“Oh, baby, that’s—” She didn’t finish her sentence, for at that moment, fists banged against the door and she heard her name yelled by upset female voices. “Now? You’re worried now?”
Michael groaned while the noises at the door got louder. “Let them dangle.”
“Imogene, are you in there?”
“Oh, Michael, don’t stop,” she moaned into his mouth. “Don’t stop now…”
“Please answer! Sweetie, we’re—”
“She’s coming,” Michael yelled. He ran the back of his fingers along her temple. “She’s coming,” he said softly and intensified his thrusts. “She’s coming,” he panted as he pushed her to heights that made her forget about the world outside. Heat shot behind Imogene’s navel and from there, spread through her body, blanketing her in blissful exhaustion.
With a sigh, she eased her body into his, and he held her tight for some minutes after they came down. The banging at the door had stopped, and she enjoyed his kisses on her neck and the assurance of his love whispered into her ear.
“I want to hug you! And I think I can’t feel my hands anymore,” she added, only half joking.
Michael looked around, a bit at a loss. “Wait, maybe…” He kissed her hair and let go of her, causing her to shiver as the warmth of his body was taken away from her. “Let’s try this,” he murmured and applied soap from the dispenser to her wrists, then rubbed the handcuffs against them. “Does it hurt?”
She shook her head. “I barely feel them, really.”
Michael regarded the reddened skin with concern. “I’m going to pull a bit harder once, okay? You need to tell me if it hurts too much.”
She nodded and bit her teeth.
“Now!” It did hurt. Even through the numbness of her arms, she could feel the pain stinging her.
At last, Michael got her hands out of both metal rings. “You’re free,” he smiled and took her hands in his. “Poor baby.” He inspected the blotchy skin. “Come here.”
A rush of tenderness surged through her as she watched him rinsing her wrists in cool water. “I love you so much.”
He just smiled then carefully dried her hands and arms. He reached for the bottle of lotion next to the sink and massaged the soothing cream into her swollen skin.
“I wonder what they’d have said if you had asked them for the key a few minutes ago,” Imogene giggled.
Michael’s smile became wider. He lowered his gaze to her irritated skin and softly brushed it with his thumbs. “Would you rather have the wedding without them?”
She slid her arms around his neck. “How would we do that?”
He gave her a peck on her mouth. “We’d skip the big party.”
Her eyes widened as she understood his idea. “Well, I do have the veil,” she grinned.
Michael threw an amused glance at the pink piece of tulle. “You sure do.”
She looked at him, intrigued, but wanted a moment to consider his proposal. “Let’s sit down here for a while, hmm?”
He placed his jacket on the floor for her to sit on, then handed her his black long-sleeved shirt. “Here, put that on.”
She buried her nose in the fabric and sighed with pleasure. “This is one shirt I love to wear.”
Michael leaned in for a kiss and laced his fingers through hers. “What do you want?”
She smiled lovingly at him. “What can I choose from?”
“Late summer breeze or early autumn rain.”
“Early autumn rain.”
He gave her a tender glance, then bent over her hand and covered it with small, quick kisses, followed by a soft tickling with the fingers of his other hand.
“Now do the summer breeze.”
Michael led her hand to his lips and kissed it, his lips in a pout, his tongue darting at it. He blew on the skin that his mouth had caressed and ended his treat with a tender kiss on her fingers. She gently squeezed his hand. “When you first played that with me, the night after Martin’s party, I knew you were the guy I wanted to marry. I knew that if you ever asked me, I’d say yes without hesitation.”
“I meant what I said.” He was serious now. “You just say the word, and I’ll marry you right now in some gaudy chapel across the strip.”
“You wouldn’t miss your family? And all our friends?”
Michael shrugged. “We can still celebrate with them later.”
She held his gaze. Her heart already knew the answer, but her head tried to figure out if there was any reason that spoke against it. “I do,” she whispered eventually.
