by Marni Mann
I was close.
My breath released in waves. I widened my legs even farther apart, and dug my heels into the side of the mattress. With every circle, I felt him exhale on my stomach. Nothing about my touch was foreign, but his stare—and likely Victoria’s—made my skin more sensitive, the experience just a bit more intense. My touch was just as much for his pleasure as mine, and I wanted my moans to be contagious. Just as my whole body began to prepare for its release, I felt his hand on mine, stopping my fingers from rubbing.
My eyes opened.
He was kneeling over me, his lips hinting at a smile. “I want both of your hands on your nipples. Squeeze them. Pull them.”
The build up between my legs died the second I removed my fingers and placed them on my breasts. I squeezed and pulled, exactly like he had ordered me to. And as I matched his smile, I twisted my nipples between my nails.
“Taste yourself,” he said.
I kept the dry hand in place, but I lifted the other toward my lips, dropping just the tips of my fingers onto my tongue. I could taste the perfume Sandy had sprayed over my body and the lotion she had lathered me with, and the sweetness that I had created. His next command was for me to return to my breasts. But my mouth was only empty for a few seconds before his finger filled it, dipping until it neared the back of my throat.
“Taste me,” he said. “Yes, baby…now suck.”
I relaxed the muscles in my throat so I wouldn’t gag and focused on the way my tongue circled, my teeth teased, my cheeks sucked. He pulled out and plunged right back in, and after the third stroke his hand traveled down my stomach and stopped at my clit. He rubbed gently at first, and my body rocked to his rhythm. My head began to hit the wood behind it. I needed to hold on, but my breasts couldn’t give that kind of stability or take all of my weight. My fingers wrapped around the wooden planks of the headboard; my toes scrunched into the mattress. The things happening inside my body—the tightening of my stomach, the melting in my chest, the building between my legs—were out of my control. When my eyes were open, I wanted to reach for him, to give him the same pleasure that he was giving me. I kept them closed. And I let go of everything—Emma, Lilly, and the bills.
“Release for me,” he moaned.
I didn’t have to concentrate. It was right there. Waiting.
His fingers moved faster, and just a little harder. “Release for—”
My body shuddered before he could get the rest of the words out. He didn’t stop, though, but he did slow until I rested flat on my back, my stomach calmed, and my breathing returned to normal. My eyes opened.
He stood at the side of the bed with his arms loosely crossed. I began to speak, but he pressed his thumb against my bottom lip to quiet me. It was the one he had used on me, still wet. I tasted myself again. An involuntary spasm cascaded up and down my spine, flowing outward from my core. By his expression—how his eyes had lit up and his mouth had spread into a grin—I could tell he had felt my tremors as well. His thumb traveled the width of my bottom lip, then the top, his index finger poked in and circled my tongue.
“Goodnight,” he whispered.
I took my eyes off his finger and looked up. “You’re leaving?” My mouth was full of him; my words were muffled.
“I’ll see you again.”
Just as he pulled away, I grabbed his hand between my palms. My eyes met his, almost begging him to stay. He smiled, nodded, and then he was gone.
He left me reaching for shadows.
CHAPTER NINE
I sat in the last row of the classroom as my summer term professor lectured about the basic elements of form. I glanced around the room at my fellow schoolmates. My eyes couldn’t travel through their skin; nor could they pierce the murkiness of their souls to reveal the secrets that lived beneath. Yet I knew they all had a bit of darkness inside of them. Everyone did. But could my classmates transform into a different character every evening, dress in a costume to fit that fantasy, and let a complete stranger have sex with them? Would they get wet when they thought about their previous night’s work?
Could they live two separate lives as I was doing?
I scanned the faces of each female in my class. I wondered how many of them enjoyed sex, and how many were thinking about it right now. Emma was the only girl I had ever discussed that with. Sex wasn’t something she really craved; she rarely masturbated, and when she did, the result she described wasn’t like mine. She hadn’t spent much time experimenting with her fingers; she didn’t have enough knowledge to lead someone to her likes, or the different spots on her body that would challenge the depths of her pleasure. From what she’d told me, the boys she had been with were selfish and never cared enough to give her an orgasm.
I listened to the soft banter in restaurants and coffee shops and elevators throughout the city, and I learned Emma was the majority. The women I heard discussing sex often mentioned how they denied their husbands, or how they pretended to be asleep when their boyfriends got into bed. I didn’t believe Emma or any of these women hated sex. How could anyone not want an orgasm or be too tired for pleasure? I believed every woman wanted to desire, and to be desired; it was only a matter of finding that someone who would allow her to feel it freely, to inspire it within her.
For me, that person was Tyler, the man I had lost my virginity to. He’d lived in our apartment building when he was in his twenties—early, mid, or late, he wouldn’t confirm. Not that a few years mattered, since I was only sixteen at the time. Tyler taught me the different levels of control, how to release the tension in my body, allowing him to go as deep or shallow as he wanted. He didn’t practice sexual humiliation or ever make me feel unworthy, but I could only be brought to orgasm when I was submissive to his commands.
