by Tracy Ellen
But like most rational people, I give my trust and respect when it’s earned by actions to back it up. And like most rational women, I know better than to state any of the above to a man needing to be in control and keep his secrets.
Does it make me a nosy girl if I find any answers I need from other sources?
I don’t think so, either.
It pays to be friends with the older generations in town. Those elderly folks are an amazing and underutilized networking resource. They have family bloodlines memorized and recall scuttlebutt going back thirty or forty years like it happened yesterday. I simply put the word out I was looking for someone who had been friends with Luke’s deceased great uncle, Benjamin Drake.
The only drawback to my plan was getting those nice folks to stop telling me stories and quit talking once they’d started. I might not know exactly what Luke does on the job, but I sure got more scoop on his life history than a girl could ever need to hear.
One constant theme from my sources is during all his growing up years Luke was Army mad. It was never doubted he’d have a military career. The various storytellers were all murky on which branch of the military Luke actually served. But they all agreed, with a wink and a nod, that he was definitely in some elite, everybody was kung-fu fighting, sharpshooting unit. According to Uncle Bennie’s elderly cronies, it had been a sad day when his great nephew Luke retired from the military. The culprit was an undisclosed injury Luke received that no longer allowed him to perform his ass-kicking duties.
Luke actually told me a lot of those same stories of his life over our first two months together. I had to be careful to pretend surprise when hearing some stories a second time. I was nearly caught hurrying him up on one anecdote and beating him to the punch line. He had squinted and scrutinized me suspiciously after that faux pas, but I avoided detection with a failsafe diversion that works with all men- I started talking about sex.
Luke spoke of childhood memories fondly and easily. He is an only child, and his early years took place without any angst or trauma that I can tell. He actually likes his parents. His dad is a pastor and his mother an attorney in the Chicago area.
However, any of Luke’s adult stories of the last ten years were still vague on specifics and glossed over on the details. His twenties were spent in the Army. He did opt out after an injury left him less than one hundred percent up to snuff. He alluded he was in a Special Forces unit. I have the impression he still uses those skills currently, but I’ve never asked a direct question of him towards further enlightenment. I think it’s driving him nuts that I don’t seem interested in his ‘special skills,’ but he started it with his no questions agenda.
The info important to me garnered from the village elders is that Luke did not torture small animals or set fires when young, he doesn’t have wives and kids tucked away in a compound in Idaho, and there are no known felonies. It doesn’t hurt matters that Luke Drake turns me on like no man ever has before, and he hasn’t demanded the exclusivity I’m not willing to give any guy at this point in my life.
This morning, I quietly left the bedroom, and my uninvited sleepover guest, to attend to my ablutions in the bathroom across the hall. Catching a glimpse of my matted, wild hair in the mirror, I burst out laughing. I looked like something scary that lives in a dark cave.
‘Yikes! Mental note to self, don’t go to sleep with damp, tangled hair after being tossed around your bedroom.’
Twisting it up, tangles and all, I stuck in a clip. In my walk-in closet, I threw on shorts, a sports bra, and running shoes. I headed back out to the wide hallway and went left, towards the open stairs.
Before you reach the stairs, and if you hang another left, the hall widens into a foyer area. Along one wall sits a large church pew painted white, a find at the Elko Flea Market this past Labor Day weekend. A massive, elaborately framed mirror leans propped against the opposite wall.
I moved on through a wide arch into the open living room. My apartment on this side was designed shotgun-style. The living room opens into the dining room, which opens into the kitchen. The kitchen leads to a back hall with a laundry room. There’s a back door to a balcony at this end of the building. This whole space runs parallel to the bedrooms on the other side of the middle wall that divides the large, second floor apartment in two.
Once I did my routine of opening the white shutters covering the tall windows, the three main rooms are about one hundred by forty feet of airy, light filled space. Loft-like, the tall ceiling and open ductwork are painted a soft chocolate brown.
