“Hello, Red.”
She doesn’t look up, not right away. Her shoulders come up, and her chin goes down. Her whole hand squeezes around the orange crayon, she breathes in three times rapidly through her nose, and she quickly drops the crayon, letting it roll off the table like I’ve caught her doing something wicked.
Then she relaxes, softens. Her eyes are the last part of her to raise to me. “Hello, Trust. How nice to see you again.”
I don’t sit down. I just lean over the booth. “Wanna join me for breakfast?”
She smiles. “Sure.” She grabs her purse off the seat and slides towards me. “But if by breakfast you mean a quickie after pancakes, then I’m going to have to pass for now. Busy day.”
I laugh. She’s full of surprises. “Just breakfast, sweetheart.” As she walks by me, I glance back down at her table. The placemat is full of jagged orange lines, like sunrays slashed across the center. It’s not so much a doodle as random, angry lines.
Sitting back at my booth, I motion to the waitress that I’m ready to order. I can see that Grace keeps fidgeting with her hands on the edge of the table, bouncing her eyes from the small box of crayons and her placemat. Yet I’ve been told I’m obsessive?
“You want coffee, or have you already had too much?” I nod towards her hands.
She doesn’t answer me, just looks up at the waitress. With a soft, almost girlish voice, higher pitched than her usual, “Milk…please?”
I laugh again as the waitress walks away. “Does a body good?”
“What?” Her expression is clouded.
“Milk?” I’m sarcastic, watching her fidgeting increase.
“Oh. Um. Yeah.” She looks down at the napkin she’s twisting and almost throws it to the edge of the table. She shakes her head, even lowers it a little for a moment. I just sit, frowning. Throwing her off routine really seems to do a number on her. Good to know.
I realize how little I actually know about her. I watched her for four weeks last year, but I learned almost nothing except that she likes her little rituals. She sticks to them religiously. We’re alike in that way. I appreciate this about her.
She just doesn’t know that I’m about to turn her little life upside down.
“Ya know, Trust…I’m sorry, but I just remembered...” And just like that, she jumps up and tries to get away. She nearly bumps into the waitress and topples the plates of food. She sits back down hard to avoid it.
As the plates are set in front of us, I can see that she’s only getting more agitated, ready to run again. As the waitress walks away, I grab her hand from across the table and without letting go, I move to come over to her side. I force her to slide further into the booth and block her escape by sitting down.
“You okay?” I can add a lot of fake concern when I need to, but I am actually worried about her, a little anyway. She looks scared. I only want that look to be in her eyes when I put it there.
She takes one big breath, steadying again, but doesn’t make eye contact with me. “Look. I don’t mean to be rude...”
“So don’t be.” I add a little anger, just to see her reaction. It’s not good. I was hoping for a quick backing down.
Instead, she turns to face me more, aggressive with her head cocked to the side and a half smile now on her face. “I was going to say that breakfast is sort of a ritual for me. I like to eat in peace.” She leans in a little more. I can smell her spiciness mixing with the sweet pancake smell in here. It’s making me want to dip her in syrup. “So, if you don’t mind, we’ll talk after I finish eating.” But she ends with a small note of almost submission; her eyes drop down to her lap, voice getting softer, “Okay?”
I relax but stay sitting next to her. “Sure. I was taught not to talk with my mouth full anyway.” She smiles and turns back to her plate of pancakes. I chuckle to myself seeing that they’re the chocolate chip ones with whipped cream in the shape of a smiley face.
She transforms again, becoming completely focused on her plate. I have to stop myself from staring. She mumbles something before picking up her silverware. A prayer? You’ve got to be kidding me. She’s religious? I didn’t see that coming. I haven’t seen any evidence of it before now.
She doesn’t take her eyes off the plate, keeping her silverware firmly clutched in her fists. The only time she lets go is after every third bite, and that’s to take the glass of milk with both hands to her lips. It’s truly the strangest thing to watch. A ritual is right. I hope to shit she doesn’t eat every meal like this.
