by Penny Reid
I started the movie, and the Star Wars theme came on, giving me little chills like it always did.
When, at last, we climbed into our blanket fort—completely sheltered and hidden from any cameras that might be loitering about—Alex snuggled behind me and brazenly placed his hand on my bottom. He caressed it, rubbed it, squeezed it, and breathed hotly in my ear, “Let’s make out.”
Gah! This was not part of my plan. I turned just my head over my shoulder to look at him. “But what about the movie?”
He chuckled quietly. “Fine, you can watch the movie. But I’m going to do this….”
His hand slipped under my shirt and palmed my breast. He moaned and bit my neck. I had no choice but to arch my back and press myself into his capable hand.
My underwear and his pants stayed on as reminders of no-go zones. But all other territories were breached, explored, tasted, touched, caressed, licked, bit, and pinched. And we didn’t stop until Han Solo got his medal from Princess Leia.
I made out with Alex for two hours, while Star Wars played in the background, under a blanket fort, on the floor of my living room.
And life was good.
***
WE FELL ASLEEP in each other’s arms shortly after the movie ended. But when I awoke in the middle of the night, Alex was gone. I laid under the blanket fort for a few minutes, stretching and thinking about getting up and going to bed.
I thought about our make-out sessions. I compared them to the best sex I’d had thus far, and Alex won, probably because, with Alex, everything took hours. He was a savorer, a relisher. He took his time, used my body to experiment, determined that every inch must be tasted—every inch but the very center.
You know, the best inch.
I squeezed my eyes shut, pressed the base of my palms in my sockets, and shook my head.
The desire for a real mattress became too alluring. I stood and took my comforter with me back to my room. The digital clock by the bed read 2:41. I wondered what time he’d left.
My movements were sluggish as I meandered to the bathroom, intent on brushing my teeth—better late than never. I stood at the sink for several minutes reliving Alex’s hot kisses before remembering why I was there.
I was about to leave and hide under my covers when a thought occurred to me. Tentatively, I pushed back the shower curtain and scanned the tile. Sure enough, a white rectangle of paper was taped just under the showerhead.
I snatched it and flicked on the light in the bathroom, blinking against the sudden brightness.
Remembering that cameras might be everywhere, I curved my hands around it so that only I could see it, and read what he had written:
Dear Sandra,
I can’t make our date tomorrow. Meet me at our place in the sky Saturday at six.
Love, Alex
I stared at the words he’d written. Reread the note maybe one hundred times. Each time I got to the Love, Alex part, my heart skipped a few beats, then galloped.
I thought about quacking like a duck at myself—because that felt like the only thing to do when faced with someone who was so obviously insane.
CHAPTER 22
Saturday’s Horoscope: Throw everything in your arsenal at the problem that faces you. It’s the only way you’ll win the prize you most desire.
PER ALEX’S NOTE earlier in the week, I expected him Saturday at the unattainable apartment otherwise known as Cloud City.
And Alex had some explaining to do.
The week crawled by after he’d absconded on Wednesday. There was no sign of Agent Bell. In fact, there was no sign of anyone. Everything was completely normal. It was the quietest few days in recent memory, and I hated every minute of it.
I was given a glimpse—albeit a short glimpse—of what life was like without Alex, what it would be like if we were to break up. I discovered that I missed him terribly. I pined for him, longed for him, thought of him constantly, dreamed of him at night.
I checked with Mr. Patel to see if Alex had left any messages. He hadn’t. I discovered why when Mr. Patel volunteered that Alex was out of town.
I exited the restaurant feeling lost and sad. I went home, applied mascara, watched Steel Magnolias, and engaged in a successful cry. I chastised myself for ever judging the characters harshly. Drama and heartbreak sucked, but they made life real.
Afterward, I resolved to pry the truth from Alex no matter what it took…all the truth…and nothing but the truth.
