The Dimple Strikes Back (3 page)

He leant down, slowly, and kissed my forehead. “I love you. But you’re not allowed to cry more just because I said that.” His breath was sweet, and his lips on mine turned me to jelly. One more tear slipped into our mouths. He licked it away and murmured endearments peppered with kisses across my cheeks, eyes, neck. When Sam became ardent, the power of his emotions always flattened me, especially when he held my face in his hands like I was a precious gem. I blinked away another dribble of waterworks, and he said, “That’s it. Enough of this mushy shit.” He flipped me over.

I was in big, delightful trouble now. He pushed the spandex of my dress over my hips to reveal… “Beige shorts? I do not approve of these.”

Laughing, I turned my head and said, “I didn’t know you were going to be here. These don’t show under the dress.”

“Is that supposed to be a good thing?” He tugged at them in a way that made everything from the waist down sit up. “You should be prepared for me at all times.”

“Not even for you would I endure a thong on an eleven-hour, overnight flight.”

He paused. “I concede the point.” His voice seemed to be coming from a mouth now much closer to my backside. My hips squirmed. A quiet, perfect kiss landed on my right cheek. My thighs parted. I could no more have stopped them than I could cease the movement of the sun. He laughed softly and ran a single finger between my lips. I gasped and clutched at the duvet cover. The ache of desire swept through me, and I eased towards his lovely intrusion. He obliged me, sliding his finger all the way inside and scattering kisses across my thighs and ass.

He fucked me with his hand, slowly, my body moving and shuddering against him. Tight at first…and then loosening around his talented fingers that knew me so well. All too soon, I asked him to take me, moaning incoherent words and clutching at him as best I was able while he held me by the neck, his big, warm hand firm and making me wet by itself.

Sam laid his body across mine and whispered in my ear, “I think I’ll ride you thoroughly, if you ask me nicely.”

My lust far outweighed my pride, and I begged him. Oh, yes, I begged him prettily, dirtily, desperately while he smirked so obviously that I heard it in the nasty way he whispered, “Do you want me, my plucky little starlet?”

“Yes, please, baby.”

The head of his cock teased up and down along my opening as my desire turned painful and wonderful both. We’d recently eschewed condoms in favour of clean blood tests, the birth control pill, and trust. And holy shit—did trust feel absolutely amazing in more ways than one. He grunted with the strain of teasing me—even he couldn’t take it much longer. I lifted up onto my knees a little and pushed backwards. He slipped in all at once, and we gasped together.

He held there and kissed my neck, the place he knew would drive me crazy. The soft movement of his lips dazzled my senses, my skin drowning in pleasure. The pressure of him inside me eased, and I relaxed more around him with every kiss and flick of his tongue on my back. It had been weeks, and he held his patience until I could accommodate him well. I turned my face to the side. He placed a sweet kiss on my cheek. It was so perfectly chaste, and his cock so marvellously warm, I said, “Move.”

He withdrew. Not the whole way, but enough for the delicious slide to make me moan with unadulterated delight. Holding there, just inside the edge of my entrance, he reached around to play with my breast. I wiggled my ass to make him move that yummy body of his, and he swatted it—only hard enough for the slap to echo in the quiet room, and for the sting to drive me mad. But I decided to obey and let him tease me with soft, maddening kisses, caresses, his hair tickling my skin like a feather.

He thrust into me, his hips pressed against my ass, his thighs between mine. Deliberately, slowly, he played with me, sometimes squeezing me, sometimes slapping my bottom as he rode me. And all the while, he breathlessly relayed a never-ending monologue of the beauties of my body, of what he would do next, of how he’d missed this or
this
.

I could have died right then and been as delighted as any woman who’d ever lived.

I said, “I want to see you.”

With gentle motions, he pulled out and turned me over. The dimple deep and pleased, he yanked one knee over his hip, then the other. I rubbed my thighs along his, wanting to experience every single inch of his skin. His tongue tasted my mouth as his body entered mine. I kissed his cheeks, his forehead, his eyelids, relearning the planes of his face, one I desperately wished to see so often I tired of it, if that was possible.

