My computer boots up, and I quickly check my personal email and social page. It’s my usual morning routine of cheating on company hours by using the Internet. Mr. Stewart doesn’t get in until eight thirty, so it gives me a half hour to fool around unnoticed. I enter and see I have mail. I scrunch my nose afraid to look who it’s from. As soon as I click it, Ian’s name pops up.
I was right. He’s sorry, mortified, filled with remorse for taking advantage of me when he said he wouldn’t. The guy has a conscience like none other. It amazes me that the mold for a decent man hasn’t been thrown away after all. Unfortunately, it doesn’t get used enough.
After reading the doleful, remorseful email over and over, I don’t know what to say. He’s probably staring at his page even now. I note the time he sent it—three o’clock in the morning. “Poor soul,” I say aloud. I hope he didn’t lose any sleep over it.
Perhaps I should console him. What I really should do is to tell him to walk away from me, because I’ve got a hell of a lot of baggage he knows nothing about. Then my mind drifts to fantasyland, and I see us living together happily ever after. Yeah, sure, I chide myself. I click on reply and type a quick note.
“Nothing to forgive, Ian. I’m a grown woman, and I could have said no.”
Boy, was that a flat-out lie. When did I last say no? There hasn’t been a time since I was five years old. The truth slaps me in the face hard enough to sting my eyes with tears. You’re such slut, I chide myself.
I tap my fingers across the keyboard trying to think of what to say next. “I had a wonderful time this weekend. Let’s not spoil it with remorse.” I hit send and exit. I’ve got to leave this behind, because my emotions are in my throat. People are arriving at work, filling up their cubicles, and life goes on as it always does—in pain.
The day progresses as usual, and I try to fill my mind with work rather than with Ian. It’s hard to do, because at three o’clock I get another call from reception about a delivery. Instantly, my gut tells me that it’s not an envelope from a courier.
I hesitantly get up from my desk, walk toward reception, and slowly lift my eyes to the top of the counter. There it is, another huge bouquet of flowers—this time pink carnations. He’s figured out my favorite girly color. This guy is serious, or he’s just an apologetic sod who can’t get over his failures.
“Looks like your admirer is at it again,” Melanie grins. Her face is filled with jealousy. I take the card, and sure enough it’s from Ian.
“Thanks for the great weekend, sweets. Next time, I’ll control myself.”
All I can do is shake my head. The problem is he’s ignited the hunger in me for him, and I’ll never let him control himself. I can see the red caution signs ahead. Hopefully, my emotional ambulance is on alert.
When I get back from my desk, I grab my cell and walk over into the employee lounge. I’ve got to get his number in my speed dial, because trying to push the right ones doesn’t work when my hands shake. It rings, and I hear his velvet voice.
“Ian Richards.”
“What are you doing?” I question him with a tight jaw.
“Uh, talking to you?”
“No, the flowers. You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yeah, I did. Made me feel better. It’s my penance for taking advantage of you when I said that I wouldn’t. Also, I wanted to let you know how much I still like you the morning after.”
Someone walks by, and I lower my voice to a whisper. “You made me feel wonderful yesterday, Ian. You don’t need to buy me flowers.”
“I didn’t make you feel wonderful enough,” he says, with his voice laced in distress.
“Get over it, sweets.” I enunciate his little endearment. “I thoroughly enjoyed the moment.”
He doesn’t say anything, and the end of the line goes deadly quiet. For a moment, I think we’ve been disconnected. Then I hear him sigh and whisper into the receiver. “Next time, it will be better. I promise.”
Now the cat has got my tongue. I don’t know what to say. A myriad of emotions are buzzing about my head like angry bees.
“I’ve got to go. My boss wants me. Talk to you later.”
“Rachel…”
I hear his voice, but I end the call. I’m sick inside over the anticipation of next time. The poor man thinks he can’t perform, and it’s me who is unable to respond. He’ll never get an orgasm out of me with his tenderness, and the idea of how I’d ever be able to tell him that I need more, frightens me to death.
