Authors: Bebe Wilde
He licked all the way down my belly and then back up and to my mouth. We kissed again really slowly, letting ourselves come together in that moment, in that kiss. I grabbed at him, wanting his clothes off and soon they were and he was as naked as me. His cock was ready, big and hard. I wanted it, I wanted it so badly.
And then, finally, he did it. Finally, he was inside of me, filling me up, giving me an immeasurable amount of pleasure. He didn’t just fuck me, he gave me himself. He gave me everything he had and he had quite a bit. He was slamming into me but I kept up with his pace and soon I was coming again, but this time it was more intense and I began to howl with it, with the orgasm, the pent-up passion I’d stored away for so long. He did bring it out in me, he did give me mind-blowing pleasure and I wondered how I’d ever lived without it.
As I came, I grabbed onto his face and pulled his mouth to mine, sucking at it and his tongue. Then I felt him come, pumping into me, exploding with passion for me. Once he was finished, he fell on the bed beside me and breathed heavily.
That had been the most intense fuck of my life. I wanted more, too. I turned to stare at him and smiled.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “But when you recover, I’m ready for another round.”
* * * * *
“You’re a little bit submissive,” he told me one day.
“A little bit submissive?”
I asked, almost aghast.
“You are,” he replied, nodding slightly.
“I
am
?” I asked.
“Yes, you are, a little bit,” he replied, considering his words.
“A little bit submissive.”
I couldn’t really argue. He was right about that. Well, at least where he was concerned.
I’d never experienced anything quite like this before. However, while he was a wonderful man to have sex with, he was a hard man to love. I never knew quite where I stood with him. But then again, it could have just been me, as I had a problem with love and definitely with commitment.
His name was Roman.
He was slightly rugged looking.
Handsome.
Ice blue eyes.
Dark blonde hair he kept cut short, almost in a buzz cut. Sometimes he let his beard grow out for a few days so that it was rough against my skin and felt so good. When he didn’t shave he looked tough and so damned handsome it made me ache a little. I loved it when he grew his beard out as it made him look a little different, like someone else, someone more rugged and rough and tumble. But then he’d shave it again, returning to his sophisticated self and I loved that look too, that man who knew things, said intelligent things but still fucked like wild man he was.
He had a slight accent, French, though he’d lived in the United States since he was a teenager. He sometimes tasted of whiskey and tobacco, just the way a man should taste. He was just so masculine it drove me crazy. He read Kafka, if that tells a person anything. He was also successful,
very
successful, which is always an aphrodisiac.
He told me I was beautiful. He would touch my strawberry blonde hair, slide the back of his hand down my cheek and smile at me. He’d stare into my eyes, telling me he’d never seen such eyes, commenting on the color of green they were, talk about how different they were and how much he liked that. He loved my skin, the freckles on my chest and the ones on my nose. He liked the ivory tone of my skin, the fact that I couldn’t tan, that I burned like butter on toast if I was in the sun too long.
He loved my body, which he would comment on. He would tell me that it was perfect, that my proportions were absolutely exquisite. He said things like that, used adjectives like exquisite. He said them with his slight French accent, which was like a song, so sweet, so lovely to hear.
He was everything that I wanted and yet, I didn’t want him.
At first, anyway.
I didn’t want love. I was slightly afraid of it, slightly hesitant. Love, to me, was this big, gigantic, all-encompassing thing, almost like a black hole. I was holding back, sure I was. But he wouldn’t drag me into it. He’d do what he did best and see if there was a crack in my veneer. Then we could move on, if we were meant to move on.
With him I had gotten everything I’d wanted in a man, but I was still me with the same problems in the end, the same fears of losing myself in another. He had set me free. He had given me the push I needed to get through the pain and the pain became pleasure. I didn’t go looking for a lover. I went looking for myself. With him, I had finally found myself, if only I could let go. He wanted me to let go, I could tell that, but would I? Could I? Could I give myself over to someone else, someone like him? I didn’t know. I just wasn’t sure.
“Tell me about that bastard who broke your heart,” he said one day.
“What?” I asked.
“There was someone, wasn’t there?” he asked. “Who was he and what did he do?”
How did he know that? Yeah, there had been someone, a long time ago. Well, not so long ago. Well, there had been
that
someone, then
another
someone else before him. In my life, I’d loved two men who had each ripped my heart out and left me, both making me mistrust love, to be afraid of it.
The first man I loved I had met during my first year of college, before I had met my ex-husband, who had been my rebound several years after the fact. Yes, I was
that
guarded. And, well, it hadn’t worked out. He ultimately rejected me, which hurt.
A lot.
“He was my first love,” I said. “Well, first or second.”
“First or second?” he asked, staring into my eyes.
“First,” I said. “He was the first.”
“His name?”
“Adam,” I said and cleared my throat, thinking about it. It was odd to think about him now. He’d caused me so much pain but now when I thought of him, I didn’t feel any of it. It was like what we had never existed, or existed in a space of time I no longer connected to.
“Why didn’t he want you?”
His words sent a sting of embarrassment to my cheeks. Even so, I replied as honestly as I could, “Because I had sex with him too soon.”
“Men are like that sometimes,” he said.
I nodded. “Yeah, I know. And most of you are bastards.
And more than a little predictable.”
He studied me before replying, “Yes, we are and don’t ever forget that.”
“Does that mean you’re going to break my heart?” I asked.
“Why? Are you in love with me?”
“No,” I said, though I was, even if I wouldn’t admit it to him or anyone else, let alone myself. I pretended I didn’t love him, hoping that I didn’t. I said, just to make him laugh, “But I am in love with your cock.”
He laughed but then got serious. “You’re looking for something and I know that. When you get what you need, you’ll no longer want me. I know that you’ll leave soon and I won’t be part of your life after you do.”