Michael’s face lit up. He kissed her hand then jumped up, helping her onto her feet. “Do you want me to buy you anything? Something new?”
“I think I’m all good. I even have something borrowed, something blue…” She tugged at the shirt and looked down at her skirt. “But I’d like to have a wedding bouquet.”
“Of course.” He cupped her face with his hands, kissed her tenderly and adjusted the tiara. “My beautiful bride.”
An hour later, Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March” filled a small sugary chapel next to the MGM Grand. Imogene’s gaze took in Michael, beaming at her from an altar covered in garlands of plastic lilies, then she looked down at her own appearance. She hid a bashful smile in the exquisite bouquet of white roses he had given her and shook her head a little. A sparkling chandelier was dimmed above her head, and she thought about how much this getup differed from the plans they had made for their big reception. The groom was dressed in jeans and a white V-neck shirt; the bride wore a black long-sleeve that almost covered the whole of her miniskirt. Their only guest was a photographer whose service came as part of the wedding package.
But as Elvis walked her down the aisle and she locked eyes with the man her heart loved with every beat and every fiber, the butterflies in her stomach told her for certain that this bachelorette party was the best she had ever attended.
FLOWERING
Donna George Storey
I’m supposed to be reading an article for my teaching seminar. Instead I’m watching Daniel.
More specifically, I’m watching Daniel weed his garden. It’s a surprisingly compelling way to spend a Saturday afternoon. Daniel has his back to me, which means I get a great view of his jeans hugging his muscular ass as he bends and straightens then pauses, weight resting jauntily on one leg, to survey his progress. Sometimes he turns slightly toward me, and I can feast my eyes on his large hands as they yank away the messy tangles of green to reveal nude brown earth.
I shift on the armchair, aware of the subtle throbbing between my legs. I’ve learned a lot about my landlord from watching him this past month. Even more than I learned the night we had sex, exactly four weeks ago. I know he appears at the kitchen window around seven-thirty each weekday morning to make himself some kind of smoothie in a blender. On Monday evenings after he gets back from work, he often watches football on the big TV in his family room, his feet propped on the coffee table, a beer in his hand. I’ve counted three friends who stop by regularly—two equally athletic men also in their late twenties and a slightly older, very voluptuous woman, who crushes him to her breasts for hellos and good-byes, but otherwise doesn’t touch him like a lover. I know where his bedroom is, too, on the right-hand corner of the second floor of his handsome California Craftsman. Usually the drawn shade glows gold until close to midnight, but the few times he’s left it open, I could just make out a shadowy figure moving in the dim room, as restless as my memory.
Suddenly Daniel pivots and glances toward the cottage. I jump guiltily then drop my eyes to the course reader in my lap. It’s unlikely he can see me since my armchair is placed well back from the window. Even if he can, he’s probably not the least interested in what I’m doing. Men are much better at compartmentalizing and moving on.
In spite of this unforeseen complication—that I’m both lusting after and doing my best to avoid further personal contact with my attractive neighbor—I’m still lucky to have scored one of the m
ost charming one-bedroom rentals in Berkeley for under a thousand bucks a month. My cousin got her law degree at Boalt a few years ago, and I had the insider friend-of-a-friend track. Ironically, one of the reasons I chose to get my master’s in teaching on the West Coast, when there were plenty of perfectly good programs in New York, was to extricate myself from a complicated romantic relationship.
And all I did was run right back into a tangle.
I suspect neither of us saw what was coming when Daniel suggested we have dinner at Cesar’s tapas bar by way of introducing me to the neighborhood. He was friendly but reserved as we shared garlic fries and seared sea scallops and duck tacos. He did mention, before the mojitos arrived, that his mother had passed away six months before following a long battle with cancer. That was why he’d assumed the premature role of owner of some prime East Bay real estate.
“It was lucky for me Janice could introduce me to someone responsible to rent the cottage. It saved me a lot of hassle.”
