Love [Literally]

by Maria Monroe

  Gripping the base of his cock with one fist, I jerk him off while sucking him at the same time.

  "Oh baby, that's so fucking good," he hisses through his teeth.

  I stop for a second, abruptly, and he looks down at me in agony. "Don't stop. Please don't stop." His words are a plea, and I'm wet again with how badly he needs me right now.

  "I want you to come in my mouth," I say, looking deep into his eyes.

  "Oh fuck," he groans. "That's the best goddamn thing I've ever heard in my life."

  Now I suck harder, and I know he's trying to hold back, but his hips thrust, forcing his dick into my mouth over and over again. I take it each time, deep into my throat, holding his cock at the base with one hand and caressing his balls with the other. His head is thrown back against the couch, but then he raises it to look into my eyes, and I meet his gaze, my mouth completely filled with his cock.

  I keep going, keep sucking, keep licking him till I feel his dick twitch and harden even more, and, with a curse, he comes fast. I swallow it all, then again when he shoots once more.

  I stay where I am, on my knees in front of him, as his breathing slows. One of his hands moves to my hair, gently playing with it and caressing my head, before he whispers for me to come back up onto the couch. He pulls me to his chest, holding me close. I can hear his heart beating, can feel his lungs fill with breath over and over again.

  "Fuck, Lia" he finally says. "That was amazing."

  I run my hand up and down his arm, feeling the corded muscles underneath his skin. "I haven't, you know, done that for anyone else. Ever. Only you," I whisper.

  He closes his eyes, then opens them and looks deeply into mine. "Lia, I…" His voice trails off.

  "I just didn't want to," I continue, feeling a need to explain. "I dated other people, but when it came down to it, to really getting intimate—in any way—I just didn't want to. At the time I didn't think it was because of you, but now I know it was. I think I was waiting to be with you, that somehow, in some part of my mind, I held back because I knew I was going to be with you again."

  "Fuck, Lia," he mutters, regret in his eyes. "You're amazing. I don't deserve you. I didn't wait…"

  "It's OK, Julian. We weren't together. There was no reason for you to wait or even think you'd see me again. I don't care what you've done. I just want to be with you now." I feel so vulnerable opening up to him like this, but I'm tired of holding back my feelings, tired of keeping things inside. I broke my heart once before doing that, and I'm not going to make the same mistake again.

  He pulls me back down to his chest, and we stay like that for a long time.

  “Hey, Julian?” I ask after a long time.

  “Hmmm?” He sounds sleepy and satisfied.

  “What do you think of the Oxford comma?”

  His laugh is a rumble—I can feel it intensely because I’m lying with my head on his chest. “Only you, Lia,” he says.

  “No seriously,” I ask.

  “I am very pro-Oxford comma.”

  “Me too.” I smile as I cuddle closer to him.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I'm floating. I seriously feel like I'm floating into the office on Monday morning. I spent practically the whole weekend at Julian's, leaving only once to go home and get a change of clothes, even though, to be honest, we spent most of our time naked. I can't wait to tell Michelle about it, and I'm sure she's going to take one look at me and notice something. But she's not there when I get in.

  "Darren, where's Michelle?" I ask.

  "How should I know?" he snaps. Darren. Who never, ever gets mad. Who's pretty much the biggest sweetheart I've ever met, with the exception of hockey Ben.

  "Who peed in your Froot Loops?" I ask.

  "Pissed, Lia. You can say pissed."

  "Fine. Who pissed in your Froot Loops?" I sit down hard in my seat and turn on my laptop. "Jerk," I mumble under my breath.

  Darren sighs. "I'm sorry. I'm in a bad mood."

  "Really? I hadn't noticed."

  "Shut it," he says, but his voice is lighter now, a hint of his usual good nature showing through.

  "Is everything OK? How was your weekend?"

  He lets out a groan, a mix between frustration and anger.

  "That good?" I ask.

  "It's complicated."

  "Oh wait. Didn't you and Michelle go on a double date thing with Ben and Scarlet?" I can't believe I forgot about that, but in my excitement over my weekend, I completely forgot. Some friend I am.

  He grunts, a sound I take to mean yes.