The apartment is my Shangri-La, my bastion of tranquility. It’s probably silly and sentimental for a building to mean so much, but there’s no place on earth I’d ultimately rather be.
Scattered with my treasures, the spacious rooms are decorated with an eclectic twist and furnished with a mix of valuable antiques, my flea market finds, a few modern pieces of furniture, mementos of my family life, and colorful, old Persian rugs covering the hardwood floors.
Standing at the kitchen island, I ate a handful of mixed nuts and dried fruits while downing a small glass of apple juice. I took a bottle of mineral water from the fridge and headed back the way I had come.
Eyes averted to avoid testosterone temptation; I passed my closed bedroom door. I continued down the hall to the farthest bedroom on the right. I had converted this second largest of the apartment’s original six bedrooms into an exercise room. I jumped onto my treadmill and pretended to enjoy jogging in place for the next forty-five minutes. I left the overhead TV off. Today seemed like an awesome woman singer day. I have hundreds of songs spanning four or five decades on my iPod guaranteed to get the blood pumping. I ran and sang my heart out until I was sweating like a piggy and feeling it in my legs.
I prefer to run outside but with Luke still here I wasn’t sure of the sleepover etiquette, so I decided to stick around. Besides, singing inside is way less embarrassing to my street cred.
Temple worshiping complete for now; I headed for the showers. I stripped off my sweaty clothes and stepped into the pounding waterfall. It felt amazingly soothing. I rotated my head and neck.
‘Holy Moly, I was sore!’
I ached all over in places I didn’t even know existed on my body. Not that I was complaining, since it was my idea, but I wasn’t used to being chased, manhandled, and flipped around as part of foreplay. I felt myself relaxing while the steam and pummeling hot water did their magic.
I took care of the labor-intensive process of shampooing and conditioning my tangled hair. I lathered my body with Spanish Gardenia shower gel, my most recent present from Stella to try out. As I did my routine of exfoliating, shaving, and washing, I thought objectively about the previous night’s fun and games.
I guess sex can potentially be amazing under any circumstances. For me, the fantasy Luke and I had played out beforehand raised the eroticism, physical and mental, to a whole new level of excitement and intensity. I was definitely budging to the head of the line to sign up for more play dates.
I decided I relished every minute of being dominated Luke Drake-style, even when I fought it the hardest. I rubbed the tender area on my poor skull where I could still feel the divots from Luke’s front teeth.
I grinned ruefully. ‘Well, maybe not when I fought it the hardest.’
Role-playing as an adult is reminiscent of putting on a play like when we were kids, minus the actual sex parts, of course. As a young girl, I remember how thrilling it had been when the neighborhood boys would participate willingly in our little productions. Often in the lead girl role, it was the difference of shyly kissing a real, live boy, or having to lip smack against the back of one of my sister’s hands in the name of theater.
The thrill hadn’t lost any of its shine to have a real live man participate with enthusiastic willingness in our very own private theatrical production. Kink is way cool.
One of the reasons I’ve never acted on any of my sexual fantasies is that it requires a level o
f trust I haven’t been willing to give a man without some basis in reality.
Since I don’t really do relationships, allowing a guy I don’t know very well to have access to my home and control over my body would be incredibly stupid. Having no idea if he might physically harm me, or give me a STD, is not my idea of a sexual thrill. It seems more like a nightmare on Division Street to me. I’m not that kind of adrenaline junkie, nor do I have a death wish.
Luke has been out of town working longer stretches than the norm lately. We’ve gotten together maybe five or six times in the last two months. That doesn’t sound like many dates, but when he’s been around and I could get away, our dates often started in the morning and ended very late at night.
Luke also calls me several times a week when he’s gone. He has a pattern of calling on Friday nights if he won’t be around on the weekend. I’ve always despised talking on the phone. Now I have epically long conversations that would rival a teenager. I’ve been surprised how intriguing it is getting to know a man this way. I feel a connection to Luke on a different level because of the marathon phone sessions.
