Chasing Wishes

by Simonenko, Nadia

  A slick sheen of sweat forms on my skin as he holds me close, pressing me to him with almost suffocating strength as he kisses me again and again. All I can do is whimper in anticipation and pleasure as he drives me wild, thrusting his hips upward, letting me feel his hardness but not entering me. I can barely move against his powerful embrace and I don't care one bit. I love this—I love feeling him this close to me, feeling the intimate, burning connection between us. I can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but silently beg him over and over to take me for himself.

  He presses his lips tightly to mine, kissing me deeply as he slows the pace of his torturous teasing. I can't escape his embrace and don't much care to, so I let myself relax into his arms, let him control me and hold me close.

  Our lips are one now, our tongues dancing together as he kisses me with a passion that leaves me lightheaded from desire, and then he finally takes me, pushing deep into me as he muffles my moan of delight.

  There is no Irene, no Terrence, no anything. All there is right now is the incomprehensible, incomparable sensations shooting through my body as I feel him deep inside me, his hips moving in rhythm with mine, thrusting into me over and over as the strange sensations burn brighter and brighter inside me.

  He quickens his pace, moving harder and faster inside me while still holding me close against him, controlling my movements and setting my body on fire. My skin burns against the cool night air and my mind is so hazy, so enthralled by the building climax that I'm seeing stars now. My cries of delight catch in my throat and I go deathly silent as the fire inside me ignites into a blazing white inferno.

  As if he can tell it's coming, Terrence presses his lips to mine and kisses me again just as I scream in ecstasy, drinking in my orgasm and sharing it with me as we come together.

  Wave after wave of heavenly, almost agonizing pleasure washes over me as my body contracts around him, and then as suddenly as it came, it's over. I crash back down again from my high, and my head feels as heavy as lead as it falls forward against Terrence's broad, smooth chest.

  "That... that was incredible," I gasp, trying desperately to catch my breath as stars burst before my eyes. Terrence smiles and kisses me, and I sigh in delighted, almost euphoric exhaustion as I lie in h asdesis arms beside him and breathe in his comforting, masculine scent.

  The sheets really are as comfortable as they looked...

  That final thought flutters around inside my mind, and then exhaustion overpowers me and pushes me over the edge and downward into slumber.

  wi

  wi

  wi

  Chapter XXI

  Terrence

  I must be dreaming.

  No... I know that I’m dreaming. I’m blind and can't possibly see all the vivid colors and better-than-life vibrancy of the everything around me, but as Irene presses her lips to mine, kissing me again as she pulls me down on top of her in the back of the limo, I don’t care one bit.

  I love sleeping because my dreams don’t know I’m blind. They remember what colors look like and I get to see them again when I’m asleep. The only things better are Irene’s stories. Something about her voice brings the world to life, and I can see everything so clearly, so perfectly in my mind.

  Tonight, though... wow, what a dream.

  Irene lets out a soft moan as I steal her breath away in a long passionate kiss, running one hand from the nape of her neck down her back. The top button of her copper-toned blouse easily comes undone beneath my fingers, then the second and the third, and she lets out a sigh as I leave a trail of kisses from her neck down her chest.

  She lifts my chin with one finger, pulling me away from her breasts just long enough to kiss me again. Her eyes are brown, but they’re a strange, shifting shade of brown, almost as if they can't decide exactly what color they want to be.

  I don’t know what color her eyes are, do I?

  That’s exactly what’s happening, isn’t it? My brain is making the color up as it goes because I don’t actually know. For now, they’re brown. I’ll have to ask her when I wake up.

  Three more buttons and then I yank her shirt open; she’s wearing a gorgeous, black lace bra that catches my eyes and fills my body with desire. I want so badly to have her for myself, and as she kisses me and wraps her legs around me, pulling me in close, I know I must have her. I desperately need to take her for myself, to explore her body and experience her pleasures.

  Her long blond hair splays out around her as I lean back to take in her beauty, and... no, she’s not Rapunzel, damn it. Her hair is dark brown; she told me that! I look up at the gray, faux-suede ceiling of the limo, and when I look back down again, Irene’s hair is brown like it should be. Jesus, she’s so gorgeous.

  I lean in and kiss her again, planting my lips firmly against hers, pressing in harder as our lips part and our tongues find each other’s, and she pulls me tightly in against her and wraps her legs around me. I run a hand slow up her smooth, bare leg, and she moans in delight as I slowly lift her skirt and let the tips of my fingers slip beneath it.

  Irene lets out a soft whimper of pleasure that sets my entire body on fire, and her lips burn against my skin as she leaves a line of kisses up my jaw-line. She whispers softly, almost breathlessly into my ear and everything changes in an instant.

  "The time is nine thirty AM," she whispers, her voice sounding strangely robotic, and I sit up straight as the dream shudders aro asde1emund me.

  I recognize that voice. It’s my alarm clock.