At that age, I didn’t own any toys, and my fingers didn’t have Tyler’s reach, his speed, or power. His circular motion was more intense than my straight penetration, and the positions he placed me in hit spots that I hadn’t known existed. My time with him didn’t last long before he moved to the other side of town and into his girlfriend’s apartment. But in that short period, I’d been awakened. He plugged into my mind, and unleashed in me a desire to know my own flesh. I learned how to use my senses. He made me listen for the sounds of sex—the noise that was made when his thighs hit my skin and when he pulled out and pushed into my wetness—the smells and tastes that came from our bodies, and how to use these to build my orgasm.
That was why, even days later, I couldn’t get the sounds of Jay’s demands out of my head. The way he had tasted when I finally got the chance to pleasure him during our second encounter, how his wants had caused my whole body to shudder. The professor’s lecture flowed in and out, as fluidly as Jay had penetrated me the two additional times we’d been together. My body had built from the suspense of his commands. The unknown had made me wet; the thrill, the constant wonder of what he was going to make me do. And because I had relinquished most of my control, I was rewarded with orgasm after orgasm, a pleasure that lasted the whole night, from the moment he entered my wing to the very end of the fall. I had been with others, but Jay had been my favorite so far.
“Ms. Williams?”
Most women would want to know what Jay did for a living, if he was married, or had kids. This was why someone as handsome as Jay had a membership to the mansion. In that house, he didn’t need to answer any questions. And he could be whoever he wanted without anyone knowing or questioning him.
“Charlie!”
I shook my head to clear thoughts of Jay and the mansion from it. My eyes didn’t have to travel far to find the source of the voice. My professor stood only a few feet away, arms crossed, eyes glaring down at me.
“Yes, I’m sorry,” I said.
“I’ve divided the class into partners. Mr. Hardy is yours.”
“Partners?” I asked.
In the eight classes I’d taken at Northeastern, we had never worked in groups. We’d had critique groups, but this sounded lik
e something entirely different.
“Yes, partners,” he said. “Peer support allows you to develop connections creatively and socially. In your case, possibly even professionally.”
“Thanks, Professor.” I grabbed my bag and stood. “But who’s Mr. Hardy?”
“That would be me,” someone said from behind.
I recognized his face immediately, and then the professor’s words possibly even professionally made complete sense. Cameron Hardy’s name had been tossed around class as early as my first week at Northeastern. He had graduated eight or nine years ago, but enrolled in certain courses to keep his skills fresh. That was what I had overheard, anyway, though I wasn’t sure why he needed these courses. Cameron—who went by his first name only—was really building quite a reputation in Boston’s art scene.
“You’ll learn a lot from Mr. Hardy’s craft,” the professor said. He glanced between us, stopping a little longer on me. “And I believe Mr. Hardy could be inspired by yours.”
Cameron’s style and tone were much different than mine; he was known for his use of rich, vibrant color in abstracts. But the professor was right: there was so much I could learn from him.
“Shall we?” Cameron asked.
I nodded, silently thanking the professor for his patience and pairing, and headed toward the back of the room. Cameron walked behind me. I chose the only partition left with empty chairs. Because his legs were much longer than mine, I sat straight so he could straddle the easel.
I still couldn’t believe I had been partnered with him. This was the closest I’d ever been to a celebrity. He was one in my little world, at least.
He handed me a piece of chalk. “Impress me.”
I immediately thought of Victoria and how her eyes watched me from the monitors. Cameron’s were watching me like that now. My body reacted the same way it had before my first shift at the mansion.
“I’m really better with paint, so why don’t you go first?”
He grinned. “Pretend it’s black paint, then...in stick form.”
I moved the chalk over to the canvas, but I stopped before it hit the grain. I hated to even ask; I didn’t have a choice. “This isn’t what you probably want to hear from your partner, especially on the first day of class, but what am I supposed to be sketching? I didn’t hear the assignment.”
“I know.”
My back straightened. “You do?”
“The professor repeated your name three times.”
“Right. About that…” I exhaled the air I’d been holding in, but the nervous flutter in my stomach didn’t settle at all. “It’s an early class, and I worked late, so it’s hard to stay focused.”
When Cameron smiled, his teeth weren’t straight. They weren’t bright white, either. But his mouth wasn’t what held me; it was his eyes. They were an icy, baby blue that popped against his light caramel skin. His hair was buzzed short, each strand the same length, and it spread down his cheeks, around his chin and top lip. He was sexy...and not in a subtle way.
He leaned closer. His pupils circled the room before they landed on me. “We’re artists. We all work late.”
My face reddened and I laughed, but not for the reason he probably thought. His breath smelled of citrus. I wanted more of it.
“So…the assignment is?” I asked.
He stared at me for several seconds before his lips finally parted. “We have to paint life drawings.”
“Of each other?”
He nodded, and a hint of a smile spread toward his eyes. “We’re supposed to model in different colored lights.”
“I’m going to be your model?”
“Sounds like you’re having a hard time understanding the assignment.”
