Edging Obsession

13

D uring sex, I’m lost in the lustful exploration. Thoughts cease while Miles elicits pain and pleasure. His dominance is thick and raw, while at the same time, his affection puts me into an emotional vortex. I love him so much my body aches in his absence, no matter how long he’s gone. All I want to do is make him happy. Bring him pleasure. See his beautiful smile brighten his face and the rest of the room. Just when I lost all hope after Carl and my job, not knowing where my life was headed, Miles stepped in, ushering me in another direction. He’s cared for and introduced me to this lifestyle I’ve embraced.

There are no words for my first dungeon session. I wholeheartedly submitted, and the pain and pleasure were perfect. Miles works my body as if he created it himself. A soft touch. Hard strikes. Pressure on my clit. Plowing into me. Possessive whispers. Dirty talk. All of it combined with the ambiance and my immobile position sent me into the clouds. Orgasm after another, I gazed up at Miles like he saved me from the end of the world. Transformed me and lifted me to a higher level. When all was done, he pampered and cleaned every sore spot on my body. It gave me time to relax before seeing my parents.

I join my parents in the large living room, giving them each a hug. They already have something to drink. In the background, the fireplace crackles in tune with an instrumental musical piece.

When I sit down next to my mom, she drapes her arm over my shoulder and asks, “Where have you been?”

I tuck my hair behind my ear. “Uh, I woke about five minutes before you arrived, so I had to get cleaned up.”

She gives my face a once over and kisses my temple. “It’s afternoon. Are you feeling okay?”

My head rests on her shoulder. “Yes. Miles and I were up late last night. That’s all.”

Miles walks in, says hello to my parents, and takes the large leather chair. “Anna’s making lunch. It’ll be ready in a half hour.”

Mom says, “Miles, you don’t have to feed us every time we come over.”

“I know, but Anna prepares enough food to feed the neighborhood.”

My mom pulls me closer to her, resting her cheek on top of my head. “Well, thank you.”

Dad is quiet, watching the interaction, playing with the laces on his gym shoes. He has dark crescents under his eyes, and they appear droopy. His attention is on the fireplace, lost in thought.

“Hey Dad. Are you with us?”

His body jolts, sitting taller, and he clears his throat. “Yeah, Jules.”

Mom runs her fingers through my hair. “He has—we have a lot on our minds. We want to talk to you about something.”

I sit up, searching their faces for a sign of what they’re worried about. “What’s wrong?”

Dad shakes his head. “Nothing, sweetheart. It’s just an uncomfortable subject and we don’t want anyone’s feelings to get hurt.”

“Oookay.”

Mom cups my hand between hers. “Because we don’t understand how this could have happened, how you aren’t our biological daughter. We did some digging.” She waits for a reaction from me, so I tip my chin, indicating for her to continue. “We contacted the hospital where you were born and…well, to make a long story short, you and…our biological daughter were switched.”

“What? How does this happen in today’s times?”

She kisses my knuckles. “I don’t know, honey.”

I shuffle from shock and being upset to curiosity. “Do you know who has your daughter?”

Dad glances at Mom before saying, “Yes. It turns out your biological mother is German. She had been in the States on vacation when she went into labor.”

The couch inhales my body from the release of anticipation. “What do you mean in the States? Do you mean she’s actually a German citizen?”

From my peripheral, I notice Miles flinch at my last question. My gaze turns to him, yet he isn’t meeting mine. He regards the fire as it licks the logs devoured by heat, and for a moment, I think about him licking and devouring me. Miles shifts, adjusts his black V-neck sweater, and breaks my sick reflection from earlier. Sick from thinking about such a thing at a time like this. I lean my head to the side, watching Miles type on his phone, mutter under his breath, and glance up at us. When he catches me studying him, his eyes lock on mine, and his face becomes rigid.

Does he know something about it?

Dad interrupts the diversion and says, “Yes, she’s a German citizen. Unfortunately, we don’t know where she lives. The hospital only had her name. She must have given false information about her address, among other things.”

