At 11:23 a.m., I turned past the historic fig trees. The gate opened. I pulled the Honda in and parked next to the Jag. I checked my face in the mirror and went up to the porch. I dropped my bag and knocked. Waited. As I was about to knock again, the gate clattered closed. The button for the gate was just behind the front door, so he must have been there. I had no idea how long he’d make me stand outside. Patience was always a part of his game.
The door opened. His hair was brushed back and clean, his face shaved. He wore a tan polo that was tight in the arms, accentuating his hard, smooth biceps. His jeans hung on his hips as though they were made for him. And the motherfucker had the nerve to wear a belt.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” he said. His eyes, however, didn’t look sore at all. He looked as if nothing ever touched him. I had no idea how he did that.
“Are you okay?” I asked. “I was worried.”
“I’m fine. It’s going to be fine.”
I had been waiting to hear that before I dealt with the other issue that had kept me from eating and sleeping for two days. “Then, what the fuck?”
“What the fuck, what?”
I crossed my arms. “What. The. Fuck. Jonathan.”
He put his fingertips on my jaw and slid them to the side of my neck. I sighed at his caress. His thumb brushed my cheek, his pinkie tickling the sensitive part of my throat. I involuntarily tilted my head into him.
“Your safe word?” he said.
“Tange-fucking-rine. Now explain—”
He grabbed the hair at the back of my head and yanked me to my knees. I lost my breath, the motion was so sharp and hard. I was kneeling in a second, and he flipped his pants open in a few swift moves. His dick was rigid and straight at my lips, glistening with a drop of liquid.
I had told him about that fantasy the night I gave him the list that became a song. He said he wouldn’t fulfill it until I trusted him. I closed my mouth tight.
“Open,” he commanded.
I turned my eyes to him, his cock in the foreground of my vision. His face bent toward me. He slapped his dick against my lips, twisting my hair. I opened my lips to tell him to fuck himself, but I was unprepared for the ferocity with which he jammed his cock down my throat. I choked, gagged.
He didn’t stop. He grabbed my hair with his other hand and pivoted me, controlling me, owning me. I felt as if he wanted me off balance and uncomfortable, held up not by my knees, but by the knots of hair in his fists that shifted my head where his cock wanted. I opened my mouth and throat and let him take me. I made noises there were no letters for. Spit ran down my chin, and when I looked up at him, he gazed back with fierce intensity. He took his dick out of my mouth.
“You fucked her,” I said.
“No, I didn’t.”
“You lie.”
He pushed me into the house. “Hands and knees.”
I fell, but I scooted myself to standing. I backed away. My breath rasped from the facefuck I’d just endured. “Say it. You and Jessica.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You. Lie.”
He pushed me against the wall, hard. I pushed him away.
“Pick your skirt up” he said.
“Admit it.”
“Pick your skirt up, Monica.”
“Admit it.”
He took my shoulders and twisted me to face the wall, inches from a Mondrian. We had agreed to all of it, more or less, at the hotel in Vancouver. Hours of making that boundary list on the couch, and one scenario we embraced was that sometimes I’d fight him, and I’d use the safe word if shit got too intense or painful. Right then, I wanted to fuck him as much as I wanted to resist. I’d longed for him for two days, hovering somewhere between rage and panic.
He yanked up my skirt, pushing me against the wall with his other hand. “What am I admitting?”
“The cops said you hit Jessica with a belt and fucked her.”
“They lied to get you to talk.”
“Fuck. You.” He moved my panties aside, jammed his fingers in my cunt, and flicked my clit with his pinkie. “First chance you get, you cheat.” I moaned.
“You’re so fucking wet, Monica.” He pulled my hair until my neck was twisted so I could face him. “You wouldn’t be if you believed that.”
“They didn’t pick you up for nothing.”
“What if I did fuck her? You left me.”
The thought made me so angry I flung my arm back and hit him in the face. He threw me over the sideboard, bumping a little bronze sculpture of stacked squares and knocking over a picture of his sisters. His dick pressed against my ass, hard, hot, and ready. One of my shoes fell off.
“They said they had audio,” I cried, face wet with tears. “They have pictures of her ass. It’s welted. You did it. Just say it.”
“It.” He pulled my panties down to mid-thigh.
“You fucked her.”
“I showed her what she was asking for.” He slid his cock in me as if he had an engraved invitation, fucking me as though he owned me.
“God, Jonathan,” I cried, tears forming. “Why? Why don’t I mean anything to you?” I didn’t say “no” or “stop” because even though we had a safe word, I knew him. If I told him to stop, he would, and the pounding I was getting was the pounding I wanted.
He slapped against me with every word. “I. Didn’t. Touch. Her.”
“Liar.” I swung back, trying to hit him. My reward was having my arm twisted behind my back so I couldn’t move it.
“What did you tell them, Monica? You told them I spanked you, too.”
“I said it was consensual. I don’t lie.”
“Good for you.” He let my arm go but pressed my face to the tabletop so hard I couldn’t move. He changed his angle and fucked hard and slow for a few strokes, pushing me down. The lacquer bit my nostrils. Pleasure was overtaking me, overwhelming my better sense.
That was what I wanted, wasn’t it? I wanted to get fucked, but I didn’t want to want it. I wanted his cock, and I wanted it hard, without the responsibility of asking for explanations. He pulled my hair again, yanking my head to the side so I could see him.
“I want to see you come,” he said.
“Go fuck yourself,” I replied breathlessly.
“Put your hand on your cunt.”
I twisted, resisting the order, and he used the torque to drag one leg out of my panties. He put that leg over his shoulder while the other stayed on the tabletop. My other shoe fell with a clop. I lay on my side while he stood, shifting to straddle the leg that wasn’t over his shoulder.
“Now.” He put his thumb in his mouth and made a wet, sucking pop as he pulled it out. He pressed it to my clit.
“Oh, God.”
He pounded me hard. The photo bounced off the sideboard and crashed to the floor.
“I said I want to see you come,” he gasped, taking my pussy with his dick.
“Fuck. I hate you, fucker.” I swung at him with my free hand, but he caught it before I struck him. He pinned it to my ankle with his strong fingers. “I hate you.” It sounded like a plea.
“Well,” he said, a word for each stroke, “I. Love. You.”
He kissed my cheek, and everything in me tightened around him as his cruel thumb pressed, twisted, rubbed my clit. He grunted against my cheek. He pinched the fleshy nub, pushing and pulling in opposite directions. I came like a gunshot, a crack of a scream exploding from my throat. I begged him to stop, but he kept rubbing, and I kept coming until my cries must have sounded far more like pain than pleasure. Jonathan pulled his face from mine, circling his hips as he groaned a long mmm sound.
He was coming, and I loved him. Fucker.