The only hint I had that Luke may surprise me with a live performance of my very own sex fantasy was a conversation that took place on a date about three weeks ago at the end of October.
The date had started with spending a Saturday together in Minneapolis. Luke didn’t know the city very well, so I’d suggested we do some outdoor exploring because it had been gorgeous out. I cannot tell a lie, I’d been a tad hung over from the previous night at Rueb’s, a local bar, and had almost cancelled. But it had actually felt good to get outside in the fresh air and it cleared up my slight hangover.
Luke and I had biked across town along Minnehaha Creek on the parkway. That worked up our appetites, so we had a huge breakfast for lunch in Uptown at French Meadow Café. I’m a sucker for their Eggs Benedict, plus we’d split one of their deliciously enormous cinnamon rolls. After feasting, we’d walked it off around the scenic nine-mile circuit of Lake of the Isles, Calhoun, and Harriet. The two levels of lake paths had been busy with bikers, joggers, and walkers outside with the same idea to embrace the sunshine. In Minnesota, everyone took advantage of a beautiful fall day like a bunch of paranoid hoarders. We all know what lurks around the corner to descend on us at any given moment. It’s not unheard of for the temp to be fifty one day with a blizzard the next.
Speaking of hoarders, while we walked I was munching on chocolate-dipped macaroons from a bag that had magically appeared in my hand upon leaving French Meadow. I’d noticed that no matter how much we were laughing and talking, Luke always kept an eye out on our immediate environs. He truly has a special talent for vigilance. I never felt like I had less than his total attention, but he also managed to admire the awe-inspiring architecture of historic homes surrounding the lakes, watch the people around us, watch me, and watch the ground where we walked.
Turns out that observation knack of his is a good thing for me. Luke steered me over an ankle-twisting pothole in the path and around a deep puddle I would have gone swimming through. I was oblivious to these dangers to my person. I was too busy waxing on enthusiastically about a recent book I’d read and loved. He later caught me mid-air when I took a swan dive over an exposed tree root. The story he’d been telling had me laughing so much, I hadn’t paid attention to the path under my feet.
All those saves would have been a bit embarrassing were I the type who actually cares about such things as my own dignity and public humiliation. It was odd to receive a deep kiss for being an oblivious klutz, but I grinned and bore the punishment. I’d given in gracefully to Luke’s vehement insistence he hold my hand to keep me alive.
Our daytime date had been a great time. We’d spent hours marveling at how smart we were on almost every subject under the sun, when we weren’t heatedly debating over the other’s idiotically wrong viewpoint. Later, the drive home down 35W was quieter. Laced with long looks between us, I recall being excited in anticipation of what we’d be doing later when we were alone inside my apartment.
Once there, we relaxed together in the dusky, late afternoon light. Luke was a shadowed outline of a man sprawled at the end of my comfy, leather sofa. I’d been idly mulling over if I should invite him to come with me to a Halloween costume bash later that night. I was envisioning him in his Army uniform, Major Anthony “Tony” Nelson to my “I Dream of Jeannie” genie. Who cares if he wasn’t Air Force, or a major? I wasn’t picky; a man in uniform is hot.
Luke had reached over and started playing with my hand, running his thumb over my knuckles and between my fingers.
Apropos of nothing, in a voice as smooth as the velvet pillow I was leaning my cheek against, he said, “Tell me your secret fantasy, Anabel.”
‘Holy…so much for being relaxed!’ After a moment, I remembered to snap closed my hanging jaw. Luke didn’t chatter away in idle conversation to hear himself speak, so I knew immediately he was totally serious. His smoothly composed face gave away nothing of what he was thinking. Just like that, easy as you please, he’d asked me to tell him something I have never divulged to another living soul.
