Voices in the Dark (4 page)

“That’s it, baby, two more.” He’s breathing hard too. I can hear the rawness in his voice, the hoarseness in his groans. He’s nearly at the brink of release.

I shut my eyes, wanting to concentrate on nothing but the sound of him in my ear and the feel of the spatula on my ass. I can picture him, muscles taut, firm belly rippling as his orgasm nears. Though I’ve never seen it, I imagine his cock, thick and slightly curved toward his stomach, flushed just as he described, balls drawn tight against the base. In my fantasy, the narrow line of hair leading from his bellybutton to his cock arrows nicely toward trimmed pubic curls.

He’s gripping his cock so tightly I can see the veins stand out in his arms. His knuckles turn white, and his back arches as he nears his peak.

The fifth blow lands against my tender skin and I yelp, both relieved and disappointed to be done. My inner walls clench, desperate for the dildo I left behind in the living room, but I can’t bear to walk all the way back there to get it.

My fingers would work or—

“Is it a rounded handle?” he asks with considerable effort.

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Voices in the Dark

“Yes.” My acknowledgement is nothing more than a breathy squeak, but it seems to be enough.

“Shove it in you, baby. Ride it for me. Pretend it’s my cock.”

I do, but I know even as the handle slips easily inside my soaked channel that this is nothing like his dick. His beautiful shaft would be thick and long, satin over steel. This is a poor substitute, but it’s all I have.

I ram it into me anyway, over and over, and I know we’ve matched our strokes to each other’s rhythm. Our breaths are loud but evenly spaced, steady and perfectly in sync.

My orgasm starts low in my belly. It coils there and my clit throbs for a moment before I allow my thumb to flick over the small, needy nub. The wave of pure liquid pleasure rushing over me is overwhelming. It nearly drags me down into a sea of blackness and threatens to topple me off the chair.

The sound of Adrian’s guttural cry steadies me. He comes, and I can picture the jets of white cream splashing his taut belly and matting that lovely pubic hair.

We descend from our ecstatic high together, not talking but listening to each other’s breathing. It’s enough, just being with him like this. My calls always come to an abrupt close the moment after the man unloads, but Adrian lingers, and the sound of his steady breathing in my ear is soothing and alarming at once.

I don’t know how to end this call. I’m not sure what to say.
Thank you
?
Call again?

“See you tomorrow,” he says at last, taking the pressure off me.

Before I can reply, he’s gone.

I spend the rest of the evening curled up in my recliner with a hardcover mystery novel spread open on my lap. The black-on-white words blur in the background. Only the yellow sticky note I’ve affixed to the page stands out, as does Adrian’s neat scribbling. I’ve memorized his phone number long ago, and now I’m working on making a permanent imprint of the way he crosses his Ts and curves his Rs.

29

Lacey Savage

I trace the loops of his name with the tip of my index finger. I know there’s a dark, scary part in all of us just waiting to come out. We fear showing it to the world, because we’re terrified of being judged on that ugliness alone. But Adrian has seen my inner shadow, and he hasn’t run. Yet.

Was calling his roommate truly an accident? Just a simple coincidence? Or was it something stronger, such as fate, which tugged at my hand and led me toward my Christmas miracle?

I push that corny thought away as I rise and thump the book closed, trapping Adrian’s note between the pages. As I slide the novel onto the nearest bookshelf, I resolve not to look at it again that night.

An hour later, I fail miserably.

* * * * *

Aside from having sexual needs that are abnormal to say the least, and being snarky and rude to my coworkers on occasion, I’m also a coward. Which probably explains a few things about the reason I choose to get off with strangers over the phone.

The ultimate in safe sex, indeed.

Anyway, I’m not proud of it. But it’s who I am.

So that’s why the next morning, I call in sick to work. Just the thought of facing Adrian, of having him corner me in the kitchen again, sets my knees to knocking.

I’m not sure what I think I’ll accomplish by postponing the inevitable. I convince myself that having more time to think about what I’ll say will help. And that a few more hours’ worth of distance between us will clear my head. I’m determined that when next we meet, I’ll be cool, collected and composed.

But I don’t feel calm—not by a long shot.

