To the Fall

by Prescott Lane

  I must have missed her text because my phone shows a message from her.

  She’ll meet me there?

  I dial her number, but she doesn’t pick up. I hit redial. Nothing. I type her a text. Do you need me? We can skip this.

  Another quick response that she’s looking forward to tonight and will see me soon. Okay, I simply have to trust her. She doesn’t want my help with whatever is going on. I arrange for a car to pick her up later then finish getting ready. It won’t be nearly as fun without Sutton with me. I hope she hurries.

  And I’m right. An hour into this thing, and I’m bored out of my mind. The aquarium sits in a popular tourist area of New Orleans along the banks of the Mississippi River. The purpose of the event is noble—conservation – but I feel a little bit like the fish trapped behind glass making endless circles, moving from one circle of people to another, endlessly mingling.

  I don’t consider any of them friends, but we run into one other at various social events and pretend like we are. Presently, I’m cornered by three older men who are laughing and carrying on like they’re frat buddies. I play along. I have to because it’s part of my job—make friends in high places. And I can bullshit on any topic—politics, sports, development, foreign policy. It’s just one of my many gifts. The ability to talk shit about anything, anytime, anyplace and create the illusion I know exactly what I’m talking about.

  Then out of nowhere, one of the men asks, “Who the fuck is that?” I know for a fact he’s married, and I know for a fact he doesn’t care. These men treat women worse than I ever did.

  I turn my head and see Sutton searching the crowd. She hasn’t spotted me yet. She’s dressed in a long red dress with a deep V-neck. She doesn’t have big boobs, so she can pull it off, but she could start a riot in that dress.

  “Only a certain kind of woman can walk into a room dressed head-to-toe in red,” another asshole says.

  “That’s Sutton Presley,” the last guy says. “She’s got that hotel with the playrooms. I’d like to play rough with her.”

  I’m about to lay these three on their asses when Sutton steps to my side, giving me a bright smile and kissing me on the cheek. “Sorry I’m late.”

  She looks over my shoulder, no doubt at the pack of wolves behind me. I try my best to shield her, but I know she senses she’s been the topic of conversation.

  “It’s really too bad he doesn’t share,” one of the guys says, and they all start laughing.

  I wrap my arms around her waist to escort her away, but she pushes me aside. She smiles the most evil grin I’ve ever seen on a woman’s face. “His ex is available. You look like you like leftovers.”

  The other two guys fall into a fit of laughter as Sutton simply stands there, dressed to kill. She’s barely twenty-five years old, and she’s standing against three well-established men in the community, all at least ten years her senior. My instinct is to swoop in and rescue her, but I know she would have my balls in a sling. Besides, it’s fun to see her in action.

  “Gentlemen,” she says, dismissing them.

  Damn if she doesn’t look like the dominatrix dismissing her gang of submissives, and damn if they don’t all just tuck tail and run. She releases a deep breath and turns to me.

  “That was so damn hot,” I say, grabbing her hips and pulling her close.

  “I almost peed myself,” she says, lowering her head to my shoulder. “Hate men like that.”

  I lean down into her hair. “You look beautiful, baby.”

  A hint of pink covers her cheeks. “You said you liked me in red.”

  “I do,” I say, slipping my hands to her ass. “Good thing you met me here. We’d never have made it out of the house.” She lifts my hands up a little. “Why were you late?”

  “Let’s talk about it later,” she says.

  I nuzzle her nose, seeing sadness in her eyes. “Did I do something?”

  She reaches for my face. “Not at all.”

  Taking her by the hand and escorting her out of the party, we find a grassy area behind the aquarium right alongside the Mississippi River, winding around the city like the curves of a woman’s body, slow and seductively. There’s no barges or boats out tonight. The dark water seems to crawl by, led by the lights that shine from its banks.

  The evening breeze blows in Sutton’s hair. I give her a little twirl and pull her into my arms, swaying underneath a thousand stars, the faint noise from the party, our music.

  Something is happening to me.

  Yes, I want to screw her seven ways to Sunday, but I also want to hold her, talk to her, understand what’s going on in that head of hers. Nothing in my life is more important than this woman in my arms.

