One And Done

by Cynthia Sax

  I nibble on my bottom lip. How long should I wait?

  Smoke would know.

  I find his number in my call history and press it. It rings twice.

  “Yeah.”

  My lips twitch. That’s better than yesterday’s grunt. “He called, Smoke.” My joy bubbles out of me. “He told me he was looking for his tablet, which I do have. He doesn’t truly need it though. He—”

  “Do you know what time it is?” Smoke’s voice is deep…and a bit grumpy.

  “It’s noon. Why? Are you busy? I can call you back later.”

  “I was busy—sleeping. But don’t call me back.” He sighs, the sound blowing over my skin, tightening my nipples. “I’m awake now.”

  “You should turn your phone off when you’re in bed.” I try to assuage my guilt with this advice.

  “This is my emergency line.”

  Why would he give me the number for his emergency line? “But—”

  “Talk,” Smoke barks and I straighten.

  “Okay. Okay.” Why is everyone so snippy today? “When should I call Edward back and tell him I’ve found his tablet?”

  There’s a long pause. “Wait two days.”

  “Two days? I can’t hold out that long.” The delay will drive me crazy. “He wants to see me. He’s realized he’s made a mistake.”

  “Did he say that?”

  “Not in so many words,” I admit. “He has a thousand devices. He doesn’t need his tablet back.”

  “He’d need his tablet back if there was a file on it he doesn’t want anyone, including you, to open.” Smoke names one possibility I haven’t considered.

  “There would be confidential files on it. He is a lawyer.”

  “He’s a lawyer with secrets.”

  Secrets. Plural. Could my Steady Eddy have more secrets? I glance at the tablet, tempted to turn it on, to use it to spy on my man.

  I won’t. He trusts me. I won’t destroy that trust.

  I flip the device over, trying to minimize the temptation. “I’ll wait two days.”

  “If you’re looking for something to do while you wait, I have a suggestion.” Smoke’s voice lowers.

  “I bet you do.” I roll my eyes. I have to give him some points for persistence. “Aren’t there women at your club you can hit on?”

  “They’re girls, not grown women.” He makes their youth sound like a disadvantage. “And none of those girls have your magnificent tits.” My face heats. Smoke is fixated on that body part. “What are you wearing?”

  “You’re killing me with the cheesy lines.” I laugh.

  “I want to know.” He’s serious.

  I look down and wince. “I’m wearing a faded white T-shirt, black leggings and bare feet.” That’s not very sexy. “My toenails are blue,” I add, hoping to distract him.

  “Describe your bra.”

  He’s definitely a breast man. “Ummm…” I don’t know how to say this. “It’s Sunday.”

  “Yeah?”

  “There’s no need for a bra on Sundays.” I don’t plan to leave the apartment.

  Smoke groans, the sound low and deep. “Your nipples are visible through the white cotton, aren’t they?”

  I peer closer. “Shit. They are.” I search through my bra drawer. “It doesn’t help that Azure opened the windows again, letting the cool air inside.” This last comment is muttered to myself.

  “They’re puckered tight, poking through the fabric, begging for my hands to cup them.” Smoke must have hearing like a bat. He heard everything.

  “You’re not cupping them.” My breasts belong to Edward.

  “What color would you say your nipples are?” Smoke isn’t dissuaded. “They’re too dark to be considered pink.”

  “Hmmm…” I shouldn’t answer him, shouldn’t offer him any encouragement, but now, I’m curious. No one has ever asked me that question. I lift my shirt and study my nipples. “Yes, they’re definitely not pink. Perhaps a rich cranberry?”

  “They’d taste so tart.” His voice is choked.

  I imagine Smoke’s hot mouth sucking on my breasts and I wiggle, my arousal edged with guilt. “You’ll never taste them.” This protest is weaker than my previous one. “We shouldn’t be talking about my nipples.”

  “I’m hard for you, Jenella.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut. “I’m hanging up now, Smoke.”

