Lessons In Love Part 7

"You'll enjoy this," she a.s.sured me as she removed a tube of K-Y Jelly from the bag.

She positioned herself between my legs and gently touched the d.i.l.d.o to my aching c.l.i.toris. At this point I didn't really care what she probed me with, as long as it was fast and continuous. She squeezed some of the lubricant onto her hands and rubbed them together. With an obvious reverence, she ma.s.saged the K-Y onto the pink protrusion with delicate, loving strokes. The care and diligence with which she conducted this ritual couldn't have been more authentic had the attachment been her own flesh.

My body pounded its urgent need as I watched her. The respect with which she admired this thing made me feel jealous and a little helpless. For the first time I realized that I not only wanted to play this game, I craved it. I hungered for the domination and control this stranger held over me. She seemed to know everything about my s.e.xual tastes without allowing me to say a word.

Obviously pleased with her efforts, she guided the greased toy to the mouth of my v.a.g.i.n.a. A look of utter joy mixed with dark mischief crept across her face as she savored the sight before her. She lovingly cradled her projectile, ready to thrust it into my body.

As she stared into my eyes, I felt the force of penetration as she introduced her adopted extremity into my apprehensive insides. An initial moment of discomfort gave way to a feeling of acceptance as I was alternately filled and emptied by the expertly methodical motions.

The friction created by the leather harness against my c.l.i.t left me breathless with every stroke. My mouth dried as I screamed and clawed at her back.

I opened my eyes to memorize the face of the person who caused such conflict between my mind and body. Looming over me in the dim light was someone I'd never seen before. A gla.s.sy-eyed stare emitted a look of absolute power and control. This woman was on the verge of o.r.g.a.s.m, and it had nothing to do with making love. She responded to her dominance over me and her control of the situation.

Her eyes darkened as the thrusts of her pelvis intensified. She wanted, needed to bring me to o.r.g.a.s.m. I wanted to deny her but I didn't want to deny myself. Pa.s.sion grew with each frantic movement. Her unspoken desire magnified my own cravings, and I clung to her. I mentally resisted her attempts to bring me to climax, but my body betrayed me with every breath.

I felt myself floating in the euphoria of absolute resignation. It didn't matter now if she was a complete stranger, if I'd ever see her again or if she was a ma.s.s murderer. I only knew I couldn't stop her or myself.

I was too near the edge.

Faster and harder she drove her fake phallus into my body, and I took her. She prodded me toward the edge. Her body suddenly stiffened.

She grabbed my arms in an unyielding grip. My body quivered and jerked. Waves of pleasure tingled through my toes, up through the core of my body, leaving me dizzy and satisfied. The release of months of pent-up frustration and anxiety poured from my body onto hers. She collapsed on top of me and I lay there, astonished by my response.

"I knew you'd be into it." She smiled from atop my body. "If you're game for another round, I'd love to demonstrate my rear-entry technique."

"What're you asking me for? You're in charge." I heard myself say.

Sometime before daybreak, she kissed me awake and pointed to my clothes in a neat stack beside the back door of the van. "I've had a great time, but you need to get going. Security comes through around six for their morning check."

I slowly replaced clothes onto my overly sensitive body and climbed from the back of the van. "Will I see you again?"

"Not likely, I don't like to strike twice in the same spot." She grinned, licked her fingers, and closed the van door.

When I reached my car, I turned to wave good-bye, but the vehicle and its wild rider had vanished.

ATROPINE.

NELL STARK.

veryone a.s.sumed they would get married. Including her. But I knew better-or at least, I thought I did. Even from a E distance, through a crowd, there was...something. I like to call it a vibe. It has many names. But it was definitely there, and not just because she was beautiful.

She was, of course-long red hair highlighted by a few streaks of gold framing a tanned, freckled face, her smile bursting all over the room as she laughed out loud at a joke. Toned quads and calves leading to bare feet with no toenail polish. Just a bit shorter than me, and slightly thinner. Definitely a few years younger. She caught my eye immediately, and I was rarely wrong.

Still, I thought I'd misjudged when I first saw her with him. They were a striking couple. Only a few months ago, they'd taken first in one of the regattas, moving in perfect synchrony as they roll-tacked their small boat back and forth across the eye of the wind. Watching them, I'd felt at first like I was intruding on something private.

