Blur Me (2 page)

“Come here,” he said. “Stand right in front of me for a sec.” She didn't bother asking why. She just knew that the invitation to stand closer to him was something that had awakened a welling up of longing inside her, like a deep ocean current rising with its sustenance.

What's happening here? What about journalistic objectivity? How am I supposed to write an article when I have a crush on my subject?

She did as he asked and stood in front of him. His hands fell on her shoulders gently, and she felt his thumbs work their way into the muscles just below her neck. She exhaled deeply and closed her eyes. Her heart leapt inside her and started to beat faster.

You haven't known Liam more than five minutes, and already you imagine that he's clutching you close to him in the dark, his naked body pressed against yours, feeling the rising and falling of his chest against your tits.
She felt the heat spread throughout her body, reaching its fingers between her legs.

“You were tense, Melissa. I know this isn't par for the course for an interview, but you looked like you needed it.” His hands kept massaging her neck, unwinding the knotted fibers one by one, with a deliberate tenderness.

“Thanks,” she said. “Maybe it was more of a scare than I cared to admit.” She felt like a marionette in his hands, as though he could make her do anything with just a single movement of a finger. This was the most sublime sensation she had felt in a long time. A
long
time.

As she stood in front of him, she could hardly believe that the hands she felt working firmly in the muscles of her upper back belonged to Liam Sims.
The
Liam Sims. She wouldn't be able to tell anyone about this. But if she wrote the article, and somehow, someone found out that she'd had a less than professional relationship with him...well, that wouldn't look too good either.

You're getting ahead of yourself Melissa. This is just a friendly touch. These rock stars can be that way, don't you remember? They don't think about boundaries the same way normal people do. Boundaries. Do you even care about those anymore yourself?

She became aware of her clit, aching to be touched, and suddenly realized that her pussy felt
empty
. Her face flushed again.

“Melissa, I need to tell you something,” he said. He stopped massaging her neck for a moment and she froze. She was afraid that –

There's always something. That would be my luck with guys, wouldn't it? The good ones always seem to be taken by the time I talk to them. Watch him say he just got married. But if he did, where's the ring? It could have been an engagement...

Stop Melissa! You're just getting ahead of yourself. It could be nothing. Or this might all come to an abrupt halt right now, the spell broken, the magic gone.

She felt him closer now, his breath near her ear. “You're the most sexy journalist I've ever had the pleasure to invite into my home,” he whispered.

How is this still real?
She felt herself laughing and blushing at the same time. He was close to her now. She wished...she wished he would lean in and –

If he kissed me right now, if I felt a kiss underneath my ear, there is no way I'd be able to write about our interview. No one would believe a word I'd written because they'd catch on to the infatuation of the starry-eyed girl who'd written the article after the very first paragraph. How am I going to get out of this one? Am I going to have to choose, between him or my reputation as a writer?

His lips met her neck, leaving a gentle kiss underneath her right ear. She closed her eyes and exhaled, and she felt as though her life had suddenly come into focus. She
could
let herself have this. She'd caught a glimpse of her own mortality during her terrifying airplane ride, and she knew that she'd never regret taking another chance.

She felt her nipples strain against her shirt. And then he pulled her close against him, his hard-on pressing through his jeans and against the exquisite curve of her ass. The ache in her clit pulsed, craving touch.
His
touch. Her imagination started to race ahead in anticipation.

Will I feel his fingers, those same fingers that delight millions when he plays a guitar, dancing on my pussy, just for me? Will I feel him slide a finger, maybe two, against my wet slit? Maybe inside me?

She let out a quiet moan.

He planted another delicate kiss on her neck, this one just a bit lower than the last one. She reflexively leaned her head toward his lips. They tickled her neck, shot jolts of electric current through her nervous system that made her draw in a breath. His hands were pulling her in toward him by her hips. She looked down and could see the muscles and veins in his forearms, defined and solid. That was what you got when you'd spent 20 years making the world rock from a stage with a guitar and a tall Marshall stack.

Where do things go from here? If this were one of his songs, we'd be at the opening riff. And if I listen, I can feel the pulse of his song. It's in the pounding of my heart. The rhythmic flow of blood through my body. The throbbing of his cock, straining against clothing, pushing against my skirt, pushing against my ass.

“Is this something you want Melissa? It might be hard to do an interview after this,” he said softly. He kissed her neck again, and she could smell him. A clean smell mixed with the salt of the sea.

“I don't really know what I want,” she said. “Except that I don't want to miss anything. Not anymore.” She felt as though this was where she was
supposed
to be. Her back seemed to fit so neatly against his torso, as though, if you froze them both into marble statues at that very moment, you'd remark that they were familiar lovers.

I'm supposed to be going along with this. I know I am. And my career at the magazine, well –

She felt herself turning. He led her in a lazy pirouette, until they were face to face. She studied him in one of those long, time suspended moments that only lovers and people facing death seem to find. Kind eyes looked back at her. Into her. How was it that you could meet someone, a stranger, and connect as though all of your pieces had been made to fit together?

