by Petrova, Em
Cool air washed over me as Taylor padded to the bathroom and returned with a warm washcloth, tenderly setting me to rights as I strained to come to terms with what I’d just let happen. I’d blown objectivity and good sense all to hell and I didn’t give a shit.
She helped me up and handed me my ratty flannel robe as I wobbled into the kitchen and lit the burner under the entrée, then turned to get the basmati rice cooking.
She’d handed me an appetizer to end all appetizers and I’d be damned if I was letting her one up me. The night had barely begun and I had no intention of letting her get away from me, not now, not ever.
Plating the food, I set hers on the counter and watched as she sighed with contentment, the first bite a tentative sample to test for spiciness followed by ‘ums’ and a quick sip of wine. When she smiled, my world and my future spun on their axes.
Out of curiosity I asked, “Is there a name for that very excellent appetizer?”
She thought for a moment, and said, “In italiano sarebbe chiamato un antipasto pene. Otherwise known as un pompino.”
I carried my dish around the counter to join her, chuckling because no translation was necessary.
She pointed to the shrimp creole and said, “This is good, really good,” and took another mouthful, rolling the sauce and mirapoix and shrimp around on her tongue.
I said, “Save room for dessert.”
“What’s for dessert?”
Biting my lip, I gave her the van Horn leer, flashed my assets and mouthed, “Bon appetit.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Tay
The aroma smelled … luscious was the only word for it. Thick, rich dark roast cut through with a hint of chocolate.
Rob explained the heavenly scent, “A splash of Godiva chocolate liquor,” and handed me a heavy mug that looked like hand-thrown pottery so I asked if it was.
“Yeah, one of my nieces is taking art at Carnegie-Mellon. She’s a really talented kid.”
“Cordie’s twin, her daughter?”
“Uh-huh, Cate has three girls, twins in college, one a senior in high school. I am surrounded by women in my family.”
“You say that like it’s not a bad thing.”
He laughed. It was deep and resonated in my chest. “We’re close, the lot of us. I’m the only boy so I got stuck in that no-mans-land of perks for being the only one and the object of everyone’s attention when it came to matters of my sex life.”
Reaching for the remote, he flicked the DVR on and channel surfed until he found one billed as contemporary eclectic, setting the volume to low so we could talk. He motioned me from my end of the couch, the far end, with an open arm and waggling fingers.
With a grin he said, “I won’t bite.”
“You should.”
He looked perplexed. “Why?”
I replied, “Because I did,” and then ducked my head to hide the blush blooming from my chest all the way to my eyeballs, the heat traveling like an advancing army past every hair follicle and skin imperfection with a ‘yowzer, did you ever’ afterglow.
He rewarded me with that quirk to his lips and a gleam in his eye that suggested our couch interlude might not last long. Scooting over, I curled into his arms, his left hand cupping my ear, pressing my head into his broad shoulder. The robe lay open to the belt, revealing a dusting of dark brown chest hair that arrowed into a trail I’d blazed like a thousand dollar hooker.
I wasn’t Catholic, but the idea of confession and a purging of those wanton actions seemed like an attractive idea. Necessary even, because if I didn’t the odds were good I’d try to improve on that performance. Not that Robert van Horn would mind. Or myself.
I’d liked it, a lot. Maybe more than I should.
His right hand reminded me that I was still wearing the frilly bit of a dress as he maneuvered the fabric higher, sluicing the runway to where my panties stood sentinel, sponging up my lust and feeble attempts at modesty.
Tracing the lacy outline with long elegant fingers, he deliberately brushed and teased every sensitive spot, testing me, using his body to record each and every twitch and moan.