And yet, after the shock wore off at seeing them so fluid, so together...well, that nagging feeling was back. They were the best sailors our club had to offer the compet.i.tion. But that's all they were. I was sure of it.

She realized it too when he called things off just a few weeks into the summer season. She'd been planning to follow him, come the fall- to help him through medical school. Probably to have his 2.5 children.

When I heard the news-through another sailing instructor who lived in the same apartment complex-my first reaction was grat.i.tude. But when I saw her a few hours later, trying hard to teach a lesson without looking at him (and failing) as he rigged up a scow nearby, I got angry. When your heart's been broken repeatedly, you forget how hard it is, that first time. Until something reminds you. And she reminded me, with her rigid stance and clenched jaw and fierce, too-bright eyes.

She stopped coming to the weekly meetings and social events.

Despite it being summer, she grew paler and paler as the weeks went by.

And she started drinking. Heavily. Never before teaching, of course- she was too responsible for that. But immediately after her lesson finished, I'd watch her walk slowly-lethargically-toward the outdoor bar on the edge of the beach and order up a tall paper cup of beer. She'd sip it while looking out at the water, the boats, their sails. And if she saw him, she'd down the whole thing in a few sharp swallows before spinning on one heel and leaving.

One day, I followed her. This day, it's not quite as hot as it has been-around seventy-five degrees, with a steady north breeze and wisps of cirrus clouds salting the sky. Perfect sailing conditions, but he's out on the water in a Laser, and she still can't be anywhere near him. I don't know where she's going, but she's only wearing a white, slightly wrinkled oxford shirt over khaki shorts, and I'm pretty confident that my black tank top and washed-out jeans will fit in. So I shadow her, south a few blocks and then west, to a hole-in-the-wall bar on Spring Street. As far as I can tell, the bouncer doesn't make her pay cover, but I don't even hesitate to shove a crumpled five into his hand. I take the stairs down slowly, to be sure she doesn't see me. For now, anyway.

Once inside, I loiter near the door, watching as she makes her way over to the bar and orders up another beer before commandeering a pool table in the back corner. The felt is stained and its frame marked up with gla.s.s-rings and etched graffiti, but she doesn't seem to care. Just reaches into her front left pocket, slips a few quarters into the slot, and racks.

She's good at pool, which surprises me. I sidle over to the bar as she makes her way methodically around the table, punching in stripes and solids with short, sharp shots. At one point, she has to rest her left hip up on the raised ledge in order to lean forward and sink the five ball.

From my vantage point, I can see down her shirt to the top edge of the gray sports bra that hugs her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. My body stirs, warmth pulsing low and deep. I take a long swallow off my beer and close my eyes, exulting in the sensation, realizing that this is what she needs, so much more than I. To feel alive.

But when I open my eyes, she's staring at me. So I go to her.

Slowly.

"Who sent you?" she asks. Her voice is quiet and flat, but the hand that clutches the pool cue is visibly shaking. And I realize she's angry.

Naive enough, still, to believe her friends would intervene. Her friends are his friends-all caught in the crossfire.

"No one sent me," I reply. Voice even. "I came on my own."

"Why?"

I ignore the question, because she isn't ready for the answer.

Instead, I close the few feet that remain between us, fish in one pocket for some change, and deposit more quarters into the table. I rack up efficiently, feeling her eyes on my back; or maybe she's watching the ripple of my tanned shoulders against the tank top. Maybe.

"Break," I tell her, reaching for my own cue.

There's the ghost of a bitter smile on her lips as she sets up and shoots. And then we're moving around each other, circling the table in tandem. I hold my own, but she still wins quickly. And frowns. Thinking I let her.

"You're good," I say, returning my cue to its slot on the wall.

"Want another beer?"

She's still watching me, her expression wary. Once upon a time, she was cheerful and gregarious and talkative, but now-now she's curled in on herself. Fetal position. Protect the head, protect the heart.

Everyone's out to get you.

"What are you drinking?" I ask again, steadily.

She names her beer, and I head for the bar. When I return, she's found us a table for two in the dimly lit comer. My knees brush hers as I sit, and I feel the brief contact arc through me like a small electrical shock. I wonder what she feels.

"Where'd you learn to shoot pool like that?" I ask, my eyes never leaving the delicate column of her throat as she takes a swallow.

"Older brother." Almost immediately, her fingers begin to peel back the label on the bottle. They're long fingers, and slender, but rough with calluses. I can't help but wonder what they'd feel like, tying me in knots as surely as she ties a bowline. I look away and take a quick sip, then another.

