neck, I start to feel that familiar uncomfortable feeling creeping up. His kisses are more intimate than sexual, which triggers a flight response in me.
I shove those confusing feelings aside by changing the subject. “Why a clinic?” I ask.
“For you, of course.” His answer is instant. No hesitation, no thought behind it. He’s telling the truth. He did this for me, but why?
I turn to face him, the water sloshing around me. “You’re serious?”
His deadpan expression tells me he is.
“Who does that? Who invests millions of dollars for a woman they slept with once in college?”
Anger and fear well up inside of me, though I’m not sure why. The emotions start a confusing battle in my head that overwhelm me, and all I know is that I need to get out of here and calm down.
He’s trying to explain but I hear none of it as I get out of the bath and grab an enormous body towel on my way out of the bathroom. He gets out of the tub to follow me but is slowed down by the stiffness in his leg. The doctor in me wants to stop and make sure he’s all right, try to examine him to see how I can help. But the rest of me, the confused woman, wants to get out of here as soon as possible.
“Please, Claire, will you just stop and listen to me?”
I can’t. I need out.
I throw on the scrubs I wore from last night, not bothering to put my bra, socks, or panties back on. Instead I shove them into my various pockets and call for a car as I’m trotting down the stairs.
He’s still upstairs. I can hear him cursing and struggling to get dressed. I know enough about ligament injuries (I assume that’s the trouble with his leg given his profession) to realize that they are always the most stiff and painful after waking. When the body rests it causes the ligaments to stiffen and it can be excruciatingly painful to move without stretching them out first.
The car arrives shortly. I imagine it’s never difficult to get any kind of service in this neighborhood.
“Claire, it’s not what you think,” he calls down to me.
“I’m done,” I tell him. “I got my big dumb fuck. I’m good for another decade.”
He stops trying to explain. I look up at the top of the stairs. He’s shirtless with only a pair of boxer briefs on. With all his muscle he looks like some kind of Greek god standing at the top of his throne. The pain in his eyes guts me. There’s physical pain there, but there’s something else there too that makes him look tortured.
I swallow hard and leave.
As the car pulls away from the house my mood darkens and I’m drowned in sadness. I just ruined the best thing that has ever happened to me. I tell myself that it’s my job at the Hope Center that I’m worried about, but that’s not entirely true.
I look out the window and watch the beautiful scene of Lake Michigan fly by as tears spill down my cheek.
6
AJ
Stupid, stupid, STUPID, I think. Hours have gone by since Claire left my house and I’m still haunted by the way she left. I should’ve handled that better. I have a nasty habit of just blurting out the truth no matter the consequences. That’s why the team’s press agent put a stop to most of my post-game interviews if the questions weren’t vetted first.
Now I look like a creep. She probably thinks I’m some kind of stalker, some jerk trying to buy her love. I don’t blame her for running out. Despite her hurtful words, I know she wasn’t just using me for a fuck last night. Her body gave away all of her secrets. And I ruined it by opening my fucking mouth.
I pace the living room, our last words ruminating in my head. When my phone rings, my heart completely stops and so do my feet. I walk toward the coffee table where I’d set my phone, hoping to see her number on the screen. My stomach sinks when I see that it’s only my agent, Carson.
I don’t want to answer it, but I know if I sit here, wallowing in pity, I will only sink deeper into this anguish. I don’t want to set up camp in these dark feelings. I need to find a way to make things right with Claire.
When I answer the phone, I can already tell by Carson’s lack of greeting and the long sigh that comes before his words, that something is wrong. Normally, he answers the phone with an exaggerated, enthusiastic, “Hey buddy how’s it going.” Today all he says is, “We have a problem.”
I close my eyes, bracing myself for whatever he’s about to say next. I really don’t want this day to get any worse than it is, but it doesn’t look like I have a choice in the matter.
He says, “Apparently you went out to dinner last night and some jackass young reporter followed you …” Despite bracing myself, my body feels as though it will tip forward. I already know where this is going and I don’t like the sound of it. “He has photos of you driving up to your home with a woman who looks very much like the doctor from the new clinic. The press is asking for a quote.”
I sigh. All young reporters are the same, trying to get the dirt, trying to ruin someone’s reputation for their own shot at the spotlight. I’m not too worried about my own reputation. I’ve done nothing but take an old friend out to dinner. But I don’t think this is going to go well at all for Claire. The media is undeniably harsher on women, especially when it comes to sex. If Claire didn’t hate me before, she will now.
