Want

My body aches. It is an ache that reaches from my toes, toes that curled each and every time he made me come, to the follicles of my hair, hair he had wrapped around his thick fingers and pulled with such perfect timing. It hurt to even open my eyes, because opening them would mean that it was time for me to take my behind home.

Speaking of my behind...

Good Lord, this man and the things he has done to me. I can still feel the proof of where he has entered me, touched and tasted me. Just the thought makes my clit start to tingle, thoughts of specific moments, specific movements—the feeling of it all.

Internally, I shake my head in disappointment at myself. I do not love this man. This man does not love me. I am not his lover and he is not mine. We fuck. I fuck; and, I do not get fucked. I have to laugh at that last line though, because right now I feel so full and satisfied as I rest by his side—so full, so satisfied, and so absolutely fucked.

I open my eyes slowly, one and then the other. The beauty of the pale skin that stretches across the strength of his forearm, as it rests possessively over the warm chocolate glow of mine, is a contrast that says everything. It is not a commentary on race or even culture. No, it is not that. It is just that he and I are so damned different.

So it amazes me to no end when I wake up like this in his bed, in his home, and in his arms.

The misty half-light of a new day filters through the large picturesque windows of his bedroom and plays with my mind. It whispers things that make me hopeful and almost forget that falling for a man like Bartholomew McCullum is dangerous. Falling for a man like him is like being gifted with a shiny new dollar piece, one of the golden ones you have to ask for at the bank. Except this time, you did not request it. Like magic, it found you. That means something right? But like most things that find you, it is deeply flawed. This one has a hole in its center. You can feel the weight of it in the palm of your hand, but it will not buy you anything worth having. You just hang on to it because it's different, unique, yet still recognizable as something of importance. It found you. You want it and there is no reasonable explanation for the wanting.

I want to believe that his warm brown eyes, with their constant sparkle of mischief, could possibly look at me and see a future. I want that thick Scottish brogue of his to say my name in the sunlight and not just whisper it against my skin with the heat that makes me melt in the dark blanket of night.

My grandmother used to say, "You old enough for your wants not to hurt you." That was her way of saying no.

I have had my share of hurts from misled wants. That is why I have to get out of here, go home, get in my own bed and sleep. That is why I must tell myself no. I am old enough to not let my wants hurt me.

"No," is actually what I should have said when he ordered for me last night, as if he knows me better than I know myself. He ordered the food. He ordered the wine. He ordered me to remove my panties. I ate the food. I drank the wine. I removed my panties, then held them in my open palm like an offering before him and ran my tongue slowly across my upper lip before smiling—already growing wet between my legs.

Bartholomew likes to play games. Men like him thrive on it. Last night was a "date". After weeks of fucking like animals in heat with no promises or discussions of anything more, just delving into the demands of our want, he announced that he wanted more than moments. He said that he wanted us to spend some time together.

"Time?" The sound of it leaving his lips gave me pause. I raised one eyebrow and avoided his eyes.

His early warning to me still echoed in my mind. "I am by nature an unapologetically selfish man. I have been around for a while and I'm set in my ways. There is no room in my life for complications or much of anything else. I like to keep things simple."

He explained himself to me as I lay completely naked in the back seat of his car, his driver partitioned off and hopefully blind as well as deaf to what we had been engaged in. He described who he was and what he wanted just before slipping the dark, hardened nipple of my right breast into his mouth, latching on and pulling.

"Simple," I repeated dutifully, closing my eyes and letting my mind drift upon the wave he was creating.

At that moment, I wanted simplicity too. I simply wanted him to do the same exact thing to my left nipple.

Our moments have been in bathroom stalls with my legs held high, or against brick walls with the voices of others threateningly close. We had a moment once at the front of his foreign sports car that conveniently only seats two, with the head lights leaving us unhidden on a lonely road to some event left waiting for him—with me bent over, my breasts pressed against a hood still warm from a racing engine. That road and the hood of his car was a special moment. I loved the feel of his hands spread out and cupping my backside. His fingers pressing into my skin as he looked down, watching his engorged cock move in and out of my dark body.

