Authors: Misty Provencher
Stronger (9 page)
But that's not Aidan's deal. He says things in a soft-gravel whisper. Just remembering it,
goose bumps rise up where his words slid over my skin. His mumble of
do you like this,
was so erotic that it French-kissed my imagination until my hips writhed up, begging for more of him.
My eyes flutter shut as I re-live the way his hands had moved my limbs, guiding me into the positions he wanted; how his body made mine tingle like a warm mitten; how his eyes were on my lips as he spoke. My legs ache from how I tied them, like a Christmas bow, right above his hip bones, and they ache with how I held tight until we both came undone.
My arms are stiff too. Probably from the way I was holding myself up at the window sill--a new and unexpected position. But not even the
most
unexpected
position that came out of our four, midnight-gymnastic sessions. I had just hoped he'd be fun, but Aidan Badeau has proven himself to be an amazingly skilled surprise.
It's more than a little odd that I can follow my memory breadcrumbs right from the moment I met Aidan at the door to now. Usually my recollections of evening escapades consist of whatever I can stitch together around tattered holes of memory. Most of the time, what I can put together is as wide and irreparable as ripped cobwebs. But, here I am, knowing the man's name and able to identify the particular scent of his cologne on my pillow. I remember everything what we did and how we did it (with details that I'm going to replay every chance I get) and I even know where this guy lives.
And this is exactly why this has to stop.
Now.
It's gone way too far.
I don't know if
letting him down easy
is even an option now. Why the hell did I bang my neighbor? Damn. I knew better. But
damn
. My skin is already craving another play date with his and he hasn't even left yet. I'm seriously mulling over an amendment to the three-date rule.
No.
I know better.
This will end in absolute disaster if I keep this going for even one more date. The only apartment left where I can escape and hide is Mrs. Lowt's, and she would be of no help at all. She'd just invite Aidan right in, to help herself to a little bit of ass-candy.
I've got to end this all, before it goes nuclear.
I've got to convince Aidan that I was so drunk, I didn't know what I was doing. Or that I didn't know it was him. I'll say
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry
until he runs screaming from my apartment, repelled by how pitiful I am.
He shifts and I feel his morning salute rising up between my thighs. He snuggles closer, his thighs as strong and firm as a chair against the back of my legs. There's no way he could want to do it again. But I'm sure I'm wrong about that as his hips bump against me and then his erection nudges between my legs again, like a neighbor poking his head in my door.
Against every better judgment that exists in the world, I'm not kicking Aidan out. I should, but I can't. I'm nearly paralyzed with the vibration as he groans against my neck and I drop my head back, resting it on his collar bone.
"Oh, Lydia," he whispers. However, it's not the
oh Lydia
I am expecting. His voice dips into a melancholy valley; the sound is that of a worn and tortured man. I try to turn toward him, but Aidan holds me tight. His breath is in my hair and it freaks me out a little.
I should've sent him home last night. I knew better.
"What's wrong?" I ask.
"I shouldn't be..." he begins sorrowfully, but he is cut off by whoever is pounding at my front door.
<<<<>>>>
It's always a bit of a wild card, answering a pounding fist at my door.
It could be the landlord--he loves to complain about rent and usually asks to inspect my pipes, the pervert; it could be Desmond, although he's already made his statement to Aidan and I think that he thinks it stuck. Mrs. Lowt doesn't pound. It wouldn't be Jan--he never shows up at my door without calling. It could be any one of the third-dates I've had in the past--ultimately, they never leave here satisfied.
Since Aidan is in the apartment and, more precisely, in my bed at the moment, some of these wild cards could give me a losing hand. I cinch my robe around my waist and go to the door, since whoever it is isn't letting up.
I swing the door open to a leggy brunette. The tips of her hair hang at her waist and she's got thick, pouty lips, swabbed with the reddest, glossiest lipstick I've ever seen. Those lips are the most prominent thing on her whole face and she puts them to work right away.
"Hi, I'm looking for Devon..." she pauses, nipping her own lip with a frustrated sigh. "I mean, Aidan Badeau. Is this his apartment? The lady across the hall said he lives here."
"No, he doesn't live here," I say. I'm not telling this chick anything. She might know Aidan's name, and even his friend's name, but I don't know who she is. In fact, this is exactly why I try to avoid ever revealing mine. People show up.
"Can you tell me where he lives?" she asks.
"Not here," I say.
"But that lady knew him. She said he's here."
