Fall Into Love (Simone: Part One Naughty Nookie Series) Read online

  As I watch him, my own body heats up again. There’s a lump in my throat at the sheer animalism of this act, at its raw crudeness and he’s so unaffected by it. This is him. The sexual creature behind the chivalrous gent.

  As alien as this beast is to me, I prefer him. The sexual animal has made me feel more than I’ve ever felt. So, how can I not prefer him?

  He crouches over me so that he’s almost sitting in my lap. The move brings his cock tantalizingly close to my mouth and face. I lick my lips in expectation, wanting to taste the silken cream that explodes from his body when his arousal reaches culmination. But he doesn’t come much closer; in fact, he jerks his hips upwards and simultaneously grabs my breasts. Lifting them, he creates a channel for his cock and over the next few minutes, I watch him in awe.

  This is for him. But it’s also for me. The pleasure he’s finding in my body sends shockwaves of heat throughout me. The slickness of his cock thanks to my juices is a pungent reminder of my arousal. I smell of myself and him now, as pre-cum leaks down to lubricate his journey all the more.

  His hips rock jerkily; there’s no smooth roll to his pumping. It’s edgy, filled with need. His body is tense with strain; the muscles delineated and the protruding veins tell me he’s close.

  With a roar, he cums and pulls away. Rather than spill his seed on to the sheets, he releases his clasp on my breasts and begins to stroke himself. His cum drops down on to my chest. Spilling on to my nipples and the fleshy mounds of my tits. As I look down, it looks as though someone has spilled correction fluid all over me.

  A bit stunned by him, I stare at the small splats of cum and take a moment to analyze the way I feel. It takes two seconds to realize that I’m not disgusted by this.

  When he lowers a hand and scoops some cum on to his finger and massages it into my nipple, I feel anything but disgusted. When he then proceeds to bend down and lick his own seed from my flesh, while taking obvious pleasure in the act, disgust is far from the main topic on my mind.

  If anything, the only thing floating around my brain is oxygen. Because as he sucks down, taking his juices and mine into his mouth while tugging at a turgid nipple, I climax.

  Where it came from, I don’t know. Maybe the pull of his teeth and tongue at my nipple? The build-up of tension as I watched him near his own peak? I don’t know and don’t care. In comparison to the explosions of before, this is just a gentle quake, but its power is still incredible. Awe inducing, even.

  The spontaneous and unexpected climax knocks me out.

  And this time, I stay out.

  The hours seem to pass by in a blur and the next time I awaken, he’s still beside me and sleeping heavily. He’s borderline snoring and I’m feeling rather proud of myself at having worn this experienced man out—because no one with moves like this guy could be labeled innocent. Inwardly, I chuckle at the idea.

  From the clock on the bedside table, I can tell it’s time for me to be going. The idea of not seeing Zane again doesn’t fill me with glee. In fact, I hate the very idea of it. I meant it when I said I feel connected to this guy. I don’t know why or even how, but I do.

  Maybe it’s just the sex. We’re obviously very compatible in the bedroom and after tonight, I’d gladly settle for a few more hook-ups. Eddie and Marina have been pushing me to break free from my inhibitions.

  As Marina put it, “You need a party in your panties.”

  After that experience… I’m in total agreement.

  That being said, I have a feeling that this could go somewhere; don’t ask me why. But I’ve never been the pushy sort. I’ll let him make the decision, because I won’t humiliate myself by trying to press ahead if that’s the last thing he wants.

  He picked me up; he might want a one-night stand; nothing more, nothing less. On the other hand, more might be what he’s after and if that’s the case, then I do too.

  I’ve already made a fool out of myself over a man. And a worthless sack of shit Dan was too. Never again. Even if Zane is a sex god, both in bed and out.

  Carefully climbing out of bed, I dress myself with the pieces of clothing I find dotted about the room. I’m a cleaner, used to being invisible, so I know that Zane isn’t pretending to be asleep to avoid me. There’s no way, not even with his experiences in the war, that he can hear me. I’m paid to exist but not to show it.