Every time I think about last night, a flush breaks out over my chest and creeps up the column of my throat. My nipples pebble, and my pussy creams as the memory of the most incredible orgasm of my life racks me, over and over again.

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Voices in the Dark

Adrian would see right through me. One look at my reddened face, one glimpse into my lust-glazed eyes and he’d know the effect he has on me.

Which means I have to pull myself together today, because I don’t have the luxury of taking another sick day tomorrow. I’ve already booked some time off between Christmas and the New Year to see my family, so that means I only have to get through one day with Adrian. Christmas Eve.

Suddenly, I’m more homesick than I’ve been since moving to New York six years ago. A wave of loneliness crashes into me, and I burrow under a blanket on the couch.

That’s when I decide I need a good dose of girl therapy, so I do what I’ve always done when I need to unwind.

I unplug the phone, pour myself a bowl of frosted cereal, and proceed to spend the morning and afternoon watching
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
reruns on TV.

Night comes early this time of year. By five o’clock, twilight’s creeping into my apartment. The wind rises, rattles the fire escape, howls at the windows. I’ve gotten used to pigeons cooing at all hours of the day and night but even they’ve disappeared when confronted by this infernal tempest.

I live on the second floor of an old brownstone. There are two other apartments besides mine, but I’ve never met my neighbors. I hear them every now and again, but for the most part, I pretend they don’t exist. I’m thankful they’re quiet, and like me, don’t get many visitors.

So when a knock on the door echoes through my living room, followed by the chime of a doorbell—a sound I only hear when I order Chinese food from the takeout place across the street—I leap off the couch, hitting the mute button on the remote as I go.

My heart knocks hard against my rib cage. This is New York. I might have been raised a Texas cowgirl, but I know better than to open the door when I’m not expecting company.

31

Lacey Savage

I creep toward the entrance, trying to make as little noise as possible. Not that there’s any chance whoever’s out there will think I’m not at home. All the lights are on in my apartment, and until a second ago, the TV was blaring.

I reach the door, plaster myself against it, and rise on the tips of my toes to peek through the peephole.

I nearly forget to breathe when I see him. Adrian’s standing on my grubby welcome mat, holding a brown paper bag in one hand and a bouquet of roses in the other.

Roses
, for Heaven’s sake!

For a long moment, I can only stand there and drink him in. His hair’s disheveled, dark tufts standing out all over his head. He’s bouncing on the heels of his feet, no doubt to stay warm. The leather jacket he’s huddled in doesn’t look to be doing a thing to keep the chill from reaching his body.

Whether it’s pity or the sight of those flowers that moves my hand, I’m pulling back the deadbolt before I can even consider what I’m doing.

A blast of cold air hits my bare arms as I yank open the door, reminding me I’m only wearing a tank top and a pair of cotton shorts. I cringe, but it’s too late to throw on a robe now. Instead, I usher him in, slam the door shut behind him and lean against it to calm my racing heart.

“Hi, Maddie.”

My name has never sounded so sexy on anyone’s lips. I want to hear it again, shouted in the heat of passion, murmured in worship, whispered in agonized need.

I wave at the bundles he’s holding. “What’s all this?”

“I brought you chicken soup.” When I just stare at him, he adds, “You know, because you’re sick.”

Just when I think he can’t possibly be any cuter, he pushes the bouquet into my arms. “This is for last night.” He leans into me, tilts his head to avoid the plump red 32

Voices in the Dark

petals hiding most of my face, and places a chaste kiss on my temple. “Thank you, Maddie.”

I take a deep breath, inhaling the sweet scent of roses. I can’t remember the last time anyone brought me flowers, and for a second, the thought saddens me more than I’d have thought possible. I’m horrified to realize that tears are stinging my eyes, so I blink them back quickly and push past Adrian.

He follows me through the narrow hallway and into the kitchen, where he sets the brown bag down on the counter while I fumble for something large enough to hold the flowers. I don’t own a vase, so in the end I settle on a large plastic container. I think I bought it to hold spaghetti, but it looks as if it’s never been used.