  I feel sick to my stomach. Am I falling in love with her? Is that what this is? Because if so, it feels horrible. Like some sort of stomach flu or virus that makes you delirious. Is this why people call it love sick? Because you actually feel physically sick? Why would people do this over and over again? I know right now I only want to do this once.

  We have these little bugs down here. People call them love bugs because they stay connected to each other even after sex. They fly around still joined. My mom used to tell me the saying you’ve been “bit by the love bug” came from them. Have to say, it feels more like being struck over the head with a bat.

  Love struck.

  “I had a huge fight with my dad,” Sutton says, pulling me from my stupor. “I moved out.”

  “Today?”

  “I called Dylan, and she helped me move my things into a room at the hotel.”

  “Why didn’t you call me?” I ask.

  She just shrugs. “I went to Mass with my dad, like always, but then he started in on me about where I’ve been sleeping at night. I told him I was sleeping at the hotel the nights I stayed with you, but he isn’t stupid.”

  “You’re a grown woman.”

  “That’s what I told him. But it’s his house. I guess it’s hard for any father to accept his daughter is sleeping . . .”

  This is complete bullshit. She’s being punished for something we aren’t even doing. We aren’t children.

  “Baby, I’m so sorry. What can I do?”

  “Nothing, there’s nothing,” she says, wiping her cheek. “I’ve got to live my life. It ended okay. It’s just hard.”

  “That’s very mature. Personally, I’d like to . . .” She gives me a look, and I close my mouth. Am I pussy whipped now, too? Surely not? “What if I talk to him?”

  She smiles. “A man to man isn’t going to solve this.”

  “What if I start coming to Mass regularly with you two? We could have dinner occasionally after.” Who the hell am I? I used to avoid family stuff like the plague and now I’m the one suggesting it, but the thing is, I’ll do anything to make her happy. Her lips softly touch mine. “Move in with me?” The question is out of my mouth before I even realize I thought it.

  “Just like that?” she says, smiling. “After what, two weeks?”

  She has a point. It does seem fast. “Why not?”

  She looks like she’s trying not to laugh in my face. “Is this the norm for you? Women moving in quickly?”

  “I’ve never lived with anyone before.”

  Her mouth forms the cutest little O shape. “Won’t it be hard on your sex diet if we’re sharing a bed every night?”

  “Is that really what you are concerned about?”

  She shakes her head and turns away from me, watching the river flow. “I need to keep my own place, even if it is just a hotel room. We shouldn’t rush it,” she says quietly.

  “But I think I might be . . .” I swallow hard, choking on the words.

  “I know I am,” she says, smiling softly.

  I pull her back into my arms. “Me, too.”

  She runs her fingers through my hair. “It’s scary. It’s happening so fast.”

  She’s scared, too? I thought I was the only one shitting bricks over falling in love. Should I admit that? Wh
y the hell not? “It is for me, too.”

  “I know that,” she says quietly. “So I don’t need to scare you any further by throwing my tampons around your bathroom.”

  I wrinkle up my nose. “Good point, stay at the hotel that time of the month.”

  She elbows me in my side, and I laugh. “I would like to stay tonight, though.”

  I pull her lips to mine and kiss her gently. “Stay forever,” I whisper.

  *

  “So I set up the meeting with my staff for Monday,” she says, twirling her hair. “So they can officially meet my new consultant.”

  I kneel and run my fingers up the smooth skin of her legs, helping her out of her stilettos. I don’t want to talk shop right now. I want to slip her out of that red dress and explore every inch of her body for the rest of the weekend. By this point, I don’t care if she can’t touch me. I need her.

  I lean over and kiss her belly, and she shivers beneath that simple touch. Her fingers run through my hair, and I look up at her. She looks nervous. It would be easy for me to revert to my usual habits. I know she wouldn’t be hard to convince, but I also know she trusts me when most women wouldn’t, and I don’t want to lose that. So I say something I never say.

  “You’re in control here.”

  She shakes her head a little. “I don’t want control.”

