Stirred

by Nancy S Thompson

  I received a few peculiar stares from passers-by and realized I was calling attention to myself, so, as I took a few steps closer, I threaded between the trees, lampposts, and electronic parking kiosks, determined to keep watch yet remain undetected. Mr. Stick-Up-His-Ass seemed to barely tolerate Trin’s kiss, standing stoically with his arms straight and his hands limp at his sides, until, a few moments later, when he broke her grip by prying her arms free and tucking them into her chest as he nudged her back a step.

  Undaunted, Trin faced him boldly, more like the girl I knew and loved. He captured her chin between two fingers and tipped her face up to ensure he had her undivided attention. He said something to her, but, with his back still toward me and a truck passing by, I couldn’t make it out. Whatever it was, Trinitee nodded in acceptance before the man tapped her condescendingly on the tip of her nose.

  That’s when I heard him say, plain as day, “That’s my good girl.”

  Trin lowered her eyes to the pavement at her feet and wrapped her arms around herself as she tipped back and forth from her heels to her toes. Stick Guy leaned in and planted a chaste kiss atop her head then walked back to his car. I clenched my teeth as Trinitee wiggled her fingers at the guy. He didn’t respond that I could tell, but then again, it was hard to see through the blackened windows as the Mercedes stormed off in a rush, driving right past me. I turned my attention back to Trinitee, but had to duck behind a delivery van when her gaze, following the Mercedes, swept in my direction. A few seconds later, I peered around the vehicle just as Trin, with a girlish grin running ear to ear, turned and bounced happily down the street toward Starbucks.

  What the fuck was all that?

  Trinitee never told me she was seeing anyone. It wasn’t that the guy was older. She’d dated older men plenty of times—lawyers and finance types mainly—but never anyone she particularly cared for. She used them mostly, though not for money—Trin couldn’t care less about that. She was a trust-fund baby, not that I could judge since I was, too. Unlike me, though, money meant very little to her. So no, she used those men largely for information, like who was hiring, or offering internships, or for just basic observation, to hone her skills and add to her expanding legion of personality types she knew she’d someday draw upon. Sometimes though, Trinitee just hooked up for a good fuck, explaining their wives were often no longer interested or had boy-toys of their own.

  I couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps Eden thought of me that way, as just some young, horny kid on the prowl for a wealthy cougar. Before Eden, I’d never even considered seeing an older woman. But then again, I’d never known anyone like Eden either. She didn’t look like any forty-year-old woman I’d ever seen, with her long, flaming hair that fell halfway down her back, eyes the color of springtime, toned, mile-long legs, and a body as rockin’ as any Victoria’s Secret model. And that mouth of hers with those perfect lips? Fuck. I got hard just thinking about it. But…I had to put that thought aside for now and focus back on Trinitee instead.

  I wondered what was up with her, how long she’d been seeing that dick with the stick, and why she’d never spoken of him. More importantly, I wondered why she’d ever consider seeing a controlling tool like that, who treated her worse than she’d ever allowed in the past. Trinitee was not, in any way, shape, or form, the submissive type, and, as far as I knew, never experimented on that end of the spectrum either—though I could totally see her as the whip-wielding dominatrix.

  Just thinking of her in some sexy, black, lace-up corset with thigh-high stockings, garter belts, and six-inch spike heels put a huge smile on my face, and that was the exact moment Trin first spied me as I walked into Starbucks for our meeting, with that undoubtedly enigmatic grin. It faded quickly, however, when I caught the poorly-hidden expression of shock on her face. Her normally pale skin flashed hot pink from her hairline down to the décolletage peeking just above her black V-neck T-shirt. She looked like she’d been caught with her hand in the cookie jar, which likely meant she was hiding something, and considering what I’d just witnessed out on the sidewalk, I had no doubt that something was Mr. Stick.

  I contemplated grilling Trinitee about him directly, but, at the same time, I wanted to know if she’d be up front about him, without an inquisition, or hide the fact she was seeing someone older, just as I was. I approached her at our usual table, my smile weak. I did, at least, have the foresight to bow my head and appear properly contrite for having treated her so poorly last night.

