Her Two Johns by Phyllis O. Scott (PART TWO)

Atlanta. Shay and Janae’s apartment above Shay’s Yoga Studio.

Shay put her key in the door, and Janae swung it open before Shay could do it herself.
            “Shay, you’re home!”
            “Uh, yeah. Like I usually am this time of night. What’s doing?”
            “Shay, look who’s here,” Janae said in exaggerated excitement.
             Shay stepped further into the vestibule, set her bag on the hall table, and entered the front room.
             Her heart stopped then took off in a gallop.

             “John …” She shucked her duster, her leotard attire revealing her curvy figure.
             Janae took Shay’s wrap, excusing herself, a knowing twinkle in her eye.
             John Howard Cross unfolded from the sofa, like a carpenter's ruler. A brown Stetson set beside him.   
            These soft erections at the sight of her needed bold permanent solutions, he thought.

            Shay rushed into his open arms.  They kissed.  A rather chaste kiss considering they wanted to get naked right there.  “Hello, Shay. I’ve missed you.”
            Her grin matched his. “I’ve missed you too.”
            He eyed her outfit suspiciously. “Are you still working?”

           “Oh…just loose ends.”
           “Can’t whatshername handle that?”

           “Janae. Actually, John, that’s my responsibility. Look, it’s only a few classes I have to wind down.”

            “Well, wind down faster. Things are on hold for you in Houston. Damn it, I’m on hold for you.”
            “Are you?”
            “I want us; I thought you did too.”
             If only he had said those words twelve or so years ago. But he was saying them now and she had an answer for him:
            “I do, John, I do want us but there are concerns I have.” Being back in Atlanta had cleared her head some.
            “Shoot.”
            “Let’s sit?”
            They sat. He took her hand.
           “I’ve been wanting to ask you...”
           “What, angel?"
           “Oh…about your ex.” 
             John Cross frowned. “What about her?”
            “I’m curious...your wedding night...were you as callous with your virgin bride as you were with me?”
             Why was she dredging up old wounds now? he thought, chafing at the word callous.          “Shay, sweetheart, you wound me. If I was callous in taking your virginity and evidently you think I was—explain why two weeks later you were eager to have sex with me again? Was it the money? Did you think you owed me?”
             She shook her head. “The money was a complication, yes, John; however, even though you deluded me, I was of the mindset that I loved you.”  
             “And afterwards, I was of the mindset that I owned you and you were mine to have whenever, wherever, and however I wanted. To hell with my marriage! I was wrong. You left me. I was devastated. But to answer your question—no, Shay,” he answered, “but neither did I want her as desperately as I wanted you. Sure, I had affection for her; therefore, I was a patient and considerate husband to the point of tedium. In the end, I felt constrained in my marriage. All I thought about was you. And I had let you get away.”
             Shay nodded, understanding him a little better. “And the other two women you loved?” she pressed.
            John Cross cringed inwardly at the notion he’d loved either of them. Not really. He had a hard time remembering their faces.  They had a purpose, they wind up not serving. Yes, he held a certain fondness for the girl he married but that was it. “I was young; hard to get along with.”
            “In other words, they didn’t satisfy you in bed either,” said Shay.
             His direct stare with his azure eyes arrested her. “Cold truth? Any woman with a fairly accommodating pussy can get me off. And has a thousand times a thousand. I wasn’t picky and discretion wasn’t my middle name,” was his blunt response. “You know this about me. But can that woman give me ecstasy? Can she give me joy? Does peace and tranquility surround her? Is she faithful? Do we like and support each other? Shay, my darling, you do that for me, in and out of bed. That’s why I’m crazy about you.”
             Or was it a hard case of once you go half-black you can never go back?
              She would take his answer for truth and moved on to her next concern.
             “John Marshall."

             “Okay. What about him?”
             “How close are you two?”
             He thought about how to answer; perhaps if he interjected humor...“I’m not screwing the guy but would I give him a kidney? Yes, I would as would he, me. We were frat brothers. We saw that we have a lot in common and became fast friends. I love the guy.”
            “So you’re comrades. Okay. Do you think he’ll have a problem with our relationship?”
            “Technically, you work for him; his Foundation.  In that situation, he is your boss. He hired you, the board of trustees vetted you; because of your smarts, your business acumen, your organizing abilities—and because you are the Foundation’s ombudsman—it doesn’t hurt that you’re awfully cute and fetching."
             "Fetching?"
             His hands at her waist jostled her.  "C'mon. You know you are. That said, you have a right to a personal life. I am his housemate; I have a right to a personal life. He doesn’t own us. As long as we do not bring blight on the Foundation, it’s none of John Marshall’s business if we’re in love and sexually involved.”
            “Obviously, you and John Marshall share a bond. You must care what he thinks,” Shay pressed.
            “Shay—what is this about?”
            “I don’t want to bring up race, but wasn’t he and the Foundation sued over discrimination a few years back.”
            “The case was baseless, never gained traction, and therefore dismissed. They were lies, all of it.  If you knew John Marshall, you’d know he was incapable of racism. Why would he hire you, Shay, if he was a bigot?”
             Shay ticked the reasons off on her fingers. “Let me see. To deflect suspicion. To influence public opinion. To meet a racial quota. To, umm, keep the Foundation’s non-profit tax-exempt status; and those charitable contributions flowing in, of course. White Guilt. Pick one or all.”
             “That’s ridiculous.  He…he loves you.”
             “Loves me? Explain that.” 
             “You know what I mean. He’s very impressed with you; he can’t wait for you to get started. The fact that you and I have a past…and a future…he sees that as a plus.”
             “I don’t like the way he looks at me. He scares me.”
             “What way is that?”
             “As though he could rip my womb out and eat it…and consume the rest of me through his pores.”
             John Cross would laugh if she weren’t so serious. He cleared his throat of any signs of mirth and said: “Granted, he does have that effect on women. Don’t let it get to you. He’s harmless. I assure you, he’s not Hannibal Lecter and he’s not going to eat your womb or any other parts of you. That’s my job.”
             He tapped her nose. “If he makes you uncomfortable, I’ll speak to him. Tell him to stop with the scary. He doesn’t want to lose you, I’m sure of that.” 
             John Cross thought her adorable with her mini interrogation. In a small way, a very tiny infinitesimal way—he regretted having to share her. He was her first. The thought of another man—even if that man was John Marshall—pounding into her sweet, virgin-snug delicacy was unsettling. But a pact was a pact. He would just have to man-up when the time came.

            “Shay, do you love me?”

            “You had me at orgasm,” she smiled. Twelve whole years ago.

            “Give John Marshall a chance, okay? For me.”

            “I suppose since he’s gorgeous-looking and all that, I can hold my nose.”

            “Now let me ask you a question. Turn about is fair play. What about those other Johns in your life?”

