Chapter 22
Lana
I t takes me far too long to fall asleep that night. I lie awake for hours, long after Raph’s light goes off and the strip of light on the bed—my little piece of him—disappears.
At first, all I can think about is that kiss. Not that last one on the porch, which made me feel like a teenager. And not the first one either.
It was that one in the middle, before he picked up the girls.
Maybe it was because Raph had grown so serious right before, like somehow everything had been stripped away. Whatever it was, every time my mind went there I felt hot inside, like a forge for something I couldn’t visualize.
But it wasn’t just the physical touches we’d shared tonight.
It was the way he’d asked all those questions about my writing. He’d seen right through me. For the first time, I considered what might lay beyond for me. Beyond this extended transition period I can now acknowledge I’ve been sitting in. This limbo between the married career lawyer and wherever my future lies.
And yeah, there was also what he said about fucking me on my kitchen island.
In the end, it’s the physical sensations that I fall asleep with—a heaviness in my lower half; a dull, desperate throbbing I let take me over—because everything else feels too big to even chip away at thinking about.
The next morning, before I even open my eyes, I wake to that same feeling. Only now, it’s intensified. My stomach plunges with adrenaline as I remember what we did last night. How I felt my nanny’s cock in my hand.
Jesus.
A dull pink light filters in through the gap. The light has that quality I know means the sun is still low on the horizon—nestled behind the eastern mountain range Redbeard’s built on the slope of.
It must be early.
Too early to be feeling the kind of need coursing through me.
I sit up to check my phone, disorientated. It’s only just five in the morning. The kids won’t be up for another two hours.
I flop back down, trying to calm my breathing. It’s good nothing more happened last night. I should stop it there, shouldn’t I ?
We definitely shouldn’t have sex.
Not like I did in my dreams last night.
I groan, pulling a pillow over my face, remembering.
The dream was a continuation of last night. The timing was different—the kids were still out, and he left after collecting his laundry. I remember feeling so bereft. It was the kind of abandonment I couldn’t accept. So I walked up to his suite and knocked on his door. When he answered, he said he’d been waiting for me. In that ambiguous way dreams move, the next memory was of Raphael driving into me against the wall, telling me how pretty I was going to look when I came.
A sound comes out of me now as I toss the pillow aside. I felt so wild in that dream. So good. I slide my hand over the soft cotton of my t-shirt until I feel bare skin, unable to resist touching myself.
In the dream, I told Raph all the dirty things I wanted to do, that I’d been too scared to tell him before. I told him I wanted him to watch me getting changed through my window. I wanted to know he was getting turned on looking at me. I wanted to see him unravel through the glass. To stroke himself as he watched me.
As the dream progressed, we were doing other things. He had me on my back, his thighs next to my face.
Holy shit. I begged him to let me suck his cock.
I brush my hands over my breasts, exposing them to the cool morning air.
I open my mouth as if he’s right there.
Me, loving that. I’ve never loved giving blow jobs. I’ve always felt demeaned by them. And yet there I was begging for it. As he thrust himself in my mouth, cupping the back of my head, he told me I was his dirty girl.
His perfect dirty girl.
I loved it.
Now, I let one hand roam low, gliding over my pubic bone.
I know why the sex in the dream was so incredibly intense.
It was because despite what I told him last night, I did trust him. I trusted him in the dream like I was handing him my whole beating heart, trusting him to keep it safe. And that surrendering, I discover too late, is apparently my personal aphrodisiac.
When I dip my hand into my panties, I’m wet.
I could really have him. I could, right now, reenact that dream. Raph would be game. He’s made no secret of that.
The thought sends a frisson of need through me so powerful I find myself sitting up, panting, then swinging my legs out of bed, a wrestling match going on inside me between my head and my body.
My heart and my…other parts.
I lie to myself. I tell myself we can fool around and this can still be innocent.
But standing up doesn’t clear my head. It just brings me physically closer to the object of my need. I grip the curtains, refusing to be a peeping Tina once again.
Except…I picture him standing there rumple-headed, shirtless—naked maybe. Waiting for me.