“Don’t say that,” I said, feeling like crying.
“Why not?
It’s true.”
“It’s not true,” I said.
“So you’re not leaving?” he asked. “When the fun wears off you won’t go?”
“Will you?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I don’t like to think in such black and white terms—leaving or staying. I like to live in the now, to enjoy what I have. You, on the other hand, have to know. You have to make plans. I can see that; you’re a planner. You’re planning your escape right now. You will leave. I can’t do anything about that.”
I looked away. I didn’t know if I was leaving or not. I’d just put off thinking about it. I knew it was probably the right thing to do; someone like him was hard to pin down. However, I was having the time of my life with him, with this intense sexual relationship we were having. I wasn’t ready to screw it up just yet. I didn’t want to go back to my old life. I wanted to stay there forever with him but I was afraid. He was giving me what I needed but I was afraid that he’d take it away. I just wanted to run before he had a chance. I couldn’t suffer
another heartbreak
over this. I’d been through that pain before and it wasn’t something I wanted to experience again.
“You’ll know what to do when the time comes,” he said and touched my arm.
We stopped talking and soon he left. He never stayed the night. I never met him for dinner nor did we ever go out in public together.
Which was just as well.
We weren’t dating; we were fucking.
At least that’s what I told myself.
But before Roman, before our relationship, I was obsessed with something entirely different. I was absolutely obsessed with my career and “obsessed” is putting it mildly. I was
in love
with my career. It was my real love, my true love.
Unlike most young women, I didn’t come to Hollywood to be an actress. I went to be a real estate agent. Sure, sure, it wasn’t as glamorous as being a starlet, but it was never boring. Just the anticipation of a big sale was like nothing else. I’d be on a high for days, sometimes weeks, afterwards. It was better than sex. It was better than anything. It was my addiction.
My love of real estate started at an early age. It might have been because I grew up in a tiny, older home that never got any fresh paint or new furniture. I would ride the school bus and stare out at all the houses, wanting one for me and my family, wanting to see what they looked like on the inside, wanting to know what it felt like to live in such a place. The small, Southern town I grew up in was growing at a rapid rate and new houses were going up in record time. I longed to just to see inside of one or even buy one, if only I had the money.
Once I turned sixteen and could beg for my mom’s old station wagon, I got a job working fast
food,
saving every penny I could for a down payment on a first home.
That’s
how obsessed I was with real estate. While other girls shopped for prom dresses or the latest jeans, I went to open houses and scanned the classifieds for houses for sale, taking in how much square footage they had, how many baths,
bedrooms,
did the kitchen have new appliances? Was there any work to be done? What was the condition of the roof? An odd obsession for a young woman, but one I loved. I thought in time I, too, could be the proud owner of a new home.
Or an older home that was recently renovated.
I couldn’t help but tingle at the thought.
But I knew I couldn’t afford a house, not at that early of an age. However, one day I realized there actually was a way for me to see all those houses and make money doing it and that was by being a real estate agent. I longed to sell houses, to show them, to tell people about them. I longed to put one of those “for sale” signs in the front yards with my name up top, as the listing agent. It was all I thought about.
Me, Teagan Finney, real estate agent extraordinaire.
Let me show you around the place…
However, it didn’t quite work out like that. Once I graduated high school, my mother insisted that I go to college instead. And she insisted that I spend all the money I’d saved on my education. This
killed
me. I argued with her for months on end, begging her to just let me go to real estate school and become an agent but she said there was no money in that, that it wouldn’t work out, that I was too young and had to go to college and get a stable job making real money. We’d never had any of that. My father had left us years before and because she had no real job skills, my mom worked a low-paying factory job. My younger brother and I both worked jobs here and there and gave when we could to help out with the bills. She didn’t want that for me. She wanted me to have a good, solid job. I could see her point as far as college went, but at the same time, I knew I could make it big as a real estate agent.
Even so, after months of fighting, I gave in and enrolled in a college about an hour away from my hometown and majored in business. Mom helped me buy an older car, but I had to foot the payments. I also had to live in a dorm on campus, and buy all of my books and food, all of which I also paid for. It was so expensive I had to get two, sometimes three part-time jobs waiting tables, clerking at clothing stores, doing stuff like that just to keep my head above water. I worked around classes, on weekends, through holidays, anything I could do to get money. I never stopped working! It’s all I did. And then when I wasn’t doing that, I had to study and find time to do class projects.
It was hell.
After two years, I had used all of the money I’d saved and was taking out student loans, even though I worked several part-time jobs in addition to going to school full-time. Again, it was hell. One day I woke up and thought, “What am I doing here?” My college experience, to put it lightly, hadn’t exactly been fun, what with working so hard and having my heart broken by Adam, the asshole I’d fallen in love with and let use me. So, I didn’t know what I was doing. Spinning my wheels, perhaps? I knew I sure as hell wasn’t doing what I would have loved to do. I wasn’t in love with school nor was I in love the fact that if I kept going in debt for school, I’d never get out of it. And who knew if my business degree would even help me get a good paying job? The more time I spent in school, the more I realized that it was a complete gamble. My mother had been wrong.
It just didn’t make sense to continue, especially when this wasn’t what I wanted to do. So, I decided to quit. I didn’t tell myself that a big part of it was because I’d occasionally see Adam. But I did recognize the fact that he was a catalyst for me to quit school and, for that, I thanked him. Well, later on I did. I still hated his guts at that time.
So, without telling my mother, I quit school. I kept a few of my part-time jobs and saved every cent I could to go to real estate school, every cent, that is, that wasn’t paying for rent, gas or food. When I was able, at about age twenty-two, I had enough money and finally got my real estate license. And I loved it. I knew this was my thing. It was right in my wheelhouse, as the cliché says. I dove right in and never looked back.