Flipping my shoulders against the back of the couch, he bracketed my body, breaching the fabric and ripping it open, his invasion now a penetration. One, then two fingers, scissoring, exploring with the dance of discovery to see what made me moan and twitch under the weight of his body. His thumb held court as he thrummed an exotic rhythm, humming into my neck as he nuzzled and tongued an inexorable path to my breast. Squeeze, pinch, release, repeat, my skin and muscles down to the very sinew so turned on, so dialed to high alert, that the little cascades started, the shivers hitting the groin with excruciating tightness. The build-up to detonation, coming fast, faster as he bucked against my hips, the choreography ancient and virile and slutty.
He stood and held out a hand, his robe open, draped loosely off his shoulders. I think I licked my lips and contemplated his cock, so temptingly within reach, but he murmured, “Nuh-unh, it’s my turn,” and marched me to the bedroom.
The room was small or the bed was huge, easily king-sized, with brass rails at the head and a disorderly pile of blankets and a quilt at the foot. He turned the overhead off, leaving a nightlight to spread weak lumens along the far wall, then he stripped me, fast and efficiently and I wondered if I’d taken enough of the edge off.
The little voice in my head whispered caution. It was one thing to be the pretend dominatrix, to caress and do what I pleased, when I pleased, to have as my reward a slave to passion and sensation.
It was quite another to lay there with a cock pounding away mercilessly and hands in a chokehold on your neck, with whispers of “Oh, you like it this way you black bitch, don’t you, you slut, you cunt…” and he’d sucked on the split lip and teased torn flesh with his tongue. I’m so sorry baby, here let me make it better, humping me hard until he howled his pleasure.
“Taylor, baby? What’s wrong? Talk to me sweetheart.”
How I ended up cradled in his arms, his legs wrapped around me, cocooning me in safety, I would never know. I’d gone to that bad place I’d thought I’d finally left behind. But agreeing to work with the editor, and of course Rob—I’d be a fool to think there was a workaround for that situation—must have triggered that old Taylor-is-a-victim mindset.
It rocked the bejeebers out of me. Enough to send me into a fetal lockdown, stiff and scared silly.
Rob said, “I’m not him, Taylor. I won’t hurt you. Ever.”
Did that mean he knew or was he just being perceptive? I’d kept it my dirty little secret because no matter how many times somebody said differently, I still blamed myself for what happened to our marriage, to our lives.
The man cradling me was patient but not infinitely so. He pressed me, needing to understand.
“Did he hurt you?”
I answered, “Yes,” and explained, not all of it, but enough. I owed him that. He’d been honest and upfront with me, laying his feelings on the line but letting me make the choices that were best for me, not him.
Watching his face was like plotting the course of a storm: anger morphed to rage to indignation and finally to understanding and compassion. Visibly willing himself to calm down, he said, his voice so quiet I almost missed the words, “We don’t have to do anything. If you aren’t ready, then we wait.” He took hold of my chin and chucked it, punctuating his sincerity with that simple movement of care and concern.
If I needed another reason to fall in love with him, that alone would qualify.
The problem was … I didn’t need any more reasons. I was lost and so far down the rabbit hole that nothing short of him walking out of my life was ever going to change that.
And I wanted him, so badly it hurt like a sonofabitch. I’d been waiting for him my entire life, I was sick and tired of waiting.
So I wailed, “I don’t want to wait!” and pounded the pillow in frustration.
He pierced me with that glinty blue-eyed glacial s
tare, the one that set my naughty nerve endings in spasms of turmoil, the one that hinted he had something in mind. Whatever was going on inside was a bad boy’s wet dream, because that slow smile spread across his features, melting my bones.
“You need to be in control.” My nether regions liked the way he said that… whisky-thick, two-pack-a-day raspy and raw.
Rational me was on the fence, going If you say so…
Girly-girl virginal me stuttered, “C-c-control?” Why my dear Mister van Horn, whatevah could you mean?
He pointed to the nightstand and waited. It took a few ticks of the internal kitchen timer to register maybe that’s where he stashed the condoms so I did the eyebrow thing and steered my way across his wakening cock and nice turn of hip. If he wanted me to dress him up in Trojan’s finest, I was pretty sure I could handle that job.
