Edge of torment, p.12
Edge of Torment, page 12
Oh great. Now what? He gave me no indication of what he wanted. Should I stay and lose all pride, or should I go home, and pine and think of him all day? I felt like such an idiot. If I left, when would we talk again? When would I see him again? Oh why did I have to wake up? I should have feigned sleep, and then I wouldn’t have been in this predicament.
I knew I didn’t really have a choice. I had to leave. What else could I do? I had no idea how long he would be. I knew how to get home, which would be long and uncomfortable with no make-up, hairbrush or toothbrush. Why hadn’t I thought to pack a bag? He must at least have a hairbrush I could use, and toothpaste for god’s sake. Okay. Get up. Get your act together, and don’t sit here like a complete, helpless puppy in love, I chided myself. I was not looking forward to the long T ride home.
I sat up and ran my fingers through my tangled mess of hair. Of course I looked beautiful when I slept. Awake, I looked like I had been through a meat pulverizer. Sitting there gave me a chance to take in my surroundings. I hadn’t even noticed his huge master suite. I looked at the decadent linens gracing his king-size bed, the frame made of something I would need to ask about, the head and footboard made of black iron. The fireplace and its mantel, classic and traditional oak, somehow matched the modern, oversized flat-screen TV, modern art work, and oversized leather chair. It had a masculinity and beauty to it, such a perfect eclectic combination, that I couldn’t help but wonder if he had had a decorator or a former girlfriend help him. I shook the latter from my mind.
As I made my way over to the bathroom, I hadn’t even noticed walking through his closet the night before, a room to itself. The organization inside the closet slapped me silent as I willed myself away from running my hands through his clothes and over his shoes. I laughed at my tiny closet in my apartment, crumpled clothes barely hanging up. The contrast was borderline absurd. I wanted to go through his things, to somehow learn about him more deeply, but I stopped myself from those unhealthy urges and forced myself to enter his bathroom.
I blushed looking at the claw-foot tub, the memory of his touches invading my entire body. I looked up over the double sinks, and there on the wall-length mirror in shaving cream read: I hope you will wait for me. I melted. I pulled his shirt tight around my body, inhaled his scent from it again, ran back into the bedroom, and hopped back into his bed.
I closed my eyes and tried to fall back asleep, make it look like I was just too tired to leave. But my mind was racing. I didn’t even know this man, and I had told him I loved him? I was so mad at myself, I couldn’t believe it. But I wanted to know him. I had a driving urge to start snooping through his house. Who was Justine? What was his past? How many women had been in his life? Who was his family? I had so many questions. All I really knew about him was his sweet, tantalizing sexual prowess.
Oh my god. Thinking about the previous night and our first night in his office got me wet all over again. I brushed my fingers over my swollen lips and exhaled, feeling my hot breath. I couldn’t think about him without thinking about his touch, making me beg with need. I wanted to touch myself, thinking of him feeding me lobster, teasing me, and ultimately giving me earth-shattering climaxes. But I didn’t dare. I didn’t want to get caught. I would stay put, waiting and hoping he would make glorious love to me again when he got home.
I realized I had fallen back asleep. I must have, because I was interrupted by the noise of keys jiggling the lock. Oh yes. He was back. Should I close my eyes and pretend? Oh shit. I was a mess. I ran into the bathroom to try to find a brush for my unruly hair. I found some toothpaste and put some on my finger and brushed. It was better than nothing. I gargled with some mouthwash I had never seen, no chemicals, no animal testing, organic, etc. Whatever. It had to be done. Of course the water from the sink was sensor programmed, and the mouthwash was making a mess of his sink, as I raced to splash the water around to clean it.
I looked around half expecting to see a hand dryer, and laughed to myself, but there wasn’t one. It actually surprised me a bit. I couldn’t find a brush anywhere, and I didn’t want to rummage through his things too much. Having found an elastic in my jeans earlier, I bent over and tousled my hair, gathering it into a loose bun atop my head as I usually did when I was in a rush. Thank god.
A knock on the bathroom door startled me. “Annabelle?”
