The Sun and the Moon (Giving You ... #1) (15 page)

"You're totally right." I felt contrite. "I'm an asshole. I don't deserve you."

"Stop it." He took a deep breath, let it out, and looked down at me. "First fight, huh? Well, I wasn't expecting tonight to be one for a fight." He gave me an ironic smile.

"That makes two of us," I muttered. "So what do we do now?"

"I just want to be with you. I couldn't give a rat's ass what happens downstairs. I can make excuses if I need to."

"Do you have to give a speech?"

He looked away. "Yeah."

"Fuck. When?"

"Not until after dinner. Look, you're more important. Are you ready to go back down? Do you need to chill here for a while? Do you need me to fuck you?"

"Door number three," I whispered.

"Yeah, me too," he whispered back. And then a change came over him, and he went into Ryan-Alpha-hot-guy-in-control mode. "Come on. I don't want to mess up your hair too much, it's too pretty, so we're going to do this this way."  Now that I looked around, I was in the most incredible hotel room I'd ever been in. A luxury suite, tastefully decorated in soothing beiges and modern furniture, with more rooms than I could see. "Keep those sexy as fuck shoes on. I'm going to bend you over the bed, and fuck the bitch-snob out of you. Deal?"  I nodded.  "I need to hear you say it."

"Deal" I said, more strongly. "Make me forget that I ever thought less of you."

We went into one of the bedrooms—there were two!—and he pressed me into the bed, breasts crushed against the mattress, ass in the air, still fully clothed.

"I'm going to mess you up a little bit, but not too much. You're just too hot, your gorgeous ass in this dress. I had to fight getting hard, seeing you." He lifted up the skirt of my dress, way up over my hips and waist, and put his face on my lower back, kissing me softly. Then he hooked his fingers in both sides of my panties and put his teeth on the waistband of my panties, peeling them slowly off of me with his fingers and his teeth, his nose trailing down my lower back, my butt crack, and between my legs, as I stepped out of them. I looked back, and he had shrugged out of his tuxedo jacket, and flung it on an armchair.

He knelt between my legs, pushing them way apart, and licked his way up my leg, pausing to suck on the back of my knee, and then traced his tongue up my inner thigh to my pussy.

So now I was calling it "my pussy." Progress.

My ass up in the air, his face between my cheeks, he began to lick and suck my pussy in his dominant, giving, way. He fondled my butt then slipped a finger into my pussy, as he licked my clit, my legs spread wide, my face pushed into the bed.  This was what I needed.

"Oh, fuck yes.
Yes
."

He built me up quickly, my sensitive nerve endings singing as he licked and caressed me with his tongue and fingered me with expertise.

It built.

It built some more.

It built even more.

Sensations, pleasure, feeling, tension, and more pleasure, all built, centered on the activity of his tongue, that man between my legs.

Then I came, a full and complete release of all the tension, all the crap, all of my mistakes, my scream muffled by the bedspread. I released my ignorance, my bitchiness, and my colossal error in judgment about this awesome guy.

In a flash, he had unbuttoned his tuxedo pants, lowered his zipper, adjusted his boxers, and released his cock, rolling a condom on.

Yes.

Quickly, he filled me up from behind with his huge cock. This time, he didn't wait for me to get used to the size of him within me, just started thrusting as I came down from my orgasm. As was my custom with Ryan, I lost the ability to process rational thought. All I was doing was feeling. I was in the moment, feeling pleasure, feeling the delicious pain of him hitting me up at my womb (or wherever in my body the tip of his penis hit), feeling him go in and out, in and out. I was glorying in the connection with this amazing man.

"Oh, fuck me, you are so wet. This is so hot. You are so goddamned beautiful, I'm going to come so hard." He kept up a kind of muttered dirty diatribe, as he thrust and thrust into me.

This was fucking, no question about it. Rutting. He was not making love to me. Even though we were in a classy place, partially dressed in classy clothes, this was baser stuff. He got me off, and now he was getting off.