  I end the call, my brain filled with images of the club owner and what little I saw the first and last time we met. That ridge in his dress pants had been huge. Is he truly that large? Is his skin tanned all over? And is the hair at his base as thick and black and soft as the hair on his head?

  Why am I thinking about Smoke? I touch the tablet. Edward is the man I love, the man I want.

  My Steady Eddy is a man with secrets. Plural. I flip over the device.

  The screen is black. I won’t snoop, won’t violate his trust...even if he has cheated on me, destroying the wonderful relationship we had.

  My willpower lasts for ten minutes.

  Then I break. I turn the tablet on, type in a password. It isn’t my birth date, my first guess. I try again and am successful. The password is his mother’s birth date.

  His communications history pops up on the screen. Edward likes to have his texts, voicemails, emails, and other messages flow into one app.

  Unable to help myself, I scan the message subject headers. Too many of them are from ChelseaRocks562. I scroll back, trying to find her first message.

  After a month of history, I give up.

  I know enough.

  This isn’t a short-term fling. Edward didn’t start seeing Chelsea because I was busy with month-end and unable to spend time with him. They communicated on nights we fucked.

  Had he been thinking of her during our times together? When he drove his cock into my pussy, was it her heat he imagined, her scent he yearned to smell? Had he wanted her slender body under him, her brown hair on the pillow, her smaller breasts flattened against his chest?

  Needing to know, I read his incoming messages.

 

  I wrinkle my nose at the childish spelling. This is the woman Edward replaced me with. She truly is a bims.

 

  The next message is from me.

 

  Oh God. The room spins around me. Chelsea is sending filthy messages and I’m talking about dinner, giving Edward errands to complete.

  I am boring.

  And old.

  At least all of the words in my message are spelled correctly. I cling to this small consolation and continue reading.

 

  I click on the photo attached. It takes me a full minute to figure out what it is.

  The bitch sent Edward a photo of her cleanly shaven pussy. Her legs are spread, her entrance empty. I enlarge the image and wince. Her clit is pierced. Who does that?

  Wild and crazy, younger women—that’s who. Women whose adventurous sex sprees make well-educated men forgive their primary school spelling.

  I slump in my seat, not knowing how I can compete with Chelsea. She has done more things than I know exist. Even if I show Edward I’ve changed and he returns to me, I won’t be able to please him, not now, not after he’s had a taste of the exotic.

  I have to step up my sexual game, take it to the next level.

  Using Chelsea’s last message as inspiration, I borrow Azure’s selfie stick. It’s conveniently attached to one of her digital cameras.

  I’ll indulge my temporary bout of insanity, take this naughty photo and then delete it.

  I’m alone in the apartment. Azure is protesting something somewhere. No one has to know about it.

  I strip naked and lay on my bed, feeling a little bit foolish. Selfies aren’t my thing.
I’d rather look at other people’s faces than mine. Taking photos of my private parts is beyond my realm of comprehension.

  But this is what Edward seems to like. And I love him, would do anything to win him back. I spread my legs, position the camera between my thighs, and press the button.

  The camera flashes. Is it that dark in there?

  I gaze at the screen, see pale right thigh. How did I miss my pussy?

  I try again, moving the camera to the left. This time, the camera is too far forward. It takes me three more attempts until I duplicate Chelsea’s pose.

  I compare the two photos. My image has more folds. Those will disappear once I lose weight. Chelsea has the clit piercing, her skin is freckled, her pussy lips are pink, not cranberry as mine are, but we don’t look that different.

  Edward isn’t with Chelsea because she has a magic vajayjay. He’s captivated by her because she’s thin, young and sexually daring.

  I can be sexually daring. I merely have to learn how.

  I press the trashcan button on the camera. ‘Delete all?’ appears on the screen. No, I don’t want to delete all. I fiddle with the camera, pressing other buttons, trying to delete this image. The image turns black and white, adds raindrops, rotates counterclockwise. Nothing I do works.

