Use Me

by Mj Fields

  “You have to take it out before opening,” I tell him, reaching for the key, but I get his hand instead.

  That noise, the growl, the rumble, the sound that calls to every butterfly in my belly brings them to life.

  As he finally pushes the door open, I look up.

  “Fuck it,” he sneers before he crashes his mouth down on mine.

  I part my lips, and his rumble intensifies. Before he has a chance to shove his tongue in my mouth, I do it to him. He tenses as I rub mine along his. Then his overtakes mine as he grabs my face and pulls me closer, his rough hands anything but soft against my face.

  Needy, strong licks up and down my tongue. The noises coming from him are intoxicating. I crave more, so I fist his shirt, but that makes him pull back to look down into my eyes, and then at my hands.

  When I pull them back, he grips both of them in his mammoth one and asks, “Is this what you’re looking for?”

  I open my mouth to answer him, but no words come out.

  “Is this what you want?”

  I nod slowly as I look back and forth at both his eyes. The look in them is wild with want, desire, confusion.

  “And what you wrote; is that what you want?”

  I swallow down the thick desire in my throat, hoping I can speak when I try.

  “Answer me, Tatum Longley.” He grips tighter.

  My name has never sounded better, causing my insides to liquefy.

  “Are you here to write a story about me?”

  His question confuses me, and by his reaction, I can tell he knows I’m baffled.

  I shake my head no.

  “If I leave now, are you gonna find someone else to fuck you?”

  I’m speechless. He says fuck like he says my name. It’s almost too much.

  Without waiting for my answer, he turns and walks toward the bed, dragging me behind him, his ass flexing in his workout pants as he walks. Then he stops and turns to face me. Both my hands are again in his as he walks me backward until my knees hit the back of the bed.

  My heart is beating against my chest so hard I’m sure it will explode at any second.

  “Take your clothes off,” he orders as he releases my hands.

  I know now is the time to find my voice of reason, but desire trumps reason. My body wants him so badly that I ignore my head, my voice, my morals. Instead, I pull my wet shirt off, watching his eyes widen. Then I push down my pants and step out of them.

  A hum vibrates from him, and I see his pants tighten as he grows thicker and longer with his own need.

  “Lay down and show me what you wrote, what I want.”

  I feel my face instantly heat up. “I... I... can’t.”

  “Show me now, Tatum.”

  I grab his shirt and pull him down to me. “Kiss me like that again. Please, Kid.”

  “Angelo,” he corrects.

  I’m intrigued by his name. “Please, Angelo.”

  He kisses me hard as he leans down and pushes me back. His lips are open as he pushes his tongue into my mouth and licks mine slowly but firmly. I open wider for him as I push my hands up his shirt. He groans and reaches between us, never breaking the connection of our kiss as he lifts my hands from his body to above my head and tastes me deeper.

  With his knee between my legs, I want to rub against it, needing friction. I am on fire, burning, desperate for a connection. I thrust upward, rubbing against his erection, then cry out when he immediately pulls back.

  Concern shows in his eyes, and I beg, “Please.”

  “Please what?” he asks, moving away.

  “Please don’t stop.” I hate that I sound the way I do—needy, desperate—but he makes me this way.

  He lays on his side and takes my hand. My confusion, concern, and hunger mirror in his eyes.

  “Show me. Show me what you wrote.” He smoothly moves my hand down my abdomen and under my panties. “Show. Me,” he demands, and I do.

  I cry out as soon as my finger glides across my clit, and his chest heaves, the confusion in his eyes melting.

  “Good?”

  “I want you,” I whimper.

  “Show. Me.”

  I push a finger inside, and he kisses me hard when I cry out again.

  His kiss, his smell, his groans, and my touch are overwhelming. I am lost in an orgasm that is so intense I can’t even breathe.

  He pulls his lips from mine and watches me intently—my lips, my fingers, my hips thrusting—and then his gaze is back to my lips.

