by W. Winters
Ella gasps. “Yes—yes. We stopped when we got married.” Discomfort presses out at the boundaries of my chest. I don’t love hearing about her marriage before, but I won’t order her not to talk about it. It’s part of her past. It made her who she is today. “Our lifestyle changed. Our relationship changed.”
“Do you miss it?”
I can tell how hard it is to follow the conversation against all the sensations. She’s having to struggle to keep her ass on the seat instead of rocking into my fingers.
“I don’t know what you mean, exactly.” Dark eyes on mine. It’s intense for her, and it’s also intense for me. Her heat. Her closeness. The fact that I can’t fuck her in this booth, as much as I want to. “Z,” she begs me, her hands on mine, but I don’t let up.
“The exhibitionism. Do you miss it?”
“I don’t know.”
I pretend to study the menu again. “What if something were to be leaked? Would that be upsetting? Exciting?” There’s a low moan as she closes her eyes and reaches for her glass of water, but doesn’t drink it.
“Little bird, I asked you a question.”
A simper plays across her lips, and it takes most of my restraint not to push her down onto this booth and kiss her until she can’t breathe. “I can’t imagine anything being leaked that would be upsetting. It only excites me.”
Goddamn. There isn’t a part of me that’s ever been intrigued by the fetish, until she refers to it as “exciting.”
The waiter returns with my drink and something red and sugary in a martini glass for Ella. When he puts it down in front of her, I take my hand away.
“Oh,” Ella says, clearing her throat and sounding so disappointed that my cock twitches. I can’t help but to smirk.
“Would you like something else?” The waiter is genuinely concerned, his eyebrows knitting together. “I can get you anything else.”
“No, no, no.” Ella offers him an apologetic yet somehow bright smile. While he’s still watching, still trying to gauge what was wrong, she sips it. “This is delicious.”
I order my meal for the sole purpose that I know I’ll be able to pick up a piece of the tagliata and slip it between her lips. The thinly sliced steak is simple, delicious, and I can already hear how she’ll moan from the tender taste.
Ella orders next. All the while, Ella makes sure to give the waiter special attention. Beaming up at him. It would make me jealous if I didn’t know she was only doing it to smooth things over. One thing I love about her is that she strives for those around her to be comfortable, her friends especially, but even people she’ll only interact with once as well.
The waiter steps away, and as soon as he’s out of earshot, Ella’s eyes go wide and she scolds me in a whisper, “You stopped.” How fucking adorable for my little submissive to show her disappointment.
“I did.”
She pouts, that plump bottom lip tempting me to nip it.
“Did you think I would give you an orgasm before our food arrives? That would be too early into dinner, don’t you think?”
I’ve never seen her face redder than it is right now.
With my forearms on the table, I lean over to speak directly into her ear. “You keep your thighs apart for me, jailbird. I’ll tease you as long as you’re good.”
“Tease me?” Her voice is breathy. Oh, she can’t hide how needy and desperate she is. Her eyes consider me for a moment, the reality sinking in. With her fingers toying with the napkin on her lap, she questions, “You’re not going to let me come?”
“No.”
The corners of Ella mouth turn up, almost as if she doesn’t believe me. “I can’t believe you’d do that. Tease me to the brink and leave me …” she licks her lips, glancing away at the martini glass before concluding, “unwell.”
I huff a laugh at her word of choice, but that’s all she gets.
A bread basket arrives, dropped off by a passing server, and I wait until Ella has the first bite in her mouth before I touch her again. She’s spread her legs under the table just like I told her to. She swallows the bread as I brush my fingertips over the softest part of her.
Petting her until her eyes go half-lidded.
“That bread must be fucking delicious,” I tease her in a low groan. I’m hard as fuck watching her enjoy this without anyone else knowing. We’re in a corner, and there’s no one who can see. So long as I keep an eye out for the waiter.
Ella, in all her stubbornness, says nothing, merely rocking into my touch.
