Sela Ch. 03

The first two chapters of this story were written under the user name maeverotica. If you haven't read the first two chapters, please read those first.

Also this particular chapter includes sexual tension, but no sex scenes. You'll be rewarded in the next chapter.

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Sela woke to the morning light streaming in through the window. She peered through her hazy eyes, recognizing she was in a foreign room. Her panic wakened her with a jolt. Looking out the window, Sela saw her car in front of the building and knew she must be at Brynn and Evan's. The evening flooded back to her, the scene with Eric, so utterly intense and intimate. She remembered snippets of Eric attempting to wake her and eventually taking her up to Brynn's.

Her clothes were carefully laid out on a chair, along with her handbag. Quickly shrugging out of the soft, plush bathrobe she stepped into her clothes, stopping momentarily to take herself in at the full length mirror. Small red marks around her breasts from Eric's sucking, light welts on her ass from his punishment. Her limbs felt sore, but the anxiety and tension that had been mounting for so many weeks had dampened considerably.

After dressing, she quietly exited the room, smelling what might be bacon, hearing the soft murmurs of Brynn and Evan.

"Oh Sela, did we wake you?" Brynn asked.

"No, no. God, thank you for letting me sleep here. I don't know what happened," she said. Brynn came over to her and winked.

"I do. I think I know that feeling," she said conspiratorially. Sela didn't exactly feel embarrassed, but she felt exposed and shame washed over her. "Would you like some breakfast?"

Sela quite honestly wanted to flee, but she did not want to appear ungrateful so she nodded. Brynn brought her tea and they sat at the table while Evan cooked. Evan with his graying hair, but body of a 25 year old gym rat, looked the picture of docility as he slaved away at the stove. He looked anything but the dominant Brynn had attributed to him.

""Eric was concerned. He already texted me this morning to see how you were," Brynn said, in hopes that Sela might show some clue to how she felt about Eric.

"Oh. I'm fine," Sela stuttered. The last thing she wanted was for Eric to be concerned about her. Last night was too intimate. She should probably never see him again. Already she was fearing over involvement.

"It wouldn't be such a bad thing. Eric is a self-possessed man. He doesn't want your typical relationship. He likes his freedom, his space," Brynn encouraged.

"I know, Brynn. I just don't want that right now," Sela said as Evan plopped down a plate with white eggs, spinach and strange looking bacon. Her eyes widened a bit.

"Evan's a vegetarian. He cooks so I eat. Though I crave a raw steak now and then," Brynn whispered with a smile.

"That explains the forlorn look," Sela replied.

"Come again?"

"Oh, just something from a book. Marquez. "He soon acquired that forlorn look one sees in vegetarians,;" she quoted. "It's from One Years of Solitude."

Brynn laughed. "I must read it!"

"I've read it 100 times and each I find a hidden gem of a phrase," Sela replied, happy for the change in subject.

The food had little flavor and tough consistency. Sela loved the Bay Area weather, but could definitely pass on the whole vegan, earthy crunchy thing. After breakfast and light talk, Sela thanked them once again and departed. She was still exhausted and wanted only more sleep.

Though Sela felt lighter and her needs more dormant than before, she couldn't quell the hint of dread at another day of work at the law firm in a job she did not find fulfilling. She wore a pair of slacks that were too big, especially after the last two weeks of barely being able to eat from her gnawing craving for sex. Her blouse was too broad at the shoulders, but the long burgundy sweater hid the evidence, and just about everything else. With her hair held back in a clip and her too big glasses perched on her nose, she read Neruda poems she had nearly memorized while riding BART into the city.

Work dragged by while Sela plugged away at research that seemed like overkill and writing that was filled with legalese. She'd love to find a new job, but didn't know what else she could do or wanted to do. At 3:00 she went around taking orders for the Starbucks run that broke up the monotony of the afternoon. Fleeting images of Friday night with Eric would float into her mind, jolting her from tiresome tasks. Her first reaction was to smile, but her second was to admonish the reverie, the needs she had. Even more so, she tried to squelch the longing for his kisses, the tenderness and affection. Sela could not let herself fall for Eric. He was virile, dominant, self-possessed, mischievous, kind, and gloriously handsome. He was an adonis and she could not deny how much she thought of him, craved him. Was it merely the sex, the release she so wanted? Or was it something else?

