The Escort Next Door (2 page)

Drunk

I
t was me that had to drive home, after Paul
consumed another three glasses of wine and a small Scotch and soda. The journey
was reasonably short and was passed in mostly silence. I tried to draw him into
conversation, commenting on how nice it was to see them again and how happy
they both seemed. However, all I received was a grunt of agreement or
indifference – it was hard to tell which, perhaps it was a bit of both.

When we got home, he immediately headed upstairs. Leaving me
to thank and pay the sitter. After showing her out and watching at the door to
make sure she got to her car okay, I made my own way up the stairs. Turning
left on the landing, I tiptoed down the hallway, checking on each of the
children before finally retracing my steps and wandering into our bedroom.

Paul was sitting in the high-backed, antique chair in the
corner. He was leaning back, his legs spread casually wide and swaying
slightly. One elbow was perched on the mahogany arm of the chair, his head
dropped against his fist. With drooping eyelids, he looked at me.

“Becky is worried she’s done something to upset you,” I
muttered, tossing my purse on the dressing table and kicking my three-inch
heels off.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because you walked right past her and didn’t say a word,” I
explained frustrated that it was necessary for me to do so.

His head suddenly straightening, he leaned forward, resting
both arms on his knees. “Come over here,” he said, his voice rumbling deeply in
his chest.

I turned to face him, my hand reaching for one of the oak
poles at the foot of our four-poster bed. “Did you hear what I said?” I asked
wearily, perching my free hand on my hip.

“Yeah, yeah,” he replied dismissively, his fingers grabbing
the loose knot of his tie and pulling it free. He left it hanging around his
neck and unclasped a button on his shirt which revealed some of the silky
smooth skin of his chest. “Now, get over here,” he repeated, cocking his head.

“Paul,” I sighed. “I like her, she’s great with the kids and
she’s always been very accommodating when we’ve needed her at the last minute.
I don’t want to lose her.”

He rolled his heavy eyes as dramatically as his sluggish
movements would allow. “Don’t you think you’re overreacting,” he muttered.

“What I think,” I replied tartly, “is that you were
incredibly rude.”

“She’s the hired help,” he scoffed. “I don’t have to be nice
to her, I pay her.”

Exhaling slowly, I realized I was getting nowhere fast and
the conversation was bringing out a side of him that I found intensely
unattractive. Releasing my hold on the bed, I swiveled on the ball of my feet
and headed toward our en suite bathroom. I didn’t get more than two steps
before Paul objected.

“Hey, where are you going?”

“Getting ready for bed,” I tossed over my shoulder, not
bothering to turn around.

He must have been capable of moving much more quickly that I
would have expected, because as I got to the door, his hand darted over my
shoulder and slapped flat down on the hard wood.

Exasperated, I turned to face him. “What are you doing?”

“I don’t want to fight about the stupid babysitter,” he
said, his voice pitched soft and a little lower than usual, while his eyes
attempted to focus on me.

“Paul,” I sighed, placing my hands on his chest and pushing
gently.

“What?” he asked, his chocolaty gaze moving from my face and
taking a leisurely trip down the length of my body.

If it hadn’t been obvious before, what he wanted was very
clear to me by that point. Something about the way he looked at me caused a
dozen butterflies to flutter wildly in my stomach. However, another sensation,
a much more stubborn one, refused to let me give into that feeling. “You don’t
get any sex any more, remember?” I snapped. “That’s what happens when you have
kids, right?”

His eyebrows moved wearily in their surprise. “What the hell
are you talkin’ about?” he said, louder than I think he’d intended but unable
to control his volume.

Shoving a little harder at his chest, I coaxed him back a
half-step. “You know what I’m talking about,” I replied, brusquely. “Have you
any idea how embarrassing that was for me?”

Paul kept his hand on the door and refused to budge any
further. “For Christ’s sake,” he muttered under his breath, before shaking his
head incredulously. “That was just a joke. Come on, Ben and Linda knew I was
only messing around.”

“It’s not just a joke though, is it?” I quickly replied.
“When was the last time we made love?”

My question was met with silence, while his eyes searched
the ceiling and his mind trawled his memory. “I don’t know,” he eventually
huffed. “It’s been a while. We’ve both been busy. And when we’re not busy,
we’re having stupid arguments like this one.”

