I Love My Secret (Nicole's Erotic Romance) (10 page)

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?” He 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. Or 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

I LOVE MY HOPE (out 12/12/13)

CAN’T WAIT FOR SABRINA LACEY’S NEXT TITILLATING
TALE?

Tell her by leaving stars and a review with what
you loved about I LOVE MY SECRET! She’s writing every day and loves to hear
from you.
J

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Sabrina's just like most women in modern times - she's
been a lot of things to a lot of people; married, single, daughter, teacher,
girlfriend, stand-up comedienne, wackadoo, friend, nutcase, bartender, fashion
photographer, lazy bones, bitch, sweetheart (though less often than bitch), and
always a little wild. As soon as she committed to writing stories - she became
happier than she's been in years. Happy to entertain you - and happy to hear
from you...always. Cheers!