I had no lunch date with Thomas on Saturday afternoon as he had once again cancelled. I didn’t have the mental energy required to reflect on his strange behavior, so I arrived to Cloud City early and made preparations for the evening’s torture.
Because I fully intended to torture Alex into submission. After a week away, he would bend to my will, confess all, and—when he did—I’d…well, I didn’t know what I would do.
Hopefully, we’d end the evening with him joining the six-inch deep club.
I’d never been with a virgin before, but I remembered my first time. It had been awful, even though my seventeen-year-old partner had been slow and gentle. The problem was that he was too solicitous. He kept stopping, and then he’d get a flat tire, and then we’d have to start all over again. I’d just wanted to get it over with.
It was like driving to Walmart with my grandparents. They meant well, but God save us all when either of them got behind the wheel of a car with a stick shift. Every time the need arose to switch gears, the car would stall.
Obviously, I prepared myself for Alex’s lack of experience. It might be awkward and fast, but that was a necessary step. Once the first time was behind us, we could move forward with his education. I had no doubt that, under my tutelage, he’d do quite well.
Quite, quite well. Yes.
As the meal baked in the oven, I took advantage of the lull. I exploited the bathtub Janie had mentioned some weeks ago during knit night. She was right. The bathtubs were amazing. I briefly considered what organs I would have to sell in order to move into the apartment. I guessed all of them.
I was dressed and ready when he arrived. The man-knits—hat, scarf, gloves—were wrapped in Darth Vader wrapping paper I’d secured from Thinkgeek. I’d tucked it behind the blender in the kitchen to hide it, because I wanted to present the gift to him at an opportune moment.
Of course I was wearing my compelling red dress, thigh-high stockings, borrowed zebra print stilettos, black pushup bra, and nothing else.
This was war.
When he knocked, I experienced a jolt of excitement, a bolt of adrenaline, and I rushed to open the door. I tugged it open, giant smile on my face, and found my mouth dry. Alex was wearing a suit, a dark grey suit, with a white dress shirt—unbuttoned at the collar—and no tie. And he’d shaved.
Well…zing.
However, scoring a point in my favor, I recovered first, likely because I was distracted by the bunch of red roses he held in his grip. His eyes were still hungrily devouring my legs when I found my voice.
“Hey, handsome. That’s some suit.”
He didn’t lift his eyes to my face—so score one for the compelling red dress—and when he responded, his voice was distracted. “I just got in.”
“Got in?”
“Yes.” He said nothing else and made no move to actually come in the apartment. So I reached forward, tugged on his lapel, and brought his lips to mine for a quick kiss.
“I missed you,” I said, and waited until I witnessed recognition and understanding in his eyes.
“I missed you too.”
“It’s difficult, not being able to talk to you when you’re away.”
He nodded, swallowed. “Hopefully, we won’t have to worry about that again.”
“Oh? Why is that?”
His eyes, as if they disobeyed a direct order from his brain—because his brain was working overtime trying to focus—moved to my mouth, neck, cleavage.
He licked his lips. “Something smells good.”
&nbs
p; I couldn’t help my smile of satisfaction. “Dinner is ready.”
He didn’t respond. Instead, he continued to stare at me, his eyes a little lost. I grinned very, very wickedly.
“Unless you want to skip dinner….”
He stiffened, like sense had been smacked into him, and held the flowers out between us like a shield. “These are for you.”
I chuckled inwardly. Like a lamb to the slaughter.
“Thanks.” I took the flowers. “Come in; I’ll put these in water, then we can eat.”
I left him standing in the doorway and noted that he didn’t immediately enter. When he did, he didn’t immediately shut the door. When he did, he didn’t immediately follow me into the dining room.
Speaking of lamb, I’d prepared lamb for dinner: lamb with figs and balsamic demi-glaze, candied fig and cucumber salad, roasted rosemary potatoes with dried figs.
The table was set, wine was poured, and I brought our warm plates from the kitchen as he walked into the dining room.
