Strawberries for Dessert

by Marie Sexton

  I wanted to keep him how he was now, allowing me to touch him and explore him, rather than pushing me right to sex. I did my best to keep kissing his neck and his lips as I used one hand on the tube. I was ridiculously grateful that it had a flip top and not a screw cap, and I finally managed to squeeze some out onto my fingers, although I somehow got it all over his hip in the process.

  “What in the world are you doing?” he asked in breathless exasperation, and I laughed.

  “Just wait,” I said. I went back to kissing him, nibbling on his lips. His moans were louder now, his legs tight around my hips as he ground harder against me. “Let go of me,” I said quietly, and he made a hissing sound.

  “No.”

  I kissed him again. “Yes.”

  He moaned, and I couldn’t help but laugh at the mixture of arousal and frustration I could hear in that one small sound. But he let go.

  “Good,” I whispered. I was still between his legs, but instead of having them around me, they were spread wide with his knees bent and his feet on the bed. I pushed one leg down so that it was flat on the bed and moved so that it was trapped between my legs. That was completely self-serving. It allowed me to grind my own aching erection against his thigh as I kissed him. Then, I put my slick fingers against his entrance and pushed gently.

  He moaned, and his eyes drifted closed. I kissed his neck as I teased him, rubbing my finger in small circles around his rim. And then slowly, very slowly, I pushed into him. He gasped, arching against me.

  “Oh my God,” he moaned, and I pushed in a little further. He started panting hard, pulling against the tie that bound his wrists, pushing toward my hand. He was too far gone to kiss me anymore, and I went back to nibbling at his red, swollen lips.

  “Like this,” I told him quietly as I pushed further, moving slowly in and out of him, massaging his tight shaft. “I want to make you come just like this.”

  “Oh God, love, please hurry,” he panted breathlessly.

  The urgency in his voice almost sent me over the top. I gave up on being slow or gentle. I wrapped my other arm tight around him. I bit down on his neck. I shoved my fingers in the rest of the way, found that spot inside of him, and pushed, grinding myself against him as I did.

  He cried out, loud enough that the neighbors probably heard him. Not that I cared. His body tightened around my fingers, and he cried out a second time, and I came hard, holding him tight against me as the waves washed over us both.

  We were shaking, breathing hard, and for once, I got to just hold him. He usually pulled away from me so quickly, and I was content to be able to be able to spend more time touching him and smelling him. I was so happy to have him there with me. Even still shaking from my orgasm, all I could think of was how glad I was that he had come back from New York. I started to kiss his neck, and he said shakily, almost laughing, “My wrists.”

  I laughed too. I had completely forgotten that he was still tied up, and I reached up to undo the knots. I only got to untie one of them. As soon as he was free, he pushed me away, and I tried not to be too disappointed. That was his way—to put his walls back up now that the sex was over. He sat up quickly on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, hiding his expression from me. I wrapped my arms around him and was surprised that he let me. He was trembling, still breathing hard, and I kissed the side of his head.

  “Everything okay?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said shakily. He laughed just a little, although it was a nervous sort of laugh. “I’m a mess.”

  “I’ll get you a towel.” I went in the bathroom for one. I wiped myself off quickly and then handed it to him.

  “Thank you,” he said quietly, his voice still shaky. But he didn’t look up at me.

  I wanted so much to touch him more. I sat down next to him on the bed and took his other arm, the one that still had my tie knotted around it. I undid the knot. There was a red mark underneath it, and I lightly massaged his wrist and hand. “Was it too tight?” I asked him.

  “No,” he whispered.

  I leaned over to kiss his wrist, as if I could take away the pain, and heard his breath catch. It didn’t sound like arousal. I lifted my head to look at him, and he turned quickly away from me, pulling his hand free to cover his face.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, suddenly alarmed. I had thought his quiet, shaky behavior was only a reaction to his orgasm, but now I wasn’t so sure. I was terrified that I had hurt him or pushed him further than he intended to go.

  “We shouldn’t be doing this,” he said, so soft I barely heard him.

  Nothing could have surprised me more than that. “What do you mean?

  He shook his head but still would not face me. “Don’t you see?” he asked, his voice torn. “Don’t you see how terribly dangerous this is?”

  “Do you mean me tying you up? I won’t do it again if—”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

  I was baffled, and worried. I put my hand on his shoulder but he flinched away from me. “Then what—” and right then, at the absolute worst possible moment, my phone rang. “Shit!”

  “It’s okay,” he said quietly. “You’re here to work.”

  “Are you all right? Did I hurt you?” It rang again. “Cole, I’m so sorry. Whatever I did to upset you—” Another ring.

  He sat up straighter and wiped his eyes, but he still wouldn’t face me. “You didn’t,” he said, although it was obviously a lie. “Don’t worry, love, really.” Ring, ring. “Go do what you have to do. I’m fine.”