“So, it’s my fault?” I defensively blurted.

“That’s not what I said,” he insisted. “Why do you always
twist my words?” His volume crept up another notch as he slammed his palm
against the still closed bathroom door.

“Shhh,” I quickly hissed. “You’ll wake the kids.”

Exhaling heavily through his nose, he was quiet for a few
moments. When he spoke again, it was in deliberately muted tones. “Why are we
doing this?”

I couldn’t be sure whether the question was being asked of
me or my breasts, and I waited for his bleary eyes to find mine once more. “I
think,” I sighed, my head rocking back and resting against the door. “I think,
we’re both a little stressed and tired. It’s a rough patch,” I added. That
final phrase was spoken with more confidence than I felt in it. In truth, it
was a hope that I’d been clinging to. As the weeks and months dragged on, the
‘patch’ got bigger and bigger. I was beginning to wonder if things would ever
improve.

His Adam’s apple jumped as he swallowed. “All I’ve been
thinking about over the last hour is getting you back here and ripping your
clothes off,” he said, the fingers of his free hand suddenly snaking over my
hip.

“That’s because you’re drunk,” I informed him, allowing him
to tug my lower half to him. My hips met his with a slight bump and I felt the
warm swell of his groin pressed against my belly.  The evening had been far
from romantic. I didn’t particularly want to make love with him right then. It
was clear to all but the blind that alcohol had made him horny. Nothing else
seemed to matter to him, not the fact that we’d been fighting, nor the fact
that it had been almost two months since the last time we’d had sex. 

“So what?” he replied darkly, as he moved his body against
mine resulting in a surge of blood to his penis.

He was rock hard, his erection straining at the tented front
of his pants. I wanted to stay mad; I
was
still mad. And yet, two long
months without physical intimacy had taken its toll on me. My fingers trembled
as an all too familiar warmth began to pool in my stomach and spread slowly
southward. “Maybe,” I mumbled, realizing my mouth had gone suddenly dry. “Maybe
we should talk about this in the morning.” As I tried to grapple some control over
my desire, he continued to drive me to the edge.

Drawing his face close to mine, he teased my lips with his.
Close enough to kiss me, he simply brushed his mouth against mine and pulled
back as I instinctively leaned toward his lips. “I don’t want to talk,” he
breathed, “now or in the morning.” His fingers stroked their way over my hip
and grasped my buttock forcefully.

I gasped as he tugged me closer, grinding his lower half
against mine. My hands automatically shot up to his shoulders, regaining my balance.
“Kiss me,” I pleaded, my fingers twisting in the soft cotton of his shirt.

 Paul’s hand slipped quickly from the bathroom door and
snaked around my waist. He turned me hurriedly, panting with need as he pressed
his open mouth to mine. His tongue dove between my lips, exploring with deep
thrusts and little finesse. He pushed me rapidly and I followed his direction,
my bare feet sliding backwards on the smooth carpet until my legs met the
bedstead. His momentum didn’t stop, and the force of his weight sent me
flopping onto my back.

I bounced on the soft mattress, releasing a muffled groan as
his weight landed carelessly on top of me. “Mmm,” I mumbled into his mouth.
“Hey,” I panted, jerking my head to one side and tearing my lips away from his.
“Let’s slow down a little, huh?” I suggested, my hands stroking over the broad,
sinewy muscles in his back. “There’s no rush,” I whispered into his ear.

Either unable or unwilling to listen, Paul grunted as his
hands slid down my thighs. Hooking the fingers of one hand beneath my left
knee, he coaxed my legs apart. His other hand was busy with the hem of my
dress, pushing it haphazardly up. “Oh, God. I need you,” he groaned, nestling
his hips between my legs and pushing his still clothed groin to my
underwear-covered sex.

It had been a long time since Paul had been that frenzied
and impetuous. It was flattering to know, even after all those years, he wanted
me so desperately. So, I felt torn. On one hand, grateful for being made to
feel sexy and desired. On the other, a sense that this was little more than a
mad dash to sheath himself within me.

“Paul,” I moaned, the weight of his chest pressing the air
out of my lungs.

“That’s right,” he panted heavily, uncoordinated hands
fumbling awkwardly with the clasp and zipper of his pants. “Say my name.”
Muttering curses under his breath, he edged his pants and underwear off his
hips, stopping as soon as they’d reached his upper thighs. His erection now
free, the soft flesh of its head rubbed along my inner thigh.