  Damn Azure and her need to customize everything, to make even a camera one of a kind. I fight with the buttons, take a video of my knees, snap more photos, becoming more frantic with every passing second.

  If anyone other than Edward and I sees this photo, I’ll be mortified. I press buttons faster and faster.

  I finally give up trying to erase the single photo.

  Azure wouldn’t use the selfie stick for work. She’s a professional photographer. The card is likely full of drunk photos she won’t remember taking.

  I press the trashcan button and agree to delete all. The camera whirls and I experience a moment of regret. It sounds as though the camera is erasing hundreds of photos.

  There’s nothing I can do about this now. They’re deleted. I return the selfie stick and attached camera to the kitchen counter where Azure left it.

  Then I read all of Chelsea’s messages to Edward, making a list of things to try. There’s talk of handcuffs and flogging. This interest in BDSM surprises me. I had to drag Edward to Fifty Shades Of Grey, the movie. He spent the entire time in the lobby, taking business calls.

  I nibble on chocolate chips, eating them straight from the bag, breaking my diet as I expand my sexual knowledge. This task is too stressful to complete without sweets.

  Chelsea calls Edward daddy in a few of the messages, referring to herself as his baby girl. In some of the other messages, she mentions frotteurism. I don’t know what this is. It involves a ‘naughty’ incident on the subway, an incident that made him hard. Maybe it’s public sex? I frown. But I thought that was called exhibitionism or voyeurism. I don’t know. I place a star beside all of these terms, reminding myself to search on Google for them.

  Anal is a common theme, which surprises me. Edward wouldn’t even allow me to touch his ass, squawking that he wasn’t gay.

  He doesn’t seem to have this issue with Chelsea. She talks about shoving a dildo up his tightly puckered hole.

  I add a dildo to my list of things to buy. Whipped cream, cucumbers, pickled ginger and ice cubes are already written down.

  By the time I finish reading Chelsea’s messages, my sexual repertoire has substantially increased. This is offset by my loss of brain cells from the grammar and spelling mistakes.

  OMG—if I read that acronym one more time, I’ll vomit the chocolate chips I shouldn’t be eating.

  There aren’t any unprofessional messages from other women. Chelsea is my sole competition for Edward’s affections. I can’t see how she can take him to the next level. Their entire relationship consists of sexual exploration.

  There are a series of messages about Smoke and his nightclub. I shouldn’t read them. They’re covered under lawyer-client privilege.

  But no one will ever know I looked and I’m curious.

  The first shocker is that Edward’s client isn’t Smoke. Edward is working with Rexton Bass, an up-and-coming Toronto real estate developer. The man is interested in the land Smoke’s club is situated on. He has promised Edward future business if the sale is wrapped up quickly and under budget.

  Smoke owns that land, mortgage-free. The lot, situated in the middle of the entertainment district, is worth millions.

  It’s worth much more than the initial offer he received from Bass. Edward pimped it to Smoke as a fantastic selling price, urging him to dispose of his club while it was doing well.

  Which is bullshit because Bass cares only about the land. He plans to raze the building and erect his own complex. Land in that area of Toronto is almost impossible to find. The selling price will increase over time.

  Smoke, to his credit, doesn’t counteroffer, sending one sentence replies like “Not interested right now but who knows how I’ll feel tomorrow” and “Today, the club is working for me.”

  I shake my head. The club owner applies his short-term focus to his business as well as to his relationships. This makes me sad for him.

  But, at least, he’s consistent.

  Dependable almost.

  The tablet chimes as another message is received. This message is marked as read before I can click on it.

  Oh shit. I shut down Edward’s tablet. He’s using the same app I am.

  I scoop a handful of chocolate chips out of the bag and toss them into my mouth, wondering if he knows, if he realizes I was snooping on him.

  Has my curiosity ruined any chance I have of saving our relationship?

  Chapter Six

  I sneak in some Google searches during work on Monday, looking up Chelsea’s sex terms. Frotteurism is the kink of rubbing oneself, usually one’s groin, against a non-consenting person for sexual pleasure.

