Bedding Down, A Collection of Winter Erotica (14 page)

Read Bedding Down, A Collection of Winter Erotica Online

Authors: Rachel Krame Bussel

tasy only because she’d thought I was going to pour hot wax

on Roger. The thought of my beau in pain gave her intense

pleasure. “I’ve never seen you spend so much energy on one man

before,” Carolyn said. “And he’s not even that handsome.” She

looked meaningfully over at Jeremiah. “I mean, he doesn’t hold

a candle to Jeremiah.”

Candles. She had to say candles. I shut my eyes for a moment

and swallowed hard. How would that wax feel? Would I be able

to stand the sensation without crying out? Maybe crying out

would be the best part. I thought of the fat candle flame dipping low. I thought of Jeremiah telling me that if I didn’t hold still he would have to tie me down.

“Looks aren’t that important to me,” I said finally, admiring

Jeremiah’s body in that tight-fitting ocean-blue T-shirt, in spite of myself. When he bent over to get something from a low shelf, I had to suck in my breath. “Roger’s got brains.”

“But they’re all in his ass,” Carolyn sniffed, as I savored

Jeremiah’s sweet rear in his form-fitting Levis. “He doesn’t

appreciate you, Michelle. Remember the feathers?” Carolyn

demanded.

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“This is different. I’ve got leaves. Autumn leaves in different colors.”

“You imported leaves?”

“I cut them from paper.”

“How many?”

I didn’t want to tell her. It had taken me weeks. Sitting in

front of the TV late at night, watching reality shows while

I traced and cut colored-paper leaves to spread around our

room. This was my penance for fantasizing about Jeremiah.

Each paper leaf was a way to show Roger that my heart was all

his own.

I’d bought woodsy-scented candles to light around the room.

I’d bought satin sheets that were the brilliant hue of gold-flecked autumn leaves. My new comforter had maple leaves stamped all

over it. We would make love in this fantasy fall, and Roger would see, he would finally see how beautiful California could be.

“California?” Carolyn asked. “Why do you want him to love

California? It’s like you’re applying for a job with the tourist board of Southern Cal.”

“I want him to love me
and
California,” I shrugged. “We sort of go together.”

I didn’t confess the most important part. Roger would look

into my eyes and see everything that I wanted him to do to me.

He would touch me softly through my panties before slipping

them down my thighs. He would press his lips to my naked

split and drink from me. He would take over from Jeremiah in

my fantasies, pushing the bartender-cum-actor back behind the

counter where he belonged.

Guilt had made me giddy.

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Unable to stop myself from running with a theme, I bought a

coppery-colored negligee. I wore stockings that had gold fibers woven through the sinuous sheer fabric. And I lit every single

candle I owned, placing them strategically around the room—

on windowsills, coffee table, shelves, the floor.

Roger arrived a little past nine, in his normal dour mood. He

tossed his flannel shirt onto the sofa. “I heard
Sweet November
is on,” he said, not sparing me a glance.

Was it my imagination, or did Roger have rancid taste in

movies?

“This way,” I instructed, beckoning him.

He clicked the remote, but nothing happened. I’d thought

ahead and removed the batteries. “Pretend it’s a power out-

age,” I told him. “Like the ones when you were little, when the wind blew down a line. Pretend we lit the candles because there weren’t any lights.”

Roger sniffed. “What’s that smell?”

“I baked an apple pie,” I told him, continuing to lead him

down the hall to the bedroom. He seemed amiable for once, and

interested, but he was still sniffing.

When we got to the bedroom, he reacted immediately, but

not exactly as I’d hoped. “You set the place on fire!”

I stamped out the solitary smoldering leaf. “It got too close

to the candles, I guess.” I was hoping he would be able to look beyond, to see the rest of what I’d done, but Roger appeared

incensed at my carelessness rather than wooed by my creativity.

I couldn’t give up, though, and so I snuggled against him.

“I’m not in the mood for sex, Shelly,” he said with a tone of

bleak finality in his voice. “We could have gone up in flames.”

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“I’d rather have you light my fire,” I murmured, pointing to

the flat-screen TV on the wall. I’d bought a special disc featuring an ever-burning fire in a marble fireplace, but Roger was

gone, back to watch movies on his computer—fall-flavored fic-

tion, while I was left to sweep up the leaves.

Sighing, I clicked the remote, changing the fire on the flat-

screen TV to a tropical fish scene. I wondered what Jeremiah

Cooper looked like in a bathing suit.

Winter

Then it was winter. Again. But this winter brought me a brand-

new misery of my own. And the misery came directly from the

weather. I’d finally taken Carolyn’s advice and broken up with

Roger. But because everything in L.A. reminded me of him and

my attempts to turn him into a converted Californian, I’d ap-

plied for a new job in New York. I was weather girl on a cable

station, an upgrade from my previous early-morning position,

but a downgrade in the lifestyle I had become accustomed to.

Snow had always looked so postcard pretty to me. Now that

I had to slush through the white wetness, I saw the dirt, the grit, the way city snow only remained pure for an hour or two before

real life came in and destroyed the crisp white blanket.

Soot. Slush. Salt. Sand.

My expensive leather boots were trashed the very first day, my

jackets soiled, and my bikinis languished—untouchable. Un-

worn. “You can’t wear a bathing suit in New York in Decem-

ber,” Roger had told me, and he’d been right.

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How had this happened? I had wound up in Roger’s Winter

Wonderland, without Roger. He was still hating life in South-

ern California, without me. Neither one of us could change

the weather. His sitcom had been canceled, but he’d landed

another gig, had taken over the lease on my apartment by the

beach. He was in my own paradise, and I was trapped in the

snow.

