Conflicting Hearts (9 page)

“Kiss me.” I invite him with a sassy expression.

He looks surprised over my request. A small, sexy smile
brightens his face. My body goes limp when as I see him coming toward my lips.
I don’t know whether it’s the coffee, the fire, or the storm outside, but
something ignites between the two of us.

The tongue that’s been hiding bursts forth with a thrust
into my mouth that turns me hotter than the embers in the fireplace. If he
keeps this up, I’m going to lose it.

I soon discover he’s a freaking good kisser, once he gets
going and loosens up. Beside his tongue, which thrusts deep into my mouth, he
has a way of sucking my lower lip that drives me nuts. It’s such a turn on,
that I’m aching.

One of his warm hands finds my bare leg underneath the robe
and slips up and down my inner thigh, stroking me tenderly. I moan over his
touch. All I can think of is his long fingers and where I’d love to feel them
in the next few minutes. It doesn’t take but another moment for the red flags
to start waving between the two of us yelling “warning, warning, warning.”

Suddenly, he stops sucking my mouth, and lets me come up for
a breath of air. I realize that I’m desperately clutching him and panting.

“God, Rachel, this isn’t good,” he puffs, out of breath. I
can’t help but notice the erection looming in his sweat pants.

“What’s not good?” I ask innocently, looking at him like I
don’t know what is going on.

“I told you that I wouldn’t take advantage of you, but all I
want to do is strip that robe off and devour you here and now. It’s too soon.”

He stands up and runs his fingers through his hair, and then
turns back and looks at me. I know it’s too soon. If we start this trip down
sex lane, there’s no turning back. We’ve been together what, three times? Of
course, what does that matter to me? In three months, I could be his wife—if I
had my way. Besides, I’m easy, and I know it.

“You want to do this?” I can see in his eyes that he wants
to. Of course he does, he’s a man
.
I hesitate. He looks at me. My body
is wet and aching as I imagine every muscle underneath that damn, tight tee
shirt he’s got on. Indiscreetly, I wonder how big the joy stick is in his
pants.

Then it hits me. “I… I…” Words are escaping my brain. I look
at him square in the eye and blurt out my confession. “Ian, I haven’t had
sexual relations with a man for over five years. I’m so starved for affection
and touch that I don’t know if I can say no to your offer.” I don’t want him to
think I’m a slut, but it’s the truth—I’m ravenous inside.

He stands there staring at me. I know he’s contemplating the
cost.
Make the decision for me!
I scream in my heart.
I’ll do whatever
you say. Just tell me.

“It’s been a while for me too, Rachel.”

“If I say yes, you won’t think less of me, will you?” Fear
fills my eyes.

“God, no,” he says, flashing me an adoring look of desire.

Next I know, he grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet. I
don’t even have time to think about anything else, because I’m climbing the
stairs to his loft. I’m suddenly lost in raw manhood and female desire. The
robe is gone before I know it, his hands are all over me, and his tongue is in
my mouth.

“I’m not on any birth control,” I urgently tell him.

“That’s okay, I’m prepared.”

He starts in on me again, and all I can do is moan like a
fool over the feeling of being touched again. I want to cry. I want to laugh. I
want to faint. Every emotion courses through my body as he relentlessly feels
my flesh. My breasts are captivated by his touch, and my mouth is filled with
his sweet taste.

I’m so overwhelmed that I keep my eyes tightly shut. A few
moments pass, and I realize he’s stripping off his clothes. I hear the rustle
of a condom packet, and then he’s back at it, exploring my body.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers into my ear.

He unhooks my bra, shimmies down my panties, and then pulls
me against his naked and warm flesh. My knees buckle beneath me, and he holds
me upright.

“No woman should go without tenderness and touch for that
long, Rachel,” he says, as he gently lays me upon the bed.

He touches me quickly with his fingers and discovers I’m wet
and waiting. I’m lost in craving, and my mind flows to dark places. The door to
my imagination is flung open, and then I’m consumed with visions of Ian.

He’s so hungry, that he quickly parts my legs and slowly
slips his penis inside of me. I gasp at being stretched by a man when I’ve been
closed and unwanted for so long. It’s overpowering, and I start to whimper.

“Rachel,” he says, stopping. “Am I hurting you?”

I shake my head. “It feels wonderful.”

He begins his slow progression of love making. It’s sweet,
too sweet. Inside my mind I beg him,
Ian, hurt me. I want you to hurt me.
Please.
It’s what I truly want, not sweet, but rough, painful, and wild
sex.