When the glass of milk is gone, she pushes the plate away and sets the silverware down slowly. I have to stop from laughing again because the only part of the pancakes not eaten is the smiley face covered piece. “You know, you can order them without the whipped cream…”
It takes her a second to respond to me, like she was too deep in her own thoughts still. “Oh. Yeah. Maybe next time.” As I pay the waitress, she looks down at her jacket and rolls her eyes at a dribble of syrup on it, mumbling, “Sloppy!” She dabs at it with a new napkin.
“You were pretty focused eating. I’m surprised anything could get away.” I laugh openly at her this time.
She glares at me, still dabbing the spot. “What are you doing here? You don’t live around here.”
“No, but I met a client nearby.” This is true. I’ve decided to put all new orders on hold for the time being, but this is an old friend, so I wanted to tell him in person. He wasn’t happy about it, but what choice does he have really?
Her eyes narrow more at me, and she turns a little with that same aggressive cock to her head. “I thought you were a trust fund brat, all play, no work?”
“I am. The work I do is…more play…recreational.” I grin at how true this is. “And I thought models lived on water and diet pills, not alcohol and pancakes.”
“High metabolism, I guess.” She purses her lips into a sarcastic grin. I’d like to smack her for it, but I settle on a mental list of behaviors to change. Top one right now is making faces at me, maybe followed by the weird eating habit. I’m still grinning, not letting her in on the joke just yet. She’ll learn soon enough.
“So this has been fun, Trust, but I’ll need to change now before heading out…” She’s trying to push me out of the booth. I slide over and put my hand out to help her up again. She seems thrown by the simple gesture, hesitating and staring at my fingers.
My grandfather was a very gentlemanly old man. I know when to be, how to be; I just don’t choose to be very often is all. I find it useful at times, though, especially when it’s unexpected. It can really throw a girl off her game. It works on Grace.
As she takes my hand, I yank her firmly against my side. She tilts her head up, starts to close her eyes, and opens her mouth for the kiss she’s already expecting. The pancakes make her lips even sweeter and her level of response, at least sexually, is good.
I grab her waist in a tighter grip with one arm and lead her towards the door. “Come on, I’ll walk you out.” She moves next to me, same as before—a cat strut, ready to pounce. I don’t let go and she just keeps walking with me. I know we’re heading back towards her boyfriend’s apartment. I have no intention of letting her leave my side today.
Seattle: Miles Vanderson
Hanging up my cell phone, I head back to my chair next to the fireplace. I was reviewing financial statements and minutes from the board meeting when Spencer interrupted with his good news. Like my father, I still like to have reports printed. I prefer to feel them in my hands. It’s just another way I know I’ll never be free of his influence.
I toss the papers into the fire. I won’t be able to concentrate on anything else tonight anyway. Leaning back into the wingchair more, I watch the fire dance and lick the edges of the papers, following the ashes as they float, the embers darkening. It’s soothing for only a moment.
Spencer is “zeroing in on Gillian’s whereabouts.” He has a flare for the dramatic for a one-dimensional type. He’s already
impressed me with his tenacious gift for sifting through the information that his predecessors managed to mangle over the years. He’s a real bloodhound with his tracking abilities, and he has Gillian’s scent now. I could hear his excitement at the chase. The prize is within reach. I hope.
He found a coffee shop waitress at a hotel in San Francisco willing to swear it was Gillian whom she served breakfast. That was only a little over two years ago. She remembered Gillian’s strange eating habits.
I smile remembering these too. Gillian is a unique girl, a broken into a million pieces girl. She’s fragile and weak, intense and stubborn, lost and unbalanced, resilient and decisive. She’s been my everything since the moment I first saw her.
I close my eyes to better picture her, just as she was that first time we met. It was in this very room, the library. It’s why I spend so much time in here. It was Gillian’s favorite room in this sprawling place. She said it was the dark, the feel of being surrounded and encased that she liked. I open my eyes for a moment, taking in the floor to ceiling shelves of books that no one reads, the panels of wood that add to the masculine, warm feel. It looks impressive; it looks like a library should. That’s all that ever mattered to Martin Vanderson.