All I could manage in reply was a sympathetic humming sound, which probably seemed insensitive. The truth was, I knew plenty about illnesses and funerals and the numb days that follow. I didn’t want to put a damper on our pleasant dinner, though, so I took the cheerful route.
“I’m the lucky one. I fell in love with the place the moment I saw it. And I love the furnishings, too. Very Berkeley.”
He smiled and told me that he’d made the kitchen table and chairs himself. He liked to do things with his hands. I couldn’t help casting a glance at those capable hands now resting just a few inches from mine. And I fell in love with him a little bit more.
I shouldn’t have had the third mojito. I probably shouldn’t have had the second either, but I didn’t want the evening to end. Daniel and I were hitting it off, and by the time we staggered back home, we were laughing like old friends. As I fumbled with the latch of the gate back to the garden, Daniel raised an eyebrow.
“Come on, you need some coffee,” he said, steering me into the “big house” as I’d already begun to call it. His hands felt lusciously warm and strong on my shoulders. It wasn’t really sex that I was after at that point, but the thought of going back to my cottage alone made my skin ache with a nameless sorrow.
I started wanting sex in the worst way, however, as I watched him make the coffee. Grinding the beans, tipping the loamy powder into the French press, pouring out the water while he bit his lip adorably. Our hands touched when he handed me the mug. Delicious as the brew smelled, I never even took a sip, because he leaned forward and kissed me then, tentatively, his soft lips offset by the roughness of his five o’clock shadow. I put the mug on the counter and slipped my hands around his waist. My mouth was slightly numb from the tequila, but Daniel’s lips had a strange magic, sinking deeper into me, to a place where I could feel every sensation exquisitely.
Farther down I could feel his erection rising in his jeans—and an answering flutter of desire between my legs. A moan leaked from my lips as I pressed my body shamelessly against him. I wanted to burrow into him, so hot and hard and soft all at the same time.
Daniel pulled away. “Are you sure, Elizabeth? I know you’re a little drunk.”
“I want to do this,” I insisted. And in that tiny corner of my brain that is always sober, I wanted to do this very, very much.
“I want to, too,” he whispered.
And so he led me upstairs to another bedroom, opposite to the one I’d seen illuminated at night. The silver glow of the full moon revealed a sleigh bed of dark wood, a snow-white bedspread, a pretty Japanese bowl on the nightstand. Even in my tipsy haze, I understood it was a guest room, probably little used even when his mother was alive. Desperate to banish the museum-like stillness, I immediately pulled him down on top of me, and we kissed again, devouring each other like dessert.
I still squirm when I remember that night. Daniel took great delight in the responsiveness of my breasts, murmuring how beautiful I was as he kissed and suckled my diamond-hard nipples. Once he had me gasping and twisting beneath him, he slid down between my legs, peeling away my jeans and panties with eager hands. At first he kissed my vulva patiently, even politely, until my lips swelled and my clit throbbed and I was whimpering and juicing all over the bed. When he finally snaked his pointy tongue between my folds to my sweet spot, I groaned and clutched his shoulders as if he’d just saved my life. With a groan himself, he pushed my feet up and back, spreading me wide, then touched his mouth to me and began to hum.
“Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, oh, fuck me,” I moaned.
“I want you to come on my face.” His soft voice had a surprising authority.
It would have been exactly the right trick a few years before, but I’d brought another desire to this bed. My previous lover, an older man fresh from a divorce, had patiently taught me to have orgasms during intercourse, which is probably why I stayed with him far longer than I should have. Now I wanted to know if I could do it without him.
“Please, I want your cock inside.”
Daniel smiled, his lips and chin glistening with my wetness. “I’ll be right back.”
And he was, condom in hand.
“Come on, climb on top.” His nonchalance made me wonder how many women he’d taken on this bed, but even that idea, that I was his one-off slut of the weekend, excited me. He certainly knew how to please a woman. Because of course, when I was perched on his cock, he could easily slip a finger between us to rub my swollen clit. I writhed and rode him until I didn’t need his finger anymore. It was enough to grind myself against him while he pinched and sucked my nipples. I bellowed like an animal when I climaxed—god, yes, it was possible to do this without Frank—and Daniel took his turn, grabbing my ass and thrusting up into me with surprising ferocity. He came with staccato barks that, it struck me later, sounded very much like sobs.
