Miss Behave

by Wylde, Tara

  James really is well-built everywhere .

  He nips my shoulder, lightly at first, then harder, at my involuntary moan of approval. I rest my free hand on his chest—to caress him; to push him away—I couldn’t say. He’s so close, so real. The heat of his body is everywhere, permeating every inch of me. I can smell his aftershave, feel his five o’clock shadow scratching at the crook of my neck .

  “What—what are you going to do ?”

  His hand mirrors mine, gliding up to my chest, circling one nipple without touching. “You tell me .”

  “I’m....”

  “Mm?” A wicked glint creeps into his eye. He’s provoking me—holding pleasure just out of my grasp, trying to elicit a reaction. Trying to get me to...what? Confess my darkest desires ?

  “Pinch,” I tell him .

  He does. It’s not hard, not painful, but the sudden sensation’s enough to have me arching my back, shamelessly lifting my hips. His cock jumps and throbs. “Harder ?”

  I nod .

  “Say it .”

  “Harder....”

  He follows up the pinch with a swipe of his tongue. I’m lost, overwhelmed. No one’s taken their time with me before, not like this, not like the rest of our lives lie before us, endless hours to play and explore. His unhurried lips trace the lines of my torso; his fingers drag and press and wander, mapping the spots that yield shivers and sighs .

  I can’t keep up. I’m lost in his contours: the smooth planes of his pecs, the hard ridges of his ribcage, the way his abs tense and shudder at my touch. I ramble without aim, entranced with the heft of his body. There’s something—a barely-restrained thrum of potential energy, just beneath the surface. He really could lift me like a doll, bend me to his will—and I wouldn’t protest .

  His lips stray below my navel, following the curve of my belly, lower and lower. I don’t even realize I’ve gone still, stopped breathing, till he lifts his head .

  “Where to?” He winks .

  “Keep—keep going .”

  “Don’t forget to breathe.” James eases my legs apart. My hands hover, trembling, above his head. I can’t just...give in, much as he seems to want me to—Can’t risk my instincts being wrong. I settle for resting a hand on the back of his neck .

  I’m not expecting the strength of my own reaction to what’s not even a touch—just the whisper of his breath against my slit. I gasp and kick, narrowly missing his hip .

  “Careful....” His laugh sets his chest vibrating, and I almost kick out again. “Sensitive, are we ?”

  “Don’t—don’t talk!” Every puff of breath, every rumble of speech, has me squirming in his grip. If he touched me now; if he so much as ran the back of his nail across my clit ....

  Surely not ....

  I hitch a deep breath, and another. James makes a faint sound, a hiss of air between his teeth. I realize I’ve got a death-grip on his neck, digging crescents into his hairline. I ease up on the pressure, and he lifts his head .

  “Ready?”

  “Think so ....”

  I barely have time to steel myself, and he’s spreading me open with his tongue. It’s not the light touch I’d feared, but a firm pressure that awakens a deep, pulsing pleasure, intense but bearable. I feel a warm excitement building, radiating down my thighs, pooling in my belly. I concentrate on my breathing—deep and slow, resisting the temptation to tense up .

  All that goes out the window when he adds a finger. He doesn’t even penetrate me: all it takes is his fingertip, flirting around the entrance, and I buck up involuntarily, pushing him away at the same time. I scrabble at his head, panting, gasping. It’s too much. I shudder all over. Bite my lip hard. Got one fistful of his hair, another of silk sheets, and my toes are curling into the mattress. Maybe he won’t know—if I’m quiet; if I’m still; if I —

  “Did you...was that just ...?”

  Damn it .

  I can’t look him in the eye .

  “Hey—it’s all right.” He’s hovering over me again, holding onto my hips like I might fly apart at any second. I risk a glance at him. He’s grinning like a cat that got the cream. “You know that’s supposed to happen, right ?”

  He’s technically right. But... “That quick ?”

  James nods. “And again and again, if I do it right.” He thumbs at my clit, sending a sharp aftershock racing through me .

  “What—ah!” I gasp and catch my breath. “What about you ?”

