“Hnn..” My agreement was but a thin whimper.
Then there was a cold sensation, followed by a somewhat familiar tug of the skin – and now the softness and the faint, familiar odor made sense.
“Rafael… Rafael! Are you SHAVING me?”
“Shh…don’t move, Eve.”
Another splash of water.
Another tug on the skin; his holding hand changed position and my state of arousal began to wane as I felt the cold steel near my most sensitive parts.
“Rafael…” My voice held an edge of panic.
“Stay still. It’s a good safety razor. Fresh blade, just for you.”
“Aghn!” I felt tension in my arms, in my legs, as I felt him banish my blond curls from my most private place. Front to back, side to side.
Threatening. It was definitely threatening.
Yet intimate.
And I trusted him.
Very, very slowly I started to feel myself relax.
Then the warm, wet washcloth returned, soft and… and I could feel it so much better. Bare and hairless, every touch felt more intense, electric, stimulating.
I felt my hips wiggle in eager anticipation once again.
“You can let go, if you want to see.” Raf sounded uncommonly pleased with himself. I stood and looked down. I was hairless, groomed except for a small trapezoid right at the top of my pubic area. I felt down under; everything was smooth.
A small tray next to the bed held a bowl of water, an old-fashioned shaving brush with solid shaving soap… and his best razor.
“How could you?” I almost wailed, feeling blindsided. “And why?”
“Because, for what you want, I like the hair out of the way. Now, if you still want what you requested before…?” His eyebrow cocked; there was a question in his eyes.
I nodded, now hesitant, uncertain as to what other surprises I could expect from him.
“Well then lie down and hold on to your ankles.”
No. Not again!
Yet being at the mercy of Raf Rinaldi, as scary as it had been at first, hadn’t produced any lasting harm so I assumed my position once again.
Immediately and without warning, an assault of new, intense sensation made me quiver; holding onto my ankles became an agonizing distraction, yet I didn’t dare let go. If I’d let go, he’d stop. I whimpered as my hands and thighs threatened to cramp with effort.
Wet.
Wet and soft…and warm.
Smooth.
Rafael’s tongue attacked the freshly bared skin first. I bit my lip, trying to still the small, involuntary sounds from escaping as I tried not to move.
I wanted to thrust.
His tongue tickled the soft skin next to my thighs, making me gasp for air; he ran up one side and down the other, avoiding the lone copse of pale curls and the playground hidden beneath them.
I felt a bolt of searing pleasure as his tongue invaded me with a flicker and a thrust, up and down, and I felt myself melt. It really was as good as I’d heard it could be.
I couldn’t hold back anymore.
“Rafael…I’m…I’m…!”
The sinuous, serpentine tongue slithered down, teasing me with the lightest touch, tickling the soft, delicate skin so freshly bared. His lips wrapped around that little button and he gave a delicate suck.
I moaned.
And again, and more, with his fingers brushing low, going past where I expected them to go and swiping over a tight ring of muscles. His wet fingertip circled around as his lips gave me that ultimate, intimate kiss.
“Rafael! Hnn…”
His other, slick finger pressed inside me, finding me wet and eager.
He thrust in and gave a hard suck and I screamed and exploded, my hands still holding my ankles captive, my hips thus restrained, quivering in a silent rebellion against my own grip.
My eyes were closed shut, the body immobile.
“You can let go, Evelyn.”
I tried.
My fingers wouldn’t open; I felt his hands loosen mine and help me scoot up the bed, fighting the lassitude that threatened to set in, pushing back the sleep that beckoned to reclaim me before my hand could wrap around Rafael’s amazing, hard cock.
He growled, thrusting into my palm, hard and fast and impatient. His grip on my shoulder was hard but I didn’t care. He spread my legs apart and moved under my thighs, spreading my slick down to those shaved, sensitive parts. I shuddered, and there he was, his cock rubbing against just the outside.
“Rafael…a condom…”
“I know!” His exclamation was punctuated by a thrust without penetration.
