by JR King
*
I woke up alone, two sheets between me, a down comforter bringing it all together. I rolled over. My breathing was steady, but for a moment, I felt disoriented. A fractal of light streamed through the window. Blinking owlishly, I took in the bruises on my hips. Bleary and half asleep, I bounded out of bed and trailed down the corridor.
Piano music floated through the house. The living area was dark, except for the lamp by the grand piano. Alexander sat at it, his hair disheveled, wearing nothing but dark pajama pants. He looked stunning like a Louvre masterpiece. Even though his mouth was set into a soft line, it had an air of nostalgia. With eyes closed and fingers ghosting from key to key, he was thinking about someone or something as he performed the soulful rendition. Valerie. Pangs of jealousy shot through me.
Watching him, I hesitated in the doorway, too hurt to intervene. He looked like a man possessed, lost in a trance. I couldn’t bear to see him hark back to time spent with Valerie. The thought of being discarded was painful. I knew I was desirable; I just didn’t know how desirable Valerie was. My heart in my mouth, his music heartbreakingly soft in the air, I padded closer. My bare feet were silent across the deep beige floor.
Nevertheless, his eyes flew open and he turned his head toward me. “Come here, Elena.”
I leaned against the far end, my fingers creating a few notes idly. He stopped playing, listening to my attempt at the Fifth Symphony. I paused when his long fingers danced over the keys, picking up the melody. There was a languid elegance in the way his digits glided from one note to the other, stitching together the harmonic rhythm. I started forward to touch him at the same time his hand swiped out to seize me. Instinct had me reaching out and grabbing it.
“You miss quality time with Valerie,” I croaked out, my nervous eyes meeting his.
“I take issue with bad statements.” He said this in an icy tone, his expression blank.
I sat in his lap. “She plays well?” My words were naively hesitant and heavy with breath.
“She plays.” He stroked my hair with infinite patience. “I was the one who,” his voice rasped, as if going through an extremely parched throat, “played well. I guess the notes stuck with me.”
“Do you…still love her?” I choked on my swallow.
“No. The moment I took the capital letter off it, I knew I was done.” The odd melancholy on his face was gone, the faintest trace of a smile dancing around the corners of his mouth. “I was sixteen years old and sex-crazed. I was a kid then, highly-sexed and blessed with a lush, older girlfriend.” A slow but full grin spread across his face. “I control my dick and my libido now. I love you, Elena. There’s no one else.”
I gave a little sigh.
“The things you do to me.” He looked down at me as his long fingers glided over my shoulders. Possessiveness and authority swirled in the grey of his eyes, the color darkening so much that it was hard to separate his pupils from the irises. “Happy, little one?”
A lie of a nod and a tight smile: of course I wasn’t happy. I wished he’d never loved Valerie. I shunned away my tears and told myself to enumerate priorities. “Good night, Alex.” I gave him a quick kiss and got to my feet.
When he joined me in bed, I stiffened, unsure of what to expect. The kiss on my cheek was blossom-soft and there was no physical initiation, all he did was hold me close to him as he fell asleep. The pattern of his even breathing lulled me into sleep within minutes.
Sadist that he was, I groused my complaint when he stirred me awake. A sudden sear of flesh against my chest, a sigh of breath against my cheek, a press of a strong pelvis beckoning me to act. I couldn’t resist any of it. He moved over me and positioned his elbows to the sides of my head, making it apparent that he required additional appeasement. My eyes stuttered open, the lights giving him an eerie halo as he was blocking out the brightness.
“Ariel,” he murmured, like an angel-demon calling me a name that wasn’t mine. “You’re so beautiful. I need you.” His hard cock was poised at the entrance of my sex.
Sleepy breath rattled in my throat, louder and louder. And then I felt it. Raw lust took over my senses, singeing every nerve ending in my body. “Slow,” I mumbled, peeping up at his face.
