24. Brook
“Please, Baldo.” I writhe under him, desperately seeking release.
It’s like he decided to catch me up on all the orgasms I haven’t had. After the first cathartic fuck, Baldo brought me to the brink three more times.
But the man is a master of edging, and I now understand what he meant when he said I might beg him to stop.
I don’t even know what I’m pleading for right now.
He’s relaxed by my side, his head propped in his hand and his cock pressed against my thigh. But it’s like he doesn’t care about that steel rod at all. He’s just leisurely pumping his fingers in and out of me.
“Please what, baby?” he rasps, and I’m glad for the effort in his words. He might look like he’s just chilling beside me, but he’s struggling to keep control.
I thrash my hips, trying to find more friction, or perhaps hoping to escape it. I don’t even know anymore what would be better.
Skittlesis on my tongue, but instead I cry out, “Just make me come, for fuck’s sake.”
He chuckles. “I thought you’d never ask.”
The bastard.
But he crooks his fingers and does something else with his thumb, and bites my nipple, and it’s like he’s mastered my body in one single night.
An orgasm washes over me, and I’m coming and coming while he keeps finger fucking me.
And as I slowly come down, he’s there, stroking my hair, planting kisses on my shoulder and handing me a glass of water.
One thing is clear. Baldo Cassinetti is an extremely generous lover.
We lie facing each other, just enjoying the closeness.
We’re exhausted—well, I am. But I don’t want to go to sleep. I feel like a new woman. Like tonight, the confession, the chase and the orgasms have fixed another broken piece in me.
A piece I didn’t even know was still loose somewhere inside. A piece I never knew existed is now reattached.
And Baldo is tentatively a part of it. He always has been, but I’m trying not to give it too much consequence because it scares me.
“Are you sore?” he rasps.
“In the best way possible.” I don’t think I’ll be able to walk for several days, but it’s not like I need to go anywhere.
“You should get some sleep.”
“What about you?” I aim my eyes at the bulge in his briefs.
“Don’t worry about me.”
“I don’t understand, though. Most men aren’t this giving.”
He keeps touching me.
Stroking my shoulder gently with the pad of his thumb.
Curling a strand of my hair around his finger.
And staring into my eyes. It’s a bit unnerving. He must see into my soul, and I’m not sure that’s a place I want to show him yet.
The world outside is in a deep slumber. The nightlife wore off hours ago, and the morning bustle of the city hasn’t started yet.
“Taking care of women’s…” He pauses, his jaw ticking. “Of your needs, gives me satisfaction.”
Of my needs? It wasn’t his first choice of words, and now I’m again thinking about all the other women he satisfies. About the long-legged brunette from his office.
But fuck it, he’s with me, not with her.
Taking care of my needs.
I don’t even do that properly most days, and having someone else put me first like this is unsettling. It makes me feel naked. More than I already am. Exposed. Discovered.
The feeling coils around my spine, settling in my chest, depriving me of oxygen. Baldo’s full attention is on me, and I don’t want him to witness another panic attack.
So I lean into sarcasm. “Like I’m a job well done.”
He smirks, but shrugs.
“So it was mind-blowing for me and just a job for you?”
I need to lighten the mood, because everything that happened tonight is wonderfully liberating and special.
But also too intense, and I don’t know where this level of intimacy leaves us. Or leads us.
It’s all too much to deal with, so let’s not.
“Mind-blowing?” He grins.
“And now I know why you have such a huge apartment.” I punch his shoulder. “To fit your ego.” I bite him gently.
He swats at me and smirks. “Mind-blowing.”
“Just a job for you,” I deadpan.
“Pleasing others is the sexiest thing. It turns me on. You turn me on. Fuck, Brook, you’re the sexiest thing in the world.”
Oh, what those words do to me. They grip at all my insecurities and traumas and turn them into dust.
It’s dizzying. It’s exhilarating. And yet, the primary emotion cruising through my veins is fear.