Those were stolen moments that left me too lost in him to think about tomorrows.

Time is what he wants, his time and on his terms. Time will only reveal the inevitable. Nothing about me is simple, especially this craving that he has created. I am now a mess. Time will only make me an ugly mess, something to be avoided, my calls unanswered.

This mess started at an office where I was just a temp in the right place at the right time with the right skirt on. He, with his name on the outside of the building within which I worked, bent down in front of me. Like a true gentleman, in a suit that probably cost several months of my salary, he gathered the papers I had let clumsily fall to the floor as he passed by. His gaze started with the line of my calf and did not stop until his smiling brown eyes were boring into mine, with a fire so strong that I was immediately lit.

Last night was supposed to be the night I put an end to this mess. Oh, but I did not stop him when he squeezed the flesh of my inner thigh under the table. He leaned close to me and used the flat of his thumb to spread my own juices over my clit.

"Old man," I warned, already sounding a little breathless.

My legs were spread just right, for the easiest of access. Bart simply smiled that beautiful toothy smile that showcases how very sensual his own lips are. Why couldn't he have those thin lips that white men usually have that make women of color think that we could never kiss them? His smile made me want to kiss those lips as he applied pressure to my firm bud and slipped his middle finger deep into my wetness.

I made the tiniest of sounds and tried so hard not to look like I was coming as I came.

He ordered my favorite dessert and patiently watched as he insisted I eat it. All the while, he knew how badly I needed him to fuck me. He smiled wickedly at my want.

Now, Bartholomew moans lightly as I move him off of me gently. With the force of his eyes and the play of his face at rest, he looks younger. I call him old man because there are so many years between us. I think he must be losing his hair, but I would not know. His head is shaved smooth as a baby's bottom. His edged beard is clipped close as it forms a goatee and shades the space above his lips while not interfering with their beauty. He maintains himself exceptionally well. The only real indication of his age may be the lines at the outer corner of his eyes, lines that always make his eyes seem like they are smiling even when he is not. The graying of his facial hair only makes him look sexy as hell.

Looking at his bald head does that thing to my abdomen, that feathery feeling on my insides. I picture my hands running over its smoothness. I see it between my juicy thighs, like that first time in his office. My skirt was slid high on my waist and my legs over his shoulders as he sucked on my most sensitive spot. He drew my tender nub between his teeth ever so carefully as he flicked his tongue across its bared and unhooded face. I leaned back across his desk and made sounds that I'm sure had to be heard by everyone outside of that locked door. I didn't care. My body shook to its very core with the fierceness of my release. He would not ease up and his strong hands held me in place as I tried to escape. I came so hard. I thought I wet myself.

When he rose up, his lips shiny with my pussy's juices, I kissed him for the first time and tasted my own sweetness on his tongue. I was nothing but want then. I undid his belt and pants in a frenzy of need. I caught my breath at the sight of how beautiful his cock was in my hands. The helmet was so mouthwatering and seeping with his response. His shaft was so thick and lined with veins, I thought I felt them pulsating in my hands. I guided him into me and held my breath as he stretched me wide.

"Mr. McCullum," I whined.

"Bartholomew," he corrected me, his voice heavy and his accent a caress in itself.

He plunged so deep into me with one swift movement. He fucked me so thoroughly that day. When he was done, Bartholomew stepped back and watched me with a smile as my legs still quivered uncontrollably. When I was finally able to stand, I could feel his molten cum running down my legs. I had to wait for my body to recover enough to walk away with any type of balance.

He created a want in me that day that just will not go away or lessen in its intensity. Every touch just makes me want more.

I need to go home.

Now, I am on all fours looking for my clothes, or at least enough for me to leave in, when I notice him watching me.

"Stay," he says.

Why is his voice always like a touch?

"I can't."

He shifts, turning completely on his stomach and tucking a pillow under his bald head.

I smile slightly, to cover the sadness of realizing that I am so easily replaced by a silk-covered down pillow.

