Chapter 10
Chapter ten
Last Night In Paradise
Manny invites me back to his place, a modest studio apartment with a screened-in porch, attached to a suburban house. So is the life of a writer.
“I thought you lived with your uncle?”
“I do.” He gestures to the rest of the house. “Studio apartment just sounds less sad.”
I shake my head at him, at the logic, at the absurdity of it all. Even now, he’s still charming me, and that’s somehow making everything feel worse.
“Care to see inside?” he asks, jingling his keys.
“I thought you’d never ask,” I say with a sly grin.
The apartment is Spartan, ironic, given that he’s Persian. A shelf made of cinderblocks and plywood takes up one wall as his low bed frame runs along the opposite. In the corner, there’s a kitchenette, a sad thing with barely two burners and a sink, but he insists he “makes it work.”
“You must have women beating down your door to get in here,” I tease.
“Oh no, only someone really special would get invited back here.”
There it is again, that honest flirting, the way he’s constantly forward about his feelings for me, which has me wondering, am I that special or is he just like that with everyone?
He certainly hasn’t called V or Gabby beautiful all day.
I think he called V charming once, but I’m pretty sure that was sarcastic.
I know it shouldn’t bother me, that I should just enjoy it, especially on this last night, but I have to ask.
“Why do you do that?”
“You’re going to have to be more specific,” he teases. Then he collects a small plastic bin from a top shelf, revealing the shisha and coals inside. “Hookah?”
I give a smile of approval before asking again. “Why do you always talk to me like that? Calling me special, and sexy, and …all that other stuff?”
Manny goes to start the electric stove, the coils turning a warm orange as he heats the coals on top. “Because you are. Because that’s how I feel about you.”
He turns around, his eyes searching, but not the room. “...and when I lost my parents, I think that made me want to make sure I never let anyone pass through my life without knowing how much they mattered to me ever again."
“But how can you know that? You just met me!”
His shoulders slump at the declaration, his head rocking back. At first, I think I’ve upset him, but the more I think about it, the more I realize I have no clue what makes him upset, which further drives home my point.
His gaze settles back on me, and when he looks at me, there’s such tenderness, a longing that I recognize, as if I’m looking in a mirror.
“Because I just do. You’ve made me feel more seen and more alive in the three days I’ve been around you than I have in decades of being alive.
It’s like you were plucked from one of my books, the strong, confident woman I’ve always imagined, just manifesting before me in one cosmic act of mercy. I can’t explain it any other way.”
I step toward him, closing the small distance in the already cramped apartment. “You really mean that?”
“Yes! Oh my God! Yes! I want to know everything about you! I want to find out we hate everything the other loves and spend nights arguing about it.”
I take another step, cruel, necessary questions dancing on my tongue. “But what if I hurt you? What if I get bored of you?”
“Then I get hurt, and I’ll be grateful for the pain and the time that came before it.”
I take one more step, scared to ask that last question. “What if you get bored of me?”
His face twists into a look of shock, his mouth releasing such a pained sigh, I think he’s going to die from the sharpness of it, then I’m in his arms again, the one place I know I always want to be.
“I would never get bored of you. I can’t imagine life without you.
The moment you walked back into that bar that second night, I thought I was at the start of something incredible.
The moment I saw you last night, I knew my life would never be the same because of you. ”
He pulls back just enough to lean in for a kiss, my lips meeting him halfway, our mouths pulling into a hungry, grateful exchange of saliva. It’s pathetic how fast I want to say “I love you” in relationships, but this is the first time I imagine someone would understand and be grateful for it.
Fortunately, there are no more words, just the hungry press of flesh on flesh as desire takes over, emotional release turning into carnal desire. Just like last night, he is mine, melting into me, following my lead willingly, grateful for the places I am about to take him.
I pull him to the bed, our clothes coming off with each step. By the time I am climbing across the soft sheets, he’s at full attention and eager to please. But I don’t want to be the savage hunter tonight. I want to be the focus of desire, I want him to show me his need with his tender touch.
Instinct, pure and undiluted, takes complete control.
My hands run through his hair, pulling him to the nape of my neck before guiding him down toward my full, exposed breasts.
