Bad Twins

by Rebecca Chance

  She would have been happy having nothing but missionary sex with Ronaldo for the rest of her life, her curvy body a perfect cushion for his hip bones, clinging on to his muscular arms, watching the sweat build in the mat of chest hair which, overnight, had become for her the most erotic sight possible; apart from his face as he sped up, let himself go, the cluster of dark curls at his forehead sweaty too, his movements faster and faster as he roared out and shot deep inside her, burying his cock in her as he collapsed onto her.

  She had begged him, the first time, not to brace himself but to give her his entire weight, and now he knew that was what she wanted, he would lie there, splayed, his legs tangled with hers, his body hair scratching her deliciously. Then they would play another little game, so innocuous that it would have given Charlotte and Lee the dry heaves; he would reluctantly stir, start to slide out, and she would protest, hold on to him, try to keep him inside her as long as possible. He would laugh and kiss her and keep going, her strength no match for his, even if she clung to him like ivy round an oak; he peeled her off eventually, reached down, made sure the condom was still on, started to . . .

  ‘Um, Ms Sachs, could I ask you to sit still?’ the hairdresser said. ‘I’m so sorry, but I know you have to be out of here ASAP for your gala, and I’m worried I’m going to pull your hair with the tongs.’

  Bella had been a million miles away, and simultaneously in the next room, on the huge bed, stark naked. She jumped at the hairdresser’s voice, and the poor man winced as he inadvertently did exactly what he had been worrying about, tugging at the lock of hair he was carefully tonging into shape.

  ‘That was my fault!’ Bella said quickly, to reassure him. ‘Don’t worry!’

  This was the side issue of being Bella Sachs at a Sachs hotel. Everyone trod on eggshells around you. They all knew who you were, even the chambermaids, and their visible nerves never abated.

  ‘I’m nearly finished,’ the hairdresser said nervously. ‘It’s taken just a tiny bit longer than it should have done, because—’

  ‘Because my husband rang!’ Bella said. ‘You’re doing a fantastic job.’

  She finished her champagne, gloating at the sight of herself in the mirror. Her hair was glowing, due to a rinse the hairdresser had given her at their first session; it was supposed to bring out the gold in her hair, and it really did work. She would have had highlights done if it hadn’t been too obvious. Ronaldo would have seen the difference and realized that she had gone out the day after their first meeting and put streaks in her hair to be prettier for him.

  Bella reached up to touch one of the loose waves the hairdresser was working on; it was a two-step process, curlers for volume, then these casual waves, loose and natural, as if she had made barely any effort. Certainly not as if she had paid him five nights in a row to achieve this artless, unstudied effect.

  ‘Do you think longer hair would suit me?’ she asked. ‘Maybe I could grow this cut out, or even get extensions?’

  ‘Yeah, definitely,’ the hairdresser said, smiling in relief that she hadn’t snapped at him. ‘You have a classic oval face, you can carry off most styles. I’d suggest—’

  But just then a buzz sounded: someone was at the main door of the suite.

  ‘Shall I go?’ the hairdresser asked. It wasn’t his job, but she had tipped him excellently every single night, and after all, she was Bella Sachs.

  Bella wasn’t expecting anyone. She had a cab booked in twenty minutes to take her to the restaurant Ronaldo had chosen for that evening’s date, and no one at the Sachs would disturb their boss and owner unnecessarily. Her heart leapt; the brandy burnt inside her chest again.

  ‘Hold on,’ she said, and raced across the bedroom, through the living room and down the hallway, looking into the video screen by the main door to the suite. As she had guessed, it was Ronaldo, his face partly obscured by the huge bunch of flowers he was carrying. He had come here rather than the restaurant, so keen to see her that he couldn’t bear to wait a mere forty minutes . . .

  She threw open the door with one hand, the other pressed over her lips to warn him not to say a word.

  ‘The cleaner’s here!’ she hissed as he came in. ‘Hang on, I’ll get rid of her . . .’

  Back the way she had come, into the dressing room, now hissing at the hairdresser to pack up his stuff and sneak out by the bedroom door. In an instant, she had realized that unless she let Ronaldo in first, the hairdresser would see him, a handsome man holding a huge bunch of flowers, waiting further down the corridor, realize that this was no business meeting, and spread the gossip all around the hotel.