* * * *
Home sweet apartment greets me at five o’clock, along with my purring cat. I haven’t heard any more from Ian, and frankly, I’m glad. I need a break from the roller coaster of emotions spiraling around and around in my brain. I’m exhausted just thinking about it.
I put a high-calorie frozen dinner into the microwave and hit start. There’s an old bottle of wine in the fridge, and I need a drink, but it’s pill time again in a few hours. Alcohol and purple don’t mix.
After dinner, I stare at the telephone and suddenly wish he’d call. Maybe he thinks I don’t want to talk to him after my abrupt hang up this afternoon. I sigh and chew on my fingernail. Then I remember, he works late—that’s it. There’s no reason to worry.
I plop down on my recliner, and Whiskers jumps on my lap. Suddenly, there’s a knock at my door. Gosh darn it! I complain. It’s probably some solicitor who I’ll ignore. I peek out the hole, and there is Ian looking straight ahead. Oh, crap, and I’m in my PJ’s!
I wrinkle my nose and open the door a crack and peer around the edge. “Ian, this is a surprise.” He’s in a gray suit, white shirt, black tie, and my legs go weak.
“Can I come in?” He sounds like a little boy asking for a candy bar.
“If you promise not to laugh at my attire, you may enter.” I swing open the door and expose myself clad in my black tank top and my flannel bottoms with pink kitty-cats. He bursts out laughing.
“You rascal!” I scold him, grabbing his arm and pulling him inside. God, he looks yummy. He smells divine. He’s so pretty. He’s fooled around with me. He’s everything, and I’m nothing.
“What are you doing here?”
“Had to see you.”
I stare at him until my heart jumps in my throat. The next I know, my mouth is on his, and I’m swallowing him whole. Ian doesn’t fight it; he relents to my advances. Already my body aches, and I don’t want him to be tender. I need him to be rough. How can I tell him? I’m so afraid to expose my desires. Finally, I let go.
“Rachel!” He gulps. “God, woman, you’re going to get us into trouble again.”
I don’t care. Swiftly, I take my hands and lift my tank top off my head and expose my breasts to him. His mouth drops open, and I announce my desires. “I want you.”
“Are you sure about this?” His eyes focus on my boobs, where I want them to be.
Take me, don’t ask me, my mind screams. I’m the rabid nymphomaniac once again, and it’s his fault. For years, I’ve done nothing but play with myself. Now here he is, in all his glory. He can fondle me all he wants, if I can teach him how.
He stands there gawking at my breasts. Eventfully, his eyes lift to mine. He’s hesitating, and I feel naked—really naked—the kind of in-the-garden-of-Eden-naked, and I grab my top from the floor.
“Gosh, I don’t know what came over me. Sorry.” I pull the top back over my head and cover myself. He looks conflicted as hell, and I don’t blame him. Even I’m shocked by my behavior.
“You want to come in and sit down?” I ask, walking over to the couch. I turn and step away, and he grabs my upper arm.
“I’ve never felt like this with anyone so fast, Rachel. It’s crazy.” His hand tightens on my arm. “And disconcerting.”
His eyes are blazing with desire. I do have an influence on him, and I’m ecstatic. However, his body language tells me he’s also hesitant and afraid of where this is going. So am I.
“I know it’s crazy. I’m as scared as you, m
aybe even more so, Ian. There’s so much about me that you don’t know.
“I don’t care.”
“I care.”
“We’ll cross those bridges when we come to them. Okay?”
We gaze at each other with heated longing. He places his hands upon my kitty-cat rear. The next I know, he’s pulled me into his hard erection. I close my eyes fighting the love-hate feeling that’s flowing through my veins. My head tilts back, and I look at his lips that swoop down upon mine. His tongue thrusts into my mouth, and his hands knead my behind. His erection grows, and I’m at his mercy.
“Ian.” I moan. I take his hand and slip it under my tank top and press it against my breast. He fondles me with tenderness, and the disappointment flows through me like ice. Ian lifts my tank top over my head, and I’m bared to him once again. His action sends shivers down my spine. I want him to devour me like an animal.
“This suit has got to go,” he says, taking off his jacket. He lays it on a nearby chair. I reach up and undo his tie, because it’s enticing. He unbuttons his vest and shirt, and the next I know he’s down to a white tee shirt.
