His hands are dancing from the soup, to the salad, and back again, but he also seems to be holding something back. He's lifting his eyes to me in cursory glances. What I wouldn't give to be inside of his brain right now.
Then he looks up, clearing his throat. "I wanted to say something," he begins, and a momentary wave of panic washes over my chest. What is he going to say? "I've decided—" he pauses and I can almost feel myself holding my breath. "—I've decided to go to Europe for the summer."
Europe? For the entire summer? Why is he doing this? I don't respond and I work hard to stifle my surprise. I casually continue to take small and calculating sips of the creamy soup, allowing the earthy flavors to dance around my tongue. Michael merely shrugs his shoulders and wipes his mouth with his napkin, "That's nice Lance."
I can detect the disappointment in Lance's face. He was expecting something more out of his father. That much is clear. But as quickly as that disappointment appears, he replaces it with an air of indifference. He's trying not to let his father get to him. "I've decided to take a direct flight to Heathrow airport next week."
I look over at Michael to see if he's going to say anything else. Perhaps he'll ask Lance what his plans are? Why London, of all places? But no, he doesn't say another word. It seems like he's refusing to engage in any kind of conversation with his son. Maybe he doesn't care at all why he's leaving. Instead, he continues to take uninterested bites of his food, his eyes cast down on his plate. I watch as a small sliver of cucumber gets stuck on his bottom lip. Maybe this is what Michael wanted. I'm too shocked to say anything. I never anticipated this happening. So instead, I simply nod at Lance when he glances in my direction. And really, what can I say? There a lot of things that I'd let spill from my mouth, but not in front of my husband.
Michael takes a few more bites of dinner and then excuses himself from the table, his chair squeaking against the hardwood floor. Lance takes his cue and leaves as well. I watch them both walk off, and with everyone leaving I start to clear the table. As I'm carrying dishes to the kitchen, Michael re-appears. He is slipping his arms into a coat, and seems to be in a hurry.
"Where are you going?" I ask.
"Out. Don't bother waiting up for me."
He says it with such finality that I don't bother asking anything else. And just like that, he grabs his keys and walks out the front door.
I decide I've had enough emotional ups
and downs for one evening, and I head upstairs to soak in a bath and then go to bed. I walk into my master bathroom, and start the water. Bathing is a ritual that I enjoy, and I look around for the perfect accent. I see it—a purple and white-swirled, lavender-scented bath bomb. That sounds relaxing—the perfect remedy to clear my head—so I undress and drop it into the water, watching it spin and fizz until the water is frothy and the entire bathroom smells like I'm sitting in a field of lavender flowers. The warmth of the water stings my skin—I like my baths hot—the hotter the better, and I slowly sink my shoulders down further into the perfumed heat of it all. My noisy thoughts die down and become hushed, and a sense of tranquility settles over my body like a familiar, comfortable blanket. And it's only when my fingertips become wrinkled raisins that I decide to get out.
I finish preparing for bed, and when I finally find myself slipping in between my sheets, my mind begins to race again. I shut my eyes and try to drown it out. Go to sleep, I tell myself, trying to will it to happen. But it doesn't work. I keep hearing Lance's words replaying in my mind, " I've decided to go to Europe for the summer." What made him decide to go to Europe? And why for the entire summer? Is he trying to end things between us? Is he trying to avoid me? Or did something happen between him and his father? Things seemed sort of strained between them at dinner. If so, why not just come out and tell me that's what he wants? Does he think I can't handle the truth? As much as I don't want to admit it, the idea of not having him here makes me feel lonely. I'll be physically and emotionally starved. What am I going to do without him? I crave his strong touch. My mind goes back to that first day in the dressing room at Saks Fifth Avenue… and the day in the limo… both close quarters… his strong, rock-hard body so close to mine. My pulse quickens just thinking about it. I also think about his icy blue eyes, and the way they can pierce through me in unexpected ways, and his massive manhood—the way he fills me up like no other man. I grow wet just thinking about him.
Then I hear footsteps coming up the stairs. It's Michael. I can smell his cologne, and judging by the way his feet fall in uneven movements, I know he's drunk. I can even hear his shoulder dragging against the wall for upport. He's trying to steady himself. It's amazing he even got himself home. I wait and wonder if he's going to come into my room. But when I hear him walk past my door, I know he is heading for the couch in his study and he isn't going to say anything to me. I hear him flop down in his upstairs study and within moments he is snoring.
What am I doing? Maybe Lance was right. It's like I don't exist to Michael. I'm just a means to an end. How can I be happy living in the same house with a man who doesn't love me and who refuses to show me affection? He didn't even once thank me for tonight's dinner. And with Lance in the house, I crave affection even more. I crave Lance. His touch. His body. His manhood. I need him. There's no way I can fall asleep right now.
