by Beth Yarnall
His hand is in my hair, his other arm wrapped tight around my waist, holding me to him from mouth to thighs. He tugs on my hair, tipping my head back, and goes for my neck with bites and licks that make me moan and grind against him. I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want him right now. Reaching between us I get my first feel of him. The sound he makes in my ear slices me with shards of desire from where his mouth is to where I’m wet and throbbing with need.
He palms my breast. There’s nothing hesitant about his touch as he circles my nipples with his thumb over my sweater. It’s not enough. I want his hands on my skin and mine on his. I push back so that his hold on me loosens and drag my sweater over my head. I get a split second to see the look on his face before I dive for him again. He comes at me like he’s starved, his hands everywhere. I get my hands under his shirt. He’s all lean muscle and hot, hard flesh.
He yanks his shirt off and tosses it. Something crashes on the other side of the room, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He stares at me. His gaze is a match strike to my already out of control emotions. Hooking my arm around his neck, I reach for him, pulling him down to me. His kisses turn dirty. Each one is a lick to my clit, which is pulsing to the hard hammer of my heart. I want it like this. Hard. Fast. Nasty.
My bra is gone in a second, replaced by his hands. I twist against him. It takes me a moment—because he constantly distracts me—to get his pants open. His breath puffs hot on my neck as I stroke him. He makes an incoherent, strangled sound. I like it and the effect I have on him. He shoves his hand in my pants, finally touching me where I most want to be touched. His fingers slide through my slickness. My grip on him loosens. I push against his hand, practically riding it.
His mouth is hot and urgent on mine as he backs me out of the room. We hit the hallway wall and he turns us. Walking backward, he pulls me into another room. I get a vague sense of the space when he tears his mouth from mine and lifts me, spinning us so that I land on a bed. He comes down on top of me. Kissing his way down, he latches onto my breast. I clutch his head. My hips buck against the hard ridge pressing between my legs.
He’s a madman, shoving at my pants as his mouth wrecks me. I twist under him. I want him inside me. Now.
“Yes,” he rasps, tugging harder on my pants.
Oh, god did I say that out loud?
“They’re stuck,” he mumbles against my breast.
It takes me a moment to realize he means my pants. My tight pants. Damn it. I pull my leg up to try to get at the hem to pull on it. The angle change throws him off to one side of me. I struggle to jerk my jeans over my foot, but my arms aren’t long enough. He suddenly realizes my battle because he leverages off of me and grabs my calf. His eyes never leave mine as he strips off my jeans. Then he’s on me again. Slower this time, but somehow just as fevered. I wrap my legs around him.
He feels so good. So damn good. I don’t know what I could’ve been thinking considering starting things up with Kurt again. It was never like this with him. Or anyone else. Sex hasn’t exactly been easy for me. Not that I have hang ups. I’ve worked hard to get to where I can enjoy sex. It’s just that I think too much and those thoughts get in the way of me having an orgasm sometimes. Why can’t I just absorb myself in the sensations and stay engaged? Why can’t I be like the uninhibited woman on the website? What’s wrong with me?
Those thoughts have a cooling effect. Where I was thrashing under him a moment ago I’m now still and barely responsive.
Nolan notices and leans on one elbow to look down at me. “Hey.” He brushes the hair back from my face. “Where’d you go?”
I open my mouth to answer, but everything I could or would say feels wrong. This isn’t the time to have this talk. I don’t want to have this talk. I want to go back to the place in my head where I was nothing but sensation and need. Pushing all of those thoughts aside, I bring him down for a kiss, trying to get back to where we were before. I give it my best effort, but it’s not the same. It’s forced and fake.
He stays with me for a second, then breaks it off. “What’s wrong? Is it something I did?”
“No. God. No. It’s… Will you just keep kissing me?” I put his hand on my bare breast. “And do some of this and that down there.” I motion toward my crotch. “I’ll catch up.”
“I don’t want you to catch up. I want you with me.”
I let out a frustrated breath and look away, blinking back tears. I hate when I get like this. “I will be. Just keep going.”
He moves his hand from my breast to my cheek. “Was it too much too fast?”
“It wasn’t fast enough.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It means that I don’t want to think. I just want to feel. Touch me. Come on.”
“You have no idea how much I want to do that, but it feels like I’m forcing myself on you and that’s something I’d never do.”
Turning my head to the side, I put my hand over my eyes. Why do I have to complicate things all the time? Why can’t I be normal?
“Would it help if we watched that website again?”
His question startles me. I pull my hand off my eyes and look at him. Would it help?
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly.
“You want to try or do you want to forget it for tonight?”
Pushing him back, I sit up. “I think we should probably just forget it.”
“Okay.” He’s trying to hide his disappointment, which makes me feel worse.
“Maybe we should try the website.”
His laugh is short and filled with a combination of disbelief that this is even happening and, surprisingly, some real humor. “I really don’t want you to have to try that hard to get it up for me. If it’s not happening, it’s not happening.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s just a timing thing. It’s been a long day. You’re tired.”
“You’re sweet to think up those excuses.”