"I don't know what to tell you. He doesn't live here." Her hips adjust like rocks sliding into a catapult. She screws up her bright, red lipstick and puts a hand on her waist, signaling me that she's about to get down to it. Her eyes sweep over my dreads, my robe, the tattoos peeking out of my sleeve. I return the
fuck you
smile she's giving me.
"Well, do you know if he lives in any of these?"
"Why do you want to know?"
Her eyes narrow a little. "I don't think that's any of your business."
"Well, I'm not the one in the hallway," I say. I try to swing the door shut, but she slaps her palm against it.
"Wait," she says and I see the first glint of vulnerability that stops me from out and out busting off her wrist. "He called
me
."
"How come?"
"I don't know if you're his wife or girlfriend or his sister..." She pauses; I don't fill in her blanks. "I hardly know him, but he left a message on my phone saying he needed to talk to me. He has something of mine, so can you just tell me where the guy lives?"
"Oh hey," Aidan's voice startles me from behind. He's tucking in his shirt, but stops to holds out his hand to shake the girl's, as if this is a business meeting or something. Oh shit. Maybe it is. I still don't like the twinge in my stomach, twisting like rope burn, as Aidan smiles at her. "Marta?"
Her smile seems a little wiry and it throws hot, angry sparks as she takes in his face and his body--which just burns me up a little more. Still, the looks shooting between them confuse
me
. It's as if they are strangers, but not. Conspirators. Enemies? Something. I can't put my finger on it.
"How's it going?" Her tone is suddenly flat. "I got your message."
"Good," he says and finally glances back to me. Nice of him to notice. "Lydia, I need to go. I have some business to discuss with Marta, but I'll catch up with you later, alright?"
"Sure," I say. Marta? It helps only a little that he gives me a peck my cheek, but still. Business? You've got to be kidding me.
He steps into the hall with Lips and motions to his apartment. "That one's mine. Do you have a few minutes to talk in private?"
"That's why I'm here. Do you have my money?"
He leads her back to his place, fumbling his key in his door. The last thing I hear is him telling her, "Yes. I'm glad you came."
I shut my door and lean up against it. What the
fuck? Her money?
What was all that about? Is she a drug dealer? He's remorseful in bed, about to tell me
something
and then
business
shows up at my door. Well, shit. Is it drug business? Or the kind of
business
Des and I have--a fucked up, riding-crops-and-chains kind of business. But that's not what this sounded like. This sounded more like mafia business. Hush hush, private stuff that gives no explanations and requires a closed door. The kind of business that I need to keep my nose out of.
I go into my apartment and plaster my ear to our adjoining wall, but Aidan's voice is so deep and low, it's nothing like it was at the Thanksgiving dinner party. The conversation next door isn't jovial or even held at a normal
decibel. I can only hear the outline of their words, and all I hear of Miss Lips are a few murmurs of
oh
and
oh wow
and then,
I'm glad you told me
.
I want to kick in the wall. Or drill my fist through it.
Instead, I get a grip and push myself away. I've been telling myself all along that Aidan's just my neighbor and that he's got to remain
just
my neighbor, and I guess this is as good a time as any for me to put that declaration in stone. If he wants to come explain what's going on, I'll listen. Otherwise, as much as I hate it, Lips was right.
He's not my business.
CHAPTER NINE
When I'm finished, Aidan still hasn't knocked at my door. It's not that he owes me an explanation, but it was a bizarre way to leave, after the night we had. To scamper away with Mystery Lips like he did, and knowing he was the one that had called her with some kind of urgent news...wouldn't anyone else be just as confused?
It would be one thing if we'd had ourselves a little scoop of vanilla sex, but we didn't. We practiced some incredibly compatible sexual-yoga four times last night. And there's not one drunken, black hole in my memory, which is unfortunate for me. None of this would matter right now if I couldn't remember his face, or didn't know his name, or didn't feel like I could just walk next door and touch him.
Whoa. Do I really want to do that?
This man is a flu. He's gotten under my skin and made my muscles ache. When I replay last night, my limbs quiver. Goosebumps bloom all over me as I think of how softly his lips slid over my collarbone, or the way his hips rocked against mine, or the silky strings of loving words he whispered into my hair, binding me to him like soft ribbon.
Now I'm craving his fever. I'm dragging around my apartment waiting for him to knock, when I should be figuring out how to revert this relationship to one of friendly, platonic neighbors. The only remedy I know of is to get myself down to Modo's
tonight
and start sorting through the crowd for a new, three-date flavor of the week.