“Slow,” he grunted, shoving himself into me. Invading me with blunt force, his size excruciatingly stretched me, the ungentlemanly movement pushing me up the pillow. He slipped his arms underneath the pillow and cradled me, grasping my shoulders as he pushed himself in further. “Like this, my pet?” His hips moved in slow, shallow thrusts as he exacted his pleasure. The pebbled tips of my breasts grazed his chest, the sprinkle of hairs across his enameled pectorals stroking my skin while he used my body. I could feel the firm outlines of his washboard abdomen grinding against my belly.
“Will you see Valerie again?” It had to be asked, the blind luck was rubbing off on me.
“Shut up.”
Peeking up at him with sheep’s eyes, I allowed the hint of the boldness I was feeling to seep into my voice. “And Carina?”
“Jesus—shut it. Or watch me not care.”
This was, I realized, the way things with him would always be. I’d grown accustomed to his peremptory rules and offhand train of thought. Challenging him was hardly worth the trouble. When necessary, I fought him with icy silence, but this was rather tricky because he always ended up making more demands on my body. It was as if my reluctance aroused him, so I surmised that it was better to acquiesce quickly. I hugged him when he collapsed on top of me, his large frame heavy and covered with sweat. A little later, we spooned. The feeling of his stubble against my shoulder as he rubbed his chin across my shoulder before settling into a comfortable position—even if we just had sex—instinctively made me press my behind against his cock. I was his.
For all the wrong reasons, I decided to write my resignation letter that night. Point-blank manipulation on my behalf.
“Elena?” I almost dropped the bowl, going bright red. Alexander looked stubbly and unkempt and shirtless, and he was regarding me with undisguised amusement. “What are you eating?”
“How long have you been watching?” I demanded, my aggression born out of serious embarrassment.
“Oh, a while,” he chuckled. As if night eating wasn’t embarrassing enough already, he had to be so unapologetically amused by it all.
“I was hungry,” I mumbled, all my defensiveness and energy whooshing out of me.
“Did you purge yourself?” He asked this in a voice heavy with significance.
“I didn’t. Spare me this type of questioning.”
His eyes went dark, bestial, canine, and he grabbed me by the arms. “Eager to spar with me. So feisty.”
I chose to ignore the bedroom eyes he was giving me, although it became a fluke. “Whatever.” Clearing my throat, I turned away from him and went back to munching on strawberries and writing.
“What’s Scheherazade thinking tonight?” It was obviously designed as an innuendo.
“It’s nearly dawn, my King. Shall we continue tomorrow?”
He was laughing at me openly, and though it was irritating, there was something about his playful behavior that made it hard to be angry with him. Hard but not impossible. “I’m writing my resignation letter. Not because of you,” I warned him, raising a finger near his face, “but because I’m eager to embark on a new adventure. Work someplace that doesn’t remind me of my ex.”
He pulled me close, laughing, and kissed me. Despite the situation, I was smiling, the worst of my embarrassment gone. We had sex again. When we were done, we rested, wrapped up in each other. He stroked my hair from time to time and every now and then I kissed his chest. We were in a perfect, beautiful bubble. Our bubble.
Alexander Turner
The No. 9 Park Twittering
The preparation process I was about to show you is a showy one, but worth it. Spirits, liquors, cordials, bitters, schnapps: name it and the bar in my office had it. I rummaged through the louvered cabinets
until I unearthed a particularly old bottle. Inspected the labels and wax seal. I didn’t remember who’d given it to me, or where I’d gotten it, but the classic Pernod Fils brew was the benchmark absinthe of the Belle Époque, and also a pre-ban product.
Tony filled the ice water pitcher, and I prepared the Pontarlier tumblers and absinthe spoons, perching absinthe-soaked sugar cubes on the utensil atop the glasses. Carefully I set them alight with a cigar lighter. Once lit, I allowed the sugar to burn for a little time, warming and caramelizing. It felt like some kind of chemical experiment that might warp our minds, so it had to be carried out responsibly. Using tremendous caution to prevent splashes and spills, I dipped the flaming spoon into the absinthe, enkindling a slow, rising burn within the glass.
“You’re up,” I told Tony.
