Chapter 32

Becka

Oliver may have had a plan; I trusted that much. However, as the days stretched on that we stayed in his house, I grew restless and bored. At least I was getting some work done; Oliver had several mergers in the making and I was busy for a few hours a day with email communications and setting up scheduled meetings for Oliver, both in person and on the phone.

But, though some parts of my days were busy, more of the day I wandered around the house bored out of my mind. I wasn’t a tv person, and, though I tried to get into the soaps and court tv, they drove me nuts.

I read the few books Oliver had on his shelves that were of interest to me… and then I read the ones that weren’t. It wasn’t just that I couldn’t return to my own home because the media had camped outside my building like it was the night before Springsteen tickets went on sale. The media were also flocking to as close to Oliver’s house as they were allowed to get.

He had a fenced-in property, of course, gated far at the perimeter of his lawn. I could have gone outside, at least, but for the photographers’ telephoto lenses that would have taken pictures of me that looked as though they were standing an inch from me.

Every night I watched the news, waiting for a bigger story, something to come along that would make the business with Oliver and Neurotova disappear. One night, about a week after Lisa had dropped me off at Oliver’s house and we’d had that argument, what I considered to be our first fight, I turned to him after the news ended.

That night’s story had featured two reporters, one outside my apartment and one outside his house, recording “live and on location.” What were they reporting? Absolutely nothing. They were rehashing the same commentary and discussions, the same business about Neurotova that had been cycling through the news since the first day. They had nothing to report since we were in hiding. I wondered briefly where Ethan was; I hadn’t gotten so much as a text from him.

“It’s been a week,” I said. “How much longer are you going to let them keep us prisoners in your home?”

He looked at me. “How long am I going to do that? What do you mean?”

“You said you have a plan,” I said. “A week ago, you said you had a plan that would end this. Yet here we are, still trapped like rats in an expensive cage.” I was trying to stay calm. I didn’t want another fight; I just wanted some answers. Yet I found myself getting both angry and anxious at the same time as the feelings of claustrophobia moved through me.

Oliver’s eyes clouded over. “You said you would trust me.”

“I said that a week ago!” I exclaimed. “And you promised!” I took a deep breath. I sounded like a teenager talking to her father, the exact opposite of how I wanted to come across. “Honey,” I said, trying to be calm. “I just don’t know how much longer I can do this. I’m not used to this lifestyle, all of this attention, in the same way you are.

Up until a few months ago, the most attention I received ever was when I was guest lecturing in a class. Now, I’m on the damn news every night. I’m sorry, but that’s exceptionally stressful for me. And you know that.”

Oliver’s face softened. “I do know that.” He moved toward me and put his arm around me, drawing my head to his chest. I leaned in, feeling comforted by his touch and his presence. At least he hadn’t disappeared during the week. That was an improvement.

He stroked my hair and I snuggled in deeper to his chest. “I know it’s been hard for you, Becka, and the only thing I can promise you is that I do know what I’m doing. There’s a lot of history here, a lot of details that I haven’t been able to share, for one reason or another. You’ve been so patient and understanding,” at this, he moved his hand to my cheek. Its warmth surged through me and I felt a wave of desire for him.

“I don’t want our life to be like this,” I said. “I don’t care about money, fancy things, any of that. I just want you.”

He leaned down and kissed me, lifting my chin with his fingertip. I felt tears poking at my eyes, but I blinked them back. I hated to cry, and I had done it enough in front of him to last a lifetime.

“Tell you what,” he said. “Let’s go to bed and have make up sex.”

I looked up at him. “But we didn’t have a fight,” I said.

“Details…” he whispered, and he kissed me again.

He led me upstairs, a path that once upon a time had been unknown to me which I could now walk with my eyes shut. In the bedroom, a room I now considered to be “ours,” he leaned in and kissed me again. I put my arms around him, drawing him to me. His hands circled my waist and I stretched tall, onto my tip toes, to kiss him.

“You are so gorgeous,” he said. “So sexy.” He took off my shirt, a long sleeved, loose top that he had bought for me, and brought me to him once again. My breasts pressed against him and I could feel my nipples hardening to his touch.

He pulled away and nuzzled his face between my breasts, holding one in each hand and pressing them together. He ran his thumbs across my nipples and I shivered. “So gorgeous,” he said again, and he took my hand and led me to the bed.

