Dancer (11 page)

"Sorry. I had to have you. God, baby, I haven't had you in so long..."  Using long brisk strokes, he coasted inside me. His fingers threaded with mine and he lifted my arms and buried my hands in the billowy mattress while his athletic body steadily rocked, pleasured and fucked me. 

Chase launched our sweet, shared agony toward its highest point. I thrashed beneath his rampant motions, his plunging midriff. 

His cock pounded, hurt, chafed my sensitive inner flesh. I'd never experienced this level of sexual intensity—this incredible, overwhelming rush of heightened sensation or this primitive animalistic sex that punished and forced my clit to erupt in spasms.

Sinking my teeth into my bottom lip, I arched my back to match every fierce thrust he unleashed.

Concentration etched his face. My bed creaked and the headboard bumped the wall. These unnerving noises pitched louder as Chase's lovemaking progressed.

"
Mm, mm, oh, oh Samantha... Samantha
.
Pretty... pretty girl
." He lowered those sculpted lips and crushed mine in a lustful kiss complete with tongue thrusts.

Just when he couldn't fuck any faster, Chase impaled me with his erection and halted. I winced as his cock shuddered and warmed my insides with gushing semen. His sweaty features warped as he moaned like someone in pain, banging through his orgasm until fully satisfied.

"
Oh, Christ... Samantha
." He pulled out and rested on his side.

Fighting an urge to get up and run, I studied the shallow cracks that marked the ceiling. 

Chase cupped my shoulder, drew me into his embrace.

"Can't believe I'm actually saying this, but I think I'm in love with you, Samantha."

I shut my eyelids. Tears fell.

Ambivalence was my new name.

* * * *

I
n the four months leading to Cole's birth, I distanced myself from Chase.

He must prove to me—beyond shadow of a doubt—he'd be worthy of my love and he'd have to earn my trust.

I busied myself by starting weekly therapy sessions with a psychologist. The one thing I hated was being 'forced' to keep a journal. I thought it was stupid and defeated the purpose.

With time, I enjoyed typing my daily experiences in the digital diary on my laptop.

I often saw Chase in town, mostly ignored his calls and emails.

Through text messages, Chase continually expressed his 'love' for me. It took me months to believe him. Months of surreptitiously analyzing his movements (partly in thanks to friends of friends), ensuring his quickie divorce was finalized, ensuring he'd moved out of Sherrie's house and wasn't seeing anyone.

He passed every test.

Thusly followed the tentative beginnings of my trust. My faith. My love.

But on February the twentieth, Chase told me he'd received an offer to perform as a back-up dancer for a well-known female singer.

In a way I was happy for him. In another way—not so much because I wouldn't get to see him as often. He'd be going on tour and traveling the world.

One thing was for sure—I was proud of him. For this talented, handsome celebrity loved me and treasured our son.

Speaking of which, Cole Bailey Richardson was born on March second.

As I cradled this tiny sleeping creature swaddled in blue, Chase sat on the hospital bed and lowered to kiss the infant's fuzzy head.

"I can't believe he's finally here," he said.

I returned his grin, truly content for the first time in forever.

A year later, I wrote one final entry in my digital diary.

March 10

I think I'm finished.

Today's my wedding day and I'll soon be Mrs. Samantha Richardson.

Damn. If someone would've told me sixteen months ago that I'd end up married to Chase...

Wow.

And I guess people really can change. Sometimes it takes a major traumatic event to change someone's evil ways.

I guess we've ALL changed for the better. Even Dad (the asshole) seems happy for me.

* * * *

T
he tangled webs lust can weave.

I never went to clubs again. Never got drunk. Besides, I had a son to consider.

And a husband as well.

Although—if I hadn't gone to that club in the first place—I wouldn't have Cole.

I wouldn't have Chase.

That's life. There's always a price.

Some much steeper than others.

––––––––

DANCER

Emma Clark

––––––––

And a very humble 'thanks' to those who read my drivel—although I
do
work hard on my drivel.

1driv·el

intransitive verb \ˈdri-vəl\

: to talk in a very foolish or silly way

Source:
Merriam-Webster's
®
Online Dictionary