I close my eyes again and can almost hear Gillian against the crackle of the fire. I’d walked in on her crying soft sobs; she was sitting as close as she could to the fireplace on the rug. Her skinny legs were tucked up under her dress, her chin quivering and causing the tears to bounce over the thin material.
She was an angel, a dark angel against the orange flames. Her tiny face was illuminated yet shadowed, her dark eyes coal and ice, her tears the most beautiful sight I’d ever seen. She didn’t startle; she didn’t even react when I entered the room and came near her. She gave no sound or movement when I sat on this same chair behind her, keeping her silence as my own.
When she slowly twisted just her upper body to see me more and lifted her eyes that first time, I think I actually gasped. I know I drew my breath in. How could I not? She was perfection. The savage innocence in her eyes was undeniable.
I didn’t move. I just sat still with my hands on my knees, much like I’m doing now, and waited for her to speak or move first. When she did, it was in a quick fluid motion. She stood, turned to me fully, and then stopped. Her face stayed in shadow, unreadable, but her small body was in perfect silhouette, projected by the fire behind her. The wispy ends of her hair were like the embers glowing. She stood with her legs slightly apart and her arms at her sides but open. It was like she was offering herself to me. She knew I could see her outline in full; the dress almost disappeared against the flickering light.
I groan even now picturing her. I will have that imagine emblazoned in my memory forever.
She stayed still long enough for my eyes to slowly travel up and down her body…twice. She was only starting to develop the shape of a woman. She was lean and muscled, soft and feminine, the briefest moment between mature angles and soft childhood captured in one body. I couldn’t take my eyes away from her. I knew I should. I knew I should have broken the spell, but I didn’t want to. So I didn’t.
Then she walked the few steps towards me that it took to reach my chair. She lowered herself in one fluid movement again. She knelt at my feet and put her head against my knee, facing the fire once more. My fingertips were covered by her dark hair, and I moved my hand to stroke her head, to run my fingers through her wild mane.
She didn’t speak. She didn’t cry more. I didn’t speak. I finally stopped petting her, and we sat still together like that for I don’t know how long.
Without any indication, she stood quickly and picked up my hand, the one I had held against her head only a second before. She raised my fingers to her mouth and kissed the tip of each finger lightly. Her lips were soft and made me smile and frown at the same time. I know I moaned when she put my thumb in her mouth. When she licked and sucked, her mouth so wet and warm, I let out a low, soft moan for the duration. When she stopped, her eyes never leaving mine, she lowered my hand back to my knee. Then she left the room.
I didn’t care if a maid walked in, or even her mother or my father. Right then, I relieved the pressure on my cock, making a mess of myself in my underwear. I rubbed and pulled myself, imagining her tongue, her lips, her eyes. I didn’t care that it was wrong to think of her. Wrong because she was only fourteen. Wrong because she was my new stepsister. Wrong because I was twenty and only visiting for Christmas break. Wrong because my father would never allow me back if he knew. I didn’t care.
I still don’t.
Gillian showed more of herself to me after that first meeting. Slowly, I peeled her layers away, though always in secret. It was another year before we made love in front of this fireplace for the first time. It was a year of strange discoveries, heartbreaking and exciting discoveries.
I open my eyes again, the memories lost. The flames burn brighter with my tears.
Gillian, my love, why did you choose to run from me?
San Francisco: Simon Lamb
“This is me.” I already knew this but keep it to myself. The doorman opens for us and stares at me, then Grace’s ass. I let her lead the way, liking the view of her too. When the elevator doors open, a woman holding a small dog moves to the side to let us on with a polite smile. I push Grace back against the elevator wall and grab her hair to hold her for a rough kiss, loudly banging her head. I can see the woman watching us in the mirrors or trying to act like she isn’t anyway. Grace doesn’t give a shit; she grabs my shoulders and holds me harder against herself. When it’s her floor, she shoves against me to free her mouth and loudly says, “This is us.”