  “Hey, Trin,” I said humbly and waited for her to greet me in return.

  But she simply folded her hands together along the edge of the table and looked up at me without a single word, just one raised brow, as if all she had the patience for was my groveling apology and nothing else. While irritating, I understood where she was coming from. So I swallowed my pride and decided to give her what she wanted, all the while wondering how she could change from the meek, simpering miss I saw out front not two minutes ago, to the pushy, domineering woman I knew so well.

  “Sorry, Trin. I was in a bad place last night and let my emotions get in the way. I was way out of line. Forgive me.”

  She mashed her lips together and nodded ever so slightly. “Thank you. I accept your apology,” she said with forced grace. “May I have my backpack, please?”

  I looked at her, my jaw slack in surprise that she’d been so short with me. I tried to shake it off though. “Are you all right?” I asked as I heaved her bag onto the table.

  “Yes,” she answered simply.

  “Well…what’ve you been up to?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Up to? Like…since yesterday? ‘Cause it’s not like we don’t see each other every day. Why do you ask?”

  I shrugged, not sure where to go next, but wanting her to feel comfortable enough to talk to me. “I don’t know, Trin. You just looked so…flushed when I walked in. I thought maybe…” I shrugged again. “It just struck me as…odd, is all.” I stared at her, willing her to say something, anything, but she remained silent. “Dammit, Trin, this shouldn’t be so awkward. I hate it. I want things to go back to the way they were.”

  She nodded in agreement. “I hate it, too, but I’m not sure if they can be the way they were.” In silence, she contemplated me for a brief moment. “You know, Sean, you were the one person I trusted enough to be myself around, but you were willing to throw that away, all for some woman you don’t really even know.”

  I closed my eyes halfway through her statement, because she was right, but it wasn’t that simple, and it wasn’t all my responsibility either. “And you know all I asked from you was your support, because I’d finally found someone I thought I might have a chance with. After everything that happened with Hayley, don’t you want me to be happy again?”

  Trinitee chuckled, albeit bitterly, and said, “Wise up, Sean. She’s married. And considering her age, she probably has been for a long time. Probably even has kids. So why would she risk everything for you?” With that, she stood up, threw her backpack over one shoulder, and peered hard at me. “I was only trying to look out for you. I don’t want another Hayley episode, ‘cause I don’t think you’d survive that. And if you disregard what I have to say and go after that woman then end up hurt, I’m not sure I can be there to pull you back together. I don’t know if I can do that again. It’s too hard. But hey, it’s your life, Sean. You do what you have to. And I’ll do the same.”

  She gave me a sad smile and a nod goodbye then turned on her heel and walked away.

  Stunned, I plopped my ass down into Trinitee’s vacated seat and stared after her.

  “What the fuck was that?” I muttered to myself.

  It sounded an awful lot like a kiss-off, like she was through with me. I knew it was the hurt talking, but…wow. Talk about turning the tables. I put a hand to my chest, that rock from earlier growing heavy and hot, ready to burn a hole clear through me. It was a familiar sensation, one I couldn’t seem to chase away.

  I began to panic
. I didn’t know what I’d been thinking last night, to have treated her with such disregard. Trinitee had been my closest friend for a solid two years now, an amazing study partner who constantly pushed me to be my absolute best, to not just excel, but tower over every other student—except for her, of course. I rarely out-performed Trinitee. But I always tried to, at least, and that was why I’d done so well. If she was no longer around to motivate me, I feared I might fall behind.

  That fear was the pain I felt on my chest, and it suddenly brought back all the memories from the last time I’d felt it. Twice, in fact. I’d pushed both of those days so far from my mind, I sometimes wondered if they were even real or simply horrible nightmares.