  Suddenly, it’s all gone. The limo, Irene, the brilliant colors, everything—completely gone, replaced instead by the deep familiar gray I’ve grown to despise over the years. I’m lying in bed as birds chirp outside my window, and between my pounding headache and the loss of my heavenly dream, I have a sudden urge to punch the nearest kitten.

  I groan as I roll over onto my side and I feel my pupils dilate from the light streaming in the window. It never ceases to amaze me how my body tries to protect my worthless eyes from the sunlight.

  I feel as if someone’s whacking me in the back of the head with a crowbar. God, how much did I drink last night?

  "The time is nine thirty-eight AM," answers the badly digitized voice of my alarm clock, and I groan again and smack the ‘off’ button. It normally wouldn’t be a bad wake-up time for a Saturday, but my aching head disagrees this morning.

  The headache smacks me even harder as I roll out of bed, and I sit back down and wait for the pain to pass. The pounding in my head is so strong that it’s almost making me dizzy. I really need a drink of water, and I should probably eat some breakfast, too.

  Irene’s intercom is to the right of my alarm clock, but as I reach for the button, I catch the sound of soft breathing beside me and stop dead in my tracks.

  Suddenly, everything that happened last night comes back to me at once. I remember that delicious dinner, sitting beside Irene on the limo ride back home...

  ...and then I remember pushing her back against the wall and kissing her.

  Shit. Did I seriously do that?

  Irene rolls over in her sleep and cuddles up close to me. Her skin is warm and soft, and as much as I should love the idea of her touching me, I'm suddenly terrified.

  ... I did more than just kiss her, I realize, a cold panic rushing through me as I remember pushing her down on the bed and making love to her last night. God, it was wonderful. Were we still drunk? Was she still drunk? I don't even know anymore.

  My face grows hot with embarrassment and shame. All it took was for me to get drunk for one night and I took advantage of my new assistant? What the hell’s wrong with me?

  Nothing’s wrong, answers my brain. You’re really into her.

  Bullshit. I can’t be into Irene; she’s my employee. Falling for Irene is quite possibly the worst idea I could ever have—well, short of flirting with Charlotte, maybe. She’d tear me to shreds, stomp on the pieces, and then sue whatever’s left of me when she’s finished. What was I thinking?


  I know exactly what I was thinking. I wanted her and I meant it when I told her. God, whatever happened last night was just... wow, I don't even know how to describe it. Hangover or not, I hadn’t felt so alive in years! I pull my hand back from the intercom and quietly get out of bed, trying not to wake Irene. I know the route to the door by now, but I still trail one finger along the edge of the bed to anchor myself. I can't get lost if I'm anchored.

  Irene mumbles something in her sleep, but I don't say anything back. I'm not ready to talk to her yet—I need time to get m ti1em"y thoughts in order first. She's probably going to kill me when she wakes up, and I’ll deserve every bit of her scorn for taking advantage of her.

  It’s thirty-seven steps from my bedroom door to the top of the stairs, and I trail my fingers along the left wall every step of the way, carefully anchoring myself to the world as I keep count in my head. My fingers hit a window jamb every seven steps, followed by the brief chill of the glass, and then wallpaper again until I reach the next window. The maid left a vase of flowers in front of one of these windows several months back, and I knocked it straight onto the floor while trying to find the stairs. She doesn’t bother decorating the hallway anymore.

  In five more steps, I’ll reach the top of the staircase. I've never been good at going down the stairs on my own, though. For some reason, I've never been able to get a hang of the spiral and the curved steps, and I quickly learned to rely on Marcus to help me. It wasn't the most responsible or independent way of handling it, but it's a little late to worry about that now.

  Irene’s back in your room. She could help you, nags the voice of reason. I shake my head and continue toward the stairs. It's not time to talk to her yet.

  Just talk to her already!

  I need to act like an adult, apologize for being a drunkard and tell her there’s nothing between us.

  Except... there is something. There shouldn’t be, but it’s there all the same. I’ve been thinking about her, sometimes even dreaming about her, ever since I first heard her laughing back at the library.

  I grip the banister tightly with both hands and carefully feel for the first stair, almost as if I’m testing the water before jumping into a pool. One step. Two steps. This is easier than I expected even with the gradual spiral.

  The eleventh stair is an unexpected landing, though, and I immediately trip over myself and lose my balance. The invisible world pitches wildly around me, making me sick to my stomach for one brief moment, and then I catch myself on the banister by pure luck.

  "Jesus Christ," I hiss at myself, clinging tightly to the banister as my breath comes in short, panicked gasps. "Just stop and talk to her already!"

  This is insane. I’m so afraid of talking to her after what I did last night that I’m risking a broken neck. What am I going to do when I reach the bottom? I have a railing to hold on the stairs, but there’s nothing to show me the way to the kitchen once I get down. Am I really going to stumble blindly through the house rather than admit that I’m an asshole who took advantage of his employee?

  My body answers the question for me by taking another cautious step down the precarious staircase. I guess I'm an asshole after all.

