I smile politely, responding to the man, and feel the rough heat of Stewart’s hand, sliding up my dress, and hear his intake of breath when he finds my lack of panties.
We leave the event early, Stewart declining invitations for cigars, blaming my lightheadedness for our early departure. He pulls me by the hand, his steps clipped, my heels skittering to keep up. We push through the lobby doors and into the cool night air, the valet ready with his car, the intense look on his face as he shuts my door sending shivers through my body.
The engine roars as he accelerates, out of the garage, his hand fumbling for and unbuckling my seatbelt as he turns onto the road, the traffic light. “I need your f**king mouth on me. Now.” He loosely grips my hair and pulls as I climb my torso over the center console, my hands quickly undoing his belt, his erection strong against the expensive fabric.
He grunts when I have it out, my hand gripping it, my mouth on it before he can speak, pr**um salty and sweet on my tongue, proof of his arousal. His hand pushes my head, pushing me down on it, and exhales as I take him. “Jesus, Madison.” His voice breaks, almost as if on a cry, the need so strong, his hand shaking as he cups the back of my head. “I couldn’t f**king think in there. Knowing what you were doing, knowing what you had done. My sweet f**king girl, full of another man.” He thrusts upward on the final word, his sentence ending harshly, thick with competition.
I suck, hard and fast, my hand aiding me, the push and pull of his hand setting the tone, my mouth doing the rest. And it doesn’t take long. He is so ready, so primed for me, three hours of buildup turning my steel man into a mess of want and desire. It is gorgeous when he comes.
gasping my name
thrusting into my mouth
twitching, spurting, more and more
draining down my throat, spilling out around my hand
I gag, I gulp and he says my name
over and over
his thighs flexing beneath me
his grip tight on my hair
His car flies into the portico of his building and he slams on brakes, shoving the car into park, groaning for air as both hands come down on my head, pushing himself up into my mouth for one last thrust, one last drop. Then he pulls me back, lifting under my arms and dragging me across the center, until my dress rides up and my ass is on his cock, his arms encasing me, as I curl into a ball against his hard chest. A chest that is heaving, his heart pounding beneath his skin, his arms wrapping tightly, strongly, around my body. “God...” he whispers. “You are my f**king kryptonite.” He leans down, pressing soft kisses on my hair and forehead, his hand releasing me and cradling my face, turning it up to his, and kissing me fully and deeply on the lips. “I love you Madison. For everything.”
And that is how it is. I f**k Stewart, I f**k Paul, and they both know about it. And the more I f**k one, the more turned on the other gets. The more competitive, aggressive, loving, they become. It is a constant, whirling sea of sex. I love it, and they love it. They don’t need to know who the other is. That would take it a step too close, a step too real. It is better that it is a nameless, faceless individual. And I appreciate keeping the worlds separate. I have fantasies, sure. Of having them both at the same time. Their hands on my body, their competing cocks battling over my skin. But that just seems too messy. And I don’t want to do anything to disrupt the perfection that is us. The three of us. Living two separate relationships.
I get that you don’t understand. That you wonder how someone could possibly be aroused, turned on by the thought of something so forbidden. But often, it is the forbidden that is the hottest, and the depraved that is the most arousing.
TORRENCE, CA
DANA
It is unhealthy, this obsession I have with Stewart’s love life. Why should it matter who he dates? Why do I care if the blushing blonde on his arm is a flavor of the week or a future wife? I should return to my life, return to my empty condo and my stacks of work. I should not care whether he is happy or lonely, a workaholic or a loving boyfriend. But of course I care. I will always care, I will always love him, and I will always watch out for him. He is my Stewart.
And the blonde from the bookstore—if she is a flavor of the week, she has stretched her flavor into months. Some may call it stalking, some might call it love, but I have continued to watch them from afar. I see her leave his building, her long legs in cutoff shorts and flip flops, her friendly smile to the valet one of familiarity as she catches the keys and slips into her expensive convertible. I’ve followed her onto the freeway, the woman driving recklessly, quickly losing me in traffic as I attempted to use a blinker, maintain a safe speed, and not nose dive beneath the tread of an eighteen-wheeler. She was gone, the white car whipping into the glare of the California sun, headed east, my sleuthing attempt a disaster. Except for her tag number. I wrote it down, with no clear idea of what to do with it.
Maybe he is happy. I hope he is. I called him this afternoon. But again, as it has been for three years, he did not answer.
LUNADA BAY, RANCHO PALOS VERDES
CRUSHER: Someone who surfs hard,
as if they have nothing to lose
and no fear inside.
MADISON
Lunada Bay is Paul’s favorite place to surf, the waves so high they take your breath away. It is also one of the most contested spots to stick your board in at. It’s located in Rancho Palos Verdes, which is pretty much where all rich white people money goes to die. Colossal mansions sit oceanfront, with manicured lawns and Mercedes that stare out onto waves that kill at least one surfer a year. The local surfers are territorial, running off tourists with sharp voices often backed up by fists, keeping the waves uncluttered and the beach sunbather free. In the ‘90s, a local television crew was attacked, broken bottles and fists causing blood and bruised egos to scamper back up the slippery slope to the road, their broadcasts interrupted by a trip to the ER. But they allow Paul. They are in awe of him, as am I—his effortless conquer of the waves, his ability, no matter how rough or dangerous a spill, to resurface in the froth. But he wasn’t always allowed. I have seen his scar. A long, thick knot of tissue where some spoiled rich kook slashed his side in an attempt to protect this jewel-encrusted strip of beach. Paul returned the next day, and battled waves while bleeding through thirty-four stitches. After that, they accepted him as their own, and, when I came into his life, welcomed me with sunburnt smiles.
Today the waves are almost twelve feet. Surfers measure from the back, so a twelve foot wave is actually, from the shore, twenty-four feet in height, a huge wall of dark water, rising like a beast before curling and crashing onto whatever surfer is foolish or unlucky enough to be in its’ grasp. I look for Paul, look for his red board, not seeing his head bobbing among the riders. My arms tighten, my eyes scanning slowly, then quickly, my mind trying to recount the last time I saw him.