  I stare at the screen. Men have brushed against me in the subway. Is this what they were doing? Were they getting off on touching me?

  That’s creepy.

  And it must be common. It has a name.

  Edward tried it. My upstanding lawyer touched a stranger sexually without her consent. This tilts my view of him. First, he cheats on me. Then I find out he’s pressuring Smoke to sell his club for less money than it’s worth. Now, I discover he accosts unsuspecting women.

  This isn’t the Steady Eddy I fell in love with.

  My stress over the Edward situation must be showing. Azure convinces me I have to try meditation. It is necessary for my inner peace.

  At noon, I meet her on Old City Hall’s front lawn.

  She’s not alone.

  Tarun is talking with her. Her good friend has had the hots for me since the day we first met.

  I’m not ready for this. Not yet.

  “There’s my earth goddess.” He turns toward me, his long, lean body clad in a flowing white cotton shirt and pants, his feet bare. His black hair is streaked with gray and reaches his shoulders. His clean-shaven face is tanned a deep brown.

  I swallow a groan. My first attempt at meditation will have witnesses. I pull on the hem of my oversized t-shirt, trying to cover more of my fat ass. “Tarun.” My gaze slides to Azure. “This is a surprise.”

  “Tarun is an expert at meditation.” Azure is dressed similarly to him. “He’ll walk you through your first time.”

  “It is my great honor to be your spiritual guide.” He inclines his head, his brown eyes gleaming with appreciation. “Please sit.” He waves his hand at a round cotton cushion set upon a matching mat. “I promise to make your first time pleasurable.”

  I try to lower gracefully, end up plunking my ass on the cushion. Air whistles as my weight flattens it.

  Great. I’ve broken his cushion.

  Azure claims her own cushion. Tarun kneels behind me, heat radiating from his body. He smells of green tea and sunshine. Every inch of me is conscious of him and I shouldn’t be. He’s not
Edward, the man I love. He’s a friend of a friend.

  I cross my legs, mimicking Azure’s pose. The muscles in my thighs pull tight and I wonder if I’ll ever be able to uncross my legs again.

  “I thought meditation was supposed to be done somewhere private and quiet.” We’re on the front lawn of a public building, facing a busy sidewalk and street. Tourists stare at us as though we’re an attraction.

  “There are no supposed to be’s with meditation. This location works for Azure. She’s sharing it with you.” Tarun places one large palm on my lower back. “Move forward on the cushion, goddess.”

  I comply, wiggling in the direction of the street.

  “Good.” His praise makes me glow. “Now tilt your pelvis forward.” I obey this command. “Starting from here.” He lowers his hand.

  I stiffen. He’s touching my ass.

  “Place each vertebrae on top of the other, as though you’re stacking books, aligning them perfectly.” Tarun nudges me, coaxing me into position. “Your spine is designed to support your torso, neck, and head.” He runs his fingers over my spine from my ass to my skull. Sensations ripple from his hands. “That’s it.”

  I feel better already. This could be because a man hasn’t touched me in days. My body doesn’t differentiate between Edward and Tarun.

  “Rest your hands in your lap, palms upward.” Tarun’s voice becomes a low, sensual drone. I touch my index fingers to my thumbs, imitating Azure. “Yes, that completes the circle of energy.” He provides an explanation for the move. “Close your eyes.”

  Eliminating this sense heightens the others. Every brush of Tarun’s fingers over my shoulders, back, hips is intensified. Lordie, he’s deliciously warm.

  “Today, we’ll focus on breathing.”

  I relax even more. I’ve been breathing since birth. How hard can it be?

  Tarun places his right hand on my stomach, his fingers splayed dangerously close to my breasts. My breath hitches. I didn’t realize meditation was so physical.

  “Breathe deeper,” he instructs, his lips skimming my right earlobe. “Imagine a lotus flower sitting here.” He presses down. “Delicately unfurling its petals with each breath.”