He doesn’t say anything while I arrange the flowers, but I notice him looking me up and down, frowning when his gaze reaches my ratty blue slippers. I fight the urge to kick them off, reminding myself he’s the one who showed up at my door uninvited. Did he really expect to find me wearing a teddy and thigh-high stockings?

Absurdly, I wish I had.

At last, he peels himself away from the doorframe and strides toward me. “You know what I thought when you didn’t show up for work today?”

He looks so
big
, so menacing in my tiny kitchen. He’s not smiling, and the intensity in his eyes frightens me as much as it draws me to him.

I pick up the makeshift vase, hold it like a screen between us. “What?”

He’s close enough to touch me now, and he does. The back of his hand skims my arm. Goose bumps break out over my skin. I stare, disbelieving, at the tiny bumps. I don’t think anyone’s touch has ever done this to me before.

I’m probably just cold, I think, but the blast of heat wafting through the vents tells a different story. A trickle of sweat drips between my breasts.

33

Lacey Savage

“It’s going to sound crazy.” He plucks the flowers from my arms, sets them down on the counter behind me. He did the same with the coffee cup at work. It seems I’m always trying to shield myself from him.

“Okay.”

“I thought you’d quit. I thought maybe I scared you and you never wanted to see me again.”

My pulse pounds at the base of my throat. I can feel it reverberating in my temples, pounding right along with my frenzied heartbeat against my rib cage. “You didn’t.”

He releases a sigh, and I realize he’s been holding his breath. “Good. I was afraid…”

The idea of Adrian being afraid of anything startles a laugh from my lips. “You?

Never.”

He reaches up, captures my face in his hands. Far from feeling trapped, the way his palms linger over my cheeks makes me feel cherished, wanted. It’s a foreign feeling, one I’m not sure what to do with.

Before I can give too much thought to the uncomfortable sensations streaming through me, I dart in for a kiss. I think I just want to shut him up, but the moment my lips slant across his, I know I can’t make do with a quick peck.

His tongue darts over my lower lip, and I’m lost. I wrap my arms around his waist, pull him toward me. He slides his fingers along the back of my head, tugs at the elastic that always holds my ponytail in place.

My hair cascades over my shoulders, and he tangles his hands in it, sighing against my mouth. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, then parts his lips again and draws me in.

The sweet caress of his tongue against mine sends a shiver through me. I moan, press myself closer to him—close enough to feel the solid line of his cock nudge my stomach.

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Voices in the Dark

I need to feel him, to have my hands all over him. He’s still wearing his jacket, so I unzip it quickly and nudge it off his shoulders. It falls to the tiled floor with a heavy thud, but that’s the least of my concerns. I’ve already moved on to his shirt, which I’m tugging from his pants with quick, desperate yanks. When it finally comes free, I slip my hands beneath it, letting my fingers glide over his heated skin.

His muscles tense beneath my touch, and I want to commit to memory every dip, every plane and valley on his body, just as I memorized the uniqueness of his handwriting. I run my palms around the front of him, reveling in the rippled feel of his abdomen, in the light sprinkling of coarse hair over his chest and the flat nubs of his nipples.

I barely notice when he slides my shorts off my hips. I’m not wearing panties, and his sharp inhale of breath as he discovers this tells me it wasn’t what he expected.

We’re still kissing when his hand finds my slick folds. I keep myself neatly trimmed, even though no one’s seen my pussy in nearly a year. I do it for me.

Now I’m absurdly grateful I’ve taken the time to groom myself. He slips two fingers along my slit, and his chest heaves, breath catching as I grind down against the pressure he’s applying to my cunt.

If I was normal, this would be enough. I’d cling to him, let him take me soaring and lose myself in the intimacy he offers. But although his hand on my sex feels divine, I need more. The absence of voices in the dark stirs my soul, tugs at the emptiness inside me.

The knowledge that I’ll have to tell him leaves a bitter aftertaste in its wake.

I’m struggling to figure out how to broach the subject when he breaks the kiss with a groan that seems torn from the depths of his chest. His palm remains where it is, cupping my pussy for a second longer, before it, too, slips away.

A whimper slides from my throat. Panic grips me like a band tightening around my chest. “Don’t go.”