53 Letters For My Lover

by Leylah Attar

  He shifts, penetrating me from a higher angle, pressing against my clit with the base of his shaft and his pubic bone. I moan as he starts rocking, rubbing back and forth against that quivering bundle of nerves, until I explode in a whiplash of ecstasy. It’s different, this release. It reaches deep inside, wave after wave of breath-sucking contractions. His head snaps back as he feels my insides clutching and releasing around him.

  “Yes.” He pushes me higher. Once, twice, until I’m falling, floating, collapsing in his arms. He catches my cry in his mouth as he spills into me.

  We lay spent and exhausted on the rug, letting our hearts catch up. He takes me in the crook of his arm and plays with my fingers.

  “What was that?” He smiles at me knowingly as I look away. “Come on, Beetroot. You got some ‘splaining to do.”

  “You know exactly what it was.”

  “Oh, I do.” He grins. “That’s the first orgasm you’ve had without having to syntribate when I’m inside you. Holy shit! I want to shout it out from the rooftops.”

  “You want to shout it out?” I laugh. “I believe that’s my prerogative.”

  “Listen to you. Cutting me out of your moment of glory. I am your Lord of Orgasms, baby! And it starts getting even better from here.”

  “What are you talking about, Mr. Heathgate?”

  “One step at a time,” he replies. “I don’t think your tummy is willing to wait while I educate you further. Those are some fearful growls coming out of there.”

  He’s right. I’m starving.

  I watch him slip into his underwear, admiring the naked lines of his body.

  “You better get up before I pounce on you again.” He slips his t-shirt over my head.

  “Damn. You’re sexy as hell, Beetroot. Your messed-up hair, your swollen lips...” He comes in for a taste, his fingers splayed softly on my waist.

  We follow the trail of hastily discarded clothes back to the kitchen. An image of my kids’ rooms flashes before me as I pick them up.

  “Don’t,” he says softly.

  It’s amazing how he can read the simple turn of my face or the line of my shoulders.

  I fold everything up in a neat pile and watch as he plugs the blender in.

  “Avocados,” he requests.

  “Basil.”

  “Olive oil.”

  “What?” He looks puzzled when I start laughing.

  “I feel like I’m in an operating theatre. Scalpel. Gauze. Forceps. Anything else I can do for you?” I ask suggestively as my arms slide around him.

  “Quit molesting the chef, devil woman. Especially if you want to be fed.” He turns on the blender and puts a pot of water to boil.

  I wander into the living room and pick up a picture frame.

  “My parents,” he says.

  It’s so odd, filling in these pieces of his life—two happy, weathered faces, beaming back at me through a pane of glass. He has his father’s hair and his mother’s eyes.

  “You get along?” I ask.

  “They were worried about me for a while. Thought I was just drifting through life, that I could never commit.” He adds some linguine to the pot. “They’re relieved some of that is behind me now. My works helps. I still get to do new things, see new places, meet new people.” He drops a handful of pine nuts into the blender.

  “I don’t see them as much as I’d like,” he says in-between the pulses. “They’re away most of the year, traveling, seeing the world.”

  “Are you an only child?”

  “Yep. The sole beneficiary of all their love and affection.”

  I put the frame away and look around. “So what’s it like? To have it all?”

  “Like flying. Soaring. Until you come across the one thing you’d give it all up for, and can never have.”

  I suck in my breath.

  “Come give this a try,” he says.

  “Mmmm.” I love the rich, creamy texture of the pesto, but I’m even more enamored with how delighted he looks that I like it.

  I open the fridge and take out a few cloves of garlic. “If we’re going to do this, we might as well do it right.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  Our eyes meet over the whirring of the blender and I get the distinct impression that we’re talking about something entirely different.

  “Would you mind if I made a quick call?” I ask.

  “Phone’s right over there,” he says.

  “I have my cell.”

  “You? A cell? Next, you’ll be telling me you check your email too.”

  “Shhh. I’m calling my mother.”

