53 Letters For My Lover

by Leylah Attar

  “Hello, Beetroot.” His mouth is hot on my skin as he nudges my bra straps past my shoulders.

  His lips move lower, caressing the exposed skin of my breasts. I cling to my dress, but inch by inch, it retreats. Who can resist to be disrobed so? With lips and tongue and lover’s breath.

  My fingers slide into the thick mat of his hair. I gasp as his mouth closes over my swollen nipple.

  “Raspberry.” He circles the peak with his tongue. “I wondered what color you’d be.”

  I give myself up to his hungry kisses, but he wants more. More. Cupping, kneading, sucking, teasing. Pulses of pleasure rush through me, pulling some primitive cord inside of me. I twist hard and fast against him.

  A guttural sound vibrates from his chest. He pulls my dress off in a frenzied motion.

  “This too.” He tugs at my bra. His eyes are darker now, pupils dilated, burning with need.

  I shake my head, holding on to the cups of my bra, even as my breasts spill over.

  “Fine. I’ll go first.” His t-shirt hits the floor.

  There are few men that are born just ridiculously sexy. One happens to be half-naked in front of me now. I take in the smooth expanse of muscle and sinew, the taut, flat stomach, the way the tattoos encircle his corded arms. I want to breathe the solid wall of his chest, to feel those arms around me. I want our legs entwined, our breaths mingled. I want to know his face in ecstasy.

  His breath catches at the fleeting expressions on my face.

  And then we’re kissing madly. Hot, fevered, hungry. I feel the rough texture of male hair against my legs. When did he take his pants off?

  Our eyes lock.

  What is this madness?

  I don’t know. I don’t know.

  “God, you’re so beautiful.”

  I bask. No. I glow.

  He trails his hand down my body and dips his finger into my navel. Round and round, he traces it. The soft flesh beneath trembles. The back of his fingers stroke the space between my belly button and the top of my panties, back and forth. One finger slides under the waistband.

  My stomach clenches. I can’t control the shaking. My breath starts to come in short, shallow bursts. I place my hands on his.

  Stop. Wait.

  But he pins them to the bed and buries his face in my stomach.

  Ohhh. So warm. So hot.

  I feel his breath on my tummy, blazing a stream of promises across my skin. He grips the edge of my panties with his teeth and tugs.

  God.

  With my arms held to the sides and his weight on my legs, he holds me motionless. All of my senses zone in on the slow, slow descent of my panties. I feel the moistness of his lips through the fabric, the warmth of his exhalation, until little by little he exposes the pulsing, throbbing core of me.

  The tremors intensify inside of me.

  He lets go of my hands and splays his fingers across my trembling tummy, steadying me, holding me down, as his lips taste the throbbing button between my folds.

  “Mmmm.” The humming vibration rocks through me.

  Then his hands slide under my hips and he claims me. Completely. With his nose and his mouth and his tongue and his lips.

  My nails claw at the sheets. It’s overwhelming, these sensations, so raw, so intense. I start pulling away from him, flexing my legs.

  “Shhh...just a little more,” he says.

  How do I tell him? Should I tell him?

  Troy, I don’t know how to do this. I wish you’d stop because it frightens me. I wish you’d stop because if it doesn’t happen with Troy Heathgate, God of All Things That Make a Woman Squirm, I’ll know I’m flawed. Lacking. Defective.

  I writhe against him, trying to free myself, but he has me pinned to the bed, completely at his mercy. Suddenly, I’m under Pasha Moradi, reliving those ugly moments of helplessness and terror. Troy’s face disappears and everything turns dark.

  I start kicking and fighting with everything I’ve got. The heaviness lifts off, almost instantaneously. When I can breathe again, and the darkness has dissipated, I find him watching me.

  “I’m not going to hurt you.” He holds his palms up.

  I nod, shivering. My body is drenched in cold sweat. He strokes my hair, coaxing me into his arms. I lie on his chest, listening to his heart. How could I mistake this beat for that monster’s?

  “You want to talk about it?” He half-kisses, half-talks against my forehead.

