I Love My Secret (Nicole's Erotic Romance) Page 7

  I shower fast, wash my hair and leave the long curls hanging wet past my shoulders. A robe is pulled on, with nothing underneath it. After a gallon of moisturizer gets rubbed all over, some makeup’s applied to cover the demon’s ravaging, and I’m done swishing around about ten gallons of Listerine, I’m good as I’m ever gonna be. I walk fast to the kitchen, the clock ticking, and slap some peanut butter on my toast, shoving it in my mouth and following it with about eighty-nine gallons of water. My mouth is so dry, I have no choice. Popping some grapes in my mouth, and a few slices of green apple (good for breath), and I’m feeling pretty good. But just in case, I put a little lube down below. Jason isn’t small, after all, and I’ve been dehydrated for days.

  The knock at the door tells me it’s show time. Let’s see if he can tell if anything’s been wrong…

  “Hi,” Jason says, looking super sexy in hip-hugging gray jeans, a white shirt, a darker gray leather jacket and a sexy hat.

  “Hey,” I say, my voice low and sultry. I didn’t know until I saw him how much I needed him to come over.

  “You just shower?” he asks, walking up to me and picking up some of my hair. “Your hair is wet.”

  “It’s not the only thing on me that’s wet.”

  “Is that right?” he says, his eyelids half-fallen as he closes in to kiss me. I smile, sliding my arms around his neck. This man won’t turn me down. And he sure as shit isn’t married. That knowledge is delicious.

  “Mmhmm. Apparently I’m happy to see you,” I whisper.

  “I’m happy to see you, too. And someone else is, too.” He pushes his hips against mine, the soft silk of my robe slides against my freshly cleaned skin and the wisp of fabric does nothing to hide the hot growing bulge that’s trying to open his zipper on its own.

  “He is happy, isn’t he?” I purr.

  He says in a low throaty growl, “Getting happier by the second.”

  “Mmmmm.” I open my mouth and wait for his kiss. He attacks me with the heat of a wild man, sliding his hands all over and kissing me like he’s making up for lost time. I’m lifted up, robe falling off one shoulder, and as he carries me to the kitchen, he gnaws on it like it’s dinner.

  “Bedroom is boring,” he mumbles into my neck, setting my ass on the edge of the counter just in front of the sink and grabbing the outside of my smooth thighs and wrapping them around his hips. “You taste so good, woman. You’re better than oxygen.” You can’t taste oxygen, but I get his meaning.

  I grab onto his back, pull his shirt off over his head, look into his eyes and say simply, “Jason.”

  He gets it – my apology for calling him another man’s name – and he hears me, really hears me. He’s on me heavier and harder than he ever has been, taking off my robe so fast he rips it. He yanks down his zipper and unleashes his steel-hard cock. I moan and claw down his back as he slides it into me, my pussy so eager for him that he has little problem coaxing me to accept all of him with a few shorts nudges. He’s slightly curved upward, like some lucky cocks are, and he hits my elusive g-spot until I feel like I might pee all over him, the sensation is so strong. I know from experience this is just the way it feels – so it doesn’t freak me out, like the first time I felt it. He grabs me by my hair and pulls on it, thrusting into me with a smooth hard burst of strength from his chiseled hips. He leans down and presses his teeth against my neck, massaging it with his mouth, his lips, his teeth. The slippery hammering his cock is giving me, combined with my ass rubbing along the counter feels so good.

  “Jason. Pull my hair harder.” He weaves his fingers into the moisture of my curls and gets a better grip; giving it a sweet little tug at the same time he presses his cock in. It’s not pain. More like ownership, like in the cave man days. I’m all about it and I shiver as he fills me again and again, each time giving a little tug. All the while biting my neck in the slowest most sensual way.

  “Baby, Nicole… you’re so tight. So wet. I could just fuck you all night long,” he groans against my skin.

  “Then why don’t you,” I moan.