"You can," he states as a matter of fact—major arrogance being another of his flaws. "You know you won't regret it."

"I don't want to. I've stayed too long as it is."

I hear myself deny him for the first time since I looked into those eyes. They are eyes I avoid as I try make my way to safety.

I am such a liar.

When his driver drops me off, the partition down, I say, "I guess I'll see you around."

The driver, a rather handsome looking black man close to my own age, looks knowingly but gives me a gentle smile anyway.

"Here," I tell him, handing him a powdered blue box. "Give that to your girl. It'll make her smile and know that you love her."

Diamond earrings should say something besides "Thanks for the fuck".

***

Four weeks later, I am still a mess. But, it grows less and less as each week passes. I have just been informed that my new job may keep me on permanently. I have successfully managed not to drop things there, including my panties. Normal is nice and my life is back to it. This is what I think as I approach the apartment building where I live. The sun has slipped away and everyone seems to be on a mission to get somewhere. The sounds of an exploding bass beat pumps from a passing car, a reminder that this is a Friday night. I wish that I had had money for a taxi or at least a gypsy cab. These heels were not designed for actual walking. My feet hurt and I cannot wait to lie down on the comfortable couch in my little apartment. I have taken to watching television in the evenings until I fall asleep. And damn, I am out of ice cream.

Yes, I laugh. Life is back to normal.

I miss him. I miss his hands, his teasing, and those damned lips. I close my eyes and I see his eyes smiling at me. I even miss the smell of those stupid cigars he sometimes smoked after we had sex. That smug expression on his face always made me roll my eyes, him knowing my thighs were still shaking from his ministrations. He liked to lie on his back, between my legs, with his head resting on my stomach and an arm wrapped around my thigh, smoking a cigar—as if he had just won some battle.

But, I am not imagining the smell of his cigar or his presence now. My foot barely hits the fifth floor landing when I see him propped up against the wall across from my apartment door. With closed eyes, leaning that perfectly shaped bald head back against the wall, he takes a long drag from his cigar and then slowly releases it, as if deep in thought. Dressed for the office, but with his tie hanging loose and the top buttons of his dress shirt undone, Bartholomew McCullum stood there as sexy as ever. I had read an online biography about him, after our first encounter. They called him the "consummate bachelor", a "charismatic corporate marauder". He looked every bit the part, and so very dangerous. The walls of my apartment building seem suddenly dingy and the lighting weak and inappropriate. Those damned butterflies begin to flutter and my legs feel weak.

His eyes open slowly as he shifts his head towards me. He takes another long drag and releases it.

"I was in the neighborhood."

The first week, his messages were curious and entertaining with an option for me to call back. They were the hardest to resist. The second week, he demanded a response and called at odd hours. I felt justified in my decision that he was only interested in himself. Then the messages stopped. By the end of the third week there were no calls. The total silence that followed only confirmed that he had returned back to what was normal for him or that I had been properly replaced.

And now, here he stands. "In the neighborhood," he says. I hope the security system on his car works well. It's going to stand out like a sore thumb in my neighborhood.

I am so tempted to just turn and go back down the five flights of stairs. His eyes lock on me and I find it hard to breathe, let alone run. It takes almost a minute before I am strong enough to look away and walk to my own door. I can feel his eyes on me as I nervously search my bag for my keys. I can feel them go down my body as I turn my back to him.

I pause before turning the last lock. "What do you want?" I manage, aware that my voice is shaking.

I feel his closeness, even though he does not touch me. When his thick voice speaks above my ear, I close my eyes and let the brief familiarity of it warm me.

"I am here for you."

"Bartholomew." I sound like I'm pleading.

"You leave me with little choice, having not returned my calls and abandoning your position."

"Abandoning my position," I repeat. "Bart, it was just temporary."

He lowers his head so that this time I feel the warmth of his voice on my ear. I also feel his body hovering just centimeters from my own.

"It was whatever you wanted it to be for as long as you wanted it," he says and the thickening of his accent reveals a trickling of offense.

