I lay here vulnerable to his attack and sexual spasms wrack my belly. I want him hard and demanding the way he is now. I want him driving deep, taking away the thoughts of other men, even the idea of Aman.
I’ll have him like this now, and if nothing else, I’ll have the memory forever.
He massages my groin along all the important places that thrive on delicacy and skill. A finger slides over my clit and moves down across the opening of my vagina, where for a second it massages along the inner rim. His fingers then move deeper to the tender the spot at the bottom of my sex where the yearning for the base sensation starts.
I whimper as his soft touch glides across the sensitive tissue of my anus. His wicked fingers are tuned to my need. I’m breathing heavily, silently, but with every body movement encouraging him further. He moves back to the vaginal opening to gather the juices that flow there in a steady stream. He swaths the backdoor and slides one finger gently inside.
From that simple touch alone, I’m about to orgasm, but I hold back.
“Damn! You’re making me hot,” I seethe for him.
“But don’t you dare come yet,” he warns.
Oh! Warn me more! Be hard on me! Be ruthless. Tease me. Torment me. Make me hurt, Steven! Make me pay for my sins, I cry, but all so silently. Unbidden, silent emotion pours from me. Tears run down my cheeks. Thank god, he doesn’t notice.
Then he suddenly backs off.
“Turn over.” His voice is firm but not unkind.
I follow orders, moving to my hands and knees, waving my ass in the breeze. Even the air caresses the swollen sexual places and they respond as if starved for attention.
He starts to spank my ass with the palm of his hand, with hard blows followed by a hard, grasping massage. Heat spreads across the surface of my skin and travels deeper. He spanks me again and I imagine the rosy glow, knowing how easily my ass colors. The pink will be vivid, beautiful and angry.
His passion collides with every idea I have of him. I almost fear he knows the details of my aberrant behavior and he’s punishing me for not confessing the truth. Or perhaps he just guesses where my life has taken me and wants to go there too.
The hard spanks soon turn my ass into a fiery furnace. When he stops, he begins working my anal crack with an ever-so-gentle massage.
“Spanking turns you on, Michelle,” he notes when he finds my cunt generously dripping with fluid. “But I suppose you know that.”
“You turn me on, big guy.”
“And so does getting spanked.” He slaps me hard again. “Don’t argue.”
“Sorry, sir.”
He swathes my drippings across my anus and penetrates with his fingers, running them deep and fucking the opening wider. I’m so relaxed, so wanting of him there that there’s no hurt, no pain. Not even a grimace on my face. He primes me as if he owns me, as Aman would, but there is that difference of his love filling me, where as I feel empty with my master.
My excitement builds when I feel him standing at my rear. I know what comes next and sigh with a wave of contentment already invading my being. He lunges forward, thrusting the whole of his erection into my ass in one swift motion. The fucking follows on the heels of that first strike, and I dive deep into the miniscule insignificant me, crying Yes, baby yes, fuck me harder! I don’t think I voice my exclamation, but then who would know?
The pace quickens, becoming ruthless and jarring, sending me bounding toward my climax, and then it starts, rolling through me, waves on waves, as I feel him cling a little harder and jab with more might. The pulse of this cumming prick vibrates through my orgasm and I scream aloud and unrestrained.
“Yes, gawd y-y-y-y-y-essssssss!”
I hear my joy. I hear his in the bellowing grunt that finishes him. When he pulls out, I pull him with me to the top of the bed and cradle myself in his arms. We breathe erratically, but together. His sweat, his breath, his pheromones mingle with mine and for one brief moment nothing will disturb this peace.
I have to say something when I can finally breathe easily again. We can’t just let the moment pass without words. I need to understand.
“So why now?” I ask.
“Why now what?”
“Why anally?”
“Seemed like a good time.”
Yeah, that sounds like excuse enough for a guy. But, of course, I wonder if there’s more. Does he have premonitions too? Does he know that he has just days before there will be no more Michelle Monroe and Steven Vanderberg?
“You were good,” I say.
“Better than most?” he jokes. He’s holding me so I practically have to look him in the face.
“Better than anyone ever,” I reply. “But why did you think I’d done this before?”
“I don’t know, I just know you have. But then so have I.”
He has too? Why have I never considered this? I have this sweeping assumption that I’m the one who has the perverted past and he couldn’t possibly have done any of the kinky things I have. Now I’m green with envy for any woman who’s gone before me. I hate them all. I want to be the only one. How silly of me.
I can’t stop asking myself the absurd question. Why the hell did my life have to be this way? Why did I have to become a sexual slave and why can’t I give it up? Why now do I have to give up Steven Vanderberg? Why?
***
After lunch—room service with the two of us decadently wrapped in sheets—Steven leaves me to my own devices for the afternoon.
After showering and getting dressed, I walk about the hotel, window-shop the expensive stores and then take off on foot to scrounge around the district for something interesting.
I’m beset again by that prickly agitation that makes the hair at one’s neck stand on end. I shiver at almost every stop sign and turn around a dozen times to see who’s following me. I get some strange stares from suspicious New Yorkers who move on swiftly past me, disgruntled by my confusion. Of course, there’s no one there.