“Fuck me, Raphael,” I whisper through the glass. “It won’t mean anything. ”
Even through the haze enveloping me I know that’s a lie. There’s nothing meaningless when it comes to Raph.
Stop thinking about this. You have to stop.
And yet I don’t. I walk to my bedroom door, sliding the lock in place.
Then I open my curtains, feeling dirty and sexy and shameful all at once.
And powerless to stop.
Raph’s blinds are closed, thankfully. Or at least, they’re lowered, the slats only lazily turned so I can’t see inside. I can only see dark lines where his space is.
He’s sleeping, I’m sure of it.
But my runaway brain imagines he isn’t. The bad, sex-starved part of me pulls off my t-shirt.
I’m a lonely, horny housewife. A caricature.
And now I’m standing only in my panties, fully on display should he pull the blinds open.
Just the thought of that sends more heat between my legs. The wetness there expands, soaking the fabric, making me moan.
I press my left hand against the cool glass and with the other, slip past my soft elastic waistband.
Just like I already knew, I’m wet. Soaked for him. My fingers slide wantonly across my opening, slicking over the tight bud of my clit with a zing of pleasure.
Raph would know exactly what to do with me.
He’ll make a meal of me .
I stop caring then. If I’m going to be ashamed, I might as well go all the way.
Past the point of logical thought, I reach under my bed, pulling out the box marked “Budget papers”. I slide the dummy papers aside and pull out the dark plastic bag where I hide what’s very embarrassingly, my favorite toy.
My only toy.
I pull the giant, flesh-colored dildo out. It should feel silly, holding this thing. But instead, I just remember the feel of Raph in my hand.
I need this thing. Desperately, just to keep from going over there and banging on his door.
Standing up again, I keep further back, so I could be in the shadows, but could be visible too. The ambiguity makes this slightly safer, while still with enough risk it sends a thrill through me to keep going.
I had no idea I was an exhibitionist. Raph’s not even here and apparently he’s unlocked a new kink in me.
Maybe it was him telling me he’d scare me off with what he wants to do to me.
How about this, Raph? Does this scare you?
I drop my panties so I’m fully naked. Then I spread my legs wide, pressing the cool tip of the giant object against my clit. I move it in circles, pleasure rippling over me in waves. When my knees begin to wobble, I draw it down, notching it at my entrance. A low, guttural sound I didn’t think I was capable of shudders through me.
It’s Raph’s hand I feel there, touching me, warming me up, easing the pressure against my opening.
It’s Raph’s cock I imagine as I take the thing inside of me.
It only takes a few moments with me thrusting slowly with one hand and caressing my clit with the other before I’m right there, desperate and needy. I pick up the pace, fucking myself so hard my muscles begin to quiver .
I don’t draw it out. I let it happen.
Like a freight train, I come. I come so hard my legs shake, knees knocking together. I gasp and say his name again and again as I thrust the thing into me. Raph, Raph, Raph, I moan, my eyes on the blinds across the space between us. As the wave rounds its final soft, delicious peak, I retract the dildo and fall backward onto the bed.
I breathe so hard I think I’m going to pass out.
Then reality comes crashing down.
What is wrong with me? This is beyond not okay. This is perverted.
Shame washes over me as I think of how bad this is. How I’ve let my guard down so completely I’m doing things that are not just shameful but illegal. I rush to the en-suite and clean my toy, wanting very badly to throw it away. Instead I shower, trying hard to forget what just happened.
Hating that I still feel so good despite it all.
Then I dry off and put everything away.
In my towel, I open my blinds, this time to let the sun in.
I get dressed, my back to the window. Fresh panties, sports bra, and the rest of my running outfit.
When I turn around, ready to go, Raphael’s standing by the window, wearing only jeans, his t-shirt in his hand.
He looks mortified. “I’m sorry,” he says.
He’s expecting me to look shocked. Little does he know that even if he saw me naked, he didn’t see a thing.
I stand there a moment, looking through the glass.
Then I smile and head downstairs.