  "Judging by your mood, I'll guess it didn't go so well." I feel a swell of sympathy for Darren. He's obviously hurting, and that sucks because he's a totally awesome guy who deserves to be happy.

  "Biggest. Understatement. Ever."

  "I'm not going to pry, but if you want to talk about it…"

  He doesn't answer, which is good. At least it's not a no.

  "Want to go get coffee?" I ask.

  "Why not." He stands up, and grabs his coat. He looks cute in dark blue dressy jeans and a checked and fitted button down shirt neatly tucked in. Kind of Banana Republic-ish. His hair is getting longer, and he's wearing it a little messy, and his hazel eyes are seriously to die for. Except that they look tired today. And sad.

  I grab my coat too and, even though I just got here, head out for coffee with my friend.

  We head to the Executive Dining Room. Even though the coffee is weak and lukewarm, at least it's quiet enough here to talk. The only other person here is Elaine, the server, and she’s busy playing Candy Crush on her phone. We sit by the window at a table whose linoleum surface is chipped and scraped, and I idly trace my finger along one of the scratches as I sip my gross coffee and look at Darren. It’s obvious from his anxious face that he needs to get something off his chest.

  He takes a deep breath. "This is confidential," he says.

  "Of course."

  "I mean it, Lia."

  "So do I. Swear."

  "OK," he says. "Michelle."

  "What about her?" I stare at him, and under his smooth dark skin I swear he's blushing. "Oh," I whisper, suddenly aware of what's going on.

  He nods. "Yup." He doesn't look happy.

  "Well, wow. I don't know what to say. I thought you guys were friends. Who kissed once. And both agreed to forget it."

  "Yeah, except I never forgot it."

  "Oh shit."

  He nods again. "It's so fucked up, Lia. Do you have any idea how hard it is to be around her every day and know I can't have her? To hear her talk about guys she dates and wish she would date me?"

  "I do know how that feels. It sucks, Darren.”

  “Yup.” He looks miserable.

  “What are you going to do? Does she know how you feel?"

  He shakes his head. "No way. And I'm not going to tell her. And you're not either. Right?"

  "Right. I promised. Except maybe you should tell her."

  "Nope."

  "Maybe she feels the same way, Darren."

  "So that's why she spent all night Saturday ignoring me and only talking to Ben and Scarlet? I felt like a fucking third wheel. Fourth wheel? Like they were a threesome and I was just there to watch."

  "Kinky."

  He just gives me a pained look. Clearly he’s not in the mood for joking around.

  “Look,” I say. “I’m far from an expert. Like, really far from it. But one thing I’ve learned recently is that hiding your feelings doesn’t make them go away.”

  “Wait, wait! I need to write that down,” says Darren rolling his eyes.

  “I’m just trying to help.”

  “I know. I’m sorry, Lia. You are helping. And I'll get over it. I just needed to whine a little over some fucking awful coffee."

  "It is pretty bad. Let's stop somewhere and get coffees to bring back to the office." I wish I had some profound advice to give him, but I can't figure out my own love life, let alone someone else's, and the paltry help I just offered isn’
t enough.

  We brace ourselves against the cold weather as we hurry through the wind and down the street. The day is unusually gray, the dullness of winter converging to make everything bland and cold and bitter. We find a coffee shop called Chooch’s Café, and the number of people waiting in line is encouraging. It’s bright inside, and we get in line to order.

  "Order for me?" asks Darren. "Black coffee. I gotta take a piss."

  "Gross. But sure," I say as he heads off to the restrooms.

  I'm enjoying the warmth and bopping along to some amazing song I’ve never heard before that’s being played in the shop, when I hear a voice behind me, deep and filled with robust charm, so much that some of it's got to be fake.

  "Ms. Hudson, isn’t it?"

  I turn around and I'm standing face-to-face with Randolph Meyer. Who's been ignoring our requests for interviews for days. Who shut me down a few weeks ago to talk to Julian instead. Who may possibly be involved in the murder of two people who used to work at one of his charities. Seeing him in person, though, he's not as powerful as he's become in my head. He's the same silver-haired man with his flawless tan and expensive suit, but in a sudden burst of realization I think: he's just a person. Not some super-human god.