“Grrrawwwwrrr!”
It felt so… oh God. Like a lightning in the dark, like a song in the forest – it felt so good, being able to feel everything, his slightest brush and caress, his contours and the drag-and thrust of his smooth hardness easily read by my bare, sensitive skin. Our fluids mingled as we lay still, recapturing our breath.
Then the alarm went off.
BREAKFAST was a silent affair. Coffee was freshly brewed and the instant oatmeal was prepared in the microwave with a side of bacon. Flushed even after my shower, I’d glance at Raf over my cup of coffee with cream. My stolen glimpses measured his sculpted, handsome cheekbones, the curvature of his jawline, the firm lips that softened like petals when kissed. The eyes, deep and changeable and impossibly blue, would try to meet mine and every time they succeeded, victorious, I’d flush and glance away. Just being together, like this, was magic.
Little did I know it was but the calm before the storm.
CHAPTER 14
I STILL couldn’t meet Rafael’s eyes. We’d woken that morning and we’d made love – I don’t know if I can even call it that; he told me what to do and I did it and it had felt wonderful and my pleasure made him surprisingly happy – then we ate a subdued breakfast, and he left for work.
Walking him to the door, I felt a sense of lingering incompleteness ricocheting through my chest. He lifted my chin to kiss me but our eyes almost met again and I glanced away, flushed, my breath shallow.
“Evelyn.” He dropped his briefcase on the tiled floor of his foyer and gently backed me up against the wall. I felt his legs pin mine. Air got rare again and I had to turn away, sneezing into the crook of my elbow as the dreaded blush overtook my cheeks.
“What are you doing to me?” I croaked, feeling fuzzy and faint.
“Evelyn,” his voice hummed into the crook of my neck, big hands running up my arms, my shoulders. “Did you not enjoy it?”
I sneezed again at the memory.
Damn.
“There’s no shame in enjoying it,” he crooned into my hair, his lips skimming the wild, blonde strands.
My arms snaked up his chest and around his neck, pulling him in even tighter.
We kissed.
“Have a good day, Rafael,” I said, producing a shy, yet heartfelt smile. My eyes lifted only to see his back retreat toward the elevator.
Damn.
Yeah, I did enjoy it. That was the problem. I enjoyed it so much, I craved his closeness with such painful intensity, Raf Rinaldi was like a drug to me.
The longing in my chest filled me with fear. It whispered of attachment, entanglement, and loss.
IZZY SILVERSTEIN showed up about two hours later, just as I finished writing an advertisement flyer for Novack’s Bakery.
“Evelyn! How have you been!” I waved him inside, belatedly remembering that he knew his way.
“Great. I especially like my room.”
“Oh yeah? Show me how it turned out!”
I sighed. Silverstein’s always been the nosy sort. I opened the dark wooden door, watching his reaction to the framed, 1920’s linoleum cut prints on the walls. I’ve come to love their straightforward abstraction, figures distorted, in motion, alive.
Izzy Silverstein’s eyes rested on the unmade bed; sheets rolled halfway down, baring the mattress, the comforter hanging off the corner, askew; a pillow and
used tissues littering the floor. An earthy, primal odor hung in the air.
“I’m glad your relationship is working out. I suppose this is not a good time to ask you how you’re doing?”
I groaned, feeling myself redden again.
“I was inquiring about the unfortunate gun shot, Evelyn,” he chortled. His eyes were shaded by his stupid fishing hat.
“The wound is fine,” I addressed the less painful inquiry first. “It hurts only a little and I can do most things.”
There was no need for him to worry about the stabbing, hollow fear in my heart.
He considered me with a sigh. “How about those boxes of goods, then?”
I sighed in relief. “Coffee or tea?”
“Tea, if you please,” he answered and I preceded him into the kitchen, putting up a kettle and having him select from a box of assorted teabags.
Izzy Silverstein made quick work of sorting out the items he was willing to resell; he read them off and I entered them into a spreadsheet. After countless trips to the truck parked by the dumpster, his pick-up truck was brimming with goods. He fastened the cargo down with a tarp and a number of bungee cords.