  ‘Hey, but your hair isn’t finished!’ he protested. ‘I haven’t tonged the right side yet!’

  ‘Leave the tongs – I’ll pay for them! Take everything else and go – use that door! It’s, uh, an urgent business meeting, I need to get right on it—’

  She ran to her wallet on the bedside table, grabbed two hundred-dollar bills, added two more for the tongs, pushed the cash at him. His eyes went comically wide. The blow-dry was billed directly to the hotel, so even with the cost of the tongs, this was a huge tip. She saw him safely out before she sprayed on perfume, shoved her feet into the five-inch stiletto Louboutins she had bought the day before, and then went as fast as she could in the killer heels back to the hallway, where Ronaldo was waiting.

  ‘I still need to finish my hair—’ she started, but couldn’t get out another word; Ronaldo dropped the gigantic bouquet of roses and foliage onto the hall table and took her in his arms, kissing her so passionately that one heel turned under her and she staggered, grabbing onto him for balance.

  ‘I couldn’t sit in a restaurant with you, not even for a couple of hours,’ he said against her mouth. ‘It’s so hard keeping my hands off you, pretending we’re just old friends catching up, night after night – it’s crazy! So I cancelled the reservation and thought we’d order room service – that okay?’

  ‘It’s perfect!’ she said deliriously.

  He bent down, slid an arm under her thighs and hoisted her into the air, making her squeal with happy surprise.

  ‘Sex first,’ he said. ‘Then dinner. Which is the right way round – I don’t know why we’ve been doing it wrong up till now.’

  ‘If we’ve been doing it wrong,’ Bella said, clinging to his neck as he carried her through to the bedroom, ‘I don’t ever want to do it right!’

  Chapter Twelve

  He dropped her on the huge bed and started to unbutton his jacket. Bella sat up, pulling the negligee from her shoulders to reveal the pale-blue lace underwear, and the sheer hold-up Wolford stockings with a wide top band of pale-blue and white lace. Bella had spent several hundred dollars and a good hour that afternoon assembling the outfit, coordinating the colour, and she would have paid triple just to see the look on Ronaldo’s face, his eyes darkening as he took in the sight of her.

  ‘Fuck, that’s hot,’ he said as he dropped his jacket and started on his shirt. ‘You’re so beautiful, Bella. You look like a pin-up girl.’

  ‘Really?’

  Clearly he either hadn’t noticed the fact that her hair was half-tonged into waves on one side and straight on the other, or he couldn’t care less. She flushed with happiness, and, feeling more confident than she ever had, lay down on her back, legs up in the air, ankles crossed, in the classic pin-up pose.

  ‘Sexy!’ He grinned at her.

  His shirt followed his jacket, his hands went to his waistband. His bare chest was thickly haired, a mat on his pectorals that narrowed slightly to his trim waist, not the slightest hint of a roll; she actually licked her lips as she watched him unbutton, unzip, push everything down from his big reddened cock, bend over to drag off his black silk socks and then deftly kick them away with the boxers and trousers in one go; he had clearly undressed in front of plenty of women, because he knew exactly how to avoid that awkward moment when a man stood there naked but for his socks, momentarily a figure of fun.

 
Ronaldo, on the other hand, had no problems with coordinating the removal of his clothes in the most effective way possible. He had deftly extracted a condom from his trouser pocket in the process and now, with it in one hand, he smiled at her devilishly, climbed onto the foot of the huge bed and started to crawl towards her, his body golden, the muscles in his arms and back flexing superbly as he moved.

  Bella’s mouth was open in wonder, and she felt that saliva build again. Her legs weakened, and she let them down, awkwardly, as she wasn’t particularly fit, wanting to avoid spiking him with a stiletto heel; he caught her calves, spreading them apart, kneeling between them, then guiding her up to sit. Peeling off the foil wrapper, he threw it aside and handed her the condom.

  ‘Why don’t you put it on me?’ he suggested with a smile of pure anticipation. And then, when she took it eagerly: ‘With your mouth.’