I let her go and follow her out, giving a small polite nod to the woman. Public displays of inappropriate behavior are a favorite hobby of mine—a cheap thrill. Grace’s too, it would seem.
She already has the door open by the time I step behind her. I grab her arm so she can’t move too far into the apartment, but she’s on me even before I can pull her back. Her chest slams into me, hand reaching into my hair and pulling my face down to hers by my ear. I wince as her nails dig into the back of my head.
I bite her lower lip to get her to stop. She licks her tongue out, running it over my teeth instead. I let go, and so does she. I shove her against a wall, and we’re both breathing hard. Our eyes rape each other. I’ve missed seeing her, missed having her, and she’s equally hungry for me.
I step into her body, but she puts her hands on my chest to stop me. I look down at her hands, and she rips my shirt open. A button flies off. We both laugh. I yank her shirt open in return. Her small tits are high and beautiful in a red laced lattice bra. I shove this down and lick her nipples. She’s sensitive, pushing into me more, gasping and moaning as I bite down. My tongue runs back up her neck to her mouth. She always tastes so sweet. Both my hands get lost in her mass of hair.
She yanks her jeans off, and I see she’s without underwear again. I smile, pulling my own pants and boxers off just as fast. Her hands are on me before I can straighten back up. Her nails scrape against my chest, down the muscles of my stomach. I hiss and tense, but she stops quickly with both hands wrapped around my hard cock. I suck in a breath at her strong stroke up and down. My eyelids lower; I’ve pictured this, imagined being with her again.
I open my eyes. She smiles up at me, and I have a hard time keeping a straight face with her expert touch on my dick. I push both her shoulders back hard against the wall. She only smiles more. Damn, she’s perfect. Before I can react or make a move, she jumps up like I’m a tree she wants to climb. Without missing a beat, I grab her ass to catch her against me, pulling her open as her legs wrap around my hips. Her hands grab onto my neck, and she leans her face into mine. “Fuck me as hard as you can, Trust. I can take it. I need you, baby.” Her voice is deep and longing. Her lust matches mine. I don’t give a shit if she’s thought of me or not. I’ve pictured fucking her in every position. She’s my fantasy come true.
Pushing inside her is easy; she’s wet for me. I hold her against the wall and pump into her as hard as I can. Her legs and arms squeeze me tighter. She bites down on my chest. I only feel her pussy clamping down on me harder with each push in and out. I’m moaning out loud with her. When she starts to come, she knocks her head against the wall, screaming and arching into me more. I yank her hair and force her head back further, biting her neck and feeling her scream against my lips. I let my own loud cry out when I come deep inside her.
I let her body slide down mine, pulling out of her as our breathing slows. I give one last tug of her hair, one last bite to her lower lip, before pulling away completely. She stumbles a little on our pile of clothes, not picking anything up as she heads towards the bedroom.
I leave my pants and boxers on the floor too and head into the kitchen for something to drink. There’s not much to choose from, just water or beer. It’s early, but I grab a beer and take it with me to follow her into the bedroom.
The cleaning service must have been here recently. The place is more picked up than when I snuck in. Her clothes are more neatly piled at least. I walk around to the bathroom and find Grace touching up her makeup. She’s still in only her bra and open shirt though; her ass cheeks are just visible as she leans forward. She smiles at me in the mirror, like it’s the most natural thing for us to be here, almost naked, together. I put the beer down next to her and go to the toilet.
Some women are touchy about this, a guy taking a piss in front of them. Grace acts like it’s nothing; she even hums to herself. I close my eyes for a second, enjoying the release and the sound of her sweet voice—low and dreamy.
“What the fuck is going on here?!” I didn’t hear the guy come in. Apparently, Grace didn’t either. It’s not the boyfriend but his brother. He’s glaring between Grace and me. Her look of pure shock makes me laugh, but it does suck to be in this situation sans pants and with my dick hanging limp over a toilet. I try to make the best of it and finish pissing at least.
We Were One Once Book 1 Page 6