I was confused, too. First off, did he mean most people have only one secret fantasy? While squirming in thought, about fifteen hot fantasies had fun playing in my brain. Secondly, did it mean he was into kinky sex stuff to ask me about sex fantasies after dating for only a couple of months, and those dates being spread out? Was he going to get progressively weirder on me? Or was I the weird one, since I found myself really tempted to answer him? Thirdly, did Luke ask all the women he dated that question, or did he sense something about me that made him bring it up? Fourthly, oh forget it; I could have kept going forever with questions on such a titillating subject.
Instead, I crawled closer to Luke. My free hand had curled around his ear, so I could whisper my number one secret fantasy. I wasn’t being inordinately shy, not completely. I used any excuse to whisper near Luke’s ear, or kiss and suck lightly on his neck. It drove him crazy.
Poised to speak, I hesitated.
I thought for a second if I had the nerve to tell him.
I thought for another few seconds about why I almost trusted Luke. After all, I’d only known him a short time.
I thought a couple seconds more if I even liked the idea of almost trusting him. That was a no-brainer.
So I sat back on my heels and released his hand. I’d folded my arms over my chest. I realized my nipples were standing at attention from him only asking me that question. I’d blown out my breath in frustration. It was not such an easy question to answer, even if my breasts disagreed.
‘What to do, what to do?’
I rested my head on the back of the sofa, distractedly running both hands through my hair on either side of my head. I looked up at the ceiling for the answer.
I then reasoned my dilemma out in my head. I use my hands a lot when reasoning things out in my head. Sometimes, I even hum and mumble under my breath the words that fly through my brain like a ticker tape at the stock exchange. It helps me to organize and make decisions, never mind that it makes me look insane.
First, on the left hand, I had Luke. A man I couldn’t possibly deny I was totally sexually smitten with, even had I wanted to. Why? Well, mainly because Luke already knew. Oh yes, Miss Blabbermouth here had told Luke within five minutes into our first date how hot he gets me. Yep, that’s how aloof and hard-to-get I play.
For the tenth time, I’d glumly reassured myself there had been extenuating circumstances for my oversharing with Luke. Anyone hearing the story of our first date would agree I had grounds to react as I had. No, I was more disgruntled then about how much I looked forward to being with Luke, no matter what we were doing. That rule-breaking concept alone had been technically reason enough never to see him again, much less confess my deep down sexual fantasies to the dude.
Now, on the other hand, I had Luke sitting there next to me wanting to know my secret fantasy. A man I found interesti
ng, a man who attracted me tremendously. I’d been relatively certain at that point he wasn’t a Dexter; either that or I hadn’t proved too boring yet. He’d been kind enough to prove he was healthy by showing me his latest medical report after a routine testing through his secret job. The concerns of death by dismemberment or disease need not stop me. Telling him my number one fantasy could prove to be very fun indeed.
Still indecisive, I’d worried my bottom lip and mulled it over.
It wasn’t like I don’t know myself. Any problems or issues I had, I know why I have them. Trust doesn’t come easy. Was sharing a sex fantasy something I wanted to do? If I did want to share, was I going to be honest and tell Luke my number one fantasy? Or was I going to be a namby-pamby baby and share a white bread fantasy to get off the hook, like he was a peg leg pirate and I was his captive princess.
After that brief pep talk with myself, I made my decision.
I’d given a nod of thanks to the team of voices huddled in my head and clapped my hands. Then I had turned to Luke.
His forgotten beer had been arrested halfway to his parted lips.
Even in the dim lighting, I could see Luke was watching me with fascinated interest. I couldn’t quite meet his searching eyes; I guess I’d been a little shyer about the subject than I realized. Also, I hadn’t wanted to see any calm, experienced amusement in his expression, or I would have smacked him and lost my nerve.
So I’d spoken in a rush before any of the above could happen. “Okay Luke, my top sexual fantasy is I want to be secretly nominated.”
‘WAIT! What in the hell had I just said? That came out all wrong!’