Best Erotic Romance 2013 Page 9

  We’d kissed once, but not like this. Our tongues explore like they never did before, and this time I want to believe there is presence, intention and no fear at all. We break away, both gasping for air, and I resist the urge to start talking. Instead, I reach up and push his coat off his shoulders as I press myself against him and we kiss again. I try not to compare this kiss to my last from Rick, and luckily, time has helped fade those memories, as I’ve tried to live more in the here and now. But a worry creeps in. I lean back and look at him.

  “Tom, this isn’t just pity, is it?”

  From the look on his face, I fear that not only have I hurt his feelings, but I’ve blown my chance of finally getting into bed with him. Just like me: never knowing when to leave well enough alone. I start to pull away, but he holds on.

  “Diane, I know my behavior before hurt you. I was confused, and that confusion led me to send so many mixed messages it’s not even funny. I’m sorry for that. But I’m not sorry about asking to see you today, and I’m not sorry for coming back here with you, and I’m not sorry for kissing you. I don’t think it’s pity that has me standing here with you in my arms. Yes, there is uncertainty; I won’t deny that. But I’ve always wondered ‘what if?’ What if I was wrong to turn you down? I’ve not been with anyone in a long time, and part of the reason is that.”

  I lean my head against his chest. I’m trying to decide what to do. Part of me wants to talk this all out, but the part that knows he will be gone all too soon wants me to just shut up and go with it. I’m not sure which is angel and which is devil. Both have gotten me in so much trouble, I no longer listen to either.

  “I may regret this, but could you not run off right now? Do you have the time to…” I don’t finish the sentence. How can I say “…to stay here and fuck my brains out?” Because in all honesty, that’s what I want. I’ve been alone too long and while my toys are okay, I don’t want to pass this chance up.

  “I would love to.” Tom says this so matter-of-factly that I’m surprised. I want to ask him what happened with him in the years since our dalliance, but instead we’re kissing again. His hands wander my back and I mentally follow their trails.

  I’ve imagined this, but always in that just-sorta-kinda way that leaves room for the real thing to be better. Or at least different without disappointing. And Tom must notice the detachment that comes from my own observation of us, because he stops and asks “You there?”

  “Of course. Well…” I’m trying not to break into tears. Everything we’ve ever said to each other is ticker-taping through my head. So much for the here and now. I feel Tom’s arms come away from around me and my heart sinks. I hang my head and let the tears finally fall. Then I feel his hands on my cheeks, raising my face. He actually kisses my tears away. I’m dumbfounded. What? This is not the same Tom who used to tune out whenever I’d break into tears before.

  His lips meet mine again, and I taste the salt. Something has broken open in me and as we kiss, I finally let go of the fear that has gripped me despite my denial of it. I had made him, in my head, something that he wasn’t, and so was never really able to experience him just as he is. Now I kiss him with beginner’s mind. Or what I imagine that’s like. I’ve never been very Zen.

  And yes, I can feel the pulse in his lips. I’m not crazy. I move my hands to the sides of his chest, slide them down over his ribs to the softness at his waist. I feel the smoothness of his shirt, the slight ripples of his undershirt, and then the warmth of his skin. I want to feel his bare skin.

  “Let’s go upstairs.” I say this in a hush, as if to voice it too loudly would break some spell, and I will just have been imagining all this: this day, Tom’s presence, these kisses, my renewed desire.

  I take his hand and lead him to the stairs. I do this consciously, the last remnant of my questioning, knowing that if he drops his hand away, I’ll know this is not the right thing. But he does not let go as we start up, turn at the landing, and climb the rest of the way to the loft bedroom. I’ve never brought someone up here before, and the weightiness of this decision fills me as I turn to him.

  We are both awkward and tentative at this moment, as we decide where to start. There is no passionate tearing of clothes, though I long to see him naked. I reach for the top button of his shirt and begin unbuttoning with trembling fingers. He smiles, takes my hands in his, kisses them then undoes the rest of the buttons himself. In this way he lets me know that he wants this too. As he removes his shirt, I reach up and touch his chest, the few hairs peeking out at the neck of his undershirt, then kiss his breastbone. I can hear his heartbeat speed up, and I smile to myself.