  Eventually, I source my purse. Tucked within is my wallet and inside, there are a few cards Marina insisted I had printed after my divorce. She said that it was far more sophisticated than writing down my number on a scrappy piece of paper. Leaning one in front of the alarm clock, I leave the decision up to him. And let fate take control of the game.

  Because that’s what it is. No matter how I feel, if he doesn’t feel the same connection, then that’s that. Bye bye, Zane.

  The thought depresses me. It feels like a dumb move leaving the ball in his court, but what do they say? A woman has to play hard to get if she wants a man and I won’t be messed around again.

  If he wants to call me, he can.

  If not, then I’ll be gutted, but I’ll have a fabulous night to show for it. And hell, he’s opened my eyes to how sex can really be. How it should be!

  I know I promised him breakfast in bed, but I’d hate for him to feel trapped with me. Having never taken part in a one-night stand, I can’t say that I know how these things work. If he calls me, then I’ll treat him to a sandwich this time. Otherwise, I won’t be made to feel like an unwanted encumbrance who should have known the score and should have disappeared before his alarm call.

  Letting myself out of the suite and then the hotel itself, I try not to feel ragged or rumpled, when I’m just that. My dress is in a real state and I’m not sure if even a visit to the dry cleaners will salvage it! I stink of sex. Beneath my nose, I can smell him and me and know that both of our sexual fluids have mingled in with sweat at my pulse points, so that I’m wearing sex as a perfume.

  It wouldn’t sell in the shops, of that I’m sure!

  It’s as embarrassing as hell leaving the hotel in the same clothes as I wore last night, especially when the silk is showing signs of being worse for wear, but the skeleton staff isn’t interested in the goings on of the foyer, and I escape without too much attention being cast my way.

  It being a Saturday morning and before nine, things are pretty quiet and the majority of the reception’s crowd are cleaners wiping and polishing and keeping the vestibule in tiptop condition.

  As soon as I step foot onto the sidewalk, I call a cab and damn the expense. I’m not entirely sure that my legs are up to the challenge of getting me home. They’re usually quite capable of the hike, but after last night, they’ve had enough exercise.

  The thought brings a smile to my face and as a cab pulls up, I climb in, and let the driver take me home.

  As we drive throughout the city in silence, I process every single one of my aches and revel in the slight pain. Who knew? Who the hell knew that it could feel so good?

  The way I feel, the things he made me feel belong in a romance novel. A part of me wants to believe that the power of our orgasms came from some deeper meaning; some emotional bond, but if I was to even mutter those kinds of thoughts to Eddie or Marina they’d knock them out of my head.

  Sex is sex, they’d say to me. I can hear it now. Their lecture as they look at me with concern for feeling too much with a drive-by encounter.

  Sighing at the thought, I watch the city wake up. In truth, this place never sleeps. Just like the old adage says. But there are quieter periods and early Sunday morning is one of them. Or it is in my neighborhood.

  The transition from Kensington Park to my building is a nasty one. I’m ashamed of the rough area and the even rougher state of my apartment. Back in Georgia, had I married one of the boys from the local church, I’d have had a small but well-kept house, a kitchen with all the modern conveniences. Nothing like this dump. And probably three or four tow-headed kids tugging at my apron strings.

&n
bsp; Great!

  Not.

  But now, it all makes sense. I was meant to leave Georgia, I was meant to meet Eddie and Marina, because they were meant to lead me to Zane.

  Oh, I’m not saying he’s my soul mate. No matter how much my romantic heart likes the idea of it.

  I’m saying he was meant to open my eyes to sex and all its possibilities.

  Not for me tame couplings under the cover of darkness; where I’m made to feel shame for receiving any pleasure from the act. Because that’s how it would have been. My parents and their church were zealous in their beliefs. Sex, to their minds, isn’t about pleasure but about reproduction.

  Tonight has opened my eyes to the truth and I’ll never forget those teachings, even if I never see Zane again.

