53 Letters For My Lover (15 page)

I duck under his chin, into the sanctuary of his chest.

“I still don’t get your reaction,” he says. “But it can wait. I know it took a lot for you to get here and I know why you came.”

“Why?” I finger-doodle on his chest.

“For the same reason I did. Because you had no choice. Because you couldn’t eat. Or sleep. Or think of anything else but this.”

His lips capture mine in a long, drugging kiss.

Yes. I’m here because of this. And the lopsided tilt of his smile. And his infuriating confidence. And the way the air pulsates between us.

His arms come around me, wrapping me into the warmth of his body. “Shayda, if we’re going to do this, there’s something you should know. I don’t do threesomes with shame or guilt or regret. You need to check those in at the door. They don’t belong in bed. I intend to get to know everything about you—every curve on your body, every dirty, sexy thought, every dark, hidden spot. Everything. So as far as I’m concerned, we’re off to a great start.”

“But you didn’t...you know...” There is no denying his raw arousal throbbing between us.

“Well, neither did you.” He laughs. “I may not always be a gentleman in bed, but I do believe in ladies first.”

“In that case, you’re going to be very frustrated. Not to mention disappointed.”

“Are you kidding me? I’m the luckiest man in the world.”

“How’s that?”

“Because I get to make your toes curl and your knees shake. I’ll be the first to hear the kind of sounds you make when you come. Will you plead, Shayda? Will you moan? Or will you give me quiet little gasps? Whatever it is, Shayda, I can promise you one thing. It’ll be mad and passionate. Because I don’t believe that mediocre sex is worth having.” He tilts my head and kisses the corner of my mouth.

“And just so we’re clear...” He nips my shoulder. “There will be no stopping me next time.”

December 15th, 1995

“Apple crumble, crème brûlée
or red velvet cake?” Troy runs a lazy finger down my spine.

“Red velvet,” I reply.

“You sure you don’t want a proper lunch?”

I nod.

“One red velvet cake, one coffee,” he speaks into the receiver.

“Don’t you want anything?” I ask after he hangs up. “Or is that the price you pay for these washboard abs?”

“Did you know, anatomically, my abs don’t end there?”

“They don’t?”

“No, you have the six pack or the Rectus Abdominis here, and then the much overlooked Erectus Hominis, right here.”

“Troy!”

“That’s right, baby. Say my name.” He smacks my butt playfully.

I laugh. He makes this easy.

“Kiss me.” I sink my fingers into his hair.

It’s always there, the fire between us, like glowing embers waiting to be stoked. One look, one kiss, one caress, and I come alive for him.

“Hold that thought,” he says when there’s a knock on the door.

I will never tire of the way he moves, lithe and graceful, the smooth ripple of muscle under warm, bare skin. He’s been cautious since that first encounter. Sometimes we spend whole afternoons in bed just talking, our hands entwined, enjoying long pauses of blissful silence.

“How do you expect to eat when you’re grasping that sheet so tightly with both hands?” He sits cross-legged on the bed and places the room service tray in front of me.

I pull the bed sheet closer around my chest.

“Suit yourself.” He shrugs and takes a bite of the cake. “Mmmm. It’s so...” He searches for the right word. “Moist. Not too sweet. Surprisingly light. And this icing....” He proceeds to swipe another great, big chunk. “Mmmm.”

“Coffee? You take cream? Sugar?” He helps himself.

“Seriously?” I ask as he continues to devour everything on the tray.

“Why? Did you want some?”

“Of course I want some!”

“Then let go of the sheet.”

“No!”

“You have beautiful breasts, Shayda. Gorgeous. You should be showing them off. In fact, I should be eating
this
cake off
those
breasts.” He lunges for me.

“Watch it! There’s hot coffee on the bed!”

“There’s also an incredibly hot woman on the bed.” He crawls towards me on all fours. “Guess who gets my attention?”

He tangles his fist in my hair and gives me a long, twisting kiss.

“I can see I’ll have to feed you myself.” He sits back and attends to me, one luscious forkful at a time. “Good?”

“Uh-huh.” I could get used to this.

When I’ve had my coffee and the plate is empty, he puts the tray away.

“Still hungry?”

I shake my head.

“Good, because I’m starving.” He looks at me with naked eyes. “Show me what you do.”

“What?”

“You said the only way you can orgasm is if you do it yourself. Show me. How do you please yourself, Shayda?”

I wish the ground would open up and swallow me whole.

“Ah Beetroot, you never fail to make an appearance.” He smiles. “I need to know, Shayda, so I can do what you like.”

“I ...I already like what you do.”

“Yes, but I want to catch that look in your eyes as you go over the edge. I want the ultimate satisfaction of knowing I’m driving you wild. It’s only fair. Because I intend to thoroughly enjoy myself with you, to extract every last drop of pleasure, no holds barred.” He takes my hand and guides it lower. “Show me.”

Who knew the sweet, wanton power of words? A string of sentences transformed into moving, writhing images. I swallow.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t...touch myself.”

He looks at me and lets it sink in. “Then how?”

“I just...I do it differently.” I squirm. “Now can we please not talk about this?”

He doesn’t say anything. When I peek at him, he’s contemplating me with narrowed eyes.

“You’re like a labyrinth, Shayda. But I will find my way and you
will
show me.”

I burrow deeper into him.

“Do you know what you feel like?” His fingers follow the curve of my hip and slide under the waistband of my panties.

I suck in my breath as he parts the moistness between my legs.

