Unfaithful (9 page)

She is pushed back into the soft velvety folds of the comforter. It is happening all so suddenly, movie on fast-forward, nothing choreographed. But that is what she is loving right now—this primal, instinctual way about him, the way he is presently silent, except for his grunts and erotic groans.

The room is semi-dark—the shades not shutting out all light and commotion from the street below. There are parallel patterns—streaks of light on the ceiling that ebb and flow—traffic racing along, even at this hour—close to 4:00
A
.
M
.

His hands are on her shirt, fondling her beneath the thin, almost translucent fabric. In seconds, it is bunched up her smooth torso, breasts heaving into view. His mouth attacks them first, still clad in the lace bra. He pulls the clasp apart, breaking it with a short grunt, palming both flesh and nipple with large hands, thrusting the meat into his hungry mouth.

She had been twirling a martini shaker in her hand earlier, this thing she does for patrons—for show—but this particular time, it came undone, sending Grey Goose and Puckers showering onto her right side, soaking the upper half of her tee. She hadn’t had time to change; hadn’t had a moment to even shower since they scrambled into her apartment like drunken lovers. He sucks at her now, tasting the mixture of dried perspiration and French vodka, gliding his tongue along the contours of each breast, circling her now rigid nipples.

This way to him is new—unexpected. He is an animal tonight—no longer in control, no longer refined. Tonight he is a beast, out of control, primal in his actions, taking her wares, not asking for permission, no longer wishing to converse.

Her jeans are peeled down, panties discarded like last week’s newspaper. Legs thrust wide, and then, God help her, it is all happening so damn fast. He is feasting on her with one bite, swallowing her sex into his wet, hot mouth.

Reese screams in pleasure. Her hips buck in time to his licks and his sinful swallows. He is consuming her now, feeding on her pussy with abandonment, taking her ring-sliced clit into his mouth, teasing at it with his teeth, pulling on the jewelry, distending the flesh…one side over to the other…fingering her insides while he works, tasting the juice that begins to flow like warm nectar. Reese is on fire, grabbing at his hair, neck, and shoulders, her fingernails digging into his skin, creating marks, no longer caring, wanting this man to satiate her like no other has.

There are few words between them.

She is screaming, grunting, and crying out. The room begins to spin; light lines etched into the ceiling becoming infinite figure eight patterns, and Reese pushes his head away. She knows she will come instantly with a single, feather-like touch. Understands she will gush…not wanting to come, not wanting it to end. Indecision, before she pulls him back down, telling him with her actions that it is okay, as if he has a choice, unleashing everything she has to give into his waiting abyss, pounding on his back as her pelvis bucks like a jackhammer…ass, limbs, toes, and eyes all twitching in the near darkness. He drinks her in, sucks her down willingly, smacking his lips noisily as her honey bastes his face and chin.

It is a sin the way he devours her.

She is loving life, and he loves her for this momentary digression.

The room slows down, ceases to spin. Reese has a sudden reprieve.

He backs away, fumbles in the near darkness with his belt and pants. She hears him, smells him ready. But she is unprepared when he comes back strong.

Sheathed, raring to go, he enters her fast and furious. Grabbing her ass with both hands, he pummels her sex, using long, thick strokes that send her into outer space. Reese is beyond pleasure. This joining is something she’s dreamed of but never achieved—hard to put into words or describe, the feeling simply out of this world—this animalistic, ritual joining.

He is groaning as he pounds her, lips attacking her mouth, teeth mashing against hers as they swallow each other’s tongues. He licks at her chin, chews on the stud in her nose, licks delicately at the flesh above her eye before taking it into his mouth and biting down gingerly.

Reese is smoldering. She is beyond fire.

He is a lightning rod.

He is a monsoon.

He is out of control, and she is lava. She is molten and can’t stand it, this feeling beyond so fucking good.

“Take me, daddy!” she yells, guttural talk that feeds his fury.

Her eyes lock onto his. Her legs splayed as wide as humanly possible, his thick manhood slamming in and out of her, a well-oiled piston, their rhythm rising to a feverish pitch.

“Fuck me…this shit is yours, daddy…oh God, this shit is yourrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrssssssssssssssssssssssss!”

He works harder. No let up, not even for a second.

“Yes, yes, yes, oh fuck, yessssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss!” she hisses, like water on a bonfire.

