Sex Love Repeat
Page 4

I looked into his eyes, at the bright blue sparks of his pupils. “I don’t need a boyfriend.”
“Women rarely need the things they want.” He smiled, running a free hand gently along the inside of my arm.
“I’m not exactly normal,” I offered. His mouth curved at the words, light entering them, a sarcastic response at the tip of his tongue. I waved his comeback off. “I don’t mean that in a good way. You and I? Having sex so quickly? It wasn’t because I was blown away by your penthouse or your gorgeous blue eyes. It was sex, great sex, but just for pleasure. What we just did...I’m not expecting anything from you because of it. I don’t need to make ‘this’ anything more than what it is right now.”
He frowned. “So you want to use me... using me. For sex.”
I laughed. “Oh please, it’s every man’s perfect scenario. Don’t give me that guilt trip.”
His frown twitched slightly at the corners. “And what if I want more?”
“I don’t think you have time for more.”
I knew, from the start, what I was signing up for. And I made sure he knew the same. That I was a sexual creature, who wouldn’t stand by and wait to be beckoned. I lived my normal life, with bits of Stewart’s c**k sprinkled in when he had time. And that lasted for a bit, till he started getting attached and decided he didn’t want me screwing strangers any more.
TWO YEARS EARLIER
“I want you to find a boyfriend.” Stewart said gruffly, while I was pinned against the wall of his office, his rigid c**k inside of me. It was nine o’clock on a Tuesday night, everyone with any sanity gone, a uniformed cleaner already sticking his head in and catching us in the act.
“What?”
He thrust upward, making me moan, pulling my h*ps downward slightly, till the depth made me ache. “A boyfriend. Someone to f**k you when I am busy, someone who can take you on dates, and rub your feet, and listen to you talk about your day.”
“I f**k when you’re busy.” The statement caused his eyes to darken, his thrusts to increase in force and speed.
He knew this. Knew I wasn’t exclusively his. It was a choice he made, his addiction to success and files and stock prices too time consuming to allow for more than a night or two a week of fucktime. And our sessions were often like this – squeezed in at a time when stress lines his face, and meetings or emails are only a step or two away.
“I don’t like you f**king a bunch of strangers. It’s not safe. And you deserve more than that.”
I wished he would stop talking, the words causing his movement to stop, his serious expression putting a damper on my arousal. “Let’s talk about it later.”
He continued on, ignoring my suggestion. “You deserve someone who will be there for you everyday. Who will rub your feet and take you to dinner, and take you to the doctor when you’re sick.”
“So you want me to ditch you for someone with more time?”
He growled, gripping my skin and lifting me, my arms wrapping around his neck for security, as he carried me across the room and deposited me on his desk. “Fuck no. I will never allow someone to take you from me.” He ran his hands possessively down my front, pulling up my tank top and caressing the bare br**sts beneath, his hands firm and strong, cupping my br**sts like he owned them, dropping his face down and taking one in his mouth. “But I will lose you soon enough to someone who can shower you with time and affection. You need an everyday man to satisfy those needs.” He glanced up as his pace resumed, that dark glitter of intensity that I loved returning to his eyes. “But I will always own your heart. And this man would be second to me in your heart.”
I smiled, wrapping my legs around his h*ps and squeezing. “You can’t control my heart, Stewart.”
He lowered himself to me, bending over the desk as he f**ked me, deep, possessive f**ks that shot drugged pleasure through me with each stroke. Gripping my arms and pinning them to the desk, he took a long, deep taste of my mouth before breaking away and staring into my eyes. “I can sure as hell try.”
I closed my eyes, gripping his hips, and let him f**k me through another two orgasms before he came, in my mouth, his eyes glued to mine as he pumped himself onto my tongue. I thought he would drop the ‘boyfriend’ talk, thought that it was mid-sex ridiculousness that would never be spoke of again. But he pressed the issue, revisiting the topic enough times that I realized his sincerity. He worried about me. My safety, my happiness. Worried about losing me due to lack of attention. He wanted me to have a steady fuck, wanted someone to make up for the slack he couldn’t provide. He wanted someone safe, friendly. Someone I wouldn’t leave him for, but that would make me happy. He wanted Paul, I just hadn’t found him yet.
