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“As the lady wishes.”
She leans over me and takes the small jam jar from the breakfast spread, dips her finger into the pot, then swirls it around my nipples and dots little hits of strawberry from my sternum to my pubis. She eats them off so slowly I’m hard by the time she reaches my cock. Not that I was far off, but still. This isfuckinghard, notalmost therehard.
“Do you want me to ride you or suck you off?” She tucks her hair behind her ear, hovering over me like a nude pre-Raphaelite. “Or both?” She dips her finger in the jam once again and sucks her finger from the furthest knuckle to the tip.
“Again, as the lady wishes.”
“No.” She presses herself into my crotch, stroking with a hand that almost knows my want better than I do. “You get to tell me what you want. This isn’t the kind of relationship where you’re always caving to my needs. This is real life. Us. As equals. No barriers to who we are or what we want, when, or why. If you want me to tie you up and fuck your brains out, that’s what you say. If you want me to learn more Spanish and recite poems from García Lorca and Jorge Luis Borges and Pablo Neruda, that’s what you say. If you want me to layer you in stinging nettles and barbed wire, well…then we need to have a discussion, because my own tastes don’t tend that way, but I’m willing to work with you. Kind of.” She swallows my mouth with hers. “Not really. Tell me you’re not a masochist.”
I bite that place on her neck that she loves. “I am not a masochist.”
It takes a moment before she finishes laughing. “Thank goodness. You had me worried there for a second.” She pauses, her eyebrow arches. “So?”
“Suck me off.”
And she does.
SQUEAKY CLEAN
Mariano Arias. Bed. The Great House. The Cotswolds, England.
“Wake up!” Lolly’s hovering over me, but the blissed out face I saw before I nodded off has been replaced with one that’s creased with worry. And not the worry of trying to puzzle out my Spanish love words.
The newspapers are strewn across the floor. A quick inspection shows that they’re open to the sporting pages, but I can see nothing that would upset her so.
“Yeah, no. That was just me seeing if the threat was real.” She hands me a manilla envelope. “This came folded in the newspapers. I didn’t really think before I opened it.”
I fan the pictures over the bed. It’s me, no question. Behind the wheel of the Jaguar.
“That’s me.” She points to the top of a woman’s head, just out of frame, her red hair ablaze in the photo. “They had to have had a long lens. There was no one close enough to take that shot.”
“Is that it?”
“There was a note. Hang on.” She scrambles off the bed and lunges for her side table. “You’ve seen the rest, now see the best…”
It’s scrawled in ball point pen, but there’s nothing to identify the sender. No signature on the note or return address on the envelope. “I’m not worried. It’s creepy and stalkerish, but I’ve seen worse. Whenever Alex is on the front of one of the glossy magazines, the crazies come out of the woodwork.”
“But Alex Yanez—forgive me, I know you love your polo brothers—Alex courts disaster in order to make the headlines. You don’t. You’re squeaky clean. There’s nothing tosee, nothing tohang on you,nothing togababout. You’re not gossip-worthy, and I mean that in the best possible way. And what does it mean, ‘the rest?’ What ‘rest?’”
“Why are you so worried, Lolly?” I put the picture aside and draw her to me. She’s shaking.
“I’m so damn recognizable!” She gestures toward the flaming curls. “We’ve beenseenin public together; we were together at the photoshoot yesterday. It’sobviouswho I am.”
“I am the one who is obvious in this photo. I have only to say there are plenty of redheads in this country and it will all go away.”
“No. It doesn’t work like that. The British press—” She is shaking her head and hugging her arms around herself. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”
“No, tell me. What is wrong?”
“I’ve just…” She pushes me away. “I... I don’t want to talk about it.” She reaches to the floor and retrieves my shirt, wrapping it over her shoulders and cinching it tight in the front. “It was a long time ago. And it doesn’t matter anymore. Truly. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
I shift to my side of the bed, saddened that there’s already something she doesn’t want to talk about with me.
“I don’t want to spoil the mood. Here we are in a beautiful house with the best food we’ll get all day. Let’s just enjoy it.”
She’s right. The picture means nothing. Some sad human who wants no one else to have pleasure in their lives. “Shall I draw us a bath? I still have jam nipples.”
“Sounds good.” She still hasn’t shaken the funk that the picture evoked. What can I do to make it better? To chase the clouds away? “I do a decent impersonation of a dolphin, if that helps?” It’s something that never fails to make my sister laugh, so I rear back and squeak, flapping my hands together like fins.
