I look across the subway car at my reflection and I curse my waitress clothes and flat shoes, feeling like some god-forsaken spinster. ‘To hell with Josh Lake,’ I say to myself, before I just give in and let my mind fill once again with the first time I had a “Sunday afternoon in” with him. Like Phoebe did this afternoon. I’m turned on just thinking about it.
Joshua is tall, blond, I guess you’d say, with a hot body. He knows it of course, and he knows women look at him. When he was mine, Phoebe used to look at Josh all the time - couldn’t keep her eyes off him. In the end, the second Josh and I broke up, she was in there. I can’t blame the girl, and you’re going to say I should have been more wary of her. Perhaps I shouldn’t have dropped into conversation what a skillful lover he was - but she’s an old girlfriend, and what are old girlfriends for, if not boasting about your new boyfriend? For those three months I was with Josh, I could have been run over by a truck and not noticed. I couldn’t think of anything else.
Josh ticked all the boxes for what a city girl might want in a lover. Looks, nice eyes, funny (at least when he wanted to be), good body. Good job down near Wall Street, and the classy suits to go with it. Josh is a real piece of Wall Street Ass, if you want to be crude.
And he knew what he wanted when it came to sex. There was no “is this OK, honey?” or “what are you in the mood for?” Josh was quite clear what he wanted and he knew how to get it. Maybe he studied books or something. He’s the kind of guy who would do that – a geek of sex. He probably recorded all my orgasms on a spreadsheet so he could remind himself how good he was the next day. Wouldn’t put it past him. But he was a hell of a lover.
The first time at his place, he planned out the music in advance, he mixed the perfect cocktail to loosen my inhibitions, and he smelled divine. He was dressed in jeans and a white dress shirt. He even used candles – I mean, how many guys do that? I was going to say he had me at the first kiss, but in truth he had me way before then. The kiss was melting though – nibbly and light and erotic with his teeth and lips. His smell and the candlelight did their thing, and he somehow let me drift towards him then took me, gently holding my head in his palm as he did it. Then he broke away a fraction before I wanted him to. My stomach turned a somersault. I could feel his hard body against me, those dreamy pec muscles against my palm. Then he did it again, letting my lips come to him, holding me firmly in his arms, his hand gently on the back of my head, kissing and letting go. Then cupping the back of my head with his hand, kissing deeply and urgently with his tongue, and letting go, making my lips come back for more.
I could feel him observing me, checking as my breathing became shallow, but that was OK. It was a turn-on for him to have me like this. He checked me out quickly, lustfully with his eyes. I began to realize I was with a real operator, with a Master’s degree in getting the female body to respond as he wished.
Josh had this thing where he would somehow make me drift out of my clothes with his music and the candlelight. One minute we’d be kissing and I’d be fully clothed. The next minute I’d standing there in my panties and high heels, hardly knowing what he’d done, but he made it so intimate somehow, so it felt natural. That first time in his apartment, my clothing somehow appeared miraculously folded over a chair, each item removed slowly, carefully, one by one. It was so freakin’ HOT to know I was with an expert. Then he’d slide his fingertips over my body once more, and it felt like he owned me. My breathing was shallow and full of desire, and between my legs I felt so wet.
Always he was fully clothed until he was ready to fuck me – at the most he’d remove his jacket at this stage - and he had this thing where I always felt I had to come up to the mark. I had to dress right, get the lingerie right and have the right earrings and so on. He’d often talk about all those immaculately turned out women at his office, and the way this girl wore the wrong blouse, or another girl’s skirt was just too short or just too long. So I always felt I had to dress right, including my undergarments, as if he was going to inspect me.
Not that I minded. I would spend all day thinking about what I was going to wear for him, so it was no wonder I was turned on when it came time for him to undress me.
