I Love My Secret (Nicole's Erotic Romance) (5 page)

I ask, “Is it me?”

He turns to me and like his body is a magnet, mine
turns to him, too, and I touch his face. He reaches up and touches my cheek,
looking at it like it’s the softest, most interesting cheek he’s ever seen. Is
tonight the night? Is that why he painted me…

He leans in and gives my cheek a kiss that is so
tender, I want to cry. The tip of my nose gets a kiss, too, soft and gentle as
a butterfly. Then my lips feel the pressure of his, and I slide my arms around
his neck as our kiss builds. I press my body into his, needing so much to be
close to him. The pressure impassions him. He kisses me harder, presses his
tongue against mine, licking it sensually. I feel tingles and sensations moving
through my body as we explore each other’s mouths. The feelings build until
we’re feverish.
Please ease this ache I
feel every time I see you, Michael.
We’re gasping and moaning and I know
now that this is the night. His hands travel around me with a hunger that
matches my own. I’ve waited long enough.
We’ve
waited long enough. We grind our hips together like two people who haven’t
touched another human being in years, moaning and kissing until he lets out a
growl and releases my mouth, my ass, my body…

Releases…me.

My eyes fly open to see him retreating from me,
now more than five feet away and growing. He says over his shoulder, heading
for the stairs, “Not tonight.”

I let out a sound of aching that I’ve never heard
myself make before, confused and outside of my own body in disbelief! As he
disappears from view and only the sound of his feet departing can be heard, I
run over and yell down, “When?!! For God’s sake, Michael – WHEN?!”

His voice is huskier than normal, his eyes
troubled and angry as he looks up and says firmly, “Not tonight,” like a
teacher to an impatient student who’s come so far.

He leaves, the door opening and closing with all
of the weight of everything that lies between us. I yell out, “Why do you do
this!!?” The silence that follows, the questions he’s left behind, the absence
of him… it crushes me and I crumble to the ground.

“I will not see him again,” I tell myself, aloud.
Breathing heavily, I look up and see the mesmerizing painting of the woman, the
woman who must be me. The colors of it dazzle and anger me. I stare at it from
where I sit until something happens inside me. Aloud to the now burnt-out
candle, to the painting above me, to the empty room, to everything, I whisper
hoarsely, fighting back tears, “You want to break me? You want me to become
stronger? You’re doing both. And I’m beginning to hate you for it.”

I stand, dust myself off, take a deep breath and
gather my things together. An urge to paint comes over me. Should I? My glance
falls on the empty canvas I’d set out when I first got here, and it calls to me
now,
come. Take out your pain and anguish
on me.
But I look away, don’t go to it. Instead, I walk downstairs, and go
home.

A Month Later

I really need to get a maid or something for these
floors, because lord knows I’m not cleaning them. From this angle on my bed, I
can see all the dust-bunnies under my dresser and light gray where warm brown
should be, on my hardwood floors. Ugh. Picking up my pillow and toppling it on
my head, I block out the afternoon light and all evidence of my homemaking
inadequacies. Napping on the weekend is supposed to make me feel better, but my
mind won’t stop racing. Among the many things spiraling through it are
conversations I wish I could re-have and a to-do list of inane house fixings;
light bulb replacement, dish soap buying, cable password getting.

But more persistent, are thoughts of Michael. Since
our night where we came so close to ripping each other to pieces, I’ve seen him
only briefly to give him my portion of the rent check. He’d had to go and said
I could stay and paint, but I declined and waited for him to leave. If I could
get better at the Internet, I’d direct deposit his ass, so I could be spared
the distressing eagerness with which my blood boils when I’m around him. Not
that it would stop me from wanting him. Or from making up excuses to show up
when I know he’s there. We set up when we first started that he has nights, since
it’s his space to begin with, and I only pitch in a fraction of the rent. For the
past few weeks, it’s has been like giving myself dental surgery to resist going
over and offer to watch him work and forget we had an argument. He likes it
when I watch him... maybe I could… dammit! Ugh. I smash the pillow harder onto
my head, crushing my face against the cool sheet.

Who am I kidding? I’m not going to get any sleep
right now.

