S.E.C.R.E.T.: An Erotic Novel

by L. Marie Adeline

  In the end it wasn’t the special late-night delivery or the accident that took me by surprise. It was this. This kiss. Suddenly he had me against the cool tile wall of the kitchen, his firm body pressing hard enough to let me know that he meant it; Jesus, I could feel him getting hard. A second later, my shirt was off and tossed on top of his hoodie on the floor. There had been no kissing the first two times and I hadn’t missed it. But this, this was something else. My knees softened to the point where he had to move his hands to my waist to prevent me from collapsing to the floor. When had I ever been kissed like this, with just the right amount of urgency? Never in my life.

  His tongue explored my mouth, with a need that matched my own. He tasted faintly like my favorite kind of cinnamon gum. After a few more seconds of deep kissing, he gently bit my bottom lip, and then his beautiful mouth moved from mine down the side of my neck, searching and kissing and finally landing on a spot just above my collarbone. He kissed me there, demandingly, which made me sigh. His hands seemed to pave the way for his mouth, so after they had freed my breasts from my bra, his mouth eagerly followed. His mouth traveled over one nipple until its hardness sent him searching for the other one, while he slipped a hand down the front of my jeans to discover what I had suspected was true: I was completely wet. He stopped kissing me and held my gaze while his fingers explored me, his eyes glassy and intense. Then he took his hand out of my pants and put a finger into his mouth. I thought I would come right then.

  “I’m starving. Get these jeans off, will you? I’ll set the table.”

  The feral look in his eyes, the layer of sweat sheening his perfect body, the hangdog smile. My God, this boy had me. I looked around at the creamy sweet carnage smeared all over the floor.

  “Here? In the kitchen?” I asked, pulling my belt loose.

  “Right here.” And with a sweep of his tattooed arm, he cleared the rest of the debris off Dell’s stainless steel table. The metal bowls, the pots and pans, the whisks and plastic utensils all went clattering to the floor. Then he grabbed a checkered tablecloth from the shelf beneath and flung it across the metal top. I stepped out of my jeans and stood there with my arms crossed over my nakedness.

  “Know what’s for dessert?” he said, turning to face me, an eyebrow cocked. “You.”

  He took a few steps towards me and enveloped me in his arms, kissing me again. Then he gently lifted me onto the table and left me there, legs dangling. I watched him walk over to the walk-in fridge and disappear inside.

  “Let’s see now …” he said. He emerged with an armful of containers and the whipped cream dispenser.

  “What on earth are you doing?” I asked.

  “Close your eyes and lie back.”

  And with that, he moved to my ankles, circled them with his hands and yanked me to the bottom edge of the table. Then he parted my legs with embarrassing ease. I let out a giggly scream that came to a stunned halt when he squirted whipped cream in the middle of my belly button. Then he squirted two dollops on each nipple and regarded his work earnestly.

  “What are you doing!”

  “Making dessert. I’m a pastry chef in real life, if you can believe it. Let’s see … one more …” And with that, he drew a line of whipped cream from my belly button all the way down. Then he grabbed the container with the chocolate icing and gently dolloped some of that on me. He reached over and took a single maraschino cherry and placed it over my belly button. I tried to stop giggling but couldn’t. It was all cold and ticklish and also incredibly hot. He gave his work a long look, then bent and closed his mouth over my belly button, took in the cherry and licked the cream clean off. Then he smeared the icing across my breasts, while his mouth made its eager descent. His sticky hands soon followed, crossing my torso, my stomach, then parting my legs. His tongue was hot and lush. At first he just lapped, not touching me directly, and I felt I would die if he didn’t. Then, finally, he closed his mouth around me, moving it around and around, soft, hot, sticky, sending me into a narcotic haze. I felt his fingers tickle around the outside of me, their firmness complementing his soft, wet licks as he cleaned all the cream off me. I was aching for it like never before. He pulled me so quickly to the brink that I had to grasp the sides of the table to stabilize myself.

  Then he stopped.

  “Why are you stopping?” I gasped, breathless. I looked down at his hungry eyes, the back of his hand wiping the cream off his cheek.

