Making a Scene

by Trudy Doyle

  I’m at his complete mercy now, legs akimbo, his hands on my thighs, his mouth devouring me. It’s all I can do to keep from screaming, two seconds away from losing it, so wet I’m sure he’s drowning. I’m grinding against him, pleasure spasms mixed with pain coiling inside me, his fingers finding their way inside me, his other hand splaying across my quivering belly, his tongue relentless. A second later, I’m bucking against his mouth, my eyes rolling back in my head as he sucks and kisses and licks the climax right out of me.

  He raises his head and my foot plops to the floor, my chest heaving in the aftermath of his gorgeous assault. As he sits there smiling wickedly, it comes to my attention the man’s got quite a tent in his trousers. I straighten my dress and slide over, pushing him against the door. “Prepare yourself,” I say, unzipping him.

  He laughs, throwing his arm over the rim of the seat. “Do your worst,” he says, stretching his legs.

  I pull back his shorts and let his pocket rocket loose, tremendous in scale, springing with life, a handful and a half as I lower my mouth to its glistening head. Then, arching my back, I take a deep breath and, opening my throat, swallow his splendiferous cock whole.

  His head thwacks back against the window, his breath intaking sharply. He grabs my head as my mouth jackhammers his cock, my hair spilling out of its clips, his sunglasses spinning to the floor. Two seconds later I feel his pelvis contracting before his ass lifts off the seat and his salty-sweet come floods my mouth. I suck it back, licking his cock clean before raising my head, only to find him staring at me, wide-eyed and completely stunned.

  “Well, I guess you enjoyed that, hmm?”

  “That’s never happened to me—before,” he pants, breathless.

  I’m mystified. “What do you mean? I just did you—”

  “No,” he says, a little hoarse, tucking himself back in. “I mean no one’s ever gotten me all the way down their throat before. Jesus, Pam.” He pulls me to him. “No kidding, that had to be the most intense orgasm of my life. You’re amazing.”

  Now it’s my turn to be stunned. “I don’t know what to say. Maybe I was a sword swallower in a past life?”

  “Feel free to practice on me anytime.” He kisses me, our tastes mingling, just as the realization hits me.

  “Roark! We’re not moving.”

  He looks over his shoulder. “You know what? I don’t think we’ve been for a while.”

  We both swivel to the smoked window. Beyond it waits the stone façade of the Ritz Carlton, our driver standing at the ready outside our door for who knows how long. I smooth my hair and slip into my coat, he leans back and zips his trousers, I grab my purse as he buttons his jacket, then Roark slides on his sunglasses and opens the door.

  The driver catches it on the other side, and I see Roark slip him a hundred dollar bill. For his patience, no doubt. At least that’s what I’m telling myself. Roark slides his arm around my shoulder as a bellman brings up the rear with my bag and we cruise through the sumptuous lobby to the elevator and up to our floor. When the bellman opens the door to our room, one look takes my breath clean away.

  “Oh my God! Roark!” I cry, making a beeline for the window and its stupendous view of Central Park. “It’s fabulous.”

  He smiles subtlely, the bellman nodding his thanks as he takes Roark’s tip and leaves. “I’ve ordered room service in case there’s nothing but finger food at this soiree. Are you hungry?”

  “Starving. I could eat a horse.” I walk over and brush my hand against his package. “But then again, I think I just did.”

  “Who intends to ride you all night, long and definitely hard.” He kisses me, his brow arching evilly. “You know, now that I’ve got you in a proper room…”

  I squeeze his chin. “Be right back.” I grab the cosmetics bag out of my suitcase and duck in the bathroom. For all the foresight I usually have, even I was surprised by Roark’s enthusiasm in the limo. Not that I’m complaining. But I do want to be prepared. I bend to the sink, give my face a quick scrub and scour my teeth. Before I leave I slip my diaphragm inside me, parts of me longing for the day when it won’t be necessary. When I return, Roark’s standing by the window, popping the stopper off a bottle of champagne.

  “What didn’t you think of?” I ask, raising a flute to the foam.

  He fills our two glasses and sets the bottle to a night table. “Not much of anything today, except you.” He clinks my flute, draining his as I follow suit. Then he takes the glasses and sets them aside, his eyes never leaving me.