  His fingers found mine and squeezed for only a second, and then he stood up and walked into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

  I answered my phone. I hoped it would be something quick and simple, but it wasn’t. I was on the phone for more than thirty minutes, and I worried the entire time. I heard the shower running, and I heard when he came out. Although I was still on the phone, I went in the bedroom. I took his arm and gently turned him toward me. I had to carry on my conversation with my client, but I felt like if I could just see Cole’s eyes, I would know if we were all right. They were a little bit sad, but he smiled up at me reassuringly. I put my arm around his waist and he allowed me to pull him close. I buried my nose in his damp hair, breathed in that scent I loved so much. I wished I could say something to him, but my client was still talking.

  He let me hold him for a moment, but then pushed me away. It was playful but firm, and I reluctantly let him go. He climbed into bed and pulled the covers up to his chin. By the time I managed to get off of the phone, he was sound asleep on his own side of the bed.

  When we had first started seeing each other, I had been relieved at the fact that post-coital cuddling was not part of our arrangement.

  But more and more lately, I found myself wanting to bridge that gap— to reach across that expanse of crisp, clean sheets between us. I never did, though. I was sure that, as in all other things, he would push me away. Tonight, more than ever, I wished that I could hold him as I fell asleep.

  He was still sleeping when I got up and went to the fitness room for my morning jog. He was in the kitchen when I got back. I took a quick shower and got dressed before finding him.

  “I knew you had to leave early,” he said, “so I didn’t make breakfast.”

  “That’s fine.” I was watching him, trying to find some clue as to what had happened last night. I stepped closer to him. “Cole, about what happened—”

  “It’s fine, honey, really,” he said, and he sounded completely sincere. Looking into his eyes, I saw nothing but his usual mocking nature.

  “I won’t do it again,” I told him. “I prom—” But he stepped forward suddenly and put his fingers against my lips.

  “Don’t,” he said. “That’s not a promise I want you to make.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He smiled up at me. “I enjoyed myself immensely, I assure you.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. �
�Okay.”

  “Go,” he said. He hesitated for a second, and then he stood on his toes and kissed me. “I’ll see you tonight.”

  It was the first time he had ever kissed me goodbye.

  Date: February 20

  From: Cole

  To: Jared

  I know that you are terribly upset with me, and I don’t blame you. I’ve been ignoring you and refusing to answer your questions. The truth is, I couldn’t decide what to tell you. I didn’t want to lie to you, Sweets.

  We’ve known each other too long, and you deserve better than that. But I didn’t want to tell you the truth either, because that would mean facing it myself. And I just wasn’t ready to do that.

  Am I ready now? No, not really, but it must be done. I’m most of the way through a bottle of wine, and right or wrong, I must admit that it helps. It also helps that you’re hundreds of miles away. If I had to face you when I said these things, I wouldn’t be able to do it. If I had to look in your eyes right now, I would smile and tell you that you’re mistaken.

  I would tell you that Jonathan and I are casual lovers. I would tell you that he’s only an uptight accountant who’s good in bed, but nothing more. I would tell you that he means no more to me than any of the other men I share my bed with when I feel so inclined.

  But the truth? The truth is, Sweets, somewhere along the line, it all went wrong. I started wanting to see him more. I started enjoying our time together out of bed as much as in. I let my guard down.

  Somewhere, somehow, I let myself start to love him.

  I should never have let things go this far. I have learned the hard way that my lifestyle is not conducive to long-term relationships. I cannot stay in one place, Sweets. I just can’t, no matter how much I may want to. And the minute I give in and leave town again, it will be the beginning of the end. I know that.

  As for Jonathan, he does not love me. He finds me entertaining, and possibly amusing, but not much more. The truth is, I’m glad. Because it’s one thing for me to lie to myself. It’s another thing altogether for me to lie to him.

  In a few weeks, I’ll be leaving. I should have left already. I’ll fly to Paris and I’ll stay there until I’m no longer dying to see him again, and he’ll find a new lover and the universe will make sense once again. But for now, I’ll allow myself a little more time with him, because the truth is, Sweets, he makes me happy in a way that nobody else has in a very long time. But I know it cannot last. Soon, I will let him go. He does not love me, and I hope he never will.

  SOMETHING changed between us after that, but I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. When we were in bed together, everything felt different. There was a level of trust and longing between us that I hadn’t experienced in a very long time. Maybe not since Zach. I tried not to think about what it meant, mostly because I was pretty sure I was the only one who was feeling it. Out of bed, he still pushed me away more often than not when I tried to touch him or kiss him. He still kept his walls between us. The difference was that where he used to be mocking and carefree, now he seemed sad. And the fact that he kept himself behind those walls, where I could not reach him, made me ache for him. I yearned for more. But I had no idea what to do to change it.

  A few weeks later, the restructuring was finally put into effect. I returned from my last week-long trip to LA on a Friday night feeling absolutely giddy. It was like being a kid again and having that last day of school before summer vacation. Starting the next Monday, I would be a Junior Liaison Account Director (and it was Cole’s mocking voice that I heard in my head when I thought about it). Any trepidation I had held over accepting a demotion was gone. I was so relieved to be home for good.

  I called Cole before I even left the airport.

  “Hello, love. Are you home?”

  “Finally. Did you miss me?”

  “Not at all.”