But the thing was, I loved it. It was a monumental connection with him. I turned him on, he turned me on, but we also were creating something new here. His hands were braced against the bed, fucking me thoroughly, without apology.  Even though he wasn't stimulating my clit, I could feel an orgasm coming.

Fucking hell.

I had never, never, never had an orgasm through penetrative sex alone. I’d never come without someone, or me, stimulating my clit on the outside.

But something about Ryan hitting the inside walls of my pussy, there's that word again, must have really hit the right spot, because I started to convulse again.  This time my orgasm was sweeter, more surprising, and more intense than ever before. Ever, in my life. It was a different feeling, a different sort of orgasm, more natural and organic, unforced, and overwhelming. With every quick, hard thrust of his cock, he stimulated the right spot.  Boy, it was like he hit a trigger on a reaction that I never knew I could have.

I came. Again. Just by his cock stimulating the right spot.

This time I completely came apart, uninhibited. I screamed, I clenched the sheets and released them, my arms and legs were completely useless, and I felt amazing.

Ryan thrust a few more times and, his dick impossibly huge within me, he shuddered.  I actually felt the warmth of his cum within the condom. He collapsed on my back, breathing hard. I was breathing hard too.

We just lay there for a while, our breathing strained, until it eventually regulated. He pulled my hair out of the way, nuzzled my neck, and said hoarsely, "Wow."

"Yeah. Wow. I think you fucked not only the snob out of me, but also the bitch, and you may have even exorcised the princess too."

"I like the princess," he said against my neck. "The snob and the bitch, eh, I'm fine with, but if you wanted an exorcism of them via fucking, I'm happy to have been the one to do it."

He pulled out of me and pushed up, pulling off the condom and heading into the bathroom.  "Be right back."

I shoved my face in the bedspread, and took a deep breath. I couldn't move, but I sure felt better.  

Stuck in the Middle with You

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER,
we left the suite to rejoin the charity dinner downstairs. We both looked a little flushed, me more than Ryan, but we were mostly put back together. I certainly felt calmer. Ryan held my hand lightly.

The seaside Bacara resort was beautiful, with Moorish style architecture and expansive grounds, an indoor-outdoor facility, comfortable year round. We walked to the ballroom for the reception and checked in at the table outside the room, receiving our table assignments:
Mr. Fielding and Ms. Crowley, Table 1.
Of course, we were at the first table in the front of the room, in the middle. The table of honor.

I didn't know how many people were there. Hundreds? A lot. Everyone was dressed up and holding elegant drink glasses, chatting, listening to music, and bidding on a silent auction. Apparently we had not missed the event entirely with our interlude.

We made our way through the crowd to get to our assigned table, so that I could set down my purse, and I learned that we were seated with the key note speaker, a prominent oncologist, and the President of the Fielding Pharmaceuticals Foundation, along with their families.

Ryan held my seat out for me, and I took it.  Then he pushed it in for me. Now I knew why he had such elegant manners; he was used to it.

"Would you like a drink?"

I nodded. "White wine."

"Okay," he said, "I'll be back."

He headed to the bar, through the crowd. Although there were people milling around everywhere, because, as I now knew, he was a local celebrity, the crowd parted, and people stared at him everywhere he went. The reaction of the crowd was not just because of his height, his masculine beauty, and the grace of his lean, muscular body. He had a presence. Yes, he was tall and handsome, but he also had a magnetism that made people want to look at him. They got out of his way.

A few people stopped him on his way to the bar to shake his hand, and he was genial and friendly. I watched him as he waited in line for our drinks.

While I waited, I looked at the program for the dinner. I almost gasped when I learned that this was a $2,500-a-plate dinner.

Yes. I was way out of my league.