I want him. I want him so.

Her desire grew, its flames licking at her from within. She felt her pussy become slick like the roads after a summer rain. And her clit – at that moment it was alive, a bird high up on a wire looking down on the possibilities of a morning field. Vibrating with possibility.

She was glad that he didn't want to talk right now. They were past needing to speak. His lips moved to hers. She felt his tongue enter her mouth and begin its hungry dance with her own. His beard scratched her chin as he tasted her. She couldn't open her eyes, didn't want to. To be lost in a field of sensation, that was all she needed then. Her sense of self, that separate entity that was Melissa Palmer, was dissolving in his presence, a nirvana at once empty and full.

Something about that makes no sense. But I guess none of this makes any sense does it? I was just expecting to interview some big ego music prick and go on my merry way, not get bowled over by a force of nature and shaken to my very core.

His hands moved down to her chest. She felt them slide up against her tits, pressing firmly, squeezing, feeling her through her cashmere sweater. She took a small step backward. Her legs began to lose their ability to support her. 

“This way,” he whispered, taking her by the hand. “You're beautiful in the sunlight.”

He led her to the couch in his living room, in front of a bay window overlooking the Falmouth harbor. The brightness dazzled her when she looked outward, toward the sailboats and the islands and the bright blue reflection of the sky in the water.

She felt her breath as she sat down. Shallow and fast. Her face felt hot and flushed. Between her legs, all she felt was a growing
need
, its flames getting hotter.

He sat next to her, and again, those eyes! Deep brown. Searching her. And, as incomprehensible as it might seem, knowing her. When she looked into them she felt the lust of a long lost lover, reunited.
And the funny thing is, we hadn't ever met before today. Now look at us.

Liam reached tenderly for her face and took off her glasses. He placed them gently on the coffee table and brushed aside a lock of dark hair that had fallen in front of her face.

Is it possible to find the sweetness of first love again? Because before today I didn't think it was. But now...I'm not so sure it's a one-shot deal. What's happening here, between us?

(surrender)

Surrender. I'm surrendering my heart to him, right now. Opening it up because sometimes you just know. You do. The universe, fate, whatever it is you believe in – it sets these things up and gives you a chance, and when you open your eyes you just know.

I know.

He smiled at her. That warm smile that made her feel safe with him, made her want to be with him in this moment and for every moment that followed. Of course that was crazy. They could never be together. It would never work. She was a writer. He was a writer too, in a way. But he had obligations. Concerts in Europe and recording sessions in L.A. and television appearances and adoring fans, and he could probably have any woman he wanted, anytime. He was Liam Sims, for crying out loud!

But maybe it isn't so crazy to surrender to him now. He's the most beautiful, the most honest and true and beautiful man I've ever been alone with.

(trust him)

“You're thinking too much,” he said quietly. She watched his lips as he spoke.

“I know. It's one of my faults.” She looked down for a moment then met his gaze again. Another rush of feeling shot through her, setting her mind and desire spinning.

His hands, those strong and skilled hands, carefully undid the buttons of his flannel shirt. He threw it on the coffee table next to them. She looked at his naked torso with both lust and the admiration of an art student. She knew he'd been a lifelong surfer as well as a legendary rock star. The ocean's waters had been kind to him. At the age of 46, he had a torso sculpted not out of vanity but of love for the ocean. There was a difference there. A matter of authenticity.

The only photo she'd ever seen of him with his shirt off had been taken at a show in Vancouver 15 years ago, his eyes closed, both knees touching the stage, the mic close to his lips. He was as magnificent now as he was in that picture. Although the photograph had been silent, she remembers imagining that the sound bellowing up from inside him must have filled that stadium
. Filled it until it was ready to burst, because this is a man who knows that love both creates and destroys.

And now, this afternoon, I belong to him. All of me.

He looked into her eyes again and kissed her. She felt the roughness of his face, wondering if he was real. If the moment was real.

Did my commuter flight from JFK to Portland actually go down? Could this all just be some fantastic hallucination as I leave my body behind?
She felt the beating of her heart in her chest and the warmth of his breath. It
had
to be real.

“
I'm still alive,” she said, almost laughing as she tasted his mouth and nibbled on his lower lip.

“You're very much alive, Melissa. And I've got something for you. Just lie back and close your eyes.” His voice was deep and comforting.

She reclined on the soft cushions of the couch and closed her eyes, seeing the brightness of the sunlight against her eyelids.

(he's coming closer)

She felt a warm hand against the inside of her knee, gently parting her legs. Her clit begged for his touch. He was so
close
now. She felt a tickle from his hair as he moved his head between her legs, angling toward her sensitive flesh, kissing the soft skin of her inner thighs as he moved. And then –

(my god I'm so wet)

a feeling of holding her breath, her pussy still empty. She felt his hand push up her skirt until the only barrier between the two of them was the pair of thin black panties she had put on that morning. She inhaled deeply as he pulled them aside with two fingers.