  He reaches for the waist of my turtleneck and pulls it up over my head. My hair flies with static, and I laugh, smoothing it down. I realize I’m not wearing the most attractive bra, since I did not anticipate undressing. But when he slips a strap off my shoulder and kisses my neck, I forget all that. I can feel the rush again, that swelling, and without thinking, I reach down and press my hand against my crotch. Yes, I am alive.

  Then I turn my hand and feel for him. I’d always wanted to and never did before. Now I can feel his cock hardening into my hand and I press against his pants. He lets out an, “Ohhhh,” and all my hesitation is gone. I squeeze, then reach for his belt. We help each other out of our clothes. I have some momentary shyness when he undoes the clasp of my bra and my breasts reveal their lack of youthful perkiness, but as he cups them and takes a nipple in his mouth, kissing and suckling, I find I don’t care. As he savors me, I realize how much I have missed lips. And tongue. His is flicking against my hardened nipple while his lips slide back and forth over my areola, and I hold his head, kiss the crown of it with such emotion that I almost begin crying. But I don’t.

  Instead, I remove the last item of his clothing, sliding his boxers over the curve of his ass to release his lovely penis. I kiss the tip then run my tongue over my lips to taste the little drop they’d gathered from him. I feel another rush between my legs, and as I take him in my mouth, I reach down and slide my fingers inside myself, reveling in the moistness that I find there. I feel Tom’s hands under my arms, lifting me, and we move to the bed.

  We stretch out on our sides, facing, and just let our hands wander over each other’s body. Again, I feel shy, but just for a moment. He caresses my curves, lingering on those places—the side of my breast, the slight bulge above my belly button, my ample ass—that I was afraid would turn him off. When he reaches between my legs and caresses my vulva, now full and wet, with the same gentle fervor, I am reassured. My hand caresses his lips, his neck, the sparse hairs on his chest, his hip, his knees, his thigh, the slight paunch of his belly and finally the slim hardness of his cock, straining toward me. Here is the proof I need of his desire.

  I raise up, push him onto his back and proceed to worship cock in a way I haven’t had the opportunity to do for far too long. I am like a famished person as I use lips, tongue, hands and fingers to devour him. He tangles his fingers in my hair and I will him to pull, just hard enough. He does.

  His hips are pumping up and down, and his breath is coming in gasps. I want to continue, to suck him till he spurts into my throat, but my cunt is just as hungry, and I frantically crawl till I’m poised above him. His eyes are closed, and I study his face as I slowly press down onto him. I am filled and almost overcome with emotion, so I hold still, just feeling him inside me. As I begin moving, he opens his eyes, and we smile at each other and both laugh. All this angst, and now we find we fit together so well. Joy takes over our lovemaking. It is everything and nothing like what I imagined.

  We both know we won’t last long, it being so long since last encounters, but we don’t fight it. Tom holds on to my ass with strong hands and clasps me to him as he comes. As soon as I feel him loosen his grasp, I start sliding back and forth on him until I cry out. My orgasm comes in strong but muted waves, and I tremble with aftershocks. As we pull apart, we both lie back panting. We are not young anymore, that’
s for sure. I wonder if this is a beginning, or just a one-time thing. Before I can let my mind begin wandering those dark, back alleys, Tom leans over me and kisses the soft rolls of my belly.

  We don’t talk for some time, just cuddle and giggle. I’m not sure where the laughter is coming from, maybe from the release of pent-up years of whatever has been arcing between us. Eventually we get up and begin the separating that is necessary today. We snack on some cheese and bread. We both shower, though not together. Would that be too intimate? He has his meeting to get to and I have my reading to prepare for. We don’t talk about the future.

  Before he leaves, I finish signing his book, simply, with Love, Diane and we share just a quick kiss in the courtyard before he heads away. Wondering if I’ll see him again or if I’ll just head home, I go to check email and gather my wits. I change my mind a couple of times about which passage I’ll read tonight. I change my outfit five times.