He gazed into my eyes and slid home, a contented smile hovering around his open mouth. He loved to watch when he screwed me, and sometimes it was almost too much—those dark irises seeing straight through me, into my heart, my soul, neither of which ever, ever wanted to let him go. I closed my eyes against the force of his and just appreciated his body with mine, playing soft then hard, driving, moaning, wet, slippery, hot, sweaty, on and on until I came on his cock while he never ceased giving me exactly what I begged for.

My body dizzy and joyfully sated, I nipped his ear and whispered, “Lie on your back.”

His answering smile dazzled even as he did my bidding. I yanked a pillow from under the covers and fluffed it behind his head. Never let it be said that I am not a full-service mistress. I gave him a long, thorough kiss, so thorough I almost forgot what I wanted do to him, especially when he raked his hands through my hair and held me there. Is there anything better than making out? God, I could’ve kissed him forever, but that might not have alleviated the urgency currently pressing between my thighs.

I broke away, lightheaded and ever-so-slightly short of breath, and buried my face in his chest hair. I bit along his collarbone while he ran silky fingers down my back. I meandered to his stomach, tickling him, naughtily, just a little. I let my hair tease his cock long before I deigned to touch it with any other part of me. His hips squirmed.
Mmmmmm good.

I began with a long lick from base to tip. He fumbled through my hair and took a fistful. He tasted like me. I loved how dirty it made me feel.

Lightly, I took him in my hand and ran loose fingers up and down, up and down. The fist in my hair tightened, and he groaned my name. Still pumping him, I put my mouth over the head and started to suck and lick. He fell back against the bed completely, his eyes closed tight. He was warm and slick and wet and I worked him in earnest, my free hand running along his hip, his ass, his balls. He didn’t last long, but twisted the bedclothes in his fingers and came into my mouth.

Damn, that was fun.

I flopped to lie beside him, and he immediately took me into his arms, his eyes still closed, and laid my head on his shoulder. I noticed the first traces of misty evening streaming through the open curtains. Good thing we were on the seventh floor. I think that might have been my best performance ever.

A yawn the size of Donald Trump’s ego escaped my mouth. Orgasmic tranquillity had officially melted my bones.

“Sleep,” he whispered. “I’ll make dinner reservations for a little later.”

He could have suggested just about anything then and I would have acquiesced. He took my hand in his and cradled it against his chest. I fell further into the bliss that was him.

I was home.

He said nothing more, but turned us so that he spooned me until I fell asleep. Just before I fell off the cliff, I panicked that he wouldn’t be there when I awoke. It had happened before, when things got dicey for him, and he’d needed to flee the jurisdiction. This time it was me who squeezed his hand to my heart. As if that might make a difference.

* * * *

“You haven’t said ‘thank you’ to me yet,” Sam smarmed at me over curry in the amazing Indian restaurant he’d chosen. We sat in a circular corner booth lit only by candlelight and post-connubial felicity.

I took a sip of water—the curry was hot, but Sam looked even hotter. He sat in shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow, which is the official sexiest arrangement of shirtsleeves, the next being on your floor. “Precisely why am I giving thanks?”

He huffed and scooted closer to me. His hand strayed to my knee under the tablecloth. He inched the black lace of my skirt high enough for me to be glad the tablecloth was long. “I’m certain your auditions for the role of art thief in your movie were successful because of my diligent tutelage.”

I removed his hand and dropped it onto his own crotch.

Oh, indeed—the story of how we met is the stuff of fairy tales. He’d used me to steal a Picasso that had hung in my then-boss’ office when I was a secretary at the Steak on a Stick corporation. Sure, he’d almost got me killed eight different ways, but I’d learned many valuable skills, such as how to deal with two different international art theft organisations, how to lie to the po-po and get away with it and why running in bunny slippers is not ideal.