I look down at myself. I’m naked except for my underwear, which are not exactly sexy. It wasn’t like I planned to have sex when I put them on this morning. Suddenly I feel overexposed and vulnerable. I cross my arms over my chest. Nolan sits up next to me and puts his arm around me. He still has his unzipped pants on. I can see the outline of his hard on though his boxers. It’s a nice hard on. I would’ve liked to have done more than just touch it.
“I’m not that sweet. A part of me is kicking myself for not doing what you told me to do. I could be inside you right now.”
My nipples harden beneath my palms and my clit throbs at his words. I concentrate hard on resisting the urge to press a hand between my legs. “God. Don’t talk like that.”
“Sorry.” He sounds contrite, pulling his arm from around me. “Let me get the rest of your clothes.”
He gets up and leaves before I could tell him that what he said didn’t disgust me. It got me hot. But now I’m too embarrassed to correct him. God. What’s wrong with me? Watching that girl get off and Nolan’s dirty talk does it for me, but I don’t know how to tell him that. He comes back with my sweater and bra in one hand and his shirt in the other. I get the full view of his bare torso and it’s…damn. This guy works out. I’m glad to have my sweater to cover the rolls on my stomach and my thick thighs. I’m not exactly skinny or even trim. I don’t work out.
“I’ll be in the other room,” he says and leaves again without the explanation I feel like I owe him.
I’m pretty sure I’m the first girl to get cold feet right in the middle of things with him. Now everything is going to be awkward between us. I clasp my bra and adjust my breasts in the cups. They’re too big for how short I am, making me look like I don’t have a waist. Not like that girl on the website. I hop off the bed and finish dressing in record time. I need to get out of here. The longer I stay the more my embarrassment skyrockets. I’m so humiliated. I don’t know how I’m going to face him or how we can work together after what just happened.
I give the
rumpled bedspread a regretful glance. I bet it would’ve been really good with him. I was totally into it until right before I let the thoughts creep in. He’s waiting out there for me. What do I say to him? Sorry I got you all hot and bothered, then got weird on you? Ugh! I frustrate myself. I can only imagine how he feels.
Taking a deep breath, I head down the hall. Nolan is standing behind the kitchen bar washing our wine glasses. I spy my purse on the coffee table and grab it on my way to the door. I’m outside and half way down the walk when he catches up to me.
“Hey. Are you all right?”
“God I really wish you’d stop asking me that.”
“Let me at least walk you to your car.”
“I’m fine. I’ve got it.”
“But you don’t have your keys.” He dangles them in front of me.
I grab them. “Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Lila.”
I stop at the tone in his voice.
He positions himself in front of me. “Don’t make it weird, okay?”
“Too late.”
“It’s not too late. Come here.” He holds his arms open to me.
I want to dive into them and have him tell me everything’s okay. But it’s not. My cheeks burn with humiliation and I can’t look him in the eye. He puts his arms around me and rubs my back. I stay stiff, my arms wrapped around me.
“I like you,” he mumbles against my temple. “I want to get to know you better. That can take as long as it needs to. Okay?”
I nod, liking the way his stubble catches in my hair and the way his arms feel around me. I like him too. He releases me, but leaves one arm across my shoulders as we walk to my car. I lean back against the driver door intending to say something, anything, but he presses his lips to mine, sealing in any words that might’ve tumbled out. He backs away. I can’t see his expression in the darkness, but there’s a reluctance to his movements as he brushes my cheek with his knuckles, then purposefully strides away. I climb in the car and start it. As I drive past his apartment I notice he’s standing on the porch, watching me. He turns to go inside as I pass.
I want to pound my forehead on the steering wheel and burst into tears. Instead I force myself to drive carefully and calmly home.
9
Nolan
I have no idea what happened between Lila and me. I keep going over and over it in my head. She was with me right up until it looked like things were really going to go down and then she sort of shut off. Was it something I did or didn’t do? First times can be tricky, but everything between us seemed to just flow. I can’t say I’ve ever had that experience before. Usually it’s a lot of blind groping and getting it wrong until you figure out what works between you. There was none of that with Lila. Everything seemed to work between us.
So where did it go wrong?
When she told me to just keep going that she’d catch up I had to really control my reaction. I didn’t want her to lie there and endure it and I can’t believe she would think that was what I would want. No guy wants that. Except selfish assholes. I’m a lot of things, but I’m not a selfish asshole. I want a woman to be with me. Hell, I love it when a woman takes the initiative like Lila did last night. Total turn on.
I replayed the video of us in my office about eight times trying to figure out where things went wrong, but everything was fine. It was in the bedroom that things got weird and I don’t have a camera in there. Well, that wasn’t the only reason I replayed the tape. It was damn hot. And if I used it to relieve myself of some pent up energy that was okay, totally normal and above board. Especially since I deleted it as soon as I finished. Being able to watch myself with Lila while remembering what she felt like was seriously the most intense thing I’ve ever done. Porn has it’s place don’t get me wrong. But that tape of Lila and me? Better than any porno ever. I was sorry to delete it, but it was the right thing to do.