“You’re going to keep talking to me, jailbird. No matter what I’m doing to your clit.”
“I think,” she says, her voice breathy and light, “I’d like to visit a bookstore.”
Her statement comes out of nowhere, and a quiet laugh leaves me. I don’t stop, though, not my petting and not the conversation.
“Why’s that?”
“I haven’t replaced many of the books in the house in a long time. I don’t want to feel like I’m living in a staged apartment.” Her lips part as warmth rises to her cheeks and her eyes beg to shut so I drop my fingers lower, no longer concentrating on her most sensitive bundle.
With an exhale of relief, her shoulders drop and she reaches for her drink. “You know?”
“I don’t know.” Waiting for her to have a sip and place the glass down, I circle her clit, and her body tries to get more of my touch, which I deny her. “Your books aren’t yours?”
“I don’t have many on the shelves. I was into a more minimalist—a more minimalist design before. But now I think I’d like to read. What do you like to read?”
“I don’t have a lot of time for it.” Her eyes dance over my face. “I listen to music in the evenings, or podcasts. If I have time to read, I like science fiction and thrillers.”
I stop touching her.
Ella bites her lip, but she doesn’t push me on it again. She seems to sense the power between us. I’m controlling this, the way I do everything else. And I will reward her immensely for having the pleasure of teasing her like this.
“Good girl,” I murmur into her ear, rewarding her with my hand back between her legs. “You’re letting me play with you as much as I want. Following all the rules. You are being so good for me.”
She lets out a shuddering sigh and when I dip down to her center, I find her hot and wet.
I toy with her all through dinner, and Ella turns down dessert when the waiter is still mid-sentence. Very much on edge and in need of getting the hell out of here and into bed. It’s a good look on her. My insatiable smart-mouthed, yet obedient submissive.
Good. Because I’m wound tight too. I’m so fucking hard it hurts. I need her. I have to be careful when I stand, opting for discretion.
I escort her out of the restaurant with my hand on the small of her back. A stiff breeze greets us as we head toward the parking garage. Ella walks quickly, doing her best to keep up with my long strides. She’s out of breath by the time we get to the third floor of the parking garage. “How do you do it?” she says as she hurries for the car. “How do you wait? Because I want you so much that I—”
“I’m done waiting.”
I get one flash of relief in her dark eyes, and then I have my mouth on her. On her lips, and the side of her neck, and her collarbone. Fuck anyone who happens to walk up here. I’ve never experienced this desire Ella has, but I’ll share it with her. A fast, hard fuck where someone could see. I’m careful as I push Ella’s back against a concrete pillar, and she wraps her legs around me as if she’s done it a thousand times. Hanging on tight while I deal with my zipper and push the fabric of her panties aside.
There’s no mercy for her as I slam my cock to the hilt inside of her, knowing she’s been ready for almost an hour now. “Fuck me,” I groan in the crook of her neck. She feels like heaven.
Ella moans, her tightness enveloping me, her hips rocking back and forth. I’ve never felt anything this soft or sweet or hot, and I want to fuck her like this all night. The chill of the
night wraps around us but it’s no match for how warm and wet she is. I brace one hand against her ass and work the other between us to get to her clit.
“I’m not teasing this time,” I growl into her ear. “Come for me.”
She comes hard around me, squeezing tight, her cries echoing off the parking garage. The adrenaline rushes through my blood, my pulse racing. Nothing else matters in this moment except Ella.
Ella
The weeks pass in a blur. Every day checking off a list. Greeting Zander on my knees seems to be a favorite of his as time goes by. It’s the first item on the slip of paper he gives me in the morning.
I love those moments.
The days, though … they come with ups and downs. Small moments where I feel so much lighter and then darker times where I close my eyes and remind myself: Grief is a ball in a box and it’s okay.
The thoughts barely stay for long, because Zander’s there or Damon. Even Kamden has been coming more frequently, making arrangements for me to attend different social events if I want to, all of them already approved by Zander and Damon.
