by Hazel Parker
I could almost see the words on his lips, the ones that wanted to say, “just wait until you see the end of the evening.” I could see them because I wanted to say them too. But we both knew the truth—it was more fun just to wait until we got to the moment to start explicitly saying them.
Marcel grabbed my hand, sending goosebumps up my arms, and led me to the beach. We just stood by the ocean’s edge at first, letting the cool water almost brush against our feet but just missing. The sun was setting to the west, creating a distinct golden glow across the horizon. There was only one other group on the beach, and they were probably a couple hundred feet away.
“I’m sorry for what you had to go through last night,” Marcel said. “I didn’t realize alcohol was such a problem for you. I—”
“No, it’s fine.”
I mean, it wasn’t fine, but it was fine for Marcel for what he knew at the time. I couldn’t be mad at him for that. I’d learned long ago from some of the more senior members in AA that it wasn’t the job of other people to babysit us; we had to somehow both give up our sense of control to a higher power and assume responsibility for our mistakes. It was difficult enough to understand myself; expecting it of someone I’d hung out with twice and had seen a couple of times at my restaurant was quite challenging.
“If I can ask,” Marcel said, and I knew where this was going—to a rather uncomfortable conversation topic. “What exactly is it with you and alcohol? Did something happen before that makes it so you don’t drink anymore?”
I folded my arms and snorted. That affirmed his suspicion—now it was just a question of if I went into the level of detail that Marcel probably wanted.
“It’s a tough topic for me,” I said. “Yes, it has cost me in the past. The very recent past, actually.”
My last relationship, my last job, my career, my sanity. You know, the usual.
“I’m getting the needed help right now to take care of it. Maybe…”
I almost said, “maybe someday, I can drink moderately,” but that was just further proof I still needed help. A member of AA could never drink again; moderation, at least for alcoholics, was a lie. It wasn’t anything that I could handle, that was for sure.
“It’s just difficult to talk about,” I said. “You have to promise me that you won’t ever push me to drink.”
“Of course not—”
“And you have to promise me that if I decline going to one of your parties, that you won’t get mad.”
Marcel put his arm around me as we both stared at the distant sunset.
“I think the parties are fucking awesome. I’m not going to lie to you or be a bitch and say the parties suck when they don’t. But I don’t want you to think that if you don’t attend the parties, you’re out. I’d like for you to go to some of them, sure, but all of them? Shit, I’ll have to go to all of them as the president, but that doesn’t mean I want to!”
He gave a light chuckle.
“You know it’s funny. When I got out of prison and started this, it was almost an accident we started being like this. I just flirted because you were cute, but then you became the gal I couldn’t get out of my head. Even when I saw you and told myself, ‘be good, stay single,’ I couldn’t. You know?”
Oh, I know. I know more than you probably even realize, Marcel.
“I guess there’s just something about you, Christine,” he said, turning to me to kiss him.
Like all kisses with Marcel, it was sweet and gentle.
“Just don’t get too carried away,” I said. “I’ve got a hell of a lot of baggage.”
“I’m used to carrying baggage around; it won’t be a big deal. And besides… well, never mind.”
“What?”
But Marcel seemed intent on clamming up. He didn’t elaborate on what he said.
“Let’s just say it would be good for me to slow down. I have a history of moving quickly and having it bite me in the ass. It would do me a solid to not have to worry about it.”
He looked back out over the water.
“I had ideas to take you to an art museum, but truth be told, a lot of shit happened this morning, and then I took a nap right before I got to you, so I never got the chance to look anything up. I’m not sure if you’re into art or not, but—”
“I’m a painter, Marcel. Do you… do you want to see my work?”
And, I guess by extension, come up to my place? I hadn’t asked the question with the means of bringing him to my place, but the segue was too good to ignore. Marcel smiled.
“Where is it on display at?”
“Oh, just my apartment,” I said with a nervous smile. “It’s also in some private homes for the occasional piece, but I don’t think people will take it kindly if we just waltz into their homes and ask for space.”
“Probably not,” he said with a chuckle. “But we could see it at your place, sure.”
“Well then,” I said, motioning to the bike. “Let’s not waste another moment, shall we?”
The look on Marcel’s face—the narrowing eyes, the excited smile, the flushing cheeks—were ones I had seen before on men, and they always said the same thing: “I’m about to get laid.” And you know what? Sometimes, those eyes disturbed me, but in Marcel’s case, they invigorated and excited me.
Hell, I wanted to get laid too. It had been over two and a half months, and though I wasn’t a sexual fiend, I liked a good time in bed as much as the next person. If you told me that I couldn’t get it for two and a half months, especially during a time like this in my life, I don’t think I would’ve been anywhere close to neutral, let alone happy.
We hopped on the bike, and within seconds, Marcel had his bike gunning over the speed limit. I knew what he had said about needing to be within the confines of the law last go around, but the allure of sex had a way of making even the best of men turn into something else. Let’s just say that if I were the one driving the bike, I would have been speeding like the devil himself.
