Impulses (8 page)
Soon, the volume behind my groans and beseeching whimpers begin increasing with every expertly executed flick of his tongue. My toes curl and I fist my hands into his hair holding him against me. My hips gyrate as he sucks on the swelling bead of nerve endings.
Abruptly halting his sweet, agonizing torture, he pulls away from me, leaving me to suffer the effects of my denied release as he brushes his right hand over his mouth and chin, drying himself of my juices.
“Please, Hayden,” I plead with thwarted eyes, my muscles clenching. The drawing, aching sensation throughout my sex heightens to an unbearable level.
He rises and shields my body with his. His flesh scorching to the touch, I vaguely discern a slight sheen coating him. If he would feed me strawberries every day for the rest of my life looking like this, then I would die a very happy woman. He seals his mouth over mine, his tongue invading ruthlessly offering a taste of the sweet creaminess of my arousal.
Positioning himself against me, he enters me in one swift thrust––filling and stretching me with his magnificent, considerable length. Being physically possessed by him, the most intimate part of his body buried inside mine…it’s mind-blowing.
Pleasurable cries grow, our hips collide; our breathing harsh and erratic.
Every thrust Hayden executes, I meet, raising my hips against him, feeling him pound against me, working his body against mine, filling me, satisfying me in the manner that I have craved and envisioned for far too long.
He frees my breast from the cup of my bra, and brushes his thumb pad against my erect nipple. Sparks generate from the peak and shoot down to my clit causing my muscles to tighten lusciously and I call out incoherently. His hand soon descends to my hip bone. Fingertips dig into me in urgency and the sensation is both pained yet heartily thrilling. His drives become more vigorous and his tempo escalates.
I wrap my arms around him, my hands placed firmly on his shoulder blades before they slide down to explore every strained, working muscle and sinew in his back as he forces into me like a mad man. I embed my nails into his flesh, silently pleading and clutching at him for some inscrutable reason.
I bound my legs high around his waist and I feel his cock skim along my swelling, sensitive clit as he propels into me at some glorious angle, and its sensation overload, feeling every muscle amongst my body tense and squeeze as I near my release.
“Don’t stop…don’t stop––” I desperately plead.
Mr. Wentworth’s right arm still propped up on the arm of the couch, every muscle and sinew of his arm visible under the strain of his weight as I concede to what my body has been building up for. I convulse uncontrollably beneath his weight, beneath his God-like body, moaning incoherently.
One final thrust and he stills, burying his head into the crook of my neck as he comes deep inside me, muttering my name in between our rasping breaths.
HAYDEN
Oh, my, God––that was incredible.
I remain hovering above Samantha. Her legs remain wrapped unrestricted around my waist. I take a moment to appreciate the feel our bodies joined together as our harsh breathing and erratic heartbeats slowly begin to regulate. Her walls pulsate around me, the clamminess of her chest under me. Being this close, this intimate…I already know it’s something that I wish to maintain.
I pull my head away from the crook of her neck, and study her profile. Her eyes are closed, as she takes deep meaningful breaths and exhales through pursed lips. I wish I could find something to say, but at this precise moment, all I can think about is making her writhe once more beneath me––to have her explode around me again.
Reluctantly releasing my grip on her hip, I raise my left hand and sweep away the hair which is affixing down the side of her face and over her lower lip. With satisfied and appreciative eyes, I take the opportunity of this calming moment to absorb her features. Lightly trailing the back of my knuckles down her cheek, my mouth gradually curves into a placated smile that reaches my eyes, feeling content and tranquil as I bathe in our afterglow.
Samantha’s eyes spring open as I––with distinct tenderness––brush my knuckles along her features. The passion and desire that was reflected at me only a while ago, now evaporated along with the moisture smothering our bodies. She no longer looks up at me with hungry, pleading, blue eyes full of need, and longing, but with detached, impassive, stony eyes.
It’s unnerving.
Samantha pulls her head away from my touch, and unhooks her legs from around my body. Her hands find my shoulders as she pushes me away from her body, pushing me off her.
Um…hello, what is wrong with this situation
?