“You tell those sons of bitches we’re just friends,” I say, hating that I have to explain at all. We’re two adults entitled to our privacy. I shouldn’t have to say shit. But I also know, in my line of work, that’s not how this works.
Carson hesitates. I don’t like it when he does that. “They have a photo of you nearly naked, standing in front of your bedroom window with a blurry female figure in the bed behind you. They also have pictures of her leaving this morning.”
Shit. That asshole reporter stayed the night t
o watch us? What the hell am I paying security for?
“I’m going to need a better quote than that,” Carson says apologetically.
There are no better quotes. “Pay them off. Those pictures can’t get out.”
I doubt paying anyone off will work this time. A young reporter wants the story. They’ll want the fame. But it’s worth a try. “Whatever it takes.”
Carson hesitates again. I want to reach through the phone and strangle him. “What aren’t you telling me?” I demand.
“The pictures are already out.”
“Already? What the hell? Claire only left a few hours ago.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, roughly rubbing them with the palms of my hands, wishing that all of this will be a bad dream when I open them.
But when I open my eyes, it isn’t a dream. It’s all just a blurry, very real, nightmare that I have to live with.
“What do you want to do, AJ?”
My brain scrambles for the words. How will this affect in Claire’s reputation? How will this ruin her life? How can I fix this before anything happens?
“Tell them … tell them …” The words won’t come to me. This is what I have a PR team for, right? Why haven’t they thought of something and brought it to Carson’s attention? Am I really alone in this?
I know the answer to all of this is yes, I am alone in this. PR only gets involved if my actions involve the team. If Claire had been a prostitute, they would have been all over it. But me having sex with an old friend who just happens to be the head of a medical center I’m financially responsible for doesn’t affect the team whatsoever. I doubt it will even affect me in the long run, or even the short run. The only person it will hurt is Claire.
My phone beeps. I look down at the screen and see that it’s an unknown number. “I’ll call you back,” I tell Carson and hang up, relieved by the distraction. I’ll need time to come up with a statement for this one.
I switch over to the incoming call. The moment I say “Hello”, Claire’s irate voice explodes on the other end. I barely understand what she’s saying except the curse words; those are coming in loud and clear. At one point I have to hold the phone away from my ear because she’s just shrieking. Part of me wants to laugh because it’s kind of cute, but the other part of me wants to reach through the phone and hold her because I know she’s angry and hurting.
When her words finally die down to an irritated sigh, I tell her, “I’m so sorry, Claire. I never meant for any of this to happen.”
She sounds resigned when she finally says, “I know.”
“We have the opportunity to shape this story,” I tell her.
“Well, right now they’re trying to spin it into some sordid affair. They’re calling me a gold digger, and saying that I used you to get this job at the Hope Center. The board could fire me for this!”
I cringe. Those pieces of shit. I should have known they’d pull that crap. Claire is anything but a gold digger. If she were, she would have held onto me in college since everyone knew I was being scouted for the pros. There were plenty of girls back then trying to slap marriage cuffs on me, and yet the only one I wanted dropped me as if I were some sort of poisonous thing.
“I’m going to propose something, so hear me out, okay?” I tell her.
She huffs. “What are you proposing.”
“I’m proposing.”
There’s a brief, confused silence on the other end before she says, “What?”
“I’m proposing,” I repeat. “The story will be that we were college sweethearts and that we reconnected when you—unbeknown to me—got the job at the clinic. No one knows I’m the one who brought your name to the board. You were hired solely on your skills and experience. Everything I did to help you get on their radar was done through other channels.”
I expect her to swear up a blue streak again, but she doesn’t. She doesn’t say anything. The only way I can tell she’s still on the other line is the faint sound of her breathing.
I continue, hoping to sell her on the idea that is sounding better and better as I sort through the details. “The press will love it. Everyone loves a good romantic story, right? The doctor and the jock.” I chuckle. “Imagine the headlines.
I think I hear the sound of her chuckling too. Hope makes my stomach clinch. If she’s laughing, there’s a chance she won’t hate me as much as I feared she would.
I sigh. “Then once all of this media buzz dies down and the new season starts, we can part ways. We’ll say our hectic schedules were too much for the relationship to sustain itself. We’ll only have to pretend for a few weeks.”
She’s still silent. I liked it better when she was screaming at me. “Your job at the Hope Center will always be yours. I can promise you that. If you want, when we’re done with the lies, you never have to see me again.”