Then he is rising up on his forearms and toes, head jutted back, forehead studded with purplish veins as he comes, crying out, “Oh God!” His eyes squish shut as he orgasms into her, shuddering as the waves overtake him, his body rigid, then soft, yin then yang, melting over her, melting into her, flesh gliding to a stop as he puts his weight onto her. His hands reach gingerly for her breasts, slipping a nipple into his mouth, then kissing her sensually on the neck and cheek, settling his face into the warmth of her nuzzle, stuffing himself deep inside her cavern one last time so that he can wilt. Their heartbeats slowing, becoming one, no longer frenzied, no longer harried, until they both are thinking different thoughts that ebb and flow. Reese finally finds peace, serenity, comfort, and contented sleep in the arms of a new lover.

A single thought is conjured up as he stares at the parallel lines dancing above them, moments before he drifts off and finds nirvana—everything, every single thing that is bad, that has plagued him, is
inconsequential
.

Seemingly, it no longer matters.

Ryan smiles to no one but himself.

These things have no meaning, he muses, when one loses one’s self in the decadent flesh of another.

He watches her march down the steps from her cage, smartly dressed in a plum tweed, four-button suit, looking as fresh as a runway model. He glances away quickly, down to the cell he holds in his palm, staring at it and rubbing the brushed steel with a thumb as he considers his voice mail. He speed-dials, putting the phone to his ear.

“Three saved voice messages.”

Today is Wednesday.

Yesterday was Tuesday.

He was absent from work on Tuesday.

Slept in with Reese.

Just didn’t have the stamina or the desire to make it in to work after what they had shared.

Folks had been searching for him all day yesterday. He’d finally called Sharon early afternoon, saying he wasn’t feeling well and maybe he’d make it in the next day. Hung up before she could question him further.

“Three saved voice messages,” his cell reminds him.

Miles—all three.

“First voice mail message—sent yesterday at seven-forty
A
.
M
.,” the computerized voice says.

“Dude, okay, it’s me, Miles. You haven’t returned my call. If I were an insecure man, which I am assuredly not, I’d be worried right about now. (Laughs). Seriously, we need to talk. Your wife is still here at the house, so we should talk about that—and more importantly, we need to speak about us—you and me. So call a brother, okay?”

She is meandering through cube-space like a woman on a mission—head up, politician-smile, a purposeful gait to her step. A few employees speak, short back and forth banter. Olivia is polite, but she neither slows down nor changes her expression.

Worry lines spotted from afar.

“Second voice mail message—sent yesterday at six-eighteen
P
.
M
.”

“Ryan, it’s Miles. Please return my call. I need to talk to you; it’s important. I’ve left several messages, and I know you’ve received them. So please stop ignoring me. You and I need to talk…now. Holla back.”

She grips the handrail leading to his cage, takes the first step, head held high, her gaze locked in an upward direction.

His direction.

He feels his heart beating faster, blood pressure increasing, the pulse in his neck visibly and audibly up several notches. Thankfully, his cage is empty, save for him. For a moment, she has disappeared from view, but Ryan knows it is only for several agonizing seconds. Soon now, she will be rising into sight, like a submarine emerging into sunlight, breaking through the watery depths to float boat-like along the brilliant surface.

“Third voice mail message—sent today at eight-fourteen
A
.
M
. Marked urgent.”

“Dude—okay, kid gloves coming off. I’m surprised you have chosen not to return my calls. That’s fine, Ry. That’s your prerogative. The thing is, dude, I’ve been fronting for you regarding Carly. You and I both know it. She’s been asking a whole lot of questions, and guess what? I was gonna keep up the charade, for everyone’s sake, but now, I’m growing tired of your foul-ass mood. So you know what? Fuck it, Holmes. You don’t wanna call me back—fine, you’re a grown-ass man. Don’t call me back. But I hope you’re prepared for the consequences once Carly learns the truth. I suggest you get off that high horse and call me back. ASAP, brother…before things get ugly.”

Olivia rises into view. Ryan snaps the cell shut, exhaling loudly. She doesn’t knock, doesn’t wait for him to usher her in. She just waltzes in, as if his space is hers.

Perhaps it once was.

Their eyes lock. She closes the door softly behind her. Presses her back against the door as he waits for the tirade to unleash.

Curiously, it doesn’t come.

Olivia waits a moment.

The time passes slowly.

They stare each other down, neither willing to give up their position first.

Ryan leans back slightly, palms flat on the smooth surface of his desk as he exhales. Considers better times, not too long ago, when he waited with bated breath for Olivia to invade his space.

