Page 28 of Edging Obsession

My eyebrows furrow. “What? So, you’re not an American?”

He shakes his head. I did not see this coming. How could I have fallen in love with someone and not know anything about their past? I tried to find out for the article, but Miles wouldn’t open up to me. After that, our relationship thrived like a forest fire. But now…now I’m in smokejumper mode, ready to attack and put the flames out. This new revelation brings on a feeling of deception. I thought he was an American rockstar, except he’s been living a lie. What else is he hiding? I remove his hands from my face, get off his lap, and move behind the couch to put distance between us.

Stifling the anger and tears, my gruff voice asks, “Why didn’t you tell me? We’ve been together for how long, and you couldn’t find the time to share this with me?” It’s too late. The tears steal the show.

Miles walks over to me, and I back up into a bookshelf. I flatten my hands on the books to keep from falling. Again, he cradles my face, locks eyes, and gives me the most attentive closed mouth kiss. His warm lips snuggle into mine, and a cinder warms my body. I taste his cigarette. Smell his cologne. Miles’ gaze holds me captive. His tongue runs along the seam of my lips, and then he places a kiss on each corner of my mouth.

Then his breath warms my ear, and he says, “American or German, it doesn’t change how I feel about you.”

My sobs increase as I rest my forehead on his shoulder. “But if you loved me, you would have trusted me enough to share your past.”

Miles continues kissing every area of skin on my face, behind my ear, whispering affectionate words. The tears taper off, replaced by a sensuality only Miles can incite. The cinder reigniting. His hand goes under my shirt, stroking my stomach, making its way to my breast. Our mouths are a hairbreadth away, breaths mingle, my pained eyes meeting his unapologetic ones. He pinches my nipple while he sweeps his lips across mine. It’s seductive, and my body trembles against him.

As quiet as the flap of a Goldfinch’s wing, Miles whispers, “You’re mine, Schatzi.” The back of his hand trails down my stomach, running a little beneath the waistband of my jeans. “American. German. I own you.”

With his thumb and index finger, he pops the button open, and as he slides the zipper down, his tongue dives into my mouth. He’s hypnotizing. Miles’ voice and actions invite my desire to intensify. My hips drive forward. His fingers creep into my jeans, underwear, thumb pressing circles over my clit. Giving in to my arousal, I push my pelvis into his hand, his tongue lapping at mine, lips bruising. A finger enters me, and I moan, wrapping an arm around his neck, pulling him closer. I rock my hips into him. His teeth mark my jaw, earlobe, sending shivers down to my core. My head falls back, and Miles stretches his mouth around the side of my neck, sucking, sinking his teeth into it without breaking skin while driving another finger inside.

His mouth releases me, and still humming his words, says, “Fuck my hand, Schatzi.”

I crush his hand between us, fingers pumping in and out as I hump his hand. Soaking it. My nails dig into his neck, chasing an orgasm, and he swallows my moans. Up and down. In and out. Thumb frolicking with my clit. It’s there. I can feel it rise, tugging at my stomach, inner thighs, until I scream Miles’ name. He continues as I rely on him to hold me up.

The orgasm rescinds, and my legs are weak. Miles presses me against the bookcase, brushing my sweaty hair from my face, and says, “You are so fucking gorgeous, Jules. Mein Schatzi.”

We nuzzle our faces into each other’s neck and hug. It relieves me from stress. The anger I drew upon about him being German has disintegrated, and in its wake, is a closeness I hadn’t felt before. Like he allowed me into a door that’s closed off to the public. Our relationship is the perfect storm of disastrous proportions for my psyche yet, we make sense. Miles has given me an outlet for my bipolar, along with a love I hadn’t known I wanted or needed.

14

From the washroom, I can see Jules reach for my phone. Sharing who I am has raised some uncertainty with her. She’s accepted it, and in time, will accept more. We’ve contaminated each other, diseased by lust and emotions, without a cure. And I don’t want one. I’d rather wither and die between Jules’ legs than have a life absent from her. It didn’t take us months to figure out we belong together. At first sight, our attraction surpassed the norm.

But it’s her skepticism, a mistrust brought on by omission that has Jules checking my phone, before turning and scowling then handing it to me. I take the phone and notice a video of a woman’s pussy, and a dildo shoved inside it. Just from today alone, there are several pictures of various body parts in sexual positions.

Jules rests against the headboard, folding her arms. “Is there something else you need to tell me?” I cock an eyebrow and let out a heavy sigh. “Well, do you? Who is she? I guess fucking me isn’t enough for you.”

I toss the phone on the bed, sit on the edge, and take her face in my hands. “Don’t get mouthy.”

She pulls her head away and my hand drops to the bed. Some psycho woman is filling my phone with pornographic shit I have no interest in. On the side of the bed, I prop my elbows on my knees, deleting the videos and pictures.

“Yes, please, delete them.”

Attempting to dart off the bed, I grab her calf and slide her toward me. Her body folds around my back to my front, and I place her head on my lap, running my fingers through her hair.

“Jules.” She gives me a sideways glance. “You’re enough for me.” My thumb rubs her cheek. “This crazy bitch has been stalking me. I receive several of these a day.” Jules is about to get up, but I press my hand to her shoulder. “My guys tracked her down, so I know where she lives.”

“Your guys?”

“I know people, Jules.”

She gets up, heaving a sigh, and leaves the room because I keep averting her questions. All in due time. Jules doesn’t run this show, I do. I find her in the kitchen, stomping around the island.

She asks Anna, “Would you mind if I make a sandwich?”

Anna pats her hand. “How about I make it for you? Tell me what you want on it, and I’ll—”

“No, thank you. I’d like to do it.”

Anna sees me and returns to cleaning the counters.

“Jules, this is Anna’s space. She’ll be more than happy—”

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