It’s a familiar feeling, always lingering in the back of my mind. That’s why I party, I go out, I surround myself with people and boyfriends—however unsatisfactory. To tune it all out.
But it has never been this loud when I’m with someone. It has a new cause, as if it replaced my former source of unrest.
What are we doing? How much is it going to hurt once we… no longer are? Because he has no reason to stick around.
Pleasing others is the sexiest thing.
Is that the reason he married me, cut his hair, got me the ring? It turns him on?
What’s wrong with me? I’m lying here with the god of sex, blissfully satisfied, and my mind is sabotaging everything.
We used to be so close, soul mates, really. And now we’re close physically and it should feel great, but it feels like I have more to lose. Which makes no sense.
“Maybe I was searching for something… some special connection. Like if I give it my all, selflessly, I might feel…”
He plays with my hair, looking at me, but I’m not sure what he sees. Or contemplates. A hesitant smile lingers on his face, but there are clouds shading it.
“Feel what?” I croak, my mouth dry.
The soft silky sheet feels cold beneath me. The air is chilled as goosebumps prickle my skin in the stillness of the eyeblink.
It takes a lifetime before he answers. “Less. More. Something.”
My heart hammers. He must see it pulsing in my veins, that’s how relentless the beat is. “Did you find it?”
He said he was searching. Was. And while his words could have any meaning in the world, somewhere deep down I know. I know that I know that I know.
Like me, with all my unsuccessful relationships, he was searching too. In a very different, and perhaps less destructive, way than me, but we both were looking for that connection.
The one so familiar. The one we used to have.
“I’m sorry I left you here alone.” It’s not the answer to my question, but it is at the same time.
The apology fills the air between us. Heavy and light. Redeeming and taxing. Welcomed but saddening.
Did he now find what he chased? With me? And it scared him, so he hid.
Or the connection didn’t live up to the memory of us. The illusion we both cultivated over the years. Well, I did.
I have no claims on his time, but his apology feels significant. Like a commitment. Like he won’t leave me alone anymore.
He left me once, a long time ago. Can I chance letting him in and trust he won’t leave me again? God, I’m overthinking this. Making it way more than it really is.
“I got a lot of work done.” I shrug, desperate to abandon the gravity of this conversation.
He runs his finger around my hairline. Slowly, gently, he tucks a strand behind my ear.
It’s like he can’t let go. Like he can’t get enough. His gaze hugs me with reverence and adoration. I’ve never been looked at like this.
Correction. I have. By this man. But in many ways, it’s not the same. His all-consuming, soul-caressing gaze is familiar and undiscovered.
“That’s good,” he rasps.
For the first time, I want to tell someone about my work. My family has always subtly suggested it’s time to do something, because they all believe I party and live off my trust fund. I never cared.
But for some reason, I care about Baldo knowing I have a successful career. He doesn’t ask. Maybe he doesn’t care.
Like he married me, had sex with me, but sharing anything personal is above and beyond.
Like this fragile connection we forged tonight is all in my head. Perhaps all the orgasms have robbed me of perspective.
Of distance.
Of reason.
Where the fuck is this constant insecurity coming from?
“What’s going on in that head of yours?” He uncoils a strand and takes another one between his fingers.
I roll on to my back, suddenly deflated by this pillow talk. He unraveled me tonight in more ways than one, and maybe I’m just temporarily emotional, but shit, I want him to care.
“I don’t live off my trust fund, you know,” I huff.
He chuckles. “Okay. It’s not like it matters.”
I turn my head to him, frowning.
“What?” He smirks. “I wouldn’t let you pay for anything anyway, so what do I care if you make money or not?”
I rise to my elbows. Annoyed.
Patronizing bastard. And why is telling him about my career suddenly so important?
He’s smart to draw the boundaries at the physical connection. Very smart.
“That’s chauvinistic.”
He laughs. “Whatever.” He covers me with his solid body, heat shooting from his eyes.
His biceps frame my head and, God, this man is glorious. I haven’t explored his naked body yet, and I want to.