  Zain picks up. “Hey. We’re watching the ‘Star Wars’ Trilogy.”

  “Are you having fun?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Have you had lunch?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I smile. Clearly, ‘Star Wars’ is winning the battle for attention.

  “Put Natasha on,” I say.

  “She’s watching it too. She says hi.”

  “Does anyone want to talk to me?” I laugh.

  “Here’s grandma.” Zain hands her the phone.

  “The kids are fine,” says Maamaan. “We’ll see you on Monday.”

  “Call me on my cell if you need anything, okay?”

  I say goodbye and call Hafez. His voice mail picks up. I struggle at the beep. Words seem fake and inadequate. I hang up without leaving a message.

  “Ready to eat?” asks Troy when I return.

  He looks so endearing, standing in his boxers, holding out a beautifully assembled plate of pasta, topped with a sprig of basil. All muscle and carefully hidden heart.

  “That looks divine,” I say.

  “Eat on the terrace?”

  “Sure.” I pick up the plates and head outside.

  “You know half your ass is hanging out in that t-shirt, right?”

  I plop the food on the patio table and pull on the hem.

  “Ha. Gotcha!” He laughs.

  How can I not love him when he’s like this?

  He brings out some bread and a bottle of sparkling water.

  “It’s beautiful out here,” I say. An unobstructed view of the water stretches out before us.

  “You’ve seen it before.”

  Yes, but not like this, with no underwear and a full serving of Troy Heathgate on the side.

  I lift the hair off my neck. “It’s so hot.”

  “Want to eat in the pool?” He starts setting our food at the edge.

  “You eat in the pool?” I ask.

  “Why not? It’s my pool,” he replies. “I can eat in it. Heck, I can pee in it if I want. Don’t worry,” he laughs at the horrified expression on my face. “I don’t. I don’t pee in the pool, for heaven’s sake.”

  “I don’t have a swimsuit.”

  “So? We’ll go au naturel.” He starts undressing.

  More of the horrified expression.

  “Fine. I’ll keep the boxers on. You swim in the tee.”

  I hover, undecided.

  “Let’s go, Beetroot!” He picks me up and starts walking down the wide, round stairs.

  My arms circle his neck. I shiver as my butt comes in contact with the water, and cling on tighter.

  The next instant, he lifts me higher and dumps me unceremoniously into the pool.

  “Ohhh.” I gasp as I come up for air, shocked, dazed and utterly exasperated. “What did you do that for?”

  “Sometimes you just need to take the plunge.” He dives in, and surfaces next to me.

  “You always do that.” I shake my head. “Headfirst into everything.”

  “And you’re always one toe in, one toe out. Now eat.”

  He twirls a forkful of pasta and holds it out for me. I open my mouth, but he teases me with it, letting my tongue reach for it before he gives it to me.

  “Mmmm.” I savor the texture of the linguine, coated in thick rich sauce, the tartness of the tomatoes, the sharp, salty cheese. “Good.”

&nb
sp; He feeds me, and himself, between nibbles of crusty bread dipped in seasoned olive oil. It doesn’t dawn on me until I’ve had my fill that my top has been riding up, leaving my bottom completely exposed. I tug on the hem, trying to make it to behave.

  “Leave it.” His voice is gruff and throaty. “I find it incredibly erotic to catch glimpses of you naked.”

  He smiles as color sweeps across my face. “Are you done, Beetroot?”

  I nod as he pushes the food away.

  “Turn around,” he says. I feel one arm slide over my waist, encircling me from behind. The other plays with my curls as I lean back against him.

  We watch clouds float over the shimmering water.

  This is as good as it gets, I think. Warm sun above me, strong arms around me.

  I glance into the water and freeze. He sees it at the same time. A thin, wispy strand of bright red.

  His body goes tense. “Did I hurt you, Shayda?”

  “No.” I close my eyes and make a mental calculation.

  “It’s the beginning of my cycle,” I say. “I guess this ruins our plans for the weekend.” I start getting out of the pool, but he pulls me back.