“It’s so good to see you. I know I already said so, but I really missed you.” I wanted to grab him and bite him and touch him all over. Instead, I motioned to his chair with a tip of my head and said, “Sit.”
He did, but he didn’t look at me. I also noted that something about him was different, and it wasn’t just the suit. Abruptly I registered that the faux-hawk was gone; his hair was now cut in a respectable spiky do.
“What happened to your hair?”
He shrugged, speared a potato. “This looks good.”
“Alex.”
He licked his lips, chewed, sipped from a glass of water.
“Alex.” I tried to impart my concern rather than my impatience. I missed him—like, missed him. We had only missed one date, but something about him being out of town and unreachable made me crazy. To add to my bewilderment, other than the hot perusal at the front door, he was acting like we’d seen each other earlier today.
His eyes lifted, met mine, and held them. I opened my mouth to question him again about his hair, but he spoke first.
“Sandra, you look amazing. I don’t know—I can’t adequately express how good it is to see you. I’m having a little trouble right now. So, if you could just give me a minute to collect my thoughts, that would be great.”
I pressed my lips together to keep my monster smile at bay. They weren’t the words I thought I wanted to hear, but they were surprisingly perfect.
Therefore, I nodded and turned my attention to my dinner.
I said, “The potatoes are good.”
He dutifully nodded his agreement and ate everything on his plate, though he had none of the wine. Since he didn’t seem ready to discuss anything related to his trip, hair, or suit, I kept our conversation light; though it was saturated with delightful innuendo:
Me: “Thank you for coming.”
Him: “Thank you for having me.”
Me: “Well, I haven’t actually had you yet.”
Him: “Then I guess, by your definition, I haven’t actually come yet.”
And,
Him: “What’s the lamb stuffed with?”
Me: “Figs.”
Him: “And what’s this with the potatoes?”
Me: “Figs.”
Him: “I see. Then I’m guessing the figs are also in the cucumbers?”
Me: “No, Alex. Cucumbers go in figs, not the other way around.”
This earned me a barely stifled snort and a charming eye roll. I was pleased to see that he was relaxing.
The last exchange was both my most and least favorite. It occurred when I served dessert, which was comprised of fresh half figs, goat cheese, and honey.
When I placed the plate in front of him, he actually choked a little then coughed to cover it up. His eyes were as large as half dollars, and I understood why. The figs had been mostly disguised in all the other dishes, but the half-cut fresh figs on his plate now were positively indecent.
I made the experience all the more indecent by selecting the largest fig from my plate. I then licked the center of the fig very, very slowly and sucked at it noisily. “Mmm…try one.”
Much to my infinite satisfaction, Alex’s hand holding his fork became white knuckled. He no longer appeared to be amused.
Good.
I continued to lick the center of the fig, my eyes heavily lidded, my breathing purposefully deep and slow. I had him completely captivated, so close to the edge.
I withdrew my foot from my spiked heel and found his leg under the table, caressed his calf with the tip of my toe. He jumped, flinched, banged his knee on the table, then cursed at the contact. The spell was broken.
I laughed at his overreaction, leaned back in my chair, and popped the fig in my mouth. I washed it down with the last of my wine.
He surveyed me from across the small table. He did not look pleased. In fact, he looked positively dangerous. I recalled our first date, over a month ago now. When I’d pushed, he’d pushed back. I was hoping for that kind of action now, and counting on it. I could feel his resolve crumble, I almost taste my victory. My body was humming from all the wine, suggestive conversation, and Alex’s dark look.
Then, he pushed back, but in typical Alex form, he did the unexpected.
He glanced at his plate. Using his fingers, he swiped a fig across a thick drizzling of honey, and—much like I had done only moments before—he trapped my gaze with his and licked the inside of the half fig.
My attention moved to the indecent movements of his mouth, and all was lost; his tongue was unhurried and immodest. I could not look away.
“I eat it like this?” he asked in his sexy, growly voice.
My breath caught.
My hands fisted.