  "That’s me," I say, surprised that he remembered my name. The first time we met he treated me like some insignificant slug. Maybe I made a more permanent impression that I realized.

  "Randolph Meyer," he says, extending his hand. "We met a few weeks ago. You were interested in a write-up on the charity work I've been doing."

  "I remember," I say, shaking his hand. "I left you a few messages and never heard back."

  "Busy, busy, busy," he says jovially. "Listen. If you're still interested I'd love to answer whatever questions you have. I'd like a little good exposure, if you know what I mean."

  "Yeah. I do. That would be great," I say. I'm not sure exactly what his angle is, but I'm sure he has one. Could he really just be looking for good press? Or does he want something more?

  "Excellent. Look. I'm in town and staying at the presidential suite at the Swissotel. If you come by in, say, twenty minutes, have them call me down to the lobby and we'll talk." He takes a business card and pen out of his pocket, briefly scrawls the hotel name and room number on the back, and hands it to me with a flourish, like he's a magician doing a trick. His tie, black and smooth—probably made from silk spun from a super rare worm in China—gleams in the sudden and unexpected ray of sunshine that passes through the window. When he smiles, his teeth are almost blindingly white, like he's in a toothpaste commercial. I almost expect to hear a "ting!" sound and see a little flash of cleanliness glinting at me. Then he's gone, brushing past people on his way out the door. Outside, a uniformed driver opens the back door to a black town car, and Randolph Meyer gets in. The car drives away.

  "Where's our coffee? Why aren't you in line?" Darren's back, looking at me curiously. I realize I somehow ended up out of line, standing against the tall bar-stools that overlook the downtown sidewalk.

  "Oh, uh, listen. Darren. I need to go interview someone. I'll see you back at the office, OK?"

  "Yeah. Everything all right?"

  "Of course. I'm going to call Julian and let him know where I'm going so he can meet me there. He's gotten all protective," I say, fluttering my hands and rolling my eyes to show how foolish Julian's behavior is, though deep down inside I've got warning bells going off.

  Darren looks at me knowingly. "You know he's totally and completely in love with you. Right?"

  I blush, my cheeks burning in a weird combination of embarrassment and desperate hope. I want him to be in love with me. But I'm afraid to think about it too much. I'm afraid it won't be true.

  "It's obvious. He acts like an asshole, but the way he looks at you?" Darren shakes his head.

  "Yeah. Well. Apparently Julian's really worried about this story. And it is pretty freaky."

  "Uh, yeah. How many people have died under suspicious circumstances?"

  "I know. That's why I'll call Julian. But just in case? Here." I hand Darren the business card, feeling foolish as I do. Just in case what? I end up being kidnapped by some billionaire who's afraid I'll make it public that he's been stealing money from his own charity? As if! Things like that don't happen in real life. Not to mention the fact that we'll be in the lobby of a busy hotel. Nothing could happen there.

  "I'm coming with you," says Darren.

  "Darren, I'm fine. I'll call Julian on my way over. And I'll be meeting Randolph Meyer in the hotel lobby, so there will be other people around. I'm a big girl."

  He looks uncertain, but glances at his watch. “I do have a meeting I need to be at…"

  "Go. I promise, Darren, that I won't talk to anyone without Julian around. OK?"

  "Be careful."

  I feel like a kid who lied her way out of trouble, except I might possibly be getting myself in trouble not out of it. I'm not stupid, though, and I don't have a death wish, so I call Julian. He doesn't answer. I leave a message and then text him. Meet me at Swissotel asap.

  So he'll probably be pissed, even if I just plan to wait in the lobby for him. And I can't help thinking of the dumb girl in horror movies, the one who, against any smidgen of good judgment, and with every single audience member yelling at her not to be stupid, goes into the haunted house alone anyway. But taking a cab over to the hotel isn't dangerous. Everything will be OK.

  In the cab, I try Julian again, but it still goes to voicemail.