“Okay,” she says, sounding defeated. “I’ll go along with it.”
“Good. I’ll go over the details with Carson and we’ll send out a press release.”
I hang up the phone. My head aches worse than my leg and my stomach churns with a sickness I can’t explain. I’d always dreamed of one day being engaged to Claire, but this is definitely not how I wanted that to go.
7
Claire
It’s been three days since my nearly nude picture ended up on every tabloid magazine sold in stores. Going to the drug store or gas station or even the salon, is impossible without being recognized. Somehow I’ve become just as big of a celebrity as AJ. I tried to buy up all the magazines in front of the coffee shop I like to go to every morning so I don’t have to change up my routine, but each time I think I’ve gotten rid of them, ten more will replace them by the next morning. This whole debacle has upended my perfectly anonymous life. Before this, I barely existed outside of my own little world. Like most doctors, I’m a creature of habit, and those habits have been demolished. It was bad enough when I moved from across the country to Chicago. I’d just finally slipped into somewhat of a comfortable stride, and again, poof, all of that is gone.
I try a different coffee shop today on my way to meet AJ. He said it was urgent so I rushed out of my apartment. He promised me my job was safe, but these days I’m not certain of anything. So when he says something is urgent, I run.
It’s bad enough that the dynamic has changed with me and my co-workers. Some have become overly nice to me, trying to form those tricky friendships in order to get gossip from the source; I imagine that could be a big payday if sold to the highest bidder. While others, who had once respected me and believed in me, are now treating me like the gum on the bottom of their shoe. Despite my experience and credentials, they assume I’ve slept my way to the top.
I order my usual latte, and I’m surprised how much better it is at this new coffee shop than the old one. I hope that means this is a sign of a halfway decent day, though I’m not going to hold my breath for that one.
After jumping on the train and chugging my coffee, I meet AJ at the address he specified in his text. I’d typed it into the GPS on my phone without bothering to look up the location. I’d assumed it was somewhere private, like a diner where we could talk.
I stop short when I see him standing in front of a high-end jewelry shop. I look at my phone to check the address; perhaps there is something else in the vicinity that would make more sense. But there’s not. The address is for the jewelry store.
His smile is so goddamn beautiful I want to slap it right off of his face. No one has the right to turn my life upside down and look that good doing it. I start to regret my choice of holey jeans and baggy sweater. This messy bun on top of my head and tennis shoes aren’t helping the look. I’m dressed for an outing at Walmart, not whatever this is.
“I got here as soon as I could,” I say. “What’s going on?”
“We have an appointment,” he says cheerfully. But there’s something mischievous about that cheerfulness.
“What kind of appointment?” I can’t help the skeptici
sm coating my words.
“Follow me.”
He leads me inside the jewelry store, and trust me, this is no Kay’s Jeweler in a downtown mall. This place has a small army of buff security guards, glitz and glamor in every corner. The ceiling drips with gold and crystal dangling chandeliers. Everything shines. Everything except for me. I’m about as dull as oxidized paint.
There are several long counters. A smartly dressed woman stands in front of us with her hands behind her back, smiling at us as though she’s been waiting. I guess she has since AJ said we had an appointment.
“I hear congratulations are in order,” she says to me with a mouthful of gleaming white veneers. Her gaze darts to my disheveled appearance, but her smile never betrays her thoughts.
“Thank you,” I say and turn a subtle glare at AJ. I get he wants to make people think we’re engaged, and a ring is important for that, but we could have gotten something cheap off Amazon and called it a day. This seems a little excessive.
“Would you like to see some options?” she asks.
I’d love to say “no” and shock the smile off her face—more to embarrass AJ than anyone—but the caffeine has finally kicked in and I’m not feeling as ornery as I had been when I first woke up this morning.
She disappears into the back of the store. AJ and I take a seat on one of the comfortable-looking couches arranged near the cases.
“This is a little much, don’t you think? I don’t need some fancy ring. What’s their return policy?”
He folds his hands in front of him and looks at me, amused. “My fiancée deserves the best and that’s what she’s going to get.”
I glare at him, but I have to admit, I don’t hate the word when it comes out of AJ’s mouth. With anyone else, a hard “no” would sit as solid as jail bars around the thought of marriage. Why are you betraying me? I ask myself. I’m a little shocked when a series of thoughts pop up to answer: Because he’s different, he respects you, he’s loved you most of your adult life when you couldn’t even get a pet to stay loyal.