Exasperated, I climb off the bed to go to the
bathroom. One look at the tub and I think,
bubble
bath
. Oh my God. Yes. That sounds perfect. I pour in enough Eucalyptus-scented
bubble bath to froth the Mississippi, start the water, and go get my phone for
my playlist. Always, when I’m in the bathtub - and I mean always – I
listen to Opera on repeat. Only one artist will ever do: Lorraine Hunt Lieberman.
Her voice is so soothing; no crazy unexpected explosions of volume to jar me
out of tranquility, like some operas.
 
I have no idea what she’s saying, since she’s singing in what I think is
Italian. In fact, it took me two years to realize what I thought was a whole
album, was really only two songs over and over. Still didn’t deter me from
forgetting that little morsel of info, so I could keep enjoying my music in
peace.

In my bathroom are twinkle lights I bought in an
after-Christmas sale and today, despite it being in the mid-afternoon, I plug
them in and use them as the only light… besides the sun that streaks in from a
solitary window. Lighting can really set a mood. Lady Lorraine begins her
serenade as I slide out of my PJs, dropping them on the floor in a pile by my
feet. I pull my hair into a high bun so I don’t have to redo this shit later,
and ease myself into the water that’s so hot I have to inch into it with all
the speed of a child eating vegetables.

Lying here in rising bubbles as the tub continues
to fill, I close my eyes and let go of all the stress that seems to live in me,
lately. Her beautiful singing takes off any edges my willpower can’t. Soon I am
free. Quiet. Soothed and peaceful. This is how I’m supposed to feel. Calm. Zen.
Satisfied.

Plastic against ceramic vibrates next to me and I
peek at my phone to find a number I don’t recognize, looking back at me from
the screen. Normally, I’d ignore it, but I’ve been lulled into a heavenly place
where everyone and everything is wonderful.

“Hello?” I purr into the receiver.

“Nicole?” a male voice asks.

“Mmhmmmm… And you are?” I bring up my knee and
watch the bubbles slip down my thigh.

“This is Danny. You were at my game-night? With
Grant? Ran into you at brunch awhile back?” he asks, his voice a little nervous,
but nice.

With my free hand, I trace the top of my exposed
thigh down the trails of dark naked skin the retreating bubbles leave behind.
“Oh, right. Danny…how are you?”

I can hear his smile as he answers, “I’m good.
Good. You?”

I smile in return. “Soooo good. Where are you
right now?”
 

He’s startled by the question. “Uh… I’m at home.
Where are you?”

The mirror is fogged, and beads of condensation lazily
drip down my temple. I almost say the scandalous
naked in the bathtub
. “Home. So…” I travel my hand down into the
water and lightly touch the soft tuft of hair between my legs. “What’s up?”

“Oh, I’ve got another call. Can you hold for a
second? Don’t go anywhere.”

I smile and slide a finger down. “I’m not going
anywhere.”

He has no idea what I’m doing, which makes it
soooooo exciting. The phone goes dead while he takes the other call, and I ask
myself, who would do what I’m doing now? Not many women, that’s who. I smile
and watch my knees wave back and forth as I lightly caress my pussy below the
bubbles, hidden from my view. There’s something extra sexy about it, being down
there, humming with feeling, where I can’t see. It’s like traveling your hand
to your lover’s crotch under a dinner table when no one’s the wiser. This
thought turns me on, and when I hear his voice return, “I’m back. Sorry about
that,” I brush the tip of my clit just once for a necessary tease.

“It’s no problem,” I say softly, stroking it
again. And again.

“You’d mentioned you’re a painter and I wanted to
know if I could see your work somewhere.” As I listen to him, I circle my
little bean lightly, feel the sweet waves of arousal rising from the depths of
me. “I’m not sure if you’ve got a showing going on, coming soon… or if you have
an agent I have to go through, but I’ve been thinking of calling for awhile,
and just finally decided I’d ask. I know nothing about how this whole thing
works.” He laughs. “I hope I don’t sound like an amateur.”

“You sound fine. Don’t worry about it,” I say
quietly. “Ummm… I don’t have a showing.”

