Him and I

by Melody Eve

  I like the sound of that. “If it’s not Hindu sexing, what is it called?”

  “It’s called tantric sex. It’s a Hindu practice that means the weaving and expansion of energy.”

  “So, it really is sex without the sex.”

  “No, more like really, really slow sex that blows your mind so hard in the end that you’re exhausted mentally and physically for days.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Days?”

  He nods, and I squirm excited to try this new slow sex. “It’s like naked sexual meditation and yoga.”

  “When’s intermission over?” I ask, and he laughs.

  “Now if you want.”

  “I want.”

  “No more talk of kidnapping?”

  “No, but I don’t like being handled. If you wanted to go to London, why didn’t you just ask me?”

  “I wanted it to be a surprise. You said you’d never been, and I want to give you every experience you’ve never had. And I hired people to run your store, so you wouldn’t have to worry about losing more money while you’re gone.”

  It’s obvious he was trying to do something sweet, and now that I feel sure of that I can’t be mad at him. “Thank you, next time give me some heads-up, though. I’m not crazy about surprises.”

  “Duly noted.”

  “Now, about this slow, exhausting, mind-blowing sex…”

  Chapter 11

  The music begins again out of nowhere. Roman has either discovered a way to control the sound system with his thoughts or it’s on a timer with scheduled breaks.

  “Usually, you’re supposed to take time to massage and kneed each other’s muscles, but I’m not going to be able to rub your sunburned skin, and you’re supposed to be resting after your head injury so we won’t be able to experience the full effect until you’re well.”

  I poke out my bottom lip in a pout. I was looking forward to this. “No pouting. I’m still going to make you feel good. You just won’t get the full effect without the massage.”

  “Okay, how long are we in London?”

  “A week, unless you’d like to stay longer.”

  “No, a week is fine. I was just thinking that I should be back to about ninety-five percent in two days, so let’s schedule a day and night for, what did you call it again?”

  “Tantric sex.”

  “Yes, that. In two days, all right?”

  “It’s a date.”

  He leads me through an hour-long rollercoaster ride of a kiss. Part of the time I’m so relaxed I fear I’ll melt and pour over the sides of the bed. And then, without warning, he winds me up until I’m panting and begging him to let me come.

  On the final plunge of the ride, after being buried between my legs pleasuring me into a torturously long and drawn-out orgasm where I yell and moan, clawing at the sweat-dampened sheets, arching my back off the mattress until the last vibrations of my climax subside, I finally collapse.

  There’s something to this going-slow business. The build, the climb, it’s all so much better when it takes forever to get to the top. The only problem so far is that it’s been all about me. Roman has had no release, and now I’m in no condition to reciprocate.

  He falls to my side flat on his back, his arms flung out to his sides one stretched over my tummy. “Roman?”

  “Yes.” He still sounds out of breath when he speaks, and I feel even more guilty.

  “This isn’t how it usually goes, is it?”

  “Ending with the best orgasm possible? Yes, that is exactly how it usually goes love, why?”

  “No, I mean for you. It was pure bliss for me, but it was pretty one-sided, don’t you think? Not that I’m complaining, not at all.”

  “Today was supposed to be all about you. You’re still healing, and I can’t very well fuck you properly when your skin is blistering. It’ll be different next time. Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

  “Both, but…”

  He sits up and turns around to face me where I’m on my back with my head on two pillows, two, he insisted I keep my head elevated because of my stitches. I don’t know why, I think the blood pressure flowing through my head when I climaxed would be the same if I were flat or propped up, but I was in no position to argue.

  “But what?”

  “I feel weird knowing that the flight attendant and the pilot have been listening to the same music and know what we’ve been up to all this time.”

  “They’re both in the cockpit, there’s no music in there, and we’re all adults and they are professionals. They won’t make you uncomfortable, I promise.”

  “Because you do this sort of thing all the time?”

  His frown is deep, and his expression annoyed. “No, I’ve never had tantric sex with anyone in my jet. In fact, I’ve never had any kind of sex in my jet.”

  “Really? Why the bedroom then?”

  “Aria, bedrooms are for more than sex. I sleep in this bed on long flights.”

  “Oh, but you’ve, you know, done this sort of thing on a plane before though, right?”

  “If by, this sort of thing, you mean sex, no. I am not a member of the Mile High Club unless you include what I did here today with you, of course.”

  “I don’t know what the rules are. It seems like this would apply, though.”

  One side of his mouth turns up in a smirk. “We just popped each other’s Mile High Club cherry.”

  “I guess we did.”

  “Will you be joining me for something to eat or are you too embarrassed to face the flight attendant?”

  “You wouldn’t happen to have a shower on the plane, would you?”

  “Of course, through that door there. It’s small, but it gets the job done. The shampoo and conditioner are under the sink.” He leans over and kisses me on the navel before bouncing off the bed and pulling on his jeans.

  “I’ll get us food, you clean up. Do you need a pain pill?”

  I wasn’t thinking about it, but yes, my head is throbbing a little. “Yes, please.”

  He leaves shutting the door quietly, and I slide out of bed and open the door to the tiny bathroom.

