One Twisted Valentine

by T. Lee Alexis

  In position, Eva unconsciously arched her back, bringing her ass higher as an offering to the man who was her husband and who was not her husband.

  Eva rested her head, the heat from Brooke’s body flowing into her while Brooke’s eyes gazed down softly. Under her, with the feeling of Brooke’s smooth skin, the glossy plastic of the half-corset pressing her stomach, Eva felt like she was resting in a heavenly bed.

  After another lifetime of anticipation, she could feel Peter settling in. Again feeling the silken skin of Brooke before her and the masculine energy of Peter behind gave her a kind of drunk excitement.

  “Close your eyes,” Brooke whispered. Eva did. All she could hear was the snap of the fire, the beating of Brooke’s heart and Peter’s breath rising in excitement.

  Then there was nothing but Peter’s hand on her hips, shifting her, his legs between her own and the luscious press of his perfect cock opening her and filling her in a single stroke. Behind her eyelids, there was an avalanche of light as every tenderness in her body was stroked and caressed by the feeling of Peter’s glorious hardness moving through her.

  Eyes still shut, Eva relished every dark sensation; the feel of Peter’s fingers pinching her flesh, the swelling sensation of her lips opening to his spearing thrusts, the fullness she felt in her pelvis and mound when he bottomed out. Everything he was doing felt good. His needful grunts and groans were a pleasure to her ears. The hard jolts of his motions giving her rough, loving reminders of his passion. His very hardness, in hands and muscle, in cock and manner, felt so good it seemed she would delight in this one moment for the rest of her life.

  Then, like a shock, came the trembling approach of her sharp release.

  “Oh, God,” Eva cried. “Oh, Peter. Peter. Peter!”

  “Show me,” Brooke whispered against Eva’s cries. “I want to hear you. I want to see you.

  Eva could say nothing more, but eyes opened and fixed on Brooke’s. In that moment, there was nothing else in the world but Brooke’s benevolent eyes and Peter’s masterful cock. Eva’s lungs opened and she cried out over and over with each of Peter’s thrusts. In the maelstrom of sensations, she could feel his fingers squeeze the joint of her hips and legs and knew he was going to explode in her.

  “I love you, baby,” he said between gritted teeth as his lunges slowed but somehow intensified. Then his words were gone too as he plunged in and out.

  Beyond her cries, Eva could hear the beautiful wet sound he made with her as his cock entered her over and over. Just as her mind returned, just as she could comprehend the world again, she felt Brooke’s hand slide down between them and her finger brush across her Eva’s clit. With the single stroke, her orgasm flared anew, higher, harder as Peter sank in for one final push.

  In a heartbeat, his body came to rest as deep and hard into her as she could remember feeling. He cried out, a harsh, barking scream which filled the room and Eva could feel his shaft ripple and pulse inside of her. Deep within, she could feel a new, foreign heat and wetness as he released himself into her.

  As she felt him finish within her, Eva’s screams and groans turned to near sobs. She could feel wetness fall from her eyes, tears, sweat, every wonderful emotion tumbling down her face and body. Along with her final surrender, Eva felt Brooke’s finger trace the path of the tear down Eva’s cheek.

  Eva opened her eyes as she felt Peter’s body curl behind her, his loving kiss pressing her spine. Above her, Brooke leaned in just so and kissed her cheek.

  Loved from both sides, Eva’s tears flowed in a liberating release she could not define.

  “Happy Valentine’s Day, honey,” Peter said.

  In unison, still play acting and yet not, Eva and Brooke said, “Happy Valentine’s Day, baby.”

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  Devil On My Shoulder: The Ravenwood Circle Story 3

  Watching the frosty haze outside her office window, the snow pouring down on Chicago as the workday ground through its finishing minutes, Lane sat fighting temptation. It was a fight she wanted to lose.

