My body aches. It is an ache that reaches from my toes, toes that curled each and every time he made me come, to the follicles of my hair, hair he had wrapped around his thick fingers and pulled with such perfect timing. It hurt to even open my eyes, because opening them would mean that it was time for me to take my behind home.
Speaking of my behind...
Good Lord, this man and the things he has done to me. I can still feel the proof of where he has entered me, touched and tasted me. Just the thought makes my clit start to tingle, thoughts of specific moments, specific movements—the feeling of it all.
Internally, I shake my head in disappointment at myself. I do not love this man. This man does not love me. I am not his lover and he is not mine. We fuck. I fuck; and, I do not get fucked. I have to laugh at that last line though, because right now I feel so full and satisfied as I rest by his side—so full, so satisfied, and so absolutely fucked.
I open my eyes slowly, one and then the other. The beauty of the pale skin that stretches across the strength of his forearm, as it rests possessively over the warm chocolate glow of mine, is a contrast that says everything. It is not a commentary on race or even culture. No, it is not that. It is just that he and I are so damned different.
So it amazes me to no end when I wake up like this in his bed, in his home, and in his arms.
The misty half-light of a new day filters through the large picturesque windows of his bedroom and plays with my mind. It whispers things that make me hopeful and almost forget that falling for a man like Bartholomew McCullum is dangerous. Falling for a man like him is like being gifted with a shiny new dollar piece, one of the golden ones you have to ask for at the bank. Except this time, you did not request it. Like magic, it found you. That means something right? But like most things that find you, it is deeply flawed. This one has a hole in its center. You can feel the weight of it in the palm of your hand, but it will not buy you anything worth having. You just hang on to it because it's different, unique, yet still recognizable as something of importance. It found you. You want it and there is no reasonable explanation for the wanting.
I want to believe that his warm brown eyes, with their constant sparkle of mischief, could possibly look at me and see a future. I want that thick Scottish brogue of his to say my name in the sunlight and not just whisper it against my skin with the heat that makes me melt in the dark blanket of night.
My grandmother used to say, "You old enough for your wants not to hurt you." That was her way of saying no.
I have had my share of hurts from misled wants. That is why I have to get out of here, go home, get in my own bed and sleep. That is why I must tell myself no. I am old enough to not let my wants hurt me.
"No," is actually what I should have said when he ordered for me last night, as if he knows me better than I know myself. He ordered the food. He ordered the wine. He ordered me to remove my panties. I ate the food. I drank the wine. I removed my panties, then held them in my open palm like an offering before him and ran my tongue slowly across my upper lip before smiling—already growing wet between my legs.
Bartholomew likes to play games. Men like him thrive on it. Last night was a "date". After weeks of fucking like animals in heat with no promises or discussions of anything more, just delving into the demands of our want, he announced that he wanted more than moments. He said that he wanted us to spend some time together.
"Time?" The sound of it leaving his lips gave me pause. I raised one eyebrow and avoided his eyes.
His early warning to me still echoed in my mind. "I am by nature an unapologetically selfish man. I have been around for a while and I'm set in my ways. There is no room in my life for complications or much of anything else. I like to keep things simple."
He explained himself to me as I lay completely naked in the back seat of his car, his driver partitioned off and hopefully blind as well as deaf to what we had been engaged in. He described who he was and what he wanted just before slipping the dark, hardened nipple of my right breast into his mouth, latching on and pulling.
"Simple," I repeated dutifully, closing my eyes and letting my mind drift upon the wave he was creating.
At that moment, I wanted simplicity too. I simply wanted him to do the same exact thing to my left nipple.
Our moments have been in bathroom stalls with my legs held high, or against brick walls with the voices of others threateningly close. We had a moment once at the front of his foreign sports car that conveniently only seats two, with the head lights leaving us unhidden on a lonely road to some event left waiting for him—with me bent over, my breasts pressed against a hood still warm from a racing engine. That road and the hood of his car was a special moment. I loved the feel of his hands spread out and cupping my backside. His fingers pressing into my skin as he looked down, watching his engorged cock move in and out of my dark body.
Those were stolen moments that left me too lost in him to think about tomorrows.
Time is what he wants, his time and on his terms. Time will only reveal the inevitable. Nothing about me is simple, especially this craving that he has created. I am now a mess. Time will only make me an ugly mess, something to be avoided, my calls unanswered.
This mess started at an office where I was just a temp in the right place at the right time with the right skirt on. He, with his name on the outside of the building within which I worked, bent down in front of me. Like a true gentleman, in a suit that probably cost several months of my salary, he gathered the papers I had let clumsily fall to the floor as he passed by. His gaze started with the line of my calf and did not stop until his smiling brown eyes were boring into mine, with a fire so strong that I was immediately lit.
Last night was supposed to be the night I put an end to this mess. Oh, but I did not stop him when he squeezed the flesh of my inner thigh under the table. He leaned close to me and used the flat of his thumb to spread my own juices over my clit.
"Old man," I warned, already sounding a little breathless.
My legs were spread just right, for the easiest of access. Bart simply smiled that beautiful toothy smile that showcases how very sensual his own lips are. Why couldn't he have those thin lips that white men usually have that make women of color think that we could never kiss them? His smile made me want to kiss those lips as he applied pressure to my firm bud and slipped his middle finger deep into my wetness.
I made the tiniest of sounds and tried so hard not to look like I was coming as I came.
He ordered my favorite dessert and patiently watched as he insisted I eat it. All the while, he knew how badly I needed him to fuck me. He smiled wickedly at my want.
Now, Bartholomew moans lightly as I move him off of me gently. With the force of his eyes and the play of his face at rest, he looks younger. I call him old man because there are so many years between us. I think he must be losing his hair, but I would not know. His head is shaved smooth as a baby's bottom. His edged beard is clipped close as it forms a goatee and shades the space above his lips while not interfering with their beauty. He maintains himself exceptionally well. The only real indication of his age may be the lines at the outer corner of his eyes, lines that always make his eyes seem like they are smiling even when he is not. The graying of his facial hair only makes him look sexy as hell.
Looking at his bald head does that thing to my abdomen, that feathery feeling on my insides. I picture my hands running over its smoothness. I see it between my juicy thighs, like that first time in his office. My skirt was slid high on my waist and my legs over his shoulders as he sucked on my most sensitive spot. He drew my tender nub between his teeth ever so carefully as he flicked his tongue across its bared and unhooded face. I leaned back across his desk and made sounds that I'm sure had to be heard by everyone outside of that locked door. I didn't care. My body shook to its very core with the fierceness of my release. He would not ease up and his strong hands held me in place as I tried to escape. I came so hard. I thought I wet myself.
When he rose up, his lips shiny with my pussy's juices, I kissed him for the first time and tasted my own sweetness on his tongue. I was nothing but want then. I undid his belt and pants in a frenzy of need. I caught my breath at the sight of how beautiful his cock was in my hands. The helmet was so mouthwatering and seeping with his response. His shaft was so thick and lined with veins, I thought I felt them pulsating in my hands. I guided him into me and held my breath as he stretched me wide.
"Mr. McCullum," I whined.
"Bartholomew," he corrected me, his voice heavy and his accent a caress in itself.
He plunged so deep into me with one swift movement. He fucked me so thoroughly that day. When he was done, Bartholomew stepped back and watched me with a smile as my legs still quivered uncontrollably. When I was finally able to stand, I could feel his molten cum running down my legs. I had to wait for my body to recover enough to walk away with any type of balance.
He created a want in me that day that just will not go away or lessen in its intensity. Every touch just makes me want more.
I need to go home.