  “Are you kidding me?” His arms tighten around me. “That’s not what this is about. It doesn’t make one heck of a difference to me.” He nibbles the back of my neck. “Besides, just thinking about not having to use any protection with you is getting me rock hard.” His fingers slide under my tee and circle my breast. “Can I tell you something?” he mumbles against my throat.

  “What?”

  “You’re not going to like it.”

  “Since when has that stopped you?”

  “True.” He yanks my t-shirt off and brings me skin to skin with his chest. “When we were hiding under that pier, this is all I could think about.”

  “I know,” I reply. “And I was praying to this cross.” I touch it again.

  “God, Beetroot. You have the most impeccable sense of timing. If you’re not laughing at my penis, you’re reminding me of my grandma’s rosary.”

  “What’s wrong with your grandma’s rosary?”

  “Nothing. It’s just not the best time to bring up my grandma. She may be out there. You know...watching.”

  “You don’t like being watched? Come on, Troy. Let your inner freak out.”

  “My inner freak, huh?” His teeth sink into my shoulder and I lose track of my thoughts.

  He leads me to the edge of the stairs and sits on the middle one. The water reaches up to my knees.

  “Straddle me, Shayda.” His voice is thick as he kicks his boxers off. “One knee here.” He places it by his right hip. “The other here.”

  I glance at the tall buildings on either side of us.

  “They can’t see.” He suckles my breast. “And if someone’s watching from the water, all they’ll see is this beautiful, golden back, bobbing up and down.” He runs his finger down my spine.

  A snapshot of us, entwined like that, floats before me. I press my hips into him as dizzy spirals of longing rush through my body. He lifts me up and lets me sink slowly into him.

  “Ahhh.” We gasp at first contact.

  It’s bare and raw and more intimate than ever before.

  “God, you feel so good.” He throws his head back, sucking in his breath.

  I slide lower, but stop midway, unable to take him in any further.

  “Easy. Put your hands here.” He guides my palms to the stair above him, placing one on either side of his shoulders. “Now lift yourself, up and down. That’s it, Shayda” He buries his face between my breasts, his hands kneading my flesh in round, circular motions.

  I find a slow, rhythmic motion, rising and falling, but I’m still not able to take all of him. He holds my hips still and raises his pelvis, burying himself in me, millimetre by millimetre.

  “Ohhh.” I gasp at the fullness, the feeling of complete possession.

  “Now move. Up and down, round and round, side to side. Whatever feels good, baby.” His hands slide over my butt, mimicking each motion as he says the words. “Yes. Just like that.”

  I rest my forehead on his as we rock to an age-old rhythm. He tilts his head back and kisses me. And kisses me. A crazy yearning-churning-burning builds up inside. I press harder into him, trying to relieve the coiled up tension.

  “Lean back and rub against me here.” He presses his hand down on my pubic bone and keeps the pressure going.

  I shift until I feel the hot, hard length of him pushing up against the front of my inner wall.

  “That’s it,” he groans as I start to move, trailing up and down that part of me.

  “Ahhh.” I gasp each time the tip of his shaft hits a particular spot. “What’s that?” I ask breathlessly.

  “Your g-spot.” He fixes an intense gaze on me. “Keeping going.”

  “Nnnnh...I feel like I’m going to pee.”

  “Don’t stop.” His voice is rough and urgent. “Bear down on it.”

  “I can’t...” The pressure is intense.

  He takes over, pushing against me, hard and fast, while his thumb strokes my clit, side to side.

  The tension builds unbearably, almost painful in intensity. Every muscle in my body tightens before I burst like a balloon, gushing around him. The contractions come in dizzying waves of pleasure, radiating from my lower belly to my thighs, my calves, my toes, my nipples. I tilt my head back, arching my back, weeping uncontrollably as it rolls through me.

  A muffled groan escapes him. He explodes in convulsive release, his fingers digging deep into my hip bones. He buries his face between my breasts, carrying my weight as I collapse against him. Faint pulses still run through me, keeping me from slipping into complete exhaustion.