Holding the two trays of coffee drinks, Sela waited for the elevator, watching each number light up in the slow descent to the first floor. The doors opened to the same couple from Friday, locked in a oral embrace that screamed of hunger and want. She bit her lip, staring at them, waiting for their uncoupling so they would exit the elevator. She sensed someone standing behind her, but only noticed it was the same gentleman from last week when the doors had closed. They looked at each other and his eyebrow went up with his smirk. Goddamn, he was gorgeous, Sela thought.

"The couple is quite punctual," the man remarked pushing both the 8th and top floors.

"The happy hour of assault and the kiss," Sela said without thinking, the words of Neruda so easily rolling off her tongue. The man looked at her quizzically.

"Sorry. It's just from a poem," she said not looking at him, surprised by her slip of words.

"Hmm. What poem is that?" he asked.

Sela looked up at him. Surprised that he asked.

"Oh, uh, Neruda. One of his love poems," she trailed off, sure he couldn't be interested.

"Sounds intense," he remarked.

"Neruda? Intense, yes. Passionate," she replied, drinking in the man's magnetic green eyes. He exuded energy and power, a force she'd always been prey too. Yet, she remembered that she had hidden herself, behind awkward fitting clothes and thick nerdy glasses. She wasn't sexy Sela who engaged in non-committal kinks with Eric. She was the Sela she created to hide, no to bury, the Sela that wrecked lives. Upon recognizing that, she bit her lip and looked away. So very grateful when the elevator doors opened and she exited without taking a breath.

Each night brought dreams of Eric devouring her with his mouth, only she would look and sometimes it would be Eric and others the man in the elevator. In vain she tried to banish thoughts of Eric, the longing she had for him. Each day she waited with trays of Starbucks, hoping for another glimpse of the man and the fierce kisses of the couple. As much as she tried to hide her true self, the hungry, sexual Sela was always there, waiting for a weak moment, a moment when she would surface and heed her desires.

Thursday was unusually warm. Sela wore a cotton skirt and heavy sweater over a cami, her frumpy look. She was sweltering and sweating by the time she arrived at the elevator with her trays of coffee. The elevator was on the 10th floor when she pushed the button, so she placed down the trays and removed her sweater, scattering her glasses to the floor. When she turned to find them, the man with the enchanting green eyes held them out to her. When he saw her face framed by wisps of hair, her green eyes alighted he stopped, startled by the woman he saw. Who would hide that face, those eyes? He wondered as he handed the glasses back to her. And holy hell, that amazing cleavage!

"Thanks," she said taking her glasses, a bit flustered when she realized it was him. She replaced her glasses and tied her sweater around her waist so she could grab the trays of coffee.

"Here, let me help you," he said, taking a tray from her. Their eyes met and Sela was caught momentarily in his gaze. Everything about him oozed charm, power, and sex. He was her achilles heel - a man of wealth and power, probably 10 years older than she. Her stomach clenched as the ache of want fired in her groin, as if she hadn't had her fix just a week ago.

When the doors to the elevator opened they were met once again by the ardent elevator lovers, their hands searching each other as fervently as their mouths. The couple barely disengaged to exit the elevator, passing them as if they did not exist.

"Serendipitous," the man said with a smile, when the doors finally closed. She watched his fingers as they pushed 8 and 35, thick, manly, but well manicured. She instantly wondered what they would feel like on her.

"I wonder what Neruda would say," he asked, the question hanging thickly in the air.

Before she could even think, the words so emblazoned in her memory leapt from her mouth, "Oh the bitten mouth, oh the kissed limbs, oh the hungering teeth, oh the entwined bodies. Oh the mad coupling of hope and force," she quoted. Her eyes met his gaze, he was silent but overcome, likely something he wasn't used to.

Who is this girl? This woman who hides behind horrible clothes and hideously awkward glasses, he wondered. Without her sweater shrouding her, he saw the defined outline of her arms, the full mounds of her breasts, the V of her cleavage. What more is beneath her facade, he wondered.

"You've sold me. I will have to download Neruda's love poems to me ereader," he said, not taking his gaze from her. Penetrating her, as if to disrobe her disguise. His look was one of power and hunger as if he was sizing her up for a good meal. Sela looked away and licked her lips. The elevator seemed hot and especially slow to ascend.