What was going to be harder to handle were the soft ropes coiled neatly around the foil packets. Coils that resembled old fashioned drapery ties, like what we had at home when I was a kid, but without tassels.
I liked tassels.
I also liked brass headboards with a sturdy tubular design, sturdy enough to maybe secure a willing submissive while the dom had her way with him.
I asked again, this time with more conviction and an edge of interest I wasn’t bothering to hide. “Control.”
Picking the evil lengths of restraint up with thumb and forefinger, I dragged the loops across his belly and watched the spasms of joy engorge his cock until it looked ready to burst. It was tempting to feast once more, enjoying the safe, the familiar, but Rob offered me a new taste sensation, one I wasn’t willing to turn down.
He scootched to the center of the bed and lifted his arms to the top rung, spreading them far enough apart that it looked uncomfortable even to my unpracticed eye. I kept the knots loose but he growled, “Tighter,” and nodded when his shoulders popped under the tension.
Testing the restraints he licked his lips and dared me to do my worse.
“Can I blindfold you?”
“I like to watch.”
Indeed he did. That made two of us. We needed the Bambi Bimbo who had obviously been on the other end of this contraption at some time in the past because SubRob wasn’t looking all that comfortable about his ‘situation’.
I asked, “Have you done this before?” and that got a ‘sort of’ shrug that told me he’d been the one doing the tickles and giggles, not mimicking a slugabed trussed like a Thanksgiving turkey.
That thought reminded me of Michael. He'd been a wham-bammer, a quick in-and-outer looking for quantity, not quality. I could count the number of orgasms he’d generated on one hand, and those had been from incidental contact and not a deliberate commitment to bring me, his life partner, any measure of pleasure.
I’d been left to my imagination and long hot showers for fulfillment.
My trusty sub interrupted that train of thought with, “Um, have you?” meaning had I done this before.
“Me, uh, no.”
Not that I hadn’t thought about it, the rope a little bit longer, stiffer. With a loop at the end…
Rob looked a lot like I felt: foolish, dumbfounded, naïve and turned on in spite of himself. He was kinda cute, the worried frowny face peeking out from under floppy bangs, anxious to see what deviltry I had in mind and half afraid he was going to enjoy it.
I suspected the other half was afraid he might soil the bed if I brought out the big guns … whatever they might be.
And therein was the problem. I had a shot clock in my head, I could dribble the shit out of a basketball with either hand and I was da bomb in the paint.
What I wasn’t was Taylor the Dominatrix Richardson from Blacksburg, Virginia. I’d never watched porn or read erotica. I didn’t wax graphic when talking with Cordie or my cousins.
I was looking at doing the down and dirty clueless as a box of rocks.
“Uh, maybe we should have a safe word?” He skirted around worried and landed on concerned instead.
“Rocks.”
I may have imagined he gulped and turned a darker shade of whoa shit nelly, but it was what I was thinking at the time. During the appetizer portion of the program he’d been all ‘Oooo, stop, stop now, oh please stop,’ so that wasn’t going to work.
There was always the mount the pogo stick and go for the quick burn, but I felt obligated to come up with something a little more creative.
After all, this was dessert.
That jogged my memory so I said, “Wait here,” and trotted out to the kitchen and the refrigerator. I was hoping to find a container of chocolate ganache that I could nuke to softness and then slather it everywhere I wanted to lick.
I muttered, “That would have to be a damn big container of…” but it was a moot point as there wasn’t any. I moved some bits and bobs around and hit the jackpot. “Ah, whipped cream.” My man had a sweet tooth. I pulled the bottom drawer out and checked the freezer for my buddies Ben & Jerry but found only a few bags of peas and assorted mixed veggies. And two trays of ice cubes. Bingo.
Armed with my treasures, I skipped back to the bedroom only to find both Little and Big Robert dozing.
Great, my career as a Dominatrix was called on account of boredom.
There wasn’t much left in the can so I gave it a quick shake and slathered Little Robert in a festive white foamy coat.