He took off his shirt and I pulled off my black yoga pants. I was wearing panties only, and I saw him scan my body from top to bottom, smiling. He was aroused; I could see it. I smiled and turned, giving him a view of the curve of my waist and hips as well as my ass. His smile broadened.

“So sexy,” he said again, and he took off his jeans. His boxers tented around his erection and I smiled, licking my lips.

“Speaking of sexy,” I said playfully as I walked toward him. I dropped to my knees on the plush carpet and put my hands on his waist, teasing him by putting my mouth centimeters from the rise of his boxers.

I felt the heat emanating from his body and smiled. He groaned softly, and I could feel him resisting the urge to grab the back of my head and pull me to him. Instead, he flexed his hands and put them on my shoulders. I smiled up at him, teasing.

“Anxious?” I asked sweetly. I didn’t intend to torture him for very long, but I was enjoying myself.

“Horny,” he groaned back. I watched his cock pulse against his boxers, its head exploring, wondering what the holdup was. I pulled his boxers down and his cock lengthened in front of me. I took his balls in one hand, holding the soft sack of skin, stretched with his arousal, and his cock in my mouth. I began to suck his head, swirling my tongue around first slowly, then picking up speed as I reached my other hand up to grip his shaft.

I began to stroke him as I simultaneously licked and sucked him, feeling his pre-cum on my tongue. It tasted salty; my mouth watered for more. I licked the underside of his shaft, feeling him harden even further. He groaned and put his hands on the back of my head, moved my mouth in a rhythm that suited him. I pressed my warm palm against his balls, and he exploded into my mouth. He held me in place and moved his cock in and out as he came, pressing toward the back of my throat.

When he finished, he pulled back and sat on the bed. I dropped back onto my heels and looked at him, enjoying the dreamy expression on his face.

“That was fucking incredible,” he said. “You’re amazing. You really are. Come here.” He held his hand out to me and I stood, walking over to him. He drew me to him, my belly against his mouth. He kissed my stomach, letting his tongue trail down to my hips. I crawled onto the bed and laid on my back. He moved between my legs and began to kiss my inner thighs, small kisses that lingered, his breath warm on my skin.

I sighed happily, feeling his lips teasing against my flesh, sending tingling sensations through my entire body. He moved upward and spread my labia with his fingers, moving his tongue inside me. I let my legs fall open wider, inviting him in. He looked up at me and I smiled.

He buried his face in me, letting his tongue swirl around my clit. I felt it hardening under the motions of his tongue and lips. He slid a finger into my vagina, then another, and a third. The sensation of fullness as he gave full attention to my clit was magical. I groaned and pressed into him.

He knew exactly what to do to meet my arousal head on and satisfy it. As he pulled my legs over his shoulders and moved his hands to my hips, he buried himself deeper into me, until I felt as though he was making contact with every wet, aroused cell in my body.

My orgasm thundered through me and I gasped, then cried out at its intensity. Oliver stayed with me, continuing to stimulate me until a second orgasm replaced the first. I felt my orgasm in my fingertips and toes and everywhere in between.

When the third came upon me, I shuddered and held on to Oliver’s hands, stabilizing myself with my legs against his back. When my multiple orgasm concluded, I was a sweaty, shaking mess and Oliver slowly pulled back from me, then laid beside me and stroked my hair as I slowly came down.

“I hate you,” I whispered.

“I hate you, too,” he said, grinning.

As I drifted off to sleep, I thought about my life with Oliver. Nothing complex or philosophical; I thought only of the fact that I was with a man who could give me multiple orgasms at the drop of a hat. Who knew my body nearly better than I did, and who was willing to go to whatever lengths were necessary to completely satisfy me. I smiled. That was a rare man.

I felt conflicted. Would I have put up with the back and forth from Oliver, with the danger, with the constant stress, if he wasn’t such a fulfilling lover and partner? Would I have put up with those things from anyone? I didn’t know.

What I did know, as I watched Oliver sleeping, his breath smooth, his chest rising and falling, was that I couldn’t imagine my life without him anymore. But, as I thought about everything that I had lost: my apartment, my job, my dissertation… I wondered… what kind of a life did I have with him?