  “I just...” I swallow the fist in my throat. “I have to go.” I start pulling on my panties with as much grace as I can muster.

  “You’re not going anywhere until you tell me what just happened.” Gone is the adoring lover. In his place is cold steel and ice.

  “I can’t.”

  “You can’t? You can’t what, Shayda? You can’t trust me? You can’t stand being touched by me? What, Shayda?” He spins me around hard against him so we’re face to face, kneeling on the bed.

  “I can’t use you!” I can’t use him to heal myself, to put together the broken pieces and make me whole again.

  “Use me?” He lets out a deep, throaty laugh. His hold softens and he runs his hand up and down my arm. “Do I look like a man who can be easily used?”

  Um...no. He looks...he looks...sinfully hot. How does he bring me from the depths of churning despair to a simmering bliss in ten seconds flat? And how did I miss these? Red briefs? Really? Who wears such sexy, bold briefs, that hit the thigh and leave little to the imagination?

  “Like my trunks?”

  Shit. I’ve been staring.

  He takes my hand and puts it on his thigh. I stroke the fabric tentatively, feeling the muscle underneath.

  “Ahhh.” He closes his eyes. “I love when you use me.”

  “You think I’m naïve.” I remove my hand.

  “A little. Yes.” He sits back and sighs. “It’s one of the things I find disarmingly seductive about you.” He runs a finger from my forehead, down the ridge of my nose, to my lips. “And just so you know, I love making you squirm and quiver and hot and wet.” He slips the tip of his finger inside my mouth, stroking the soft, inner flesh.

  “Why did you fight me, Shayda?”

  “I just...I don’t like being pinned down,” I reply, resisting the urge to suck on his finger.

  “No kidding.” He traces the scar on my lip. “But look, I can do it hands free.”

  “Troy!” I pull him back up.

  “Mmmm?” He starts nibbling my neck.

  “I...”

  “You...?” He props himself up and plays with a strand of my hair.

  “I’ve never been able to orgasm with anyone.” There. I want to die from shame.

  “So?” The nibbling moves to my ear.

  “Did you hear what I said?” I’m no good. I suck at this.

  “I did. And I’m guessing you’ve had all of what—one sexual partner?”

  I don’t reply.

  “Tell me something. Can you make yourself come?”

  How can it be this quiet when so much blood is rushing to my face?

  “Why, Beetroot!” His eyes dance with amusement. “I believe you can.”

  I duck under his chin, into the sanctuary of his chest.

  “I still don’t get your reaction,” he says. “But it can wait. I know it took a lot for you to get here and I know why you came.”

  “Why?” I finger-doodle on his chest.

  “For the same reason I did. Because you had no choice. Because you couldn’t eat. Or sleep. Or think of anything else but this.”

  His lips capture mine in a long, drugging kiss.

  Yes. I’m here because of this. And the lopsided tilt of his smile. And his infuriating confidence. And the way the air pulsates between us.

  His arms come around me, wrapping me into the warmth of his body. “Shayda, if we’re going to do this, there’s something you should know. I don’t do threesomes with shame or guilt or regret. You need to check those in at the door. They don’t belong in bed
. I intend to get to know everything about you—every curve on your body, every dirty, sexy thought, every dark, hidden spot. Everything. So as far as I’m concerned, we’re off to a great start.”

  “But you didn’t...you know...” There is no denying his raw arousal throbbing between us.

  “Well, neither did you.” He laughs. “I may not always be a gentleman in bed, but I do believe in ladies first.”

  “In that case, you’re going to be very frustrated. Not to mention disappointed.”

  “Are you kidding me? I’m the luckiest man in the world.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Because I get to make your toes curl and your knees shake. I’ll be the first to hear the kind of sounds you make when you come. Will you plead, Shayda? Will you moan? Or will you give me quiet little gasps? Whatever it is, Shayda, I can promise you one thing. It’ll be mad and passionate. Because I don’t believe that mediocre sex is worth having.” He tilts my head and kisses the corner of my mouth.