See? Most fairy tales are bizarre and laced with violence.

I took a bite of palak paneer instead of answering. He didn’t seem to require one, but took a sip of beer while his dimple congratulated itself without my help. “Perhaps I got the part because of how talented I am.”

“Okay, if
that’s
what we’re gonna call it.” He laughed and squeezed my knee. Somehow this entire exchange burrowed under my pride bone. Resentment pooled in my stomach. I put my fork down, and his arm snaked around my waist. “I’m kidding, Samantha. I’m sure you’re going to be wonderful—you always are. Hey.” He turned my chin so that I lost my step in his eyes, deep brown in the flicker of candles. “What’s wrong?”

“How long are you here?”

All his limbs retreated, and he deflated before answering. “I’m thinking a couple of weeks. If that’s okay.”

“Of course it’s okay,” I said in a sugary voice that fooled no one. “When have I ever told you to go away? You do that by yourself.”

A thorny silence fell over the table. The waiter came and went with fresh water.

He threw his napkin on the table and said, “Let’s have a relationship talk. No, we’re going to. You obviously want one. Listen—” He shifted towards me, one knee up on the seat and pressing into my thigh. “I love you. I’m asking you to trust me when I say I’m trying to make things work with you.”

Was being a couple this freaking hard for other people? It didn’t help that almost every moment we spent together, barring perhaps this one, was wonderful and fun and full of groping. But those moments were not coming any more frequently, even after a year. “So we can spend a month together sometimes instead of a week?”

“God dammit.” He distanced himself. He stared at his sweating beer bottle, took a long pull and sighed. “I’m trying, Samantha. Are we really back in the place where you doubt everything I say? When was the last time I lied to you?”

I thought to myself
I don’t know
, but had enough sense to understand that that sentiment wouldn’t play well to this audience. A tear slipped down my cheek, causing distress-grunts to overflow from my date like an unattended bath. I swiped at my face and said, “I’m just tired. I’m sorry. I want to be in the same zip code as you are.”

“Do you love me?”

I jerked my head up. His voice had sounded so sad and needy, but his countenance was a rumbling thundercloud, ready to burst. I did love him. I had, even when I called it ‘lorvst’, which is lust plus bonus emotions you aren’t ready to admit to yet.

He hadn’t thought much of ‘lorvst’.

“I…” I squeezed my eyelids shut—I never could cogitate and see that catastrophic face at the same time. Objectively, he’s a nice-looking, but not gorgeous guy. I, however, found even his pores to radiate beauty. With a stalwart breath, I braved his hazel eyes again. “I do love you, Sam. But I’m afraid you’re going to smash my heart sooner or later.”

He sagged back against the booth, the hurt etched in his whole body—every muscle tense, his mouth tight. A minute slipped by. I said nothing more, needing to hear his answer without giving him any sympathetic wiggle room. My willingness to let him wiggle had got me more familiar with my vibrator than him as of late.

He nodded and a haggard smile appeared. “How can I fault you for thinking that? I just—” He took another drink.

I picked up my wine and followed suit.

“I just wanted you to tell me…that you cared.”

Well, that made me feel like a grade-A asshole. My stomach twisted around on itself. I took his hand and held it to my cheek. He immediately began stroking my skin, and I couldn’t bear to fight anymore. “I can be patient,” I said. “I don’t exactly have a traditional job anymore, either.”

He swept in for a kiss that nearly snapped my bra off. His lips were hot and desperate, fired up by angst. Pulling back, he said, “You know that I think you’re the funniest and most brilliant actress alive, right? You pretty much steal whatever you’re in, my short redhead.”

What egocentric thespian wouldn’t grin after a line like that? “Yes, I’ll sleep with you. You don’t have to go on and on.”

“I know you’ll sleep with me. It’s my principal certainty in life, besides you crying when I don’t want you to. Which is always.”

Oh, sure, mock me just because I tear up faster than you can say, ‘Look, a Sarah McLachlan commercial about abused animals.’