For that matter, I also had to undress in the right way when he demanded it. Sometimes, instead of expertly sliding my clothes off me, he would whisper to me to remove one piece of clothing after the other. He’d be touching me and kissing me, then he’d pull back, breathing heavily, his eyes burning over my body, but I’d have to remove each item for him. By the time I’d taken off my top and my skirt, I was practically begging to take off the rest, just to feel his fingers on my tingling skin. I’d be aching for him. And when he finally instructed me to remove my panties, he had me stand in my heels and bend right over, and take the lacy undergarments off over my shoes with as much elegance as I could muster. It wasn’t easy with my rear in the air as I bent over. Given that I was quivering with desire it’s a wonder I didn’t fall in an undignified heap that first time. Once, he even sat down in his armchair, with his forearms placed down the arm of the chair, and he told me exactly what to do, item by item, move by move, while his eyes smoldered, examining me in the candlelight. It made me so damned hot. It arouses me even now, on this subway train, to think about it.
That was part of Joshua’s thing. He knew what a girl wanted, and he’d give it to her. But he liked to be in control, and having me naked in front of him was a big part of that. If I tried to undress him at the same time, he’d gently stop me. It was OK by me, so I went along for the ride. That first time, naked in the warm candlelight, I felt self-conscious, but I was so turned on. There was a heat from between my legs and my face was flushed and I’m damn sure my eyes were giving all the signs a guy could want. Josh was there fully clothed, with that smile of lust and satisfaction he used to have. My eyes, my whole body was saying “fuck me”. But I can hear him saying now, “Patience, Jana, patience.”
Joshua sat back in the armchair. He had me stand there for a few seconds while he sipped his drink, and looked me over once more, this time with his sexy eyes never leaving my naked body. At the time it made me feel wonderful – so beautiful, sexy and hot. The lustful glint in his eye as he surveyed his property was all part of the turn on and he knew it. He knew I’d seen the bulge in his dress trousers, and that red flush he got around his neck when he was aroused, but it was fine by him. He’d stand there and cup himself through his trousers to rearrange his erection in his pants to make himself comfortable. No fuss, no embarrassment, the arrogant bastard.
He was a skilled lover, Joshua, but he could be a cold bastard. The more I wanted him, the more he’d play on it, and make me wait and I’d admit it was very erotic, especially at first. He’d notice my nipples, puckered and erect, but he’d only touch me lightly on the sensitive sides of my breasts with the back of his finger. Sometimes he would stand behind me and kiss my neck while his fingers carefully teased over my belly and my hips, tantalizingly close to my clitoris. Finally he’d gently take my nipples in his thumb and forefinger and make me catch my breath. His cock would be jutting hard in my back through the fine wool worsted of his suit trousers. He didn’t mind waiting, Joshua. He just loved to spin it out.
I’ve sometimes wondered, before and since, how he had this power over me, how he got inside my head so much. Sure he had a great body, and those great eyes, but that wasn’t it. He was well-dressed and earned good money, but that wasn’t it. He had a lovely, good-sized cock, and I’d heard a couple of girls gossip about it. But it wasn’t that either (honestly!) It was two things with Joshua. It was the melting kiss that just lights all those fires and pops all those firecrackers in a girl’s brain.
And it was the way he fucked me. When he had me naked, he’d carry me to the bed and lie me down. I’d lie there checking out his toned body while he quickly, neatly undressed. Tie, shirt, slip off the shoes, pants, shorts. He wasn’t self-conscious or embarrassed of his body either. His sculpted butt, tanned chest and his s
teel-hot erection were no big deal to him. He made no effort either to flaunt or to hide.
Then he’d slide his hot, naked body onto the bed with me and take my wrists artfully in one hand above my head, and then carefully kissing and caressing my neck and breasts, and under my arms, he’d push my legs apart and slip inside me, infinitesimally slowly at first, pulling every atom of sensation from the experience. He’d slowly move his thick, heavy cock inside, like it was never going to stop growing inside me, opening up new realms of sensitivity. Finally, when he’d filled me completely, he’d fuck me slowly, like a craftsman going about his work. Expert, solid, relentless, controlled. He would even slip off his wristwatch and time himself so I didn’t come too soon. He’d build me up slowly. He would gradually keep me hanging on the edge of orgasm, and then, just when it was the right time, he would lunge deep within, deeper than ever, so deep it always made me gasp – every single time. I felt like I was falling backwards, my body tipping into a deep orgasm. Then he’d slowly, rhythmically fuck me so that he sensed where the next orgasm was and he’d make me come again, then again. I had absolutely no choice in the matter. God - he knew what he was doing.
