by Clare James
These days, I was all Kelly McGillis in Top Gun talking Mach speed and learning about the different carriers used in airstrikes. Gabe seemed to find it all incredibly sexy – especially when I called him a big stud and told him to take me to bed or lose me forever.
Gabe Shannon: Sex God, alpha male, impeccable dresser, powerful entrepreneur, perfect spooner, and best pancake maker to ever grace a kitchen.
And he was all mine.
Thanks to Gabe, my personal life had reached an all-time high as well. I had a grown-up boyfriend and lived in a grown-up part of the city. We even committed to getting a pet together. And we were all blissfully happy.
Fast forward to today? Not so much in the bliss department.
My shoulders are achy from so much time sitting in front of my computer and I’m dreadfully close to getting secretary butt. Not to mention, I just realized that Gabe and I are on a nine-day dry spell. Okay, I didn’t just realize it, I’ve been counting the days.
And nights.
Yep, nine long ones since I’ve been on the receiving end of one of Gabe’s toe-curling orgasms. A point driven home after he left me in a very uncomfortable position this morning.
Something a cold shower, bowl of ice cream, and Jillian Michael’s Killer Buns DVD have yet to alleviate.
I’m not sure if it is me who’s allowed my job get in the way, or if it is him. The point is, we have never gone nine days without sex before. Never. And the more I think about it and question why, the more my insecurities rise to the surface again.
Normally, I love the weekends, especially Saturdays. It’s the only day of the week where I can get Gabe to stay in bed past six a.m. What I refer to as the hour of the dead. No sane person should get up at that time when they don’t have to. But I’ve learned with Gabe, his work doesn’t stop on the weekends, or holidays, or when I’m so horny I’m practically making a fire between my legs with all the shifting and shuffling I have to do to relieve the throbbing pressure.
Still, even with all his work, Gabe’s always made time for me. Made me the priority, really. Lately though, he always has something more important to do. Work is taking up every last bit of time and energy, and it has me all tetchy.
Sadly, I’ve been in this place before. When things get too normal. When sex becomes an afterthought. When you have to start penciling it in.
Let me tell you, when that happens, it’s only a matter of time before you end up in the land of friends without benefits. The dreaded relationship of convenience.
And that’s a one-way ticket, my friend. There’s no coming back. Pun intended.
That’s what happened with my ex, Max. Not that we ever really had it to begin with. Not like what I have with Gabe, anyway.
My relationship with the sultry and smoking hot Gabe Shannon began as a whirlwind of sex and romance and a cool kind of friendship – though nothing touched the sex. We were in lust, first and foremost. Even now, it usually trumps everything else.
But work and life have been in the way for the past six months. We haven’t been back to the club since April, and I guess I’m feeling most guilty about that.
Club Venus was one of Gabe’s entrepreneurial businesses – a place where those with specific sexual tastes could satisfy themselves. Safely and, well, rather thoroughly. It was where he introduced me to a whole new world of pleasure.
But once it became apparent that our relationship was more than just a tryst, he said it didn’t feel right to keep the business. He sold Club Venus for me.
That made me happy… at first.
It wasn’t that I didn’t enjoy the trouble we’d get into there. I did. I so did. But after we grew closer, I think we both became too possessive. I didn’t want to share him and it certainly seemed like he didn’t want to share me either.
Still, I missed the excitement of the place. The power and energy. The way we were together, and how I could put all my trust in his hands and let him lead me into things I never knew I’d enjoy. He knew exactly when and where to push.
There’s a part of me craving to be taken care of like that again.
As depraved as it sounds, I also miss having other people witness his obsession with me and control over my body. I’ve never felt more beautiful and alive as I did at Gabe’s club. And I know a man with his appetite has to be missing it too.
Sometimes when he comes home from work late – which has been happening more and more frequently – I get a niggling feeling that he’s going back there. Getting a little under the table, with no one the wiser. Not like I know anyone who runs in that crowd. There’s really no way I’d ever know.
That’s the part that makes me sick. The worrying; the insecurity. How is this ever going to get better if I can’t be a grown-ass lady and talk to him about it?
But how in the actual fuck do you broach that topic?
Hey hon, pass the salt, and by the way, why haven’t you been eating my pussy lately? Or, I was thinking that we should bring another girl to bed this weekend to hold me down while you use your monster cock to pound the ever-loving shit out of me.
Jesus, I should not be allowed to kiss my mother with that mouth. I was such a sweet thing before Gabe corrupted me with his filthy vernacular.
How can you expect to get what you want if you can’t say the words, Stevie?
I had to admit, he had a good point. Since then, I’ve gotten over my aversion to dirty talk.
Still, I’m not sure those types of conversations are what I’m looking for anyway. Yet I know I have to do something. We are approaching a DEFCON 1 situation here – the highest state of emergency. Not DEFCON 5 like Hollywood would have you believe.
Something else I picked up from my new job.
Luckily, I know what worked the last time I was in a predicament like this. I need to take action and fix it; I need a plan.
