I can’t quite read her. It’s almost like she’s mocking me.
She places her hands over mine, as if wanting to put an end to my confusion, and helps me release the catch on the straps of her overalls. As the straps fall, she lowers my hands to her bare breasts and it feels like I’ve come upon treasure. It’s too much good fortune to have her beautiful tits in my grasp.
“What do you want with a guy like me, Jules?” I ask. Though I’m not going to be the one to stop this, I’m curious how we got here. I pull my hands away only enough to be able to rub my thumbs over her hardened nipples.
Her reply is clear in both action and words. She places her hand over my crotch and says, “I can think of only one thing at the moment.”
That’s enough to set off another torrent of kisses. Unlike before, when we were at the park, we have nothing to hold us back and we’ve soon stripped each other of all clothing. She’s slim but has a nice shape to her figure. Her small-ish breasts are firm, and she has a minimal patch of hair between her legs. While I’ve been examining her, she’s been returning the favor. I’ve never given my body much care or thought, but I know I’ve gotten a lot fitter over the last six months, and she obviously sees enough to like because I can tell she’s still that ball of need.
I know what she wants from me and I’m eager to give it to her.
She’s just as eager and that mutual desire has us reaching for each other with the same kind of desperation we had when we first connected. There’s something that happens when we touch that I can’t explain other than it feels like that first spark when a match is dragged over the strike line. Together we catch fire.
“Tell me what you’re going to do to me,” she says.
But I’m not one for talking. I’d rather show her.
I grab a handful of her ass and hold the shaft of my hard cock with the other, guiding the glistening tip to tease her clit. She moans into my mouth as I kiss her, and I feel her nails digging in the skin of my shoulders. Mirroring the quickening of her breathing, I rub her faster until playing like this makes her come with an uncontrollable cry.
As she’s recovering, I grab the condom and slip it on. Turning her by the hips, I lean her over the massage table, stretching her arms over her head so that she holds the edge to steady herself against the way I’m about to fuck her. Her face is turned to the side and I follow her gaze to see she’s watching us in the full-length mirror on the wall. She likes a show, I realize.
I test that by giving her a firm slap on the ass and see her smile in response. Without pushing myself into her, I lean forward and let the heaviness of my cock rub between her ass cheeks while I kiss and nibble her neck. Her skin is soft and sensitive to my touch. My bites leave red marks. Her whole body will be marked before I’m done.
“Give me your arms,” I tell her as I finally push into her.
Obediently, she offers her arms to me and I grab her at the elbows, bringing our hips together with a satisfying smacking of flesh each time I simultaneously thrust into her and pull her to me. In this position, I can see her tits in the mirror. We both can. She’s still watching.
I’m close, so I release her elbows and instead wrap an arm around her waist to pull her to me so we’re both standing. I lower my face to her shoulder and my other hand finds her clit again. She holds onto my hand with both of hers, guiding me in frantic movements.
And then we both find our orgasms.
10
“Tell me what heroin is like.”
We’re both lying on the massage table. I’m on my back and she’s on her side with her leg thrown over mine. We’ve just fucked each other raw and have barely reclaimed our breath when she comes up with this request.
“No,” I tell her.
She trails her fingers over my neck and down my chest. “Why not?”
“Because that’s fucked up and I’m not going to do it.” Besides, I’ve heard it before. It’s a common come on line, especially by women who are curious about trying it themselves but need a guide. Sort of like what I used to do with my party crowds. But the women who try this angle are much more dangerous because they’re usually looking to get deep into it and want to pull you along with them. Now I’ve got my answer for what she was after in being with a guy like me.
I disentangle myself from her and sit up.
“Don’t go,” she says, touching my back. “I was just curious. That’s all.”
Standing, I remove the condom, tie a knot in it, and look for a wastebasket. There’s one in the corner and I make use of it before pulling on my clothes.
“I’ve done loads of coke,” she tells me. “With your man Gavin, in fact. I just figure it’s a completely different high than heroin.”
“Is that what you figure?” The disgust is naked in my voice. I’m angry she’s turned this amazing sexcapade into something dark. I don’t want any part of it. Or at least, I don’t want any part in recognizing that what she really wanted was less to do with a connection with me than the connection to heroin I could give her. Just when I thought I could have something real with someone. At least I got a good fuck out of it.
“Hang on,” Jules says. She’s pulled on her jumper and has grabbed my arm. “Listen, I didn’t say it right. I’m not looking to get high or to make you slip. I was asking because I know why Gavin went crazy with coke. I know why he needed that kind of high. His spirit was broken, and he needed something to lift him up. Coke makes you feel like you can conquer the world. But from what I know about heroin, it just slows everything down. I don’t know why someone would want that.”
The high I got from heroin was definitely the opposite of what cocaine does. H is a depressant, so you get very relaxed. It almost takes you into a trance. But it’s the best kind of disassociation because with it comes intense relief. All your worries and demons disappear and are replaced with the singular sensation of happiness. It’s a void that you readily fall into time and again, because when the high is gone, all the things that tormented you when you were sober are there waiting and so the cycle of using starts all over again.