  When I can no longer move, I pull my hand away. He looks at it with intense concentration and bares his teeth, causing my insides to clench with need once again and a quick sharp breath to escape my lips.

  His nostrils flare, and then he licks his lips.

  Hungry.

  I lift my finger to his mouth, and he opens, licking my finger then sucking it hard. His chest vibrates with a groan, and he closes his eyes.

  When he pulls away from my finger, our eyes connect. His become wide and wild, his chest heaving on a groan. Then he stands, undoubtedly as fully aroused as I am. I want him so badly.

  I begin to sit up.

  “Don’t move,” he demands.

  I can’t move. I feel a mix of emotions; exhaustion the prominent one. Therefore, I close my eyes, lie back, and roll to my side, pulling the pillows beside me.

  I think I hear water running, but it may be the rush of my blood moving through my body.

  When was the last time I allowed myself to drown in desire? When have I been this captive by need, yet felt free? It has been years.

  Guilt threatens to rear its ugly head as I allow the memories of when the last time was start to creep back in.

  It’s been seven years since he left. He would want me to be happy.

  I always thought it would feel like a betrayal to myself, to him, to our love. Of all places for me to feel half-alive again, it’s here, in the city he so badly wanted me to see.

  I look up when I hear Angelo coming out of the bathroom. He walks over to me, freshly showered and in the same sweats covering his lower half, his shirt in his hand. His hair is long, thick, and wavy. He is the total opposite of my Gregory. Maybe that’s why I don’t feel like I’m betraying him.

  Maybe it’s time to let go. Isn’t that what I came here to do? To find a way to make peace with my past? Romance wasn’t in the plan, but plans change, right?

  Angelo looks at the pillows, and then at me, before he sits on the side of the bed, takes the pillows, and throws them on the ground. Then he unexpectedly lies down beside me. I suppose he expects that I get him off now.

  Part of me is excited to explore the masterpiece he has made of his body. But, as I place my hand on his abs, he tenses. I then slowly move my hand down his hard yet soft skin, and he stops me by pulling my hand up and placing it on his chest.

  “You don’t want me to—”

  “Took care of it myself. Go to sleep, Tatum.”

  “You’re staying?”

  “That’s what you wrote.”

  He read my words. Part of me feels vulnerable. I have written plenty of books. The lines between non-fiction and fiction once seemed so distinct. Having Angelo beside me after making my fantasy a reality, I can’t help feeling like all the lines are blurred. With every passing day, this project Melanie assigned to me is getting deeper into my mind than anything I have done before.

  I lay my head on his chest and feel him hold his breath.

  “Am I hurting you?”

  “No,” he grumbles, placing his hand on the side of my head and holding it in place. “Go to sleep.”

  His tone isn’t one of frustration or annoyance, but rather pained. I can tell this is as much out of his comfort zone as it is mine. However, it soothes me. His command. My surrender.

  He said sleep, and I do. I fall asleep smelling him, all man, all him, mixed with hotel soap.

  When I awake, he is gone, and I am left hugging my pillows tightly. It’s not as pathetic today as it
has been in the past. They smell like him.

  I sit up and see that my phone is on the charging dock, and next to it is my journal and a pen. I didn’t put either there, so he must have. It makes me smile.

  What am I thinking?

  I don’t understand him. I don’t know what to think of a man who acts like him. I guess I don’t have to. I asked him to be my muse. I asked to use him for my inspiration. This isn’t supposed to be a soul seeking journey. This is about a romance, not reality.

  It was one night, wasn’t it?

  I stretch to grab the book and find the page is dog-eared between my last entry and a blank page.

  Chapter Seven

  Angelo

  I overslept.

  I overslept, and I overstepped.

  I should have never been so weak. I have never been so fucking weak.

  What the hell is it about her? Her pink lips, her tears, her determination?

  Fuck, I wish I knew.

  Christ, she’s beautiful. More beautiful than any woman I have ever seen. I tell myself it’s because I have never seen a woman orgasm before. Never. I have never tasted a woman, and it wasn’t what I expected. Tasteless, actually. But her scent... Her scent nearly made me lose my mind, yet it’s indescribable. I sure as hell will never forget the way she tastes, smells, or the way she wanted me to taste her.