The demons of my mind pull me behind the dark door.
Ask
him to hurt you. Beg him to hurt you
, they tell me.
Imagine him hurting
you
, they growl. Ian keeps tenderly trying to bring me to an orgasm, and I
know he’s at the brink. I want one so bad, but I can’t do it—not like this!

“It’s okay, Ian, go ahead.”

He knows what I mean, and suddenly he bursts inside of my
body. I lie underneath him and leave my dark desires behind in the closet and
close the door.

Tearfully, I explain my lies. “I’m sorry that I couldn’t…” I
don’t want him to feel like a failure.

He pulls himself out of me. “Hey, open your eyes and look at
me,” he says sweetly. I do. “Is there something I can do to help you?”

“No,” I say. “It’s not you, Ian. It’s me because it’s been
too long since I’ve done this.”

He looks devastated, as if he’s taken advantage of me and
given me nothing in return. “It’s okay, really,” I say, touching the side of
his face with the palm of my hand. All the while I know I can’t tell him why.
Not now. Not like this. Maybe never. I’ll do what I always do. I’ll go home,
fondle myself, and come in the darkness of my desires that I’m too ashamed to
share with another human being.

Chapter 8

Penitence Gone Wrong

When I arrive at work on Monday morning, I’m reminded of
Ian. My poor roses are slowly dying, and I can’t help but wonder if this
flash-fire introduction with the law man is about to suffer a quick death. It’s
time to throw them out, because the petals are falling and making a mess on my
desk.

I pick up the vase and walk to the employee lounge, where
the large, green compost container resides. I open the lid, pull out the dead
flowers, and drop them into the bottom. It saddens me, so I retain one dead
rose and decide to press it between the pages of a book when I get home. After
I wash the vase out, I take it back to my desk. I’m not about to leave a
crystal vase underneath the sink for someone else’s enjoyment.

Feeling in the dumps, I plop on my chair and turn on the
computer. With my letter opener in hand, I start slitting the morning mail open
and reliving the weekend in my mind. I have much to think about, because the
last two days have, for the most part, been a heavenly whirlwind. I reposition
my butt, because I’m embarrassed to admit that I’m actually sore from my
previous night’s activities. Five years of no sex definitely made it a bit
uncomfortable.

Our drive home from Cannon Beach turned out to be pretty
quiet. I think we were both in shock after our unexpected romp on top of the
satin comforter. Ian looked mortified, and I didn’t know how to console the
poor man. His ego was either suffering from not being able to bring me to an
orgasm, or he was sorry he lost it and dragged me to the loft.

To be honest, I was glad that he did. My slut in the closet
has no moral compass anyway, so I felt no guilt over letting him in my pants.
Of course, I predicted he wanted in there all along, and then encouraged him to
enter. As fast as he did me, it was obvious he hadn’t had any in a while
either. I wasn’t surprised he shot it off so fast and left me hanging.

As I think about it, a smile spreads across my face just
remembering the heat of his embrace and that I actually had sex. The dark door
in my mind, where all of my secrets are kept, flies open and fear stares me in
the face. I’m in no mood to be taunted, so I imagine banging the door in the
demon’s face and focusing upon work.

My computer boots up, and I quickly check my personal email
and social page. It’s my usual morning routine of cheating on company hours by
using the Internet. Mr. Stewart doesn’t get in until eight thirty, so it gives
me a half hour to fool around unnoticed. I enter and see I have mail. I scrunch
my nose afraid to look who it’s from. As soon as I click it, Ian’s name pops
up.

I was right. He’s sorry, mortified, filled with remorse for
taking advantage of me when he said he wouldn’t. The guy has a conscience like
none other. It amazes me that the mold for a decent man hasn’t been thrown away
after all. Unfortunately, it doesn’t get used enough.

After reading the doleful, remorseful email over and over, I
don’t know what to say. He’s probably staring at his page even now. I note the
time he sent it—three o’clock in the morning. “Poor soul,” I say aloud. I hope
he didn’t lose any sleep over it.

Perhaps I should console him. What I really should do is to
tell him to walk away from me, because I’ve got a hell of a lot of baggage he
knows nothing about. Then my mind drifts to fantasyland, and I see us living
together happily ever after.
Yeah, sure,
I chide myself. I click on
reply
and type a quick note.

“Nothing to forgive, Ian. I’m a grown woman, and I could
have said no.”

Boy, was that a flat-out lie. When did I last say no? There
hasn’t been a time since I was five years old. The truth slaps me in the face
hard enough to sting my eyes with tears.
You’re such slut,
I chide
myself.