  The first was four years ago, when my father left us. He’d had an affair, and my mom found out. They stayed together for well over a year after that, going to counseling and working hard to fix their broken marriage. They’d even adopted a child they’d been fostering, a baby born to a drug addict. But that pressure only proved to divide them further, and Mom ordered him to move out. They divorced a short time later. After that, Mom devoted all her energy to my new baby brother, Robbie, who’d since grown into a remarkably loving, happy kid, regardless of his current circumstances and what had been done to him.

  Picturing Robbie in his wheelchair brought Hayley front and center, and with her, the second time I’d felt the burn of loss and betrayal. Thinking about what she’d done to me, to my family, made that rock on my chest burn hotter. Blazing. Scorching. Like it burned clear through my sternum, searing a blistering crater in my heart, wide and deep and terrifyingly unfillable. Feeling the emptiness of that pain brought back every ugly memory, and I gasped for air, suddenly desperate to stop the damage, to find something to fill the void.

  An intense need ignited inside me, shifting my focus from what I had little control over and could not change, to the one thing I did and needed to change.

  “Eden,” I whispered on a ragged breath.

  I needed her. Craved her—the fire in her eyes, the wonder in her touch, and, most especially, her vulnerability, her hunger to be wanted, to be loved. She’d become a drug to me, heady and wondrous. My blood ached for a fix. And with my ace in the hole, I knew what I had to do to get it. To make her mine.

  The last week had been both a nightmare and—if I was being completely honest with myself—an amazing dream come true, one I never even knew I wanted. When I first discovered Declan and Aurelia, I had no idea what my next move should be. I couldn’t even figure out what I was feeling. But then Daniel had swept in and aroused something in me, inflaming a long-dormant desire and igniting unexpected fantasies. If only they’d remained that way—fantasies—but Daniel had hunted me down, showed me I wasn’t the Ice Queen Declan always accused me of being. He’d awakened a need deep inside me, to be wanted, to be desired, to be touched and taken with complete abandon, caring not one whit of the consequences.

  He’d turned me on like a light then disabled the switch to turn me back off. I was now a quivering live wire, arcing as my stormy emotions tossed me to and fro. I was at complete odds with myself. I felt guilt for breaking my marriage vows, disgrace at doing it so wantonly, in an alley without so much as a condom, and ashamed for treating Daniel so callously afterwards. But, as he’d accused me earlier, I was simply deflecting from the obvious, from something I hardly wanted to recognize, let alone accept. But I couldn’t deny it, how I’d changed. How he’d changed me, invading every last cell.

  When I slept, I dreamt of him, of his hands and those extraordinary fingers, how skilled they were at caressing my most sensitive places, exciting me in the most shocking yet pleasurable ways, winding me so tight, I thought surely I’d spin out of control, high into the sky, up to the stars, so close to the sun, I feared I might burst into flame.

  I recalled how generous a lover Jacob had been, more concerned with my pleasure than his own, but even he couldn’t compare with Daniel and those magical hands. And his cock… Dear God, I’d never seen anything like it, the inward curving, as if designed by a woman solely for her pleasure, and then there was the sheer size of it. I’d been terrified at first, scared there’d more pain than pleasure. But, sweet Jesus, once he’d worked his way all the way in, my toes curled, and I could practically hear the angels sing. With a driving madness, he urged me to my outermost limits, teased me inch by inch toward climax, closer and closer, a mere breath away. Then he pulled back, just enough to prolong it, over and over and over again.

  Burning with the memories, I touched my cool hands to my cheeks and felt the heat there, like a fever. I felt positively mad from it. But that was nothing compared to what I felt inside, between my legs, within my core.

  “Ugh, this is pointless. I have to stop!” I said to myself. “Refocus, immerse myself back into my work. I have to reclaim my life. Get back into a routine.”

  How long had it been since I’d greeted parents as they returned to school to pick up their kids in the afternoon? I’d always loved standing out front of my Montessori pre-school, hugging the little ones goodbye before opening their parent’s car door and tucking them into their boosters and car seats. I needed to reconnect with my young charges and their parents. I’d always prided myself on the personal touch I’d taken with each child, all forty kids, every year for the last decade and a half. I knew them each by name, as well as their parents. I’d seen kids come and go, some returning years later to check in and chat, share their fond memories, or bring me a small gift.

