Requisite Vices (10 page)

Rolling onto my back, I stare at the stark white ceiling, groaning as I push my thighs tightly together. Behind closed eyes, he’s towering over me on the bed, his fingers plunging into me as he draws scream after scream from my lips.

I slip my fingers into my panties and trace lightly over my throbbing clit. The light touch sends a shock of instant pleasure followed by an ache and more wetness.

More…I need more.

I glance at my phone again as I trace lazy circles around the sensitive little button. No, it’s too late to find someone, and I’m far too tired to go out anyhow.

I stare at the screen longingly, as if my force of will would somehow, subconsciously, convince him to text or call, then dropping the phone on the bed in frustration, I grip my hair, tugging hard as I force my eyes closed.

I need to get him out of my head! This pining is so pathetic!

Groaning in frustration, I move — or attempt to move — my thoughts onto someone else. Anyone else. Taking a deep breath, I conjure an image of a pale man who vaguely resembles Ethan. Smirking, I clothe him in a royal purple shirt. The buttons at his chest are straining; on the verge of ripping apart, and exposing his smooth, white flesh to my fingers and lips. I bite my bottom lip and moan; my fingers adding pressure as I picture him moving between my thighs, slipping down my body and tracing his lips over my skin. His tongue flicks between them, causing a ripple of fire to course through my body.

As the scene dances through my mind, my fingers twirl between my thighs; stroking, rubbing and lightly pinching in order to draw me closer and closer. I’m teetering on the very edge; every muscle in my body tensing as my breath catches in my chest. Swirls of reds and blues dance behind my fluttering eyelids then burst into a scintillating collection of stars as I reach my peak and toss myself from its edge.

As every ounce of strength seeps from my body, my breath shudders in my throat as my heart struggles to regain a regular rhythm and I sigh, satiated, as all the worries and stress from the last few days fade away. Turning to my side, I cuddle my pillow and drift peacefully to sleep.

I wake to River perched on my back, kneading at my skin, and mewing against my ear. I lift my head and my eyes cross, focusing on a pink, heart-shaped post-it that’s been stuck hastily to my forehead. Pulling the note from my head, I glance over the scribbled words.

“
Cass, I didn’t want to wake you because you looked so peaceful. I’m staying at Tom’s tonight. I just didn’t want you to worry (because I CARE). See you in the morning.”

It was signed with a smudge of her lipstick. At least she didn’t have him stay here. All their moaning and groaning surely would’ve woken me.

It’s already 6 a.m. I must’ve been more tired than I thought if I slept through the night. River’s incessant mews remind me that the poor thing hasn’t had her food bowl refreshed since the night before, and if even one small silver spot is visible in the dish, she acts like it’s completely empty. Sometimes I wonder whether I’m her owner, or she’s mine. 

I make myself busy caring for River then prepare for the day ahead. Checking my phone reveals a glaring text from Angela. I’m sure she’ll want me in to discuss the pile of crap I left on her desk yesterday. On my way in, I’ll be sure to ask the barista for an extra shot or two in my morning mocha. I may need it to deal with Angela.

Chapter 11

Several days passe
d
by without another word from Alexander Delacroix, and my thoughts have moved from regarding that night with fond memories, to questioning myself about the validity of the events. As the ache in my body begins to fade, so does my recollection of everything that happened. The bar, the drinks, his scent, and the feel of his lips against mine seem no more real to me now than an old dream struggling to tug at the edges of my memory.

My meeting with Angela earlier this week wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be, but she made it a point to harass me about finishing the article about him. I have nothing, and she’s riding me for the article on Delacroix on a daily basis. Surely I can spin
something
from the time I spent with him, and mix it with a bit of internet magic.

I’m reminded — by a quick peek at my email — that amidst the flurry of activity this past weekend, I completely forgot to stop at Ann’s on my way home. She has sent her full 500 page manuscript to my inbox with texts every other day asking whether or not I’ve finished going over it, coupled with apologies over her actions the night we had dinner together. When am I going to have time to read through 500 pages? I should demand money for this shit.

By Friday, I’m dragging. I’ve emotionally and mentally put myself through hell, bouncing back and forth on my thoughts about Delacroix. I’ve been fighting off the urge to text him, and scolding myself by trying to convince my lust addled brain that he’s not worth another thought if he doesn’t have the decency to check on me.

Coupled with stress from Angela, and having to balance the part time teaching gig, I find it hard to keep my eyes open, and it’s only 9 a.m.

