Читать книгу The Gift - Eva Cassel - Страница 4

From a safe distance I watch him wind his way through the party guests, assembled in cliques throughout the room. It’s crowded. His maneuvering his way to the opposite end of the spacious room begins to resemble a subtle tango, as bodies wordlessly negotiate space.

He looks amazing in his jet-black suit, the expert tailoring highlighting his tall, fit body. I notice he’s taken off the tie and unbuttoned the first two buttons of his white shirt. His short, light brown hair is starting to misbehave, strands coming out of their gelled confinement. I can tell he’s just splashed some water on his face in the bathroom to revive himself, as he tends to do halfway into a formal party like this. I know he hates every second of this, even as he greets his subordinates with an easy, wide grin.

I’ve found the most tucked-away spot in the room, propped against the fireplace mantel, and set up camp so that I can just watch him all night long. I can’t hear a word of what he’s just said, but his companions burst out laughing, so I know he just cracked a joke that went over well. Evan fakes this whole schmoozing thing like a pro. I can’t help smiling as I watch his new secretary cock her head to the side and strike a flirtatious pose, trying to engage him in conversation. I watch them exchange a sentence or two. She’s working really hard to keep his attention, giggling, bobbing up and down, her hand periodically fluttering to her cleavage as she talks. I can see him starting to make his retreat. She clearly wants him to stay, even daring to put her hand on his forearm, the look in her eyes desperate. The little tramp, I think, then forgive her—I’d be hitting on him, too, if it wasn’t forbidden.

His eyes dart in my direction. I take a sip of my champagne, arching one eyebrow provocatively. His smile widens. He heads toward me. I never take my eyes off his. Put into slow motion, he’d look like a beautiful, sleek, black jungle cat. He has this knack for owning a room like no man I’ve met; everyone wants to be next to him, basking in his aura. He was destined to be the CEO of the company from the moment he strode through their doors and sold himself into a job he had no business even thinking about. Over the past ten years I’ve watched him conduct all aspects of his life with the same charming, at times arrogant, unshakable confidence…and the man oozes so much sexuality I’m going cross-eyed watching him stride toward me. Why had I agreed to stay away from him again?!

His sultry half smile spreads into a huge grin by the time he reaches me.

“Mrs. Landcaster.” He holds out his hand. I slide my hand delicately, formally, into his. He squeezes it, staring into my eyes. Only Evan can make a handshake seem like a dangerous transgression.

“Mr. Landcaster,” I smile, looking up at my husband of ten years flirtatiously.

“You look lovely this evening.”

“Why, thank you.”

“What are the chances you’d be willing to join me in the, uh, powder room for a tryst?”

I feign shock at this impertinence. “Why, Mr. Landcaster! You know that would be against the rules!”

Evan clears his throat, trying to look sheepish. “I apologize. It won’t happen again.” He kisses my hand stiffly and walks away, the sensual twinkle in his eyes the only thing to give him away.

We have this little game that we play at parties. It started when we met in college. We’d deliberately stay away from one another the entire night at a party, watching the other work the room. It was understood that it meant nothing, that there was no real threat of the other disappearing into a bathroom with someone else. A touch of (controlled) jealousy proved to be the best aphrodisiac, though. By the time we’d get back to our little bachelor apartment the cats would scramble out of our way as the clothes flew.

After ten years of marriage, it still works like a charm—what was once a fun game has become the best way of keeping the passion burning. Eventually, even the most torrid of couples have to work at it.

My eyes follow him as he takes his languid time moving past one of the hired waitresses, a tray of cocktail shrimp balanced dangerously on her hand. Her back is turned to him, and he places one hand on the small of her back, almost touching her ass, as he moves past. I watch breathlessly as she subtly leans toward his body, turning her face to the side to gaze coquettishly at him out of the corner of her eye.

Most women would be livid in my position; I’m more turned on than an air conditioner in the tropics.

He glances at me again. He knows I’m watching every move he makes. And I know that for a split second we both imagined him fucking her, saw him writhing naked between her spread legs, his cock deep in her sopping-wet pussy. We can read one another like a book—there’s no mistaking how much we both want to dash into the restroom and fuck standing up, facing the mirror.

I love that he can still make me wet with just a look.