  Later, I’m at the bookstore, talking with the owner and glancing at the larger-than-expected audience. I fiddle with my scarf, red against my gray sweater dress, a little bit of daring with the staid. I’m introduced, and as I step up to the podium, I glance out at the audience, hopeful. But he’s not there. I guess his meeting did not end in time. Oh, well. I begin reading, and lose myself in the words. As I finish, I look around, and there is Tom, in the back, smiling and applauding.

  After the signing and chitchat, during which he simply browsed the bookshelves, we hug, like always. I wonder if the weirdness is back, but then he asks:

  “So, what are you doing tomorrow morning? And tonight?”

  CUTTING OUT HEARTS

  Kristina Lloyd

  There’s something about the butcher, and I like it. I visit on Fridays for four of his specialty sausages and during the week, if I’m feeling extra brave, I might pop in for a pie at lunchtime. Sometimes I wait outside the shop till it’s busy so I can join the queue and watch him work. He has big, ruddy hands and moves with a hefty, careless grace, his striped red apron wrapped around his bulk. I stand in line, my pulse rising as my turn draws close, and all the time he’s slicing ham, scooping up offal and using silver tongs to drape steaks on the scales.

  “What can I get you?” he’ll ask, his smile a little tired.

  You can tell he likes his meat.

  I want to be his meat, to be flipped this way and that, slapped on the rump, and treated with merry disregard. I do not want to be a little cake as I am for my husband.

  I doubt anything would have come of it if I hadn’t been invited to a screening preview at the Roxy by my friend, Ness, who’s a freelance journalist for local property mags. We were having drinks and nibbles when I spotted him, glass of blood-red wine in hand, chatting to a cluster of people all smaller than him. His head was strong and smooth, shaded by close-cropped hair, and under a dark gray suit, he wore a crisp white shirt, his tie fatly knotted and colored like July skies. Odd to see him out of context. Now, without the barrier of the meat counter between us, there was nothing to leap over but the barrier of my morals and shyness.

  I couldn’t leap. Not me.

  He caught me looking and I glanced away. Minutes later, from the corner of my eye, I saw the shape of him gliding toward us. Should I turn and smile? Would he even know who I was? No, of course not. He served hundreds of people each week. What was distinct about me?

  I opted not to acknowledge him. Too embarrassing to be met with a blank expression when my heart was going thumpety-thump. I tried focusing on the conversation in front of me. He was probably going to edge past us and talk to someone far more interesting. But the size of him grew larger and, oh, holy Moses, there he was by my side, big, raw hand thrust out in greeting. I had no choice but to turn.

  “Will,” he said. His eyes sparkled, China blue chipped with gray.

  Will I what? I thought, slipping my hand into his cool, confident grip. I feigned polite uncertainty. “Susanna Miles,” I said.

  “You’re one of my regulars,” he said. “Will. From Choice Cuts on Chessell Street.”

  “Oh, of course!” I replied. “I didn’t recognize you. I’m so sorry.” I knew I ought to introduce him to the people I was with but I hardly knew them myself, and besides I didn’t want to.

  “So what brings you here?” he asked.

  I turned to face him more fully and told him about Ness’s job, trying not to burble as I thought of him sharpening knives in a vicious place, mists of chilled air veiling metal hooks and sheets of plastic. I didn’t know if he did that kind of thing but his potential to do so made me afraid and desirous.

  A young guy circling with a tray of finger-food approached us. Will passed on the offer and so did I. He wasn’t the type to eat nibbles and I wasn’t the type to attempt food in front of a man who made my throat tighten with nerves.

  “And you?” I asked, bouncing his question back.

  “We supplied the caterers at the last minute. I was given a ticket. Looking forward to the film?”

  And then we were away, chatting with increasing ease, and my wedding ring was growing heavier by the second. Heavier still when conversation moved to teenage memories of sneaking into over-eighteen films and kissing in the back row. He laughed heartily at a weak anecdote I told of getting my false birth date wrong when quizzed by the cashier. I remembered Neil Wilson trying to shove his hands into my jeans as we wriggled in our velvet chairs; remembered how ashamed I’d felt to want his greedy fingers, knowing I couldn’t let him because he’d boast to his friends and among them, I’d no longer be the person I wanted to be. They would laugh at my failing. I didn’t mention this, of course, but the guilt and longing from two decades past animated the confused, desperate emotions the big butcher inspired.