But when we got to the apartment, neither of us made the move. It wasn’t because the tension had died on the way back; on the contrary, I got wetter and wetter and hotter and hotter. I think it became the kind of thing where Marcel was trying to tread carefully in case I wanted to show him my art, and I wanted to go at the pace he wanted, given what he had said before. The result was probably something akin to where both of us wanted the other, but both of us were afraid to initiate it for our own reasons, leaving us both frustrated.
“So,” I said, stepping in, showing him my first painting. “This is a painting of someone standing at the top of the Empire State Building, playing off of the ‘fork in the road motif.’ One path shows him going higher and higher, but toward a storm; the other shows him falling off a cliff but landing in paradise.”
“And what’s it supposed to represent?”
The two of us locked eyes, neither speaking for several seconds. Were we about to just say fuck it to the idea of discussing the painting and fuck yes to the idea of getting it on?
“Well,” I finally said when I realized that, for the moment, the answer was no. “I usually leave that up to the viewer. But if you ask me, I would say it was representative of my mindset there for a while. I saw only two paths, being in the middle of New York City. One was to keep going up, knowing that I was climbing to hell in that job. The other was to take a sharp fall that may have wound up killing me, but if I survived, I’d have fallen into heaven.”
“Interesting, a different split on the idea of rising to heaven or falling into hell.”
“Exactly,” I said.
We waited a beat more.
And then, simultaneously, we stopped playing the game.
We practically lunged for each other, our tongues darting into each other’s mouth. Marcel lifted me by my ass, causing me to gasp and utter his name. He carried me through the door to my bedroom, tossing me on the bed.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the rough sketches of the paintings featuring him
and briefly became self-conscious that if and when he saw them, he’d run the hell away, thinking I was some crazy stalker who wanted to exhibit him. But that time didn’t seem like it was going to come right now, because Marcel was already tearing his cut and shirt off.
And let’s just say that what I saw before me was far better than any art that I could produce.
He was definitely on the bulkier side, looking more like an offensive lineman for the New York Giants than he did some lithe swimmer. But that just made him sexier—I’d had my skinny guys, and they were fine. I wanted someone with a little more meat on their bones, and it didn’t hurt that said meat was not fat, but muscle. He’d gotten himself into some pumped-up shape.
He kissed my lips and then moved to my neck. I squirmed and moaned as I tried to bring my head to my shoulder, for the kissing felt so good, it almost tickled, but there was nothing that I could actually do. Marcel then moved to my collarbone before sliding his hand over my shirt, moving it aside so he could kiss and suck on my breasts.
God, that felt fucking great. I reached down and ran my hand over his bald head. When he came up for a brief moment, I reached down and tore off my top and my bra, giving him free access to all of my body. I wanted him to have it, take it, and give it pleasure. I needed him to do all those things. Even if he didn’t make me come, I needed to feel him try.
He moved past my ribcage and to my belly button. He kissed it, causing me to twitch and giggle.
“Ticklish?”
“Perhaps,” I confessed.
He smirked and danced his tongue all over me while holding me down. It was an evil game, but it was the delightful kind of evil that I wanted to keep coming back to over and over again. It certainly wasn’t an evil that was to be avoided.
Finally, he got to my hips. He unbuttoned my jeans, wrapped his fingers inside, and took them and my panties off. And just like that, for the first time in months, I was naked before someone.
Of course, I couldn’t say I was fully naked in the metaphorical sense. I hadn’t borne my AA-colored soul to him quite like he had let slip everything that he’d gone through but being physically naked was a good start.
Especially since he seemed to relish the opportunity to get between my legs, stick his lips onto my sex, and start pleasuring.
And oh, how he pleasured! Most of the men who had gone down on me had done so with something resembling resentment or just nervousness, leading their cunnilingus skills to feel like someone trying to blow up a parade float with their mouth—progress would get made, sure, but it would move so slowly that it just wasn’t worth it.
But Marcel… oh, heavens, Marcel had enthusiasm. He wanted to be between my legs. He wanted to eat me out. He acted like he craved it.
That turned the rush of pleasure into an actual rush and not just a crawl. My whole body twisted and turned with delight, my legs squeezing his head. I knew, even here, I was not going to get to orgasm—I never did with anyone on the first pass—but I felt mighty confident that when we went back for a second go-around, he was going to be able to get me over the edge.
Despite a few moments passing by in which I worried that he would grow tired or annoyed that I hadn’t orgasmed, he kept licking and suckling with the same enthusiasm and passion as he had when he first planted a kiss on my sex. I had to sit up, grab him, and pull him up. He kissed me with my wetness still on his lips, but I didn’t care. To me, I was less tasting myself and more tasting the efforts of Marcel.
He sat up from me, reaching for his belt buckle. I grabbed it and pulled it off as soon as I could, and I unbuttoned his jeans. He repositioned himself so he could kick them off, and his hard, thick cock sprung out. I wrapped my hand around it and began gently stroking it.
“You like that?” I said as I heard his rate of breathing increase.
“Fuck yeah,” he said, reaching back into his jeans for a condom. “But you gotta get pleasure out of it too.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. I mean, he’d just spent what felt like ten minutes eating me out, and he thought he needed to still give me pleasure?
“You’re adorable, Marcel,” I said. “I’ve gotten plenty of pleasure.”