I soon stop myself every time the urge comes over me again. I’m just being foolish. But the premonitions linger. I feel the agitation in my shoulders, like someone’s just gently kissed my neck and I draw my shoulders to my ears, trying to shake off the ticklish sensation. I turn around one more time; still no one there.
Am I going mad!
Stopping long enough to gather my wits, I stand with my back against the hard grey granite of a financial institution and give the entire street as far as my eye can see a thorough once-over. I convince myself that I’m behaving stupidly.
That done and my intuition finally pacified, I start out again, spotting a woman’s clothing store across the street where I used to buy terrific summer prints. Adding a renewed lightness to my gait, I breeze on in front of six lanes of stopped cars, mostly taxis, and fishtail my way through the crowded sidewalk to the shop door. Just before I open it to go inside, I turn and I catch something at the corner of my eye. I immediately tell myself it’s nothing, but I can’t keep myself from looking anyway.
One glance…my whole world halts. Nothing seems to move and yet everything still moves around me in a blur. It was just a tiny glimpse, a fleeting one that’s come and gone like flash forward on TV. I see it twice, the shape, the stance, the face I know as well as my own. Then it’s gone. I search the street again. Time resumes a its regular pace. Pedestrians pass by me not looking and there is no figure like the one that just vanished before my eyes.
I finally move on into the clothing store, telling myself repeatedly that it was not Daniel Broc I just saw. At the same time, I know it was.
Chapter Six
My night begins at Steven’s side, at a classic cocktail party imbued with lavish décor, and the sounds of clinking glass and china, chattering voices and high-pitched laughter. There is too much booze, but then it fulfills its purpose, loosening this crowd of strangers who would rather be anywhere else than in this room smoozing people they care little for.
Steven gives me a self-deprecating smirk
as we walk into the glittering ballroom, arm and arm. Such a transformation in us both, now that we’re perfectly tucked into our fancy clothes. He is breathtaking in a tuxedo, his rough edges smoothed, and such rich black fits the quiet power he exudes. I decided on a tight-fitting red sheath, initially thinking it was a bit bold for the occasion, but decided I needed to be bold this evening. The bodice is cut low across my breasts and there’s a daring slit that travels high up my left thigh. I may risk being pawed by sex-hungry, drunken convention-goers, but then, I’m planning to stick close to Steven. And when Steven sees the dress, I get exactly the reaction I’m hoping for. His initial appraisal suggested that he would just as soon spend the evening in bed, recreating the passion of the early afternoon.
“Damn! You’re going to make it hard for me to concentrate on small talk,” he beamed as I emerged from the bedroom.
“Good. That’s exactly my plan,” I quipped. I’d be perfectly happy to skip the cocktail party for sex with Steven—just what I need to dispel the disquieting uproar created by my incident on the street.
Of course, I know that wasn’t Daniel Broc I saw. But I worry, why now am I suddenly seeing him as a phantom in the midst of busy streets? His image was so clear.
I’m afraid to address the truth. What will it say about the current nature of my psyche? I don’t want to accept that the wounds of my past are still lurking in the recesses of my body.
As I sidled up to Steven at our hotel room door, I let my sexual energy grab him where it matters. We kissed long and deeply. My hand traveled to his crotch while his combed my breasts, then explored what was beneath the hemline of the dress.
But he pushed me back.
“You know, you’re too damned tempting,” he told me. “But beautiful as you are, in the interests of my paycheck, I we’d better go to the reception. Time to delight and charm the crowd.”
To that, I batted my eyes and frowned, looking playfully chagrinned by my thoughts.
And that brings me back to our entrance into the Kincaid ballroom with its glitter and noise. In minutes, we’re in that altered state where the rest of the world drops away and for a time the merriment of the moment replaces reality.
After swiping drinks from a polite butler carrying a tray of champagne glasses, Steven turns his attention to his colleagues and admirers, beginning his polite rounds of conversation. By my second glass of champagne, I’m feeling buzzed enough to float through the rest of the evening. Even the disquiet in my tummy disappears and thoughts of Broc lurk on the sidelines, safely. I stick with Steven, look good and smile since I have very little to contribute to the conversation.
Time to pee, I yank on his arm. “I’m off to the ladies room,” I whisper in his ear.
“Don’t get lost,” he whispers back, then kisses my cheek fondly.
Taking in the tender gesture, a twinge of regret pierces my gut as I remember again how our hours are numbered. No amount of champagne will let me forget that.
I don’t realize how woozy I am until I start to make my way across the ballroom without Steven’s support. Feeling a little off balance, I stop at the doorway and take a deep breath, holding on to the doorjamb. Settled enough to continue I head directly for the ladies room on the far side of the marble tiled lobby. Although just before I reach the restroom, there is a peculiar tickling sensation at the back of my neck and I gaze up at the staircase to my right.
I stop, unable to move. Fear clutches my tummy again, and I simply stare, while two bold eyes stare back at me from the face of a man I know well. I feel pulled again into the deep pools of cerulean blue, until he finally disengages from my locked eyes, and starts down the staircase. I know he’s coming for me.
“Michelle.” He looks as surprised as I am to be meeting in this place. He gives me a quick hug and backs off to a safe distance.