  “Oh, don’t you worry. I’ll get mine.” He sits up a little and gives his cock a couple of long, slow strokes. A bead of precum glistens at the tip, and he rubs it around with the pad of his thumb. “You have any idea how bad I want you right now ?”

  I watch him, fascinated. “I’m starting to .”

  “Mm....” He’s got this ravenous look on his face, like he’s ready to eat me alive. “Gonna invite me in ?”

  This is it—my last chance to tell him he’ll be my first invited guest .

  Instead, I grab him by the lapel and pull him on top of me. “Welcome home .”

  He reaches for something on the bedside table, and a moment later, he’s tearing into the condom packet with his teeth. I barely have the chance to wonder if I should offer to put it on him before he’s rolled it on himself, and then—this is it. I close my eyes. If it hurts... I’m good at smiling through pain. He’ll never know the difference. He’ll —

  “Oh....”

  It does hurt, far worse than I thought, and he’s barely even in. Can’t be much more than the tip, and it feels impossible—how’d I ever expect him to fit? I turn my face to the pillow to hide my expression, more of a snarl than a smile .

  He rocks back, and there’s a moment’s relief before he pushes in again, deeper this time. I can’t keep quiet: a strangled sound breaks free, then another, almost a sob .

  “Hey....” He pushes the hair off my face. “You all right ?”

  “Keep going.” It’s really not that bad. I’m getting used to it, now he’s not moving. If I can just —

  “You’re going to need to relax.” James runs his hands up and down my sides, firm and slow. “Take your time. I got you .”

  I’m not sure I can, at first, but his commanding touch seems to awaken an instinctive reaction. I feel the tightness loosen in my chest, my hands, my thighs. James starts to move again, and it’s not so bad this time. He’s big—it’s a lot—but he takes it slow, distracting me with kisses .

  At last, he goes still, letting me adjust to his length. His body’s flush with mine. Something like triumph races through me: This is it. The hard part’s behind me. Or rather, inside me .

  I should do something. With my hands, or ....

  I drag my nails down his back, slow and lazy. The light touch makes him shudder. His cock swells inside me, and for the first time, it starts to feel good —whether the sensation itself, or the excitement of feeling him respond to me in such an intimate manner, I can’t tell. I circle my hips slowly, in invitation .

  “Ready?”

  “Yeah.”

  He goes slow, long, easy strokes that send shocks of something unfamiliar through my belly. I feel myself clench and flutter around him as he moves, without any conscious control. His gaze holds mine, deep and penetrating. If he’s looking for fear, discomfort, he’s not going to find it. It still hurts a little, a distant ache, but I want it, that sense of pleasure edging out pain. It’s intense, surprising. Something I haven’t felt before .

  I encourage him when he starts to move faster, arching into each thrust. He’s shamelessly vocal, groaning deeply when I wrap my legs around his waist, hissing at my teeth on his earlobe .

  At some point, I stop trying to hold back my own appreciation. He’s good at this. Not that I have anything to compare him to—but the way he manages to ignite fireworks with every thrust, the way he grinds deliberately against my clit between strokes—that’s got to take skill .

  His hair’s fallen in his face, wild and unruly. A light sweat glis
tens on his upper lip. He’s not looking at me anymore, not exactly—his gaze is unfocused, hazy. He’s panting, and I am too .

  “You—you nearly there?” He finds my hand and tangles our fingers together .

  I nod. I’m not sure if I am, but he doesn’t look like he can hold out much longer .

  “Mm... Hold on.” He shifts a little, pushing my knees to my chest. Suddenly, I can feel him deeper than ever, and I’m drowning. The sensation’s everywhere, racing through my body. My toes start to curl again, and I squeeze his hand so hard I feel his bones grind together. My head snaps back .

  “Ah—That’s—Like that !”

  He keeps going, setting a punishing pace, almost too much. But it’s working. I’m floating, spinning, hardly aware of what my body’s doing. James swivels his hips in a way that seems unfair —how am I supposed to hold on in the face of that? I’m not, and I don’t—and this time, I put up no resistance. I hold him tight, one hand in his, the other on his shoulder, riding out wave after wave of pleasure .

  James follows soon after. I feel him tense and still, hear him groan my name. He doesn’t pull out right away, but drops his head to my shoulder, breathing hard. He’s trembling with exertion, still clutching my hand .