  I couldn’t stop kissing her. It has been years... Fucking nearly a decade since I kissed a woman. Hell, I never kissed a woman. I only kissed girls. The last girl I kissed was Elizabeth.

  I never slept in anyone’s arms, either. I never slept smelling something as sweet and sexy as her. I don’t even remember holding anyone like I held her. Certainly not all night, and definitely not through an entire night with someone tangled around me. I never even wake up with sheets or blankets on me. I throw them off during the night.

  Sleep is the enemy and has been for far too long. My body, my mind; hell, my fucking soul fights the darkness even as I crave it, seek it, and damn sure need it.

  When I get to the gym, I am grateful to see Jagger through the window. I stop, bending over with my hands on my knees to catch my breath as I try to figure out what the hell I’m going to say when he asks where I have been. Then I stand up and decide to head inside.

  Jagger looks up and smirks. When Tatiana elbows him, he chuckles.

  “Leave him alone,” she whispers.

  I don’t say anything. What’s there to say? Jagger and I have a business relationship. Tatiana, his woman, is his and I like it that way. They keep to themselves, and I keep to myself. We work, we talk when necessary, and we move on. They don’t push me, and I don’t push them.

  I walk around the reception desk and go to the fridge to grab a premade protein shake, then walk the hell away.

  An hour later, I’m in the cage with Buck when I feel the hair on the back of my neck stand up again. I don’t have to look behind me to know it’s her.

  Tatum.

  I position myself so my back is to her. Otherwise, I won’t be able to concentrate.

  Buck is wound up, and so am I. I let him get a few jabs in because I’m feeling generous. Truth be told, after experiencing her, I’m on top of the world.

  I look back to see her bended over, tying her red chucks. Then I see her look up. Her cheeks turn the same shade of pink as her lips.

  I look down so she doesn’t see me smirk. Of course, Buck takes that opportunity to nail me.

  “Okay, you two, you’ve been up there fucking around long enough,” Jagger says.

  “Pussy will make you stupid,” Buck says to me as he steps between the ropes Jagger is holding apart for him.

  “Elliptical,” Jagger tells him.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” he snaps back.

  “Do I look like I’m fucking kidding?” Jagger points toward the machine, then rolls his eyes when Buck’s back is turned.

  When he storms off, Jagger shakes his head. “He could be the best. A true champion on a much greater level than I ever imagined I could be.”

  “He’s his own worst enemy.” I nod in agreement as I watch Tatum with the chick group.

  “Aren’t we all, man, aren’t we all?” Jagger grips my shoulder and laughs.

  I look at him, but unlike every other time he puts his damn hands on me, I don’t say shit.

  “I’ll be dammed.” He then chuckles as he walks away.

  He noticed, too.

  I have an hour between clients, so I decide to go upstairs to avoid embarrassing myself in front of the woman by sporting a raging hard-on in front of the entire Legacy crew and clientele.

  I sit in the old recliner in the corner and drink out of the gallon jug of water I have been carrying around to stay hydrated. I look out the dingy window at the old, rundown buildings surrounding this one and take some pride in what we have done to Shaw’s place. I know he would be proud, too. Hell, even my old man would be. I’m not finished yet. I just haven’t allowed myself to go into the other rooms. I will get there when the time is right. The apartment may have a ways to go, but Jagger and I have made the gym top notch.

  I have something to be proud of, thanks to Shaw.

  Wish you could see it, Dad, I think to myself.

  It strikes me that I have yet to grieve his loss. I haven’t visited his grave, either. I probably should.

  When I go back down, the woman is gone. I’m relieved until I see that same black leather bag sitting under the bench and know damn well it’s hers.

  I grab it and toss it in my stairway so it doesn’t get taken until she comes back to retrieve it.

  I don’t like that I want her to come back and get it.