  “Come here,” he says, taking my hand. He sits back on the window seat, bringing me into the vee of his legs. “I want to see you naked.”

  I can’t answer him. The late-afternoon light is streaming behind him and in his dark suit, under his intense gaze, he looks so masterful and powerfully beautiful it’s all I can do just to gape at him. He puts his arms around me as I lay my hands on his shoulders and he pulls me close, his lips just brushing the corner of my mouth, his tongue reaching in to skim mine. I catch his lips and press my own fully and firmly to his, his head tilting back as my mouth opens, the champagne taste of him filling my senses and I kiss him back, breathing him in.

  His kisses a trail to my neck as his fingers caress my hip, finding the zipper on the side of my dress, slowly lowering it. An instant later he’s sliding it off my shoulders and it falls to the floor, a scant second before I feel the clasp of my bra unhooking. His warm hands reach my breasts to cup them, his thumbs circling, pinching and tweaking them as I sway, groaning when he takes a nipple in his mouth. He sucks and licks my breasts, his tongue swiveling around my areola until he lets go to huff his warm breath against the damp spot, my skin pebbling from the hot and cool, my clit already throbbing.

  “You’re beautiful,” he says, his face lit with appreciation.

  He slides his hand to my pussy and I jolt against it. A soft laugh wells up from deep within him. “And so wet for me,” he adds, rubbing the tender flesh. “Hot and sweet and wet.” I spread my legs almost involuntarily and his finger slips inside as he once again suckles my breast, making me wetter still. Except for my stockings and garters I’m completely naked, and even with the waning sun streaming over me I’m shivering, exposed and expectant and out-of-my-mind hot for the man slowly turning me toward the bed.

  Oh no. Not the bed. Not any bed. Not even a bed with Roark in it. Suddenly I start to panic and I turn back to him, reaching for his fly. “No—do me here.”

  His head cocks, as if he can’t believe what I’m saying. “There’s a big bed right over there.”

  But I already have my hand down his trousers. His cock’s hard as a steel pipe and I lift my leg, climbing into his lap. “I want you to do me in the window. I want to see what it’s like fucking fifteen stories over Central Park with half of New York watching.”

  His cock throbs in my hand and he grins. “Oh yeah? Hm. Kinda like the beta version of the Mile High Club?” He latches on to my behind and, lifting up, I slowly lower myself onto him, each velvet inch a sweet new form of torture as I steadily impale myself. His breath comes out in a hiss when he’s finally in me to the hilt, my arched knees beside him, my pumps braced against the window, Central Park and the 59th Street traffic below.

  “I wonder if they can see us,” I say, gripping his still-jacketed shoulders.

  He dips his head, licks a nipple. “Would you like them to?”

  I tighten around his cock. “What I would like is you to fuck me.”

  His fingers dig into my bottom and he starts to move, in and out, in and out, slowly, sweetly, torturously, his hips swiveling in such an erotically mean tease after a couple of minutes I’m panting and aching and can stand it no longer. Midway in I straighten my legs and push myself nearly off him. He lifts his head in question.

  I skim my finger down his slickened shaft, bouncing my pussy against the head of his cock. “Hey, I thought you were going to fuck me, but I can hardly feel—”

  His eyes flare and i
nstantly he’s back inside me, his enormous cock filling me so quickly he takes my breath away. He growls something indiscernible and suddenly he’s on his feet and twisting me into the window, my legs wrapped around him, gripping his neck for dear life as he pounds me.

  “Can you feel me now?” he asks roughly, my nails digging into the window molding, my bottom just missing crashing through the window. As he takes my mouth violently, as my tongue whips his in a brutal clash, as my legs tighten around his hips, forcing his cock in even deeper, I discover I’m this feral thing, wanting him on such an elemental level it’s his scent that fires me now, more than his touch, his face, the feel of his skin on mine. It’s his aroma, thoroughly male, pungently virile, ferociously aroused—for me. By me. I throw my arms around his neck and press my bare breasts against his shirt and suddenly, we’re falling to the carpet, the weight of Roark’s body atop mine a potent enough aphrodisiac to send me soaring, each thrust of his cock an orgasmic ladder shooting me right through the roof.