The other Robert bolted awake and nearly tore the headboard off its support, squealing, “What the fu—?”
Holding up the bowl of ice cubes, I grinned and watched recognition take hold. Then we both stared at Little Robert doing a jig as the foam fizzed and slumped onto his groin.
It was a lot like watching your soufflé fall.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Rob
She was like everything I didn’t know I ever wanted, in one long, mean, lean length of leg and hands that took me places good boys only dreamed about. She had a body made for jump shots and a mouth made for sin, and we’d sinned the whole damn night long.
It’s not as if I was hopping the bullet train toward popping the question, but a call to my sister to nose around for her ring size was topping my to-do list for the day. That and getting my sorry, aching ass to work to write the op ed teaser piece on recruiting that would get the ball rolling toward the end game.
I nuzzled her neck and murmured, “Hey, sleepyhead, time to wake up.”
Burying her face in the pillow, she groaned, “Is there coffee?”
“Not yet. First things first.”
I rolled her toward me and edged her thighs apart, my landing gear on close approach, ready for penetration. Despite everything we’d done, I waited for her to say yes because there was no way I’d spook her and ruin the trust we’d built, moving from hot monkey sex that damn near broke the bed to long, slow strokes that resembled making love.
She husked, “You have a slow hand,” and I took that as a hell yeah, easing in soft and gentle, my palms planted on either side of her beautiful face but not touching.
She sighed, “Ah,” and rocked her hips, her fists balled in the sheets, anchoring her as I slid shallow to deep and waited as she clenched muscles I never knew existed, wave after wave constricting my phallus until I hissed ‘goddamn’. She had me gasping as nerves and blood vessels and brain cells focused on that single point of contact.
It was so subtle, so … so arousing, it left me light headed and quivering. Taylor’s eyes squeezed shut as she chewed her lower lip, holding back, the effort costing her as one hand, then the other crept toward thighs and balls aching for her magic touch.
“No, no touching, baby, just let me do this.”
“I need…”
“I know.”
Oh lord, how I knew. Buried to the hilt, I angled up, hitting her clit, over and over and over, until sweat beaded over every inch of mocha skin and she mewled like a kitten, so close to breakover I could taste her arousal at the back of my throat.
If the spasms came long and slo
w, I’d follow but if they exploded like klaxons then all bets were off.
Lightning struck and I unleashed a passion so furious it was like it was the first and the last time, driving her hard until she gasped and held onto the brass rails, bracing against me … me, the caveman taking possession of his woman.
I bit my lip and the blood ran hot and thick and then the sharp pain of not yet not yet not yet warred over the right to splatter pleasure and hot seed and ownership, and when I came my hips, my groin, my balls screamed in the ecstasy of release.
Thrust, pump, squeeze, God that’s good … milking me, sucking me dry, and wanting to do it again and again.
It was a dam burst, an explosion and I sobbed, “I love you,” and refused to take it back.
My cock jerked to the mindless orgasm still rippling through my groin and up and down my legs, curling my toes. I lowered myself onto her body and rested my head on her shoulder as she wrapped her legs around my waist and said the words that sent shock waves of joy along my spine.
“I love you too.”
***
“Here,” I extended my hand, palm up, the spare key to my apartment floating over the lifeline curving across the surface. She looked perplexed and a little nervous about the gesture. I hastened to calm her misgivings. “Use it when you need a place to crash.”
“I don’t like to intrude…”
Shrugging my shoulders, I said, “You won’t be, baby. I’m not here most of the time.” That was the sad truth and one of the reasons I hadn’t nested into this haven of personal space.
“Oh.”
“I’m not nine to five, sweetheart, but you already know that.” Brushing her lips, I savored the lingering residue of sweet creamery butter and the tang of orange juice. It tasted like home.
She nodded shyly and allowed that she wasn’t either, but the question hung out there: were we going to be just two ships that pass in the night or were we going to work out a way to hit port often enough to make a go at some kind of relationship?