“You’re like a warm, wet, velvet glove,” he says. “It’s a little like this...” He closes his mouth around my finger and rolls it around. “But better. Tighter.” His eyes darken with desire. “And a texture that I can’t explain. Do you want to feel, Shayda?”

He guides my hand over my belly, distracting me with hot kisses as he slides my finger inside, next to his.

Ohhh.

“Move with me, Shayda.”

We start a slow, rhythmic dance. He leads, I follow. Our fingers step in and out in unison, until I’m reeling from the raw intimacy of it.

“I...can’t.” I pull away, a strange hollowness aching inside me.

“You can.” He takes my finger and sucks on it, savoring the taste of me. “You should.” He props himself up and gazes at me. “Play with yourself, get to know how amazing you feel, how incredibly responsive. See this?” His thumb presses against my clit. “Ahhh this.” He closes his eyes and flicks the little nub from side to side. “I intend to get to know this very, very well.”

My hips buck involuntarily against him.

He pushes the hair away from my face. “Rub against my palm.”

I writhe, twisting and turning, my face and neck flushed with desire. He nips my bottom lip, groaning as he feels me getting wetter. My thighs clench together and I start undulating against him in an age-old rhythm. He lets me ride the wave, higher, higher, but I lose the peak, an image of my shameless, greedy, cheating self, flashing before me.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop,” he whispers.

But it’s too late. I hide my face in the pillow.

“Hey.” He tries to catch my eye, but I can’t bear to look at him.

He gathers me to his chest and rocks me gently.

“I’m sorry.” My voice is muffled and unsteady.

“Why?”

“You’re not disappointed?” I trace the barbed wire tattoo around his arm.

“Disappointed? With what?”

“With me.”

“Shayda.” He sighs. “This is not some race to the finish line. Yes, I want to please you, but I don’t expect you to become suddenly orgasmic. It takes time, and getting to know each other, and trust each other. Heck, does this feel disappointed to you?”

He brings me flush with the hard line of his arousal. “I am so hot for you right now, I might just pop this zipper.”

I feel him through his pants and tug at them. “Take them off.”

“You take them off.” He says it quietly, but I feel every muscle in his body tense.

He’s giving me the option to turn away, to pace this, control it.

I unbuckle his belt and pull. The leather slides out slowly, one loop after the other. I pause for a heartbeat, steadying my hands before undoing the button. My mouth is flush with his zipper. I hold my breath and pull the tab down.

“Come here,” he drawls, kicking off his pants and underwear as he pulls me up so I’m lying on top of him. Then he rolls his pulsating manhood between our bellies.

“Ohhh,” I gasp.

He places my hands over it, letting my fingers get acquainted with the length and girth of him.

“God.” His head falls back as I stroke him from tip to base. “You’re going to kill me with that light touch.”

His hands cup my bottom, pulling me closer. I feel him becoming even fuller for me.

“Show me,” I whisper.

“You want me to come for you?” he growls in my ear. “Is that what you want, Shayda?”

He sits me on the edge of the bed and stands before me, tall and proud and fiercely male. My eyes are level with his raging erection. Something wild and primal stirs in me as he starts moving his fist up and down his shaft in a slow, steady motion.

“Here.” He massages the thin ridge along the underside of his penis. “And here.” He rubs the ridge where the head meets the shaft.

I push his hands aside, mimicking his strokes, making twisting motions on the way down. One hand slides lower, cupping his balls.

A low rumble escapes him. He picks me up and pushes me further back on the bed.

“I’m going to come, Shayda.”

I flick my thumb over the tip of his penis.

He cries out as he gives in to the spasms that rock his body, spilling himself on my tummy until he’s spent and breathless.

His lips touch mine in a soft kiss, before he collapses on his back, taking me with him.

When his breathing returns to normal, he gives me that killer smile. “Don’t look now, Beetroot, but you lost The Battle Of The Sheet somewhere between the District of Ohhh and the Region of Ahhh.”

December 19th, 1995

“Please tell me we
have everything.” I flop on a bench, flanked by tall, golden urns of festive poinsettias.

“You’re a terrible shopper,” says Jayne, picking up the brightly colored bags at my feet. “One more stop. I need something for Matt. Come on.”

I plod after her, mentally checking off every person on my list. Yup, I’m done. I’ve even got Maamaan covered, in case she decides to show for Christmas. She’ll arrange herself like royalty and make sulky faces about adopting traditions that are not our own, but then she’ll see the smiles on the kids’ faces and secretly enjoy herself.

“I thought you said you needed something for Matt.” I follow Jayne into a luxe lingerie boutique.

“It
is
for Matt.” She winks. “He appreciates a well wrapped present.”

The inside of the store is like a courtesan’s boudoir—damask walls, plush chairs, gilded mirrors. One wall is covered with bra-thong-garter combos in jewel toned silk and racy lace. The other showcases waist cinching corsets and diaphanous negligees.

“This!” Jayne holds out a sheer chemise. “And this.” She takes a hot number off the rack. “And this. And this, and this.”

The salesgirl follows her through the store, collecting a pile of slinky under things, before showing her the fitting room.

“Don’t you want anything? Something sexy to spice things up?” Jayne peers at me through the draped velvet curtain before disappearing behind it.

I think of the pink baby doll I had put on for Hafez, now quietly folded away. Then I think of the plain bra and panties Troy took off me, with his lips and his teeth, like he was uncovering the most exquisite thing he’d ever seen.