            “What other…oh, them.”  She had lied about the other men. There had been no one else. “Their faces are a blur. There really wasn’t that many to speak of and…nothing serious…they never measured up to you.”
             “I didn’t think so. Anything else we need to get straight, sweetheart?” he asked, suppressing a grin.
             “There’s a change I’d like in my contract. Janae’s interest in my yoga business. I want John Marshall to buy her out. Triple her investment plus 20%. He can afford it.”
             “I don't think that will be a problem. Give me the figures. I’ll speak to John tonight.  Anything else?”
             “I want more time…to settle my affairs…and close up shop…and pack.”
              He frowned. “How much more time?”
             “Two weeks.”
             “Baby, how long does it take to run downstairs and nail a closed sign on your business and pack your shit? One more week. Anything else can be settled from Houston. I’ll go ahead extend my stay here.”
             “You don’t have to stay, John.”
             “Shay, if I return to Houston without you, I’ll be shot,” John explained.
             “Oh please.”
             “Yeah, he’d shoot me with that prized Iver Johnson Pony of his. Hell, I might even shoot myself if I have to go one more day without you.”
             “Now that’s just pathetic.”
             “You heat me up then you leave me high and dry.”
             “For Pete’s sake, it’s been hardly three days; I’m still having my period.”
             “Damn it! Is there any way to stop those?”
             “Sure. For about nine months at a time.”

Atlanta. Radison Renaissance Hotel. The Galleria

“Shay thinks you’re a bigot,” John Cross said into the phone.
            “A fucking what!”
            “Something she read on the internet about that damn lawsuit in 2012. Don’t worry, I wiped most of the doubt from her mind, but you may have to run interference to lock it down.”
            “Happy to. That’s the last thing I am and I’ll make sure she knows it.”
            “I’ll be bringing her home with me next week, ripe for harvesting."
            “You’d better be right.” John Marshall had his cell on the kitchen counter on speaker as he prepared dinner for two.
            “Just worry about your end. I got this.”
            “Yeah, I’m on it. Got a dinner date with a real cutie tonight I met on line named Barbie, of all things. Giving her the personal touch. By Christmas, I’ll be in love. By Valentine’s she will have trampled my heart and left me for another woman. I’ll question my manhood, be suicidal for a minute, and our lovely Shay will rescue me from myself. We can’t induce infidelity, but we can nudge her.”
            “How Machiavellian of you.”
            “Happy Valentine’s Day to me.”

Flight back to Houston on the Marshall-Bey private 8-seater Cessna

“Are you still on your period?”
          “I have a five-day cycle, so no. What do you have in mind?”
           They were sitting opposite each other.  John Cross leaned forward, took hold of Shay’s hands and her eyes magnetized to his. Brown to greenish. He was just so damn beautiful with his boy-toy looks. He once told her he wasn’t so much a chick-magnet as he was a cougar-lodestone. Young women thought he was gay and older ones were always hitting on him.

            John Cross said: “One guess what I’m thinking."

            "Exactly what I'm thinking, my horny maniac," she grinned.
            "So, why come you're sitting over there all demure and proper like?"
            “Because, love, it would be rather awkward on the plane.”
             John released her hands, leaned back, and unzipped, freeing his ultimatum, the blue veins along its length looking ready to hemorrhage! "Dudley begs to differ."
             The zipper lowered more, his balls emerging.
             Shay's vagina rounded as did her eyes. "Backup?  I have no argument with Dudley. I love the way he stands on his hind legs to beg."
             "Then, kindly take your panties off, woman, and climb on. Ride me to Houston."

             “Sorry. No can do. Not wearing panties.” 
              Shay flipped back her nova plaid skirt revealing black thigh-high stockings; and at the juncture of her thighs, more revelations--her purple blood-infused clitoris, aroused and puffed out from its protective folds, surrounded by a thicket of dark dewy bush. And when John licked his lips, she coquettishly widened her thighs to show him what he desired most, the heart of her goodies--still tight and virginal as the night he deflowered it.
              "I...see...something," he said in a Snidely K.Whiplash intonement.
              Shay giggled delightedly.
             “Tease. You asked for this.” He reached, and in a flash move yanked her onto his thick erection, jamming hard and merciless into her softness, taking her breath away.  "Not funny now, huh?"
             "That wasn't nice," she scolded, her outer and inner lips mashed up lusciously against his balls.
             John began to move his wondrous, overachieving cock inside her. "Is this better?"
             Shay sighed, in exquisite heaven. "Is there anything better than this? At this moment?"
            "Baby, I’m praying for headwinds and a bumpy flight all the way,” he told her.

November, Marshall-Bey Mansion, Houston

Skype conversations between Shay and Janae:

Shay

“This first week has been really, really busy.  Jumped right in planning for our Thanksgiving Banquet.  My BMW is on order. Periwinkle blue. Until I get my own transportation, John Cross assigned himself to chauffer duties. He’s been soooo sweet. Flowers every day. Spontaneous texts saying he misses me when we are apart. He took me to his business and introduced me as his girlfriend!

For my birthday last week, a diamond ankle bracelet, dinner and dancing on the town. Romantic! What a spectacle we made at The Governor’s Lounge when he got down on his knee and secured the bracelet around my ankle! It felt like a proposal!

John Marshall just looks on but says nothing. Don’t know where he stands.  He has his own new relationship to nourish. I get to meet his lady love—Barbie Doll—can you believe that! In fact, we’re double-dating Saturday night.” 

Janae

“I did some more snooping and you’d be interested what I came up with on the Johns. Only one blemish on John Marshall, however, that discrimination lawsuit that went nowhere fast. John Marshall had a failed marriage when he was 25. Wifey got a generous settlement considering they were wed less than a year and she cheated on him with his philandering brother. Set off a minor scandal! He’s reputed to be a ladies man himself. And your John Cross—you already know about his wife and his two failed engagements. You might say those two guys have been unlucky in the love department. John Cross bought his Nissan Dealership in ’08. Like you, he’s an only child. John Marshall’s brother is his fraternal twin, single guy. Gossip columns say he is a jetsetter playboy. Spent some time in the Navy. Dabbles in producing B movies and is considered the black sheep of the Marshall-Bey clan. Have you met him yet? The family’s money comes from oil—on his mother’s side, the Marshalls. Their father is Chesney Bey from Quebec. Their parents died in Canada in a boating mishap in ‘09. John Cross’ parents retired to Costa Rica. Just thought you’d like to know.” 

Christmas Eve; Marshall-Bey Foundation volunteers dinner

Shay was the first in the kitchen that morning. She began retrieving and setting breakfast items on the counter.

            The unspoken routine was: first one in the kitchen prepares breakfast. Restless, she couldn’t sleep so here she was. Besides, she needed distance away from John Cross, whom she left reposed on his back, limp and sodden from her body.  He just rolled off her and dozed without a care for her feelings. The nerve of him!

            Two pots were boiling—grits for John Marshall; oatmeal for her and John Cross—when John Cross appeared bare-chested in PJ bottoms. He had a grand chest, muscled and ripped, and she had kissed it and licked it just an hour before, trying to induce lust in his loins. He wrapped his arms about her at the farm sink, and kissed the side of her neck. “You make me crazy, you know that?”
           “Is that your excuse? When you wake me at four in the morning, mister—you better bring your A game. What’s with the premature thing? You’ve never had a problem before.”