“Babe,” I muttered, the open zipper of his pants digging
uncomfortably into my leg. “Please.”

Misinterpreting my plea or perhaps just too engrossed in his
own mission, Paul’s sloppy, drunken hands gripped the edges of my panties.
“Ugh,” he grunted, yanking at the fabric. The rip of white lace met his growl
of aggression and the backs of his fingers briefly brushed my outer lips.

Unconsciously, my hips jerked in response, craving more of
the same. But his hand was cruelly ripped away as quickly as it had been placed
there. I was aroused, I did want him, but I wasn’t ready for what came next.

Paul quickly adjusted himself, bracing his hands on the
mattress either side of my waist before driving his hips forwards with a
masculine bark of release.

I sucked in a breath, my fingernails digging into his back,
as my body was quickly and ruthlessly speared. “Ahh,” I wailed, my sex seeming
to fight against the invasion. I tried to force myself to relax, to breathe
slowly and allow my body to accept him, but it was all happening much too
quickly. Any sensual and erotic thoughts I tried to conjure were immediately
chased away when he began to pump fiercely. “Ouch,” I yelped. “Paul, you’re
hurting me.”

His lower half was soon slapping against mine in a rapid
tattoo. He groaned and muttered, the friction of my unprepared channel
apparently proving uncomfortable for him. “You’re pussy is so...tight,” he
grunted haltingly, only a syllable being uttered on each thrust.

I was barely able to hear him. Everything around me was a
blur. The only thing that had any clarity was the pain of each callous drive of
his pelvis, which caused me to bite down hard on my lower lip to keep from
screaming.

Amid the discomfort and the grateful awareness that at least
it wouldn’t last long, I remember wondering what the hell was going on. Sex
with Paul had never been like this, even when he’d had a few too many drinks.
Even when he was a teenager and orgasm was all he ever thought about, he’d
never
used
my body like he did that night. It was as though I was with a
stranger.

Forcing my gaze upward, I stared at his face. His eyes were
squeezed shut, but if they’d been open he would have been staring at the wall
straight in front of him. His features were tight with pained concentration.
I’ll never know exactly what he was concentrating on, but it definitely wasn’t
me. Sweat was beading on his forehead as he continued to lurch forwards,
slamming his erection to the hilt with each viscous thrust. “Oh, yeah,” he
grunted. “You like that.”

I drew in a deep breath, holding it while his movements lost
their rhythmic pattern. The speed and depth started to grow erratic, until
finally with a groan of, “Oh, shit!” he flopped forward and collapsed on top of
me. His hips jerked and one leg spasmed as I felt his seed pulse into me in
strong, hot bursts. That sensation, which had always been indicative of love,
pleasure and the sharing of something primal suddenly made me feel sullied. I
instantly felt guilty for feeling that way. After all, this was my husband, the
man I loved with all my heart. Maybe the encounter had been lacking in romance
and foreplay, but I’d still given him something special, which meant, by
default, that what we’d done was special. At least, that’s what I tried to tell
myself, as my eyes flooded with scorching tears.

“Oh, God,” Paul gasped, his breathing coming hard against my
chest, as he leisurely lifted himself from me. “Ugh, fuck,” he muttered,
rolling to one side. As his flaccid penis slipped from me, some of his semen
dripped onto my inner thigh and, within seconds, created a chill that quickly
spread throughout my entire body.

As soon as his bulk was off me, I reached down and pulled my
dress back to my knees. My trembling fingers remained there, clinging to the
hem. Paul’s left arm was lazily flopped over my waist and his foot, which was
still in his black loafer, was draped clumsily across my calf. The rest of him
was pressed face down into the mattress by my side.

“Paul,” I said with a quiet, shaky voice.

The only response I received was the low rumble of a snore.
Laying under what felt like an incredibly bright glare from our bedroom light,
my eyes fixed wide on the clean, white ceiling above. Shell-shocked, the events
of the previous few minutes played on a continuous loop. Everything about him,
from the way he’d behaved to the way he’d spoken, seemed alien to me. How could
the man I’d been sleeping with since I was eighteen have changed so
dramatically? Was it the result of two months of abstinence; a build up of
frustration coupled with the effects of alcohol?