Both of my parents seem to have aged overnight. Their contorted facial expressions can be interpreted as frustration by not having the answers or torn about wanting to find their biological daughter. I love them. Even when difficulty grips us, they’ve not once wavered from loving and supporting me. But I can’t squash my growing interest in finding my birth parents. I mean, German? It’s so exotic. I haven’t traveled, so to learn my parents are from another country is thrilling. And I’d like to see who I resemble. Do I have my mom’s hair color? Is my biological father sweet like my dad? Do either suffer from bipolar?

These questions encourage me to ask, “Would you like to find your daughter?”

My head moves from Mom to Dad. They look at each other, then me, and acknowledge that they would. They’re wounded by their needs, and I don’t want them to feel this way.

I take Mom’s hand to my lips and kiss it. “There’s nothing to be sad about. I understand your wish to find your biological daughter. It’s got to be tough finding out someone else has been raising her. To wonder if she’s been happy and taken care of.” Mom sobs into her hand. My arm snakes around her back, pulling her closer to me. “Please don’t cry, Mom.”

Dad joins us on the couch, doing the same to me. We’re in a group hug, tears dripping onto our laps, silence consoling guilt. We continue to hug, kiss each other’s cheeks, smile, and embrace the moment.

It’s broken when Miles says, “I can help.”

We stop what we’re doing, and all turn our attention to him.

Dad says, “No offense, Miles, but how are you going to help us?”

He stretches his legs and crosses them at the ankle. Hands clasped behind his head, he says, “No offense, Elliott, but I’m rich. I have plenty of resources.”

Mom, Dad, and I exchange glances, communicating through head gestures, and then I say, “That would be great, Mein Lieber.”

And then it clicks. I’ve said it several times and never gave it much thought until now. Until I just found out my parents are German. Did he learn German in school? Did he hear the term and like it?

Dad’s scrunched face adds to his confusion. “What is Mein Lieber?”

I pat his hand. “Daddy. It means my love.”

He takes a quick inhale and points to Miles. “You love, him?”

Miles doesn’t appreciate the way my dad says it. “Is that a problem, Elliott?”

“Yeah, you hardly know each other.” My dad sits forward. “Do you love Jules?”

Miles lets the question simmer, just to show my father it’s him who’s going to control the situation, and then he says yes .

I try to diffuse the two lions in the ring by asking, “How long did it take you to fall in love with Mom?”

Mom’s laughing when she says, “Not long.”

Dad doesn’t like this situation. “Elise, our relationship is different.”

“How so? If anything, they’ve spent more time together.”

The idea of me loving Miles isn’t sitting well with Dad. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t want to think about his daughter loving another man. Then again, I’m not really his daughter. Oh, I can kick myself for thinking such a thing. They love me, blood or no blood, and my relationship is another thing my parents must accept. A heavy sigh releases from Dad. He shakes his head and says nothing.

Being Miles, he takes charge and diverts the conversation. “If you give me the woman’s name, I can track her.”

Dad throws up his hands. “We don’t even know if she gave her real name.”

Miles purses his lips, breathes through his nostrils, and says, “Just give it to me.”

Mom writes it down on a piece of paper, whispering a thank you, and the conversation is cleaned up like spilled milk. Done and forgotten. My parents stay for lunch. We talk about their next trip to Europe in a month.

We enjoy lunch together, talking about lighter subjects, such as the weather and travels. Mom shows me pictures on her phone of the places they’re going to explore. I’m so happy for them. It was terrifying to see how fragile my dad was when he had his heart attack. Once he gained strength, we all sat down, discussing the future, and I encouraged them to lighten their load. The selling of the coffee shop and land was their idea. It was the best decision they could have made.

After they leave, Miles stands puffing on a cigarette by the fireplace. From the back, I slide my arms to his front, spreading my hands over his muscular chest, and rest my head on his back. He runs his hand over mine. The crackling fire is relaxing.

I ask, “Do you speak German?”

Miles’ body stiffens for a split second. “Yes.”

Surprised, I step in front of him. His brown eyes darken, taking a drag of the cigarette. He flicks it into the fireplace and blows the smoke to the side.

“When did you learn?”

