Beg (Songs of Submission #1)(23)

He breathed a deep ahh and said, “Where did you learn to do that?”

“Los Angeles High School of Performing Arts,” I said. “They taught me how to open my throat to sing. Then Kevin Wainwright taught me how to put his dick down it.”

He laughed. “I’d like to thank LA Unified and Kevin Whatever for this moment.”

I couldn’t help but grin, which kept me from engaging in the task at hand. “I like you, Jonathan.”

“Feeling’s mutual, Monica.”

***

We collapsed from exhaustion around five thirty a.m. Two hours later, I woke up with a sore sex and a dry throat. Jonathan’s arm was draped over me. His breath came in heavy, slow rhythms. I looked at him sleeping, closely inspecting him for the first time. His copper-colored lashes fluttered under soft brows. Faded freckles dotted his nose. He was truly beautiful, and seeing him with those eyes, I realized I could easily fall for this man. I was walking on a precipice even letting myself stare at him for this long.

I slipped out from under his arm and went to find my clothes.

My dress and underwear were draped over a chair by the door and smelled like last night’s whiskey and fresh porch air. I slipped into them and went into the kitchen for water.

I looked onto the backyard, with its dark green furniture and bean-shaped pool, sipping my water. I ran over the night in my mind, which was hard, because after a certain point, it just became a blur of skin, sweat, and orgasms. I must have said his name a hundred times, starting with me begging him to f**k me and ending with an orgasm he’d delayed eternally. When he finally let me come, it must have lasted fifteen minutes.

The first time he had thrust into me with such force, it was almost like he wanted to shut me up. Like he was saying, “here, take it, but please stop.”

Please. I’m begging you. I’m begging. I’ll do anything you want. I’ll be anything you want. Just don’t—

I was going to stay don’t stop, but in a different circumstance, when the love of your life was walking out the door, you might say don’t leave.

The buzz of a phone brought me back to my senses. I was making stuff up. The phone buzzed again. I didn’t know if it was mine, but I located the source on the kitchen counter, plugged into the wall. Jonathan’s phone, and it was facing up.

The caller: Jess.

Ex-wife.

Fuck.

I threw the rest of the water down my throat and put the glass in the sink. I had to go. I didn’t want to get in the middle of whatever that was.

“Good morning,” he said, sleep all over his face, T-shirt stretched over his perfect body.

“I took the glass from the rack and got water from the little thing in the fridge door. Didn’t even open it.” He shrugged, and I relaxed. He didn’t seem to feel invaded.

“Can I make you coffee?” he asked. “I can scramble eggs if you want.”

“No, I’m okay.”

As I rinsed the glass, he came up behind me and kissed my neck, fingering my zipper. “How about another go?”

“The sun is up,” I teased. I wanted another go. On the counter. On the floor. His lips caressed my earlobe, and I leaned my head back.

He slipped the dress’s zipper down. “You need to beg again. You’re good at it.” He kissed my back. I wanted to. I wanted to cry for it, one more time, before he became a memory. He pushed my dress off my shoulders with a perfect touch that rode between firm and light, a touch on a collarbone, maybe, like the one caught on camera from his wedding day.

“Your phone rang,” I said. Stupid. Another go would have been nice, but it was too late now.

“It’s always ringing.” He reached inside the dress and caressed my br**sts, ni**les hardening at his touch.

The phone buzzed. His lips left me, and I knew he was looking at it. His hands fell, and a palpable chill filled the room. I cleared my throat.

“I think I need to take this,” he said, zipping me back up.

“Sure,” I whispered. “My shoes are upstairs.”

I walked to the door, and when I looked back, he was popping the cable from the phone. His hands could have been shaking. I couldn’t tell.

I scooped up my shoes from the bedroom floor and went back to the kitchen. He was on the patio, elbows on his knees, looking at the flagstones with the phone pressed to his ear. His hands gestured, but I couldn’t hear him. It wasn’t my business.

“Good-bye, Jonathan,” I said before I slipped out the front door.