  My dingy flat is stifling; airless by the time I let myself in. There’s an unpleasant smell emanating from the kitchen, which could either be rotten fruit or sour milk. I’ve only been gone for twelve or so hours, but in this heat, maybe a rat died behind the wall partition and is already making its presence known.

  My life is never dull, is it?

  What with housekeeping, worrying over bills, and dead rats rotting behind my walls, I really live a full life, don’t I?

  Refusing to think of such inanities, I ignore the weird smell in favor of checking my voicemail. In the cab, I noticed my cell had died so I plug it in, load it up and see there are messages from Eddie and Marina. Eddie’s concern leaps off the text, so I message her and tell I’m her fine, because before I call them with the good news—that my celibate state is no more—I want answers. My curiosity has most definitely been piqued.

  Retreating to my lounge, where my laptop is, I turn it on and wait for it to boot up. As it chugs away, I look at the mirror I’ve hung on the back wall of the room and study myself. Because internally, I feel like a brand new person, it comes as something as a shock to realize that I look no different. If a little rumpled. Okay, a lot rumpled. The dress is a complete write off and I do something I’ve never done before, outside of my bathroom that is.

  I pull the confining material over my head and wander in my bra and panties to my bathroom, where I tug on a dressing robe.

  Such ease with myself and my body might not last long, but even if it’s just for the morning, it feels very freeing.

  As I look in the bathroom mirror this time, with its harsh fluorescent light, I seek changes, because surely there’s something. Some change. But as far as I can tell, there’s no difference between the Mona of yesterday and the Mona of this morning. My green eyes haven’t matured with my sexual awakening. There’s no coquettish vamp hidden within their depth. It’s just me. Mona.

  I’m not sure if that disappoints me or relieves me.

  What I do know is that I feel better; inside and out. And while there are no radical changes, there’s a slight smile curving my lips. Almost like another famous Mona… this time, the Mona Lisa. Barely there, mysterious and teasing and all the while, hinting at what happened last night.

  When my computer plays a sound, telling me it’s loaded, I walk back to the lounge and sink on to my sofa. I instantly load up the internet and log into my E-book store. Determined to know more about Zane, I also type his name into a search engine and let the internet tell me the secrets I didn’t dare ask him last night.

  Typing in Zane’s name to the online bookstore this time, I wait for the search to be processed and grin when a list of forty books appears as well as a short biography. He’s more prolific than I thought.

  At first, as I read more about him, feeling naughty at learning about his past and background without his knowledge, that faint, mysterious smile gradually disappears.

  As I read the blurbs of his novels, purchase the newest one, the one he mentioned last night, Devil May Have and download it and then scour the internet for information about him, my incredulity grows.

  Any feelings of guilt for intruding into Zane’s past and present fade as my confusion explodes and with it, my hurt and my anger. When the phone rings, I blindly seek my cell with my hand, patting the cushions as I look sightlessly for it on the cushions. As my hands stumble to find the ringing phone, I’m on the brink of tears and while the tone endlessly churns away, I fail to hear it. I’m deaf to the irritating sound.

  It’s pathetic, wanting to cry for a man I don’t even know all that well, but I feel as though I’ve been knocked out. The more I read, the more astounded I am.

  Trying to match the Zane of last night with the Zane I’m reading about online… the two barely compute, but the pictures match. As does the history; he was in the Marines and he did serve three tours of duty in the Middle East. The last one brought him home ahead of time thanks to a blast that nearly took off his leg and did major damage to his spine. It was only by the grace of God that he could walk at all.

  The louse.

  As my eyes dredge over the endless source of information about him, my ears start to work again. My fingers eventually touch upon my cell. Answering the call, all of my focus on the laptop, I mutter with complete lack of interest in the caller, “Hello?”

  Only as I utter the word does terror fill me. What if it’s him? What if he saw my card and has decided to call me?

  Feeling sick at the idea, I mutter a silent prayer as Marina’s voice fills the sound waves. Relief crawls through me.