“My God, Daniel, it was you on the street!” I finally blurt out.
“And it was you I saw. I wasn’t sure.”
“Here I thought you were a ghost.”
He smiles lightly. “’fraid I’m not dead yet.” The rough Texan is subdued tonight, the man poured into a tuxedo that doesn’t fit his soul as well as Army fatigues, or blue jeans. Regardless, he has the capacity to rise above his clothes, his substance, though not enhanced by, can not be contained by what he wears. The broad chest, ruddy complexion and sandy blond hair are the same as I remember. He intrigues me as he did before, all of him down to the great darkness I know he harbors.
“I’m in New York on business,” he explains.
“You’re attending a scientific convention?”
He looks toward the doorway of the Kincaid ballroom. “No,” he nods toward the hotel’s front door, “I have a meeting down the street. I’m just calling this home for the next several weeks.”
The same hotel where I’m staying with Steven? This is oddly alarming. Coincidence?
“So, you’re attending a scientific convention? Doesn’t sound like Michelle Monroe.”
“With my fiancé,” I quickly clarify.
“Ah! The last I knew of you, you were safely under the thumb of a man named Kovac.”
“You knew him?”
“No. But I kept an eye on you—from afar of course, until I believed you were safe.”
This information gives me sharp chill. “Well, perhaps you didn’t know that Kovac died eighteen months ago.”
He looks surprised. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Automobile accident.”
“And how are you now?”
“I’ve rebounded. I’m with Steven, a very good relationship, and last year I returned to doing documentaries—what I do best.”
Although his face displays a gentle smirk, he seems a bit disgruntled by this news. “Somewhat different from what I remember that you do best.”
I blush lightly. “That’s all behind me.”
“Let’s hope so,” he says, while giving me the impression that he doubts the fact. This, too, unnerves me.
While he remains cool throughout the conversation, I can’t help feeling he has his hands inside me as thoroughly as he did before. I’m sweltering with sexual fire by the time he nods his head goodbye and walks toward the front foyer.
I quickly scoot into the ladies’ room, tempted to but afraid to look back, afraid he won’t be looking back at me, even though I sense the hot intensity in his eyes burning at the center of my shoulder blades. I shudder, refuse to give into temptation, and move on.
When I return to the lobby, Daniel is gone, although Steven is standing at the doorway of the ballroom, peering curiously at me. I walk his way.
“Who was that?”
“Who?” I ask, a bit surprised that he saw me with Broc.
“The man you were talking to.”
I stare at him thoughtfully, wondering what to say. But then, why lie? He’s not accusing me and I have nothing to hide.
I laugh nervously as I confess, “That was Daniel Broc, the man who rescued me in the Middle East.”
“Really?” He’s stunned. “That must have been a shock to run into him.”
“Yes. A big shock. I’m still not sure what I saw. I mean, it was him, but…”
“Reminders?” he asks kindly.
“Yes, exactly.” I feel a heavy weight pressing in on me, the past exploding like bombs all around me. “You think the memories are just paper thin and then suddenly they’re fully fleshed out again and as real as ever.”
“So, what’s he doing in New York?”
“He said he was on business.”
“Then you’re being here at the same time is quite a coincidence.”
Exactly what I was thinking. A guttural kind of sexual energy smashes through me. The sexual memories have been shaken alive. The wanting for Daniel Broc that should have died the day he shoved me into the Citron miles from civilization and pointed me to my new destination returns, heartless and cruel. This is not fair. Not fair! There is no peace, not now, and I fear not for a lo
ng time.
The rumbling in my belly won’t quit, but I manage to get through the rest of the evening, playacting the appropriate role. I’m not sure Steven buys my performance. Not that he says anything, but the way he looks at me, the odd way he cocks his head—as if he’s trying to pry me apart, and just can’t find the place to put the wedge—makes me think he knows more than he’s letting on. But I’ll let him stew with this suppositions and hope that his concerns will eventually disappear. Besides, he’ll be out of my life soon enough and then none of this will matter.
It’s even possible that my meeting with Broc will serve to my advantage as I look for a way to end my relationship with Steven. This tears at my heart, but I know it has to happen. Although Aman is away, I feel his fingers on my flesh like a spider crawling on my skin. Seeing Daniel only reminds me of the gravity of my situation.
Aman is a terrorist at heart. He may not blow up buildings—although he may—but he has an ironfisted grasp on anything he wants and there’s no escape.
***
I return to my apartment with Steven at my heels, carrying my luggage. I spent the last fifteen minutes in the car telling him how busy I’ll be the next week. I can’t think of any time I’ll be able to see him… I cite the documentary, which is coming down to the final production stages, and throw in a few slightly fictitious excuses that he readily accepts. He understands my deadline; after all, we’ve just been through the same thing with him as he finished his paper for the conference.
Unfortunately, my carefully constructed plan seems doomed to fall apart, when just inside the door, I spot a manila envelope on the floor and my heart beats with a fervor that starts in my chest and proceeds upwards to my temples. It settles in my jaw; my muscles tighten and my hands clench into fists.
White Silk & I Belong to You Page 21