So I continued f**king strangers, my libido as aggressive as ever. And then, on that day in Santa Monica, I met Paul. I f**ked Paul. And he was different. Paul was, as he stared into my eyes and f**ked me in the surf, someone Stewart would approve of.
Safe.
Friendly.
Sweet.
Paul has changed since that day. He is more possessive of me than he once was. Not during our daily life, but often our sex is fired with competitiveness, his c**k claiming me as if he has something to prove. He is not safe, and Stewart has every cause to be worried. They both own my heart now, an equal division fought over by two sets of blue eyes.
VENICE BEACH, CA
My phone rang and I glanced at it. “Lover” displayed across its front. Stewart. I opened the phone. “Hey Babe.”
“Hey. You free Thursday night? I have a work thing – need a date.”
“Sure.”
“Perfect. I’ll connect you to Nicole.” There is a click and a few tones, before the cheerful voice of his assistant fills my ear. We chat for a few minutes, and then I hang up.
“Was that him?” Paul’s strokes across the board continue, slow patient swipes of wax protection. We are in the garage, the door up, our cars pulled into the alley, bikers occasionally whizzing through the open space. I’ve already waxed my board, my job quickly and haphazardly done, no real desire present to do a thorough job. But Paul takes his time, stretching the task out, his eyes careful on his work, his strokes sure and familiar.
“Yeah. I’ve got a thing to attend tomorrow night. I’ll be back in the morning. When do you leave for Costa Rica?” I watch his shoulders for tension, his jaw for rigidity - but he is calm, peace in his eyes, an easygoing manner in his movements.
“End of next week. I’ll be gone four or five days, depending on the flight.” He sets down the wax, walking around the board and leans back against my car, pulling me by the waist, into his arms.
“I’m gonna miss you Madd.”
I smile, leaning into his chest. “I’ll be here when you get back.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.” I lifted my chin and he kissed me, his hands pulling me tight, his mouth needy on mine. This is Paul’s worry. That one day he will return, and I will be gone. That I will choose Stewart and not him. He doesn’t mind sharing, but losing me terrifies him.
I flip through book titles, pulling out spines and sliding in new ones, running the alphabet over my tongue, making sure that everything was in its proper place, J.D. Robb sitting after James Patterson and before Nora Roberts. I feel him before I see him, the creak of the floor behind me announcing a visitors weight, the air carrying the scent of sunscreen and sweat.
I don’t pause, my fingers pushing and pulling on titles, intent on filing these last three books before my mind gets sidetracked and I have to start the whole damn alphabet again.
“You know ebooks are going to replace these pretty soon.” The slow confident male drawl slows my movements, my mouth curving into a smile despite my best attempt to keep a cool exterior.
I squeeze the last book into place and stand, turning toward Paul. “Hey—words like that’ll get you killed around here.”
He scoffs, crossing his arms across a broad chest, covered in a sleeveless tank and a golden tan. “You don’t have a dangerous bone in your body.”
I walk around the half bookcase between us, ‘til I stand in front of him. “You’re right about that. I’m in sore need of a dangerous bone inside of me.”
He groans, his eyes turning from playful to feral in a moment, his hand reaching around me and pulling me tight to him. His other hand joins in, both of them gripping and pulling my ass, my pelvis, up into his body, tight enough that the ridge of his erection digs into me. He lets out a loud, shuddering breath as he lowers his mouth to mine. “You want me to fix that situation?”
“Oh yeah.” I grin, reaching up and tugging his head down, my tongue taking up the playful game, flicking into his open mouth, exploring the taste of him as his hands pull me tighter against his hard body.
“I want to f**k you right here,” he whispers against my mouth.
“So do it.” My hands slide under his shirt, traveling over the lines of abs, his mouth catching as I move my hands lower, under the hem of his board shorts, my fingers encountering the curly patch of hair there.
He chuckles, moving his mouth of mine and kissing the top of my head. “I’ll take care of you later. I just wanted to stop in and say hi.”
I look up at him. “Fine. I’m closing up shop at four. Want me to find you on the water then?”
