Bend, стр. 137
“I don’t think I can take four more hours of that.”
“Don’t sell yourself short.” He rolled off me, and we just stared at the ceiling, letting our breathing get back to normal.
I had never experienced anything like that, not with Kevin and certainly not with Darren. I didn’t know I could sit on the brink for that long or just how many brinks there were. I didn’t know I could give someone else control over what I felt.
It felt as though, after that orgasm, I should have to sleep for hours, or I wouldn’t want sex for at least a month, but neither was the case. I was energized, and I wanted it again.
“Where are you flying off to tomorrow?” I asked.
“Korea. I’m putting a hotel up in Seoul.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Uh oh.”
“Your house. You have all the original everything in here, and the hotels are, like, white and chrome.”
“This house was built for a family a hundred years ago. It was a home. People want to feel like they’re away from home when they go to a hotel.”
“Right. That makes sense.”
“I thought you were going to bail on me.”
“I got held up talking to my manager. Ex-manager. Jerk-off.” I tucked my head on his shoulder and ran my fingertips up and down his chest. I couldn’t keep my hands off him.
“This the guy who disappeared?”
I propped myself up on my elbows and kissed his shoulder and down his chest. I could still smell some of the dusty cologne past the sheen of sweat built up from our sex. “This guy from WDE was at Frontage and called him. He wants his boss to see me. But I fired Vinny, and now he won’t give me the contact.”
“Why’d you fire him?”
“Because he’s an asshole. I’ll find a way to get Testarossa to take my call myself.” I worked my way down his stomach, over his hip bones, with my lips and tongue. I was aroused all over again. He put his hands on my shoulders.
“WDE? That’s Arnie Sanderson, right?”
Arnie Sanderson owned WDE and was the single most inaccessible person in the world. Even his own clients had to make appointments to get a call, and regular schlub WDE clients, who were some of the top paid people in entertainment, never met the guy.
“Arnie Sanderson. Yeah,” I said. Jonathan’s dick was hard again already.
“I’ll call him for you.”
“I’m not about to suck your dick so you’ll make a call for me.”
“And I’m not making the call so you’ll suck my dick. So, now that we’ve cleared that up, can you get on with it?”
I looked up at him. He smiled from ear to ear and put one hand under his head. I licked his dick’s length with the flattest part of my tongue. When I got to the top, I slid the entire length of it down my throat.
He breathed a deep ahh and said, “Where did you learn to do that?”
“Los Angeles High School of Performing Arts,” I said. “They taught me how to open my throat to sing. Then Kevin Wainwright taught me how to put his dick down it.”
He laughed. “I’d like to thank LA Unified and Kevin Whatever for this moment.”
I couldn’t help but grin, which kept me from engaging in the task at hand. “I like you, Jonathan.”
“Feeling’s mutual, Monica.”
twenty-one
We collapsed from exhaustion around five thirty a.m. Two hours later, I woke up with a sore sex and a dry throat. Jonathan’s arm was draped over me. His breath came in heavy, slow rhythms. I looked at him sleeping, closely inspecting him for the first time. His copper-colored lashes fluttered under soft brows. Faded freckles dotted his nose. He was truly beautiful, and seeing him with those eyes, I realized I could easily fall for this man. I was walking on a precipice even letting myself stare at him for this long.
I slipped out from under his arm and went to find my clothes.
My dress and underwear were draped over a chair by the door and smelled like last night’s whiskey and fresh porch air. I slipped into them and went into the kitchen for water.
I looked onto the backyard, with its dark green furniture and bean-shaped pool, sipping my water. I ran over the night in my mind, which was hard, because after a certain point, it just became a blur of skin, sweat, and orgasms. I must have said his name a hundred times, starting with me begging him to fuck me and ending with an orgasm he’d delayed eternally. When he finally let me come, it must have lasted fifteen minutes.
The first time he had thrust into me with such force, it was almost like he wanted to shut me up. Like he was saying, “here, take it, but please stop.”
Please. I’m begging you. I’m begging. I’ll do anything you want. I’ll be anything you want. Just don’t—
I was going to stay don’t stop, but in a different circumstance, when the love of your life was walking out the door, you might say don’t leave.
The buzz of a phone brought me back to my senses. I was making stuff up. The phone buzzed again. I didn’t know if it was mine, but I located the source on the kitchen counter, plugged into the wall. Jonathan’s phone, and it was facing up.
The caller: Jess.
Ex-wife.
Fuck.
I threw the rest of the water down my throat and put the glass in the sink. I had to go. I didn’t want to get in the middle of whatever that was.
“Good morning,” he said, sleep all over his face, T-shirt stretched over his perfect body.
“I took the glass from the rack and got water from the little thing in the fridge door. Didn’t even open it.” He shrugged, and I relaxed. He didn’t seem to feel invaded.
“Can I make you coffee?” he asked. “I can scramble eggs if you want.”
“No, I’m okay.”
As I rinsed the glass, he came up behind me and kissed my neck, fingering my zipper. “How about another go?”
“The sun is up,” I teased. I wanted another go. On the counter. On the floor. His lips caressed my earlobe, and I leaned my head back.
He slipped the dress’s zipper down. “You need to beg again. You’re good at it.” He kissed my back. I wanted to. I wanted to cry for it, one more time, before he became a memory. He pushed my dress off my shoulders with a perfect touch that rode between firm and light, a touch on a collarbone, maybe, like the one caught on camera from his wedding day.
“Your phone rang,” I said. Stupid. Another go would have been nice, but it was too late now.
“It’s always ringing.” He reached inside the dress and caressed my breasts, nipples hardening at his touch.
The phone buzzed. His lips left me, and I knew he was looking at it. His hands fell, and a palpable chill filled the room. I cleared my throat.
“I think I need to take this,” he said, zipping me back up.
“Sure,” I whispered. “My shoes are upstairs.”
I walked to the door, and when I looked back, he was popping the cable from the phone. His hands might have been shaking. I couldn’t tell.
I scooped up my shoes from the bedroom floor and went back to the kitchen. He was on the patio, elbows on his knees, looking at the flagstones with the phone pressed to his ear. His hands gestured, but I couldn’t hear him. It wasn’t my business.
“Good-bye, Jonathan,” I said before I slipped out the front door.
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To be continued…
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This series was structured like a serial TV show. Novellas were released every four to six weeks, with a break between sequences. Each novella episode was between 20 and 50 thousand words, and ended with unanswered questions.
Sequence 1
Beg
Tease
Submit
Sequence 2
Control
Burn
Resist
Sequence 3
Sing
Sequence One is also available as a novel-length omni edition.