  When the speakers blared that the film would start in ten, Will said, “You free afterward?”

  I had to stop myself from checking over my shoulder. Who me? You mean you’re actually interested in me? I shook my head, blushing. I flashed my left hand. “I’m married,” I said, mentally adding, And I’ve just realized I haven’t loved him for over three years and he and I are crawling through a desert, parched of feeling, trapped by the vastness of the time we’re meant to stay together, forever and ever, till death do us part. But this, my life now, it’s death, it’s a living death.

  Will shrugged. “Just a drink.”

  I smiled. “Okay, just a drink, a quick one.”

  I saw next to nothing of the film. A couple fought on a stone bridge in lamp-lit darkness and he said, “I’d die for you. I will always die for you. Don’t do this to me, please.” Tears burned my eyes because I understood I wanted someone to destroy me, or at least destroy the woman I’d become so I could be rebuilt for life before it was too late. I remembered asking my husband, before he became my husband, “How would you feel if I was having an affair?”

  He’d said, “I couldn’t feel anything if I didn’t know about it. Like when the tree falls in the forest and no one’s there. Does it actually fall? I wouldn’t know if you made sure I never found out.”

  I used to admire his philosophical logic, but now I think, What a cold fish of a man I married.

  I recalled another time, years later, discussing distant friends of ours who were experimenting with an open relationship. “Do you think it’ll work?” I’d asked.

  “I imagine it’s feasible if there’s no emotional involvement, if the heart is out of the equation.”

  He made it sound so simple, as if you could cut out your heart, pop it under the plant pot and retrieve it when you got back home.

  After the film, I said good-bye to Ness and, playing safe, met Will on a corner outside the Roxy. I didn’t feel as awful about it as I should have but I guess that’s the way with adultery. If it felt mainly awful, who would do it? For the most part, I was carried along by the momentum of desire, thrilled beyond all imaginings. This man likes me and I like him! And yes, as we met on the corner, it was definitely adultery, in my heart if not yet in deed.


  We went to a bar we both liked but it was packed with men watching football on the big screen. “Ah, I forgot about the match,” said Will. “It’ll be the same everywhere. I don’t live far away. And I’ve a good Pétrus I’ve been itching to open. How’s that?”

  How’s that? Wonderful and utterly terrifying. We might end up having sex like that lonely, old tree falling in its forest. I wasn’t even sure I knew how to have sex with someone other than my husband.

  “I’d need to be home by midnight,” I said.

  “Of course,” he said. “Just a drink.”

  Oh, the lies we tell ourselves.

  His kitchen was magnificent, the sort that might feature in one of Ness’s magazines: granite worktops, halogen spotlights, acres of space and a double-drainer sink. A triple row of knives and cleavers glinted on one wall, and at the room’s center was a large pine table with curvy legs, its surface scored with marks. Likes to socialize, I thought. Well, that’s probably good.

  He selected a bottle from a wine rack, his hands gripping its neck. I hovered, not knowing what to do. When he took two glasses from an overhead cupboard, I joined him, spreading my fingers over the base of my glass as he opened the wine like a waiter, regular corkscrew and a muscular withdrawal.

  The cork gave a dull pop, a starting gun for seduction.

  I’m doing this, I thought as Will poured. I’m flirting with intent. Oh, sweet whoever’s up there, strike me down with a pitchfork.

  “Chin chin,” he said, as we clinked glasses.

  I drank, not knowing what to say. I was about to admire his kitchen when he said, “You often look sad. You know that?”

  My heart dropped. “Do I? I don’t mean to.”

  “You mean to hide it?”

  “Guess I didn’t know I looked sad.” I shrugged. “Maybe that’s just how my face is.”

  He walked away to put on a CD. Sound system in the kitchen, the heart of his home. I stayed leaning by the granite counter because I hadn’t been invited to sit down. When he returned, he said, “You don’t look sad now.”