I stuttered, feeling foolish after our night together. “Hi...”
I could feel his smile through the door. God he was confident, in control. He asked, “Are you hungry? May I come in?”
Hungry? Was he talking about food or sex? I felt my heart race and gulped. “Yes,” I managed.
“Yes, you’re hungry or yes I can come in? Or yes to both?” Again, I could feel his grin widening with each word.
I opened the door. His shorts hung low, and his chest glistened with a few beads of sweat from his workout. His washboard abs beckoned me to touch him, but I froze shyly instead. I was dripping wet from the mere sound of his voice and his perfect body. I realized I was holding my breath and let out a huge exhalation.
“Are you happy to see me?” he took a step closer. “Breathe, Annabelle.” His blue eyes gazed into me. I wondered if he could read my mind.
“How was your run?” I tried to sound all nonchalant.
He smiled, knowing my tactics. He took my hands in his and slowly raised them above my head.
Oh my god. What was this? My breathing began to pick up, my pulse alive with excitement.
He slowly lifted the shirt of his I was wearing over my head and exposed my naked body. My panties had been too wet for me to put back on the night before. A gasp escaped from my mouth, unintentionally. I stood in front of him, vulnerable and naked.
He stood there and stared at me slowly, deliberately, holding his shirt now in his hands. Embarrassed and turned on like hell, I tried to cover up my body with my arms and looked down at my feet. He took another step closer and my breath hitched again. But he brushed past me and opened a drawer.
“Finding everything okay?” he quizzed playfully, handing me what appeared to be a brand-new hairbrush and an unopened toothbrush.
I couldn’t find my voice, too shy in that moment as a red burn continued to creep up and out of my body. God, did he always stash extras for his...guests? Insecurities enveloped me yet again.
He raised my face up to him and looked deep into my eyes. “You’re so beautiful, Annabelle. I hope you know that. I thank you for giving me my shirt back,” and he turned to walk out of the bathroom, with his shirt still in his hand, leaving me there naked and feeling like a fool. “I need to make sure my laundry gets done.” He winked back at me.
“Michael?” I tried not to sound desperate. “I was hoping to keep that shirt?”
He laughed lightly and took my hand. “Come. Let’s get you some breakfast.”
“Can I have my...I mean...your shirt back?” I asked.
“If you want to keep it, it is yours. I have a million. But I’d like to watch you eat your breakfast naked, if you don’t mind. Go sit in bed. I’ll take a quick shower and then bring you something to eat.”
He was so fucking sexy. How could he make me feel this way? Why did I love the way this made me feel? This new Annabelle was absolutely not me. If you had said you’d give me a million dollars to submit myself to a man this way, I’d have said: Save your money. It ain’t gonna happen. And here I was. Wanting this. Wanting to feel this way. Wanting to lose control to him. It felt good. It felt sexy. It felt alive.
I sat in bed, naked under the covers, pulling the sheets tightly around me. I rolled onto his side of the bed and tried to find his scent to revel in it, to take it in. I still felt like a dog in heat, for god’s sake.
He returned with a plate of cheeses and fruit. Cantaloupe, watermelon, strawberries—oh strawberries—blackberries, and bananas. He was freshly showered, a pair of light tan bottoms hanging off his hips. His dark hair looked even darker than usual, still wet, messy and sexy as hell. His damp chest hair taunted me to touch it. God, I wanted this man. I couldn’t believe I was with this man.
“Hi,” he said, as he kissed my earlobe.
I sat up under the sheets. “Hi,” I returned, dreamily. He smelled so fucking good.
He placed the plate between us, and said, “Eat.” His voice made me wet.
I popped a blackberry in my mouth as sexual tension gobbled up the air.
I wanted to ask him so many questions. I wanted to know why he liked games so much. Why he liked control. I wanted to know why he said he had such issues with trust. I had him here, eating with me, he wasn’t going anywhere. I needed to build up some courage. I pulled the sheets around me tighter and started with a soft ball. “What is this wood here? On your bed?” And I pointed to it.