  I almost trip over Columbus at the bottom of the stairs, which he of course interprets as a sign that I’m going to feed him. His collar jingles loudly and his claws click against the wooden floor as he leaps up and takes his place at my side.

  "Snack, Columbus!" I tell him, bending and holding him gently by the collar. "Go to the kitchen!"

  Thanks for the tip, Irene, I silently thank her as Columbus leads me on my merry way.

  The chef isn’t in on Saturdays, so I’m on my own today. I know where the bread is—he keeps it in the breadbox on e b

  My fingers close around the handle of a blender and then find what I think is a food processor. Next come glass jars, a steel pot and the block of knives. Where the hell is the toaster? I sweep my arms back and forth along the countertop, feeling for anything that might be a toaster. Where the hell did he hide it?

  Anger builds up inside me and I grind my teeth in frustration as I search fruitlessly in the darkness. This is impossible! I can’t find the toaster, but even if I do, then what? I’ll get to search all over again for butter knives, a plate, jam... I hate this! I hate being blind so much!

  Suddenly, a warm body presses against me softly from behind, and I nearly leap out of my skin as gentle hands clasp around mine.

  "Relax," whispers Irene. "Just let me guide you, okay?"

  "I’m so sorry about last night," I blurt out. "I didn’t mean to take adv—"

  "Hush," she interrupts me. "Let’s get you some breakfast."

  "But..."

  "The kitchen counter is covered in dark stone tiles, and it forms an L-shape from the fridge to the stove," she whispers, guiding me slowly to the left and then reaching my hands out in front of me. "The chef reorganized the kitchen on you, and the toaster is shoved back against the wall, behind the blender and two glass jars full of rice and flour."

  I could have hunted all morning and not found it. I feel like such an idiot.

  "I’m letting go of you for just a second, so hold onto the counter, okay?" she whispers, and she starts rummaging through drawers. "Ah ha! Found a butter knife for you."

  "Irene, hold up a second," I tell her. "I need to apologize for..."

  "No, you don’t," she cuts me off again as she pressed herself behind me and takes my hands in hers again. "There’s nothing to be sorry about."

  "I shouldn’t have—"

  She ignores my attempt at apologizing and instead talks right over me as she guides my hands to the knife and bread.

  "Everything in the kitchen is wood-paneled, and I still think that a whole forest went into this room. Recessed fluorescent bulbs light the countertops, while the rest of the room uses track lighting. It’s a gorgeous kitchen, Terrence. The only thing a bit odd is that they disguised the fridge as a wall."

  "Seriously? How’d they do that?" I ask as she hands me a jar of jam and then guides my hand to retrieve my breakfast from the toaster. She's going completely overboard with assisting me, but I was so frustrated at myself that I'm grateful beyond words for her help now.

  "You have a wood-paneled refrigerator in a wood-paneled kitchen. It looks exactly like the walls except for the ice dispenser," she answers, pressing herself even closer to me. I swallow hard and try to focus on making my breakfast, but it’s impossible to ignore the feeling of her body against me. This isn't how my apology was supposed to go; I'm supposed to be telling her there’s nothing between us, but instead she’s turning me on and making me want her even more.

  Irene continues describinnuer theg the kitchen—the brass and ivory drawer handles, the gleaming copper hood over the oven, the cabinet of sparkling crystal glassware next to the fridge—and the world blossoms like a flower inside my mind. I give up on breakfast, close my eyes and listen to her voice as she describes the world around me in beautiful detail.

  This is why I can’t let myself tell her that there’s nothing between us. I love that she can do this to me, that she can open the world up to me again. Even more, I love that she's willing to.

  "And for the last, most important detail," she whispers in my ear, "there are two people standing in the kitchen. A tall, handsome man with beautiful green eyes is trying to make his breakfast while a short, brown-haired woman in flannel pajamas whispers to him."

  "Irene..."

  "I know you're worried about last night," she continues quietly, "and I want you to know that I'm doing alright."

  "Really?" I ask, taking in a sharp breath in surprise. I didn’t expect this; I thought she’d hate me for what we did last night.

  "Yes. I had an amazing time," she whispers.

  In my mind, she’s wearing blue plaid pajama pants and a gray tank-top that leaves little to the imagination. Her straight, shoulder-length hair is dark brown this time, almost black, instead of wavy blond locks
trailing all the way to the floor.

  "How’s your headache?" Irene whispers, releasing my hands and instead wrapping her arms around my waist.

  "It’s doing better," I answer, my heart pounding in my chest. "You feeling okay?"

  "I’m wonderful today," she says, just barely pressing herself into me.

  Her touch is so incredible that between the feeling of her arms around my waist and the gentle pressure of her breasts against my back, my body tenses up with desire. God, I need her again already!

  "Terrence, what happens next is up to you," she whispers in my ear. "I can get you settled with your breakfast and pretend nothing ever happened, or..."