He cradles my head in his hands, his eyes trailing over the lines of my face, as if he is memorizing the features. “I’ll be there. Tonight is when you have that thing?”
I nod. “I’ll be back in the morning.”
He grins, my playful boy back. “Then I’ll be sure to take care of you this afternoon.”
I yank him forward, wanting to feel the brush of hardness before he leaves me alone. “You better.”
He gives me a final kiss before releasing my face, tossing out a carefree smile before ducking through the entrance and disappearing into the bright Californian sun.
I understand that you hate me. That you curse me for my greed. But if I am okay with it, and they are okay with it, how is it anyone else’s right to judge?
VENICE BEACH, CA
CAVEFISH: [noun] Pale Surfer
DANA
I stub my cigarette out and watch the bar, listening idly as Shannon Marks blabbed the explicit details of last night’s blind date. I tune in occasionally, nodding politely and cracking a smile when the occasion seems to call for it. But mainly, I just watch the bar. I had seen her. Stewart’s blonde princess. I was sitting here, minding my own business, sipping fresh coffee and munching on a biscotti when she had trotted by. Flashing a smile to a pothead who sat on the curb, she had entered the bar without a second glance around. That was forty-five minutes ago. I light another cigarette.
Venice beach. Not the location I would have expected her in. From my first impression, at Livello, she had seemed too upscale for this area—her glowing skin and sparkly white teeth speaking of good breeding, the dress one that appeared to be four-figure fabulous. I almost didn’t recognize her here, in cutoff shorts and a plaid, long-sleeved button-up, aviators perched on her head, long tanned legs ending in a pair of leather flip flops. But it’s hard to miss a girl like her. And I’ve thought about that night too much to be sane. Replayed it over and over again in my head. The glow on her face, the look in his eyes. Stewart, barely aged, 100% the man I knew—save the grin on his face. The grin, the glint, of a man in love. That, sadly, was unfamiliar to me. I take a sip of coffee. Venice Beach. Yep, not what I would have expected. Then again, who am I to talk? I’m sitting here in a wool suit, sweating my ass off, all in hopes that I might run into Paul.
Paul. The other man in my heart, also MIA in my life. His absence pulls at my heart. Paul, the lost lamb of our family. What happened to Jennifer wasn’t his fault. Things happen, regardless of all of our best intentions and precautions. Things happen, and when disaster struck, we lost him. He was always too sensitive, too caring, too loving. Quick to accept blame when it wasn’t cast on him, quick to perceive if someone was mad or if feelings were hurt. He carried the happiness of our family on his shoulders, as if his young frame could support so much pressure. And that summer, ten years ago, was a bomb to that structure, a heavy cannonball dropped onto a little boy’s house of sticks. We should have known he wouldn’t recover. We should have known that it would push him away. Now, he lives as if that event never happened. As if Jennifer, and the rest of us, never existed. I think the mere presence of us causes him pain. We are nothing but a walking billboard of what used to be. So he pretends we aren’t here. And he walks through life with a smile on his face.
I don’t know if that makes me happy or sad. I am relieved that he is happy, in press photos his grin stretches wide and easily, videos show that his step has a bounce in it. But I am sad for the brother I have lost. One who seems like he will never return home.
He lives around here somewhere. I don’t have his number, can’t find anything but a manager’s number on the promotional website bearing Paul’s pseudonym. The pseudonym irks me, a visible sign indicating his separation from our family. Linx. What a stupid last name, picked by a nineteen year old kid with more pu**y and dreams than he knew what to do with.
I exhale a burst of dirty air and glance towards the waves. The videos on his website show him here—attacking waves with the same ferocity he exhibited as a kid. So when Shannon wanted some gossip time, I suggested Venice Beach, hoping to kill two birds with one stone.
I take a sip of coffee and glance at my watch, my mind bouncing off Paul and back to the surprise sighting of Stewart’s blonde. Fifty-two minutes. Who sits in a bar at two o’clock on a Monday afternoon for almost an hour? I push back from the chair; Shannon’s dialogue pauses, my eyes glancing down to see her looking up with a look of surprise. “Where’you going?”