  “I didn’t miss you either. Can I come over?”

  He was quiet for a moment, and then he said, “It would be a wasted trip, love. I’m already at your house.”

  “Good,” I said smiling. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  For once, I didn’t find him in the kitchen. He was actually sitting on the couch reading when I got home. I had a ridiculous urge to lie down on the couch and put my head in his lap, but he stood up before I could decide whether or not to follow through.

  “I didn’t have time to cook,” he told me, “but I ordered take-out.

  It should be here soon.”

  “That sounds great. How did you know I would be home tonight?”

  “I tried to call you, and it went to voice mail, so I knew you had to be on the plane.”

  “I’m impressed,” I said, and he winked at me.

  “You should be, love.”

  I reached out and took his hand, trying to pull him over to me, but he resisted. I pulled harder, but he still didn’t cooperate.

  “Come here,” I said in exasperation.

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to show you how much I didn’t miss you.”

  He smiled at that and relented. He let me pull him close and put my arms around him. He was a little bit stiff in my arms, but I didn’t mind. I put my nose into his hair, just so I could smell that ridiculous strawberry shampoo. It was a smell that had somehow become simultaneously erotic and comforting to me. I felt silly for it, but it was such a part of him and of home now that I found myself missing it whenever I was away.

  I tipped his head back so I could see his face and his beautiful full lips. He didn’t exactly relax, but he allowed me to kiss him. His lips were soft and sweet, his breath shaky, and like always, I wanted only to sink deeper into him. I pulled him tighter against me, and to my surprise, he put his arms around my neck. He sighed, and his lips parted, and then—he really, truly kissed me back. It was something that he still did only rarely, and I lost myself in the sensation of it: his body against mine; his mouth, sweet and fruity; his arms tight around me; his lips soft yet insistent. I abandoned all thought and reveled in him.

  Until the doorbell rang. It was the first time ever that I found myself wishing that delivery was slower.

  “That must be our food,” Cole said as he pulled away from me.

  And there was something strange in his voice when he said it, but I didn’t have time to figure out what it was. He was bringing in bags of Chinese food, and then we were sitting down to eat. He was unusually quiet all through dinner. He kept his head down so I couldn’t see his eyes. I kept waiting for him to say something, to laugh, to make fun of me for something, but he didn’t. He seemed… sad.

  “Is anything wrong?” I asked.

  “Not at all.”

  “Are you sure? It seems like something is bothering you.”

  He was quiet for a minute, and then he surprised me by answering my question with a seemingly unrelated question of his own. “The weekend of April second—would it be at all possible for you to take Friday off?”

  “I’ll see what I can do. Why?”

  “I was considering a few days away.”

  “Are you asking me to go with you?”

  “Is that not what I’ve just been saying?”

  Only in a very round-about sort of way, but I knew better than to argue with him. “I would lov—”

  He held up his hand to stop me. “Before you answer, sweetie, let me warn you: I won’t be any fun at all. I’ll be cranky and moody and sulky and dreadfully temperamental. You have to promise me that however badly I may behave, you won’t hold it against me.”

  “Are you going to tell me why you’ll be cranky and moody and sulky and temperamental?”

  He smiled at me, but only barely. “Eventually. Maybe.”

  “But you want me to come?”

  And again, he looked down at the table so that the fall of his bangs blocked his expression from my sight. “Very much.”

  “Then I will,” I told him, “but I’m paying my own way.”

  That made him loo
k at me again, and he rolled his eyes. “Sweetie, really. That’s completely unnecessary, and it will only make the reservations more complicated.”

  “Then I’m not going.”

  “Don’t be such a killjoy, love. You just said you wanted to.”

  “Not if you’re going to insist on paying. You know how much I hate it when you do that.” I knew he still didn’t understand why my pride prevented me from letting him pick up the tab everywhere we went, and he probably never would.

  He debated for a moment. “Fine,” he said, “I’ll buy the tickets, because I want to surprise you. But you can buy all of our meals, if it means so much to you—”

  “It does.”

  “—and we’ll split the room. Is that sufficient?”

  “It is.”

  “Thank goodness,” he said with exaggerated relief. “Good grief, sometimes I don’t know why I put up with you.”

  NOW that I wasn’t traveling and had a predictable schedule, we fell into a comfortable pattern. Monday through Thursday, he would be waiting for me when I got home, and the weekends were always spent at his place. I realized then that he never traveled any more either, and I wondered when exactly he had stopped. I wondered if it was because of me. I knew better than to ask him—he would say it had nothing to do me, whether it was the truth or not.

  The weekend of our mystery trip drew closer. I was unbelievably curious, but he refused to tell me where we were going. He told me only that I would need one suit and that the weather would be moderate. Friday came, and I picked him up on my way to the airport.

  He had told me he would be moody and sulky. I hadn’t really believed him, simply because I had rarely if ever seen him be anything other than his usual flamboyant, mocking self. But in the weeks since then, he hadn’t quite been himself. And today seemed worse than ever. He was silent all the way to the airport. Finally, when we got to the baggage check counter, he handed me my ticket.