  I slide up her body until I’m staring down at her and ask, “What do you want?”

  “I think you need a timeout.”

  Ugh, that’s the last thing I expected her to say. I mean, things could not be any slower. I say, “No, I’m being good.”

  “But I don’t want to be,” she whispers.

  Maybe she’s right—maybe I do need a timeout because her saying that just made my dick pulse hard.

  “I don’t want to be the reason you fail your diet,” she blushes. “And I can’t be responsible for the things I want.”

  Holy shit, things just got very real. Can I resist her if she asks? I know I can’t. It won’t matter if I just shot one off or not. I reach around to the zipper on the back of her dress. “I’ll be responsible,” I say, sliding her zipper down. “I like control.” Her chest rises and falls, her breasts swelling. “I’ll decide when you come, how you come, how many times you come.”

  “Oh, God,” she moans, her head tossing back slightly.

  Running my tongue across her neck, I tell her, “Say yes.”

  “Yes, I want that.”

  “Undress,” I order, taking a step back. Her eyes stay locked on mine, and she slides her dress to the floor. And I’ll be damned if she doesn’t have on one stitch of underwear. I can tell she wants to cover herself, but I don’t know why. She’s beautiful. “Turn.” Her eyes waver, but she slowly does a little turn. “Damn,” I say. “Perfect.” I hold out my hand. “Come to me.” She doesn’t even take a moment; she just steps right to me. I reach out and run my fingers down her neck, outlining the curve of her breast. Not big, but perfect tear-dropped shaped. I trace a path down her flat stomach, a small patch of trimmed hair greeting me. I quickly pull her to me, feeling her heat through my pants. Gripping her ass in both hands, I say, “This just might fucking kill me.” She flashes me a smile, and I release her. “Undress me.”

  Nodding slightly, she reaches inside my tux jacket and slides her hands up my shoulders and down my arms, dropping the jacket to the floor. Undoing my tie, she reaches for the top button of my dress shirt. Her hands are moving slowly. I know she’s nervous. They aren’t shaking, but she keeps pausing to steady them. She reaches the last button and slides my shirt off my shoulders before taking time to run her fingers around the muscles of my chest and abs, subtly biting her bottom lip. Maybe this will be hard on her—hard for her not to touch me. Wishful thinking on my part, perhaps?

  She runs her fingers underneath my waistband, then undoes my belt and drops to her knees, taking my pants with her. Damn if my erection isn’t level with her mouth. Thank God for my boxer briefs, but I can still feel her warm breath. Normally, I like a woman on her knees, but not today. “Stand up.” She slides up my body, her hand coming up my inner thigh, enjoying teasing me. I take her wrists and then bring her down to the bed. “I can tie you up if I need to.”

  “I want to feel you,” she whispers.

  I press my hips into hers, her heat surrounding me. “You feel me?”

  “Oh, God,” she moans out, rolling her hips under me.

  Damn it, Sutton. She’s trying to make me fail. I try to slow down. I try to stop grinding into her, but she just keeps moving faster and harder. Then it occurs to me: Dr. Lorraine never said anything specific about dry humping, but I don’t want to come in my pants like some teenage kid. I pin her legs down with mine, stopping her. “Who’s in control?”

  “You,” she breathes out.

  “Who decides when and how you come?”

  “Oh, God, you.”

  I think I do really need that timeout, but I know she’s about to combust. I can’t leave her hanging, especially after I just denied her something she wants. Shifting my weight off her, I give her pussy a gentle slap. She cries out in pleasure, her eyes flashing to me. It’s clear she’s never been spanked before, but it’s also clear she liked it. My dick pulses against the fabric of my boxers. Damn, I’d love to flick her clit with my dick right now.

  Another little slap. Another yelp. And I slide a finger deep inside her. Holy shit, she’s tight.

  I move my finger in and out slowly until she’s soaking. Then I use two fingers and slowly circle her, stretching her open, working her. She’s panting and pressing against my hand, almost frantic. I’ve never seen a woman need an orgasm so bad. Seen a woman want me so much. Then I push both fingers inside. Her breath catches for a second. “Tighten around me.” She flexes, and I feel her squeeze me firmly. Lucky me, she’s strong. “Again.”