            “I’ll make it up to you, baby.”
            “When?  I need you now,” she pouted. “And there’s no time.”
            “Whoa, what a greedy little nymph, you are.”
            “Of your own making.”
            “And in my own image! My most rewarding undertaking…teaching you the pleasures of sex. How about some pleasure to tide you over—right here, right now?”
          His hands slid like a two-headed serpent, one meandering up her belly to fondle her achy breasts, the other slithering down inside her robe into her PJs, bifurcating, opening her and delving within. She moaned, pressing back against his growing erection.
            “All I need is four minutes… like this… to make you come. Three minutes—my cock inside you—we both come,” John Cross muttered.
            “So what do I do? Bend over the sink? Hitch my fanny?”
            “Lord, yes.  Okay, sugar?” 
            “Not okay. That would be a lovely sight for John Marshall to walk in on.”
            “He’d turn back...let us finish.” He tugged at her waistband.
            “Or he’d watch. I’ll pass,” Shay declined, grabbing his wrist and wiggling off the sensations of his other hand.
           “You win,” he resigned, nudging her from the sink so he could wash her essence from his hands. “Why don’t I finish up here and you get dressed. You have a long day ahead.”
           Right then, as if to prove her point, John Marshall strolled into his newly remodeled stainless steel commercial-styled kitchen that boasted four ovens, three refrigerators, and an enormous freezer.
          “Morning, you two.”
           Shay returned the greeting, sashaying away. If she had cared to look back, she would have been startled to discover four lust-filled eyes of deception on her swaying hips. But no, her head was filled with the next 18-hour grind. This was her second event in as many months as she’d been on the job. The annual Christmas Dinner for Marshall-Bey Foundation volunteers and their families. Board of Trustees. And a few VIPs.  Seventy-five total. She needed to put finishing touches on the tree before caterers started arriving in the next few hours.

            With Shay’s departure, the men could collude John to John:
           “She didn’t look too happy. I take it you’ve started rationing sex.”
           “I have… and I callously leave her wanting more. Let’s say, I’m not her favorite person right now.”
           “Good.”
           “Next,” he explained dreamily, looking ceiling-ward, as though watching it play out.  “I’ll let her catch me masturbating, reading an old copy of Hustler I keep under my mattress for emergencies. First she’ll be angry and then blame herself...for not being sufficient for me.  I’ll deny it, declare my undying love, and give her hours of gratifying sex to hold her awhile.”

           “You understand why we had to change horses midstream. We want the onus to be on her, not us.  It’s the better plan.”
           “I get it but I don’t have to like it.”
           “And the condom caper?”
           “I do love her, man. I don’t want to completely demoralize her by making her think I’m fucking around. It might backfire. I’m not willing to play that mind game.”
           “The end justifies the means, my friend.”
           “If I lose her, you lose her.”
           “Duly noted. Your flu is still on, I hope.”
           “She’ll be yours exclusively—short term. Make my sacrifices pay off, John.  I don’t like holding my dick.”

           Tonight belonged to the volunteers.  Last week, paid staff celebrated at a downtown banquet hall. Except for the unsettling view of John Cross flirting with really, really blonde socialite Evelyn Childs, their district councilwoman, the evening progressed with no glaring glitches. People ate. The band played. Couples danced. Shay mingled. John Marshall-Bey awarded plaques. Five guests didn’t show because of the overnight snowfall.

            “The night’s over.  The last of the guests have finally left. You look tired. You can sleep in tomorrow. I’ll bring in more staff and have them clean up.” It was John Marshall. He had followed her into the pantry where she was replacing a step ladder.

            “Here, let me get that for you,” he spoke from behind her, taking the ladder and lifting it onto a higher hook. 

            “Thanks.” Shay’s female antlers could not ignore his in-your-face maleness, not from the very first introduction, and she discovered she was uncomfortable confined with him; when they had business to discuss or projects to collaborate, she was always no nonsense and efficient then she scattered. But how long could she sustain that stance before she crumbled? She was flesh and blood not made of steel!

            Here he was now, his commanding form blocking her exit. Earlier that evening, he had suddenly appeared beside her as she added guests’ ornaments to the tree and added a decoration of his own—mistletoe, and brushed his lips across hers for all to see before striding away, which was most devastating to her fragile psyche.
             Now once more he invaded her personal space.

            “Great job tonight.”
            "I’m pleased how things went, thank you."

           “I’d like to reward you somehow.”

           “Cash in my Christmas stocking would be nice.”

            He blocked her way.

           “Excuse me.”
           “Look, Shay, it’s not my place…but I’ve noticed some tension between you and John.”

           “You’re right, it’s none of your business.”

           “I thought I might offer my help.”
           "Help yourself, you mean?"

           “Mutual benefit. We both get satisfaction. Maybe more."

            She stared up at him as he closed in. 

            No doubt about it: he was going to kiss her, again.        

            Shay placed her hand on his chest to push him away, but not pushing. “You’re not a jerk, John. Why are you acting like one? Hitting on your best friend’s woman.”

           "My best friend and I happen to have the same tastes.  And you're wrong. I am a jerk. I desire a woman totally...totally...off-limits. But she’s figured that out, smart woman that she is."

           “Has she?” Did she just issue a challenge? Was she flirting?

           “Let me show her how very much.” He kissed her then.  A real kiss that tasted of bourbon and mint and desire. It was not an unpleasant taste and for a second she responded to him…lost in a fantasy. Then his tongue slid between her lips, snapping her back. She twisted her mouth away.

            “No. We can’t do this. I’m not doing this.”

            “I can’t help myself,” he said. “Neither can you.”

            “That’s the alcohol talking.” That covers him but what was her excuse?

            “Bull, Shay. Let's be honest. We were attracted to each other from the very beginning.  I should have pressed my advantage before you started things up with John again.”

            “But I have. You lost your chance."
            "Our chance."
            "You’re my superior. There's protocol.”

             That prompted his laugh. "Shay, this is not MI6."

            "Surely, you can't argue the fact that you are my boss."

             He clucked his tongue. “A nuisance; not a deterrent.”

            “Those are the rules.”

            “Okay, I'm the boss, the rule-adjuster. Technically, of course, The Board is your boss. I'm the Director and I direct you to come into my bed tonight. Give me tonight, Shay. It'll be our secret to keep.”
            She shook her head, no. "That will only serve as leverage to blackmail me for more.

Janae warned me this would happen. She predicted that the three of us living so closely together, alone, unchaperoned, would engender some sexual frictions; that we’d be playing musical beds. But I love John Cross and that’s not going to happen.”

            “Unchaperoned?” he seized on the word. “We’re adults, damn it!”

            “Exactly her point—we are free to do what we want and that’s dangerous.”

            “Answer this: if I tried really hard to seduce you into my bed tonight, would I be successful?"

            “Probably. My lover is inattentive at the moment, and I’m vulnerable and needy. But I am also a pragmatist and I know such a situation would be unsustainable. I’d have to give notice, resign, and John, I really like my job. So, step aside.”