  From the ninth floor of the Exeter Building, in the offices of McGavin and Trent, her office window was less a window and more a solid wall of glass. It looked out from downtown to Lake Michigan, open to the slow curtain of falling snow powdering the city. The streetlights were winking on, giving the white canyons of the city a soft orange hue. Lane looked out at the cold beauty and saw none of it.

  What ran through her mind was a dream, wonderful and dangerous. It could wreck the professional reputation she had been building since college, get her sued and surely get her fired. Still, she could not stop her mind from spinning images so delicious and taboo work became impossible. Twenty yards from her office door sat a cluster of McGavin and Trent’s fall semester interns. Most of them were the pale young men and women one would expect to find their way into accounting, which is a nice way of saying the kind you would see once and forget forever.

  But among them sat Kyle Berman, the young man she wanted. She hungered for nothing less than for Kyle to march into her office after the last of the staff had left, press her spread eagled, ass out, against her wide window and fuck her into delirium. Imagining his dark brown hair messed from her clawing hands, his trim body working her from behind, Lane fixed on the image of his grey eyes, reflected in the glass, staring at her as his cock slid along the clenching walls of her pussy. The image made her clench her legs shut.

  Even as she stared at spreadsheets and tried her best to think about accounting, Lane’s mind churned with imagined scenarios; Kyle on her couch as she straddled him, feeding him her nipples as her hips gyrated in grinding circles; Kyle in her car’s back seat, parked at the lowest level of the building’s garage, his hand stroking her hair as she sucked him into a steel hardness; Kyle kneeling before Lane’s desk, pressing his mouth to her wet mound, licking her up and down, enclosing her clit between his lips.

  Lane sat there electrified and deeply afraid. She wasn’t a young girl anymore. At 34, Lane was able to pick out her destructive behaviors when they arose. Usually she was able to hold them at bay. But not always. Not when they felt like this.

  As a generation of men had learned in the last 30 years, a quick way to unemployment was a hard romp with an intern. The days of chasing secretaries around desks were lost to the distant past.

  Even the best-case scenario for getting caught, even without losing a job, would be a guaranteed distraction from a promising career. While women weren’t hit as hard from sexual harassment suits, the cost of getting a reputation could be so much worse. No matter her talent, once word spread she was fucking in the office, the whispers would spread and no amount of talent would wash a way the scarlet letters ‘Office Slut.’

  Entertaining even these thoughts was an absurdity. No one ever got to the top fucking by an intern. But good Lord did she want it. Lane wanted it so much she felt like she needed it.

  The devil on her shoulder was sketching out a hundred schemes, all ending with Lane bent over her desk with Kyle’s perfect cock hammering her from behind. Yesterday, the devil had taken the form of her best friend from down the block on Garland Street, Eva Ravenwood.

  The road to temptation began with the best of intentions, a cup of tea between friends, a chat for one woman to get help and advice from another.

  - [ - - - ] -

  For months, Lane had been in the eye of a horrible depression.

  Waiting for Eva in the booth on the edge of the Sicilian Forest Café’s dining room, Lane was a desperate woman. Desperate for a break, desperate for a change, desperate for a wisp of hope in the whiteout of a Chicago winter.

  Lane idled, waiting for Eva, stirring her tea with slow strokes, hoping for her mind to rest. Here she was, looking forward to a pleasant lunch, taking a moment to allow the tasks and worries of work and a ruptured home life to settle. Of course, she could not. A sullenness and doubt consumed her, everything inside an unpleasant, curdled emo
tion. She needed help.

  It was her curse of late. Any open moment, where in earlier years she could daydream or simply watch the world go by, Lane’s mind would turn in on itself, worrying over the same depressing landscape, wondering where her life had cart-wheeled off the tracks. Wondering how she had found herself at this stage locked in a colorless job in the field she once loved. Wondering why Charles had decided to cheat on her and set a fire of their marriage.

  By the time she came to sit in this café, Lane wanted to shake off the crust of sorrow accrued from a year dealing with lawyers, divorce papers and the shock of being single again at the lip of middle age. Eva had promised her a divorce party when the final papers came through, but that was still months away. Still Lane wanted hope and suspected Eva could provide it.