“Oh.”

He sounds so disappointed, that I offer without
thinking, “But you can come by my studio.” The mention of it, of visions of
Michael painting in it furiously, burns me hotter and I cup myself in my hand,
applying firm delicious pressure, then back to sweet little flicks on the sides
of my clit.

“You have a studio? That’d be perfect. I’d love to
come by.” He pauses and I close my eyes. “Um… what’re you doing? Now, I mean.”

My eyes shoot open and I freeze. “Nothing. I’m not
doing anything.”

D
id he hear
me sloshing?

“Good. Can I come by now?” he says.

“Oh,” I say, exhaling, “You wanted to know if I’m
busy now,”

“Yeah. Are you?”

Looking around the cozy set up I’ve got going on
here, I hesitate. I shouldn’t say I’m busy. “You want to see my work now?” I
ask again. A real buyer. This is big for me.

“If it’s not a bad time,” he answers, but then
pauses. “It’s no big deal. We could do it another time. It’s just I’m free,
because it’s Saturday and… but, really. Let’s do it another time. I’m just
really interested in seeing your work.”

My heart jumps. He’s interested in seeing my work.
He’s not faking it. He’s a real buyer! I sit up fast, causing a loud rush of
water to fill the holes my body vacated. I cough loudly to cover the sound.
“Excuse me. Allergies.” Kneeling in the tub, I say quickly, “Now would be
great. I’m not there – I’m at home. But how about we meet there in… a
half hour?”

He lets out a laugh of relief. Is he nervous? “Let’s
make it an hour so you don’t have to rush. Sound good?”

I want to yell,
are you kidding??!!! Sounds great!!
“Sounds perfect. I’ll text you
the address. There’s no name on the door. It looks like a back door to a
restaurant or something, but it’s really the entrance to the studio space upstairs.
I’ll meet you in an hour.”

He says, “Great!” and we hang up. Lady Lorraine’s
voice drifts back from the ethers of my playlist and beckons me to lie back
down,
don’t get out of the tub just yet
.
For a moment I consider refusing her invite, consider standing up and drying
off. But the water is still hot and he gave me more than enough time to meet
him. What’s my hurry? I slink back into the twinkle-lit suds, bury my hand in
my pussy and finish what I started, teasing and coaxing my body until it gives
way to a delicious release of heat. Closing my eyes I feel the flashing sweet pulsing
as tingles shoot outward down my thighs and up to my nipples, twisting them
into firm points. I cup myself, squeeze my legs together and press lightly into
the sweet contractions, smiling to myself that my Saturday sure has taken a
turn for the better. A buyer. A real buyer. Well well well.

At His…Our… Studio

Danny’s waiting at the door when I walk up holding
keys already in my hand. He returns my smile and does a quick scan of my body
as I approach, a glance he tries to hide…but I saw it. He’s good looking for a
redhead (it could go either way with men). He’s fit and dressed in a long
trench coat over slacks and a button-up, the cut and fall of the fabric
indicating quality all around. “Well, hello again,” he says and opens his arms
in a hug; open and friendly and strong.

I squeeze back, and release him to open the door.
“You beat me here!”

There’s humor in his eyes. “Good. I’m very
competitive.”

I playfully raise my eyebrows as the lock gives
way. “Oh?”

He grins, “Practically ran from the subway.”

I laugh and walk in, him following behind. The
familiar smell of candles smacks Michael into my mind. I push thoughts of him
away and take off my coat, put it on the hook. It’s only 5:00 p.m. Michael
won’t be here until after 8:00 p.m. if he even comes at all tonight. It is
Saturday, after all. He probably has plans with someone he actually fucks.

“This way,” I say, as we walk up the stairs. As if
there’s any other way to go.

“Can’t wait,” he says. Is he looking at my ass? He
must be because it feels hot there, and I’m the type who can feel things like
that. I’m a little psychic, thanks to my grandma. Freaked my momma out, some of
the things I said, because it surely skipped a generation, as she had none of
the gift. But… a woman doesn’t have to be psychic to know a man is checking out
her ass as she walks up the stairs in front of him.