  “And just so we’re clear...” He nips my shoulder. “There will be no stopping me next time.”

  15. Battle Of The Sheet

  December 15th, 1995

  “Apple crumble, crème brûlée or red velvet cake?” Troy runs a lazy finger down my spine.

  “Red velvet,” I reply.

  “You sure you don’t want a proper lunch?”

  I nod.

  “One red velvet cake, one coffee,” he speaks into the receiver.

  “Don’t you want anything?” I ask after he hangs up. “Or is that the price you pay for these washboard abs?”

  “Did you know, anatomically, my abs don’t end there?”

  “They don’t?”

  “No, you have the six pack or the Rectus Abdominis here, and then the much overlooked Erectus Hominis, right here.”

  “Troy!”

  “That’s right, baby. Say my name.” He smacks my butt playfully.

  I laugh. He makes this easy.

  “Kiss me.” I sink my fingers into his hair.

  It’s always there, the fire between us, like glowing embers waiting to be stoked. One look, one kiss, one caress, and I come alive for him.

  “Hold that thought,” he says when there’s a knock on the door.

  I will never tire of the way he moves, lithe and graceful, the smooth ripple of muscle under warm, bare skin. He’s been cautious since that first encounter. Sometimes we spend whole afternoons in bed just talking, our hands entwined, enjoying long pauses of blissful silence.

  “How do you expect to eat when you’re grasping that sheet so tightly with both hands?” He sits cross-legged on the bed and places the room service tray in front of me.

  I pull the bed sheet closer around my chest.

  “Suit yourself.” He shrugs and takes a bite of the cake. “Mmmm. It’s so...” He searches for the right word. “Moist. Not too sweet. Surprisingly light. And this icing....” He proceeds to swipe another great, big chunk. “Mmmm.”

  “Coffee? You take cream? Sugar?” He helps himself.

  “Seriously?” I ask as he continues to devour everything on the tray.

  “Why? Did you want some?”

  “Of course I want some!”

  “Then let go of the sheet.”

  “No!”

  “You have beautiful breasts, Shayda. Gorgeous. You should be showing them off. In fact, I should be eating this cake off those breasts.” He lunges for me.

  “Watch it! There’s hot coffee on the bed!”

  “There’s also an incredibly hot woman on the bed.” He crawls towards me on all fours. “Guess who gets my attention?”

  He tangles his fist in my hair and gives me a long, twisting kiss.

  “I can see I’ll have to feed you myself.” He sits back and attends to me, one luscious forkful at a time. “Good?”

  “Uh-huh.” I could get used to this.

  When I’ve had my coffee and the plate is empty, he puts the tray away.

  “Still hungry?”

  I shake my head.

  “Good, because I’m starving.” He looks at me with naked eyes. “Show me what you do.”

  “What?”

  “You said the only way you can orgasm is if you do it yourself. Show me. How do you please yourself, Shayda?”

  I wish the ground would open up and swallow me whole.

  “Ah Beetroot, you never fail to make an appearance.” He smiles. “I need to know, Shayda, so I can do what you like.”

  “I ...I already like what you do.”

  “Yes, but I want to catch that look in your eyes as you go over the edge. I want the ultimate satisfaction of knowing I’m driving you wild. It’s only fair. Because I intend to thoroughly enjoy myself with you, to extract every last drop of pleasure, no holds barred.” He takes my hand and guides it lower. “Show me.”

  Who knew the sweet, wanton power of words? A string of sentences transformed into moving, writhing images. I swallow.

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t...touch myself.”

  He looks at me and lets it sink in. “Then how?”

  “I just...I do it differently.” I squirm. “Now can we please not talk about this?”

  He doesn’t say anything. When I peek at him, he’s contemplating me with narrowed eyes.

  “You’re like a labyrinth, Shayda. But I will find my way and you will show me.”

  I burrow deeper into him.

  “Do you know what you feel like?” His fingers follow the curve of my hip and slide under the waistband of my panties.

  I suck in my breath as he parts the moistness between my legs.