The tinge of obsessiveness tugs at me. For heaven’s sake, I met him once! It was some random fling; something that will never happen again, but oh, how I wish it would.

If I can just get through today, I’ll take the weekend for myself to relax. Maybe I’ll go get a pedicure or something, you know, like girls do. Maybe I can convince Riley to go with me so I don’t feel so awkward with some stranger scrubbing my toes and massaging my feet.

I gather my things and head to the local college for class. With a stack of graded papers under my arm, I march into the classroom with my head held high. This will be a great day. I demand it!

As I slam the papers, my purse, and the class book down on my desk, I lift my head and take a look around. I’m greeted by five pairs of eyes. In a class of 20 students, only five have bothered to show up today. Well, better than no one at all, I suppose.

It seems to happen more and more each passing semester. New students join this course, convinced they can breeze through and not show up to actually learn anything. Then, they hand me a paper worse than that of a 10-year old, and expect a passing grade. If your idea of an essay is one long run on sentence that explains how a sport is your life because it’s ‘cool’, it’ll make me want to strangle you and hide your body beneath a library in hopes that in your next life, some of the knowledge from those books above your rotting corpse will have implanted some semblance of intelligence.

As I struggle through the frustration of teaching college students the finer points of period usage, and the reasons why ‘I like football.’ isn’t a sentence worthy of a college student, I feel the memories start to slip further beneath the surface.

The walk down Bourbon Street, how his body felt pinning me against the wall and the first step into his book lined home, have all but disappeared. They’re nothing more than a soft whisper on the wind.

That is, until my phone begins to vibrate violently on my desk.

The class grows silent and stares at me, as I stare at the trembling phone; my thoughts temporarily lost in the moment as I see his name flash on the screen. He’s sent a message. It took him five fucking days to send a message.

I wrap up the class, dismiss them fifteen minutes early, then fall exasperatedly into my desk chair and stare maliciously at the phone. With the smallest bit of hesitation, I pick it up and unlock it just to be greeted with six simple words.

*Was fun. Will do it again.*

I stare at the phone, dumbfounded. Was that it? It was fun? I hit reply, choking down the anger bubbling inside of me.

*Yeah it was. I’d love to do it again sometime.*

I rest the phone down on the desk, repeating over and over. I will not send more than one text.
I will not.

Hours pass by, and I make my way home to crawl into more comfortable clothes, which consist of a pair of black pants and a tank top. I toss my phone casually onto the bedside table; it has yet to receive another message from him, so I attempt to bury myself in more work.

Rifling through my filing cabinet, I pull out yet another article that I had begun several weeks ago, but didn’t finish. There’s dozens of them littering my desk and filling the cabinet in the corner of the room. A dust covered collection of scrapped ideas that never achieved what I was hoping for, or that I simply lost the desire to finish.

I try to concentrate on the half-hearted written words, forcing out ideas to twist and meld with the previously started work, but it does nothing to ease the deep ache of desire that’s taken hold of me. Those small six words brought every minute detail from my night with him, rushing back to the surface, as if it had taken place mere hours before.

And all at once, we were together again, seated in the cocktail lounge as the cigar smoke danced in ribbons on the musky air. As the carefully crafted words spilled from his lips, I found myself willing to do anything he asked so long as he didn’t stop talking. I felt like a desperate woman, starved of the nourishment afforded by such decadent conversation, that I couldn’t get my fill of it.

I want more, I need more.

The desire for him has become so deeply ingrained, that it negates the sole physical desire for him. That night, he satisfied something in me that I wasn’t aware existed. He had, in mere fleeting moments, spun an enchanting web of words into every fold of my mind and impregnated that salivating beast with an intense, insatiable hunger for him and him alone. I was exposed all too freely for this man I barely knew. I bared my soul, seeking his approval or scorn, and was greeted with kind eyes. The soothing touch of his hand against my arm, the reassurance that I needn’t hide, the comfort that I could tell him anything and never fear the harsh sting and subsequent heart-ache of rejection.

What has he done to me? I’ve always found it so easy to hide away and purge the thoughts of my encounters. There was no attachment to them. Nothing that would draw my mind, unwillingly, back to memories with them. It was so easy; they simply ceased to exist the moment the night was over. If we happened to come across one another, no glance was shared, no touch was experienced. There were clear cut rules and regulations that were always followed; plans that were always in place. We knew what we were to each other when we were tangled in one another, swaddled within the hushed whispers of the night.