Just as the elevator lit on the 8th floor, he stepped in front of her.

"I should at least know the name of the woman who so beautifully quotes Neruda," he said.

Sela caught her breath, then whispered her name.

"Sela. I'm Emery."

"Nice to meet you," she blurted, taking the tray from him and exiting as soon as the door opened. My god, what had happened to her? Was she becoming the facade she created, the awkward sexless girl?

When she was younger, 16, at boarding school, she was part of a group of girls who grew up wealthy, entitled, so aware of the lure of their own youth and sexuality. Her smooth skin glowed brightly with perfectly applied makeup. Her long dark hair with it's long wavy curls framing her face, contrasting the bold green of her eyes. She knew how to walk, how to flaunt, how to flirt. Sela had not let power or age dissuade her from her efforts, for it was what she desired, to taunt, tease and eventually be taken by a man.

Sela looked back on her reckless, risky behavior as that which had led to nothing but the ruination of the men she engaged with. She knew why she had squelched her burning desires, her dauntless sexuality.

The rest of the day dragged on, her stomach full of the fluttering of sexual angst. She should not let an attractive man ignite that in her, but she was unsure whether it was him or the having succumbed to her addiction and sought out a night with Eric. Though it quelled her cravings for a few days, her desires seemed to have come roaring back. She contemplated whether to text Eric. He'd insisted that she have his number and only turn to him in her need. He did not press her for more, though she felt he might want it.

On the BART ride back to Oakland, Sela was seized with the thought that she must not let Emery download Neruda on his ereader. It seemed like sacrilege to read Neruda's words, but not hold them in your hand. Seeing them on an ereader was like seeing them encased in a cyber prison.

As soon as she exited the BART station she headed over to her favorite bookstore, straight to the back of the store where the shelves contained Neruda.

"Don't say hi Sela," Gregory at the front counter said as she breezed passed him.

"Hi Gregory," she yelled back barely acknowledging him. Love Poems! Yes, she was delighted they had a copy. She brought it to the front counter.

"Really? How many copies of Neruda do you need?" Gregory asked. He gave her a queried look and effeminately swept his hand over the book. Sela had collected old copies, like those dog-earred and tired, believing they had been carefully perused, perhaps even wept over, as if they held a history no freshly printed new edition could hold.

"It's not for me," she said.

"I have something to show you, but don't tell the owner," he said to her. Gregory's thin pale face lit up. He had big brown puppy dog eyes and slightly too long blond hair. Couple with his boyish body, he had one oldish man after another supporting him and he didn't hide it. He loved working in the bookstore, because he could put in as little effort as he wanted. Yet part-time anything wouldn't afford ou the Bay Area. Gregory quickly learned a sweet older man was just what he always wanted.

"Oo! What?" she asked, knowing he liked to show her the pricey signed first editions that came into the store. Gregory unlocked a safe below the counter and pulled out a hefty tomb and placed it on the counter. Sela sucked in her breath when she saw it. A hard bound, first edition One hundred Years of Solitude. She opened the front cover and saw the pristine cover page scrawled with Marquez's signature.

"You fucking tease!" Sela exclaimed. "My god, it's absolutely pristine. It's a Buenos Aires edition!" Sela flipped through the book as gently as if handling the fragile wings of a butterfly.

"I knew you'd cream your panties," he teased. "Guess how much it goes for?"

"I don't know. 10 grand?" she guessed.

"Yeah, probably," he said, deflated that she guessed the exact value. He didn't know how well she knew her books. Nor did he know that to own one, she only needed to dip into a sizeable trust fund that had been waiting for her to touch for over three years. Yet that was never something she considered anymore and she carefully handed the book back to him.

"I love reading Marquez in Spanish," she said wistfully. She paid him for her book, her mind unable to stay focused, so many thoughts swirling.

"See ya, Sela," Gregory said as she departed. She walked slowly home, knowing not much was there for her, but books and music. She had friends, but not many and she had become use to her relative reclusiveness.

Still full of angst and resurging desires and needs, Sela donned her running shoes and headed out in an effort to pound away the inclinations of her self.