  A year ago, it seemed Lane and Eva were both on the same horrible glide path to heartbreak. Their home lives were filled with tension when they were not ringing with sour shouting. Their husbands were both consumed by work. Every week Lane and Eva would come to the Sicilian Forest, commiserate, seek advice and buoy each other in the storm.

  Then at the beginning of summer, the course of both of their lives had snapped. Eva’s rebounded to a loving, stable, satisfying relationship. She had even called it a second honeymoon. For Lane, June began with the discovery Charles had chosen to deal with the frustrations of suburban life by fucking a woman he had met at their local bar. The bar he went to with Lane.

  A month later, he was moving out of their pleasant Garland Street home while the neighbors pretended not to watch. Lane remembered seeing Charles drive down the street, into his new life and as his car turned the corner, Lane found herself staring at Eva looking back at her. As Lane turned to go into her empty house, Eva returned to washing her Mini Cooper.

  It had been six long months from that day to this. Six months of her right hand on her clit while two fingers from her left hand pushed inside. Six months filled with worthless fantasies of Brad Pitt, Chris Pine and Ryan Gosling.

  Her need for release was so fraught with anguish and doubt Lane’s fantasies would take absurd turns. In most, Pitt and Gosling somehow discovered McGavin and Trent’s reputation for dependable, inventive accounting. No matter that she specialized in the pitfalls of Fortune 500 companies and not the details of Hollywood stars buying Beverly Hills estates. No, in her fantasy Pitt and Gosling had to have McGavin and Trent and they had to have Lane handle them alone.

  Absurdity built on absurdity as Pitt’s yacht moored at the Burnham Park Yacht Club just a few miles from Lane’s office. With his I’ve-got-a-secret grin, Pitt would welcome her aboard, handing her a Champaign flute. She would juggle it with his thick file folder and her computer bag.

  Then, as fantasies go, her mind would skip from the scenario to the main event. In some dim bedroom facing the lake, Pitt reclined on a curving bench as Lane impaled herself on him. His wonderful voice, a boy’s voice crossed with the sound of leather stretching, would call to Lane as he thrust into her, cutting off her own words. Strong hands she had seen sweeping across 40-foot movie screens would hold her breasts, squeezing with pleasant pressure, twisting her nipples with a few flicks of his index fingers.

  “Fuck this Lane,” Pitt would say, thrusting on the word ‘this.’ Then he would whisper between kisses, conspiratorially, “Jesus your pussy feels amazing. So much better than Angelina’s.”

  Behind her, Gosling would be pressing his perfect lips to her back, moving up her spine, his hands on her hips, until his open mouth closed over the back of her neck, biting and sucking with a focused intensity. Then Pitt’s mouth was pulling at her nipple. While lost in a paroxysm of sharp pleasure, Gossling’s iron hard shaft would slide down the cleft of her ass. His fingers would bite as he adjusted her.

  With a slow, wonderful torture, she would feel Gossling’s cockhead slide down between her cheeks, the dripping head of his lubricated dick stopping at the pucker of her ass before opening her and sliding inside.

  Every time the fantasy ended the same. As soon as Lane had two men inside her, she would explode in an orgasm so intense it would only end with her nearly blacking out.

  The fantasies were satisfying, but ultimately worthless. There was no way any of them would happen. That was fine every once in a while, but for her, having not a single fantasy with a chance of coming true laid another weight on her mood.

  Now Lane was mired and Eva was shining. Lane was desperate to know how.

  The café’s side entrance opened with a gust of cold air and there she was. Eva’s boots gave crisp clopping sounds on the hard tiles. She threw her arms open for Lane.

  “There’s my girl,” Eva said, pulling Lane in for a tight hug.

  “Hey baby,” Lane returned, the first real smile in a week spreading across her face.

  As they settled in and Eva ordered a peppermint tea of her own, the chitchat of friends reconnecting came and went and the threads of their jobs were brought up to date. Through it all, Lane was waiting.