I decide to do something that I never thought I'd do. I quietly step out of bed. I don't know why I'm being so quiet. Michael is passed out. There's no way any amount of noise will wake him up tonight. But I continue to take light steps down the hall until I reach Lance's room. I lean toward the door trying to detect any sounds, but there's nothing. He must be asleep. I slowly turn the knob and push the door open. I see him, with his full figure; the light from the hall illuminated the chiseled muscles of his chest. He's asleep. I walk in toward the bed, and then I lift the comforter and join him.
111
Lance
I open my eyes as I feel the door cracking open, soft footsteps making their way toward my bed. My eyes try and adjust to the fucking darkness in the room, but all I see is a silhouette walking toward me and sitting down on the bed, the mattress shifting under the added weight. That’s all I need, though. I could recognize these feminine curves everywhere.
“What are you doing here, Jocelyn?” I whisper as she pulls softly on the sheets, getting under them. She nestles her sweet body close to mine, the touch of her warm skin waking up that old fucking hunger. I turn to her, laying one hand on her waist as my eyes meet hers. Just touching it almost makes me lose all fucking control.
“I just had to come,” she whispers, my eyes following the movement of her full lips. She just had to come? Oh, I’m going to make her come, alright.
She places one hand over my bare chest, her fingers sliding down toward my stomach and over my abs. It doesn’t take long for my fucking cock to twitch and harden, desire pulsing in it; by the time her fingers go over the hem of my boxer briefs, they’re already tented over my bulging. Turning her hand, she curls her fingers around my member, pressing her body tightly against mine. “I need this,” she says, softly squeezing my cock.
“You came to the right place, then,” I reply, a smile taking over my lips as I move my hand up her side, her nightgown hiking all the way up to her waist. I let my fingers climb to her shoulders, and I slowly peel the nightgown off of her body, losing it somewhere among the sheets. My forearm brushes against her naked breasts as I undress her, and I realize she’s not wearing a bra; after I took her nightgown off, the only piece of clothing on her body is a fucking black lace thong. Just the way I fucking like it.
“I know. The right place is… wherever you’re this close to me,” she murmurs, pulling my boxers down. My cock jumps free immediately, slapping her across the back of her hand. Kicking off my underwear, I sigh heavily as she curls her fingers around my cock, her soft breathing against my neck filling my blood with the unstoppable rage of lust. Could she be any more fucking perfect?
Inching closer to me, she crushes her mouth against mine, her tongue sliding past my lips as she starts moving her hand back and forth over my cock. She’s stroking me softly, her hand moving in a patient up and down rhythm, her petite fingers delicately hugging my thick shaft.
Closing her mouth, she nibbles at my lower lip, pulling it harshly; letting go, her lips move down to my neck, laying soft kisses across my skin. With her free hand, she throws the sheets back, her mouth moving down my stomach in a maddening line of lustful promises. With her tongue, she traces the contour of my abs, licking them as if she needed to taste my body to know that I’m fucking real and not just a figment of her imagination. Oh, I’m real… As fucking real as I can possibly be.
My hands are on her head, my fingers running through her silky hair as her lips draw close to my pulsing cock. Kicking and punching, my heart beats faster, anticipating what’s to come. She wraps her luscious lips around my tip, slowly sucking as she keeps on stroking. I close my eyes, savoring her mouth on me and fucking let delight overtake me.
“Deeper,” I groan, pushing her head down. I don’t even give a fuck; instinct and desire are running the show. She goes willingly, parting her lips wider and allowing my cock to slide inside of her mouth and over her tongue. Feeling the warmness inside of her mouth, my cock pulses harshly as she keeps on going deeper; she goes until her lips are touching the skin at the base of my cock, and then she holds her position for a few seconds, pressing on my shaft with her tongue. Only when I sigh heavily does she roll back, her lips once again wrapped tight around my glans.
I leave one hand on her head, but I move the other down her back, reaching for her ass. I squeeze one cheek, the flesh molding to my fingers; flicking one finger under the string of her thong, I caress the crack between her ass cheeks. As I touch her dangerously close to her asshole, she starts to bob her head up and down, keeping a steady but unbridled pace. I move my finger inside her ass, and slowly build up its rhythm; it doesn’t take long for me to be fingering her ass at the same fucking pace she’s sucking on me.
“You’re so fucking good…” I whisper, the fingers in my free hand curling into fucking hooks and grabbing her ass harshly. She responds by picking up the rhythm, moving her head so fast I can’t help but groan in pleasure. Instinct taking over me, I push my finger deeper between her cheeks, sliding it further inside her ass. I move it back and forth as fast as I can, her inner walls squeezing tightly. “Come here… I want to taste you too,” I find myself saying, pulling on her waist. I need to taste everything in her, every single inch of smooth skin… Her lips, breasts, pussy and ass—everything’s fair game to me. My cock pops out of her mouth as she raises her head, but she never takes her hand out of my shaft.
Turning her body around so that her ass is turned to me, she lifts one leg and moves it over me, her knees on the side of my head. One of my hands on her waist, I use the other one to flick her fucking thong to the side; I raise my head then, pulling her down at the same time. My mouth pressed tight against her soaking wet pussy, she leans forward once more, pushing my cock between her lips.