  The inside of it reminds me of the bathroom in the RV when we drove to Colorado when I was in the eighth grade. Everything is small and close in proximity but functional.

  I turn on the water and think about the fact that we are traveling seven thousand miles per hour, forty thousand feet above ground in a tin can, and I am taking off all of my clothes to shower.

  This thought causes me to rush through my cool, precarious showering. It’s difficult to adjust the temperature of the water when you have a sunburn. Too hot stings like hell, too cold makes me shiver uncontrollably. I wash and condition my hair carefully so as not to bump my wound, and then quickly swipe over the important parts before stepping out of the stand-up shower stall.

  I wipe the mirror with my hand and crack the door to release the steam. I glance at myself in the mirror and cringe. How on earth is he attracted to me? I look atrocious with my peeling skin, blisters, and weird hair. I’ve had to get creative with my hair putting it in a loose bun or parting it so the section with stitches doesn’t show. It would be easier if my hair weren’t so blonde. As it is, that area still looks a bit pink stained by my blood.

  I sigh and dry off, apply aloe that has been thoughtfully placed on the tiny vanity, and pick through my hair with a comb until it’s untangled. We have hours until we land, so I leave it down to dry.

  I step out into the bedroom and find a magenta skirt with lace trim along the bottom and a floral blouse that ties in a knot at the hip spread out on the bed. There is also a pile of delicate silver bracelets and chandelier earrings with tiny pearls and intricate lacy details. They aren’t my clothes, or my jewelry, but they are meant for me, and they are beautiful and exactly my style.

  I have been told I’m impossible to shop for because of my propensity toward Bohemian clothes, yet Roman has chosen something that fits that niche perfectly. They are colorful with a touch
of vintage lace as well as comfortable. On the floor are my flip flops.

  I dress and open the door to the main cabin and nearly run into Roman carrying a tray of food. “Back into bed with you.”

  “But,” I look down at my shoes. “You put out shoes.”

  “Those are for later when we land. Kick them off, and let’s eat.” I glance down at the tray holding a huge bowl of fruit, two New York strip steaks, asparagus, a bottle of champagne, some kind of dessert, and two white pain pills.

  “Wow, this is the best-looking airplane food I’ve ever seen.”

  “That’s because it’s not airplane food. I had Florentines prepare our flight meals ahead of time.”

  “Florentines? As in Florentines, the most exclusive, impossible-to-get-into restaurant in Chicago?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “That’s impressive.”

  “Finally.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve done something to impress you without a complaint.” He moves into the bedroom and places the tray of food on the bed. I watch as he pulls a hidden space-saving table out of the wall near the foot of the bed and pulls up a chair.

  “Do I really complain that much?” I ask taking the chair. He steps around to sit on the bed opposite me and moves the tray of food between us.

  “Yes. You’re a rare breed, Aria Savage. Unimpressed by the trappings of wealth, content with the simple things in life. I’m forever at a loss as to how to please you. It looks like I did well with the clothes and jewelry, though. You look stunning, and if I may be presumptuous, I think I hit your style preference right on the head.”

  “You’re always presumptuous, but yes, I love it all, and that’s not easy to do.”

  “Says who?”

  “My friends, my family, David.”

  He stiffens with the mention of David’s name. “Has the gigolo tried to make contact with you again?”

  “I don’t know, I haven’t turned on my cell phone yet. I probably should call my mom and dad. I don’t want them to worry.”

  “I think you’re right,” he says cutting into his steak. It’s not so much his words as his tone, and that he is suddenly avoiding eye contact that makes me suspicious.

  “Roman?” I ask, and he doesn’t look up but gives me a, “Hmm?”

  “Did you look at my messages?”

  He raises his fork to his mouth with a chunk of steak on it and looks at me. “No.”

  I narrow my eyes trying to see if he’s lying, but it’s no use. He’s either a very good liar or he’s being truthful. “Why are you looking at me like that?” he says chewing his food.

  “I feel as though you’re lying to me.”

  “I’m not. Is it so strange that I want you to tell your parents you’ll be out of town another week?”

  “No, I suppose not.” He wants me to tell my parents about him, that’s what this is all about. If my parents know I’m in London, they’ll ask why and who I’m with and how we met, blah, blah, blah, after which he will be a more permanent fixture in my life because my parents know of him.

  I’ll send Mom an email later. I need to explain in my own words what happened at the wedding and why I did what I did. When I do, I’ll throw in that I met a friend in Mexico, and we decided to take a trip to London on a whim. I’ll conveniently leave out the part where Roman is a man, maybe call him Rhonda, and let Mom chalk it up to post-traumatic stress disorder because that’s what she’ll do.

  My mom should have studied psychiatry. She loves to diagnose everyone with a psych disorder. I think she’s bored being a housewife, and it gives her something to do between scrubbing the floors and watching How to Get Away with Murder on Netflix.

  I decide to let it go and see if he brings it up again later on. “What are we going to do when we get to London?”

  “It’ll be 1:30 a.m., so not much. We can nap and go for breakfast, but I think we need to go shopping after that. You didn’t bring a lot to wear on your non-honeymoon, and although I got it right with this outfit, I wasn’t confident enough to order you a whole new wardrobe.”