I collapsed onto him and gave the pillow a secret smile.
“Wow,” he said. Then again, “Wow.”
“Aren’t you glad I threw myself at you?” I murmured in his ear.
“Am I ever.” He laughed. “Do you want to stay over here tonight? I’d like that.”
Once again, he’d done just the right thing. How could I refuse?
We curled up in each other’s arms, our bodies fitting easily together. My last waking thought was how strange it was that such a sweet-faced man was so hot in bed from the first kiss all the way through the afterglow.
I woke with a shudder, as if someone had smacked the bed with a huge hand. It was still dark outside. The windows rattled and the walls groaned. Was this a famous California earthquake?
Daniel was sleeping at the far edge of the bed with his back to me, undisturbed by the tremor.
I lay quietly on my side of the bed, feeling scared and alone. It didn’t seem right to wake him and ask for comfort. We were nothing more than strangers after all. He might as well have picked me up at the bar. Suddenly it was unbearable to keep pretending I had a reason to be there. I quickly dressed and let myself out the back door. Back in my cottage, I jumped into the shower and scrubbed myself vigorously as if I could somehow make it all like it was before, with nothing more between us than a glimmer of attraction that would never be fulfilled.
Why was it always the fulfilled fantasies that got me into trouble?
I didn’t see Daniel at all the next day. I assumed he was avoiding me as much as I was him. Two days later our paths did cross as I was returning from my evening seminar and he was coming back from a run. I noted, with a pang, that he looked good in shorts.
“Lindsey,” he called out with such determination, I had to stop. He seemed about to say something more, but then his lips lifted in a polite smile. “Friends and good neighbors, okay?” He held out his hand.
I shook it. I can still feel that smooth palm in mine.
Daniel is moving toward me, a pair of clippers in his hand. He squats and starts attacking the withered ivy along the path to my cottage.
Again I feel that poignant
twisting in my chest, as if something trapped inside is trying to break free. Daniel called me “responsible” that night at the tapas bar, and here I am acting like an obsessed teenager. That’s when I resolve to do what I should have done a month ago. Live up to my grown-up’s pledge. Friends and good neighbors.
I toss the course reader onto the end table and march to my door before I have a chance to change my mind.
Daniel looks up at me. His eyes flicker, then grow cautious.
“Hey,” I manage to croak out.
“Hey, Lindsey, what’s up?”
“Would you like some help? This looks like a big job.”
His face softens. He hesitates, then says, “Sure. That would be great. I’ll be right back.”
A perverse part of me wants to laugh, remembering that’s exactly what he said before he fetched the condom, but of course instead he hands over some gardening gloves and a sharp trowel with instructions to dig up the remaining roots and stems.
“How are classes going?” he asks when we’ve both found our working rhythm.
This is exactly what I hoped would happen. Good neighbors make small talk. They don’t spy and dream of sweet, sweaty couplings that will never happen again.
Soon we’re chatting with ease. He tells me about the plans for the new landscaping, designed by a friend’s wife: a Zen rock garden with a stone lantern surrounded by plants and shrubs that will flower in each season, a cherry for spring, a maple for autumn, rosemary for winter and Mexican sages for the dry summer months.
“When I was growing up we always had a vegetable garden in the backyard in the summer,” I say, panting slightly from the digging and pulling. “Fresh peas and beans and corn and squash. I remember the zucchini terrified me. They could grow the size of a baseball bat after a good August storm.”
Daniel laughs. “It never rains in August here, so we’d keep the zucchini in line. When you mentioned you were from New York, I assumed the city, but I guess your parents have some space to grow things. Do they still have a garden?”
Best Erotic Romance 2013 Page 4