To dilute the alcohol, he dripped ice-cold water into the flaming liquid, extinguishing the fire and creating a milky blend called louche within the glass. Sitting with our socked feet kicked up on the coffee table, we ate pistachios and soaked it all up with the freshly prepared concoction, drowsily discussing the adventures of the day. The liquid had that fragrant, crisp bite of anise and fennel, its addictive aroma filling the luminous atmosphere. We watched the grey clouds scudding, parting from time to time to reveal patches of deep purple sky beyond. I loved watching the change in the day.
Tony’s, “Ain’t gonna be CBT, that bitch on wheels is going to cut your balls and feed them to stray dogs,” statement ended our happy time.
A balmy night loomed large over the city, announcing breezily that full-on spring would soon begin restoring the verdant of the deciduous trees.
At No. 9 Park, I smiled at the nattily attired maître d’. “How bad is it?”
“Manageable,” he told me and then chuckled, and I chuckled too, but only because he did.
Elena was skulking at the end of the bar. With cheekbones that could slice bread and lips colored the equivalent of fuck-me shoes, she was quite a pretty wallflower. A few hair strands tumbled down her shoulder, winking at me to release her chignon from its tight confines to allow her thick mane to flow down her back. Her mermaid Sergio Rossi shoes brought to mind fishnet stockings and sexy lingerie fetishes…
“Hello, look who finally decided to show up,” she began with a clogged voice.
“Babe, I cannot stress enough how sorry I am for being late.”
Was I sorry for realz?
No, of course not.
“Beautiful bastard.”
It wasn’t respectful of me to leave her waiting alone in the jostle of a bar, but the pleasure to retrieve her this way was unaccountable. Big, expressive eyes, longing to see me. “The whole presentation was uncoordinated,” I asserted, my hand making a gesture as if subdividing the air, “speakers were slow.”
Tony and I had decided on two jiggers of absinthe each in my office after the most tremendous business presentation. A cosmetic brand we were looking into acquiring together. Oh, don’t look at me like that. I was still adorable. And yes, I happened to be in a playful mood. Wouldn’t you be if you were in my shoes? Wouldn’t you be if you’d just consumed the green fairy?
“For this contravention, you merit an anemic type of punishment.” A devious smile flitted across Elena’s face.
“Retributive justice is only fair if there’s an infringement. Natural disasters and work hazards ain’t included,” I parried smartly.
“I’ve got to hand it to you, Mr. Turner.”
“Whatever do you mean, Ms. Anderson?”
Seated and served, I reached tentatively for a gougère, as if expecting her to slap it away from me at any moment. See how she’d turned a dominant man like me into a scared little pet? A sissy?
“Busy time of the year, Alex?” She swirled her wine contemplatively.
“Very busy.” I watched entranced as she nibbled on choux pastry. She was wearing a low-cut V-neck dress, heightened to the beginning of her cleavage, so automatically my gaze was drawn to the deepening valley between her breasts. “Did you miss me?”
“Eeny, meeny bit.”
“I want you to nibble on me, baby. Scrape your teeth across my cock-head.”
Even though the noise of our fellow diners would largely cover a dirty conversation held in regular tones, she blushed. “Don’t do that, not here.”
I let out a held breath, unaware that it was stuck between clenched teeth. As always, her diffidence was irritating me by the second. I don’t know precisely why I disliked ample shy traits, I only know what I felt, and mostly it felt nauseating.
I shifted my head to the left when Elena lifted her wine glass, and stared across the room at a man being escorted to his companion. Glimpsed the darkness in her expression. Run away and join my latecomers cigar club, I wanted to tell him.
So much for that theory.
Suddenly I felt a toe caressing the inside of my calf. It wasn’t the first time Elena had made such a gesture in a restaurant, but this time I felt the insistency of her bare foot through the silk-wool of my trousers, calling me back to pay attention to her.
I ignored her silent pleading a few seconds longer, then asked, “Have you removed your shoe?”
“It’s a pump, I’ll slip it back on.”
Elena taking initiative meant that pigs could fly. “Don’t, I like what you were doing just now.”