  “You’re like a warm, wet, velvet glove,” he says. “It’s a little like this...” He closes his mouth around my finger and rolls it around. “But better. Tighter.” His eyes darken with desire. “And a texture that I can’t explain. Do you want to feel, Shayda?”

  He guides my hand over my belly, distracting me with hot kisses as he slides my finger inside, next to his.

  Ohhh.

  “Move with me, Shayda.”

  We start a slow, rhythmic dance. He leads, I follow. Our fingers step in and out in unison, until I’m reeling from the raw intimacy of it.

  “I...can’t.” I pull away, a strange hollowness aching inside me.

  “You can.” He takes my finger and sucks on it, savoring the taste of me. “You should.” He props himself up and gazes at me. “Play with yourself, get to know how amazing you feel, how incredibly responsive. See this?” His thumb presses against my clit. “Ahhh this.” He closes his eyes and flicks the little nub from side to side. “I intend to get to know this very, very well.”

  My hips buck involuntarily against him.

  He pushes the hair away from my face. “Rub against my palm.”

  I writhe, twisting and turning, my face and neck flushed with desire. He nips my bottom lip, groaning as he feels me getting wetter. My thighs clench together and I start undulating against him in an age-old rhythm. He lets me ride the wave, higher, higher, but I lose the peak, an image of my shameless, greedy, cheating self, flashing before me.

  “Don’t stop, don’t stop,” he whispers.

  But it’s too late. I hide my face in the pillow.

  “Hey.” He tries to catch my eye, but I can’t bear to look at him.

  He gathers me to his chest and rocks me gently.

  “I’m sorry.” My voice is muffled and unsteady.

  “Why?”

  “You’re not disappointed?” I trace the barbed wire tattoo around his arm.

  “Disappointed? With what?”

  “With me.”

  “Shayda.” He sighs. “This is not some race to the finish line. Yes, I want to please you, but I don’t expect you to become suddenly orgasmic. It takes time, and getting to know each other, and trust each other. Heck, does this feel disappointed to you?”

  He brings me flush with the hard line of his arousal. “I am so hot for y
ou right now, I might just pop this zipper.”

  I feel him through his pants and tug at them. “Take them off.”

  “You take them off.” He says it quietly, but I feel every muscle in his body tense.

  He’s giving me the option to turn away, to pace this, control it.

  I unbuckle his belt and pull. The leather slides out slowly, one loop after the other. I pause for a heartbeat, steadying my hands before undoing the button. My mouth is flush with his zipper. I hold my breath and pull the tab down.

  “Come here,” he drawls, kicking off his pants and underwear as he pulls me up so I’m lying on top of him. Then he rolls his pulsating manhood between our bellies.

  “Ohhh,” I gasp.

  He places my hands over it, letting my fingers get acquainted with the length and girth of him.

  “God.” His head falls back as I stroke him from tip to base. “You’re going to kill me with that light touch.”

  His hands cup my bottom, pulling me closer. I feel him becoming even fuller for me.

  “Show me,” I whisper.

  “You want me to come for you?” he growls in my ear. “Is that what you want, Shayda?”

  He sits me on the edge of the bed and stands before me, tall and proud and fiercely male. My eyes are level with his raging erection. Something wild and primal stirs in me as he starts moving his fist up and down his shaft in a slow, steady motion.

  “Here.” He massages the thin ridge along the underside of his penis. “And here.” He rubs the ridge where the head meets the shaft.

  I push his hands aside, mimicking his strokes, making twisting motions on the way down. One hand slides lower, cupping his balls.

  A low rumble escapes him. He picks me up and pushes me further back on the bed.

  “I’m going to come, Shayda.”

  I flick my thumb over the tip of his penis.

  He cries out as he gives in to the spasms that rock his body, spilling himself on my tummy until he’s spent and breathless.

  His lips touch mine in a soft kiss, before he collapses on his back, taking me with him.

  When his breathing returns to normal, he gives me that killer smile. “Don’t look now, Beetroot, but you lost The Battle Of The Sheet somewhere between the District of Ohhh and the Region of Ahhh.”