  “Cassie, could you feel what I was doing with my tongue?”

  Um, yeah. I could definitely feel what he was doing. It was making me crazy.

  “Yes,” I said as calmly as I could.

  “I want you to do that with your fingers. In front of me. For me.”

  “You want me to what?” I felt drunk as I looked at him, his face still adorably smeared with whipped cream.

  “I want to watch you touch yourself,” he said.

  “But … I don’t know how, really. I suck at it. I can get started, but then I feel … I don’t know … and with you watching, I—”

  “Give me your hand.”

  I reluctantly placed my hand in his. He held it firmly, guiding it to where I was hot and wet. He isolated my index finger. He placed it gently on me, and using his mouth there, he made me newly wet. His hand guided my finger in circles, his tongue darting around me. Oh God, it was incredible.

  “I don’t know what tastes better, you or the cream,” he said.

  Once I found the rhythm, he let go of my hand and my own fingers continued, while he gently moved his mouth over me. His hands grabbed the insides of my thighs, pressing them down into the table. He stopped for a second and watched me. I was on the very edge of ecstasy. I flung my head back, trying to take it all in, these sensations. He watched as I touched myself. Then his mouth soon joined my fingers.

  “You feel that? You like that?” he said, between feverish licks.

  “Oh yeah,” I said, feeling every pulse and matching it with my own. I wasn’t sure where the orgasm was building, but it was coming from someplace new, someplace deep, his wet tongue pulling something out of the very core of me. He pushed his fingers into me until they couldn’t go any deeper, and as his other hand pressed my thighs open, pleasure ignited every fiber of my body. He sensed all the energy building inside me.

  “Holy shit,” I said, almost afraid of what was about to happen, like it was all going to be too much, and that’s when the white hotness shot through me, forcing my hips higher, his cue to take over, pushing my hand away, kissing and licking me with vigor. The rush was so strong, it made me feel like I had to hold on to something, anything, for dear life.

  “OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod” was all I could muster, writhing on the slippery table, not caring if I crashed over the side, dizzy with bliss. He clutched me, holding everything very still, until he could tell I was coming down off from the precipice. And when my orgasm subsided, he gently wiped his face on the inside of my thighs.

  “That was … wow … really strong, Cassie. I could feel it.”

  “Yes. It was,” I said, flinging my arm over my forehead like I’d just woken from a dream.

  “Wanna do it again?”

  I laughed. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to do that again.”

  He peeled himself off me, grabbed a couple of towels from below the table and soaked them for a few seconds in warm water at the sink by the fridge.

  “Oh, you will.”

  “Where’d they find you?” I asked, slowly sitting up.

  “Who?”

  I let my legs dangle over the side of the table as he returned to me and began gently cleaning the stickiness off me with a warm towel. “The women from S.E.C.R.E.T.”

  “I’m not allowed to say, unless you become a member.”

  He brought the other towel to my face and hands. He was thorough and gentle at the same time.

  “Do you have kids?” I asked, out of nowhere.

  There was a long pause. “I have … a son. We’re doin
g too much talking, Cassie.”

  I could totally picture his son, a little boy who looked exactly like him but with bigger cheeks and no tattoos.

  “Do they pay you to do this?”

  He was wiping my arms, the towel turning over the soft skin on my wrists. “ ’Course not. They don’t need to pay me to do what I just did. I’d do that for you anytime.”

  “So what’s in it for you?”

  He stopped then, my hand in the towel. He looked sternly into my face for a few seconds. “You really don’t know, do you.”

  “Know what?”

  “How beautiful you are.”

  I was speechless, my heart near to bursting. I had no choice but to believe him. He seemed so sincere. He finished wiping me and then tossed the dirty towels over his shoulder. He plucked his hoodie off the floor. He passed me my clothes and we both got dressed, mostly.

  “Let me help you clean up,” he said, kicking an empty garbage pail to the center of the room. It took us ten minutes to toss all the broken boxes, salvaging two. I filled a pail with hot water to wash the floor and I told him I could do the rest.