"Your older brother's better than mine," I reply, when I'm sure I can speak again. For just a moment, the trace of another faint smile plays across her lips before she raises her beer once more.

There's a minute or two of silence, then, as we drink and pretend to watch the two couples who have taken over at billiards. "What's grad school like?" she asks suddenly, settling her empty bottle back down with a dull clink. She's leaning forward on her elbows now, eyes flicking over my face. It feels good, and also intense. Like being out on the ocean at noon without sunscreen.

"Complicated," I answer, rocking my chair back on two legs. "Lots to do...cla.s.ses, reading, research, teaching." I lift the bottle to my lips again, let the beer swirl around my mouth before swallowing. She's frowning, a little-focused. "Are you thinking of going?"

Her left shoulder lifts in a shrug. "Maybe."

"For what?"

"I don't know." The label is almost entirely gone, now-curling up under her fingers in one smooth piece. She works the rest of it off before raising her eyes back to mine. "Why did you come here tonight?"

I glance away before I even realize it, because something about the way she asks makes me want to answer, this time. Honestly. So I take a breath and force myself to meet her curious gaze.

"I've been worried about you," I say. She frowns and sighs and looks down, but I'm not finished-so I reach out with two fingers and gently press up on the base of her chin. "And I want you," I add, softly.

Her gaze, so slippery a moment before, freezes. I let my hand drop away, reluctantly. Moment of truth.

"Why?" she asks, yet again. It's almost a whisper. She doesn't believe me- can I believe me-and it's his fault. I have never been angrier with him than at this moment.

I stand up, suddenly, and drain the rest of my beer. "Let's walk on the beach." I don't look back as I thread my way through the tables, out the door, and up the stairs, but as I turn east down the nearest side street, I can feel her beside me. We walk silently until the pavement gives way to sand. I bend down to remove my sandals, transferring them both to my right hand, and find her right with my left.

I'm sailing without telltales here-purely on instinct-knowing the wind could die any second. When she startles a little at the contact, I can't help holding my breath...but as the seconds pa.s.s without a reaction, I exhale softly. Her grip is light, but firm. We begin to walk again, my thumb tracing circles around her palm as we move.

"I like your hands," I tell her. "They're beautiful, and strong," I let my fingertips brush against the calluses just above her knuckle line.

"Working hands,"

My peripheral vision catches the slight movement as she turns her head to look at me, but I keep my eyes facing forward. The sand is cool under my feet. In the patchy light of the half-moon, I watch small crabs scuttle periodically out of our way. My thumb shifts to brush across her wrist, and our pulses blend for just an instant.

"What's your favorite movie?" I ask after a few quiet minutes. She laughs at the random question, and for a moment, I see her old smile resurface. We talk about film for a while, then music, as the constellations gradually shift overhead, pinwheeling slowly around the North Star. Our progress is leisurely. The bells of sailboats moored in the bay come to us intermittently on a warm breeze. I like the way it ruffles her hair.

"Where are we going?" she asks, finally. Her tone is mildly curious-relaxed. Our linked hands swing in gentle arcs between us.

"My apartment." I keep my voice light, like hers.

"Ah." The faint half smile doesn't leave her face.

"I like the way your hair looks in the moonlight," I tell her as we reach the outer door. I slip my key into the lock and watch her while I turn it. "It shimmers."

She laughs and leans into me a little, one shoulder and hipbone pressing against mine. Another jolt. I smile back before leading her up the stairs to the door across from the second-floor landing. Once inside my apartment, she doesn't wait for a tour but moves around herself, taking in the bedroom, the small office, the den. Traces the base of one of my old swimming trophies with an errant index finger. I smile at the sight of her, head turning back and forth as she absorbs the reality of my living s.p.a.ce. She feels right here. Like the room has been waiting for her to fill it. Somehow.

I turn on the television and move toward the fridge. "Another beer?"

"Sure."

I hand off the bottle and sit down first, so she can choose. Next to me, on the futon? Or in the armchair a few feet away?

She hesitates for a moment before picking the s.p.a.ce to my left.

Sliding her right ankle under the opposite knee, she takes a long pull from the bottle. Not touching me, but close. Eyes focused on the television. CNN isn't exactly romantic, or even fun, so I hand her the remote. She grins, clicks a few b.u.t.tons, and finally settles on an old black-and-white sci-fi film that's so bad, it has us both laughing hard within a few seconds.

