When was it?
She had kissed him that night—and that single act had changed him. His internal fire turned up high—no longer smoldering, but an all-out four-alarm blaze; he was no longer able to contain his emotions.
Was it minutes or hours earlier when Miles’ gruff voice interrupted their pleasure?
He did not know. Nor did he care.
The two of them, Olivia and Ryan, had scattered like rats, retreating to their separate lairs to wait—he knew—counting the seconds until her husband’s snoring returned to normal. Then creeping back up the carpeted steps slowly, hands extended in front of him as he moved stealthily, his mind a daze, no longer thinking of her—his wife, Carly, who lay sleeping and unaware below.
When he reached the first floor, he found it bathed in darkness. No matter how long it took, he would feel his way, inch by inch, foot by foot. He did so, fingers outstretched, remembering where the couch and other furniture lay. Found the couch quickly and sat down slowly, aware of every movement and every sound his body and the fabric made. He willed his breathing to return to normal, but it would not comply. He was that fired up.
Then he heard her.
Every sense was tuned to an ultra-high frequency.
Progressing down the stairs—he was sure.
Returning to him.
He squeezed himself and stifled a moan. His heart raced. Soon now—nothing else mattered. It was messed up—this situation—if one could call it that—if he allowed himself one split second of reasoned thought to consider—but he did not.
He was too far gone for that.
She approached. He silently inhaled, smelling her scent. It was overpowering—the musk that accompanies passion—raw, primal sex smells. His fist rushed to his mouth. She was ready for him, meandering around furniture silently, footfalls light on the thick carpeting.
A woman’s touch. He felt it on his face and chest, moving downward, experiencing the fingernail as it grazed skin and navel before ending at the top edge of his boxers. He held his breath, and held his cock in his palm, as in offering. Take it, he willed her, before I go insane.
Then he alighted from the couch as she silently complied, taking him gently inside.
The feeling was indescribable. Her mouth was an oven and he thrust toward the back of her throat as he reached for her locs, the ferocity within causing him to tremble. Toes curling on the cool carpet, legs outstretched, holding her head in his hands while bucking his hips slowly. Darkness had settled around them like a blanket. Occasional house creaks and groans interrupted the otherwise silent hush of the night.
He bucked harder, increased his thrusts. She met him with an expert touch, wrapping her fingers along his shaft, squeezing him back inside.
To a place that was warm, wet, and cozy.
She was increasing the tempo now, upping the pace, letting him know in that unspoken language lovers use, it was okay to unleash. I know what you want. I know what you need. Use me, baby. Don’t be afraid to let go. I’m willing to take anything you send my way.
How long, he could not say. Wasn’t very long, though. The time they had spent all came down to this—a single physical act—an instant in time that forever changed things.
A tidal wave rolling.
An avalanche barreling down an ice-covered mountain-side.
It all came down to this—a delicious blow job, an end of the line, fantasy turned reality.
He couldn’t have stopped it if he tried.
He rose up, toes digging into the carpet, grasping the sides of her head, locs trapped between fingers as he came, unleashing an outpouring of emotion and everything else he had to offer. Until there was nothing left to give.
It took everything he had and every ounce of strength he possessed not to scream.
Then it was done, as quickly as it had begun.
Her sweet mouth contained his manhood for an instant more before allowing it to slip out. While rising off her haunches, she tucked his member safely inside his underwear before leaving him alone, giving him back to his spouse quietly before returning faithfully and silently to her own.
Chapter 5
The interior of the sedan is warm. He scans the dash, noting the time. Over an hour late to this preordained meeting, his eyes pan across Miles’ smooth, shadowy face. Even dappled in darkness, he is ruggedly handsome—strong angular lines, piercing eyes, inviting smile. He knows why she chose him.
Miles is chewing on an unlit cigar, the image propelling him back to the party—and to her, clad only in a man’s button-down shirt—her wares spilling out enticingly.
Stop it.
That precious moment, captured eternally in mid-flight, emblazoned in his mind like a high-resolution photograph, is gone forever.
Never to return.
He understands that now, yet ponders how everything went wrong so quickly.
Back to the present. He’s late.
Miles’ clenched jaw line tells him so, and that the man in the driver’s seat is not amused.
Patience running thin.
Gas tank on reserve.
He’s been driving around the city, attempting without success to find a solution to this problem.
His situation.
But situations like this don’t have easily defined solutions or answers.
He’s been avoiding Miles as if he were the plague, knowing he has to face his demons, his nemesis, sooner rather than later.
However, he never counted on it all crashing down this soon.
“Hey,” he mutters, breaking the silence.
Miles turns the radio down, glancing his way.
“Expected to see you about an hour ago.”
He grins nervously. Raises his shoulders as if to imply that shit happens.
Miles clears his throat, then lowers the window and chucks out his now-cold cigar. Turns to Ryan and says, “Time we talked, you and I, don’t you think?”
He merely grunts.
Miles launches. “I’m aware of this…this thing with Olivia. Have known for some time, actually.” He pauses, glances over at the passenger side, at the figure whose stare is riveted to his clenched hands, heart racing, afraid to breathe. Afraid not to—unsure of which is worse.
They are in a quiet park at The Point, a hundred yards from a lazy river, airport lights twinkling in the background. A huge sculpture is buried in the sand and dirt to their left, an outstretched hand reaching for the sky, veined and grotesque. At least it appears that way from his vantage point.
“Can’t blame you, actually. I mean, look at her—what an incredible woman she is.”
He listens. Wonders for a brief instant how this will end.
Knife in the heart?
Fingers gripping his neck until life ebbs away?
His candle blown out—way too soon?
“Even though you’ve got someone beautiful at home, a man’s gotta roam, right? In the genes—innate to all males, handed down, species to species, since long before dinosaurs roamed the earth.”
He continues.
“You’re obsessing. Can’t help yourself. Over