I hear his words and I wish that they only meant what I want them to mean. A familiar feeling washes over me. I let go of the breath I am holding and I give in to the urge. I let my body relax into his, where I seem to fit so perfectly.

Bartholomew leans in, placing his large hand over mine and causing me to finally turn the key. He opens the door all the way and ushers me through, closing it behind us.

My small apartment is nothing in comparison to what he is accustomed to. Nevertheless, I've always been proud of it, the neatness and my attempts at class. But, times have not always been easy. I am not sure that I want to turn on a light, allowing him to see things more clearly. A part of me wants him to do what he always does when he is behind me. That part wants to feel him pressed into me, to feel his hands undress me while taking every opportunity to appreciate each individual curve. I want his delicious lips at the curve of my neck, his fingers tugging on my hair.

We stand in silence for a moment, and I'm quite sure that he can hear the uncontrollable hum of my want.

He moves, finds a lamp in the shadows and flips it on. He then positions himself comfortably on my couch, stretching his arms out on either side, flicking the now unlit cigar between one thumb and forefinger.

"Comfortable?"

I sound a bit angry. But, I am really not. A part of me wants to straddle his lap, palm his head and kiss those lips. I ache to feel his hands cup my bottom and draw me into his...

He grins and tilts his head to the side.

Bastard.

"What do you want?"

I avoid the couch and the accompanying matching chair. I go to the tiny dining area, pull out one of only two chairs that sit at the round table there. I position it so that I can see him clearly and sit down.

He lifts one eyebrow and smooth's the hair on his chin.

"You," he returns easily. His accent giving the one word two syllables.

I roll my eyes.

"What do you want?" He looks around while he speaks.

"Surely there must be something," he continues, his expression and voice taking on a more serious tone. "Every woman wants something."

I just continue to watch him, hoping that my face reveals little. But when his eyes finally rest on me and make their way to my own, I am visibly angry.

"I'm here. You have made whatever point you were attempting to make."

He thinks that this is a game.

"I don't want anything from you." I throw my reply at him and cross my arms.

I see a flash of hurt across his face and sadness in his eyes. It is brief, but it is evident. How very strange?

"I am an old man and I don't have much to offer a woman like you."

"A woman like me?" I so want to hang on to anger. It keeps me from coming undone.

He watches me closely for a moment, narrowing his eyes just a bit.

"It's simple," he finally says. "I want you in my life."

Time seems to freeze for just a moment. Then he readjusts himself.

"I have property. Or, you can choose a place that you like, preferably closer. You can have your own driver, your own car. I'll establish an account in your name. That way you can have your own money. You can work if you like. I can have you placed close to me. Or, you could finish law school. The choice is yours. I want you to be comfortable and have whatever it is you want."

"Wow." That is all I can manage in my disbelief. I never told him that I dropped out of law school.

He looks so content with himself, having made his terms clear Was this the part where he expects me to negotiate? Am I not going to be given that opportunity?

"I do," he supplied. "I want you in my life."

I stand up and position the chair back to the table. I slip out of my heels and neatly place them out of the way. I place myself in front of him, fighting the urge to touch him. His eyes search mine and all I can think is "Good Lord, this man". I shake my head slowly, side to side. I know that there are women that would kill to have this man make them this offer. Somewhere, right now, I'm sure that there is a woman hoping that he will call. She might be satisfied with just his attention, no matter how brief or limited.

He stands up and straightens out his shoulders so that now he is looking down at me instead of me looking down at him.

I let my hand touch the side of his face. I run my finger along his bottom lip. I do love his lips. Then, I drop my hand.

He gives me a half smile.

I surprise myself with the force of my response as I slap the shit out of him. I have had enough.

"Men like you think money is the end all be all, you arrogant fuck. Have I ever given you any indication that I give a shit about your money or what you do with it? And besides, if that was all that I wanted there are a lot less complicated ways to get it and still keep my self-respect. I have a place to live and I get around just fine." I'm loud now and about to slap him again when he catches my hand.