He grinds his hard cock against me, and the unsatisfactory sharing conversation loses its power over me.
My eyes drop to his lips, and I think he’s going to kiss me, but he lowers his head and nibbles on my neck, and down to my breasts.
The immediate shudder that ripples through me draws a moan from deep inside me. I close my eyes, reveling in the sensations so new to me.
So vital to me all of a sudden. Like my body wants to level the score after all the mediocre attempts before tonight.
I want more.
I need more.
All my insecurities bubble up, mingling with selfishness now.
“Kiss me,” I whisper.
He tenses, it’s only for a beat of a moment, and I almost think I imagined it before he resumes brushing his lips down my skin.
“I am kissing you.” He takes my nipple into his mouth.
“On my lips.”
Why am I so needy? The man already gave me so much tonight, and here I am, mourning that he doesn’t offer more and demanding it.
He looks up, his eyes heated. “I thought I made it clear that I’m in charge. You can beg me to make you come, but the only demands here come from me.”
He returns to my nipple, biting it hard through the silky fabric. My back arches at the sensation, taking all the fight away from me.
Clearly, one of us is sane enough to set strict boundaries.
It’s a smart thing.
It’s the safest thing.
It’s the right thing to do.
So why does it hurt?
* * *
Somehow I can’t sleep, my mind firing in a thousand different directions.
The chase and sex we had after my confession seem to have unlocked something. It’s like the years of therapy helped me to get so far, but there was a part of me that needed this to complete the healing.
I don’t even understand where my need to be chased and fucked like that came from. I’m sure my therapist would have an opinion or two about that.
I let—forced—Baldo to take advantage of me, and it’s like I reclaimed something I thought had been taken away from me a long time ago.
We can’t get back what we lost that night, but we were able to mend some of it tonight.
I think.
I hope.
I worry.
But as I watch the darkness slowly giving way to a new day, I’m sure I’m the only one who offered intimacy tonight.
Baldo delivered what I needed, but he stayed in his shell, behind a tall, impenetrable wall.
And while he was ravishing my body all night, I didn’t get a chance to consider what my confession meant for him.
One thing is what happened that night to my body, but that man didn’t just violate me. He took something from Baldo.
A chance with me.
A chance for us.
I’ve never uncovered that layer of the tragedy before. I focused on my body, my emotional and mental healing. And that was all right at the time.
I know that, but tonight Baldo found out someone interfered with our future. And yes, he got angry, but I needed more from him, so I didn’t let him express that anger fully.
I glance at the broken lamp and table. Shit. I should have forced him to talk to me. Tell me what it all unraveled.
But here I was, just taking and taking. Forcing him to keep his own reactions bottled up inside him.
Fuck. I turn to face him, ready to wake him up and make him talk.
His breath is even but not peaceful, and his face is in a frown like he’s having a bad dream.
The shy dawn casts light over his body. The man is gorgeous. My eyes trail over his chest, rising and falling, his chiseled abdomen and his arms.
I take a moment discovering his tattoos. The symbols look like Japanese characters. I lean closer, relishing the scent of the man. It’s a mixture of sweat, sex, and something earthy I vaguely remember.
I focus on his forearm. The symbols repeat. It looks like it might be one word on repeat in different size and type, but always the same.
Curiosity burns inside me, and I decide to let him sleep and force him to talk and let out what my confession caused in him in the morning.
My phone has been charging on the bedside table, and I grab it and take a picture of him and his tattoos.
The stupid camera clicks and Baldo stirs. I slide the phone under my pillow.
He mumbles something and lifts his arm to cover his face with his forearm. The move uncovers another tattoo I didn’t notice before.
My heart speeds up as I stare at the image inked into his skin, right on the side of his heart.
Not on display on his chest, but rather hidden—protected under his arm—is a map of Japan.
It’s just a simple outline of the cluster of islands that form the country. And in the middle of it, there is a heart where the capital city lies.
Tokyo.