  “Don’t want to, but I gotta go now. Those are the rules. Thanks for dessert. And the cracked rib. And the broken elbow,” he said, inching towards me. He hesitated at first, and then he stepped forward and placed a firm kiss on my lips.

  “You’re cool,” he said.

  “You’re cool too,” I said, surprised to hear myself say it out loud. “Will I see you again?”

  “It’s possible. But the odds are against me.”

  Then he backed out of the kitchen door, winked and left the Café. I watched him trot down the darkened street, the door chimes ringing goodbye.

  I thought I had gotten rid of all the evidence. But there in the bright light of the next morning, I watched as Dell went over the stainless steel with a cloth and some special solvent. Maybe it was my imagination, but while she worked it was almost as if she was shooting me an admonishing look, one that said: I don’t know how a butt print got on my table, but I am not about to ask.

  I scanned the kitchen for my tray and, when I found it, bolted out the door to the dining room, only to run into another set of equally accusatorial eyes, this time Matilda’s. She was sitting stock-still at table eight. I made my way towards her.

  “What are you doing here?” I whispered, looking around.

  “What do you mean, Cassie? This is one of my favorite cafés in New Orleans. Do you have a second to chat?”

  “I only have a second,” I said, lying, dropping a menu on the table. “It’s been so busy. We’ve been down a waitress, and I’ve been working like a dog.”

  Truthfully, I was avoiding this conversation with Matilda because I was worried I’d broken the rules by talking to last night’s man for too long and asking too many personal questions. I looked around the nearly empty restaurant. The breakfast crowd wouldn’t hit for another half hour. Will was probably still at Tracina’s, knowing I was scheduled for the breakfast shift. I slid into the chair, feeling guilty, but for what I didn’t know.

  “Did you have fun last night? With Jesse?” she asked.

  “Jesse? That’s his name?” Butterflies roused in my stomach.

  “Yes. Jesse. First of all, I’m sorry if you were at all taken aback by his late arrival.”

  “It all worked out. Really well, actually,” I said, looking down. “I … liked him.”

  “That’s the other thing I’m here for. I think you’ve left an impression on him too, Cassie.”

  My heart leapt a little at the idea, and yet it was also flooded with the strange improbability of it all.

  “Listen, it happens sometimes. People make a connection. Something clicks, and people want to know a little bit more about each other. So. What I can tell you is this: I can facilitate a meeting between you and Jesse. But if that’s your choice, you’d be done. Your journey would end at Step Three. You’d be out of S.E.C.R.E.T. So would he.”

  I gulped.

  “Truthfully,” she added. “I didn’t think Jesse is your type. I mean, he’s sexy, but he’s …”

  “Married?”

  “Divorced. But I can’t say anything more than that, Cassie. You think about it. I’ll give you a week.”

  “Is he … Does he … want to see more of me?”

  “Yes. He does,” she said, a little sadly. “He’s made that clear. Listen, Cassie. I can’t tell you what to do, but I will say this: you’re thriving. I can see it. I’d hate to see you stop this momentum for a man you know nothing about, so soon into your journey, based on one great night.”

  “Does it happen a lot?”

  “Many women do end self-exploration prematurely. Most regret it. Not just in S.E.C.R.E.T. but in life.”

  Matilda placed her hand over mine, just as Will made his hurried way from the kitchen through the dining area, past us to where Tracina was attempting to parallel-park his truck in a small spot on the street in front of the restaurant. Even from where I was sitting, I could see it was a bad idea.

  “Jesus! Stop! I told you to wait for me!” he yelled out the door.

  I couldn’t make out what Tracina said in reply, but it was loud and animated; the truck was askew and blocking traffic out front.

  This is what it’s like to have a boyfriend, I thought, and this is what it’s like to be someone’s girlfriend. You spend your days careening between bliss and disappointment, love and a bit of loathing, your every action weighed against the approval and disapproval of someone else. You don’t own them and they don’t own you, yet you’re responsible for their every want and desire, some you can satisfy, some you never, ever will. Did I want that right now? Did I want to be some man’s girlfriend? Did I even know anything about this man Jesse? A tattooed pastry chef who lives God-knows-where and has a kid? Sure, we had chemistry. But still. I hardly knew him!