They say I’m getting closer to a new normal, but almost every night, I glance down the hall no one talks about. When we lie together in bed, sometimes I forget and I think I’m in bed with James down the hall, being held and kissed and loved by him. Then I wake up, and it processes slowly.
I haven’t told anyone. Not Damon, not Zander. Because if I said what I’m thinking, maybe they’d think I’m crazy. I think James wants me to go down the hall. I think he wants me to go back into our bedroom. Even if it’s just to say goodbye.
Maybe he wants me to know that he’s okay with everything that’s happened. Maybe he’s trying to tell me he still loves me, even if I’m in bed with another man. Maybe he wants me to know he misses me. Maybe it’s all in my head.
The low rumble of an approaching thunderstorm drowns out the rustling of the trash bag at my side. It’s easier to handle than the damn cardboard box I found in the garage, so I settled for it. The gray skies and increasing winds of the incoming downpour feel right for the occasion.
We loved the storms. One step at a time, one breath out and one in, I bypass the thin rope blocking off the west wing and flick on the light. Ignoring everything in front of me, I remember laying in James’s arms on the porch of his uncle’s house, under the tin roof, listening to the rain.
I can still hear him laugh as the bedroom door creaks open, the memories and the present moment colliding.
“One day we’ll have a tin roof porch,” he declared once. He said it like a joke until I told him I’d love that. I love the storms.
The next exhale is more difficult, because it hurts even though it shouldn’t. Simply existing shouldn’t cause pain like it does when you’re missing someone.
“You lied,” I speak into the quiet room. It’s colder in here. Unlike the hall, nothing in this room is covered. Roughly two years ago, I closed the door and told everyone not to enter it. And that’s how it’s remained. The heat clicks on as I drag my finger across the dresser. It’s dusty and musty. I suppose that’s what happens when a room is closed off for as long as this one has been.
With the trash bag still in my hand, I sit on the edge of the bed. It doesn’t protest in the least. A thought crosses my mind that I didn’t expect.
I wonder if Zander did this. If he cleaned out drawers he didn’t want to ever open. I wonder if he had someone else clean up the traces of Quincy, the ones we’re not supposed to leave around because it prevents us from “moving on.”
I’d ask him, but just like this bedroom door was a moment ago, I think that conversation is a place Zander doesn’t want to go. That it’s something that’s quite firmly locked up. Placing the bag on the bed, I focus on the other item that was balled up with it, the ancient phone that only texts.
I’m going to put some things aside.
It’s odd to feel relief and accomplishment, sitting in a room, proud not to be losing it.
What? Kamden texts back. What things? Do you need help?
His messages come quickly, one after the other.
Let’s just store them until I’m ready — My thumbs hesitate and I can’t type the rest of the sentence so I hit send. The idea of typing, to get rid of them, disrupts the small moment of ease, the hope that I am strong enough for this.
I hope he doesn’t ask, “Ready for what?”
Thankfully, he doesn’t.
Okay. We can store anything you want for however long or indefinitely. Can I come over?
Staring down at his question, I don’t know how to answer him. I think I want to be alone for this, but I don’t know that I can be.
I have a meeting but I’ll be done soon if you can wait.
No. The word is typed and sent before I can think twice about it. My breathing picks up as I push myself off the bed, taking in the abandoned room.
His texts don’t stop and with each one, I know he doesn’t trust me. He doesn’t think I can do this. Insecurity weaves its way through me. What about the girls? We’ll make it a cozy night in—we can watch Hocus Pocus and Kelly can read our tarot cards?
In an effort to reassure him, I tell him, Damon knows. I’m surprised by his response.
Where’s Zander?
I lie and tell him, Zander will be here soon.
But where is he, did he tell you to do this?