It was two hours before he turned to say good-bye.
“I think he really likes you, Eve,” he said instead, the look in his eyes serious. “Try not to screw it up.”
My teeth grinding together, I forced a smile at his well-meaning vote of very little confidence. Then I brought the boxes of donation items downstairs, where the AmVet truck would pick them up in the afternoon.
The living room was now officially empty. The same couldn’t be said for the four boxes of keepsakes under Rafael’s dining room table, but that was his headache. Vacuuming was mine. I cleaned the dark blue carpet, eyed the room, and repositioned the sofa and the coffee table. Then, of course, I had to vacuum again.
“He really likes you. Try not to screw it up.”
Not even the loud whine of the vacuum cleaner could silence Silverstein’s words in my head.
AFTER THE morning’s chores I came to realize that my butt felt just about healed up. In celebration of this, I walked almost everywhere that day. I marched over to Novack’s, who approved my work, paid me another installment, and gave me a box of assorted cookies. Then I walked over to Wilson’s agency. Vicki received me with good cheer and pressed a cup of coffee into my hand; then of course I had to produce the box of Novack’s cookies, which Vicki began to nibble and Wilson eyed with reserve.
“So how is it going, Ms. Pearson?” He asked, sitting in his usual ramrod-straight position, his facial expression giving away nothing. I gave him a brief update on my projects, as though I had still worked for him, and he nodded, inserting an occasional comment. Those comments were solid gold; I made sure to write them down.
“Why don’t you call her Evelyn, Honore?” Vicki said all of a sudden. “You know her well enough, don’t you think?”
Honore Auguste Wilson the 3rd hesitated, freezing in mid-motion, suddenly awkward. “Would you mind?” Thin, ebony eyebrows rose high in his chiseled, porcelain face.
“No, not at all… Honore.”
“Very well then, Evelyn.” He sipped some tea, politely ignoring my cup of coffee, which was stinking up his conference room. “Vicki and I were wondering whether you and Raf would like to join us for dinner someday.”
I sat up so fast, my coffee almost spilled.
“I’d say yes but I’ll have to check with my… with my… friend.” The last word was limp and flaccid on my tongue. Not bold enough to admit to a lover, not certain of our mutual status, “friend” was a happy, generic term, good enough to cover most situations.
Vicki grinned. “Don’t forget today’s Friday,” she nudged me with her elbow, almost making me spill again.
“Oh yeah you’re right! How time flies.” I nodded. “Same time, same place?”
Vicki was about to nod back, when Wilson – Honore, that is – when Honore lifted his hand halfway, letting it hover over the teapot.
“What’s tonight?”
“Eve and I meet with our friends after work on Friday nights. We eat greasy food and drink beer. It’s loud and there’s music and we haven’t done it in a while.” Vicki eyed the quiet man with a measure of apprehension. “You wanna come?”
“No, I do not ‘wanna’ come. I’m perfectly happy at home, with a book.”
Vicki laughed at his peevish tone, irreverent. “Okay, my misanthropic sunshine,” she chirped. “I’ll come home smelling of beer and smoke, but I’ll be happy to shower for you.”
Honore huffed and looked away, making me wonder what made the two of them click so well. Vicki was loud and vivacious, even brash at times. Honore had always been the silent type, every action a study in premeditated control. She must have barged right into his protected private space heedless of convention or propriety, and for whatever reason, he must have decided that putting up with a woman who was like a wild force of nature was preferable to being alone. There was a lesson there somewhere, but I had yet to figure it out.
NEXT STOP: my place. The elevator took me up to the sixth floor of an older, run-down apartment building, where most tenants were either very young or very old and lived on tight budgets.
Choosing not to use my keys, I picked my locks open just for practice to let myself in. The door to my pad swung open and I reeled as the stench of old garbage assaulted my nostrils. I’d been gone for over a week, and my old food leftovers had ripened inside the garbage can, turning it into a fifth-grade science experiment. I tied the bag shut and took it down the hall to the garbage shoot.