“Do you like it?” he asked, shifting ever closer to me, and I drew the sheets ever more.
“Yes,” I said simply.
“Recycled teak.”
Of course recycled, I thought to myself.
“Sturdy.” He raised an eyebrow, and I sighed, feeling the dampness between my legs.
“Why do you...do...those...things to me?” I stuttered.
“What things?” he teased, making me shift uncomfortably.
“You know what I mean, Michael, please. You know...tease me like that? Play those games?”
“It turns me on. Why? You didn’t enjoy yourself?” he mocked. He tried to pull the sheets down to expose my breasts, but I pulled them tighter. I needed to actually talk to this man without distractions.
“That’s not the point.” I tried to finish but felt a flush overcoming me and looked down shyly.
Again, he reached for my chin and pulled my face to meet his eyes. With sincerity, he asked, “Was it too much for you? Did I go overboard?”
I loved it, I screamed in my head. It made me want and need and feel, feel things I had never felt. “See. You even tease me now. You know how it made me feel. I’ve never felt like that, like this, the way I feel right now.” I scooched closer to him, willing him to touch me, kiss me, something. God, I just wanted this man in every way. I didn’t recognize this burning need. But I also didn’t want to stop talking, to get to know who this man was who had ensnared me.
He smiled knowingly but didn’t touch or kiss me. “Baby, I want you to want me. I want you to crave me. I want you to feel this way. I like knowing that you feel a need for me. I like to know that I am the cause of it. It makes me feel good. Being in control makes me feel good.” He brushed his fingers along my collarbone that way he did, sending jabs of desire right to my sex, my wet juices distracting me from my inquisition.
God, he was so honest, so blunt. No embarrassment as he spoke with such matter-of-fact answers. I wondered how a man so gorgeous, so confident, needed to feel wanted, needed period. “You could have any woman you want. Why me?” I really didn’t understand it.
“Maybe. But it doesn’t matter. I want you.” He was almost whispering. “I crave you.”
Wow. He did?
I continued to pry: “Have you been hurt? Did someone not want you?” I asked. I could never imagine a woman not wanting him.
There was a long pause. “Yes, Annabelle.” He said it very slowly.
I had not expected that. Here I was, naked, full of rapaciousness for this man, and he was opening up to me, sharing a bit of himself. I didn’t want this mood to end. I wanted to know this man so desperately, to understand him. I kept going. “Will you tell me what happened?” I could hear my phone ringing out in the living room. I ignored it.
“Don’t you think you want to check your phone? This is the third time someone has tried to call you.”
I hadn’t heard my phone until now, and I didn’t care. “No.” I said. “I want to know you more. Tell me. Who is the woman who hurt you?”
It was clear that he was uncomfortable, but I could see him searching for the right words. “It is not what you’re thinking.” He stopped and took a deep breath. “My mother and father divorced when I was 12 years old. Things were never the same for my sister and me. I was never the same. I was affected in ways that have...” he paused, “...shaped the person I am today.”
He was opening up. Did he feel like his parents didn’t want him? I felt such closeness to him in that moment. I didn’t want to stop asking him questions, but I also didn’t want to pry too deeply and turn him off. I didn’t want to ruin the trust we were building. I gently said, “Is that part of your trust issues?” My mind reminded me of my lesson from the previous night, and I squeezed my legs together.
“It’s part of it. But there’s much more to the story...much more.” I felt him tense. “Last night was a lesson, Annabelle, about betrayal and what that feels like. I need to be able to trust you. I don’t want you to ever lie to me again. We won’t last if you do.” He softened and the sexual energy resurfaced. He smiled, looking down between my legs, seeing my guilty squeeze. “But I also want you to need and want me. Am I succeeding?”
I just breathed, mesmerized by his voice and the revelation of his insecurities. I liked his dark, sexual, controlling side, but this depth of character, his imperfections, made me really feel like I may love him. I sighed. “I don’t think you’re going to have to worry about me wanting you.” I paused. “And, I promise you can trust me.”