  She saw the glow in Eva now. It had been building for months. While a lot of people found themselves set on edge by the whirl of holiday activities, Eva had never seemed more relaxed. Lane was so desperate to know why she was nearly in tears. Eva noticed.

  “What is it?” Eva asked.

  Lane didn’t know where to start, pressing her mouth shut to keep the emotion from overwhelming her.

  “This year has been so awful,” Lane began. “Like someone pushing my head underwater, only letting me up long enough to gulp some air and do it again. We used to come here and bitch about Charles and Pete. But you…”

  Lane looked at Eva, seeing the sympathy in her eyes. The real empathy from her good friend lifted her spirits.

  “You fixed it. You guys got your shit together,” Lane continued. “What did you do?”

  Leaning back in the booth, Eva rested her head with a strange smile on her face. Lane knew her friend well, and could see the gears grinding away behind her striking blue eyes. Lane could see a secret was coming.

  “Well, it’s funny,” Eva started, pausing to find the words. “It’s… funny.”

  Eva sighed, screwing up her courage. This must be a big one, Lane thought. The thrill of mystery brought a smile to her face.

  “What is it?” Lane asked.

  “Well, we kind of got depraved,” Eva said, a shy tilt to her head. Looking past her friend’s surface embarrassment, Lane could see an expression of subdued pride. “I mean, yeah, we had a pretty hard road for awhile. You know, we had that big fight in June? That’s where everything came to a head. What we’ve kind of been keeping to ourselves is… Peter and I always loved each other, but we were so deep in our ruts we kind of lost the thrill of romance, the fun of pursuing each other. After that awful fight we were desperate. It was ugly. We started ripping the band-aids off things which had been building up for years. You know how a fight is awful, but sometimes it’s what’s needed to give both people the kick to talk about deep, secret thoughts. That’s what happened to us.”

  Eva smiled and could see Lane was waiting for the punch line.

  “We talked about how to recapture that spark from our early days, how to give ourselves the space to be adventurous and fun and surprised by the world. We went round and round and… believe it or not… we’ve decided to kind of open our bedroom door to others.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Lane exclaimed. She squealed out of laugh. It also came from the thrill of finding the hidden workings of the world, a glimpse of the real people behind the faces they present to the neighborhood.

  After a flash of shock, Lane realized of all her friends, this was least surprising from Eva. A hundred questions exploded in her mind. The bleakness around her evaporated in the light of this bombshell.

  “You better tell me every fucking thing,” Lane said. She swatted Eva’s arm. “I can’t believe you kept this from me, you bitch. I thought we were friends.”

  Eva laughed too then gave a sound of mock sadnes
s. Her hand extended across the table to squeeze Lane’s.

  “Of course we’re friends baby,” Eva said. “But Peter and I haven’t told anyone. We really haven’t done all that much. We’ve just been talking about a lot of things. It’s almost like the possibility of doing this has revived the habits we had when we used to date, reminds us what it’s like to find someone, romance them, seduce them. It might sound crazy, but the idea of Peter or I messing around with someone has reminded us what we love about the other. It’s brought us closer. When I think about finding someone out in the world, and all that takes, I look back at Peter and even with all his flaws, I feel very lucky to have found someone like him.”

  With the last sentence, Eva looked at Lane. The look on her friend’s face made her rethink her words from Lane’s place in life. The idea her happiness highlighted Lane’s sorrow came to the front of her mind.

  “You know,” Eva said, “as much as you and I commiserated, I realize you had it much tougher than I did. I was just frustrated and forgot a lot of what I needed to do to fix my situation. At least Peter was honest with me. Charles… well, what a fucking asshole.”

  Lane nodded. Looking at herself with the events of Eva’s life as perspective, Lane realized her pain was not as sharp as it had been six months ago. There was a grain of hope.

  “So…” Lane said, teasing her friend.

  “What?”

  “SO!” Lane asked, reveling the role of inquisitor to Eva’s secret.

  “What have we done?”