  Bella felt the blood rush to her face, was sure she had gone bright red. Ronaldo reached out, traced the O of her parted lips, slid his finger between them.

  ‘Put it on with your hot . . . wet . . . mouth,’ he said very deliberately. ‘Please, baby. I want to feel it all around me.’

  Her face was on fire. She had never done this before, but she was too mortified to tell him so. Still, how hard could it be, as it were? Kneeling up to face him, she put the condom over her mouth, feeling like an idiot. Quickly, she ducked her head and settled her lips over the tip of his cock, which was rigid in anticipation, a steel-centred prong almost vertical against his flat stomach.

  She pinched the tip as she went, rolling her lips over her teeth, starting to unroll the rubber downwards, his cock butting against the roof of her mouth as she went. His hands were in her hair, stroking through it, his erection swelling even more in her mouth, loving this tight hot contact.

  Bella could barely breathe, but it didn’t matter. She would do anything to make him happy. On she went, driving the condom further, Ronaldo caressing her hair, telling her how good it felt, how tight and wet her mouth was, how she was magic, could she feel how much he liked it, how sexy she was with his cock in her mouth . . .

  She was scared of choking, but still the condom kept going; she knew he used Magnum XLs. The tip was at the back of her throat now, drenched in saliva, and she was making panting, gurgling sounds, was getting truly worried about gagging. Her eyes were watering, her lips cramping, but she was determined to do what he had asked, and only when his big hands gently guided up her head did she pull her lips back from her teeth again, sobbing for breath, but her eyes glowing at the sight of his satisfied smile.

  ‘You’re amazing,’ he said, tracing her lips once more, pushing her back onto the pillows. ‘That was wonderful.’

  ‘I want to make you happy,’ she said, sounding pathetic, feeling pathetic; but it was true, it was all she could think about.

  Ronaldo was undoing the satin bows that held her knickers in place, just as she had imagined him doing, like unwrapping a present. He sighed in bliss at the sight of her: bending over, he blew gently between her legs, a soft jet of air that was so erotic she jerked her hips up in delight. Again and again he did it, not touching her, driving her increasingly mad, making her beg and plead for actual contact until finally he sank his mouth onto her and gave her what she wanted, wet lips, driving tongue flicking its point into her. She came almost straight away, worked up beyond endurance, pounding against him, and after he had got her as wet as he could, he rose up, wiped his mouth on his arm and butted his cock between her legs, covering her with his body, starting to fuck her the way she loved.

  Bella held onto his arms, watched his handsome face, drinking in everything about him: how he looked, how he felt on her, inside her. This was her ultimate fantasy. She literally could not imagine anything she could want more, no film star, no rock god, just Ronaldo, fucking her in the missionary position so that she could see him working away, watch his pleasure rise and rise. Her eyes were greedy, running up and down his body, taking in everything she could; oh for a mirror on the ceiling so she could see that view, see his hard round buttocks pumping away, the sweat pooling at the base of his spine, the long twists of muscle in his back and shoulders, his hairy thighs between her stockinged ones—

  She bounced against the pillows; he was close to coming, his thrusts strong enough now to lift her up momentarily. Her arms splayed wide; she liked to lie there, almost like a human sacrifice, letting him use her, drive into her until he reached transcendence – and there it was, incoherent words spilling from his mouth as the sperm poured from him, his cock juddering inside her. He collapsed onto her, mashing her breasts deliciously against his chest hair. She clung to his shoulders, making sure his full weight was on her, just as she wanted. She could not get enough of him.

  His head was nestled in the smooth, soft curve of her neck. Only when, with a gusty sigh, he lifted it and started to press himself up again, did he see her face.

  ‘You’re crying!’ he said. ‘What’s wrong, baby? What did I do? I thought it was good for you!’

  ‘It was,’ she said, the tears streaming slowly down her cheeks. ‘It was wonderful. It was the best thing that’s ever happened to me.’

  ‘So why are you crying? Women!’ he said fondly. ‘Look, give me a second, I have to . . .’