            Shay’s cell rang.  She reached for it on her bedside table. She was in her room. One of the rare nights she did not sleep in John Cross’ bed.
           “Hello. Shay Lyn’s massage parlor. Promise not to rub you the wrong way.”
           John Cross chuckled. “Good morning, beautiful. You’re in a good mood.”
           “Not really. I knew it was you.”
           “You okay? Last night was quite a night.”
           “Yes…quite.” She sat up. “I saw you flirting with Councilwoman Evelyn Childs? Did you two go out on the town later?”
           “Flirting? Sweetheart, Evelyn is old enough to be my mother. I helped her to the parking lot. The walkway was treacherous.”
           “Well, she looks good for her age. I was jealous. I know how older women come on to you.”
          “Aww…sweet baby. Don’t be jealous. Evelyn gives a hefty check to the Foundation every Thanksgiving for Christmas. I was thanking her in my own way—she deserved some special attention.”
           “You kissed her under the mistletoe.”
           “A mere peck on the cheek. I saw John Marshall kiss you under the same mistletoe.”
           “A mere peck as well.”
           “I’m not jealous. Now are we good?”
           “I suppose. You didn’t come for me last night.”
           “Baby, you were tired, dead on your feet.”
           “We could have just snuggled.”
           “Yeah. Your butt snuggled against my boner would surely work,” he remarked.

           “Are you calling me from inside the house?”
           “No…look, sorry, I had to leave you. I’m at work. We’re preparing for our huge, New Year’s inventory sale.”
           “On Christmas Day? I thought we’d spend this time together…opening presents and building a snowman.”
           “Yeah.  I hate it too.  I’ll make it up to you. You and John Marshall go ahead without me.  Love you.”

            But John Cross surprised her by coming home for lunch, finding her on the second floor in her office.
           “Oh, you’re home,” she said delightedly when she saw him in the doorway.
           He had blood in his eyes: “Only for a second. I couldn’t wait till tonight.”
           Knowing what he meant, she said: “Uh, do you want to go to your room?”
           “No.  I need my fix now.  I’m desperate.”  He closed and locked the door.
           “Desperate?  Well, come here, lover. Can’t have you shagging your pretty receptionist in a fit of sexual pique, now can I?”    
          “As if…”
           Next instant, her naked bottom was clutched in his large hands, mostly aloft, but slapping the surface of her desk every other reciprocal thrust.
          John Cross spilt much too sudden for her liking and yanked a handkerchief from his back pocket to tidy himself. He shared it with her, dabbing at her ooze. “Here let me help you with that.”

         She flinched.

         He looked concerned. “Are you sore?

         Not in the physical sense!

         “You grazed my nubby. You know how sensitive I am there.”

         “You want me to kiss it; make it better, baby?”           

         “Yes. As a matter of fact I do.” 

           He arched a brow at her tone but bent his head to her swollen nub with a solid full-mouth kiss, followed by a lick, and a promise.

          “Baby, I’m sorry to cut this short.”

         "So am I."

         “Shay, I’ll make it up to you tonight first thing, I promise. So be waiting in my bed.”

          He had a backlog of making up to do. 

         “What about dinner?”
           He tucked in his shirt. “I’m having you for dinner, darling.”
           Shay hopped off the desk, smoothing down her skirt. 

          “What excuse will we give John?” They almost always had their last meal of the day together with John Marshall. “It’s Christmas.”
          “He can raid the fridge for banquet leftovers,” he said, zipping his fly.
          No more than he deserves.
          John added: “Kidding. He has plans with Barbie Doll, I think.”
          “Barbie. Blonde, blued-eyed, voluptuous sex pot.  Every man’s dream.”  Not that Shay was envious. “Is that even her real name?”
          “You know what I love—brown sugar.  He’d love it too if he tried some.” He flipped the lock and his hand was on the knob.
          “John, there’s something you ought to know.”
          “What, baby?"

          "John Marshall kissed me.”
          “Yeah, under the Christmas tree. I saw that.”
          “No, later, in the pantry. Why do you suppose he did that?”

         “Maybe he was just trying to be friendly.”

         “His tongue in my mouth was mighty friendly. Please don't make excuses for him."
           John Cross arched a brow. “He’s amorous when he drinks. I guarantee you, it wasn't about you personally.  I had to rescue several women from his blustering attentions last night."
           "All but me," she sniffed.
           "Now, that's unfair, Shay. I wasn't there. But I’ll speak to him about it tonight. Maybe give him a black eye.”
           Shay crossed to the door, placing a hand on his arm. “That’s not necessary, I handled it. You’re right. He had too much to drink. I just thought you should know.”
          “Well, if you’re sure…I can’t have John Marshall trying to steal my girl.”    

            And I can’t have you two fighting over me.

            John Cross kissed Shay goodbye, pulled back and gave her a thoughtful gaze. “I’m not afraid to bust his chops, you know. I’ll defend your honor to the death.”

        “I know, sweetheart.” She grinned, teasing: “Death is not necessary though. I put him in his place. I don’t think he’ll try anything again."

Oh, but he did.

           John Cross’ had hardly closed the door on his conjugal visit when John Marshall summoned her to the pool.                                     

          “Shay, I’m going for a swim around three. Grab your suit and join me.”
           “Sure.” 
           She shouldn’t worry over a few harmless kisses.  It had been the vodka. She seriously doubted John Marshall would ever be into brown women. Some men had a type. And John Marshall’s was willowy pale blondes.  He was never photographed with any other type.
           Of course, a penis has no discerning bias.

New Year’s 2016 . Private  party.  Marshall-Bey Mansion.

            “How is Shay adjusting to the new you?” John Marshall asked John Cross as they sipped champagne on the veranda and watched their women inside laugh over some snapshots they’d taken earlier in the evening.

            “Not well. I get mine. She gets hers in measured doses; enough to keep her on this side of malcontent and in love with me.  It’s no fun for me either, playing her like this. She’s not the same in my arms—uncertain and hesitant.  I miss what we had.  The spontaneity. The abandon.”

            “I feel your pain, brother, but stay on point. Shay-Day is fast approaching. I’ll get a cold-hearted “dear John” text from Barbie Doll around Valentine’s Day. I’ll be broken-hearted; even threaten suicide. You will send our darling girl to comfort me. Can you believe in our whole association, we’ve never shared a woman?  Never even had a threesome? We’re long overdue.”
           “I’m salivating at the thought.”
           “Good move of yours Christmas making it possible for me to be alone with Shay and plant some seeds.”
            John Cross grinned. “I’m still waiting for her to tell me about that.  She’s feeling confused and guilty.  Kind of endearing—her trying to protect our male bond.”
           “She’s worried about coming between us when she can only bring us all closer together.  Oh, the irony.”

Skypes between Shay and Janae  New Year’s Eve

Thank you for my scarf!  So what did you do Christmas? What all did you get?

---------------------------------------------------------------

I gave the Johns Stetsons.  They love them.  I received diamond stud earrings from John Cross. French perfume from John Marshall.  Girl, John Marshall kissed me twice in one day!

-------------------------------

Whoa! Back up there.  I thought you were in love with John Cross.

-------------------------------

I am.  I love him to death. But then there is this odd attraction to John Marshall, I can’t seem to shake. Believe me, I’m trying. But he crowds me. Won’t give me space.