My hands start fiddling with his belt, and I pull it through the loops and drop it to the floor. He kicks off his shoes, and the only thing that remains are his pants—all pressed and pretty for work, and they are about to be tossed aside.
“Nice suit,” I say, looking at his bare chest. My hands rove over his flesh, and he knows exactly what I mean. “Did you bring a condom?” It’s important to check for safety measures before getting too excited.
“Yeah, in my wallet.”
He grabs his pants and pulls out the protection, laying it on the nearby table. If this keeps up, I’m going back on the pill so I can get the full feel of this guy, because condoms are a bore.
“Undress me,” I beg him. He discards his trousers and the rest of his clothes until he’s naked. I see his erection, and I can’t look at it. I never can. It brings back memories. You’re pathetic. Yes, I know I’m pathetic, I acknowledge to my inner tormentor.
Ian pulls down my bottoms, and I step out. Now I’m nude. Where are we going next? Couch sex? Recliner sex? Wall sex? Kitchen tabletop sex? Floor sex? My mind runs rife with exciting possibilities.
“Is your bedroom down the hall?”
It’s bedroom sex in the dark? Boring, I think to myself as I lead him onward, passing all the fun places he could do me. He doesn’t flip on the light, and I’m not surprised. Ian enters his tender, sexual prowess mode. Inside I’m screaming for more—I need more. As he begins a repeat performance of the night before, I begin to wonder if I should fake it for his sake. Maybe I just need to encourage him, and I do.
“Ian, touch me with your fingers, please.”
He knows what I mean. His hand slides up my inner thigh and anticipation flows through my veins. Oh, god yes, please, I wait in anticipation. He fondles me but doesn’t penetrate. Maybe he thinks only his penis belongs there. I don’t know, but I want his hand. I want him inside of me and forcefully pushing me to the brink of ecstasy. He doesn’t.
Suddenly, he stops, as if he’s done his duty. He positions himself on top of me and starts to make love—tender, sweet, suffocating love. Slowly he pushes in and out, and I hear him moan. He wants me to moan, but I can’t respond. I can’t feel anything. I’ve never had an orgasm during intercourse—never. This isn’t what I want or need.
The only way I can reach that place where the world slips into oblivion is when I’m taken by force and allow myself to submit to a man’s domination through his hands. It’s all I’ve known since I was sexually abused as a child. It’s the only way my brain thinks. It’s the only way my body responds. By force and bondage, not by love and sickening tenderness! I’m screaming in my mind for more, but nothing happens.
Ian keeps trying, and I feel his mounting dismay. Again, I encourage him to release himself. He doesn’t. Instead, he pulls out of me, his face is shrouded in shame.
“Don’t stop on my account, please,” I beg him. I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him back down on top of me. “Go ahead,” I whisper in his ear. “Fill me.”
He looks at me hesitantly, but I know he’s about to explode. He penetrates me again and resumes his gentle pushes. A minute later he grunts and holds me tight as he releases himself into his condom. My arousal sinks into the springs of my mattress, where all unachieved orgasms die a tortuous death. This isn’t working for me at all. After years of sexual drought, I’m still fooling around with myself even with a man in my life. I’m so disappointed.
Ian doesn’t say anything. He’s clearly bent out of shape again. Swiftly, he rolls off me and looks down into my face with an exasperated expression.
“Boy, I’m really striking out in the sex department, aren’t I?”
My lips curl into a pitiful smile. Inside my unsatisfied whore is cursing him. It’s you. You’re a bore in bed. I turn my ahead away, because I can’t stand the scrutiny of his blue eyes.
“It’s just me, Ian. I need a lot of stimulation. Some women are like that.”
“Explain,” he says, pulling my chin back toward him. “I want to understand.”
For a few moments, I stare into his insistent gaze. My heart is pounding in my chest as the words leave my mouth. “I like it rough.” There, I said it, you satisfied? I bitch at my inward demons.
His brow furrows. “Explain rough.”
“I can’t.”
“Tell me, I want to know.”