So with Kevin Bacon snuggling next to me on the couch, I pull up the search engine on my iPad and type in how to spice up your sex life.
“Don’t worry, buddy,” I tell him. “You will not come from a broken home as long as I have something to say about it.”
A click of the mouse has results pouring in. There are dozens and dozens of pages, providing plenty of options to get started. I take a gulp from my mammoth cup of coffee and settle in to read.
It doesn’t take too long to narrow it down to a few of the best ideas, because Holy Hell are there some perverts out there in cyber land. I must’ve been lost in porn for over an hour following all the click bait. The nine days of celibacy are not helping the situation either.
Once I have my ideas, I’m ready to go.
I just hope I don’t crash and burn.
Chapter 3
Gabe
When I get to our new place, I’m afraid I might kill someone. The small crew working today is moving at a sloth’s pace. Two of the men continually interrupt the sawing to slug down water or wipe their foreheads, which strikes me as odd because it’s not even warm in here. Another guy shuffles from room to room, yet hasn’t managed to do any work. From the putrid scent leaking out of their pores, I’d guess they all tied one on last night.
A few words from me, however, is all it takes to get the situation turned around. Still, I’m worried. Very worried. There’s so much work to be done and because there’s supposed to be a logical progression for a project like this – a specific order of tasks that need to be complete before you can move on – it’s looking like I’m fucked and won’t meet my any of the deadlines. Things are so far off track.
I bought this old brownstone in the Gold Coast neighborhood of Chicago last summer and had the place gutted. The building itself was perfect, but the look inside was too traditional, too masculine for my very feminine Stevie. I knew exactly what I wanted, and the way to go about blending the old-school charm with a modern, funky feel. I also knew how much work it was going to take.
What I didn’t expect was all the plumbing and electrical problems that would come with changing the floo
r plan of the place, despite the fact I was warned.
So I’m left with no choice, and as much as I hate to do it, I make the call.
“Jameson,” I say when my friend, and the best architect in the city, picks up. “I need your help, man.”
I first met Jameson Leer at a bar shortly after my wife died. He was going through a divorce at the time and liked drinking his nights away as much as I did. It was an instant bond of misery.
Well, those nights at the bar eventually turned into nights at one of the city’s high-end strip clubs. Something that didn’t help either one of us, but helped pass the time. Until I met Tasha – an exotic dancer who introduced me to things I never knew I was missing, and a lifestyle I never knew I craved.
It wasn’t long after that I bought Club Venus and asked Jameson to help me design it. I often say that club, and the lifestyle, saved me in my darkest time.
With Jameson, it changed him. Deeply.
“Let me guess,” he says with a laugh. “It’s the brownstone again.”
“Don’t act so surprised, asshole.”
“Didn’t I tell you that you’d run into problems with that floor plan?” he mocks.
“Didn’t I tell you that I didn’t care?” I respond. “It’s going to make Stevie deliriously happy and that’s all I want.”
“Yeah, yeah. So what’s the problem now?”
“We may need to alter pieces of the design,” I admit. “Just a tad.”
“I knew it,” he gloats. “I fucking knew it. But why do I feel like these alterations are going to be a helluva lot more than a tad?”
“Look,” I say with a cringe. How I hate when he’s right. “Can you come down or not?”
“I’ll be there,” he says. “But if you’re going to having me working on a Saturday, you better damn well have some beer.”
“Fine,” I say, wincing at the pain growing in my gut. This means more time away from home.
So much for a quick day at the office.
***
Waiting for Jameson gives me too much time to think about the way I left Stevie this morning. Hot and ready.
It nearly killed me.
The simple fact is that our existence as a couple only came to be because she wasn’t satisfied with her ex-boyfriend, Max. A decent enough guy – well, until he started coming to my sex club – but he and Stevie weren’t compatible.
I thank God for it every night. Max came to my club about as distraught as you could get. He engaged me for my help – before I knew anything about the girlfriend in question. Max knew Stevie had needs that he wasn’t meeting, and he wanted to know if he was teachable.
He was.
But while he was getting his sexucation at Club Venus, they broke up. And I stumbled upon that heartbroken women with a sexual bucket list a page long, also looking for someone to help.
That woman was Stevie and I was all too willing to help her check off each and every item on that list. And then some.
It was a strange coincidence, though at the time I had no idea that she once belonged to Max, my new protégé at the club.
Of course Stevie would tell you she didn’t belong to anyone.
I hope she feels differently about that now. Hell, I do.
She does belong to me; and I belong to her. I’ve changed my whole world for that woman. I sold the club, begged her to move in with me, and now I’m ready for the next step. I want it all.
Everything she’ll give to me.
I plan to take that and more tonight, and I vow never to keep her waiting again.
Chapter 4
Stevie
“What the hell are you doing in there, Stevie?” Tia asks.
“Never mind, I’ll be out in a sec.”
Tia’s been my best friend since college and knows all about my shenanigans. In fact, she’s the one who helped get me started on the adventure that led to Gabe. So surely she’d understand my new plan to keep him.
Click.
The shutter on my camera app goes off again. I’ve taken about twenty photos so far, but have been afraid to look at them.