She sets down the remote on the coffee table, and when she leans back, she's closer to me. Our shoulders touch. I spend the next twenty minutes absorbed not in the movie but in how warm she is, how the wrinkled material of her shirt feels against the bare skin of my upper arm. It's hard to remember to laugh at the funny moments when she leans even closer. Her entire right side is pressed up against me now, and I swear I can feel the slight curve of her breast against mine.

It's impossible for me to stay still-to not move my palm so it's resting, very lightly, just above her knee. So I do. Her powerful quad muscles ripple under my hand, but when I look at her face, she's still smiling at the television. So I squeeze-gently-and watch as the smile disappears. Her eyes close slowly, then open again. She turns toward me, her face backlit by the intermittent flashes of the screen.

I can feel myself sliding forward, inch by inch. Allowing her to move, if she doesn't want this. But I think she does. And then I know it, as her eyelids flutter closed again just before I'm too close to see anything at all.

Her lips are soft, so soft. Her breath hitches right in the middle of our kiss, and I know what she's feeling. The first time is always a revelation. How can it be like this? Why did no one tell me? I slide my hand up her thigh, brush across her hip, and squeeze again. She sighs into my mouth. I suck on her lower lip, and the sigh becomes a moan.

I'm dizzy with lack of oxygen, but I don't want to stop kissing her. If I do, she might- She pulls away, gasping. "G.o.d," she murmurs, looking at me.

Touching her lips-now swollen-with two fingers. Her eyes wide and dark. "That...G.o.d."

"Okay?" I ask softly, willing my voice to be steady. I will not lean forward and take her mouth again, like I want to. I will wait. I find the remote with my right hand and fumble with it until the television goes black. No distractions-not now.

''Okay,'' she breathes. Her slight laugh is edgy, her eyes focused on my lips. ''Definitely okay."

This time, I let my left hand caress the back of her head. My fingers curl in long, thick strands of crimson as my tongue glides over her teeth. She jumps a little and presses closer. My thigh slides against hers as I dip deep into her mouth, swirl, and return. The fingers of her right hand dig into my shoulder as I kiss her, over and over and over.

Alternating depth, pressure, teeth, lips. Her hands pull me closer, so that I'm nearly lying on top of her.

Slowly, so slowly, I walk my fingers across the hem of her shirt until I can undo the last b.u.t.ton. I let the pearl-plastic slip slowly through its slot, giving her time to protest. All I hear is the rasp of her breath, mingling with the background hum of the refrigerator, until I uncover her navel and rim it gently with my forefinger. She gasps. I grin, lean down, and tug on the sensitive skin with my teeth before allowing my tongue to spiral around and around the small indentation. When I stop, she whimpers-then moans as I deliberately f.u.c.k her bellyb.u.t.ton.

"Please," she whispers finally, her trembling fingers tugging at my short, curly hair. I look up and grin, finally absorbing the taste of her skin on my tongue. Salty, and also sweet. I want more.

"Please?" I'm teasing her, of course, but I also want her to be sure.

No regrets in the morning.

"I need..." Her eyes are dark and hazy with desire, and I feel my body thrill as she stumbles over her words. Because of me. "I...can you...?"

I think it's cute that she can't quite get the words out. And I don't make her. Instead, I lever myself off her body, stand up, and extend my hand. Her palm is sweaty. I lead her, slowly, toward the bedroom.

"I've never," she whispers as we cross the threshold. "I mean, I did with-"

"Shh." I turn to her and kiss her again, and by the time we break apart to breathe I've undone two more b.u.t.tons. My hands slide beneath the crisp material of her shirt to caress her stomach. Her muscles, strengthened by hours of training on the water, flutter beneath my fingers-velvet over steel. I tease her gently, sliding up over the crests and troughs of her rib cage until my hands find the edge of her bra. I dip one finger under the hem and run it lightly just below her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She shivers.

"I want to take this off," I murmur, lips brushing her earlobe. It's so hard to keep my voice even, my bands gentle, when all I really want to do is back her up against the bed and push.

Her swallow is audible and when she speaks, her voice hitches.

"I-I'm not stopping you."

My fingers fumble with the third b.u.t.ton as I suck on her earlobe.

It's only for a moment, but she groans. "Why not?"