He shifted, and I could tell that was all I would learn about him in that moment. He changed the subject. “But enough about me. Who is Annabelle Smith?”
I didn’t want to talk about me. I wanted to talk about him and his trust issues and his penchant for teaching women lessons and teasing them out of their minds and his ability to produce never-ending orgasms. “I don’t want to talk about me. I’m boring. I am what you see,” I said foolishly, not wanting to open up.
“Oh. I don’t think so. I don’t think you like giving up much control in your life, and yet here you are...enjoying the freedom it’s affording you. I watched you struggle with giving up control. I watched you struggle to accept that you liked it, wanted it. I watched you struggle.” He smirked, a knowing memory flitting across his face.
He could be so smug. How did he know? I always had to be in control when it came to my life, my relationships. Did I like sex? Always, yes. But did I do it often? No. Scott was the most serious boyfriend I had ever had; the other two were more extended flings that ended poorly on my part because of my dance schedule. And that was it. Three lovers. No one-night stands. Nothing out of the normal.
Thinking about what I had experienced now, I realized my life was quite dull, like I had really just started living a few weeks ago. I internally chuckled, comparing my life to The Wizard of Oz. It was like I was living with no color until he entered my life. Then I giggled out loud as I thought about Dorothy’s first step from her black and white world into the colorful world of Munchkinland.
He cocked his head to look up into my face. “Have you always enjoyed sex so much?” he teased.
“Stop it.” I said, slightly embarrassed. But I smiled. It was lighthearted and fun.
“No. I mean it. How many men have you been with? How many times have you been in love?”
Oh my god. This was getting a little serious. I blushed. Did I have too few lovers? Would he think I was some kind of troll? “I don’t know if I’ve ever been truly in love...” I paused. I didn’t know love until you. I think I love you, you asshole, didn’t you even hear me last night? I wanted to scream. And as unbelievable as that seemed, I knew in that moment that the possibility was not that absurd. “Three,” I finally admitted. “But...” I couldn’t help but wonder how many women he had been with.
My cell phone rang again before I had a chance to continue.
“Could you please find out what the urgency is and pick up your phone?”
“Could I have your shirt back?” I asked innocently.
“No.” He smirked. “I like knowing you’re naked. It means you’re not going anywhere.” He got up to leave the room. “I’ll get your phone.”
His voice made me clench. He didn’t want me going anywhere? Was he falling for me too? One minute we’re having a normal chat like a regular couple, and then he says one thing, and I’m dripping and wanting all over again. It was really unfair, in many ways, the effect he had on me.
He came back with a serious look on his face. His humor was gone. “It looks as if someone has truly been in love. Scott has called you four times now.” He passed my phone to me.
“Oh.” I stammered. I was nervous. I had no idea why Scott would be calling me. And quite frankly, I didn’t care. I didn’t want this mood to end, and yet, it was too late. It had ended. I looked over to where Michael stood next to the bed. Turned away from me, he took off the casual bottoms he had been wearing and stood naked only a few inches from me. God, he had a perfect ass.
He turned around and caught me staring and smiled. His cock was erect and only inches out of my touch. “You’re insatiable, Annabelle.” But he walked away and opened up one of his dresser drawers and began to dress. I’m insatiable? I thought to myself. He was the one with the rock-hard cock.
Fully clothed, he sat back on the bed. He carried my clothes from the night before in his hands. I guessed it was my cue that I was leaving. I didn’t want to leave. It was Sunday, and really, I wished we could just do a repeat of the night before, over and over and over.
“Aren’t you going to listen to lover boy’s messages?” he asked sarcastically. He actually sounded jealous, angry. Had he not just tormented me for a whole night, bringing my body to excruciating fervor and bliss? Did he not hear me tell him that I loved him in the heat of passion, when he said nothing back? How could he possibly be jealous? I just couldn’t understand this man.
I didn’t answer, and instead couldn’t control myself, turning the tables. “Who’s Justine?”
He didn’t say anything and just looked guilty as hell. More forcefully, I asked again, “Who is Justine?