-------------------------------

Maybe it’s a trick. To test your fidelity to John Cross.  Men do that.  So beware. Stay away from John Marshall. Shay, you are giving me a headache.

---------------------------------

It’s hard to avoid him. He’s my boss. I have to work with him. Let me tell you what happened Christmas day at the pool…

*****************

FLASHBACK CHRISTMAS DAY…

John Marshall did not want to take no for an answer.

            When Shay arrived at the pool, she discovered her boss leaning against the ladder, bare butt. Or was he posing?
             She groaned. "It's not going to work."
             "You're not aroused by what you see?" he challenged.
             "I'm annoyed by what I see. Have you no couth?"

             "Couth goes out the window when I want something, Shay."

             "You think you can entice me with all that? Fortunately for me, I'm immune."

             John Marshall came off the rail and ambled toward her: proud and confident in his nakedness.  After a few seconds, Shay averted her gaze from the pendulum action of his impressive genitalia surrounded by plush dark pubic hair that seem to sprout upward covering his chest.

            John Marshall took indulgent pride in his penis. His chocolate hair was nice and full on his cranium but his penis was his crowning glory. He had received and given untold and told pleasures with his penis. However, he was not unaware of the pitfalls of being prideful. In his younger days, a lover had actually tried to neuter him with a kitchen knife but he had roused himself from sleep in time.

            Needless to say, he was mindful of who he laid down with in the future. And so, he was still going strong, and would continue to do so into his eighties. There was no downside to being oversexed, precluding death. Only difference? Now he sought one partner to do the ‘until death do you part’ thing.

            And Shay Lyn DeBurgo was his prime target.
            "Let's test that immunity of yours, shall we, Shay? Ditch your suit."
            "No."
            "Look at it this way: at least the disparity will not exist if we're both in the buff. We'll be more comfortable with each other."
             "I doubt that. But let me be clear, John Marshall, I don't disparage nudity or have an issue with body image. I don't trust you." 

            John Marshall got close enough to reach out and tilt her chin up. "You're right not to trust me. Sometimes, I can be a lout. But, Shay, nothing’s going to happen that you don’t want to happen.”

            That comment was frightening in and of itself!

            “Could you just get in the water, please?”

            He dropped his hand. “May I be honest?”

            “I don’t know. Is there an honest bone in your body?”

            “Two hundred six to be exact… so I’ll put it right out there and you can deal with it: I want you. You know it. John Cross knows it. I’ve wanted you since the first day I laid eyes on you. Maybe even before that when John Cross would speak of you with stars in his eyes. I had to meet you to find out what all the hoopla was about. You’re here now and more than ever, I mean to have you one way or another. How do you feel knowing that? Knowing that I get what I want.”

            “I won’t cheat on John,” she blurted. Then realized that was an admission of sorts.

            He realized it too, and called her on it. “Then don’t cheat. Tell him the truth—that you want to sleep with me.”

            “What makes you think I do?”

            “Because you shudder and tense up when I come near you.”

            “That’s from revulsion.”

            He laughed. “Okay, revulsion. We both know better.”

            “What if I tell him a different truth—that you’re sexually harassing me?”
            “You won’t go there,” he said confident. “Because it’s ugly. And because—” he poked his finger gently above her breast — “in your heart you know that’s not what’s happening here.”

            Shay ended the conversation by moving away from him and diving into the pool well aware that John Marshall had accomplished his objective: to get inside her head; to get his splendid penis inside her head for she couldn’t help but imagine such a prized organ inside her! Thank god, that gem was under water most of the time as they swam.     

            After that tableau vivant Christmas day at the pool, surprisingly, John Marshall backed off.  Perhaps that “sexual harassment” jibe gave him pause.

            For the next month, John Cross played pick-and-roll with Shay’s body. She had no other choice but complacence, for when he was good, he was really, really good. It made up for the times he disappointed her. But she was sure of one thing: John Cross loved her and she loved him. Sex wasn’t everything. She didn’t know what his problem was and he seemed to think there was no problem. Outside the bedroom, he was the same, carefree, jovial personality. So what gives? Shay wondered.   

            Though John Marshall made no overt advances towards Shay (he still swam nude citing an ambiguous clause in her contract), she did not relax her guard. There was this thing she couldn’t describe. Whenever they were alone in the same room, the sexual tension cloaked them like gauze. So Shay made sure those times was few and far between. Though what difference did that make when surrounded by others he would give her these hooded looks? She fought valiantly against a perceived threat that failed to manifest itself, exhausting herself emotionally. She jumped whenever John Marshall called her name and she was sure he knew the affect his manner was having on her. They couldn’t go on like this. She couldn’t. She had to diffuse the situation.
          Shay summoned the nerve to apologize to him. “John, that sexual harassment comment I made to you. Can I take it back?”
          “I don’t know, Shay. What would you replace it with?” he snarked.  “A restraining order?”
          So she was right. Her offhand harassment remark had pissed him off.
          Shay shook her head, stood on tip toe and pressed her lips to his; not only that but she slid her tongue into his mouth; the kiss got out of hand and she poured more into her apology than she intended. 
          She wrenched her lips away just as their mouths caught fire.  “I’m sorry—what was I supposed to be doing? Why did you call me to your office on Saturday?”

            Because he was crazy; because he wanted to be near her even if it pained him.      
          John Marshall thumbed away her saliva from the corner of his mouth. That was scorching. And all her. Oh yeah, Shay was coming around.  He restrained himself from dragging her to a dark place and draining off his broiling sacs into her sweet body.

            “Is there a problem?” She wanted to know.

            “Yeah. There’s a problem. The 211-HelpLine Statistics are due Monday. I thought we could get a jump on the filing and dispositions,” he answered. “Valentine’s just around the corner.”
            “Um, yes, I know.” She turned away. “I’ll get started.”
            “Wait, Shay. You can’t just walk away.  Apology accepted but what was that?”
            “That was...something...I don’t know myself, John. Please forget I did that. Let’s just get to work. Okay?”

            “Get to work, my ass.” He pulled her to him. She jerked away, sprinting down the hall, ending up outdoors past the gardens at the old schoolhouse, huddling on a bench in tears.

            Shay had to put lots of real estate between them at that moment. What the hell was wrong with her? Hot to trot for two men at once! Never mind that they were best friends.

            Privately, behind closed doors, the Johns were preparing for Shay-Day.

          “We’re right on schedule. As planned, we fly to Paris, the city of love. You are crushed and inconsolable. So play your part,” John Cross said.

          “She’s smart. She might see through us if she hasn’t already.”

          “Possibly. Or maybe she wants this as much as we do; but is reserved by her damning sense of proper and fidelity. We free her from herself.”

          “So, next week then,” John Marshall marveled. “I love you, my brother, for your sacrifice.”

          “You would do the same for me.”

February 14, 2016

Hyatt Regency, Paris, France

            Paris! For Valentine’s. How quixotic of John Cross! Shay was so excited to be in the most romantic city in the world! Dinner at the La Baron. Dancing at the Wanderlust.

            Perhaps he was even going to propose to her here!