If Lila ever found out about the video and what I did while watching it I’m pretty sure that would be the last time I’d get to see her naked. And oh man, the thought of never getting to touch her again…torture. Pure torture.
Whatever it was that freaked her out we should probably talk about. I would’ve tested the subject further last night, but I had a feeling that would only make things worse. So I let it slide. I seriously doubt she’ll be the one to broach the subject so I’ll have to figure out a time and a way to bring it up without making things worse between us.
As I pull up outside the Lucky Inn motel where Carla worked as a prostitute, I wonder what Lila’s doing. We’re supposed to meet up at my apartment after lunch to continue going over the things we found in Martin’s office. I did some digging after Lila left and found out some interesting things about John S. Martin Esquire. I can’t wait to share them with her. But first I have to try to find a needle in a haystack at the Lucky Inn.
And what an aptly named place it was too. In the five minutes I’ve been sitting out front I counted eight different sets of prostitutes and johns going in and out of the rooms. The rooms seemed to be shared by the girls because two of the rooms had one set of people come out and a completely different set go in not two minutes later. The Lucky Inn is a typical two story motel with an open second floor balcony and room doors that face the parking lot, making it really easy to watch people come and go (no pun intended).
A couple of guys stand around outside. Not together though. One hangs out on the second floor balcony and the other leans against the crumbling stucco wall at the bottom of the stairwell on the ground floor near the snack machine. Guards, if I have to guess. Whoever runs their prostitution ring out of here has a slick operation going that’s for sure. The Lucky Inn is definitely a No-Tell-Motel and I have a feeling a guy wandering around asking unwanted questions about a former prostitute and her johns would not be welcome. I hate to disappoint Lila but there is no way I’m getting out of my car to start knocking on doors or even go up to the office to make inquires. I’m pretty sure the goon guards would be on me faster than the people coming and going (pun intended).
I snap a few photos of the motel and the guys standing around. The one on the bottom floor takes notice and heads my direction. I start my car and peel away from the curb.
I like my teeth exactly were they are thank you very much.
I feel like I need something to give Lila so I drive to the crappy apartment complex where Carla lived with her son. It looks a lot like the motel, but with the apartment doors facing a center courtyard instead of the street. Spying the rental office sign, I get out of my car and head toward it. What are the odds, Hector Rodriguez, the asshole landlord who extorted sex for rent from Carla is still here? I have to try anyway. Maybe the new landlord can tell me where I can find Rodriguez if he’s no longer in charge.
The office smells like coffee, cigarettes, ass, and some kind of air fresher that clearly isn’t working hard enough. An older woman with shoe polish black hair sits behind a scarred desk reading a Spanish language newspaper. For the millionth time I wonder why I took four years of French in high school instead of Spanish. I have yet to even visit France, but in Southern California I’d use Spanish every day if I could speak it. Right now I blend in about as well as the horrible print of the woman’s blouse blends with the shocking wallpaper behind her. Not a good thing for a PI.
She squints up at me as I close the door. “¿Puedo ayudarle?”
See? Every damn day I’d use it.
“No hablo Español,” I respond.
She sets her paper down and rapid fires more Spanish at me, no doubt cursing me out. I stand there and take it until she winds down, then picks up her newspaper again, shakes it out, and puts it between us. I’m ignored.
“Do you know where I can find Hector Rodriguez?” I ask.
“No se.”
I wish I’d brought Lila with me. “I really need to talk to Hector Rodriguez,” I say slower.
She tilts the paper down and rattles off more Spanish. I understand one word p
olicia—police.
I shake my head. “No policia.”
“Then what the fuck are you doing here looking for my asshole ex-husband, white boy?”
The switch in her is jarring. Her English has no accent at all.
I produce my business card. For some reason people who don’t like the police don’t mind spilling everything to a private investigator. I hope that’s true of the woman glaring at me.
“My name is Nolan Perry.” I hand her the card. “I work for Nash Security and Investigations. I’m here on behalf of my client Carla Ruiz. I understand your ex-husband was the landlord here when she and her son, Diego, lived here.”
“Pobrecito chico.” Mumbling some more in Spanish, she closes her eyes and crosses herself, then looks up at me. “Such a tragedy. I’m Margarita Rodriguez. What do you want to know about the pendejo who gave me gonorrhea? I’ll tell you whatever you want.”
Neighbors and furious exes—a PI’s best friend.
“According to Carla, Hector was ah, with her the morning Diego died.”
“You mean screwing her in place of rent. Don’t be delicate. It’s the reason he’s my ex-husband. Do you know how much money I lost because he couldn’t keep it in his pants? Tens of thousands. That’s a lot of damn money. He’s supposed to be paying it back, but the cabróne hasn’t had a job since I kicked his lazy ass out. Or so he says.”
“Do you know where I can find him?”
“Shacked up with some flaca crack whore in Chollas View last I heard. If she was smart she should’ve kicked his ass like I did. Hang on. I’ll get you the address.” She riffles through the things on her desk and then pulls out a scrap of paper. “I’ll make you a copy.” Without leaving her seat she turns to the copier. “Here you go.” She hands me a warm sheet of paper with an address and phone number scrawled on it.