  “Fuck!” he says, when his breathing returns to normal.

  He moves plastered tendrils away from my face.

  “Troy?” I murmur, my eyes still closed.

  “Mmmm?”

  “I think I peed in your pool.”

  I feel the laughter bubble up in his chest.

  “That wasn’t pee.”

  “I know. I read Cosmo. Occasionally.” I link my arms around his neck. “I just never thought the whole squirting thing would happen to me.”

  “Well, you’re learning by leaps and bounds today, aren’t you?” He shifts and pulls out, wrapping his arms around my waist. “Something’s different, Shayda. What is it?”

  My throat clenches. I hide my face in the crook of his neck and sigh.

  I’m finally facing up to my feelings for him.

  “We have this one weekend,” I say. “Let’s leave everything else behind.”

  32. Level Seven Kanoodling

  August 5th, 2000 (2)

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “Wherever the road takes us.” He keeps one hand on the steering, the other on my thigh.

  We stop at a drugstore outside of town. He follows me into the feminine hygiene section.

  “Seriously?” I ask, thinking how comical he looks against daintily arranged boxes of Tampax and Midol and Canesten.

  “I’m not letting you out of my sight,” he replies.

  “Put that down.” I smack his hand.

  “Evie’s Extra Vinegar Douche. Shouldn’t this be in the fish and chips aisle?”

  “Would you just go buy a newspaper or gum or something?” I hiss. “I can’t be seen with you.”

  “Who are we going to run into here?”

  “You never know.”

  “Hey. I know exactly where we should go.” He pauses and peers over my shoulder. “Gentle glide tampons? And these have wings. There’s some serious aeronautic shit got going on here, Beetroot.”

  I turn around and glare at him.

  It’s late afternoon by the time we get off the highway.

  “Hamilton?” I ask as he takes the exit.

  “There are a whole bunch of cool vintage stores here.”

  “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a vintage kind of guy.
”

  “It’s not for me,” he says enigmatically.

  We park outside a cluttered shop with wind chimes on the door.

  “Welcome to Ken & Judy’s.” A ruddy complexioned man with a grey beard and kind eyes greets us. “The trinkets are here, gizmos there, thingamabobs in the back and the whatchamacallits over here. Anything else, just let me know.”

  “You have any wigs?” asks Troy.

  “Sure.” He points to the back. “My wife will meet you there.”

  “What do we need wigs for?” I ask as we weave our way through over-stocked racks.

  “You said we can’t be seen together. So pick a disguise, Beetroot, because we’re not staying in this weekend.”

  Worn velvet curtains drape off an area labeled ‘WIGS’ in a barely legible scrawl.

  “Hello,” says a big, busty woman in a sing-song voice. She ties one curtain back and turns on the switch.

  I gasp. It’s like being hit with a giant spotlight. The back wall is covered with a high voltage vanity mirror. The counter overflows with mannequin heads sporting all kinds of wigs—red, blond, long, short. Old-word perfume bottles with atomizers and ornate tassels sit on gilded trays.

  “I’m Judy,” says the lady, dusting off a cushioned stool with gold legs. “Which one of you is looking for a wig?”

  I pick up a headful of tresses and hold them against Troy. “I think the ringlets would look fabulous on him.”

  “Hmmm.” Judy stands back and surveys him. “With his bone structure, he’d be absolutely dazzling in the Farrah Fawcett.”

  Troy takes a step back. “I’ll...uh...leave you ladies to it.” He ducks under the curtain and beats a hasty retreat.

  “How long have you two been married?” asks Judy, after we stop laughing.

  I glance at my ring. “Not too long.”

  “He is dazzling. You make the perfect pair.” She smiles. “So what kind of wig are you looking for?”

  We go through the options and settle on a sleek, chin-length bob with straight bangs.

  “Very chic,” says Judy. “And I love the red undertones on you.”

  “Can I leave it on?” I ask, turning one way and then another in the mirror.