Chapter 25 Misbehave #2
His expression turned serious as he ran his finger down my cheek, as if he was unable to resist touching me.
“By the way, I wanted to let you know you were mentioned on Page Six with me,” he said, and I shot him a curious look.
He dug his phone from his pocket and showed me an item from the tabloid, citing me by name.
I read it, taking my time as I let the commentary about our “intimate pleasures” sink in.
It was oddly surreal, and a bit disconnected.
But then, that made perfect sense—I was being written about without being truly known.
“I think the only other time I’ve been in the papers is when I attended the Tonys with my brother a few years ago,” I said, still a bit shell-shocked to be thrust into the limelight like this.
“I’m sorry. I hate that they made some sort of insinuation,” he said, seeming contrite.
I flashed back to my conversation at my consulting group with Carla, who’d been spotted seeing It’s Raining Men, then to my own comments about having a life. “Look, it’s not as if we were caught on-camera fucking,” I said in a whisper.
He laughed. “And there were plenty of chances to catch that.”
“We just need to be careful,” I added. I wanted to believe that I was allowed to have a life, to date, to even be seen out and about with a man in the public eye.
I was a human being. I couldn’t live in a bubble, and it made no sense to pretend I had no life.
“I’m not a nun. I’m simply a therapist. It’s fine.
I’m allowed to date. Besides, we aren’t a secret.
Our affair might be private, but we were never sneaking around.
We’ve always gone to dinner and to bars and for walks.
We’re adults, living in Manhattan. Remember the first night we had dinner? ”
“Yes.”
“A picture showed up on social a few days later. My friend Sutton noticed it.”
“When you said I had fans?”
“Yes. I guess the fact is there are a lot of women in this city who want to fuck you, Jack Sullivan,” I said with a wink, tugging on his tie and pulling him closer.
“But there’s only one who is. And there’s only one I want to fuck,” he said, his voice low and husky in my ear.
“Good. I like it that way.”
“That’s the only way for me,” he said, then pulled back to look me in the eyes. “Are you sure it doesn’t bother you?” he asked, serious once more.
I shrugged. “It’s not that bad a piece. We were only at dinner, and the rest is the columnist making a joke.
So truly, I can’t let it get to me.” If I stopped buying cereal at Trader Joe’s, or going out to dinner, or skipping the theater, I’d be less human.
And to do my job—which was my passion, my love, my soul—I needed and wanted to be fully involved in the world around me.
To be a part of it. To live. To love. To feel.
After all, who would trust a relationship expert who’d never had one?
He smiled and fingered a strand of my hair. “Do you have any idea how nice it is to be involved with a therapist? You don’t overreact to things.”
I laughed. “I still have emotions, Jack. Being a therapist doesn’t mean I’m devoid of them, or that I can manage them properly all the time. Sometimes, I can misbehave horribly.”
Just then the lights flashed, and the orchestra took the stage, the virtuoso musicians settling into their chairs, ready to launch into Brahms’ Fourth Symphony.
“I can misbehave too,” he said, mischief skipping across his blue eyes.
I drew a sharp breath, expecting him to brandish his remote and send pleasure shooting straight into my core.
But he didn’t. Instead, he took my hand, and turned his attention to the stage to watch, and listen.
I enjoyed the music too, feeling it wrap its way around me, slink into my mind and body at the sound of the flutes soared through the cavernous hall.
But I was waiting, too, tense, hoping to feel that pleasure again.
As the violinists picked up their bows, my eyes widened, and I gripped the arm of my chair.
He’d turned it back on, and he’d turned it to high.
I held my breath as I let myself adjust to the intensity of the vibrations between my legs, but soon he lowered the pressure, letting it buzz against me at the lowest level, a faint but still-present sensation, as if he were gently rubbing his fingertip against my clit.
Like we were lying on my couch, watching a movie, and he’d decided to dip a hand inside my panties and absently stroke me while staring at the screen.
That was how it felt. Enough pleasure to send my body into a heightened awareness, a craving for more.
But not enough to satiate me. Not enough at all.
I wanted more, and as the bassoons joined in I was about to beg for it, to tap him on the shoulder and ask him to turn it up and get me all the way off.
But this man could read me perfectly. He glanced over, and I was sure he was taking in my expression as I tried valiantly to not show the world that I wanted him to make me come in my panties at the symphony.
He dialed it up once more, and I crossed my legs, the pressure from my thighs intensifying the feelings flooding me.
He eyed me with a pleased look, nodding at my crossed legs as if to say smart thinking.