I knew even then Josh would have made to love to every girl in the same expert way, but so long as I was getting it, what did I care? You could say he lacked passion, except it wasn’t exactly that. The burning eyes, the hot erection and the sheer care he took over it all said otherwise. He had plenty of passion, but for him, I felt it was never enough. It was all about control. He was doing everything so perfectly, just to gain control of me. And then when he had that control, then maybe I’d find out what his real passion was.
As it was all we ever did was fuck. He never took me out. No theater, not even a movie. The odd cocktail not long after I met him. I was no more than a sexual hook-up for him, where I thought I had a boyfriend and a lover.
Of course my regret is I never really found out what made him tick. I wanted closeness, passion, maybe love eventually. Josh used his skill to control me, but he wanted more control. He wanted to push it farther. He started with the handcuffs – and ended, who knows where? I turned him down at the handcuffs, said I wasn’t quite ready. I guess I’d had enough of people controlling me in my life, especially my father, and the handcuffs were a symbol of that. So I said no, and said we should be more loving, and I wanted a little more.
Joshua broke it off with me about an hour later. Said I didn’t trust him. He even said I couldn’t commit, which was rich coming from him. But the truth is, it was about sex and control for him and if I wasn’t playing ball, there were plenty of women who would.
Starting with Phoebe.
Who am I to complain? If I’d let him handcuff me and tie me up, and just went along for the ride, it could be me with all the mmmm and the ahhh on a Sunday afternoon. But that’s all it would ever be with Joshua. He’s a hot guy and a great lover, but that’s all. He’s also a bit of an arrogant jerk, I now realize this. To him, I was just another girl, and while he had complete control of the situation, he was fine. When I asked for something else and tried to have my say, he dumped me. Since then he’s been snarky and snippy, as if I’m some kind of man-hater.
Living in New York and trying to make it as an actress, I’ve seen that Life is more than happy to walk all over you. I don’t need to let Joshua Lake walk over me some more.
00000
Still on the subway, the more I think about Josh the less he means to me. What made me think of him? That silk-suited Deep and Mysterious, the Adonis at La Serenissima. It was his voice. That rich, deep voice was like his long, strong pianist’s finger pulled over my clit, dilating my eyes and stealing my breath for that second. Now there’s a man.
Almost home. Will Josh will be at the apartment when I get back. I think of Josh clicking those handcuffs on me instead of Phoebe and I realize I am slightly wet in my panties here on the subway. Wild thoughts creep into my mind again; Josh still there, with Phoebe cuffed to a dining chair. He’ll be sitting in the armchair and see the lust in my eyes as I walk in, and he’ll tell me to undress. And I’ll obey like the bad girl I always have been for him.
Chapter 3: Chelsea, New York City, Sunday 7 May
‘You need to phone in sick on Tuesday,’ says Phoebe when I walk back in the apartment. ‘We’re going to an art show.’
When I get home, Josh has gone. Mercifully. Phoebe is still up, all smiley and bouncy. Was it really that much fun with Josh that she’s still got that “cat that got the cream” look? She looks every inch the exhilaratingly oversexed New York girl I am not, which makes it all worse. To say my reply has an edge of frustration would be an understatement.
‘Yes, of course,’ I say hurling my purse on the sofa. ‘Because I’ve got so much cash that I can phone in sick whenever I want! And my student loans were paid off months ago. NOT.’ I head towards my room, making a mental note to buy myself a vibrator before I become impossible to live with.
Phoebe’s not in the mood for this gust of negative energy from her tired and frustrated room-mate. She’s just been fucked into dreamland, even if it was by an emotionally stunted, narcissistic Wall Street jock.
‘Andrea Davidson, remember her?’ says Phoebe, coming after me. ‘She sent you an email.’