In two weeks we celebrate Evan’s thirty-fifth birthday. I’m determined to give him something that will totally blow his mind—something neither of us will ever forget. And I think I know just the thing…I’ve been slow-cooking the idea since last year, when a friend dragged me to a seminar called Light His Fire, at this swanky sex shop on the west side. The owner, an ex-corporate lawyer, was leading the seminar. The seminar itself didn’t really teach me anything I didn’t know (although I haven’t always followed this rather intuitive advice, with the exception of the occasional costume-and-wig seduction), but at one point he mentioned in passing that he’d recently started up an erotic-massage business. My ears, and my naughty subconscious, perked up at this information. I glanced over at my friend. She raised her eyebrows up and down several times, an impish expression on her face. And that was, as they say, the end of that.

Except for me it wasn’t. I fantasized nightly for the first month, and then seriously started thinking about doing it. It’s taken me more than a year to work up the courage, with a lot of mental gymnastics to convince myself it’s not wicked and not asking for more trouble than I have the faculties to deal with.

So, here we go…

“Hello, Erotic Touch Massage. How can I help you?”

“Hi, yeah…” My voice is shaking a little, and I try to clear my throat. “My name is Mia. I wanted to book one of your masseuses for a special occasion.”

“Wonderful.” Her voice sounds calm and friendly. “I just need some information from you.”

“Yup.”

“Okay, have you ever used our service before?”

“Uh, no, I haven’t.” I’m afraid I sound like a teenage boy calling a phone-sex line for the first time, rather than a sophisticated, sexually adventurous woman of the world. How embarrassing.

“Well, let me give you some information about our philosophy then. We are a sex-positive erotic touch massage service. We are not an escort service.” She pauses to let this sink in—I’m sure this distinction can be confusing for some people (guys). “That means no genital-to-genital penetration. Sorry, but I have to be blunt.” She sounds apologetic. “What we offer is a sensual massage involving digital stimulation in a respectful, erotic, spiritual environment. You can either come to our spa (I love that she calls it a ‘spa’), or one of our masseuses can come to your home, whichever you prefer.”

“I’d prefer someone to come to our home.” I have the scenario completely mapped out in my mind by this point—involving enough candles to torch our bedroom, incense, slow, sexy music of my choosing…Evan’s eternal gratitude.

“All right, would you prefer a male or female masseuse?”

Oooh. For a split second my mind selfishly screams Male! Male! “Female please. And, uh—” I hesitate here, for fear of sounding like a complete pervert “—I’d prefer someone a little younger, possibly blonde.” I can’t believe I’m saying this. But I figure as long as I’m going through with this, I might as well give him the full fantasy—the hot, young, new secretary he can’t have (without risking instant castration).

“Well—” I can hear the vacillation in her voice “—that evening is pretty booked up already.” She pauses. I can hear the swish of turning pages. “I can send you Fabienne. She’s just had a last-minute cancelation. She’s one of our most skilled and sought-after masseuses. You won’t be disappointed.”

“Sounds great,” I reply. I’m very excited already. This is by far the craziest thing I’ve ever done for our romantic life. I’m totally exhilarated for even daring to consider this.

“One more question before I finalize this. Who is the massage for?”

“My husband.”

I wait while she presumably writes something down. “We actually have a special offer for couples right now, given that it’s February. We can offer both of you a massage for only twenty-five percent more. Would you like me to book you in, as well?”

Like a broken record that suddenly screeches to an abrupt stop mid-song, my mind trips over itself. I’m stunned. It’s one thing for me to order an erotic massage for Evan (and get my own vicarious, voyeuristic thrill as I watch). He’s a man; it’s acceptable for men to do this kind of thing. But for me?!

“Mia? Are you still with me?” she asks, sounding concerned and amused at the same time.

“Yeah, I’m still here, just thinking about it for a second.” I try to buy myself some time. You’d think that at thirty-three I wouldn’t be fazed by this kind of question. I just hadn’t considered getting naked myself while the imagined blonde sexpot touches me! And all while Evan watches! Eek! Other than innocent, preteen explorations with my best friend, no woman has ever touched my body in that way. Do I have the courage to go through with it? I get a flash image of being naked on our bed, Evan sitting just a few feet away, his eyes swimming in barely controlled lust, a woman’s small, delicate finger sliding—

“Mia?”

I take a deep breath. “All right. Book both of us.” I silently slap my forehead with the palm of my hand, shaking my head in disbelief, my heart pounding so loud I can hardly hear the rest of the conversation. What on earth have I just gotten myself into? If he doesn’t appreciate this for the next ten years of marriage to come, I will divorce him.