What is happening? Why is she being like this? Was that not good for her? Was I not good? My subconscious rolls his eyes at me in an ‘
Oh, please’
sort of way. I pull out of her, leaving the warm, plush feel of the most intimate part of her body and push myself up from the couch.
In an unnerving silence Samantha repositions herself on the sofa and adjusts her bra nonchalantly. With widening eyes she scans the room for her clothing, looking like a timid animal out of its habitat. She makes her way swiftly to the reception desk to fetch her blouse. Only the hollow noise of her peep-toe heels reverberates as she strides across the flooring.
My heart accelerates. The unyielding consternation causes my legs to tremble. I feel myself vibrate internally as the result of the awkward silence hanging over us, dense and stifling.
What have I done?
Mirroring her silence, I follow behind her taciturn state and recover my attire. “Well, that was…interesting,” I mutter, omitting my angst-ridden soul in an attempt to maintain my poise. Her callous approach after what was initiated feeds my insecurities and provides a bottomless void for my self-conscious. Wanting to conceal my body as quickly as possible, I hastily begin to button my shirt.
I pull my focus away from the material sheathing my upper body, and look up at Samantha. She’s already dressed, looking heedless and blasé by what just happened––what we did, what we gave in to. She’s rummaging through her black holdall purse on the desk; the desk that only thirty minutes ago she was the writhing upon, and now…she is a completely indifferent person.
Maybe you weren’t good enough for her, maybe she faked it, it wouldn’t be the first time,
the gaunt, pale, black greasy haired, dark eyed man that is my paranoia insinuates as he stares at me menacingly, his back and shoulders hunched.
“Sam…was that…” I hesitate, embarrassed by the question that I need to ask to dismiss myself from this disturbing thought. “…okay for you?” I wince, nervous of what answer is going to pass her lips.
Unperturbed and direct, she begins, “We have been waiting for that to happen for the last two weeks. It was frustrating and very challenging trying to suppress what we obviously craved.” A complacent grin spans across her face. “Yes, Mr Wentworth, it was very pleasurable. But like I stated…” she glares at me like I am from Mars, or have three heads. My stomach churns as I listen to her clear, shaping tone. “Lust, passion and desire can all be overcome when the thirst is quenched, when the hunger is fed…when you have had what you crave, what I am trying to say is––” she grins disdainfully, and it’s a blatant, unwarranted reminder of my past. “Now it is done and we are slaked, there is no need for a repeat performance. We can move on.” She shrugs.
I feel my heart constrict. I don’t do this. Lust is not a reason why I have sex with somebody. I need to have deeper ties with the person––a spark––and I feel that around Samantha. The effect that she has on me…for the love of God, I have told her this…why is she saying this? Why is she doing this? I feel anger leaching into my wounds and a flare of insignificance follows.
I hang my head humiliated, and begin to feel tears pool in my eyes. I have been used? She has exploited me? You would think after the things I’ve tolerated, degradation would be something I could rise above. But the similarities between Samantha and
Her
are uncanny, and it weighs my heart and spears through my soul. I can’t look at her, not after this.
“Do you need a ride home?” I drone, my voice cracking through the lump in my throat. I stand frozen to my spot looking vacantly at the flooring.
“No, thank you. I will be fine.” She grabs her purse, and starts to round my body. She halts at my side.
Composing myself, I raise my head to look at her. She reaches up and places a brusque kiss against my left cheek. “Thank you, for umm––well––thank you.” She looks pleased, grateful even, as though I have just provided her with a free service and now she can be on her merry way. And she struts out of the double frosted glass doors, leaving me totally bemused, and feeling entirely used.
I peruse my surroundings: the desk, the back wall…the couch. As I recreate in my mind’s eye the happenings that we fulfilled, I feel the side of my mouth twitch, surrendering to a transitory moment of relief and contentment. But my thoughts betray me, and my blissful, satisfying slideshow becomes a collage of expressions, unspoken words, and impassive body language that Samantha exuded. The smile falls from my face just as quickly as it materialized, leaving me to battle with the apprehensiveness and concern as to where our exploits now leave our repute.