I turned around and looked at who was around me. There were lots of people, mostly older, chatting and enjoying themselves. Right behind me, at the adjacent table, sat a group of four women, all stunning supermodel types, who were talking loudly among themselves and watching people cattily. They were all wearing barely-there dresses, with major jewelry and designer heels, sipping wine. Since it was California, they were uniformly blonde, tan, and leggy. Ugh. Save me from the Botox. I wondered about their dates and whether they had escaped just in time.

Then I heard one of them mention Ryan's name.

"He called me a few months ago," Blonde Number One said. "I didn't call him back. I probably should have, but I didn't want to be too available for him."

Blonde Number Two, without lowering her voice, said, "I can't believe Ryan brought that fat woman as his date. I wonder if he has any standards anymore."

I reddened. This was not happening. This was not happening. Bitches. I did not understand the need for women—especially genetically gifted women—to bring other women down.

Just ignore them, I told myself.  Their opinion didn’t matter.  No one could make you feel inferior without your consent. Yeah, I was resorting to Eleanor Roosevelt.

"She looked old enough to be his mother."

Oh, for fuck's sake.

Blonde Number Three giggled, a hard, ugly giggle. "He probably used his 'I'm a sensualist' line on her." She continued, in a low, sexy imitation of a male voice, "'I'll show you pleasure and we'll experience the sensations of just being.' Or some shit like that. He's such a whore. Didn't he cheat on you too, Tiffany?"

For the second time that night, I was hit in the solar plexus. Was Ryan not sincere with me? Was his pleasure-sensualist-feeling bullshit just a line that he used on everyone?

And cheating?  No.  Not with me.

It felt so real, everything with him. He seemed so sincere.  

But was I in denial?  It fucking hurt to feel like just another one of his conquests. I mean, I figured he had experience, but to be faced with it, live and in person? This was a nightmare, and not the type that I could wake up from.

Despite the fact that I knew that I shouldn't go there, I shouldn't let them in, I shouldn't give their evil comments any validity, I went there. My thoughts dove straight to hell.

He could have anyone he wanted. Why would he need to cheat?  Was he going to cheat on me?  He knew my secrets. Was he going to use them against me?  Was I going to get hurt worse than I already was?

So what should I do? I had already freaked out on him once tonight. He solved that with a very expensive fuck. Should I confront him about this? Should I just ignore it and let it go?

My brain, already the source of my depression and problems, started slipping into its old pattern of numbing things out.  I tried to talk rationally to myself. Perhaps I was getting ahead of myself. We had not talked about our relationship, whatever it is. We had not agreed to be exclusive. We had not formalized anything. There was just his "you're with me" command in the hallway at Southwinds.

Had he ever taken any of them there?

Toxic thoughts, Amelia.

And then my thoughts went worse. Had he cooked for them? Knelt before them, worshiping them?  Woke up with them?

I waited, quiet at the table, for Ryan to get back with my wine. I saw him waiting in an extremely long line and I wanted him back because I was so uncomfortable in my thoughts, and feeling very alone.

And then I saw him.

My ex, Jonathan.

This was the date from hell, no fault of mine, no fault of Ryan.

Shit, fuck, shit.

I needed to leave and I was trapped, at the front of a crowded ballroom, with bitches to the side of me and my rat bastard ex-husband by the doors.  And I'd apparently been brought here by someone with quite a line.

I couldn't help but hum the song, "Stuck in the Middle with You."  But I wasn't sure if I had Ryan at my side. I wasn't sure of anything.  

Fuck.

Then, with my sick sense of humor, I remembered. That song was used in Quentin Tarantino's violent classic movie,
Reservoir Dogs
, when one of the characters was getting his ear cut off.  It occurred to me that getting my ear cut off might be less painful than feeling what I was feeling at that time.

The depressive, dangerous, and suicidal thoughts bubbled up for the first time in weeks. This was what I got for letting myself feel, for letting myself be vulnerable and open: nothing but pain.  Darkness.  Dark thoughts.  Fuck, not this again.