“Gosh, what is this? Defined terms in a contract?” I sit up in bed and scowl.
“I’m frustrated.” He huffs. “Because it’s obvious I’m not giving to you what you need. Explain rough.” His face frowns as if he’s trying to figure it out. “You don’t want me to hit you or anything, do you?”
“God, no,” I quickly say. “I’m not into bruising.”
“Then what?”
“Can we talk about this another time? I don’t feel comfortable discussing it right now.”
He’s peeved. I’m peeved. I get out of bed. He gets out of bed. The room turns cold, so I flip on the light and grab the sheet.
“Well, I sure ruined your visit tonight, didn’t I?” My voice is curt, as I wrap the linen around my nakedness.
“No problem,” he says, in a pissed-off tone.
He stomps toward the living room and picks up his strewn clothes. I watch him get dressed into his white underwear and pressed suit. He remains silent, but I can tell by his hurried movements he wants to get the hell away from me. Finally, the perfect specimen of a man is standing in front of the door ready to leave, just like all the others.
“Maybe we’re going too fast. I feel like I’m running blind down a road, and I don’t know where I’m going,” he rants. He lowers his eyes to Whiskers who has emerged shaken from underneath my bed.
“Whiskers, don’t,” I say, grabbing him and holding him in my arms. I don’t want to see cat hair on Ian’s pristine trousers. For some reason, I’d feel guilty if I soiled him in any way.
“I have a tough week at the firm. Big deal going down, and I’ve got a contract that needs negotiating. How about we take a breather, and I’ll call you Friday or something.”
I pout. The poor man is wounded, and it’s my fault. “Sure, whatever you say, Ian.”
“Nite,” he says through a clenched jaw. He’s gone. For a moment I stand and look at the door flabbergasted that he abandoned me, but why am I not surprised?
“Shit!” I bellow in my empty living room.
I set down Whiskers on the floor, and slink back to my bedroom feeling like a whore. I’m devastated, angry, ashamed, and that desire of wishing I didn’t exist flows through my veins. Heartbroken, I lie down on my bed and have a good pity-party cry. An hour later, I disappear into the blackness of my mind and fall asleep, exhausted and sore.
Chapter 9
Playing a Game of Hug
I’m inside the two-story, white house down the street from where I live. My hand
is being held tight by a teenage boy, and he is leading me upstairs. We walk into a bedroom, and the door closes behind me. He smiles.
“You like candy?”
In his hand is a really big candy bar in a brown wrapper. It’s chocolate. I like chocolate.
“Sure, can I have some?” I reach out for it.
“Not until we play a game.” He takes it away and sets it on top of his dresser.
“What game?”
“I just want to hug you, is that okay?”
I don’t understand why he wants to hug me. He’s not my brother.
“Where’s my brother?” I feel scared.
“Don’t worry. It’s okay,” he assures me.
I look toward the window and want to go.
“Come here by the bed so I can hug you.” I wonder if I should do what he tells me.
“Do you want that candy or not, Rachel?”
My eyes see the candy bar lying on top of the dresser. I really do want it. “Yes, please.”
“Then do what I tell you, and you can have it.” He holds out his hand toward me. “Come here.”
Slowly, I walk over to the bed and stand in front of him.
“I’m going to lift up your dress so I can feel you when we hug. Is that okay?”
“I guess so.”
He lifts my dress up, and then gently leans me back.
“I want to hug you on the bed, but we need to take your panties off too.”
When he pulls them down, I don’t understand why, but I don’t say anything because I want the candy. My tummy and bottoms are bare. The boy grins as he looks down at me on the bed. I watch him unzip his pants and pull out something long and big. It’s a part of his body, and it’s ugly. I don’t like it, so I close my eyes.
“Be still and quiet, Rachel. I’m going to rub myself against you like a hug,” he whispers.
I do as he says. He lowers himself on top of me and holds me down on the bed. I can’t move. This doesn’t feel like a hug. He presses that big, ugly thing on my tummy, and rubs himself against my body. He slides it up and down and it hurts. It’s warm and hard. He goes faster and faster, and I whimper.
Conflicting Hearts Page 9