  He pushes in deeply, and I reach back and turn on the water, cupping some in my hand and smearing it on his chest like its paint. He flinches at the cold and his eyes get hot and smoldering. I do it again, more water this time. He reaches back to the running faucet and takes some of his own, wipes it down the length of my back, grasping me and sliding around as his tongue touches mine and his cock presses in and out of me. I kiss him from a place I’ve never come from before, in a way that makes him growl hard into my mouth. His cock slams fuller. He grabs onto my ass, then my thighs, licking my tongue as he rams me faster, smooth and skilled… pulling almost all the way out every time, before he slides back in me. I sigh and moan against his mouth.

  Feeling needed like this, the way he looks at me, pulls and tugs at me – it makes me not want him to pull out. I don’t want to separate or be left. “I want to feel you come, Jason. I want to feel you…don’t pull out, okay?” I whisper against his lips, my eyes looking into his as he fucks me.

  “But baby… I’m not wearing a condom…”

  I smile against his lips. “I know. I want to feel you splashing inside of me. Won’t that feel good?”

  He blinks some more and slows down the motions a bit… pulling his head back so he can see me better. “Are you on the pill?”

  I nod. Isn’t everyone? But he isn’t convinced. He slows to a stop and says, “Nicole… I’m sorry. I can’t. I just… I can’t do that.”

  “Why?” I ask, getting pissed.

  “Because what if …”

  “What if I’m lying? You don’t trust me?” I’m wondering if I should push him out of me or not.

  “I trust you… it’s just that…” he flounders for a better answer.

  “Jason! How long have you known me? Do you really think I’d try and make you be a father by design? You know me better than that. Get off of me.”

  He pulls out and looks sheepish. “I’m sorry. It’s just, you women go crazy sometimes and want kids and…” His dick is deflating. As it should.

  “I’m not having kids without a father at least wanting to be around!” I pull my busted robe over my body and shake my head and finger at him as I walk to the living room. “You’re crazy. I just wasn’t feeling the pulling out thing and since we have a no-condom agreement…”

  “…Well, yeah. We only use condoms with other people. We’ve been hooking up for a long time,” he says, following me, pulling up his pants and leaving them half-zipped.

  “Yeah! Which means you should know that I’m not lying about being on the pill! People who think you’re lying are usually liars, themselves. So… are you lying about using condoms with other women?” I demand. Then I see his half-open fly. “And zip that fly up. You think we’re going to be using it again? You must be out of your mind.”

  He zips it as he argues, “Yes. I use a condom with other women. I’m not stupid.”

  I search his eyes. He lets me, so he appears to be being honest with me. My gut tells me he’s not lying, and my gut is usually right. “Okay. I’ll believe you. But you know the deal – if you don’t use a condom with someone else, you have to tell me. So I can use one the next time we fuck. You promise?”

  He steps up and stares at me, so I know he isn’t blinking or looking away… in other words, lying. “Promise. You wanna go again?”

  “No! Get out of here. The mood is gone. Now don’t look at me like a boy who got his cookie taken away. You did this to yourself. I’ll see you again, don’t worry.”

  He smiles, “Promise?” He sure is cute.

  I give him a little peck. “Promise.” He tries to go for more. “Ah ah ah. Go on home,” I say, wagging my finger in his face.

  He hangs his head and leaves, reluctant as hell. Men.

  When he gets to the door, he turns and asks, “Nicole? Did you get rid of the guy?”

  Just the mention of him hurts. “He’s married.”

  “No shit?” H
e shakes his head and walks out, closes the door behind him.

  Now he’s gone and done it. I pace my living room. I was all worked up and then he had to go and ruin it. I know what I’m going to do.

  At His…Our…Studio

  My heart is slamming in my chest as I walk up. I’m reciting what I’m going to say: “Why didn’t you tell me you were married all those times you wouldn’t make love to me?” “So, blonde, huh? Really?” “You have got to be fucking kidding me!! You’re married?! You son-of-a-bitch. Do you not have a heart in that chiseled chest of yours, all glowing in the candlelight, all sweaty and sexy and …”

  Shit. No. Not one of those are adequate.

  This is the first time I’ve worn a dress to the studio. My hair is wild like he likes it; I made sure it looked great before I left. This lip-gloss was necessary, to show him what he’s missing. These heels – these were all for me. To stand as tall as I can while facing him.