  “Oh. My. God,” I barely say and I’m gone, captured by my climax, his contorted face telling me he’s well into his own, and for a couple of seconds we’re lost in bliss. I feel myself writhing on the carpet as the last strains of my orgasm charge through me, Roark pushing himself up to lift his weight off, once again swiveling his hips to bring us gently back to earth until finally, his magnificent body stills.

  “Hello there,” he says, grinning, bending to kiss me ever so sweetly. I wrap my arms around his neck and he sighs against my mouth. I think I love this tender part of our lovemaking most of all.

  Then someone has to go and knock on the door.

  “Damn,” he breathes, which is my sentiment exactly, especially with him still inside me. “That must be room service.” He slowly withdraws and, once he climbs to his feet, helps me to mine, scooping my dress and bra from the floor. “Not that I don’t love you this way, but I’d really like it to be for my eyes only.”

  I tweak his cheek as he tucks in. “Why, thank you. I suppose I’d better go reassemble myself then.” I scoot past him and duck into the bathroom.

  Wasn’t I just here minutes before? Good golly. Lately it seems when I’m around Roark I’m constantly in a state of either pre- or post-dishabille. For the last forty-eight hours we’ve barely been able to be in each other’s company ten minutes without tearing into each other’s clothes. Or into my clothes, at least. Because in all the times we’ve made love I’ve yet to see him naked. Which wasn’t really feasible until just minutes ago. Until I blew it.

  I clean up, reapply my makeup, clip my hair back, slip into my bra and panties, pull my dress over my head. And face a realization. Tonight Roark’s going to want me in his bed, and I’m going to have to tell him why I haven’t slept in one in weeks. I’ll have to explain my Josh/Karen-induced aversion not only to sleeping normally, but to writing that damn sex scene. I bend into the sink, brushing my teeth. Boy oh boy. I’d almost rather keep fucking him on the windowsill than have to explain that. Then I hear him tapping on the door. I pull it open.

  “Are you almost done?” he asks, a strained look on his face.

  I eye him innocently. “Almost done…what? Hogging the bathroom?” Hmm. I guess I have been in here an awfully long time and really, it’s funny when you think about it. You can shove your face into each other’s crotches, lick every inch of each other’s naked bodies, examine parts that you’ve never even seen on your own, but there are still some things that are decidedly private. At least in this early part of the game. I grab my shoes and slink past him, Roark squeezing my hip as he hurries inside.

  I shiver; even the little things seem magnanimous with him.

  Like room service. Selections from their afternoon High Tea, he tells me when he returns. Little sandwiches of cucumber and dilled cream cheese or smoked salmon with caper spread, prosciutto with mascarpone cheese, crab and lemon-filled éclairs, a little tray of petit fours. And just to be safe, he tossed in a trio of mini-burgers and fries.

  “You did think of everything,” I say, grabbing a fry.

  He reaches for my hand. “Come here,” he says, and I settle in his lap.

  This is the sweetest part. Something we haven’t had since our relationship decidedly changed. We talk of nothing and everything, feeding each other canapés and sipping tea and more champagne like an old married couple whose daily existence has become so intertwined, it’s as subliminal as breathing. I could get used to this. But it’s in his hanging on my every word, his asking questions that really make me think, in his slightly sardonic observations that I realize how much I really like this man.

  Forget the drop-dead good looks and shiver-inducing sexuality. All that seems so vacuous next to the depth of his personality. Spending this golden hour with him shows why his coffee shop is so popular. There’s just something about Roark that makes you want to be his friend. I feel privileged he wants me for so much more. Soon it’s time to go, and before long we’re walking up the steps to Malcolm’s townhouse, just off Washington Square Park.

  “You seem nervous,” he says, looking concerned.

  “I am.” There’s no denying it. “This might seem like a happy little party from the outside, but it’s really a pissing contest. We’re all out to one-up each other, and everyone knows I’ve got a little too much riding on my next book. Doesn’t help my agent and editor are going to be here, and they’ve both been on my back lately.”

  “So they know about the block you’ve been feeling.”

