Then one day, about a year ago, it happened. He was pumping away, looking at her face as he always did because it was so drop-dead gorgeous. Her eyes were closed, and she held a serene expression, yet her body underneath his was keeping time to his rhythm. Then, abruptly, he felt something-a quickening in her movements. In one silken movement, her legs swung about his waist, the heels of her feet digging into his ass as she pushed him deeper inside. Within moments, her breathing had intensified and heightened. Then she came, her face hot and moist as he felt her muscles contract around his cock. The sensation was so electrifying that he exploded instantly, probably not riding out her orgasm as long as he should have. It didn’t matter, though, because now he knew what she was capable of.
From that point on, he became obsessed with her climaxing, rating every encounter not by his satisfaction, not even by their mutual satisfaction, but by hers alone. When it was good-like today-the high would last him for months. When it wasn’t good, he became angry and sullen, berating her and himself for what had gone wrong, analyzing it ad nauseam. No amount of reassurance would change his brooding state. He had failed, and though she was quick to take the blame, it didn’t help. He’d castigate himself, causing nothing but misery for both of them.
Once she tried to fake it just to please him, and that had made him even angrier, the fire so encompassing that he had lashed out at her in a blinding rage, a heartbeat short of hitting her. But he was better than his old man was because he knew how to control it, although she didn’t know that. The pure fear on her face had haunted him for weeks. Still, in the end, it was worth it. She had learned her lesson and had never tried to deceive him again.
He knew he was making her nervous, but he couldn’t stop himself. He had this self-imposed obligation to satisfy her sexually, to sate her with his cock, and anything less than an orgasm meant he was less of a man.
Today had been a success.
Even in excruciating pain, even with the fever and the dehydration, he had managed to bring her to orgasm two out of three times. He would have gone for the perfect record, but she claimed she was sore because it was right before her period or something ludicrous like that. He didn’t challenge her because he was wiped out, glad to have an excuse even if it was a lame one. Afterward, he sat while she bathed, watching beads of water fall off her breasts, roll over her flat stomach. He thought about asking her to spend the night, but didn’t. Although she’d never refuse him, it wouldn’t have been what she wanted.
What she wanted was to get back to the kid.
It was all about the kid.
Which, in general, was okay. He was glad that she was a good mother. But sometimes it did piss him off.
Now she was gone, and he was in agony. He felt as mean as a tethered dog. Once she had loved him totally, had been willing to risk everything to follow him across the country with no promises in return. Then Decker came along and all that changed.
He took a small sip of scotch from the bottle.
It’s not that she wouldn’t have found out. Of course, she would have found out. He had just wanted it on his timetable, after he had dug a hole for her that was way too deep for her to climb out of.
Decker.
Goddamnmotherfuckingsonofabitch.
After she had dumped him, he had been consumed with thoughts of revenge against her. He had wanted to pop her but held off because he wanted to do it with style. So he kept his watch, witnessing her steady decline into a deep abyss of debt, looking on as she exhausted all of her possibilities with no one around to bail her out. When she had neared rock bottom, he came to her in the dead of winter, into her shitty jail cell of a tenement-a one-room number with just a toilet and a sink-no shower-and a hot plate for cooking. Around nine in the evening, as he remembered it. The kid had been around three, asleep on the couch, and swaddled in covers. A twin mattress lay on the cement floor.
Fuck, it was cold inside. He had been dressed in a heavy wool suit, a cashmere overcoat, plus a scarf and fur-lined gloves; still, he shivered. He couldn’t imagine how she could sleep in such frigid conditions let alone work. But there she was, sitting at a card table, bundled up and breathing mist, stuffing what seemed like hundreds of letters into hundreds of envelopes, and doing it clumsily because her hands were encased in thick but old knitted mittens. A tape was playing-some college professor droning on about balancing chemical equations. Because she was clad in layers, her body looked normal. But her face was the giveaway-as gaunt as a ghost.
In that single tick, seeing her steeped in poverty and humiliation, he had meant to pop her. More like put her out of her misery. It was so delicious, his intended revenge.
Except he couldn’t do it.
He just couldn’t disconnect from those golden eyes filled with degradation, her face awash in shame. Distant memories flooded his brain, and all he could think about was how much he still wanted her.
So he told her to pack her bags. She didn’t even own a suitcase, throwing her meager belongings into two plastic grocery sacks. This all went down at a time when he still did occasional favors for his ex-father-in-law, so he still had the trappings-the limo, the bodyguards, a view suite in a posh hotel on Michigan Avenue. He took her to the place, her disgrace keenly visible as they walked through the crowded lobby. He was carrying the sleeping kid in his arms, leaving her like an overloaded donkey to trod through the public areas, burdened under the weight of her clothes, plastic bags, a backpack filled with heavy books, and an oversize purse. When one of his bodyguards moved in to help her, he warned him off with a subtle shake of his head.
Before he took her upstairs, he checked in with the management, saying that she’d be staying with him for a couple of days, that anything she ordered should be placed on his account. The head concierge in charge of customer service-some thin faggot of a guy who looked her up and down with disgust-became fidgety, giving him squirrelly looks, too scared to broach the subject because of who he was. The little twit of a man made him laugh aloud. He knew instantly what the stick up his butt was all about.
“Terry, show him some ID.”
With shaking hands and downcast eyes, she pulled out her Illinois driver’s license and her Northwestern student ID card from a tattered wallet.
The faggot was instantly relieved. His concern was understandable. She looked around twelve.
He led her into the elevator to an upper-floor two-bedroom suite holding a panoramic view of the city’s skyline. The living area was furnished with several traditional-style couches, a couple of stiff chairs, some side tables, and a dining-room set-typical run-of-the-mill pieces for a hotel penthouse. But to her, the lodgings must have looked palatial-judging by the size of her eyes. He watched her walk over to a large ceramic vase filled with fresh cut flowers. Still clutching her belongings, she held out a finger and touched a lily. When he told her that it was real, she blushed at her stupidity.
After she had settled the kid into the smaller of the two bedrooms, he asked her if she was hungry, tossing her a room-service menu. Timidly, she requested a dinner salad-the cheapest thing on the list. He ordered a hamburger, and seeing her covetous eyes, gave her half. She ate so slowly as if each mouthful were her last; it was a torment to watch. When she was done-and it was clear that he was done as well-she took his leftover French fries and wrapped them up in a paper napkin, stowing the bundle along with the mini bottles of ketchup, mustard, and mayonnaise in her purse. He must have been staring because her skin went from pale white to deep crimson when they locked eyes. Instantly, he felt warmth suffuse his face, both of them embarrassed by how basic she had become.