            Not only did he not propose, but he insisted on bringing John Marshall along as a balm to his shredded-heart.

            “He doesn’t have a heart,” Shay argued.

            “Of course he has a heart.”

            “He has an insatiable penis!”

            “Give the guy a break.”

            They were removing their formal clothing and preparing for bed in the Hyatt Regency, when John Cross made his surprising request: “Look, Shay, could you do me a huge favor?  When we fly back tomorrow, I gotta get right to the office for an important meeting. So I’m going to bed to try to beat the Jet Lag. Can you go to John’s room, baby? Try to cheer him up…he likes you. If anybody can help him, you can. Flirt with him; get his confidence going, again. I fear he’s intending to do something drastic.”

“You’re not asking me to kiss him and make it better, are you?”

“I trust your judgment."

            “Poor John Marshall. He’s not going to harm himself over a woman.” 

            She didn’t want to spend any more time with woe-be-gone, broken hearted John Marshall, whose lovely lady turned out to be a lovely lesbian.

            Wasn’t it enough they brought him along on their romantic Paris trip?

            Wasn’t it enough she slow danced with him? The band playing a slow tempo of Larry Graham’s Just be My Lady that Shay suspected he had a hand in. If they had been in Houston, the three of them would have made an odd sight and whispered about! Two white guys and a black chick on their arms. But here in Paris, there was a sense that they were free to do anything they wanted and not be censured

            “Please. For me, sweetheart,” John entreated.

            Shay fluffed her fingers through his blond hair. “Okay. For you then.” She was disappointed they were not going to make love on Valentine’s.

            John Cross kissed her appreciatively and headed for bed. “Thanks. I’ll make it up to you.” That seemed to be his repeated refrain of late.

            So with a strange excitement in the pit of her stomach, Shay knocked on John Marshall’s room at the end of the hall on the same floor. He swung open the door, dressed in the same luxuriously thick hotel bathrobe as she; barefoot and hair slicked back from a recent shower. He gestured her in.

            “Shay. This is a surprise.”  

            He could have fooled her. His eyes didn’t register surprise. They showed expectancy.

            What game was he playing and what was John Cross’ part in it? What was hers?

            Shay smelled a rat in Paris. And it wasn’t Remy of Ratatouille.

            “I hope I’m not disturbing you, John. Oh! But of course I am,” she said, her eyes widening at the other female presence in the room: an alluring tall buxom woman of indistinct ethnicity, perhaps Moroccan, but certainly judging from her attire a courtesan or whatever they called them in Paris.

            Was he finishing or just getting started?

            John Marshall sure worked fast. Or perhaps he had it pre-arranged; he was no stranger to Paris. He had contacts—his brother being one. Perhaps even, the woman was his ‘girl in every port’? He was reputed to have a different one for every day of the week back in the States, why not here?

            Oh, Christ, she couldn’t be jealous, could she?

            "I’ll come back."

            “No you won’t. Stay put. Give me a minute,” he said, moving towards the other woman.

            Shay turned her back on them and pretended to be interested in the décor of the room and the panoramic view beyond the windows of the Eiffel Tower. But she was more interested in the view in the room. John was having an intense French conversation with the woman. An argument? Did money exchange hands? Shay was sure it had, because the woman’s strident tone altered becoming conciliatory…and then Shay heard the door open and close.

            “Sorry about that.”

             She turned to face John Marshall. “Don’t apologize. You didn’t have to shuffle her out like that. I could have left. Now, I feel bad.”

            “You should.”

            “I didn’t mean to ruin your evening. You were going to have sex with her, weren’t you?”

            “That was the plan. My brother Kev arranged the evening for me. A little cocaine, bourbon, and kinky sex to cap the night. Does that horrify you?”

            “Only the drug thing. I didn’t figure you for a user.”

He shrugged. “I experimented a bit in college. I was no choir boy, Shay.”

Sadly, there’s been no change.

           “So, your brother makes his home here in Paris.”

           “That he does.”  He poured himself a shot of bourbon neat from the courtesy bar. She indicated that she’d like one as well. She would need a good stiff drink to prepare her for what was to come.

“So do I get to meet him?” She swallowed the bitter liquid and grimaced. She was a sugary drink kind of girl. Cherry Kijafa kind of girl.

“Not this trip.”

“Oh.” No skin off her teeth. The other Marshall-Bey heir had quite the reputation. “Is it true what they say about him?”

“There’s a lot out there in the tabloids. In reality, it’s hard to separate the sheep from the goat where he is concerned. He’s an enigma for sure. We don’t always agree on things.”

“He had an affair with your wife. Just tell me.”

“That's in the past . I let by-gones be by-gones. Shay, I don’t want to talk about my brother. Where’s your other half?”
            “In bed asleep.”

            “Does he know you’re in my room?”

            “Actually, I’m here at John’s request.”

            “To accomplish what, exactly?”

            That’s what she’d like to know.

            “He was vague on that.”
             The liquor was warming her belly, fast-tracking to her brain.
            “He’s awfully trusting, don’t you think?”

            “I think…he trusts my discretion.”

            “He can’t fuck me; but you can. Right?”

            “Sarcasm…really, John?  He’s worried sick about you.”

            “He can rest easy. I’m not going to off myself.”

            “But you’ll do a deadly combination of booze, cocaine, and hookers ; and give yourself a heart attack!"

            “Something, anything to ease the pain."

            “What pain? So your pride’s hurt because Barbie Doll chose a woman over you; but you didn’t love her, John. You picked her up off the internet—in your own words—for a good time. You knew it was a crap shoot. Goodness, you were even bedding other women on the side. No any one woman can satisfy you--even I know that."

            John Marshall looked at her obliquely over his shot glass as he tossed the last of its contents down his gullet. “Unless it’s you. I could be quite content with just you in my bed.”

            “You see my head rotating? Because it’s not. So what gives here? What’s the truth?”

            “She made a fool of me. It’s in print all over the rags! And with another woman. Isn’t that enough to crush any man’s pride?”

            "Your pride is getting your dipstick wet. And you are no woman’s fool. Since when does playboy billionaire John Marshall-Bey care about a woman?” She finished her drink in one gulp. She was ready now.

             “I care about you.” He tugged on the lapel of her robe, drawing her closer. “But you know that already. Did you receive the roses I sent?”

            “I did. Thank you. Double Delights. They were in the room when we returned. They are difficult to come by this time of year. You went to a lot of trouble.”

            He shrugged. “They are your favorite, so whatever it took.”

            “Did you woo Barbie with flowers?”

            “Barbie preferred pearls over plants; women over men.”

            “Are you wooing me?”

            “Since the day we met.”

            “Must you insist on turning my head into a gyroscope?”

            “About time I'm getting through to you. This advance 'n parry of ours stops here and now. You came to my room to have sex with me. The other woman being here upset you. But she’s gone now. I got rid of her for you. There’s nothing…nobody…not even John Cross…stopping us from getting in that bed and screwing our brains out till Paris dawn. Is there?”