The night of the massage I take Evan out for dinner first. I meet him at his office, all tarted up: little black dress, stilettos, long black coat.

“Wow, look at you,” he says with an appreciative whistle. He looks me up and down, slides one arm around my waist and pulls me against him abruptly.

We’re alone in his office, overlooking the sparkling evening lights of the city. Through my thin, tight dress I feel the bulge in his pants. I smile seductively. Knowing that in two hours another woman will be gently stroking his dick makes me feel powerful and sexy—probably because I’m the one controlling the encounter. The image sticks in my mind as I rub my hand over his erection. He closes his eyes and savors the feeling.

“What time is the reservation for?” he asks, his intent clear.

“Don’t even think about it.” I pull away and sashay toward the door.

“Why not?” He instantly follows and stops me as I reach for the doorknob. “When was the last time you let me fuck you on my desk?”

He turns me around and puts me up against the wall. I can tell that he’s feeding off my sexual energy without even realizing it. He wedges a knee between my legs and spreads them apart slightly. He has that intense, hungry look in his eyes that I love so much. When we get like this, we go into a kind of trance, moving on instinct rather than thought; we know each other’s body so well by now. I can feel myself losing control, slipping into a stupor of desire. He jerks my short dress up to my waist with the same demanding efficiency that he does business; Evan’s not used to taking “Not now, dear” for an answer. I love it when he gets rough like this, and I have no choice but to follow. He tugs my g-string aside and plunges two fingers into my wet pussy. I gasp, naturally moving myself down on his fingers, angling my cunt to the curve of his hand, arching my back.

“The restaurant can wait,” he murmurs against my open mouth, “but my cock can’t.”

I have to summon all my willpower. “Well, it’s going to have to.” I squirm away, simultaneously yanking my dress down and dashing for the door. I know it’ll be so much better if I allow the tension to build, instead of allowing us the quick release.

I continue to toy with him throughout dinner—sliding my bare foot up and down his clothed erection under the floor-length tablecloth, eating my food with sensual abandon, swaying my hips almost exaggeratedly when I go to the restroom, brushing my fingertips on the back of his neck as I walk past him. Anything and everything to get him so horny he won’t be able to think straight by the time we get home…and the real fun starts!

“I don’t know what’s got into you tonight—” he stares at me with an intrigued, amused smile on his face as I lick the ice cream off my spoon like come off his dick “—but I can’t wait to get you home.”

We exchange long, intense eye contact. I imagine him sprawled naked on our bed, his dick pointing toward the ceiling as she closes her hand around it.

“Shall we get the bill then?” I suggest, trying not to seem too eager.

Without missing a beat, Evan thrusts his hand into the air to signal our server, simultaneously reaching for his wallet.

“No, tonight’s on me,” I say, stopping him. He shrugs, smiles and puts his wallet back into his blazer. As I turn the key in the lock, Evan presses his body against mine. He clearly thinks he’s in for a fast fuck on the hallway stairwell. I didn’t take my hand off his dick the whole drive home, massaging him through his pants as his hips rose to meet my hand and the gearstick of his sports car got some rough, vicarious handling.

Keeping him off me until Fabienne arrives will take some effort.

We burst awkwardly into the house, limbs, coats and bags completely entangled. Before I can get my equilibrium back, Evan pins me face-forward against the wall, tugging my dress up roughly from behind.

“I’ve wanted to fuck you all night,” he growls against my ear. I feel him fumble with the zipper on his pants against my ass. Hearing the fervor in his voice, I know that I’ve tipped him past the point of rational thought. Uh-oh. I want him to stay aroused, but I also need to cool him off without him thinking I’m turning him down.

“Uh, sweetie—” I squirm to turn around “—perhaps we should have a drink first.” He uses the opportunity to tug the front of my dress down and pop one breast out of my strapless bra. His eyes look dreamy and far gone. I’m sure he didn’t even hear me, as he proceeds to suck on my nipple, making low growling noises. I try to glance at the clock around the corner—fifteen minutes until she’s due to arrive. Fifteen minutes is a long time to keep Evan at bay in his present state.

“Not here,” I say, switching tactics. “Let’s go upstairs.”

“Why,” he states, rather than asks, virtually inhaling my other, now exposed breast. Two more minutes of this and I’ll be pantyless on the hallway console, his cock deep inside my pussy—and it won’t be the first time, either.