  “That was—“ He seems lost for words .

  I don’t even try to respond .

  “Here, let me—“ He finally rolls off me, collapsing on his back. We wind up shoulder to shoulder, his leg thrown over mine, hands entwined. He’s kind of on my hair, but I can’t bring myself to move .

  The calm that settles over me, in the afterglow, is almost surreal. I should be freaking out: In the space of just over a week, I’ve met a stranger, married him, flown with him to a ghostly mid-winter tourist town, and now, well—now it’s official. Consummated. No take-backs. I should be going nuts—but instead, I turn my head just enough to steal a drowsy kiss .

  Outside, the darkness is almost perfect. I can pick out a couple of twinkling lights in the distance, but the stars outshine them by far .

  It occurs to me I’ve never seen that before. Never been anywhere dark enough for a proper look at the stars .

  Whatever happens next, I’ll always have this .

  11

  J ames

  There’s this line I use on patients who can’t start chemo now, can’t go under the knife, ‘cause they still feel fine, and there’s things to do, and there simply isn’t time : “You’ll be fine...till you’re not. And then, it’ll be too late.” Must’ve said it a hundred times, but now, fuck—looks like I’m about to live it .

  My first morning back started perfectly. Kissed Diana goodbye at the airport, sneaking a fancy chocolate into her pocket for her to find later. Had my favorite breakfast at my favorite diner: greasy hash browns, bacon, and a fruit salad. Even work started sweet: got in early and snaked Nasmith’s parking space. Breezed through my normal routine, settling in like I’d never been gone. It’s good to be essential, but better to set things up so good you can disappear for a week, and nothing falls apart .

  But I had to get cocky. Had to eat lunch in my office. That was my mistake. Should’ve gone to the gym, grabbed sandwiches with Tom—anything that would’ve kept me out of the Nasmith zone. Tried to hide behind my monitor, when I spotted him through the window wall, but I’ve got one of those stupid glass desks. No hiding behind that .

  He doesn’t even knock, just oozes on in like he owns the place. I dip my head and act busy .

  “So. That was some wedding .”

  I grunt. Ignoring Nasmith has never made him go away, but there’s a first time for everything .

  “Pictures came out great. Just—what a show! I’ve seen royal weddings get less coverage .”

  Whatever point he’s circling, I wish he’d arrive .

  “The ring, though, that was a masterstroke. Your war-widow great-granny’s treasured engagement band: Too bad you’re married.” He kisses his fingertips—mwah! “’Cause you just moistened panties from here to Texas .”

  Gross. There’s a sour taste in my mouth. I’m starting to feel sexually harassed .

  Nasmith settles into my couch, feet on the coffee table, like he’s planning on staying a while. “I was wondering, though—How long’ve you known that bride of yours ?”

  “Long enough.” I start a game of Solitaire—anything to look busy .

  “So I guess you know all about her father’s body .”

  Now, that, I wasn’t expecting. I half-turn to face him. “Her father’s...body ?”

  “Yeah—how she waited almost twenty-four hours after he kicked the bucket to call for help?” He shakes his head. “Can you imagine? A whole night and day with a corpse in the house, starting to swell up and — “

  “O-kay! ” I throw up my hands—that’s what he’s blithering about? “How do you even—why do you know that? What could you possibly gain from—actually, you know what? Don’t tell me. I don’t care .”

  “You don’t?” He crosses his legs at the ankles. “Doesn’t strike you as, I don’t know—mentally ill ?”

  What the hell? “Mentally ill? Aren’t you supposed to be, if not in the medical profession, medicine-adjacent?” I’m seeing red. Going to say something I’ll regret, if I’m not careful. I force myself to slow down, take a cleansing breath. “People take time with their loved ones for all sorts of reasons: to say goodbye, clean ‘em up, give ‘em some dignity. Or they’re in shock. Not everyone knows what to do, or feels up to doing it. Man in your position ought to know that .”