I get stuck on the vivid memory of how fucking good the high was and only vaguely notice Jules watching me. Even the ritual of prepping to inject the stuff was satisfying. Just thinking about it stirs that need inside of me and I start calculating where I can find a hit.
11
Jules squeezes my arm, forcing me to blink away the seductive thoughts.
“I was just trying to understand you,” she says.
The idea that she wants to know me is lovely. But I’m still stung by my conclusion that she was using me for a drug connection. I’m wary to share any more than I already have, lest it opens the floodgates of temptation I’ve been fighting against.
“How about I understand something about you?” I tell her.
“Okay. Like what?”
“Like, what is this room? I mean, it’s a good spot to fuck random strangers, but what else is it?”
She stares at me for a moment before smiling, then laughing. “First, just so we’re clear, I don’t make a habit of bringing random strangers here. To fuck, that is.”
“Do as you like, doesn’t matter to me.”
With a roll of her eyes, she turns away. “With that attitude you won’t be getting a second invitation.”
I realize my misstep in appearing too casual. It’s just, I don’t know what the fuck is going on here to begin with. Should I be presuming some sort of claim on her because we had mind blowing sex? The reason I told Ms. Patterson there was no need to talk about my history with women is because I don’t have one. I’ve never had a real, lasting relationship with a woman. Just fiery, drug-fueled connections that burned out before they could even start. This stuff doesn’t come naturally to me, and, in fact, I more often than not say the wrong thing to people in most situations, not just the ones of the intimate sort. I want to tell her not to take it personally, but I recognize just in time that I’d better not open my big gob.
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br /> “So, yes, this is where I do my work. It’s an art studio. But the art is not put onto canvas or paper. I paint on bodies. Women’s bodies.”
She turns to face me with this pronouncement, once more expecting to have surprised or shocked me. But I’m neither. So she’s artsy-fartsy. That’s all well and good.
“It’s for a cause,” she says. “It’s not about being salacious.”
“Okay.” I shrug, and I can see the frustration build in her face. I suppose that means I’m to show more interest.
This disconnect is what Ms. Patterson and I have been “working” on. It’s ingrained in me, she says, from the way I was brought up by my parents. Or not brought up, I suppose would be a better description. They were completely checked out arseholes who left me to fend for myself up until my brother was born. I was five years old then and basically became his caretaker since our loser parents couldn’t be bothered. All that led to what Ms. Patterson calls the “pattern” of my life of never really being able to get close to anyone else. I scramble to remember the ways she taught me to “consciously” connect.
Clearing my throat, I say, “I’m interested in knowing more.” It comes out stilted, like I’m doing my best to speak a foreign language but get the syntax all wrong.
Jules looks at me like I’m from another planet. Might as well be for all she knows. But she’s willing to let it go because she goes off telling me about her work.
“Have you ever heard of boudoir photos?” she asks.
“Em, no.”
Jules tells me they’re all the rage with brides-to-be who want to give their grooms a sexy gift. They’ll go to a photography studio, sip champagne to get up the nerve to strip down to lingerie or maybe nothing at all, and do their best provocative poses. The only element Jules supports of that whole exercise, however, is the idea that it might give women a feeling of empowerment.
“But what about single women?” she says.
I’m lost on the whole subject but figure I’d better go ahead and support whatever she’s after. “Yeah, what about them?”
“Don’t they deserve to have a moment where they can feel good about themselves? Where they can look at their bodies and like what they see?”
“Damn right.” Might as well go all in on this.
She nods, encouraged. “I’ve always painted and started a while back with making my own body the canvas. It was just for fun and experimental, but then I thought, this is the perfect way to reach the women who won’t be up for boudoir photos. I can make their bodies into art, something they’d be proud to display a photo of in their homes, because it’s not erotic. It’s a celebration of the female form.”
“Exactly so.” I’m on a roll.
“Once I got a few women willing to let me try it with them, I found that it really hit the mark. They were moved to tears by how empowering it felt.”
“Ah, that’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“It’s caught on pretty quick in the last two years or so. It’s enough so that along with the royalties from my music, I can make a living.”
I’m half checked-out and it takes me a second to get the part about royalties. “What’s that? What music?”
This kills her buzz. Her face had been animated and now she deflates. She had been amped up about being a part of empowering women and I’ve focused on the wrong thing.
“I’m a singer. I’ve put out three albums. I did a single with Gavin once,” she says dismissively. “But I was never anything big. I have no desire to play the tits and arse game required to get any attention in this industry. And anyway, I was never after trying to be the next Katy Perry. I always wanted authenticity in my music. But that doesn’t get you anywhere in this celebrity-obsessed world. This art—it’s what I want to be doing now. This has meaning.”
Still a bit thrown by just how much of a relationship she seems to have had with Gavin, I nod slowly. It raises my defenses once more, making me wonder what her motives really are. Gavin McManus is the singer of one of the biggest rock bands in the world. As much as I believe in my brother, Gavin’s the reason for Rogue’s success. If Jules was once close with him, that meant she had access to all the favors his fame offers. It’s intoxicating being in his world. Everything is possible. I could see why Jules would want to reestablish a connection with him.