  Just as I was going over all of these things in my mind, outside the window I saw Tracina get out of the awkwardly parked truck and slam the door. I watched her as she dangled the keys in front of Will’s face and then threw them at his feet.

  Will picked up the keys and stood still for a few seconds, staring straight ahead.

  “You know what?” I said, turning to Matilda once more. “I don’t need any more time to think this through. I know what I want to do. I want more. I want S.E.C.R.E.T.”

  Matilda smiled. She gently placed my Step Three charm in my hand and patted it shut. “Jesse forgot to give this to you. But I think I’m the right person to offer it.”

  I looked at the word on the charm: Trust. Yes. But did I trust that I had made the right choice?

  Three weeks after my near resignation, my Step Four card arrived the old-fashioned way, by mail. I took the stairs back up to my apartment two at a time, feeling as excited to see those envelopes as I did contemplating the fantasies. It was like getting an invitation to an amazing party every month. Thoughts of Jesse would creep in now and again, mostly leaving me marveling that S.E.C.R.E.T. had picked him, a tattooed pastry chef, as my “type.” But they were right. It made me realize that I’d chosen men, crushes, dates from such a narrow field. But I didn’t regret my decision to stay in S.E.C.R.E.T. I was discovering too much about myself to stop now. Still, sometimes a memory of his arms, his wicked smile, would flash cross my mind and send a shiver through my whole body.

  I ripped open the manila envelope. The smaller, more ornate one slipped out. My Step Four card. The word Generosity was elegantly printed on the back. Inside was an invitation for a home-cooked meal at the Mansion on the second Friday of the month. The Mansion. A home-cooked meal. Generosity indeed! The dress code, however, seemed weirdly specific: Please wear black yoga pants, a plain white T-shirt, hair in a ponytail, sneakers, very little makeup. A part of me was a little disappointed that I’d be going to the Mansion but wouldn’t be allowed to wear something ultra-sexy or sophisticated. Oh well, at least I wouldn’t have to go shopping beforehand. And at least I would finally
be going to the Mansion, this mythical place that had seized my imagination in both good and slightly scary ways.

  My thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. Will! I had promised him I would go with him to a restaurant supply auction in Metairie. We needed new trays, new chairs to replace the constantly fraying ones, and a sturdier prep table as ours had become mysteriously tippy. Will was also on the lookout for a dough mixer and a deep-fryer so we could start making our own pastries and maybe even beignets. Normally he would have asked Tracina to go with him, but her ankle was still on the mend. She didn’t need crutches anymore, but she was nevertheless limping around the dining room, making Will feel guilty about the accident. She even jokingly suggested that had she not been dating him, she might have sued. I’m not sure she was kidding. I was to be Will’s substitute girlfriend for the day.

  “Be right there!” I yelled.

  I shoved the envelope into my folder, slipped the folder between my mattresses and raced to the door, interrupting Will’s second knock. He had on one of the shirts I loved best on him, a muted red button-up that Tracina had bought. As much as she bugged me, I had to admit she was getting him to dress a lot better, had even convinced him to cut his hair a bit shorter.

  “Hi! Right. Come in.”

  “I’m double-parked. Just come down when you’re ready. You didn’t hear my honking?”

  “Sorry, no, I was … vacuuming.”

  Will glanced around my disheveled place, my unvacuumed living room. “Right,” he said. “I’ll be downstairs.”

  Will was distant and distracted on the short trip, changing the radio station whenever a song he didn’t like came on, or if a good one was followed by a loud commercial.

  “You seem jumpy,” I said.

  “I’m a little off, I guess.”

  “What’s got you feeling off?”

  “What do you care?”

  “What do you mean ‘what do you care’? I’m your friend. Thought I’d ask.”

  Will was silent for half a mile after that. I eventually turned away from him to take in the scenery. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. “Are things with you and Tracina okay? I saw the little tiff over the car the other day.”