The burst of excitement over my recovery plan is short lived once I hear Aidan's apartment door open. All my thoughts flood back to him and I freeze in the middle of the living room floor, anticipating his knock at my door. I'll let him squirm out there with Mrs. Lowt a bit, just so he realizes he did me wrong by leaving the way he did.
I'm paralyzed for a full minute, but Aidan's knock doesn't come. Their voices are out there. I finally cross the floor and press my eye to the peep hole. Nothing in the bubble of visible range. The voices have faded. My nerves shred.
He's got to be out there, deciding how he's going to make nice with me. I grab my laundry basket and whip open my door. I step out just as the elevator doors close at the other end of the hall, but I couldn't catch who was inside. The hall is empty now and Aidan's door is shut.
Mrs. Lowt's door opens.
"Lydia," she whispers, peering toward the elevator, "what is going on? Aidan comes from your apartment this morning and goes straight into his with another girl? What was that about? Is he seeing that woman? She looked easy to me. I don't like that.
Oh, Lydia
...don't tell me there are going to be three of you going around together now?"
"No, Mrs. Lowt," I say a little sternly. "She was just a friend of his. Did he leave with her?"
Mrs. Lowt's tucks her wrists to her hips so her fingers stick out like the swag of a sucker wrapper. "How am I supposed to know that, Lydia? I'm not in charge of the hallway. I don't know what the neighbors do."
I adjust the laundry basket on my hip and slam my door so Aidan, if he's still in his apartment, will hear me leave. I fumble my keys into my coat pocket longer than necessary, waiting for his door to open up, but it doesn't. The prospect of having to do laundry is even more dismal now.
I can't believe he left. I can't believe he didn't return to let me know what was going on. I can't believe I'm going to actually go sit at the Laundromat or that I'm suddenly welcoming the idea of sitting and just watching my clothes spin.
<<<<>>>>
At least I'm back to my own comfortable position of:
it ain't my business
.
Now, in the late afternoon of the fourth, symptomless day, I step into the hall dressed for my appointment with Des and there stands Aidan, all smiles. I'm about as welcoming as a snarly ponytail.
"On your way out?" he asks. He looks like he's on his way in, from the bag of groceries he's toting.
"Yep," I say, continuing past him. His jacket is cut in a way that accents the slant of muscles across his shoulders. I remember his smooth, solid skin beneath my fingers and a wave of heat bolts into my deepest places. I've got to get out of here. This man isn't a flu, he's a disease. I get only three steps away before he stops me with just his voice.
"Lydia."
I turn on my designer heel, the lace of my thigh-high stocking itching my skin beneath my pencil skirt. "What?"
"Can I talk to you?"
"I'm kind of in a hurry."
"I can see that." He frowns. "Can I talk to you when you get back then?"
"I don't know when that will be."
"Please...I don't want to wait. It will only take a few minutes."
I roll my tongue behind my lip. Yes, waiting is a bitch, isn't it? He should try four days on for size. I don't have time for games, so I cut to the chase.
"Are you in the mafia, Aidan?"
"What? No." He laughs, his face crinkling with disbelief, relief. I can't tell. "Why would you think that?"
I glance at my wrist, as if I have ever worn a watch. "I've got to go."
"Don't you want to know why Marta was here?"
Now, that's offensive. As if I'm the kind of girl who cares about a guy's other chicks. At least, I wasn't that girl until four mornings ago. I hate him a little for that. I violated my three-date rule with daydreams and hope and look where it's gotten me. This mess, dammit. With him insinuating that I'd want to know (and I do) or even care (I've got to stop this)...
I carve him off a chip of my ice queen facade and throw it over my shoulder as I head for the elevator. "It's none of my business."
"I want to explain where I've been and..." His tone goes to soft gravel. It shreds my nerves a little more. I have to stop, just to keep my balance. "I want to tell you everything. I need to make it up to you."
The pleading in his tone pierces the one speck of softness I have left and it just about blows my whole heart open like an exploded trunk. I have to catch myself before I start gushing about how I've been thinking of him and missing him beside me in my bed each night and--
What is wrong with me?
I am not some stupid, naive girl.
I've been around the ring enough times with Des to know better than this.
I still struggle to hang on to the handle of my portfolio, instead of throwing it down, along with my travel mug of spiked coffee, and head back to Aidan. But I don't. No matter how unnatural it feels, we are neighbors and it will stay like this--with a wall between us, even if it is only an invisible one that I've built.
"Really, Aidan, I'm late. I've got to get out of here."
