Control (Songs of Submission #4)(9)

I was dragged off the cliff first. I cried out his name as I fell into a chasm of blackness and tingling lights. I clenched my thighs around him. My arms wanted to flail, but he had them tight as my pu**y ignited, clutching for him, pulsing for him to be deeper. The orgasm came from deep inside, undulating up my spine and down the backs of my thighs. I lost myself in it.

I heard him grunt, miles away, then moan into a snarl of satisfaction. I gasped as he tightened above me, the base of his c**k pulsing as he came. His eyes squeezed shut and his arms bent as he let go of my wrists and fell on top of me.

We twitched together, spent, still breathing in the rhythm of a poem.

CHAPTER 6.

JONATHAN

I’ll cop to having plenty of sex, much of it of the “wild” variety. I’ll admit I have memories that would beat most men’s imaginations. I’ll tell you I’ve had beautiful women do exactly as I tell them and we’ve gotten off on the control. But that? That was a new classification of f**king.

“Jonathan?” she whispered from under me. Her uttering my name brought me to my senses. I pulled my face out of her neck and kissed her collarbone.

“Monica.”

“Are you all right?”

“No,” I said.

“Really?”

I put my nose to hers. “Joking.” My shifted weight made my c**k drop out of her.

“Ah,” she moaned as if she’d miss it. “I should use the bathroom.”

“I’ll set up dinner in the kitchen.”

She smiled, and my world went on fire. “Let’s eat it this time.”

I got off her and she sat up. Her hair was falling out of her braid and the hem of her dress was bunched around her waist. One shoe had fallen off. I found it and slipped it back onto her foot, then helped her off the table.

“Thank you,” she said.

“My pleasure.” I kissed her because I had no choice. When she walked toward the house, I touched her neck as if I needed to tether her to me for another second. I brought the stuff on the sideboard into the kitchen and set the table. I had a handful of silverware and stopped myself.

Fork on the left, spoon above.

Or if it was a soup spoon, did it go on the right?

If she noticed I’d done it wrong, she’d tease me. I’d like that enough to throw her across the table again, which was not what I wanted to do. We didn’t have all night, and I wanted to actually share a meal with her. I put the spoons on the right and set the tureen between the bowls.

I liked her. She was great. Outstanding. Gorgeous and smart. All those words seemed cheap, though. My rejection of them alarmed me, because they weren’t good enough. I was losing control, and I needed to figure out why.

The lack of a condom was definitely something, but only part of the story. The fact that we were far enough along to feel each other’s skin spoke volumes. Her looks were something also. She was beautiful, but not my type. I usually went for blondes, so maybe not. Her singing that night at Frontage ticked it up a few notches for me, but I had f**ked other artists since Jessica. Monica was honest, real, and honorable. Those were commodities I didn’t see every day, and those were words worthy of her, but those qualities didn’t seduce the mind or calm the heart the way she did.

I forgot where the napkins went. Fuck. Where was Aling Mira when I needed her?

The issue with Monica was obvious, but I wouldn’t allow myself to utter certain words, even in my mind. Certain commitments and feelings were simply inaccessible and needed to stay that way. I’d rejected my ex-wife, but the passions she’d thrown away were dead. I regretted that, grieved their loss, because if anyone deserved true, deep feelings, Monica did.

An honorable man would have given her up before she fell in love, choosing a small hurt over a bigger one later. But I wasn’t that honorable. I wanted her more than I’d wanted anything in a long time, and I would have her until she couldn’t bear it any longer.

I felt like an animal.

I heard her clopping down the hall in those cheap, sexy shoes. When she came into the kitchen, I sighed. Her hair was down, except for a thin braid at the side of her head. She was well put together, yet she looked like someone had just f**ked the shit out of her. I held out my hand and she took it.

“I’m starving,” she said.

I pulled out the chair for her. She glanced at the setting and said nothing. Instead, she tilted her head to see what was inside the tureen. What made me think she even cared where soup spoons went? She made me unsure about the simplest things.

She sat. “That looks good.”

I ladled her stew, and then mine. She put her napkin on her lap and waited for me to sit before she took a scoop and blew on it.

“I’m sorry. I think it’s pretty cold,” I said.

“Ooh, good, she used banana blossoms.” She pointed her spoon at a smaller dish. “Is that pinakbet?”

“Yes.” I speared a piece of okra and held it to her lips. She parted them, allowed the fork in her mouth, and slid it out, her teeth barely scraping the silver tines.

“That’s nice,” she said, chewing.

“Have you been to the Philippines?” I asked.

She smirked. “I’ve been to Mexico.”

“No farther?” I placed another forkful of pinkabet before her.

“No.” She took the food I offered.