I may have whimpered.
When his entire tongue made an appearance—and not in a clumsy kind of way, but in a sensual, I-am-in-complete-control-and-know-exactly-what-I’m-supposed-to-do kind of way—I almost died. Instinctively, I pressed my legs together, and for the first time that evening, I wished I’d opted to wear sweat pants and my No Sex is Safe Sex T-shirt.
Alex must’ve received the reaction he was looking for because he chuckled—a deep, rumbly, masculine sound—and the half fig disappeared behind his lips, though, evil man that he was, he licked his fingers with flourish.
“Mmm…” he hummed, “you know how much I like the taste of honey.”
My eyes lifted to his and found them daring and dark and not at all safe. I expelled an unsteady breath and forced my hands to relax.
“That wasn’t very nice.”
“Oh? Are we being nice now?”
“Yes. I wasn’t sucking on a banana, was I?”
The intensity of his expression mellowed just a fraction, but mostly he still looked dangerous. “Sandra, watching you lick a fig, sitting less than four feet away, dressed like that, is the definition of not being nice.”
I smiled sweetly at him. “But you liked it. Didn’t you, Mr. Bond?”
He did not return my smile. Instead, he wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin, placed it on the table, and leaned back in his chair. “Tell me something.”
I waited for him to continue with his request. When he didn’t, I asked, “Tell you what?”
“I don’t know. Tell me anything. Tell me something I would never guess about you. Tell me your biggest secret.”
The words carried some weight, seriousness, importance that I couldn’t at that moment grasp. Therefore, because he’d asked, and because I wanted his honesty, his confessions so deeply, I told him my biggest secret.
I cleared my throat, squared my shoulders, and sat upright in the chair. “Okay... I used to be a phone sex operator.”
To my astonishment, Alex didn’t look at all surprised. In fact, he was perfectly expressionless. I guessed his lack of visible reaction meant he didn’t understand what I meant.
I steadied myself to explain. “It’s a person who talks on the phone to….”
“I know what a
phone sex operator is.”
“Well, you didn’t know what Rickrolling was. How am I supposed to know what modern vices are in your scope of familiarity? I’m not a dirty mind reader.”
Not even a smile. He swallowed and studied the dishes on the table. “When? When were you a phone sex operator?”
“When I was a freshman in college.”
“And?”
“And….” I shrugged, “the entire experience was fascinating. I learned a great deal about human nature—some good, some bad—but mostly I learned that very few people are truly unique in their motivations and desires.”
“Your findings are hardly reliable. Sex phone customers don’t make up a random sampling of the general population and, therefore, any extrapolations you’ve made are faulty due to selection bias.”
“Don’t get your hozen in a twist, Professor Freud. I wasn’t talking about specific desires and motivations; of course most of the people were pervs. I was speaking in a broader sense.” I waved my arms around in large, sweeping motions; I hoped the movement emphasized the expression broader sense.
“Pervs? Is that the clinical term?”
“No.” I glared at the table. “It’s not in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. But it should be.”
I waited for a beat, picked an errant piece of potato from the tablecloth, then lifted my eyes to his.
He was looking at me, but not looking at me. His gaze was unfocused, narrowed, and I assumed he was absorbing this information.
I continued unprompted. “It actually pays quite well, and most of the calls were at night, typically the same kind of thing. I could study while I worked, and I was pretty good at it.”
He appeared torn, as if he was wrestling with his expectations of who he thought I was and who I might actually be.
Belatedly, he said, “I find this very hard to believe.”
“I know. It’s pretty unbelievable. I have two friends who stripped through medical school. I have another friend who dropped out of a full-ride master’s program at Cornell to enter the adult film industry. I know another woman who, after graduating from Yale law with top honors, became a nonprofit lawyer for undocumented immigrants. She could have done anything, worked for anyone, made millions—instead she chose poverty and righteousness. Look at you—you’re a computer hacker whose every move is being monitored by the federal government.