“Why’d you and Gavin fall out?” I ask.
She hasn’t been privy to my thought process just now and is perplexed. Shaking her head, she covers her face in her hands for a long moment. When she looks at me again, her eyes have turned hard.
“I want nothing to do with Gavin fucking McManus, okay? He’s in my past. And if you somehow think me hooking up with you was part of an elaborate plan to get with Gavin again, you’re seriously delusional. And in any case, I’d like you to leave.”
Fuck. I’ve screwed this up. “Wait a second,” I protest, holding up my hands.
“No. Fuck off with yourself.” She gestures toward the door.
“Jules, I was only curious. Every time you mention his name, it builds up to something more you had with him. For fuck’s sake, I went from not knowing you from Adam, to you saying you fucked the man. Then you did coke with him. Then you were a singer and fucking collaborated with him?”
“So what?”
“So, what’ll it be next? Have you a love child hiding away somewhere?”
“Jesus Christ on a bike. Get out, will you?”
“Look, I’m not delusional. I’m just not one for coincidences. I know better, is all. I’ve played more cons than you can imagine.”
She considers me for a moment before speaking. “You’re saying, I somehow figured out who you were, waited until you randomly showed up at my local park, chatted you up, and decided fucking you would be the way to get back with Gavin McManus, a man I haven’t seen or spoken to in years?”
“Well, when you put it that way, it sounds bloody ridiculous,” I say with a laugh.
She’s not amused as she stands with hands on hips and a scowl on her face.
But she is sexy as hell, with that jumper riding up just enough to torture me over wondering whether she put her knickers back on or not. I need to know what’s under that top. Fuck, she’s got my cock lurching toward her.
If she can switch gears in a blink of an eye from anger to desire, so can I. I take a step closer to her, lust in my eyes. She puts her hand on my chest.
“Danny Boy,” she says firmly.
“Jules,” I return with a smile I hope is charming. I let my hands drop to her hips, my fingers toying at edging the sweater up. “You’re the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen, love,” I tell her. “Maybe we should focus on the area where we get on. How about another go, yeah? This time, let’s take it slow.”
She doesn’t move away. I can see her chest rise and fall a little more quickly. “Why would I want to do that?” she asks with a weak effort at defiance.
There’s no logic to why we’ve found this chemistry together, but it’s undeniable. I lean in and kiss her slowly. She takes my mouth and gives me pressure back.
Pulling away, I press my lips to her neck, whispering, “If I have any talent at all, it’s in knowing how to make sure the woman I’m with comes hard. I did that before, didn’t I?”
With that last question, I stop teasing and finally reach beneath her jumper. I’ve found my answer. There’s no fabric in my way as I trail my fingers between her legs. It’s barely perceptible, but she moves them apart for me. She catches her breath in anticipation of my next move. I watch as she swallows and releases a soft moan. Her skin is silken, warm, ready.
This is her response. I made her come up against the table earlier. And I’m going to do it again now. Because this is what binds us. No reason to fake an interest in body painting as a method for women’s empowerment, or for her to try to understand me. This is as real as it needs to get, and underneath it all, we both know that.
12
Avocado green. Not the lovely creamy green on
the fleshy inside. The dark, unhappy green of the craggy skin. That’s what I’ve decided the paint color is in Ms. Patterson’s office. It’s hideous.
I turn my eyes away from the walls to stare at the woman herself. She’s been letting long pockets of silence go by, waiting for me to say something. The odd thing is that I’ve been letting them go by, too. The topic du jour is why on earth I followed her after my last impromptu session. Her efforts to get me to explore and talk through my motivation are of no interest to me, however. As with most of my spontaneous misadventures, I don’t dwell on thinking over the impetus. I simply move on. Shay has always been a reluctant admirer of my ability to let things go.
Ms. Patterson doesn’t seem to share that view. She’s tapping her pen against her notepad and pressing her lips together in a terrible attempt to hide her frustration.
“I don’t know what else to say,” I tell her.
I’ve already explained that a cycle got wound up in me and that the only logical thing I could think to calm it—other than heroin—was to follow her to see if she had told me the truth about needing to cut our time short. It doesn’t occur to me that she’s looking for an apology.
At least not until she finally releases a breath and tells me that’s what most people would do in this situation. She leaves out the word normal to describe “people” but the implication is clear. Most normal people would have known better than to follow their therapist away from the office. Most normal people wouldn’t have then interrupted their therapist while she was having a private get together with her friends. Most normal people would have spent some time thinking about what had happened and come ready to both talk it over and apologize.
“I am sorry, okay?” I tell her. “I hope you were able to enjoy your evening after that. I really do.”
She seems caught off guard by this. I guess that makes sense since I’ve done nothing but avoid any acknowledgement of improper behavior since I got here. My mind has been stuck on Jules this whole while.
When I left Jules’ house yesterday, it was without any kind understanding of what our time together meant. Well, besides the fantastic sex. That part was clear enough. But despite her protests otherwise, I can’t stop thinking about her connection to Gavin McManus and what it means for why we hooked up the way we did.
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