So what, then, was he? I so freely cast aside my rules for him. I couldn’t place him neatly in a box to be tucked within the darkest recesses of my mind and called upon whenever I felt the need. He was not
just
another one of my lovers. I had no control over this man. I could not read him, or predict him, and he’s wrestled the control from my hands with naught more than a few words. He’s unknowingly driving me towards the edge of a precipice, and I can’t help but feel hopelessly entangled.

I lace my fingers behind my head; breathe deeply and smother down the memories until they twist and pale from asphyxiation. I struggle to gain some semblance of control of my mind and body, willing my racing heart to calm, my breathing to become deep and tranquil and my thoughts to grow as still as a secluded lake on a breathless night. I cannot allow any man or woman to invade my thoughts so completely. This is how mistakes are made. I’ve already made the mistake…

I must understand. Why is it, after all the experiences I’ve had and after the men and women I’ve known, that I have found myself enamored with this single man above all others? Physically, he was nothing incredibly impressive. No chiseled chin or hardened body. No abs of steel, if you will. Was it the way he looked at me? No. I’ve seen that hunger in many eyes. However, there was something more in them. Something my poor, intoxicated mind couldn’t grasp at the time, and can’t fully remember.

Maybe it was his touch. That small, reassuring gesture as he touched my arm. It made me feel safe; like I belonged there with him at that very moment, and nowhere else. He had come off as witty, sweet and respectful at first. Perhaps that’s what held me so firmly. It wasn’t the hair tugging or the stinging of my skin following a spank from his hand. At least, it wasn’t only that. This man found a way to cater to my entire being; to both sides. He found a way to earn my trust, then found a way to stimulate both my public face, as well as finding submission in my darker side. He forced a melding between me with my personal monster, and relished in the experience. How could I have been so foolish as to let that happen?

Chapter 12

The days and weeks slip by
,
with each hour bleeding into the next until they’re indistinguishable from one another. Every morning I’d wake up and go about my mundane life; work, home, Riley. The mindless drumming of every passing minute ripping blackened, decaying pieces away from my body; and yet, I still heard nothing of note from Alexander Delacroix. I’d occasionally get a single text asking how I was, and once I replied, I wouldn’t receive another response until exactly seven days later. All the while, the slavering beast which coiled about my beating heart, whose tail wrapped between my aching loins, clawed my flesh from my bones in a mix of frustration and desire. It’s insatiable, and holding it at bay this long has drawn every ounce of reserved strength I could muster.

I glance down at my phone, running my fingers idly over the single button at the bottom as my heart chips away at my rib cage with a pick.

It’s been a week since his last message to me, and I’ve grown to expect a note just to know he was still there, and still thinking of me. This desire…this need to hear from him, gnaws at me, causing my body to physical ache in wanting. It’s agonizing.

I exhaustively set my head in my hands and grip my fingers in my hair. A knock at the front door interrupts my thoughts and draws me back to the stark, corporeal world.

“Riley! Door!” I yell, irritated from being ripped so violently from the obsession which permeates my brain.

Was she expecting guests? I certainly wasn’t. Is she even home? I wrack my memory, trying to recall the sound of the door closing or a quick word from her that carried a hint of where she had gone, but can’t remember a thing. Just his lips…his touch, his scent.

I’m going mad.

The knock comes again and there’s still no sound of Riley’s footsteps rushing to the door. A third series assaults the door before I grudgingly convince myself to walk down and answer it. It’s probably some solicitor; oh how I hate them.

I place my hand on the knob and peek through the peephole. Staring back through is Tom, looking as handsome as ever as he rakes his fingers through his ginger-tinged hair and flashes his naturally soothing smile. His voice wafts through the door, and another, deeper voice speaks in response. It’s not Riley, obviously, unless she’s had a sex change that she neglected to tell me about. She’d never knock anyhow, though she does often forget her key.

No, the voice I’m hearing is so much deeper, and familiar. I shrug, dismissing my thoughts, and open the door.

“Cass! Where’s Riley?”

“Riley isn’t h…”

I’m greeted by two figures, one of which is Tom of course, and the other…

“This is my brother, Ethan. He’s decided to pay a visit and I wanted her to meet him.”

Tom steps forward and wraps me in his strong, albeit platonic, hug as my eyes fixate over his shoulder, on his guest.

“Uh, she’s not here at the moment. I don’t remember you mentioning a brother…” I murmur, trying in vain to hide my face from his brother beneath a torrent of my curls. Tom hunches down and tries to catch my eye in his quizzical gaze.