Of course I remember Andrea. She was involved with stage design, costume design and all sorts of fun things when Phoebe and I were at the Metropolitan School of Drama and Dance. Andrea Davidson is a creative dynamo. While we were at Drama School, she was completing her own Masters in Fine Art, designing sets for us at the Drama School, getting together her first portfolio of fashion design ideas to hawk round the studios, while simultaneously exhibiting her first collection of sculpture - in the Hamptons of all places. Multi-talented Andrea Davidson - she works at 500 miles per hour. She has a talent for effortless self-promotion too, and she’s a living reminder to me of everything I’m not.
‘Andrea’s latest show is opening Tuesday,’ says Phoebe. ‘We should go along. You should go along. You look like you could use a night out and you never know who you might meet. It’s at the Saul Hankow Gallery, down at Battery Park.’
‘Come on, Phoeb,’ I say, exhausted. ‘Those artist people are so phoney. And The Saul Hankow Gallery is full of bankers and finance guys from Wall Street.’
‘And?’ says Phoebe. ‘You talk like that’s a bad thing. Come on, it’s going to be full of hot rich guys. Guys like Josh. ’
‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’
Phoebe doesn’t like that. It’s an indirect stab at her boyfriend. ‘You’re afraid of running into Josh?’ she says, accusingly.
A derisive snort escapes me. ‘As if! Anyhow, we both know he won’t be there,’ I say. It’s true. Josh likes to concentrate on what he does well, which means making money, windsurfing and, chiefly, sex. And while I wouldn’t put it past him to go picking up girls at the Saul Hankow Gallery, it wouldn’t work out so well if Phoebe was there too, would it? Meeting Phoebe at the gallery would be like an actual date, and therefore an inefficient use of his time. ‘No, I’m not worried about meeting Josh. I just don’t want to go.’
She’s unconvinced. ‘What’s the problem? You’re not worried about work, surely?’
‘I assume you’re not worried if I can’t make the rent this month, then?’ I say, aggressively. ‘Very generous of you.’ It’s bogus though. I’m not worried about work, and I’m not worried about all those Josh Lake-lookalike bankers. One of them, preferably with a little more “decent human feeling”, would do very nicely, thank you. It’s the artists and actors Andrea knows that I’m worried about. They remind me how I’ve failed to make it. It will be, “Still working at that Italian joint, Jana?” And Andrea herself is a living reproach to me.
Phoebe gives me a look, eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Jana,’ she says seriously, like she’s giving sisterly advice. My hackles are beginning to rise. ‘Like I said, you don’t know who you might meet. If there’s some big producer or director down there,
you can get your game face on, pull out all the stops and charm the pants off him. Like you did when you met Josh.’
Did I? Was I that transparent?
‘Sorry to break it to you, honey,’ Phoebe goes on, reading me like a book, ‘But if the same bigshot director comes in your restaurant, he’s gonna look straight through you. He wouldn’t even recognise you when you come back with the check, let alone in the morning. You’re no-one to him. At Andrea’s party, you’ve at least got a chance to network.’
There. That’s me told. She might just as well have said, “You’re no-one. Just like you were no-one to that superhot guy in the restaurant tonight. He gave the tip to Massimo”. That was bad enough. But she goes one further. Phoeb has a knife and she twists it viciously.
‘Or maybe you should do what anyone else would do, stop complaining that you can’t get an acting part, and go have a chat with your dad?’
A simple sentence, but it’s like she just kicked me in the chest, robbing me of breath and speech. Phoebe knows it. She wears a look that says she’s won the exchange, and she has. But that last cheap shot, bringing my father into it… did she have to?
There’s nothing worse than knowing you’re wrong. If I don’t go to Andrea Davidson’s show, how can I pretend I’m even trying to get acting work? And as Phoebe said, I could sure use a night out.
I have to go.
But she had no right to bring my father into it.
Chapter 4: Chelsea, New York City Monday 8 May
Phoebe says I have an integrity problem.
She means I have too much of it. Integrity, that is. Phoebe would have no problem phoning in sick an hour before her shift started. In fact she rings in sick to her office without a second thought, beginning the call with a trademark fusillade of coughing and laying on the gross medical details, until her boss can’t wait to get her off the phone. By contrast, I can’t stand the idea of lying on the phone to Massimo and letting him down.
Never Understand Part One ( Johnthen Trent Adult Romance 1) Page 2