  “If you say so.” Way he’s stretched over the couch has me thinking, again, how much he reminds me of a lizard. Something long and scaly: an iguana on a log. Wouldn’t be surprised to see his tongue dart out and snag a fly. “How about in seventh grade, when she snuck some homeless guy into her school cafeteria, let him eat half the — “

  “Enough!” I’m on my feet. “The fuck’s the matter with you? You’re like—you’re like a hog with a busted snout, digging up shit instead of truffles. And on the nicest, sweetest—“ I fling open the door, hoping he’ll get the hint and go out. “Ugh! Go away !”

  Nasmith’s on the move, sidling past me. I can feel him getting ready to deliver his parting shot, and he doesn’t disappoint. “I know you think you’ve proved...something...with this wedding of yours. But it was a stunt, and a dumb one, at that. Whether you know it or not, you’ve just shot yourself in the foot .”

  I watch him stride off, leaving a cloud of hate in his wake. I hate to admit it, but I’m rattled. He doesn’t seem to have anything on Diana—nothing legitimately damaging, anyway—but I’m not sure that was ever the point. He could’ve told me the wedding didn’t solve anything, that the heat’s still on. If there’s dirt, he’ll find it. If there isn’t, why, he’ll sprinkle some. He could’ve told me all that, and I’d’ve believed him, but he had to drag Diana into it. Had to drag her through my mud .

  Can’t stand people like that, people who’ll take anything and turn it cheap and ugly .

  I turn back to my lunch, but my appetite’s gone. Vending-machine egg salad—why’d I even want that? I swipe it into the trash. I want something else. Not food, but ....

  My phone catches my eye. Yeah—why not? Not sure anything short of a shower can rid me of the Nasmith stain, but if anyone has a chance, it’s Diana .

  “Hey!” She picks up on the second ring, sounding a little out of breath. “Good first day back ?”

  “The best,” I lie. “How about you? Whatcha doing ?”

  “Packing up a few things.” I hear the farty creak of duct tape spooling off the roll. “Felt too weird, walking into your house for the first time, and you’re not there. Figured I’d spend one last day at home, drive over when you’re back .”

  “I’ll be there around seven. Gotta pick up Percy from the sitter .”

  “Remember to pick him up that jerky ?”

  “Yup.” I am feeling better hearing her voice. Never really had anyone I could call in the middle of
the day, just to say hi .

  “Thought I’d stop by Sobey’s on the way home, pick up some stuff for the fridge. Anything special I could get you ?”

  Never had that before, either. “Uh...chicken ?”

  Laughter crackles down the line. “What, like...any chicken? Rotisserie chicken? Chicken soup? That little bag of guts—or is that only in turkeys ?”

  “All of the above.” I’m actually smiling. “Nah, scratch that. Sorry. Haven’t made a shopping list since...hell, since ever. Get what you like. I’ll eat anything .”

  “So...chicken feet .”

  “Funny.”

  I’m about to tell her I’ll see her at home—been waiting to say that a while—when someone clears his throat from the doorway. I don’t have to turn around to catch Tom’s reflection in my coffee mug. Throws my mojo right off. I’ve been waiting for this, waiting for him, since I got in, but I figured he’d waylay me on my way home. He doesn’t usually bug me during working hours. Which means —

  “Shit—sorry. Someone just walked in; I gotta ...”

  “Sure, go ahead. See you at home !”

  And... She stole my line. Perfect .

  I swivel around. “Hey, Tom .”

  He shuts the door behind him: going to be one of those discussions, then. “Seen Nasmith today ?”

  Definitely one of those. I nod. “Twenty minutes ago .”

  “So, no need to beat around the bush. We need damage control, stat.” He nudges my dandelion paperweight till it lines up with my pen jar. Every damn time, with the micromanaging, every detail in place! I mean, I guess that’s why he’s so good at his job, but it starts getting annoying when he pulls my desk toys into it .

  I snap my attention back to the issue at hand. “Not sure what else I can do. I’m settled down, keeping it clean—if he wants to take that and make something dirty out of it, how can I stop him ?”

  “You go into rehab .”

  “What?” I’m genuinely taken aback. “I mean, what’s that gonna—It’d just make me look like an addict! And I’m not. Didn’t even have champagne at my wedding, and look—“ I hold up my hand, steady as a rock. “No DTs here !”