“You can never have enough,” he said as he slid his condom on. “Let me show you what I mean.”
I gasped when he inserted himself. He had to go slowly at first, for at his size, it was like trying to break down the castle gates. But slowly, I gave way, he got all the way inside, and my body tingled with the warm rush of his cock filling the entirety of me.
I put my hands on his ass, pushing him in as I moved my hips in conjunction with him. He felt so damn good; my only regret was that I hadn’t kissed him on that first date, as if I had, we’d have gotten to this point long ago. But that was a regret that quickly faded from my mind, as the pleasure made it pretty damn difficult to think of anything at all.
His rhythmic thrusting filled me. He kissed me tenderly. He moved his lips to my neck, again making me squirm with pleasure.
“Oh, Marcel,” I said. “I… fuck, you feel so good.”
I was beginning to think that I might have underestimated him. Maybe he really would get me to come on the first go-around here. Maybe I really would orgasm on the first night for the first time ever.
He certainly had the size, speed, and skills to make it possible.
“Yeah?” he said. “Let me show you one better.”
He pulled out, flipped me over on my stomach, and smacked my ass. The sheer force with which he smacked me… oh, that was hot! He had such raw power, and it sent tingles in my body once more.
And then he lifted me by grabbing my hips, slid himself in, and went to work on doggy style.
No one had fucked me with this kind of erotic power before. I was in Marcel’s control, and it was control that I was more than willing to acquiesce to. My toes curled, my hands gripped my pillows tightly, and I buried my head into one as orgasm started to seem like a possibility.
And then, right when I thought I might be getting there, I felt his cock swell and his grunting increase. I goaded him on, encouraging him to come into me and give me all of him. I didn’t mind that I wouldn’t come this round; he’d shown himself capable of delivering on that, and in any case, it wasn’t like I knew any differently.
“Fuck, Christine!”
With that, his cock twitched inside of me, shooting off its seed into his condom. I could feel it pulsing, and I moaned along with it, trying to get him to come as forcefully as possible.
When he finished, Marcel moved to the side, rolled on his back, and pulled me in close. He kissed me gently as his hand reached down to remove his condom.
“Oh, Christine,” he said. “Forgive me, but if I’d known it was going to feel this good—”
“You also would have gone for it sooner,” I said with a laugh. “Yep. But good news is we got the future ahead of us.”
I didn’t want to get too carried away. No, I didn’t think that we were suddenly boyfriend-girlfriend. But I did think we were at least going to have a few more rounds of this in the coming days—starting in, say, half an hour.
“Who says we need to look to the future when we can just look to the rest of tonight?”
Now this was my kind of guy.
“Let’s see how quickly you can get back on me,” I said with a smirk before kissing him.
Chapter 13: Marcel
We wound up having sex two more times through the night, not passing out until two in the morning.
My only disappointment was that I couldn’t quite get Christine to orgasm. She came very close a couple of times, but she told me it was just a mental barrier she needed to get herself over at some point. Maybe so, but I took pride in my skills; it felt like a challenge I had failed to at.
In time. You’ve got time. The fact that you’re here says you’re willing to give it the time it needs to work.
As I passed out around two in the morning, Christine tucked into my arms, I knew that my thoughts w
ere right. We’d figure it out in time. We had all the time in the world.
Things were looking pretty damn good right now.
* * *
The first thing I noticed when I woke up was that the sun was a little brighter than I expected for seven-thirty in the morning, the time I thought I’d set an alarm for to get over to Sarah’s place.
The second thing I noticed was that I had not woken up to an alarm. Shit!
I hurried out of the bed, fumbling for my phone in my jeans pocket. Beside me, Christine murmured something and stretched out, but I honestly paid no attention to her. I didn’t give two shits what she wanted at that moment; I just needed to see if I still had time to get to Sarah’s.
I had five missed calls. I had three voicemails. And it was nine-fifteen in the morning.
Fuck. Me.
I listened to the first one, which had come in from Sarah around eight-twenty.
“Hey, I have no idea where you are, but I need to leave in ten minutes. Call me so I know how far out you are so I can let Lilly know, thanks.”
In the background of that one, I didn’t hear Lilly. She was probably in another room or just unaware of the urgency in her mother’s voice.
In the second one, though, that came about twenty minutes later, I could hear Lilly all too well.
“You’re late, Marcel, and I’m missing my plans right now for Lilly’s sake.”
“Mommy, where’s Daddy?”
“Hurry up. Let me know where you are. Thanks.”
I dreaded listening to the last one. It came in five minutes before. I realized then how much leaving it so my phone would only vibrate, not ring, had bit me in the ass. Maybe I would’ve heard it the first time if I hadn’t stuffed it in my pants pocket, but now, there was no escaping what had happened.
“Well, I hope you’re happy, asshole.”
Sarah’s line didn’t bother me nearly as much as the fact that, in the background, I could hear Lilly crying.
“Your daughter thinks you don’t care about her. I had to cancel my breakfast plans because I can’t leave a little girl by herself. And why? Probably because you got drunk as hell last night and are sleeping off a hangover. Asshole.”