            She shook her head, no. They had hung out late and it was close to dawn now.  She loved sex at dawn. She would wake John Cross up for it. There was something about the stillness, the break of a new day, and Igor the resident bantam crowing his love songs.

            “Okay then…”

            They shared a passionate, fiery kiss, deep and wet, liquor infused, their verre á liqueur falling from their fingers. Their mouths still in a clench, John Marshall scooped her up, carried her to the bed, and dropped her on it. He shrugged off his robe, bent and loosened the tie to hers…beneath which were the sheerest of white undies with tiny pink rosettes on them reminding John how delicate and vulnerable she actually was.

            He saw tears and thumbed them away, bemused.

            “What are these for? Usually women cry after I put it in."

            “I was hoping John Cross would make love to me and propose to me tonight, but he didn’t. What better place! We’re in Paris, for pity’s sake.”

            Yes, more's the pity.  “John's an idiot. If you were mine I would have proposed eons ago and if we hadn't already wed, we would be married on this night.”

            “Truly?”

            “Effing right.”

            “That’s liquor talking."

            “Liquor does talk for me sometime. But not in this instance…mi amor.”

            John Marshall wound the flimsy fabric of her undies in his fist until it snapped.  He pulled the scraps from her butt and kneaded his palm into her soft crevice, finding her moist as moss as he was hard as stone, and that’s all they needed.  No distracting foreplay. They had had enough of that in long looks, sighs, furtive kisses, and body language. 

            But still he was a lover and he wanted it to be good for her from beginning to end.  And if foreplay was needed…“Do you need more…to get ready?”

            “No. I’m ready.” As I’ll ever be.

            He palmed her behind like a volley ball and dragged her forward to unite their parts, grafting his swollen tip right where her maidenhead used to be so long ago, only the second man ever to do so.

            They were really going to do it.

            Fuck.

            Shay tensed. “I’m scared.”

            “Don’t be. I'm not going to hurt you, Shay. Relax.”

            He pushed, the head went in, making it impossible for her to default.

            “You don't understand. It’s just that…no other man…except John—” she bit her lip in elation. “You need to know.”

              “I’m honored. There’s no other man I’d rather follow than John,” he soothed, pressing a kiss to her throat. “You can pretend I’m him if it makes it better. I don’t mind this first time.”

            “There won’t be a next time,” Shay cautioned him.

            “Says who?”

            “Me. We have tonight. And that's it."

            “I don’t get a vote?”

            “John, stop talking.”

            Penis in hand, he guided just the tip over her threshold…waiting, giving her a chance to adjust to him…but Shay wasn’t having it! Lifting her hips, she mashed her pelvis as far as it would go on his colossal cock, and paid the price with a premature orgasm. The tiny pain from his size fizzled and on its heel waves of ecstasy tore through her vagina, cascading and unabated.

            “Oh, God, no,” she groaned. Yes! Keep it coming.

            “Are you coming?” he marveled.

            “I’m sorry,” she gasped, as her muscles constricted around him. “Give me a minute.”

            She was never the aggressor, never took the lead with John Cross. That’s what she got for being brazen!

            John Marshall chuckled. “You’re like a live wire."

            He gave her a moment, caressing her spine, kissing her throat.

            She nodded. “I’m okay now.”

            “I get the pleasure of starting over…”

            She still wore her robe, and they paused to get rid of it. Then cupping her behind, he pulled out to the crown and reentered.  Paused to savor. Then he rotated his pelvis to readjust to the compressed environment. Shifting gears, he got into a syncopating rhythm. By doing so, he created too much luscious friction for Shay and she knew empirically, if he pulled out and pushed back in a certain way, it would be over for her. She was amazed at how close to climax she was after the first one. Part of it was his organ largesse and her greedy sucking vagina; part of it was inside her head; the rest was pure John Marshall, an exquisite mechanism of motion and technique that threatened to turn her insides outside.

            John Marshall was the master of the callous fuck and he had a grave yard of disposed women to show for it. 

            Shay knew that’s what she was in for tonight: the callous fuck sans love. She had no illusions. And why should she care? There was this big new plaything inside her and it was hitting her omigod-spot left and right.

           “Stop that,” she begged but he was heedless and Shay could hold back her orgasm no longer; nor should she have to!  She had all night for more!  More John Marshall. Her hungry muscles worked him, urging him backwards with her into the calamitous rage of unearthly joy. But he didn’t want to go just yet.  Fucking her was decadence itself.  And he enjoyed corrupting her pussy.  He held back as long as he could but her moves were too influential, too powerful.

           “God in heaven, you’re absurd, woman,” he growled as he submitted to her and gave up the viscid nourishment full force.

Shay felt the warm volume of his custard bathe her cervix but didn’t fret over it. Time for that later. Later, clear-headed, she would be furious; for now it just felt right. Shay rose up in his arms and their mouths met in a luscious kiss that went on a long time; ravenous even though they were fulfilled.

             Or maybe not. Maybe their palates were merely awakened.

            “That was spectacular.”

            “Spectacular doesn’t describe it.”

            “But too fast, I’m judging,” she blurted, the mutiny between her thighs still rioting.

            “Much too fast,” he agreed. “It’s the romance of the surroundings. When we’re back at home, we’ll take it slow.”

            “No, John. Remember what I said.”

            “What did you say? I couldn’t hear over the roar of my lust.”

            “We have this time, tonight; let’s not turn it into something more.”

            “I’m sorry, Shay. I can’t go back to jerking off in my shower thinking about you. Not after I’ve had the real deal.”

            “You do that?”

            “And you don’t?”

            “I don’t…masturbate. But I admit I’ve fantasized about us having sex.”

            “And what do you do while you’re fantasizing my cock inside you?”

            “I squeeze my thighs together tight…and get wet.”

            “And do you think about me while you’re doing it with John Cross?”

            “No! I love him. I would not disrespect him that way! When John and I are together you are the farthest thing from my mind. It’s only when I’m off to myself that I let my thoughts go there.”

            “So now that we have arrived at that place, do you prefer my lovemaking to his?”

            “Are you asking me to compare?”

            “Shay, sweetheart, I don’t need to bolster my ego. Stay with me—I’m trying to make a point here.”

            She thought. “It’s quite different…but not measurable in degrees of performance if that’s what you’re getting at.”

            “Explain.”

            “I’m not experienced enough to explain it, John. But it’s like two different flavors of ice cream you crave. You have a taste for one or the other at different times depending on your mood with the results being the same: a delighted palate and a quenched appetite. And if you’re greedy—you might even want to consume both flavors at the same time. Do you understand?”

            “I understand you can have both worlds. No conflict.”

            “That would mean cheating. I’d rather have your respect.”

            “You’d rather have my dick.”

            “I don’t love you.”

            “Good. It’s better if we don’t love each other. Love complicates things. It can be messy. And feelings get in the way.  It’s about sex. Pure, unfiltered, unadulterated sex.  Cut and dry.”

            “What if we fall in love, though?”

            He smiled indulgently. “Doubtless, we’re attracted to one another or we would not have come this far; but Shay, as fine and delectable as you are, unique in every respect, I don’t see romantic love happening for me. I’m cool with that.”

            “I can’t make that call. I’m not cold and inhuman.”

