Page 23 of The Last Call
Not a question since she just admitted the truth. The blush she tries to stop stains her cheeks. Nothing but absolutely adorable.
“No. I…I just…”
I let her off the hook because I don’t want her to shut down. I’m more curious about hearing her response than teasing her about stalking me. “So what about you? What gets you off?”
“My own hand.”
God damn, I can’t get enough of her. I love when her confidence reigns through her uncertainty and she challenges me. “Besides that. What’s your fantasy?”
Another glare of death. “To be kidnapped by a deranged, delusional mobster who only wants me for my vast intelligence and witty conversational skills.”
Disappointed with her mean spiritedness, I cock an eyebrow and cross my arms. Waiting for more. For better. Sometimes it’s best to say nothing at all when dealing with someone who actually has enough of a conscious to actually feel guilty. Excruciating silence fills the air, and she begins to squirm with remorse as time ticks by. Her rigid stance slackens with shame.
“Fine!” Her little exasperated sigh is cute. “What?”
“Tell me what you think about when you’re touching yourself?”
My voice sounds hoarser than I expect. But damn. Imagining her playing with herself drives me to the edge. Her head tilts. Mulling over something. I’m guessing whether to answer or not. Mute as she moves to the wet bar tucked in the corner of the room and opens a bottle of sparkling water. Surprising me when she takes a long sip. Staring at the white and red label instead of me.
“I imagine I’m on my hands and knees. He’s behind me, his body curled over mine so heavy and punishing that I can’t barely hold myself up. But I do. I force myself not to crumple because I want him—I want it—so bad.”
Fucking amazing how she can get me rock hard with just a few words. My own breath labors picturing her in that position on my bed. Naked and dripping and anxious for me.
“He whispers in my ear that he likes me that way so he can play with my nipples and tease my clit while he fucks me.” Beautiful eyes drift shut as if she actually envisions the scene in her mind. “And he does. His hands are everywhere and I can’t think straight. I can’t even talk. I’m just overwhelmed with pleasure. I’m…”
As if she remembers herself, her voice fades away, and she looks up. Sadness I don’t expect to see reflects back at me. Unlike the pure lust I’m sure flames in my eyes. Fire blazes in my entire fucking body. “Who is he?”
Need throbs in my tone as hard as my dick. But she shakes her head. “No one. He’s faceless.”
I don’t think she’s lying from the detachment in her expression. From the misery thudding in her inflection. “You’ve never had anyone fuck you properly then.”
She spins back to face the counter and fiddles with her drink. Hoping to end the conversation. More accurately disagreeing with my assessment even though we both know it’s true. But there’s something else. Something more. Something telling. “You’ve never had anyone love you either.”
Silence. The epiphany of her behavior. Of our entire relationship. “You’ve never loved anyone.”
The accuracy angers her. Stiffness jerking her movements as she twists off the cap again. Self-conscious as she gulps down half the liquid and smooths her wrinkled tee with her free hand. Erratic movements to downplay her embarrassment. All of her willingness to open up slipping away with each smooth swallow of her delicate throat.
She tosses the bottle onto the silver tray. A clatter of plastic against the textured metal. Neither material yielding to the other. Kind of like the two of us.
“I’m taking a shower.” She shoots me a defiant look. Challenging me to deny her. “Because I want to. Not because you told me to.”
I let her go. Tired of fighting. With her. With my cock. With my usually dead conscious. Because I realize now that we’re more alike than I ever expected. And I want her even more because of it.
I shut the door softly. Not bothering to turn the lock because he’ll just break it down if he wants inside. For some reason though, I don’t think he does. I don’t think he will. And I’m not sure if I’m happy or sad about it.
I’m even less sure how I feel about myself after what I just admitted to him. I can’t believe I told him something so personal. Kicking myself for revealing something so intimate. Hating myself for sounding so pathetic and pitiful. No one’s ever asked me before what I like and somehow the truth just eked out.
Which isn’t unexpected I guess. Men pay me for sex. Buying the ecstasy they’ve imagined. Purchasing the pleasure they’ve dreamed about. I mean sure they’ve probably liked me. At least enough to tolerate me fucking them or sucking their dick or playing their games. The focus always on them rather than me. The way it should be. The way I wanted it to be.
But to finally have someone who’s genuinely interested in my desires feels different. Nice. Vulnerable. Flattering and terrifying that he knows me so well in such a short amount of time. To realize the embarrassing truth.
I’ve never loved anyone.
No one has ever loved me.
I’ve fucked and been fucked but never made love to anyone.
I despise the glistening in my eyes and whirl away from the mirror. Yanking off my shirt. The moist fabric under my fingertips reminds me of how gross I really am. Poor Nonna had to endure my funk while I enjoyed her generosity. Such a kind lady. I owe her an apology for more than just my disheveled appearance.