  While it had stung to give up on my dream of writing, I’d been practical enough to move on and never regretted focusing on my school instead. I knew, if I were ever inspired, I could always write on the side, in the evenings and on weekends. And that was exactly what I did.

  During the last year or so, I’d worked hard to keep my two professional lives compartmentalized. I’d published under my maiden name, which only a small handful of people knew, and even fewer who knew I’d published at all. My biggest fear was the parents of my students finding out that I, the owner and director of the most exclusive Montessori school in Medina, had written not just a romance novel, but an erotic one. If they did, my reputation would be destroyed, plain and simple. Foolishly, I hadn’t considered the possible impact until well after publishing. Declan—ambivalent about my writing career—had simply waved my concerns away, but I knew there were many in this community who wouldn’t think twice about using it as ammunition if the opportunity should ever arise.

  Meydenbauer Academy received occasional, though generous, funding from the Medina Preschool Association, mostly for the fine arts. There’d be a backlash of unimaginable proportions should they ever discover my double life, which is why I rarely agreed to public signings, and certainly never on the Eastside. And also why I’d cut back on socializing with the kids and their parents at the beginning and end of the school day. Out of sight, out of mind, and as long as the school was running smoothly, I was okay with that, or at least I used to be. But now I was thinking I’d lost touch with the very people who’d always kept me grounded these last fifteen years. I hated that and vowed to change it. I just had to be more diligent than ever to keep my two lives separate.

  “You can do this,” I said to myself then stood from my desk overlooking Meydenbauer Bay, the stunningly beautiful part of Lake Washington for which my school was named.

  I straightened my black pencil skirt and white silk blouse then adjusted the low-set jeweled barrette holding back my long hair, and, with one last glance in the mirror, I opened my office door and walked the long hallway to the main entry. As I hurried along, my heels clacking against the colorful vinyl tile, I glanced at my watch.

  “One minute. Okay, here we go,” I said aloud, then took a deep breath.

  Not thirty seconds later did the first bell ring with one short pulse and the classroom doors opened, a teacher standing in each doorway with her hand raised for silence. After another minute, the second bell rang, this one longer, signaling the te
achers to lead their charges to the front doors and covered portico at the head of the large circle drive where a caravan of cars was parked curbside, waiting for the children. A small contingent of parent volunteers helped get the kids into the right vehicles and keep the traffic moving along smoothly.

  “Bye, Mrs. Ross,” said one child after another, a few offering me hugs around my thighs before I escorted them to the appropriate car.

  With just forty students and eight parent volunteers, the task usually took less than ten minutes. A few stragglers zipped into the drive, opening their windows for a quick apology for being late, until only two children were left.

  I stooped down to eye level with one boy and asked, “Where’s your mom, sweetie? Should we call her?”

  The boy shook his head, smiled brightly, and said, “No, Mrs. Ross. She’s not coming. My brother is picking me up again today.”

  I stood and looked at Marybeth Collier, the lead volunteer, as she walked closer.

  “Have you met Robbie’s brother?” I asked.

  “Oh yeah,” Marybeth replied. “A couple days ago when he dropped Robbie off. Seems like a very nice young man.”

  “Young man? Really?”

  “Yep, college age, I think. Dotes on young Robbie. They seem quite close given their age difference.”

  I turned and looked down the long driveway as a silver minivan approached.

  “There he is now,” Marybeth said.

  “My brother’s a really, really good driver, but he doesn’t like driving Mommy’s car,” Robbie chimed in. “He drives a racecar…vroom!” Robbie’s arm sliced through the air.

  “Is that right?” I said and slipped in behind Robbie’s wheelchair, pushing it forward to where the curb was ramped.

  The van came to a slow stop before us, and the driver cut the engine. Marybeth slid the side door open and smiled at Robbie’s brother as loud music pounded all around.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said to her as he turned it down.