“Yeah,” she rasps between whimpers.
All restraint is diminished, and I let go, thrusting into her with ravenous intensity. I lean forward and kiss her back, smothering my groans of pleasure in her skin and hair. She turns her head, and my lips instantly find hers.
If this was a different time, and I was a different man deep inside of a different woman, I’d look into her eyes as my body dipped and rolled into hers. She’d stare at me lovingly and caress my jaw, a look of pure ecstasy on her face. I’d sweep her hair to one side over her shoulder and drag my tongue across her neck to her ear. And when her back begins to arch, as the first tingles of orgasm seize her body, I would whisper “I love you,” because I’d want those words to be the only thing she hears when she comes for me. Only for me.
Regardless of my feelings for Ally—and there are feelings—I’m not that man and she’s not that woman. And all the time we have is right now. Uttering those words would only spark confusion and conflict for both of us. So I swallow both our moans of surrender as I give her the parts of me that I can give. The parts of me that quiver and pulse until pain and pleasure become one and the same. Until heat and cold race up my spine, and my joints are too flooded with sensation to move, and I release it all into her—the fear, the anger, the bliss of just having her in my arms—it’s all hers.
I’m hers.
SOMETHING STIRS ME from sleep, but I try to fight it. I don’t want to move, I don’t even want to breathe. But it sounds again from the living room, and I know I have to leave this bed and the warmth of Ally’s body.
f*ck
. My phone.
Dim light filters through the blinds, and I realize that we’ve sexed and slept the day away. There was talking, some eating, even some hydrating, but mostly our time was spent kissing, touching and pushing our bodies beyond pleasure.
As gently as I possibly can, I unravel my arm from under Ally’s frame. She stirs, murmuring something unintelligible before resuming a soft snore. I shake my head and laugh silently to myself as I make my way to the living room. Before Ally, every woman I had ever been with, looked like supermodels even in slumber. Hair and makeup somehow stayed meticulously in place. Part of me didn’t even believe they ever truly slept, just fluttered those long-lashed eyes closed and posed like wax statues on the bed. But with Ally, everything is different, more real. Her red hair is in knots all over both our faces. She snores a bit, not loudly, but loud enough that I know she’s asleep. And a little drop of drool settles in the corner of her mouth.
Maybe all women really sleep this way. I don’t know. I’ve never stuck around long enough to find out.
I follow the chimes resonating from my phone, and find it on the coffee table. Missed calls and text messages from Heidi. One from Diane, checking in. Another from Riku asking me if everything is ok. I ignore them all and zero in on the half-dozen Google alerts clogging my screen.
Breaking News…
This Just In…
Shocking Truth Revealed…
Same bullshit, different headline. But all I can see is a face, a name. A wolf in sheep’s clothing, crying false tears of remorse and longing.
Evan Carr’s shocking revelation: I sent my wife to the sex doctor
In a press release earlier today, Evan Carr revealed that he regrettably sent wife, Allison Elliot-Carr to celebrity sex therapist, Justice Drake, under the pretense that Drake was an intimacy professional, NOT a sexual deviant.
“When we first were told about Mr. Drake and his practice, we thought it would help Allison build her confidence and become in touch with her sexuality,” said the socialite. “We signed up with the assumption that it would be positive for our marriage. Little did we know what Justice Drake was really about. I would have never put my wife in this situation had I known.”
A tearful Carr goes on to say that he is doing everything in his power to locate his wife and bring her back. “Her place is with me,” he says. “Not with some hack that sold us a lie. I can’t even imagine what he could be doing to Ally and God knows who else.”
Evan Carr provided details of the enrollment forms, saying that the women would be sent to an undisclosed location where they could have no contact with the outside world for six weeks. When asked about Justice Drake’s identity, Carr shook his head.
“No one has ever seen him. I can’t even be sure that he’s a man. All contact has been through his PR or email.”
Drake’s publicist, Heidi DuCane, was unavailable for comment.
I dial the illusive blonde next, my heartbeat pounding painfully in my head.
“You’re lucky I have shit to do,” Heidi says after picking up on the first ring. “I wanted to storm your little love nest and drag your ass out of there.”