“No, I understand it perfectly.” I grinned. My teeth weren’t perfect either, but at least they gleamed now from Sandy’s polish. “But the only life drawings I’ve done have been with naked models.”
“You don’t want to get naked for me?” he asked.
“Do you want to get naked for me?” I asked back.
He let out a laugh. It was honest and refreshing, and despite the thought of stripping for him without wearing a mask, my whole body started to relax.
“Why don’t we meet tomorrow night?” he asked. “We can start slowly.”
I had one more shift scheduled for this week…and it was tomorrow night.
“How about tomorrow afternoon?” I asked.
“You know this is going to take more than one session, right?”
I nodded. “Several, I would imagine.”
He smiled again. “Then tomorrow afternoon it is.”
CHAPTER TEN
I helped Lilly into bed and waited for her to get settled before I fluffed the pillows and pulled the blanket up to her chin. She had just returned from a three-night stay in the hospital; the doctors had tried to determine why she was excreting so much blood, and the spot it was coming from. We were sent home with a shorter life expectancy and three new prescriptions that required multiple doses per day. She wasn’t lucid enough to take her meds while I was at work. I wasn’t sure if she even had the will to, and I didn’t trust any of her bar buddies to dispense them.
I had her take a sip of water, and then moved into my room, closing her door behind me. My cell phone sat on top of the bed. I picked it up, squeezed it into my palm, and threw it on the mattress. Why wasn’t there another option? Someone besides Dallas who I could call? It had been such a long time since I’d needed help from anyone. I hated that I needed it now, and that the help was actually for Lilly.
But it was my fault that I didn’t have anyone else to call. Before the accident, it had always been just Emma and me. We occasionally hung out with other girls, mostly during lunch and when we partied on the weekends, but they were just social acquaintances. Several of those girls had called after the funeral and invited me out. I declined. I didn’t want anyone but Emma.
A few months later, they all went away to school and forgot about me.
I’d studied with a bunch of my college classmates over the years. But art was all we had in common, and nothing ever developed from those meetings. And the people I worked with remained co-workers, not friends, because I didn’t want the two to mingle. Emma had been my one constant for so long, my stability, the expected in my life. She was my family. Lilly had showed me that forever didn’t exist, that I couldn’t hold onto anything. Emma had confirmed that. I didn’t need that kind of pain again, the blame, the loss of love. I didn’t need more friends to rapidly exit my life. I had men for that.
“Hello?” Dallas said after the first ring. I was surprised that he had answered since my new number showed up as private on called ID.
“It’s me.” I paused, waiting for his response. “It’s—”
“Where are you calling me from?”
“I got a new cell.”
“I wish you had told me that, and that you’d quit the hotel, too.”
“You went there?”
“After I learned your number had been given to someone else, I did. I stopped by one night, hoping we could talk.”
I paced the small space between my bed and easel. I should have known Dallas would have done something like this, that he cared enough to want to know if I was all right. I didn’t think to give him my new number, but I must not have wanted him out of my life all together. And I must have thought of him as something more than just an ex if I was calling him for a favor.
“I was offered a better opportunity,” I said.
He laughed. I knew him well enough to know that sound wasn’t because he thought my words were funny. Did I miss that noise, or only his moans?
“Does he fuck you as good as I did?”
“It wasn’t that kind of offer.” Not entirely, anyway.
He sighed. “You’re calling because you want something. What can I do for you, Cee?”
“You know I wouldn’t ask unless it’s important.”
“I know.”
“Will you come over?”
“To your apartment?” He sounded surprised, and he should have been. It was a question I had never asked him before.
“Yes,” I said, and gave him the address.
He hesitated. “I’ll be there in ten.”
***
I ran to our front door as soon as I heard the knock. The buzzer downstairs was broken and the landlord had never bothered to fix it, so he kept the main door unlocked. Dallas stood on the other side of the entryway; his hazel eyes pierced mine. The outline of his muscles pushed through his white T-shirt and the wife-beater that he wore underneath. Both arms were covered in tattoo sleeves. The top of his hair was longer than the sides, gelled, and combed to the back with a slight poof in the front. I repeated to myself, He’s here to help Lilly, over and over in my head. The tingling didn’t stop.
“Do you want to come in?” I asked.
He moved inside, facing me as I shut the door.
I took a deep breath and turned around. I knew his expression; he wore it whenever I gave him words…words that I knew he wouldn’t want to hear. “I need help with Lilly.”
“I figured.”
“If you can’t do it, I won’t be upset—”
“You know I’ll do anything to help you. That’s why I’m here.”
I nodded, and walked gingerly to her room. I had become almost immune to the scent, but I could feel the moment that it hit him. His reaction was the same as mine. He came to a halt, trying to settle his stomach and reverse his watering mouth without showing any outward signs that he felt sick from it. Lilly’s body was decaying, slowly shutting down, and with that came an odor, mixed with her daily accidents, her breath and her unwashed skin.
“It’s hard for her to swallow pills,” I said as we stood by her bed, “so I crush them and sprinkle them on ice cream. Don’t let her hold the spoon.”