She glanced down at the table. “They won’t throw us out?” came out a coarse question.
I smiled. She really had no clue that one-percenters could get away with murder. “They won’t. Carry on, baby.”
Shifty eyes fixed on my vest, her foot pressed against my leg more urgently. She looked around and then leaned closer, conspiratorially, her elbows now resting on the table. When she looked at me, her eyes were warm but her gaze was unsteady, holding my own hesitantly. “I want to ask you something personal.”
“Ask away, in that case.” I scrutinized her face, dreading her discomfort. “Just do it.”
“Have you brought many girls here?” she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.
I considered the question for a few moments, and then I smiled. “Once, I think. Aidan and Tony are my usual tablemates here.”
She eased herself back in her seat, a zest of sheer relief registering in her eyes. “Who was it?”
“A French business associate,” I lied—for the last time tonight I hoped. I hadn’t thought about Claudia in ages. The girl I’d slaked all my dark, depraved hormones on, and whose rich family had fully inspired me to work hard enough to spoil their daughter with expensive gifts, cars, and homes.
While Elena and I enjoyed the chef’s tasting menu, it just so happened that one of the customers was hugely bored with her own life and tweeted—or twittered—about my love affair with the food and a woman, creating a new thread. Over the course of the evening, word got around that Elena and I had gotten engaged.
So that’s how it came to pass, that the next evening, emblazoned with rage, I unclasped my Tourneau watch and shot out my hand to clothesline Mitchell.
Grinding his teeth, he counterattacked by lunging at me to punch me in the face. I blocked the punch and threw him over.
Tony picked him up and shunted him aside. “We came to grab a drink, not fight you.” Mitchell took a nosedive, cocked his jaw, regaining his balance in the blink of an eye.
Tony ducked when Mitchell went for a blow to his face. He shoved him off and instead of throwing a punch of his own—he threw a wicked left hook—he tossed Mitchell toward me, his face tainted with derision. “Two against one is a no-go.”
“Duplicitous bastard! You ain’t worth a damn!” Mitchell’s scream was gritty. “You’re duping her by feathering a sweet nest. How many whores do you have in reserve?”
I torpedoed him straight into the wall. He caromed off it and fell to my feet. I pulled him back on his feet and clocked him against the wall.
“Stop stalking me. And for fuck’s sake, stop following Twitter gossip!” I locked my fingers ti
ghtly around the column of his neck, my fingers curling like strangling vines. I pressed until the tension began ebbing away, making it impossible for him to move. The squeaks of noises he made tailed off into fights of breath. “Your claims about me are spurious at best. Forget Elena.” I gave him one last whack.
Nothing but gulps and gasps came out when he tried to talk.
Fortunately, no one tweeted—let’s go with tweeted from now on—about the brawl that took place in the men’s room at the Omni Parker House.
And that’s also how it came to pass, that later the same night, when Sophia contacted me to ascertain the truth about engagement rumors, that I seriously started considering the entire thing.
Alexander Turner
The Nightmare
Being in a couple was messier than I’d expected. The jealousy didn’t go away, it just invited more trouble. Lately, lines were starting to blur. I found myself thinking of Elena not just in romantic ways, but also in extremely possessive ways. Here are the facts: if I saw her speaking to some handsome stranger, I wanted to drag her by the hair and fuck her sore in front of him. Treat her like she was my toy and I had to keep the other boys in the sandbox from playing with her. The problem wasn’t that I never shared what’s mine, and generally despised seeing another guy making my girl smile…or laugh. Okay, sure, it was those things. But also, I quickly discovered that the only thing truly more frightening than ending up alone was seeing Elena with another guy. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, at least not in my fantasies. The truth is, after three months, I realized it’d never be like in my fantasies.
“Where will you celebrate Easter, Alex?”
I sighed slightly but didn’t say anything. So far, Elena had only met my grandparents.
“Alex?” she insisted, way too loudly.
I was silent for a while. The silence made me feel unaccountably guilty for not answering. Finally I said in a low, blank tone, “We’ll discuss this tomorrow.”