  Because it is over. I’ll find another studio.

  Anxiety grips me. How am I going to find another studio? I’m still living off the inheritance my momma left me, and soon I’ll need to sell some paintings in order to survive. Or go get a job. And that’s not going to happen. There is no plan B. But I sure as shit am not ready to have a show yet. What am I going to do? But I know I can’t keep using this studio with Michael. I can’t.

  As I turn the key in the lock, I think, this is the last time I’ll let myself in. Tonight, I’m giving him back my key. The second I think it, a cold fist punches me in the chest and I can’t breathe. I’m going to miss him so much. Choke it back, Nicole. Go in… and show him what you’re worth.

  Inside, his voice wafts down to massage my ears, “Well, you must have read my mind…”

  “Oh?” I call up, taking off my jacket and hanging it on the hook. I want him to see this little black dress without anything blocking its impact.

  “Yes. I was just thinking that it’s been too long since I’ve seen you. I missed you.”

  My hand shakes. I hold onto the railing to help my legs not fall out from under me. He missed me? Steady steps. Take steady steps. “Well, that’s sweet of you to say,” I call up, my tone smooth as cream on a summer’s day.

  When I walk into the studio, his eyes glance over and he does a double take, straightening up and taking a long drink of me.

  “You’re stunning.” His voice is deep and quiet. His look sets fire to my skin, and wilts my resolve more and more with every step.

  Looking over to the table, I see there’s an open bottle of red wine on it. With my head held high, I go to it and pour myself a glass, letting him look at the low cut of the back, how it hangs open, gently just above my tail bone. I peek at him over my shoulder and yes, he’s watching.

  “Nic. I can’t tell you how… you look incredible.”

  “You think so?” I ask, my back to him.

  “Let me paint you.” His voice is husky with need. I’ve heard him sound that way before. Many times. But it’s stronger now, stronger than it’s ever been. So, since you can’t fuck me, you want to do the next best thing…

  “I like to be on the other side of the brush, you know that.” I turn, the elegant glass held gracefully in my hand, my eyes locked with his. “And didn’t you already paint me. Isn’t that portrait… of me?” He knows the one I’m speaking of. A flicker of acknowledgment is the only answer I get.

  “Sit on the stool.”

  The authoritative, confident order makes me melt, sends tingles all over me. My mind is glazing over as my legs glide to the stool in long, lazy strides. After I take one more little sip, I lean down and put the glass on the hardwood floor. I straddle the stool, my back straight, my hands in front of me to hold my dress down and make sure I stay modest. For now.

  He hasn’t stopped watching me. I can’t help but hold his gaze hostage. With our eyes locked, he sets down the brush. He pulls his t-shirt over his shoulders and off, his chest muscles moving and flexing as he tosses it aside. He’s wearing a tribal necklace on his naked chest, over black slacks that hang perfectly on him. No shoes. He walks over to get another canvas, and when he returns to the easel, he picks up the canvas he was working on and tosses it onto the floor, violently, making me gasp from surprise. He shoots a glance my way that says, don’t move.

  A new palette gets paint squeezed onto it and he starts working, his eyes lighting me up every time they shoot to me. Sometimes he uses his fingers, mashing their thickness into the colors and smoothing them into the fabric in front of him. My chest is falling up and down, heaving, and I can hear myself… breathless. I feel dizzy with desire for him and I want so desperately to rub myself on the stool to abate the arousal that’s hot and won’t turn back now.

  He looks up and meets my eyes from beneath his eyebrows; his body hunched over two paint tubes, his mouth firm. He says nothing for a few seconds and we stare at each other. The energy is thick and tense. His eyes are like hands that caress every part of me. Sweat forms on his chest, near his temples, and he’s breathing heavily, as I am. His hair flows as he moves to look at me, and then at the canvas. The muscles of his shoulders shift and turn with each frenzied stroke he makes.

  “Put your arms above your head,” he whispers, just loud enough to reach me.

  My lungs expand with a short quick breath and my eyes dart to several places on the floor, never landing completely.