Miles’ finger brushes the inside of my wrist where the scar is, and he leads me to the couch, sitting down with me straddling his thighs. He runs his fingers through my hair, cradles my face in his large hands, locking into a stare.

“I’m German.”

I smack his chest, laughing, and tell him to stop joking. When his face and eyes remain unchanged, I place my hands on top of his, adding another laugh.

“Well, yeah, a lot of people are German.”

“No, I am German. Born and raised in Germany.”

My eyebrows furrow. “What? So, you’re not an American?”

He shakes his head. I did not see this coming. How could I have fallen in love with someone and not know anything about their past? I tried to find out for the article, but Miles wouldn’t open up to me. After that, our relationship thrived like a forest fire. But now…now I’m in smokejumper mode, ready to attack and put the flames out. This new revelation brings on a feeling of deception. I thought he was an American rockstar, except he’s been living a lie. What else is he hiding? I remove his hands from my face, get off his lap, and move behind the couch to put distance between us.

Stifling the anger and tears, my gruff voice asks, “Why didn’t you tell me? We’ve been together for how long, and you couldn’t find the time to share this with me?” It’s too late. The tears steal the show.

Miles walks over to me, and I back up into a bookshelf. I flatten my hands on the books to keep from falling. Again, he cradles my face, locks eyes, and gives me the most attentive closed mouth kiss. His warm lips snuggle into mine, and a cinder warms my body. I taste his cigarette. Smell his cologne. Miles’ gaze holds me captive. His tongue runs along the seam of my lips, and then he places a kiss on each corner of my mouth.

Then his breath warms my ear, and he says, “American or German, it doesn’t change how I feel about you.”

My sobs increase as I rest my forehead on his shoulder. “But if you loved me, you would have trusted me enough to share your past.”

Miles continues kissing every area of skin on my face, behind my ear, whispering affectionate words. The tears taper off, replaced by a sensuality only Miles can incite. The cinder reigniting. His hand goes under my shirt, stroking my stomach, making its way to my breast. Our mouths are a hairbreadth away, breaths mingle, my pained eyes meeting his unapologetic ones. He pinches my nipple while he sweeps his lips across mine. It’s seductive, and my body trembles against him.

As quiet as the flap of a Goldfinch’s wing, Miles whispers, “You’re mine, Schatzi.” The back of his hand trails down my stomach, running a little beneath the waistband of my jeans. “American. German. I own you.”

With his thumb and index finger, he pops the button open, and as he slides the zipper down, his tongue dives into my mouth. He’s hypnotizing. Miles’ voice and actions invite my desire to intensify. My hips drive forward. His fingers creep into my jeans, underwear, thumb pressing circles over my clit. Giving in to my arousal, I push my pelvis into his hand, his tongue lapping at mine, lips bruising. A finger enters me, and I moan, wrapping an arm around his neck, pulling him closer. I rock my hips into him. His teeth mark my jaw, earlobe, sending shivers down to my core. My head falls back, and Miles stretches his mouth around the side of my neck, sucking, sinking his teeth into it without breaking skin while driving another finger inside.

His mouth releases me, and still humming his words, says, “Fuck my hand, Schatzi.”

I crush his hand between us, fingers pumping in and out as I hump his hand. Soaking it. My nails dig into his neck, chasing an orgasm, and he swallows my moans. Up and down. In and out. Thumb frolicking with my clit. It’s there. I can feel it rise, tugging at my stomach, inner thighs, until I scream Miles’ name. He continues as I rely on him to hold me up.

The orgasm rescinds, and my legs are weak. Miles presses me against the bookcase, brushing my sweaty hair from my face, and says, “You are so fucking gorgeous, Jules. Mein Schatzi.”

We nuzzle our faces into each other’s neck and hug. It relieves me from stress. The anger I drew upon about him being German has disintegrated, and in its wake, is a closeness I hadn’t felt before. Like he allowed me into a door that’s closed off to the public. Our relationship is the perfect storm of disastrous proportions for my psyche yet, we make sense. Miles has given me an outlet for my bipolar, along with a love I hadn’t known I wanted or needed.