He follows willingly, no resistance, only need, his mouth closing over one nipple as his fingers reach for the other.
I gasp, arching violently, my nipple a diamond-hard point against his tongue.
This is what I needed. This dual attack, the touch of his fingers mixed with this desperate suckling of his warm mouth.
Still, it’s not enough for him; he wants more, his desire showing as his other hand continues south, his fingers finding my most sensitive spots, creating a trinity of sensations that shatter me completely.
I'm no longer controlling this. My own desperate needs are claiming me, as I channel them through him. My hands are no longer guiding but simply holding on for dear life, buried in his hair and on his back.
I’m almost embarrassed as his name escapes my lips in a reverent gasp that is barely audible over the roar of blood in my ears.
My entire body goes rigid, a flawed statue caught in the flashpoint of ecstasy.
Every muscle locks, seizes, and contracts in a cataclysmic convulsion.
My legs loop around his waist, becoming bands of steel, my fingernails gouge trenches into his scalp, my grip bordering on violent as I refuse to allow any retreat.
The rhythm of his movements, the feel of his body, are my only lifelines in a maelstrom of white-hot sensation. I spasm, not just in an act of the flesh, but in a surrender of my soul, demanding he bear witness to how my unfiltered being reacts to him.
For an endless moment, I am both shattered and whole, destroyed and remade in the fire of our joining.
Then, as swiftly as it seizes me, the tension releases, my limbs going limp, and my body sagging onto the bed. That’s when I hear that satisfied pur, and look to see a toothy smile staring down at me, holding back a proud giggle.
“Oh, you think this is funny, big guy?” I pant, pushing myself up, my arms bracing on the bed before I engage my legs and take Manny over in a single act of claiming.
I am exhausted from the release, the effort leaving me with a languid heaviness in my limbs, but his mischievous grin persists, so I must meet the challenge.
My hand slides down, gripping him at the base of his manhood as I straddle him back and forth, twisting his triumphant look into one of agony. He’s putty in my hands, and he needs to be reminded.
My other hand cups his jaw, my thumb stroking the sweat-slicked skin. His chest is heaving, pupils blown black with a mix of effort and utter devotion. And I know I have him.
I finally settle, guiding his massive girth inside me, causing him to squirm as our heat intermingles.
The gasp of surprise and pain is sweet music to my ears—the solid thump of his back against the wood slats heralding the new movement in our mingling.
I am a blur of motion, shedding my gravity-bound position and rising above him, becoming the peak of a storm-riddled mountain carved from the flesh of our joined bodies.
From this vantage, the power is absolute.
I imagine I look like a beautiful, terrible vision of fury as he gazes up at me, my hair a chaotic halo of black and silver spilling over my shoulders.
My body is a tapestry of raised scars, heaving ribs, and dewy skin, and I wear it all with the pride of a conqueror as his fingers glide over every inch of me.
There’s the slightest wince in his face, making me slow.
The blossoming bruise on his chest is my signature, my claim, but in that moment, I worry if maybe I’ve gone too far.
Then he grips my hand and holds it tighter to his sternum, confirmation that he wants the pain, that he wants to bear my fury, that he wants the good and the bad, all of me.
A slow, carnal smile stretches my lips. I see the silent plea in his eyes, the devout prayer offered to his profane goddess. I answer by lowering myself, torturously slow, until I am seated fully upon him once more, taking him to the hilt.
He squirms under me, eager for friction, but he’s still mine, my zealot, to carry out my will.
When he can’t take it anymore, he bucks like a bronco, thrusting for the slightest hint of satisfaction.
A surprised bark of laughter erupts from my chest, harsh and beautiful in the quiet room.
Then I am back on him, asserting my rhythm, regaining control.
“Nice try,” I whisper as I lean down to his ear. “But you’re my plaything.”
His face splits at the challenge, a dark grin paired with another furious thrust. But my body absorbs the shock, completely ready even as the brutal force sends jolt after jolt of sheer, unadulterated pleasure radiating through my mismatched frame.
I do not yield. I am the rider, the center; there is none of this without me.