“Are you sure I can’t…” She cleared her throat, her voice abraded from the unfamiliar act of screaming out her pleasure against the broad head of that phallic gag. “I can tell you need something.”
“You’ll take care of that another time. Right now, you’ll lie here and let me hold you. That’s what I want. The shirt’s the only thing you get for now. No more talking until I give you permission. Just lie here.”
How was it he could sound so in control, so calm, and yet he wasn’t the least detached? She could feel his passion, and not only through his cock. It was a wondrous discovery, realizing she was intuitively recognizing a Master’s point of view. Her surrender had been what he’d sought from her, and obtaining it had given him something as pleasurable as what he’d given her. She wasn’t imagining it. The energy coursing through him was a relentless current of desire, pulling at her loose and not-quite-exhausted body. It held a delicious threat, to sweep her away at a future time of his choosing.
So she obeyed, lying still upon him, willing to tread in that current. For so long, she’d been denied the precious gift of a man’s desire for her. Sensing it, knowing it was real and true, she savored it, the pleasure of his heart beating, a little fast, under her cheek. Her eyes resting on the proof of his arousal, thick and tempting under the hold of his slacks. The way his fingers stroked her, not a light, absent touch, but with some pressure behind his fingertips, following the contours of her jaw, her throat, the line of her shoulder, tangling in her hair, making it clear that he wanted more from her body, from her.
This was actually perfect, this eye of the storm, feeling all that passion and pleasure circling around her, but letting her just…be. She was included, in the center of it, and yet didn’t need to do anything but be quietly amazed at how she’d fared in the thick of it, overcome by what he’d done to her.
She wanted to ask him how he’d known what she hadn’t, what had eluded her, but she couldn’t. Not now. She sank into the silence. His silence, a silence that stilled mind, body and soul. Though his hands moved over her, keeping her quivering, that stillness was in him as well. It held her to him as much as a dozen commands would do.
Throughout the past few years, there’d always been so much going on in her head, a cacophony capable of driving her mad. A constant litany of expectations, failures, deprecations, wishes… Together they became desperation and desolation. Perhaps because she was casting her own life’s reflection on the world, so much of what she saw, heard and experienced seemed pointless, vapid…hopeless. Both the physical and mental forms of yoga had been a saving grace, because in the peace of exertion, the stillness of meditation, the focus on breathing, she’d been able to leave it behind for short periods, hide from it.
This wasn’t hiding from it. Jon’s tranquility had a power to it, a strength that could transform the world around her. For the first time in a long time, she looked at her surroundings and saw what had once made them appealing to her. There was a whimsical stone cat, carved in a lotus position, sitting beside her bed. She’d found it at a consignment shop and placed it on the secondhand night table she’d repainted in lavender and stressed with silver gray paint.
On the wall, caddy corner to her bed, was a Victorian print. It showed a young governess escorting a child in a park. The governess was looking wistfully over her shoulder, for she’d discovered a couple having a tryst in the shadows of the wood. The man was stealing a kiss from his lover. All of them wore such beautiful clothes, a beautiful picture, but Rachel had connected to the underlying message. A yearning need for love and desire beneath societal constraints.
As Jon had recognized, her bedspread was one of the famous Monet flower scenes, all those soothing melded pinks, greens and lavenders. Jon had said her arousal would dampen and deepen those colors, and she saw that wet patch now, the lighter pink turned dark. The way your cunt looks now. She shivered, remembering those words, thinking of the singular intensity of Jon’s expression as he’d gazed between her legs.
When Cole had left her, it had been a slow process, but everything of that life had gradually been replaced by her choices in this apartment. She’d surrounded herself with wonder, passion and beauty, but her pleasure in it had been a fleeting thing, overwhelmed by her daily loneliness. One afternoon in this man’s arms, and she was re-experiencing the stirring delight she’d felt when she’d found these things, brought them home, made them articulations of herself. It was terrifying. But as long as she was lying inside his silence, not her own, it was all right. She was safe.
While she expected nothing more than this moment, she again wished it could go on forever. But only a child believed something like that could really happen. Listening to his heartbeat, she closed her eyes and gave herself to sleep.
In some sad way, she hoped he’d be gone when she woke, for when that silence broke, so too would this spell. She’d prefer to be alone to figure out how to reassemble the pieces again. To figure out where exactly inside her empty heart to put this once-in-a-lifetime treasured memory.
Chapter Six
He was gone when she woke, but he’d left an indelible, unsettling imprint at every level of her existence. The first she noticed was on her body. Between yoga and the requirements of being a good physical therapist, she kept herself very limber and flexible, but all the stretching in the world could not prevent the delicious soreness, the result of the prolonged isometric rigor of a universe-altering climax. If he’d plunged inside of her, wrapping her legs around his hips, she would have used those inner thigh muscles in ways she hadn’t in far too long, strained to the limit as he pressed them back with his thrusting, again and again.
She could smell the pungent scent of her climax. Putting her hand down there, she found herself still sticky. Touching herself reminded her of his touch, his much larger fingers inside her, the way he’d cupped her breasts in those masculine palms.
There was another scent. It was from his shirt, the one she was now wearing. Vaguely, she remembered him sliding her arms into it when he’d had to leave the bed. He’d murmured something about not wanting her to get cold, but still wanting to see her. He’d buttoned only the two middle buttons, so he’d been able to tease and fondle wherever he wished. Now she brought the open collar to her nose and inhaled the smell that was Jon’s neck, that lingering aftershave and male heat.
It took awhile to get her feet on the floor, and when she did, she blinked. Her room was clean. The clothes she’d left on the floor were gone, the dirty dishes removed from the dresser and the coverlet for her bed was neatly folded at the foot. She’d slept like an exhausted, trusting child, so deep he’d apparently been able to call in someone like Molly Maid and they’d worked around her.
The alternative was too outlandish to contemplate. If he’d given her an orgasm and cleaned the apartment, he wasn’t a mere mortal. The man was a god.
She tottered to her bathroom. Also too amazing to face was the fact that what they’d done last night was technically only foreplay. If he truly had f*cked her, she would have needed a crash cart. It made her lips twist in a wry smile, though that same feeling twisted something tight around her heart. Daylight and reality. It was coming. She could feel it like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, ready to trample her under their thundering hooves.