“Been a minute,” Olivia begins. She still has made no move from the door.

“It has.”

“I’d say you’re looking well, but that would be a lie. And I don’t lie to my best friends.”

She pauses, considers the absurdity of her statement before pressing on. “I mean, you’re stressed; anyone can see that—with everything that has happened—”

“Please, Olivia, spare me the niceties.”

She scrunches up a frown.

“Aren’t we in a good mood? Well, at least I know you aren’t getting laid, ’cause the bitch sure ain’t taking care of you with that foul-ass attitude.”

“Fuck you very much, Olivia,” he says.

She is ready to fire back a missile, but reconsiders.

“You know what, Ryan? You and I need to talk.” She moves to the sofa. “Okay if I sit?”

Ryan gives her a half nod. Says nothing.

“A lot has transpired in a relatively short period of time. I feel as if I’m responsible—feel as if things have gotten away from me…it’s like…like…a snowball…no, more like a freight train barreling out of control.”

Ryan no longer hears her words. He has focused on the imagery of the train’s brakes screeching, careening straight ahead, sparks hissing…and the ensuing drama behind the icon is haunting.

“Listen, Ryan, things began to spiral out of control after you and Miles talked. Not sure what went down, but that night when you didn’t come home, it went from bad to worse—”

“Have you asked Miles what really went down, Olivia?” Ryan asks forcefully, cutting her off as he rises from the desk. “Just curious if you have any idea what’s really going on here?”

“No…well…yeah, of course, I have. But you know Miles. He shares what he wants to share—holds the rest in—been that way as long as I’ve known him. So it ain’t gonna change now.”

“Well, not sure what else to say, then.”

Olivia stares at him incredulously.

“Please. Ryan, you can start with what
did
happen. Something went down. Let me in.”

Ryan is grinning as he shakes his head.

“Olivia, no. You wanna find out what’s going on? Wanna know who the true players are in this shit? Talk to your husband, not me!”

Olivia rises, goes to him until a mere twelve inches separate them.

“Bullshit, Ryan. You’re my best friend. In the past, there’s never been a problem between us. We could always converse about everything under the sun—our relationships, our spouses, our fears. That’s why we’re best of friends.”

“Not this time,” Ryan responds.

“What do you mean, ‘not this time’?”

Ryan merely shakes his head.

Olivia sucks in a breath and changes tactics.

“Okay—your wife, remember her? Carly hasn’t been home in three days. Does that fact bother you in any small way? Just wondering.”

“Hey, she walked out on me—not the other way around!”

“Ry, you sound like you’re in fucking high school—”

“Hey, you’re in my goddamn office, so watch your language!”

Olivia pauses for a split second.

“You got to be kidding me! Carly walked out on your sorry ass and all you can think about is the language I’m using? Nigga, you need Jesus or something strong right now.”

She shakes her head in defeat.

“Okay, cowboy, how long is this shit gonna last? How long, Ryan? How long are you going to let your testosterone control you? Hmmm? Think Carly’s just gonna sit back and wait patiently for her hubby to come around?”

Ryan is silent, considering her words.

“How long, Ryan? I mean, for God’s sake—she’s with
child
!”

“Olivia, I did not walk out on her.” The words are whispered low.

“No, but you didn’t come home, and then you blatantly lied about lunching with a client. Stupid-ass mistake. Real stupid, Ryan. Whatever you’re doing, whomever you’re doing it
with…
and I hope to God that is
not
what is going on here…you need to curb your habit and come correct. Now. Before it’s too late. I’m telling you this as your friend.”

Ryan goes to the wall opposite his desk to glance out the window. Olivia watches him silently. For a moment, neither speaks. Olivia feels a breakthrough coming. So she sits, leaning back into the comfortable folds of the leather couch, using the reprieve to take deep, silent breaths. This shit is killing her—Carly around her constantly not making it any easier. The guilt is like a cancer threatening to slow roast Olivia to death.

Ryan turns and fixes his eyes on her. His forthcoming words are low and steady.

“And, Olivia, let me tell
you
this as your friend—things aren’t what they seem. So before you go casting the first stone, make sure your
own
house is in order.”

Olivia is taken aback. She is momentarily frozen in place.

“What does that mean?” she spits, volume rising.

“Ask your husband,” Ryan responds, before grabbing his suit jacket off the back of his chair and exiting his cage, leaving Olivia to contemplate his barbed words alone.