  I shake my head. “No, and that’s the way I’m keeping it. As far as they’re concerned, I’m still this writing machine. You’re only as good as your last book, and if my next one’s a bomb, I’m cooked.” Then I smile broadly, tossing my silk scarf over my shoulder. “This is the Pam Flynn I want them to see—successful, confident and as predatory as a hammerhead.”

  We break at the top of the stoop, leaning against opposite railings. “Let me ask you a completely random question,” he says. “What did you do before you started writing full-time?”

  “That’s not so random. I was in advertising. Why?”

  He dips his head, laughing. “I would’ve never thought! So, have you gotten past that block yet?”

  “Let me put it this way. I have until Monday to finish a scene so I can submit my next book, and the very fact that I’m here says to my editor and agent it’s done. The truth is I’ve barely started it.”

  “It’s my fault,” he says, looking severely conflicted. “I’m taking you away from your work.”

  “No, no, don’t think that. I want to be here. I’m thrilled to be here. Truly.” I reach out and take his hand. “You’re the only thing keeping me sane right now.”

  He crooks a brow. “You know? I think if you need me to keep you sane, your problem is a lot more complicated than you’re telling me. I’ll bet it has to do with what just happened back at the hotel.”

  I flinch. “What do you mean, what happened?”

  He pulls me closer. “How you wouldn’t get in bed with me. How you’d rather have me do you on the floor.”

  Was there anything I could hide from this man? “Roark, that doesn’t have—”

  “There you are!” Malcolm cries, the door opening. “Get in here, you hot little minx and bring your—” He pauses, absolutely stricken at the sight of Roark. “Well, hello.”

  Malcolm steps back as Roark catches the door, allowing me to walk in first. “Good evening, Malcolm,” I say, kissing his cheek. “Let me introduce my friend, Roark Carmelli. Roark, Malcolm O’Doul.”

  Malcolm’s not a small man; in fact, he’s nearly as tall as Roark, but his frame is elegantly wiry. Roark extends his hand and Malcolm shakes it briskly, but I can see he’s plainly in a swoon.

  Roark smiles warmly at the writer, his large body looking almost cramped in Malcolm’s ample foyer. “Good to meet you. Pam’s told me a lot about you but she really didn’t have to. I loved your last book.”

  “Really…” Malcolm says
idly, obviously caught off guard.

  “Great house you have here too,” Roark adds, casting his gaze to the doorway. “Interesting crown molding.”

  Malcolm’s eyes flare. “Why, thank you. It’s original.” He sweeps his hand to the noisy living room to the left of the hall. “Why don’t you go on in and make yourself at home. Bar’s in the dining room.”

  “Thanks,” Roark says, gravitating toward it.

  Before I follow, I lean into Malcolm’s stunned face and whisper, “Watch it, he’s mine.”

  His lips tighten. “Listen, my dear, you know I’m a married man, but Jesus…” He looks to Roark leaning in the living room doorway. “That man should be sculpted in marble and sitting at the Met.” Then he slides me a glance, reddening. “Good Lord. The way I gaped at him he must think I’m a complete ass.”

  “Don’t worry, he’s used to it.” I grab his arm. “I promise not to tell James.”

  He squeezes my hand. “Best not. We’ll just keep him our own sordid secret. Now come on.”

  Malcolm takes our arms and glides us through the living room introductions, as if Roark is his recent discovery and, for his part, the man plays a very good sport. Among the gay contingent he is an instant superstar, among the women he collects an ample amount of sighs (and jealous glances, I must admit), and with the straight men, instant guy-bonding when they find out he’s an ex-cop. So I leave him to his fan club, even when he shoots me a furtive rescue me! look, and drift toward the bar.

  And right into Renee.

  “Pammy! Sweetie! You made it!” She shoves back a hank of highlighted hair and leans her nicotine-and-martini-slimmed self into me. “I’m so glad you came. Did you see Ross and Jeremiah? And Lainey Duncan, bless her larcenous little heart, is here too. So…” She pokes my shoulder. “I’m taking it you’re done? Got them all sweaty and panting?”

  I sigh. The woman is a one-note song. “You’ll have it Monday, I promise.” I hope.