Gross.
It didn’t take me long to realize that the scent-containment properties of my old garbage bags had been vastly over-advertised, so I took the kitchen garbage can into the bath tub and filled it with soap and hot water.
A squeaky growl emanated from my belly; it was past lunchtime. Now, normally I’d fix myself a sandwich. Today, with great trepidation, I opened the refrigerator, alert for new, mutated life forms that might launch themselves at me.
I looked inside.
Curdled milk, wilted lettuce, two cucumbers in a plastic bag now decaying into their typical primordial ooze. The plain yogurt container looked promising – I opened it only to shut it again, afraid that the fuzzy, lace-like mold it harbored on its surface would crawl out and attack me.
The bread was moldy, the cheese was hard, and the two remaining apples smelled gross from everything else. Only the condiments were still good: mayo, ketchup, mustard, hot sauce. Hardly the lunch of champions.
Pulling another kitchen bag from under the sink, I decontaminated the refrigerator and opened the cupboards. There was a can of Spam, a bag of marshmallows, two cans of tuna fish, a jar of peanut butter, and several cans of off-brand, generic chicken noodle soup I had bought on sale a long time ago. I gave the soup a good, second look. If I squinted hard enough, it was the most edible item around.
While the soup was heating in the microwave, I attacked the now empty fridge with a sponge and hot, soapy water.
Never again.
I’ll never leave food in the fridge like this.
Revolting.
The freezer happened to contain three leftover breakfast waffles; I toasted them just to be able to throw the box away. Having washed my hands, I sat at my little table, eating my chicken soup and cinnamon waffles, staring at a pad of paper. It was time to make a new list of things to buy.
Unless I wanted to throw away perfectly good food again, I’d make sure to buy only that which would last.
Canned soups, chili, beans. Crackers. Evaporated milk in a can.
Was I nuts?
Didn’t I intend to LIVE here anymore?
The thin, salty soup cooled before me as I inspected my shopping list, having added condoms, shampoo, a Venus brand razor blade…
A warm, fuzzy feeling washed over me and I felt myself wiggle in my chair, blood rushing to all the right places. I felt the delicious wisp of
Rafael’s silk transport me to another time and place. My eyes slid shut.
“Grrrawwwwhrrr!”
Oh yes.
Oh yeah, baby.
I wiggled some more.
“Grrrawwwwhrrr!”
Yanked out of my happy dream world, I fumbled for my phone, wrestling it out of the too-tight pocket.
“Rafael?”
“Hey, Evelyn… everything okay?” He drawled, and a shiver shook the tendrils of sensuous memories off my shoulders.
“Ah… yeah. Why?”
“You sound a bit out of it. Where are you?”
“My apartment.” The silence stretched a bit after I said that.
“Oh yeah? What’s going on?”
“You should’ve seen my refrigerator. So gross! Agh.” I heard him laugh on the other end.
“I’ll be home late,” he said. “Something’s come up at work.”
“Yeah, me too – I have a thing tonight,” I said, distracted, as we both hung up.
I FELT like a vagrant, lugging my extra-long duffle bag full of clothing, pictures and books, and my grandfather’s sword. His father had brought it from Japan at the end of the World War II; it was a lovely antique and, despite the fact that I hadn’t taken a single sword lesson in my life I’ve always been unreasonably attached to it.
Then I had my backpack with my laptop and my gym clothes and climbing gear; I probably looked like I was moving.
I felt like I was moving.
Wait! No! I wasn’t moving. I still had my own place; the bills had been paid and I even watered the cactus. It was just that wild, fuzzy feeling I had, like being wrapped in cotton candy.
Somehow, staying with Raf had become not only acceptable but even desirable. I had the hots for him, took a video of him, had his voice for my ring tone – my own place felt drab and cold and it had nothing to do with the décor or the temperature.
I Need A Bad Boy: A Collection of Bad Boy Romances Page 28