  "Dammit!" I hiss out loud. He told me to call him if I was going to interview anyone. No, he told me to stop working on this story. But I've got a chance to talk to Randolph Meyer. The person responsible for all of this. This could be the story of a lifetime, and it's killing me that I have to wait for Julian. I text him again for good measure. I'm here at the hotel. Meet me! Asap!

  After paying the cab driver, I hurry through the cold and into the hotel. It's huge, glassy and gorgeous, and the lobby is extravagant as well. Dangly chandeliers sparkle overhead, casting their reflection on ornate furniture in a fancy sitting area. I avoid the concierge—I'm still waiting for backup, which sounds ridiculous, like I'm trying to be some undercover detective—and head to the couches, where I sit down and try, once more, to reach Julian. No luck.

  I thrust my phone into my coat pocket and sigh. I'm tempted to just have them call Randolph down. It's a public place. I'll be fine. But I promised.

  "Lia." Randolph's voice startles me as he sits on the couch next to me and flashes me a dazzling smile. Everything from that shiny tie to his Rolex to his perfectly manicured fingernails makes him look like the epitome of luxury. Even his haircut looks expensive.

  "Mr. Meyer." I smile back at him, then reach into my bag for my notebook and pen. I open it quickly to the first blank page I can find. "Is now a good time?"

  "Absolutely, Lia. Absolutely." His face is still all smiles, like he's never been happier to see anyone in his life. It's unsettling. And suddenly, even here in this busy lobby with people nearby, a coldness snakes through my belly. Something's not right. Every part of my body is screaming at me to get up now and leave.

  "Great." My hands shake a little, and I grip my notebook and pen harder. I don't want him to see I'm scared. "So we were going to talk about your charitable contributions in the Chicago area. You currently are responsible for bringing three different charitable organizations here to assist…"

  "Stop." He puts his hand on my forearm, gripping it hard enough that it hurts.

  I look at his face, and though he's still smiling at me—anyone walking past would think he's being gregarious—the smile is frozen. Fake. A caricature of nicety where none clearly exists.

  "Tell me, Lia," he says, his voice low, "what you know about Hope International."

  "Oh. Nothing. I mean, I know it's one of the charities you established, and its goal is to…"

  "No," he interrupts, squeezing my arm harder. "Tell me what you know."

  "I
don't know what you're talking about." I force my voice to be calm, even though inside I'm trembling. We're in the middle of a busy hotel lobby. Surely he's not threatening me right here, is he?

  "Bullshit. I'm not fucking around. I know you think you're onto something. I saw the reports you had in your little apartment, like you're some sort of girl detective. Fucking Nancy Drew, are you? You're going to write your little story about me and your career will open wide up. That's what you think, isn't it? Let me tell you something. I own everyone in this city. I can make one phone call—one, Lia—and nobody will hire you again. Ever. You want to fuck with me? I'll fuck with you right back. And much, much harder. You're nothing. Do you understand that? Nothing." His fingers clamp down even harder on my arm, the pressure sending screaming pain up to my shoulder and back down again.

  "You're hurting me," I say, trying to pull my arm away, but he's holding on tight. "Let go." I wrench my arm away, anger filling me. Who does he think he is? I stand up, rubbing my sore arm, then grab my bag. The whole time he glares at me. It's almost funny. It's almost like a cartoon, like smoke is about to start curling up out of his ears right before his whole head goes up in flames and explodes. Except he's a dangerous man. And I need to get out of here. Now.

  As I rush to the front doors of the hotel I take one look back over my shoulder. Randolph Meyer is standing there, talking furiously on his phone. I get out my phone and dial Julian's number. Again.

  Wind whisks around me as I step onto the sidewalk.

  "Lia!" Julian snaps.

  "Julian," I whisper, shaking now, the intensity of the past few moments sifting away, being replaced with cold hard fear.

  "Where are you? Where the fuck are you, Lia?"

  "I'm at the hotel," I say. "I'm about to get a cab. I'll be back in the office in a few minutes."

  "Goddamit, Lia. I told you not to go alone. Do you have any idea how fucking crazy I've been worrying about you?" I've never heard him sound this desperate, this out of control. All I know is that I want to get back to him now. He's the only one who can comfort me, who can make all the bad stuff go away the second I'm in his arms.