All of his muscles go slack. The free hand with his keys falls to his side with a flat jingle, his shoulders droop, even the muscles in his face resign from holding up any readable expression for me to see.
"Alright," he says. "I'll see you when I see you then."
"Yeah," I say. He turns to his door as I make my way to the elevator, punching the button over and over, as if it will take me down any faster.
<<<<>>>>
"Slow down," I growl, but he keeps going until we are standing in the grand entrance, with the heavy, crystal chandelier hanging over our heads like a hard snow.
Two women, hair in ponytails and jeans pegged up over their comfortable sneakers, busily wash the floor. They didn't even glance up at us when we entered.
"I want to surprise my wife with a remodel," Des announces. "The conservatory has some leaks that need to be addressed and I want new furniture and a new design. I want you to create a private ambience with a sitting area at the center of the greenery."
"I'm sure I can--"
"Good," Des clips me off as he heads up the stairs. "Then come with me, and we will discuss costs in my office."
"Certainly," I say. The cleaners don't bat an eye, but I don't believe they don't speculate.
Twenty minutes later, I'm tied to the palatial, leather couch in his office and all I'm doing is lying here like a dead fish as he strokes me, the lace of my stocking still itching my inner thigh. From lack of moisture alone, Desmond's anger has turned from a smolder to a burn.
"What is he to you, Lyddle?" Des asks. He doesn't have to be specific.
I can't see him through the blindfold, but his velvety tone isn't doing a damn thing for me today. The last thing that's going to kindle my fire is talking about Aidan, but Des still knows me as well as he knows the feel of his own penis. And he is very aware that something's not working right now.
"It's got nothing to do with my neighbor," I say, as if I can really sell that to him. "I'm just not into this today."
The cushion shifts as Des stands. I hear his feet move across the hardwood. He retrieves something.
"You're always into it," Des whispers. I hear the scrape of a Bic overhead. The crackle of a candle wick.
"Seriously, I'm just not."
"Shhh," he says.
"Des..."
"What did I say, Lyddle?"
A drop of wax hits my hip bone and it burns. Really
burns
.
"Ouch!" I yelp. "It's too hot!"
Another drop follows and I shriek.
"What is he to you?" Des demands, as I pull at the restraints on my wrists.
He chuckles as his fingers yank the lace of my right stocking down a few inches. This isn't our usual play. I buck at the restraints again, but they hold firm. Des designed this room for ultimate privacy, so I'm not sure that even my loudest scream would be more than a whisper outside the insulated walls and door. While it usually excites me, this time I'm unnerved. I lay there, blindfolded and bound, with the wax raising up a blister on my skin.
"I'm all done, Des. Enough."
"Tell me, Lyddle," he says. I bite my lip. A dribble of wax suddenly beads down my inner thigh. It feels like a third degree burn and I do something I've never done before. I bark our safe word. Actually, it's a phrase.
"Green eggs and ham!"
The room goes deathly silent, the smell of the candle hovers in my nose. I breathe hard, in and out, in and out, but the hot scent of the wax remains. The small patch of my thigh is on fire. The wax has dribbled a trail down too close to my most delicate and intimate folds.
"What is he to you?" Des asks again. But this time, his voice breaks. He clears his throat.
"Stop it, Des. He's my neighbor! He's just my fucking neighbor!"
"Oh no, he's more than that. I can tell," Des whispers. "I know you're lying to me."
I'm quivering in the bindings, scared to the bone for the first time that maybe Des has lost his mind. If I could see him, instead of looking into the dark center of the blindfold, I'd have a much better idea, but what's going on with my thigh is still a pretty good indication that things aren't right. We've done enough bondage before, even a little wax play, but burning me like this is so far over the line I can't even put a name on it.
Des has always known that I go to Modo's, that I pick up men, and even that I have sex with them--but he realizes, as much as I do, that this one is different. I never know any of their names and none of them stick around longer than three dates. Whether or not anything has actually happened yet, it's as if we can both feel our thin future hanging between us like an old,
smoky, bar cloud.
Aidan and I have had sex--four incredible times--but we only spent one night together. Des shouldn't be complaining at all, considering I shut Aidan down only a few hours ago, in the hallway outside my apartment. Especially when I was on my way
here
, to have sex with my husband.
It doesn't matter that my heart isn't in it. That I only came to collect some money.
My God, my life is such a mess.
Des clears his sinuses with a sharp inhale. I turn my head toward the sound, the blindfold still firmly in place.