I tap my fingers across the keyboard trying to think of what
to say next. “I had a wonderful time this weekend. Let’s not spoil it with
remorse.” I hit
send
and exit.
I’ve got to leave this behind, because my emotions are in my throat. People are
arriving at work, filling up their cubicles, and life goes on as it always
does—in pain.

The day progresses as usual, and I try to fill my mind with
work rather than with Ian. It’s hard to do, because at three o’clock I get
another call from reception about a delivery. Instantly, my gut tells me that
it’s not an envelope from a courier.

I hesitantly get up from my desk, walk toward reception, and
slowly lift my eyes to the top of the counter. There it is, another huge
bouquet of flowers—this time pink carnations. He’s figured out my favorite
girly color. This guy is serious, or he’s just an apologetic sod who can’t get
over his failures.

“Looks like your admirer is at it again,” Melanie grins. Her
face is filled with jealousy. I take the card, and sure enough it’s from Ian.

“Thanks for the great weekend, sweets. Next time, I’ll
control myself.”

All I can do is shake my head. The problem is he’s ignited
the hunger in me for him, and I’ll never let him control himself. I can see the
red caution signs ahead. Hopefully, my emotional ambulance is on alert.

When I get back from my desk, I grab my cell and walk over
into the employee lounge. I’ve got to get his number in my speed dial, because
trying to push the right ones doesn’t work when my hands shake. It rings, and I
hear his velvet voice.

“Ian Richards.”

“What are you doing?” I question him with a tight jaw.

“Uh, talking to you?”

“No, the flowers. You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yeah, I did. Made me feel better. It’s my penance for
taking advantage of you when I said that I wouldn’t. Also, I wanted to let you
know how much I still like you the morning after.”

Someone walks by, and I lower my voice to a whisper. “You
made me feel wonderful yesterday, Ian. You don’t need to buy me flowers.”

“I didn’t make you
feel
wonderful enough,” he says,
with his voice laced in distress.

“Get over it,
sweets.”
I enunciate his little
endearment. “I thoroughly enjoyed the moment.”

He doesn’t say anything, and the end of the line goes deadly
quiet. For a moment, I think we’ve been disconnected. Then I hear him sigh and
whisper into the receiver. “Next time, it will be better. I promise.”

Now the cat has got my tongue. I don’t know what to say. A
myriad of emotions are buzzing about my head like angry bees.

“I’ve got to go. My boss wants me. Talk to you later.”

“Rachel…”

I hear his voice, but I end the call. I’m sick inside over
the anticipation of next time. The poor man thinks he can’t perform, and it’s
me who is unable to respond. He’ll never get an orgasm out of me with his
tenderness, and the idea of how I’d ever be able to tell him that I need more,
frightens me to death.

* * * *

Home sweet apartment greets me at five o’clock, along with
my purring cat. I haven’t heard any more from Ian, and frankly, I’m glad. I
need a break from the roller coaster of emotions spiraling around and around in
my brain. I’m exhausted just thinking about it.

I put a high-calorie frozen dinner into the microwave and
hit start. There’s an old bottle of wine in the fridge, and I need a drink, but
it’s pill time again in a few hours. Alcohol and purple don’t mix.

After dinner, I stare at the telephone and suddenly wish
he’d call. Maybe he thinks I don’t want to talk to him after my abrupt hang up
this afternoon. I sigh and chew on my fingernail. Then I remember, he works
late—that’s it. There’s no reason to worry.

I plop down on my recliner, and Whiskers jumps on my lap.
Suddenly, there’s a knock at my door.
Gosh darn it!
I complain. It’s
probably some solicitor who I’ll ignore. I peek out the hole, and there is Ian
looking straight ahead.
Oh, crap, and I’m in my PJ’s!

I wrinkle my nose and open the door a crack and peer around
the edge. “Ian, this is a surprise.” He’s in a gray suit, white shirt, black
tie, and my legs go weak.

“Can I come in?” He sounds like a little boy asking for a
candy bar.

“If you promise not to laugh at my attire, you may enter.” I
swing open the door and expose myself clad in my black tank top and my flannel
bottoms with pink kitty-cats. He bursts out laughing.

“You rascal!” I scold him, grabbing his arm and pulling him
inside. God, he looks yummy. He smells divine. He’s so pretty. He’s fooled
around with me. He’s everything, and I’m nothing.

 “What are you doing here?”

“Had to see you.”

I stare at him until my heart jumps in my throat. The next I
know, my mouth is on his, and I’m swallowing him whole. Ian doesn’t fight it;
he relents to my advances. Already my body aches, and I don’t want him to be
tender. I need him to be rough. How can I tell him? I’m so afraid to expose my
desires. Finally, I let go.

“Rachel!” He gulps. “God, woman, you’re going to get us into
trouble again.”