No, it’s just a part of me getting back to normal. It’s such a lie to minimize it as a line on a checklist. But there’s truth in it too. As my phone continues to vibrate with message after message, I pick up a silver frame from my old dresser. Sweeping off a thick layer of dust that clouds the photograph with my thumb, I peer down at a memory frozen in black and white. I used to call it “our photograph” because it’s the one nearly every gossip column and media outlet used when it came out that we were seeing each other.
In the photo, I’m lying against his chest; I can still feel the stubble lining his chin that rested in the crook of my neck. His teeth are perfect and I remember joking with him that it could be an ad for a dentistry practice. We look happy. “We were so happy,” I whisper to no one. Although my eyes gloss over, I hold it back and it’s easier to do than I anticipated.
Kam continues texting and I let out a small laugh that surprises me. I’m not sure where it’s come from, but I’ll take the lightheartedness over the heaviness that’s come over me.
I’m okay, Kam. I promise I’m okay.
If I text you every five minutes, will you be mad?
No … I think I’d be okay with that.
Good. I’m here for you.
Through the parted curtains, I’m given a view of the storm raging on, the rain rampaging against the panes and a crack of lightning in the distance.
The frame makes a small clunk as I set it down and let out a heavy breath to steady myself. His clothes. I remind myself that it’s not the furniture, it’s not the visual reminders like that photograph, or anything like that that should be stored or donated. It’s his clothes.
That’s the only thing.
Naturally, I turn my back on his dresser and move to my nightstand. The lavender lotion is still there; picking it up, I find it’s nearly full. A vision appears in front of me: the last time I remember using it. In silk pajamas with boy shorts and a matching tank top. I climbed into bed, under these sheets, and he was there, waiting for me.
I’m less careful dropping the lotion and then think it should be something that I toss in this bag, but I don’t. Instead I spot the room spray from our honeymoon. I bought so many bottles of it but barely ever used it. Without touching it, the scent hits me as if bathed in it. The tropical scent of the Riviera Maya.
A sad smile crosses my face when I remember he told me I’d never use it. It was expensive and James couldn’t have cared less. He was right, but he told me to get it, because it would make me happy.
It’s not fair how many little things that are meaningless can bring on so much emotion.
Tears well again, but I hold them back, forcing myself to open just one drawer and get it over with. Just one drawer, clothes that should be donated. Clothes that I don’t need to hold on to anymore.
The lightning strikes closer, and there’s a louder rumble this time. The rain beats down as the drawer scrapes open. It’s a long drawer and I get down on my knees to go through the few pieces that lay in the bottom.
There aren’t many pieces at all. This was our vacation home. We were barely here, so it shouldn’t be surprising but somehow it is.
The first three garments are easy. I toss the shorts and jeans into the bag and I’m able to go through the entire drawer. There’s nothing to keep. Nothing that should stay here.
Sitting on my heels, I lean back and look at the pathetically empty bag and then open the next drawer and the next.
It seems easier and easier as the rain pours down and the lightning lessens, until I get to one piece. One rugby shirt that I hated. God, it looked awful on him. The fit was all wrong, the fabric too thick. I never hated a shirt more.
The storm carries on as I hold up the orange shirt, still not seeing the appeal. I remember how he laughed about how much I hated it. I’m surprised to even see it here. Just as I’m thinking he never wore it, or at least I don’t remember him ever wearing it, I see the tags.
It’s brand new. He had it for years and never wore it.
“You’re not wearing that. It’s awful.”
“You’re a little small to be so bossy,” he joked, smiling down at me.
“Seriously, I’ll dye my hair if you put that thing on.”
The moment takes over, his hands on me, how he backed me up against the wall.
I don’t realize I’m crying, hot wet lines running down my face, until my phone goes off with a text.
Laying the shirt on my lap but not letting it go, I answer the phone with my other hand and see I’ve missed three texts from Kamden.
You okay?
Hey babe I just need you to message me, okay?
Please, Ella. I’m a PITA but I love you and anything will do.