  The day is long, and I am exhausted by the time I open the door leading upstairs. Of course, the bag I forgot falls and out spills that journal.

  I grab everything and bring it upstairs. I should shower, but that journal calls to me, so I pick it up and sit in the recliner next to the window. I open it and a card falls out. It’s one of those hotel key cards.

  I wonder if she knows it’s in here. I suppose I could bring it to her.

  Cut the shit, I tell myself, knowing damn well it’s because I want to watch her finger herself again. Then I want to lick her fucking finger clean.

  She will come back for it tomorrow if she needs it.

  Curiosity and desire to know if she wrote more drives me to open the journal.

  The corner of the page is folded in, and I laugh to myself, thinking about how Sister Margret, my high school English teacher, would have been unhappy at this “defecation of the written word.” I also laugh at the fact that this kind of literature would have never been allowed at the Holy Trinity school my sister and I attended on academic scholarships. Then I stop laughing because it sounds fucking stupid. I sound like a damn fool. Feel like one, too.

  “What the fuck is wrong with me?” I ask out loud to the empty space as I lean back in the old brown chair.

  In her same beautiful script, the words seem to jump off the page.

  After a long day at work, I headed to the fitness center to work off the frustration from the high demands of my boss. That was when I saw him, the man I had dreamt of, the man whose mere image incited desire to burn inside of me, an undeniable desire. A desire so strong I had lain in bed the night before and touched myself, imagining it was him.

  Unable to stop myself from staring at him, I looked up from his chiseled body to see him looking at me.

  I quickly looked away, hoping maybe he would do the same. But when I looked back, he was walking toward me—more like stalking toward me, like a man determined.

  “Jonathon,” he said, reaching his hand out for me to shake.

  When I touched his, I felt some sort of current course through my body, making me jump back as I pulled my hand away quickly.

  He looked confused, shocked, and I wondered if he felt it, too. The spark, the connection, the way how, by our hands simply touching, a spark ignited. A spark I knew I could never forg
et.

  How could I?

  When he made no mention of it, my initial instinct was to leave, to get away as fast as I could, but running was not an option. Not with how his eyes held mine captive and captivated.

  “Your name?” he asked in a low, deep rumble.

  “Annie... My name is Annie.”

  “Annie.” His tongue rolled around my name, caressing it in the most intimate way I had ever experienced. “Annie,” he repeated, and I felt my knees tremble.

  Then he walked away from me, but looked over his shoulder, while I remained under the spell of his beautiful brown eyes.

  “Jonathon,” I memorized the name of the man who had me mesmerized. “Jonathon.”

  I rode the elevator to my apartment on the ninth floor, wanting to shower and eat something unhealthy. Maybe I would just have ice cream for dinner. I did just work out. I ought to be allowed the calories just because I had spent an hour at the gym. Plus, I deserved a reward for not running when I saw him look at me with lust and sinful intent.

  When I got off the elevator, I saw him again, sweat drenched and walking down the hall.

  “Annie?” My name came out as a question.

  “Jonathon,” I returned, feeling my face burning with embarrassment.

  “You live here?” he asked.

  “New to the building,” I answered, trying to sound less shy and more convincing.

  “I see,” he commented, eyeing me up and down. “I was just on my way out to get some coffee. I seem to have forgotten it when I was at the store earlier.”

  “I have plenty. Why head out again? I can spare some coffee beans.”

  “You mind if I shower first?”

  “By all means, go ahead. I’m in nine twenty-four.”

  “Interesting. I’m right across the hall.”

  Once inside my apartment, I leaned against the door, seeking the contrast of the cool metal against my heated flesh.

  “Jonathon,” I said out loud, finding myself getting turned on by just the sound of his name as it slipped past my lips.

  I covered said lips as I imagined how he would kiss me.

  His lips would be soft against mine, like a satin pillowcase. They would be moist, (no that’s gross) wet and coveting. He would control the kiss completely, taking away the burden and pressure I would feel, wanting to deliver the most amazing kiss possible, because I would want him to need more.