Rocking methodically on my heels, my hands in my pants pockets, I glance up at the black and silver wall clock behind the desk. 6:45 p.m. I turn on my heel and make my way down the corridor to my office to fetch my belongings; I need to get out of here…now.
Readying myself to leave, I stand alongside the couch in the reception area.
Inspecting my surroundings once more, my stomach somersaults as the concoction of memories and emotions engulf my mind, rotating around like a carousel, but not merely as much fun. I flick the light switch so darkness governs the spacious room, taking me with it, and I recall the dark places that I have withstood––most of them I still withstand, but the thought of Samantha…I shake my head dubiously.
With her in my life, by my side, I have that residual bit of hope that I can conquer my demons and the Hell that my head compels me to relive, day-after-day, night-after-night. I need her––I want her…I just wish the feeling was mutual.
Leaving the office in darkness, I adjust my eyes to the bright lights of the foyer, and punch the ‘call’ button of the elevator. With a calming softness I run my fingers of my right hand across my lips as I wait patiently for it to ascend to the twenty-first floor. Closing my eyes, I recall her touch, her taste. The intensity of the sounds she created in my mouth, our bodies mingling together, wrapping around each other like vines around a dilapidated building, welcoming the stimulation our bodies both gave and received.
Well, at least that was mutual.
A part of me pleads and hopes that Samantha still remains in the building, so I can asks her questions that I should have asked before she absconded.
Why so distant after being so intimate?
I take a deep breath and release it, allowing my exasperation to travel along the warmth of my exhalation. Into the vacant elevator I step, permitting the walls to encase me and my vicious, savage thoughts as I make my lonely descent to the underground parking lot.
Examining my reflection keenly against the back wall of the elevator, I inspect my face piece by piece, where Samantha’s hands and lips had lingered, my lips, my jawline. I attempt to resolve my unspoken equation.
I was loved once…
that is debatable.
Well, I believed I was. I was hurt, in more ways than one. I hit rock bottom––diminished and devalued, losing my sense of self until only a shell was left in my place. I battle every day to move on; to evade reliving the pain, humility, failings, and the deception. However, involuntary thoughts invade my mind, manipulating me and tear me apart as it seizes the foundation that I have tried to rebuild––my stepping stones to lead me to the possible chance of having a future and sharing my life with someone, if I can only get passed…everything.
Samantha’s company––her presence––it has blown some of the dust away from my deeply embedded sentiments. She is gradually restoring parts that I have lost, that I have forsaken.
What does this mean? Why her? Why now? Why has she acted this way?
SIX
---------------------
SAMANTHA
The darkness of the Fillmore Point parking lot is deluging, mirroring how I feel; reprehensible and alone. Alas, no matter how hard I try to keep myself from being consumed by the grasp of darkness, I always manage to fuck things up, and suffer the bleak aftermath in the lugubrious part of my psyche. Turning off the ignition of my pale blue Honda, I slump back into my seat, and attempt to put things into perspective.
Unlike any of the others, the element of repression that I have endured as I strived not to act upon my impulses with, Mr. Wentworth has made the encounter more impressive. I feel my lips twitch fractionally. I feel appeased as my frustrations no longer obstruct my every thought. Although, the mere comprehension of the illicit feat we assisted each other in sends my body into an electrifying frenzy.
Still? What happened to ‘quench the thirst and you’ll be fine’?
I gaze down at my hands, my fingers stirring, writhing one by one as I visualize the gentle weaving motion his fingers made between mine and his soft, moist lips pressing against me. It was everything that I have wanted to experience with him and more.
Crossing my arms over the steering wheel, I rest my head against my forearms.
Oh, what have I done?
I’m ashamed of the weakness that I have bared tonight, and devastation filters through the swelling of guilt, which forms a weighty sphere in my stomach when I realize; I have just marred this incredible, handsome man with my fucked-up ways of coping. He doesn’t deserve this.
Why didn’t I listen to, Jessie? How the Hell am I going to dig myself out of this hole?
A
hole…more like a bloody chasm you mean
, my subconscious chides while cleaning the lenses of her designer glasses.