The Hooker and the Hermit

His chocolate gaze grew fierce and demanding, a contradiction to the feather-light ministrations of his middle finger at my entrance. He stroked me, opening me, entering me. As well, his words were serene and hypnotic.

“Spread your legs, all the way. Let me touch you; let me help you feel good…that’s it. Oh, Annie dearest, you’re so fucking soft and tight. You feel like heaven.”

I swallowed the building thickness in my throat and instinctively reached for him, gripping the towel at his waist. My other hand moved to my breast, and my head fell back against the rim of the tub. I moaned.

“Shhh….” He leaned forward, briefly covered my mouth with his to silence me, and then whispered against my lips before pulling away, “Your Miss Patricia is in our room unpacking your things. You have to be quiet.”

My breath hitched, and I nodded, whimpering a little but not loud enough to be heard. His index finger joined his middle finger, stroking me while his thumb danced little rhythmic circles over my clitoris. I bit my lip to keep from moaning, and I squeezed my eyes shut.

“No, no. Look at me,” Ronan demanded, his voice still calm and commanding. “Look at me when you come.”

I opened my eyes and found that he was skimming the top of the water with his free hand, pushing the bubbles out of the way so he could see me, where he entered me, where I cupped my breast. His eyes, avaricious and focused, moved over my body.

“You are magnificent.” His tone was dispassionate and removed as he studied me, as though he were an observer and not a participant.

My lungs were bursting with fire, and I couldn’t seem to breathe deeply enough, my inner walls grasping covetously as he moved in and out, filling me. But it wasn’t enough; his movements were too temperate. I needed him. I needed more than his tender fingers. I needed him to be harder, firmer. I needed him everywhere.

“Ronan,” I panted, reaching for his wrist between my legs, pushing his hand more firmly against my center. “Ronan, I want you. I need…. Please, please.”

“Hush,” he said, his touches still lithe and gentle, far too gentle. They were teasing. He was driving me crazy, and he sounded like he knew it. Looking at him, at the set of his jaw and the brutal gleam in his eyes, I had the distinct impression I was being punished.

I whimpered again.

He tsked, his fingers leaving my body to spread my arousal over the lips framing my clitoris, more teasing. “Such a greedy girl.”

“Please, please,” I begged, mindless, desperate.

“Are you going to leave me again, Annie? Are you going to walk away? Rip me open? Make me beg?” Though his tone was tender, his words stabbed at my heart.

“Ronan….”

“Do you trust me?”

I nodded and spoke the truth. “Yes. Yes.”

“Are we together? Are you mine?”

I bit my lip, and despite his earlier command, I squeezed my eyes shut. I wasn’t too far gone to make promises I didn’t know if I could keep. Without the carved perfection of him filling my vision, I was able to gather several sobering deep breaths. I reached again for his wrist, stilling his movements and pulling him away—though it felt like I was removing a part of myself—and I closed my legs and twisted them to the side, away from him.

I let go of the towel around his waist and used my arms to cover myself. I was shaking, though the water was still hot and so was my body, my insides molten with unfulfilled longing.

I heard the faint splash of his hand leaving the water and then nothing. I pressed my lips together to keep my chin from wobbling. I was such a mess. I wanted him; but I didn’t want to lie to him, and nothing had changed. I knew he was watching me, waiting; I felt his eyes sure as a hand sliding over my body.

At last he said, “I see.”

The air shifted. I knew he’d moved. I dared to open my eyes into slits and caught sight of his back just before he opened the door.

“I’ll be back to pick you up. You need to be ready at five.” His tone was unruffled, verging on bored. It did terrible things to me, like force two tears past the barrier of my eyelids.

And then he was gone.

Chapter Sixteen

New York’s Finest

Blogging as *The Socialmedialite*

March 29

You know what I both love and hate about New York? Toplessness.

In case you didn’t know, going topless in New York City (for both guys and gals) is a-okay. That’s right—New York is all for equal-opportunity torso ogling. Last week, Marta Duvall and her fiancé Eric Harper, went topless while hanging out (pun intended) on the chilly lawns of Central Park.

Even though I’ve blacked out both Marta and Eric’s nipples in the picture above, I fully support NYC’s topless policy…except for the unavoidable tattoos of regret which are often revealed.

Take the following picture, for example. This is a shot of Eric’s back. As you can see, because of how I’ve enlarged the area and added the helpful red arrows and circles, Eric has a very awkward caricature of his ex-girlfriend (actress Temaya Garrison) on his right shoulder blade. Ironically, in the tattoo, Temaya is also topless.

Perhaps instead of paying for the removal of Temaya’s hooters, Eric is planning on donating the saved money to today’s highlighted charity! All donations received today will go toward “Tit for Tat,” a program that helps breast cancer survivors (with breast reconstruction) by providing expertly tattooed nipples.