  His weight came off her, he slid out of her, and that only made her cry harder. Her carefully MAC-brushed face was a blotched mess by the time he had cleaned himself up and returned to the bedside, but she was barely making a sound. Her chest was pumping, her breasts heaving as she cried her heart out in silence, the tears continuing to well up and pour out.

  Ronaldo had a handful of tissues in his fist. He climbed onto the bed, rolled her towards him, took her in his arms, tenderly started to dab her face.

  ‘It was wonderful for me too,’ he said, kissing away the tears. ‘Watching you put that condom on me with your mouth, Jesus – I don’t know how I kept going so long, everything about you just drives me so crazy – but did I hurt you? Is that why you’re crying? Little Bella, did I hurt you? You always say you want the weight, but I’m not a small guy—’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ she sobbed. ‘I want it so much! It was amazing! But I have to go! If I don’t go I never will, and I have this business thing I need to do; it’s the biggest deal ever, I have to go . . . oh, why did I have to meet you again now? It’s like my heart is breaking!’

  ‘Baby! Stop it!’ He held the tissues on her cheeks to soak up the flood of tears. ‘I knew you were bound to leave town eventually. I’ve been trying not to think about it, but it had to happen, didn’t it?’

  She clung to him, buried her face in his neck now, unable to look at him as she said, ‘Do you want me to go?’

  ‘No! No, of course I don’t, but you were just visiting . . .’ He took a long breath. ‘I don’t know what to say. This has been crazy. Yes, it’s only been a few days, but I’ve known you since I was tiny. There’s so much we have together. But—’ He hesitated.

  ‘But what?’ Bella peeled her wet face off his sweaty skin, most of her eyeliner pencil now transferred to his collarbone. There was only so much even an expensive liner could endure before it gave up the ghost.

  ‘Little Bella,’ he said, putting the sodden, foundation-stained tissues on the bedside table. ‘You have to go. I understand – you’re at the start of a long work trip. But baby, there are planes, and trains, and—’

  He tailed off, taking another breath. ‘Is it time to talk about the elephant in the room?’ he said, pulling a pillow behind him, lying back, still holding her. ‘I haven’t wanted to push you. But if you want to . . .’

  ‘I was scared you didn’t ask because you didn’t care,’ she said in a rush.

  ‘Oh, Bella!’ he said, sounding exasperated. ‘You can see I care! Every night, holding you, loving you, being with you . . .’

  The word ‘loving’ was manna to her soul. She pushed up to look at his expression, grabbing a pillow to rest on, turning onto her front so
she could keep seeing his face. She wanted to hold on to everything she could see and smell and touch, to have as many memories as possible to summon up during the long, dreary time when she wouldn’t be able to see him.

  ‘I have five months, more or less, ahead of me, of the hardest work I’ve ever done in my life on this rewards points scheme,’ she said. ‘And I work really, really hard anyway. It’s going to be crazy. All I’ll be doing is eating, sleeping, and working, and not in that order.’

  ‘I get it,’ he said, and his shoulders rose and fell in the universal response to an obvious statement. ‘You’re a businesswoman! I know that. But . . .’

  He fell silent, but his dark eyes were fixed firmly on her blue ones, and she knew what he was asking her to say.

  ‘This has been out of time,’ he said, seeing her falter. ‘Is it going to stay that way?’

  ‘I don’t want it to . . . if you don’t want it to . . .’ she stammered, terrified to show him the extent of her feelings for him in case he didn’t reciprocate.

  ‘And your husband?’

  What an awful word that seemed in the mouth of her lover. He might as well have called her something dirty and shameful. She flinched, but it was her own guilt to which she was reacting.

  ‘Thomas is—’ She forced herself to press on. ‘He’s been – we’ve been – it’s not been good for a long time. If it ever was. I think we got married for the wrong reasons.’

  ‘You said he was a lot older,’ Ronaldo commented, trying to sound neutral.

  She nodded fervently. Thomas was in good shape, but to compare him to glorious, thirty-six-year-old Ronaldo, hard-muscled, lean, with a cock ready to fuck her whenever she wanted, would be deeply unfair. Though to compare anyone to Ronaldo would be unfair. She couldn’t imagine ever wanting another man again.