And was that
sand
in the hall? Had some imbecile dragged in sand off the street?

I was thinking dark storm-cloud thoughts like these when I

entered the hallway of my building, hat still pulled down nearly to my chin, striped muffler wrapped past my nose, gloves on,

trench coat, no skin showing. I felt as if I were being smothered by my own clothes, and I could never get rid of the chill in

my bones, no matter how many layers I piled on. Miserably, I

worked my key in the hole, stamping my feet to get warm, sur-

prised when the door opened from within.

Fear sprang inside of me. I’d been taught never to enter an

apartment with the door opened. But it had been locked seconds

before. Someone had opened the door from inside. Confusion

took over, and I blinked rapidly, not sure that what I was seeing wasn’t some sort of mirage. Because there in my living room stood Jeremiah Cooper.

In a Speedo.

The furniture—what little I’d had time to buy—had disap-

peared. The whole floor was covered in pure white, ultrafine

powdery sand. Heaters stood glowing red in every corner, and a

beautiful aqua terry-cloth bath sheet was spread under a lovely paper parasol. One wall had been covered in a photo mural of

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the Santa Monica Pier—carousel and all—sunset breaking over

the water.

I blinked and looked at Jeremiah, in his neon-blue flip-flops,

pushing Wayfarers to the top of his head, long blond hair spilling to his broad shoulders, tan as gingerbread all over. A chill ran down my spine.

Was I dreaming? I had to be. Maybe I’d slipped on the ice

and hit my head. Maybe I’d wake up under a snowdrift and have

to claw my way to the surface, creating my very own scene from

Alive
.

“Are you cold?”

I shook my head. “No,” I said, realizing suddenly as I said

the word that I was the opposite. “I’m hot.” I started to peel

off my clothes, the scarf, hat, gloves. Next came the Michelin

Man–style jacket, so puffy I felt as if I couldn’t breathe right when I was zipped into it. My mind was trying desperately to

make sense of the nonsensical scene, even as I felt the warmth of the heaters surround me. “How did you . . . ?” I started, working on my sweater, then turtleneck. “I mean, how could you

know . . .”

“Carolyn.”

We said the word together, and I shook my head, still in a

daze. Was this just one more of my multiple fantasies? The ones I’d harbored guiltily for more than a year? Couldn’t be. The heat was so real on my face, and when I finally stripped off my cashmere socks, I could feel the warm sand beneath my bare feet.

“When she told me how much you missed California, I

thought I’d bring California to you.”

I remembered the feathers I’d spread for Roger. Rose petals

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in the spring. The cutout paper leaves in the fall. I thought about the DVD of the everlasting fire, the time I dressed head to toe in winter gear in spite of the 99-degree temperature. Thought

about the fancy tin of water chestnuts.

“But how?”

He grinned at me and took a step closer. He was watching me

carefully, those mesmerizing green eyes never leaving my face. “I used to eavesdrop while you told Carolyn about your boyfriend,

the idiot.”

“Roger.”

“Whatever.”

He was right next to me then, tilting my face up to his. “And

I would imagine what it would be like to have a woman as sweet

as you setting up those scenes for me. Dressing up in winter gear so I could unwrap her layer by layer. Spreading paper leaves all over our bed in the fall.”

“I set them on fire,” I confessed.

He just laughed. “I had this image of playing with candles,”

he told me, eyes bright. “Of tilting one of those candles over

you, so that the little drops of wax would drip slowly . . .”

I shivered again.

“You sure you’re not cold?”

“No,” I told him, nearly breathless. I was so wet. Could he

sense that? “I’m hot. I’m really hot.”

“So when Carolyn came by one night and told me you were

lonely, that you missed California, well, the news couldn’t have come at a better time. Because I landed a spot on a soap. Recurring. So . . .”

“You’re here?” I asked. “To stay?”

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“If you’ll have me.”

The words weren’t out of his mouth before I was in motion,

pushing him onto the towel. Kissing him all over. His mouth,

his neck, his chest. I worked my way down until I had my lips

pressed to his vibrant blue Speedo. He was rock-hard under the

filmy fabric, making a line I could easily trace with my tongue, mouth with my lips. I made a wet spot on the fabric, leaving

lipstick kisses all over that shiny blue before pulling the flimsy bit of nylon down his muscular thighs. Oh, sweet Jesus, he was

hard, so damn hard. Finally, I pressed my mouth to him, tasted

his warm skin, like summertime, like Santa Monica beach. Like

everything I missed about California.

Jeremiah let me devour him for a moment, seemingly shocked

by the overwhelming force of my response. But happily so.

Then he began to move his hands on my own body, stroking me

smoothly, running his fingertips over the line of my collarbone, spreading his fingers wide to slip down my flat belly.

“You’re so pretty,” he breathed, a heavenly sight. “I knew you

were. I mean, I always thought so. But naked, God. You’re stun-

ning.” His words melted over me, like water drips from an icicle, and I pressed my body even more closely to his. I wanted to seal myself to him, to be one with him. Jeremiah wanted the same

thing.

He gripped me by the hips, slid me up and then down, slowly

on top of his cock, as if taking me for a ride.

A ride I never wanted to end.

Each fantasy I’d had for the past twelve months seemed to

flash through my mind in fast motion. And then a voice inside

my head said, “It’s not a fantasy, it’s real.”

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As real as Jeremiah’s cock inside of me, thrusting hard, fill-

ing me up. As real as Jeremiah flipping me onto my back, using

his hands on my wrists, pulling my arms over my head, hold-