The Allegro non troppo crested, more instruments joining in, playing, building, mirroring the pulsing in my body.
Jack grabbed my hand, brought it to his mouth and kissed me as if he had to touch me while he was doing this.
I gasped, and my noise of pleasure made landfall at a brief pause in the score. I was sure someone had heard, and I dropped my gaze down, embarrassed momentarily. Here I was, seated in the balcony of a concert hall, desperate for an orgasm.
He leaned in. “No one heard you. Tell me if you want me to let you come.”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure? Do you want to wait until I can fuck you in bed? So you can scream and moan like you want to?”
“I want that,” I whispered in a barren voice. “But I want to come now.”
“You’re so turned on, aren’t you?”
He sounded as if he wanted to pounce on me.
“Yes,” I bit out, my voice sounding like I might very well cry if he didn’t take care of me.
“You must be so wet.”
“I am.”
“You should hold back. Can you hold back until later?”
I clenched my teeth. I knew what he was doing now.
He was playing me. He wanted me to be strong.
To say I could handle it. If I used reverse psychology and told him I could wait, then he’d probably let me come.
As a reward. But the game was exhausting right now.
I wanted him. Without games. For real. I told him the full truth. “No. I can’t wait.”
“But I want you to,” he whispered. “I want you to wait for me.”
He turned off the toy, and I wanted to wither. I thought I might claw my way out of my own skin right now. To climb the walls of the hall. Anything to release this desire from my body. I hated that I was encased in it. That I’d been reduced to nothing but this.
It was so base. So animalistic. But at the moment, I was no longer a professional, no longer an evolved being.
I was a fucking animal, and I wanted to be satisfied.
And the bastard wasn’t letting me. I inhaled quietly.
The orchestra played, shifting to the second movement.
Everyone listened. The minutes ticked by.
Jack’s fingers uncurled. He no longer had a tight grip on the remote.
He was focused on the stage, and he was nodding his head, keeping in time to the music.
He stuffed the remote in his pocket, then returned his hands to his lap.
He wasn’t touching me. He wasn’t even thinking of me.
He’d asked me to wear a goddamn butterfly to the symphony and I’d done it for him.
I’d let him turn me up and turn me down wherever and however he pleased.
And now he was bored with me. Interested in something else.
I was nothing but a plaything, and the worst part was I was still aroused.
I was mad too. I didn’t want to play this game right now. It had gone far enough.
I tapped him on the shoulder. “I’m going to leave. Good night.”
I stood up, and walked out quickly, pushing on the door that led out of the auditorium and into the quiet hallway.
In seconds, he’d followed me, catching up to me. Only an usher at the far end of the hallway noticed us.
“Michelle,” he said, grasping for my wrist. “Are you okay?”
“No,” I said, not bothering to mask it or hide it. “I’m not okay.”
“What’s wrong?” His brow furrowed, the look in his eyes one of confusion.
I parked my hands on my hips. “Sometimes games work, and sometimes they don’t. It didn’t this time.” I held up a hand. “Don’t turn it on again.”
“I won’t,” he said, like a boy scolded.
I stepped closer, speaking in a low voice for only him. We’d already had our picture circulate on the Internet. I didn’t need anyone to hear this conversation. “You know I love what you do to me. But you took it too far in there.”
“Because it’s public?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“Because I wanted you to finish,” I seethed.
“I don’t care if that makes me petty or foolish or stupid.
I don’t care if that makes me greedy. I didn’t want to play.
And then you stopped, and I was just squirming in my fucking seat.
You were wrapped up in the music, and it was like you’d forgotten what you’d done to me.
And I’m sorry if I sound selfish or for wanting you to have finished me. But that’s what I wanted.”
The corner of his lips quirked up for a second, but then he stopped, adopting a serious look when I narrowed my eyes at him. “I thought it was all part of the fun we were having,” he said.
“It is fun. To a point. And then it stops being fun when you don’t even realize the effect you have on me.
Physically. Mentally. Every way. You asked me if I could wait, and I said no.
I was completely honest with you, and you just toyed with me,” I said through gritted teeth, grabbing his tie, pulling him close.
“Don’t you get it? You turn me on and you build me up and you control me and I let you.
Because I love it too. Because I love what you do to me.
But sometimes I don’t want to be toyed with.
I want to be taken care of. Even if it’s at the symphony. ”
His chest rose and fell. He breathed out hard. He didn’t speak. Maybe I’d gone too far. But I was okay with that. I knew how to live alone. To survive alone. If I lost Jack because of this, then I’d be fine with it.