Item numero uno on my list to spice up my sex life with Gabe: take a sexy photo.
Now after the whole photo-gate ordeal with the celebrity selfies that were hacked from the Cloud and posted all over the Interwebs, I know better than to include my face or any noticeable identifiers on the snapshot – like the bird tattoo on my stomach.
I’m not really into body art, but I have an unhealthy addiction to my pets and after Max and I split up and split custody of Free Bird, I just wanted a little piece of him with me all the time. But that’s it. No more tattoos. Those suckers hurt.
Sorry, Kevin Bacon, but I won’t be marking my body with a little pig face, no matter how cute it is.
After considering all the options for my sexy photos, I go for a body part completely safe from identification.
Ten minutes later, my undies are in a bunch on the bathroom floor, my hand is up my skirt holding my phone, and I’m snapping away hoping this will be something that drives Gabe crazy and sends him back home to me.
Turn and click.
In all the excitement of the photo shoot, I forgot about my plans with Tia. Still, she didn’t mind when I excused myself to the bathroom to finish up. But I’ve been in here a while, and she’s starting to get curious.
I take one final pic and head out to meet her. I’ll just have to find a moment of peace later to select a masterpiece and send it to Gabe.
“What on earth?” Tia asks, standing outside the door when I come out.
“Nothing,” I say. “I was just fixing myself up. What do you want to do today?”
She ignores my question and says, “I heard your camera going.”
“What? No, I –”
“Spill it, Stevie,” she says. “Were you trying to diagnose a weird health problem or something in there?”
“Of course not,” I say.
“Not like it’d be the first time.” She raises her eyebrows with that perfected superior look on her face. “Remember when we spent a whole evening comparing those spots on your tonsil to the photos on WebM.D? You thought you had cancer from smoking all those clove cigarettes. Or when you wanted me to bring a photo of that rash on your arm into my doctor because you didn’t have health insurance. Or –”
“Stop,” I say, holding up my hands in surrender. So I’m a bit compulsive when it comes to my health. “Don’t worry, I don’t have any sort of funky ailment. This is about something else.”
“Ah, taking some nasty photos for Gabe?” She rubs her hands together, clearly hoping that’s the case.
How does she do that?
“Just remember nothing on the Cloud is safe,” she says, confident her assumption is correct.
“It’s non-descript,” I tell her.
“Ha, I knew it.” She points and sneers. “What’s the occasion?”
“It’s been nine days,” I answer, solemnly.
“Of crazy sex? What are you guys into this time?”
“No, nine days of no sex,” I tell her. “That’s the problem. It’s been nine days since he’s touched me.”
“Hmm.” She strokes her chin. “Hard to believe.”
“Okay,” I admit, straightening my spider and bat decorations on the table. Halloween is my favorite holiday and I have this place looking so rad with my creepy creatures on every surface. “He’s touched me, but we haven’t sealed the deal since the second episode of American Horror Story.”
“Holy shit, this season is so much better than last, isn’t it?”
That girl’s ADHD is worse than mine, I swear.
“Tia, we’re talking about something important here. But yes, yes it is sooo much better.”
“Okay, sweetie,” Tia pulls me away from the table. “Nine days is not that bad.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“Well, it’s not for normal couples. But I know that nine days may as well be nine years for your kind.”
<
br /> “Our kind?”
“You know, the crazy, filthy, horny faction. But there has to be a logical explanation.”
“We’ve both been working so hard that it’s just not happening.” I pace, which I know drives Tia mad. “He’s come to bed after me all week, and last night he had a headache. Then this morning we were interrupted. I’m just getting a really bad feeling.”
“I think he’s exhausted. Plain and simple. There’s no way any man could say no to you, especially that one.”
“You think?”
“I know,” she says. “Now let’s get a look at those photos. I’ll help you find one that will make him race home to pound your little ass.”
“Are you sure?” I ask, wondering if I should tell her what exactly I was taking photos of in the bathroom.
“Pass it over.” She holds out her hand for the phone.
Well, she asked for it.
As she opens the first picture, she furrows her brow. “What the –”
She jumps up and screams, throwing the phone on the couch and doing a little shake.
“Stevie Sinclair, you dirty, dirty girl,” she says, shaking her head before she busts out laughing. “You were in there taking photos of your cha cha?”
“Well, if by cha cha, you mean vagina,” I say. “Then yes, yes I was. And what kind of name is cha cha anyway?”
“It’s a nice one, and so much better than the ugly names like vagina.” She quivers. “Let me tell you right now, if you start throwing around words like vulva, I’m out of here.”
“Fine, I’ll go easy on the terminology.”
“Good.”
“Is the photo that bad?” I ask, not sure I want to know the answer.
“No. I wouldn’t say that,” she says, shaking her head again like she has the heebie-jeebies. “I just was not prepared to see that much of you.”
I grab the phone and look for myself. “Oh my God, that’s what it looks like? Ugh!”
“What do you mean, is that what it looks like? You don’t think she photographs well?” Tia asks.