  At the same time, I wish it had been him.

  Maybe he could explain. Maybe he could tell me why he did what he did. Why he acted out such a pointless charade.

  “How was last night? Tell me every single detail! The filthier the better,” Marina bursts out, her glee weighing down every word so that it almost oozes with her satisfaction.

  Marina thinks it’s unnatural for human beings to be celibate. For the last few years or so, she’s paired me up with ridiculous matches, all in the hope that I’ll have sex.

  Now, I wish I’d just fucked the first guy she’d set me up with four years ago.

  Hell, I wouldn’t feel so frigging betrayed if I’d listened to her and hadn’t waited so goddamned long.

  “It was wonderful.”

  Even to me, it sounds unconvincing. Wooden as hell.

  Knowing Marina as I do, I know that she’ll be forcing herself not to frown. She has this thing about aging, but she doesn’t believe in fillers to erase the signs of time. As such, she tries to stop herself from making facial expressions.

  Marina’s quirks take a lot of getting used to. But once she’s your friend, she’s there for life and by that time, you’re used to her oddities and grow to love them.

  At this moment in time, I’m not feeling love for anyone.

  I’m feeling hurt. And I’m feeling dirty. As though I’ll never be clean again, because of the situation in which Zane has involved me.

  “Well, why don’t you sound like you’re happy? You should be dancing in circles! You’ve finally done it. The drought is over, bring on the wet season!”

  “He’s gay, Marina. Gay. So what the fuck was last night about? Some kind of experiment for him?” The words burst out with the staccato of a machine gun. Her silence after such exuberance is more telling than any word she can utter.

  Eventually, she grits out, “What do you mean he’s gay? You had sex with him, right?”

  “Yeah. I did. Lots of sex.”

  “Well, he can’t be gay then, can he? I suppose he could be bi, but how the hell do you even know that anyway? You can’t just sense these things, honey. Did he do something… weird?”

  “He’s a writer,” I croak out. “He told me his name early on in the evening and I’ve just looked online. His books are all LGBT. He’s really famous; he wrote a book that hit the mainstream and sold millions. He revolutionized the genre.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything,” Marina retorts, a huff of relief to her voice. She obviously believes that she has the solution to my problem. “I know a lot of women who write gay erotica. Gay erotica about men! It’s only fiction, Mona. And anyway
, he’s only a one-night stand. It doesn’t matter what he is. He popped your celibacy cherry and you can both go your separate ways now.”

  “Of course, it matters! I liked him. I wanted to see him again.”

  “Oh, honey, that’s not how these things work.”

  “I don’t care. Sometimes they work out the way they’re supposed to. I left him my card. I wanted him to call me again. I wanted to meet up with him.” I suck in a breath. “And he lied to me, Marina. By omission, but still, that’s a lie too, right?”

  “Yeah, but he didn’t make a solemn vow to you last night, Mona. He just fucked you. He made you no promises.”

  My mouth tightens as I glance at the picture I found on a news website. A picture of his wedding day. Zane dressed in a tux with a guy in a matching suit at his side. Two beautiful orchids, the color of sunlight, fill their buttonholes. My stomach churns at the happiness on their faces.

  What went wrong?

  Why did Zane spend the night with me if he’s gay? Gay and married?

  “He told me that he had no wife and kids, he forgot to mention that he’s in a civil union!”

  “Shit. He cheated on his husband?”

  “Yeah. With me!”

  “Look, I know you, Monie. You can’t let this get to you. If you do, then it will be another four years before you have sex again. You enjoyed yourself, right?”

  Feeling choked up and on the brink of tears, I press the heel of my hand to my left eye, keeping the right trained on a picture of Zane with his husband.

  His fucking husband.

  I don’t know what would feel worse.

  If it was a picture of him with his wife or this.

  I have nothing against gay people. My parents do, but I’m a full advocate of live and let live, because life is way too short to be miserable all the damned time. That’s why I left Georgia and made a new start for myself.

  But this?

  What the hell am I supposed to think?