  “I wasn’t planning on doing much in Mexico. I was going to drink, sleep, and lay on the beach for fourteen long days until you came along.”

  “Aren’t you glad I did?”

  “At first, no. I was pissed that you ruined my pathetic pity party. I wanted to wallow in my pain and cry and yell and be a hermit. But then you got me drunk, and we had fun on your yacht and started hanging out, and I figured you were an all-right guy.”

  “An all-right guy, huh? That’s it, I’m just an all-right guy?”

  “Well, you’re a pretty good kisser, too, I guess.” I shrug my shoulder, and his eyes open wide.

  “Pretty good?” he says standing up.

  “Yeah, you have good technique, but you’re kind of slow,” I say looking up at the ceiling twirling my hair around my finger flirtatiously.

  “Slow, huh?” he says stepping around the table at lightning speed. I shriek and laugh when he scoops me from my chair and kisses me senseless to prove a point.

  When he pulls away, he looks at me with his sparkling eyes. “I would spank you if you weren’t so sunburned.”

  “Promises, promises,” I say and bite my lip waiting for his response. His face changes from playful to dark in a flash, and I feel like I’ve said something wrong.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Mmm hmm.” He sits me back in my chair. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “Good.” He returns to his spot at the end of the bed, and I sense his mood is somehow different. Gone is the frisky man from only a moment ago, and in his place is brooding Roman cutting his meat like he’s trying to kill it again.

  “Roman.” I reach across the small table and touch his arm stopping him from making a permanent mark on the plate with his steak knife. His eyes meet mine, and I’m stunned to find them welling with tears. “Hey, what happened? Did I say something wrong?”

  “No, it’s nothing.” He lowers his gaze and pushes his food around on his plate. “Aren’t you going to eat?” he asks pointing his fork at my untouched plate.

  “Yes, when you tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Nothing is wrong. My father just used to say that, is all.”

  I look at him lost.

  “Promises, promises. He used to say that to me all the time. We were both busy men, and it was hard to find time to spend together. When I told him I would visit, he would always say ‘promises, promises.’”

  I stand up and sit next to him on the bed. I wrap my arms around him, and he slides his arm up and around my shoulders, so I can rest my head on his chest. “I’m sorry for bringing back a painful memory.”

  “Don’t be, there’s no way you could have known. I apologize for getting emotional. We were having fun, and now I’ve put a damper on that.”

  “Why are men afraid to be emotional? It’s as natural as breathing, yet you all think it makes you look weak. Women love it by the way, vulnerability, emotions, a couple of tears here and there. It makes you more human.” I slide my hand up his bare chest and feel his heart beating.

  “I’m not afraid of being emotional, I just prefer not to be. It’s a never-ending circle of misery. You get emotional, and then you’re vulnerable, you start crying, and then you feel like shit. No thanks.”

  “Well, if you want to manipulate me into bed sometime, just flash those watery eyes, and you’ll have me.”

  “I don’t have to manipulate you into bed. If I want you there, I’ll pick you up and put you there.”

  “Okay, but if I put on a few pounds, just cry.”

  He shakes his head and laughs. “You’re something else, Ms. Savage.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment, Mr. Forrest.”

  “As it was meant to be. Now, is your steak cold?”

  “It’s fine.”

  “You haven’t touched it. Michelle would be more than happy to warm it up f
or you.”

  “No. I’d rather not face her until we’re ready to land.”

  “Does it bother you that much that she knows we had sex?”

  “I guess it does.”

  “Why? Everyone does it. We just chose to do it forty thousand feet in the air.”

  “Exactly. Everyone does it in the privacy of their home.”

  “Oh Aria, that is so untrue. People are having sex everywhere. You need to pay closer attention. I once saw a couple doing it at the market, and at the Super Bowl, and in bars and restaurants. Sex isn’t just for the bedroom anymore, love.”

  “The Super Bowl?”

  “Yep, it was freezing, and they were quite inconspicuous, but I know ecstasy on a woman’s face when I see it. It’s addictive, you know? The excitement, the possibility of being caught, it’s a rush.”

  “You sound like you have experience in the area.”

  “I’ve had sex in public a few times, but it would be different with you.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I’ll tell you when I come back from warming up your food.” He nudges me to go back to my seat, and he takes my plate out into the main cabin.

  I watch him go draping my arm over the back of my chair. He is remarkably perfect on the outside. I suspect he is broken on the inside, and I wonder just how bad it is. People don’t hold the reins so tightly unless they’ve lost control, or had it taken from them at some point in their life. Someone took the reins from Roman, and I need to find out who.

  “Daydreaming?” he asks when he returns to the room, and I’m staring out one of four small, round windows into the clouds.

  “Mmm hmm, I guess.”

  “About me, I hope.”

  “Yes.”

  “What were we doing? Please don’t say I was trying to get you into bed by crying.”

  I laugh as he places my plate down in front of me. “Microwave?” I ask scrunching up my nose.

  “Of course not. We have a convection oven. Check and see if it’s hot and answer my question.”

  I cut into the meat, and it’s the perfect temperature. “No, you weren’t crying, and we weren’t having sex.”