  He stops painting and stands erect, looking at me. Waiting. He shifts his brush to his right hand, the one holding his palette, and walks to me. With his left hand he slides his fingers around the back of my neck in a feather-soft caress, barely skimming the smooth surface beneath my hair, the paint gliding onto my skin. I feel the sharp hum of desire build and my eyelashes drop.

  “Release yourself to me,” he growls. I look at him and raise my arms and hold them above me, crossing wrist over wrist, bound by an invisible string. My breasts rise up, ribs opening as they spread. “Good.” He walks back, leaving me here, vulnerable. Or so he thinks.

  Watching him scan and paint the curves of me, smearing the canvas with both his brush and hands – I awaken to everything he sees. My skin is hot. I feel dull throbs pulsing between my legs, begging to be touched. He becomes absorbed in the canvas and doesn’t look at me. Now is the time. I’ve orchestrated this perfectly, and here he thought he was in control. Looking at him, fueled by jealousy and anger, I lower my hands, tuck my fingers underneath my dress and into my lips, so wet and slippery and excited that I shiver and gasp.

  Arrested by the sound, he looks up and grabs hold of the canvas, stunned by the sight. His breath quickens as he watches me lift up the fabric to reveal myself to him for the very first time, spreading myself so that he can see it all. I know he can’t touch me. I know now that he has been forbidden to, this entire time. But that hasn’t stopped him from making me a fool.

  His knuckles go white from his grip on the frame. He looks like any minute he’ll charge at me with one furious leap, and enraged that he can’t. My fingers tuck inside, moving fast against my ripened clit, every touch, ecstasy. His eyes harden with desire. I touch and fondle myself, never looking away from him, until the feelings grow and build. I let my head fall back. Grab onto the edge of the stool so I can rub against it. Push my fingers inside and moan loud and long, releasing myself to the limitless pleasure of what my body can do, how it can feel, what it was made for. Swinging my head up to lock eyes with him at the last second, smiling when he won’t smile. Feeling when he won’t feel. Loving me, when he won’t love me. When the climax comes ripping through me, I abandon myself to it without regard to him, his wife… or anything.

  He didn’t walk to me, and I didn’t want him to.

  Panting, I shake my head, my hair moving around freely. I look at him from beneath my eyelashes. “So… you’re married,” I say. He lets go of the easel and his hand falls to his side, but he can’t look away from me. Not this time. He didn’t know I knew. She didn’t tell him she came here. Clever. O
r maybe she didn’t want to risk more pain. Easier to live in the dark than open a door to the unknown, for some people. I’m not one of those.

  I hold his eyes and let the last pieces of my wall fall down, show him how hurt I am, how much he is the cause of it. But there is no winner here. Both of us are in pain and neither of us is hiding it.

  “Michael. You toyed with me. With my heart. This?” I motion to my body, the stool, my actions, “This was me telling you this is my body. I own it and what happens to it. And I only give it to men who respect it. And you can’t have it. Not ever. That includes my kisses. You touching my skin! Nothing. None of this is yours.” I turn and walk quickly to the stairs.

  “Nic!” he calls out, his voice cracked, hurting and urgent.

  I don’t look at him, because I don’t know if I’ll have the strength to leave, if I look at him again.

  “What?” I ask, holding onto the wall to steady myself.

  “You just broke through. You smashed the wall,” he whispers.

  My heart thumps in my chest. “Yeah?” I ask, hopeful and furious all at once, my stomach twisting.

  “Yes,” he whispers. “You did it. It’s done.”

  “Michael?” I turn my head, look at him from the corner of my eyes. “Fuck you.”

  He closes his eyes in agony.

  I walk down the stairs, grab my jacket and leave.

  I won’t come back. And I mean that.

  End of Part 1

  ________________

  By Sabrina Lacey

  Jessica’s Romance

  I LOVE MY HEALED HEART

  Amber and Josh’s Romance

  I LOVE MY SIDE OF THE STORY

  (Told From Both Character’s Very Surprising Point of Views.

  Nicole’s Romance

  I LOVE MY SECRET