“Oh, I’m sure I’ve mentioned him loads of times. You do have a habit of drifting off, though…maybe you’ve forgotten. Of course, I’m older by a year, two inches taller and far more dashing than he is, however. Perhaps you were simply distracted by my debonair presence.”

He pauses briefly, placing both hands on his lapel and grinning, thoroughly pleased with himself. Ethan rolls his eyes at his brother. If I had to choose one, Ethan’s voice would get me every time. Those deep tones vibrate every cell of my body, and set butterflies swarming in my belly.

Tom glances down at me and perks an eyebrow.

“Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah I’m fine.” I cough, and try to look at anything other than Ethan. “Why don’t you two come in? I’ll give her a call to see where she’s run off to.”

I step aside to let the two men pass. Tom heads immediately to the living room and settles on the couch, flipping on the television to find it set to a rerun of the Doctor Who show I had watched the night before. Ethan pauses just inside of the doorway, staring into my eyes.

“I know you…” he whispers, his deep purring voice reverberating through my body.

My brain is frantic, scrabbling at the corners of my mind to explain this coincidence away, but coming up empty handed. I stare at him, unable to speak as I feel everything tangible begin to unravel and coil lifelessly at my feet.

“Yeah…it seems that way. Small world, huh?” I laugh weakly. My voice is failing me; I never thought I’d see this man again, and to think I had used his image a handful of times for my own pleasure…

I’m grasping for some untapped well of strength, but I’m blindsided. My attempt to keep my thoughts organized is unsuccessful; it’s like trying to hold onto moonlight with my bare fingers, and I’m failing miserably. He steps closer and I can smell the sweet, musky scent of his cologne wafting off of his skin, and mixed with the sound of his voice, I’m left breathless.

“I was hoping to see you again before you left, and was disappointed that I missed that chance. I’m glad fate has seen fit to steer us in this direction.”

A key scrapes against the lock, then turning, the door flies open. Riley rushes through with half a dozen bags in her hands, and almost crashes straight into us.

“Riley!”

Tom jumps up in pure joy and rushes to the door to help, completely oblivious to Ethan and I. I manage to pull from his eyes, and walk to the couch, but he’s at my heels and settles in just opposite from me. He leans back comfortably on the couch, crossing his legs and regarding me with calm eyes, which glitter just below the surface with a hidden sense of amusement.

“So, why is it that you go by Cass?”

I can hear Delacroix’s voice in my head, my full name slithering from his lips and causing my body to shudder in excitement.

“I don’t normally go by my full name. I haven’t for many years.”

“And you prefer it that way?”

“Yes, I do. It’s short and uncomplicated.”

“Because a name is complicated?”

“It could be.”

He holds his tongue, sharing a look that seems to convey the idea that he thinks I’m odd, then switches seats to be closer to me. His body heat radiates off of his skin, and I glance over the buttons of his fitted black shirt.  They’re straining against the fabric as he rolls his shoulders and makes himself comfortable. I try my best to beat down the twitch of excitement, but I can’t smother the flames.

Deep breaths. Calm down, I’m just fine. I will
not
let myself fall to desire.

He’s gorgeous. An absolutely beautiful specimen of the male form, and it’s no surprise that he and Tom are related. I can see the resemblance in their eyes and their breath-taking smiles. How did I not notice that before? If I had taken just a second to really take a good look at him, I could’ve made that connection earlier. Then, maybe, I could’ve prepared for this.

He crosses his leg, resting ankle to knee, and turns to face me, draping one arm casually along the back of the couch. He’s let his hair go unrestrained today without a drop of product. His mop of curls gently fall over his forehead, as if a crown of silken chocolate twirls had been draped over his head. Without the hair products, his hair resembles a deep, near ebon hue; a stark contrast against his brothers’ ginger locks.

Riley’s voice is rising to a frantic volume upstairs, and Tom’s voice rolls down the stairs in response, as little more than a low murmur. No doubt Riley wasn’t forewarned about Tom’s visit with his brother, and dragged him upstairs to bitch about her displeasure.

I turn away from Ethan as Riley runs down the stairs with Tom in tow. She rushes into the living room and Ethan stands to greet her.

“You must be Tom’s brother. Ethan, is it? I’ve heard so much about you!”