  “Oh,” she cries out.

  “That’s it, baby. Fuck it.”

  Her hands grip my shoulders, her back arches up, her toes curl, her entire body starts trembling. “King!” she screams out.

  Where did that come from? She always calls me Pierce. But I like it. I slide my hand away and cuddle her into my chest.

  “How was that?” I feel her smile into my skin, her lips warm, and tilt her chin up. “I like my new name.”

  She blushes. “I’m not sure where that came from.”

  “Will you keep calling me that?” I ask. “Never had a pet name before.”

  She giggles. “Sure, I like it. What’s your pet name for me?”

  I act like I’m thinking hard then laugh out, “Dry Hump Queen.” She swats me playfully, and I pull her naked body over on top of me.

  She pushes into me, saying, “I feel bad.”

  There’s only so much I can take. I spank her butt and move her off me. “Let’s just make this whole weekend about you.” I tickle her, and she starts to giggle. “Who decides when you come?”

  “You,” she laughs out. I stop tickling her and look down at her naked, blushing body. “Maybe your pet name should be Cum God.”

  I laugh so hard I fall down beside her. “God, I love you.”

  Suddenly, the room gets still and quiet. What did I just do? What did I just say? I can’t really take it back now. And I don’t want to. I reach out for her, but she pulls away slightly.

  “You love me?” she asks, and I nod. “Why?”

  “Why?” I repeat sounding like an idiot.

  “Yes, why? Why do you love me?”

  Isn’t she supposed to say she loves me back? Not interrogate me! It just came out. Isn’t love a feeling? “I don’t have a checklist,” I say.

  She smiles. “People throw that phrase around all the time. Like it’s nothing. Men say it to get women into bed. You end phone conversations with a silly ‘love ya.’ Telling someone you love them shouldn’t be a blanket statement or a catchall. There should be accountability. I mean, shouldn’t you know why you love someone?”

  My dick is frustrated, m
y head is blank, and my heart doesn’t need this. It’s not enough to say the words, now I need to be able to explain it? Fuck this.

  I get up, closing the bathroom door behind me and slamming my fists down on the vanity. It’s one thing for me to say I think I might be falling in love with her, but it’s quite another to just blurt it out like that. Why did I have to say that? Things had been going so well. Damn, lack of sex is fucking everything up. I can’t even think straight.

  I’m a successful man. It all comes pretty easy to me. But not this, not her. I could fuck her like a champ, wine and dine her like she’s never seen, but the emotional stuff eludes me. Maybe I’m bad at love.

  Most people don’t want to do things they’re bad at. They avoid them at all costs instead of learning. Like I’m doing right now.

  I look at myself in the mirror. I’m being a complete wuss. I know it. And she’s right. If I’m going to say the words, I should be able to tell her why. Her ex supposedly loved her and look what he did to her. Some people use love as an excuse. In the name of love, I can do whatever the fuck I want. Just like some people think they can say they’re sorry and not really know what they’re sorry for. But the truth is, loving someone doesn’t give you a pass.

  Love gives you a responsibility. Perhaps the greatest responsibility.

  My dad never understood that. I do.

  I step out of my bathroom after a few minutes, finally ready to face her—only she’s not there. Did she leave? Her dress and heels are still on the floor, and she hasn’t come into the bathroom for clothes. The closet is off the bathroom, I’d know if she had. She’s still in the house somewhere. I could chicken out and just get in bed and go to sleep, but that seems pathetic.

  I look all around the house, unable to find her anywhere. Making a second pass through the house, I see a light on outside. Surely, she didn’t go outside naked?

  I push open the patio door and see her, her face tilted up to the moonlight, her hair wet from the pool. She’s in the water, her arms resting on the side, searching the sky for some answers. I’ve screwed this up so bad. Starting across the yard, I call out to her, my own voice sounding foreign to me. I reach the edge of the pool and kneel. She’s skinny-dipping. Not sure why I hadn’t realized that.