I don’t care. Swiftly, I take my hands and lift my tank top
off my head and expose my breasts to him. His mouth drops open, and I announce
my desires. “I want you.”

 “Are you sure about this?” His eyes focus on my boobs,
where I want them to be.

Take me, don’t ask me
, my mind screams. I’m the rabid
nymphomaniac once again, and it’s his fault. For years, I’ve done nothing but
play with myself. Now here he is, in all his glory. He can fondle me all he
wants, if I can teach him how.

He stands there gawking at my breasts. Eventfully, his eyes
lift to mine. He’s hesitating, and I feel naked—really naked—the kind of
in-the-garden-of-Eden-naked, and I grab my top from the floor.

“Gosh, I don’t know what came over me. Sorry.” I pull the
top back over my head and cover myself. He looks conflicted as hell, and I
don’t blame him. Even I’m shocked by my behavior.

“You want to come in and sit down?” I ask, walking over to
the couch. I turn and step away, and he grabs my upper arm.

“I’ve never felt like this with anyone so fast, Rachel. It’s
crazy.” His hand tightens on my arm. “And disconcerting.”

His eyes are blazing with desire. I do have an influence on
him, and I’m ecstatic. However, his body language tells me he’s also hesitant
and afraid of where this is going. So am I.

“I know it’s crazy. I’m as scared as you, maybe even more
so, Ian. There’s so much about me that you don’t know.

“I don’t care.”

“I care.”

“We’ll cross those bridges when we come to them. Okay?”

We gaze at each other with heated longing. He places his
hands upon my kitty-cat rear. The next I know, he’s pulled me into his hard
erection. I close my eyes fighting the love-hate feeling that’s flowing through
my veins. My head tilts back, and I look at his lips that swoop down upon mine.
His tongue thrusts into my mouth, and his hands knead my behind. His erection
grows, and I’m at his mercy.

“Ian.” I moan. I take his hand and slip it under my tank top
and press it against my breast. He fondles me with tenderness, and the
disappointment flows through me like ice. Ian lifts my tank top over my head,
and I’m bared to him once again. His action sends shivers down my spine. I want
him to devour me like an animal.

“This suit has got to go,” he says, taking off his jacket.
He lays it on a nearby chair. I reach up and undo his tie, because it’s
enticing. He unbuttons his vest and shirt, and the next I know he’s down to a
white tee shirt.

My hands start fiddling with his belt, and I pull it through
the loops and drop it to the floor. He kicks off his shoes, and the only thing
that remains are his pants—all pressed and pretty for work, and they are about
to be tossed aside.

“Nice suit,” I say, looking at his bare chest. My hands rove
over his flesh, and he knows exactly what I mean. “Did you bring a condom?”
It’s important to check for safety measures before getting too excited.

“Yeah, in my wallet.”

He grabs his pants and pulls out the protection, laying it
on the nearby table. If this keeps up, I’m going back on the pill so I can get
the full feel of this guy, because condoms are a bore.

“Undress me,” I beg him. He discards his trousers and the
rest of his clothes until he’s naked. I see his erection, and I can’t look at
it. I never can. It brings back memories.
You’re pathetic
.
Yes, I
know I’m pathetic
,
I acknowledge to my inner tormentor.

Ian pulls down my bottoms, and I step out. Now I’m nude.
Where are we going next? Couch sex? Recliner sex? Wall sex? Kitchen tabletop
sex? Floor sex? My mind runs rife with exciting possibilities.

“Is your bedroom down the hall?”

It’s bedroom sex in the dark?
Boring
, I think to
myself as I lead him onward, passing all the fun places he could do me. He
doesn’t flip on the light, and I’m not surprised. Ian enters his tender, sexual
prowess mode. Inside I’m screaming for more—I need more. As he begins a repeat
performance of the night before, I begin to wonder if I should fake it for his
sake. Maybe I just need to encourage him, and I do.

“Ian, touch me with your fingers, please.”

He knows what I mean. His hand slides up my inner thigh and
anticipation flows through my veins.
Oh, god yes, please,
I wait in
anticipation. He fondles me but doesn’t penetrate. Maybe he thinks only his
penis belongs there. I don’t know, but I want his hand. I want him inside of me
and forcefully pushing me to the brink of ecstasy. He doesn’t.

Suddenly, he stops, as if he’s done his duty. He positions
himself on top of me and starts to make love—tender, sweet, suffocating love.
Slowly he pushes in and out, and I hear him moan. He wants me to moan, but I
can’t respond. I can’t feel anything. I’ve never had an orgasm during
intercourse—never. This isn’t what I want or need.