I can tell she’s lying; her face resembles a tightly pursed peach, muscles strained into a fearfully fervent smile as she forces the words for the pure sake of being polite. I’ve never heard about this brother of Tom’s, and I’m sure this is the first time she’s hearing of it too. Though, even if he did mention it, I doubt I would’ve remembered it. I’ve been so preoccupied lately.

“Yes, ma’am. And I’ve heard quite a bit about you as well. Tom doesn’t stop talking about you.”

I can see the anger rushing to her face, contorting into a mix of emotions as she tries to reign in her desire to slap Tom. After all, why would he tell Ethan all about her but not tell her a thing about him?

“Well, it’s wonderful to finally meet you, Ethan. Please excuse the state of the house; I wasn’t aware we would be entertaining company this afternoon. Can I get you anything? Would you like something to eat or drink?”

“A drink would be absolutely fantastic, thank you.”

Without further hesitation, she rushes off to the kitchen, flashing a dagger-filled look in Tom’s direction. She’s not exactly a fan of unexpected company. She thrives off prior warning, so she can plan the entire evening, and make sure the house is pristine. The arrival of our unexpected guests has completely thrown her off, and she’s attempting to make up for it by playing the perfect hostess to keep her mind off the rising anger.

I turn to find Ethan staring at me, a sly curl upon his lips.

“What?”

“So this is what you look like in your natural habitat?” he laughs.

I’m suddenly self-conscious of the fact that I’m wearing a pair of black pajama pants with Superman emblems all over them, and a faded AC/DC shirt well passed noon. I hadn’t planned on doing anything other than staying home, writing, drinking and maybe a bit of channel surfing, so why should I get dressed?

I crack a smile as I debate running upstairs and trying to make myself look a bit more presentable, but toss the idea away. What use would it be in making myself look better now that he’s already seen me like this? It would be a waste of time, and I’m not really looking to impress anyhow.

Tom collapses into the seat opposite from us, leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. His fingers press together to form a steeple on which he rests his chin as he regards us intently. He smiles gently; he always seems to be smiling about something, as if he were privy to all the worlds’ secrets, but kept the information for his own personal pleasure.

“So, have you two met before?”

“Kind of.” I answer meekly. “I was in New Orleans a couple of weeks ago, and he was staying at the same hotel. We just sort of bumped into one another one night.”

“Small world, isn’t it!”

“Yeah…small world…”

Riley rushes into the room in a flurry of pink chiffon skirts, with a tray held in her hand, as she precariously balances four champagne glasses filled near the brim with golden bubbles. Accompanying the glasses is a plate filled with some sort of spinach stuffed puff pastry. When the hell did she make these?

She places the tray on the coffee table, passes out the drinks, then settles in near Tom. He kisses her cheek affectionately, murmuring a soft “I love you” sweetly into her ear. If there were any trace of anger still present in her body, it evaporated at that moment. She instantly relaxed, and the hint of a smile curled on her lips to accompany her love-filled eyes.

Sensing that her rage had faded, Tom came up with the idea of taking a trip into the city of New Orleans the following weekend in order to give Riley, and his brother, a proper tour.

Since Riley and I moved here, we still have yet to fully explore our own town, much less the city of New Orleans, so when the weekend crawled upon us, Riley was absolutely ecstatic. She spent an hour in front of her closet trying to pick the perfect outfit, and another hour doing her makeup and hair. I wasn’t about to go out looking like I just blew in off the streets, so I pulled on a pair of black slacks and a sleeveless gray blouse with a slouched neckline that rests peacefully upon the top of my breasts.

It has just begun to cool, which is surprising, even with the calendar slipping into October. I’ve become accustomed to the weather sitting in the high 90’s until December, but the cool front brought a bit of respite from the normal heat and humidity. I decide to leave my hair down, with no worry of it turning into a frizzed mess by the end of the night.

Tom and Ethan were already waiting outside by the time Riley and I meandered downstairs and locked up the house for the night. As we all clambered into my car, Ethan caught my eye and smiled. The skin at the corners of his eyes fracture, like snowflakes on a cold winter’s day, with the hint of a dimple just barely visible on his left cheek.

Since Ethan and Tom left last week, him and I had exchanged numbers and found ourselves texting each other on a daily basis. Our conversations covered everything from talk about politics, to speaking about his childhood in the UK and about his parents. He talked extensively about his work, and on how his mother becoming ill during his childhood, spurred him to pursue a career in the medical field. He wanted to help others during their time of need, and try to ease their suffering with his bleeding heart. It was a noble calling for him; one that made him proud to wake up every morning and go to work.