            “Hey, I’m human. I’m not anti-love. I’ve been there. Got the divorce.  Look, let’s not make this personal.”

            “You came inside me. That’s personal.”

            “Would you have me come elsewhere?”

            “Inside a condom, rationally speaking.”

            “I’m not rational when it comes to you. You should know that by now. Besides, I don’t happen to have one handy.”

            “What …about for the prostitute?”

            “I’m sure she brought her own. Professional courtesy.”

            “I could get pregnant. Then what would you do?”

            “Do you and John use birth control?”

            “No. So you see where the conflict lies.”

            “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

            “Do you two normally share your women in bed?” she asked scornfully.

            “No. This is totally at variance to our norms.”

            “What if we’re honest and tell him about tonight.”

            “I don’t think he’ll be open-minded about it.”

            “He sent me to you.”

            “True. Two things, however: he’d rather not know the details so that he can remain mercifully ignorant and not pushed to do something rash; and if we expose ourselves anyway, he’ll argue that you misread his intent and he’ll accuse me of taking advantage of you—and do something rash.”

            “Why would he think you’d take advantage of me?”

            “He knows I’ve coveted you since the beginning. And he advised me early on in certain terms that you were his and his alone. I told him I’d respect that and keep my distance. But…here I am…” he flexed inside her, reminding her that their bodies were still very much attached “… hardly keeping my distance and feeling no remorse for it.”

            “No remorse at all?”

            “None whatever.”

            “So where do we go from here, Shay?”

            “You pull out,” she teased.

            “And then?”

            “We say goodnight.”

            “And then?”

            “We never do this again.” She wasn’t teasing.

            “What? Wait. Back up.”

            “You heard me.”

            “All I heard was crackling noise.”

            “Most of all—we don’t talk about it.”

            (Each “And then?” was punctuated by a flick of his tongue at the side of her mouth.)

            “And?”

            “You pull out. Or did I say that already?”

            “What if I don’t want to?”

            “Then you push the reset button…” She guided his hand between their bodies “...that one right there….”   

        

The next day, noon checkout time at the Hyatt, John Cross appeared at John Marshall’s door, luggage in tow.

            “Come on in. ’Bout finished packing. Up all night. Slept late.”

            “I trust you’re…reconstituted.”

            “Tip-top, thank you.”

            “Shay slept in late too.”

            “She still packing?”

            “Naw. Buying souvenirs at the gift shop. We’ll meet her in the lobby.”

            “Okay.”

            When John Marshall wasn’t forthcoming with more and they had this time to themselves to compare notes, John Cross offered: “Shay was awfully sullen this morning. What the hell did you do to her last night?”

            “I don’t think I like your tone, John.”

            “I want to know what happened between you two.”  

            “I gave her plenty to think about.”

            “Spell it out, damn it!”

            “I fucked her. She loved it. I’m in like Flynn. Is that spelled out enough for you?”

            “Did you hurt her?”

            “Hurt her?  I did my job. If Shay’s upset, it’s because of your sorry ass.”

            “My sorry ass?”

            “It’s Paris. It’s Valentines. Love is in the air. Comme ci comme ça.”  He threw his hands up. “She expected an engagement ring; a marriage proposal from you; a passionate night in your arms. Instead she got me as a French momento. You figure it out.”

            “None of that was part of our plan.”

            “Would it kill you to think outside the box?”

            “I tried that once or twice—remember? All that got us was attrition.”

Bigger than the both of them

John Marshall would not let Shay be.

             They had merely sandblasted the surface of their craving for one another, as far as he was concerned. Their Paris sex-binge satisfied nothing. There still resided in their groins an intense, insidious ache. Sex with their significant others did nothing to appease or quell it.

            And after two weeks of holding onto their wits and willpower, they caved.

            He called her to the hot tub for his weekly hydrotherapy but upon seeing her, wrest her bikini bottom from her ass and in waist-high bubbling water, her spine fixed against the cerulean blue tiles, her thigh over his hip, he penetrated thusly and she took off, over-matching him in zeal and passion.

            “Woe there, cowgirl,” he groaned, steadying her hips, commanding the lead. “Or you’ll drown us.”

            “I’m in pain, John... please…”

            “It’s okay…it’s okay…I’m right there with you, baby.”

            “Help me!”

            “Shay!”

            Their bodies rocked in sync; then out of sync in a fit of rambunctiousness; their orgasm overtaking them. He ejaculated and they basked  profoundly in orgasmic wonder; uttering nothing, the water ebullient around them. Soothing. Calming.

            “Feel that, Shay. I’m still coming.”

            “Don’t you have a shut-off valve on that spawning spigot?”

            “I’m bonding with you, Shay—not trying to knock you up,” he said, gruffly, as he leaked residuum inside her. “That’s the last of it, I think.”

            “It’s not just about pregnancy that I’m concerned.”

            “Shay, give it a rest.”

            “We should both be ashamed of ourselves. I’m his woman. He’s your best friend.”

            “Ashamed? Why, Shay? Are you engaged?  Has my best friend asked you to marry him? He disappointed you in Paris because he was too cowardly or too thoughtless to put a ring on your finger. Agreed? Then don’t talk to me about shame, Shay. I have none.”

            “John and I…we’re committed to each other.”

            “Committed how? Because you’re the only woman in his bed? Yet here we are…again. Because our desire is bigger than your damn commitment...bigger than our puny consciences. Besides, it’s his own damn fault—you have a healthy sexual appetite and it’s obvious he’s lagging, for whatever reason. Admit it, Shay, I’m giving you what you’re missing in John Cross’ arms—orgasms.”

            “You’re using my sexuality against me. I don’t like it.”

            His cock finally gave her up and she slid off. The sex act itself might be condensed but his thickness hanging around inside her was wonderfully disturbing.

             John Marshall braced his hands against the tiles on either side of her face, effectively trapping her. “I think it’s the other way around. You knew when you wore that skimpy bikini that I’d get a flaming hard-on with nowhere to put it but inside you.”

            “You’ve already replaced Barbie with another blue-eyed blonde!” Shay accused.

            He laughed as though relieved. “I’ll be damned. You’re giving me attitude about another woman?”

            “You find that funny?”

            “Yes. Yes, I do actually.”

            “Are you sleeping with her?”

            “Her has a name—Kristen.”
            “Well! If she has a name she must be significant!”

            “And of course, I’m sleeping with her. What do you expect?”

            “Then—what is this? This thing we’re doing?”

            “Don’t you know?”

            “I know I don’t want to do this again.”

            “It’s the condom thing, right? I use condoms with my other partners. You’re protected.”

            “Against disease. But what about pregnancy?”

            “Does that worry you?”

            “It should worry you too. Who’s the father is not a situation I revere.”

            But having tasted the forbidden fruit, Shay doubted that she herself could let go of John Marshall that easily, other women notwithstanding.

            The following week working on a funding project shoulder to shoulder, which was equivalent to striking a match to hickory, they couldn’t help it but to succumb to their avaricious urges.

The French perfume John Marshall gave her for Christmas and that she now wore unhinged him.

            “Shit,” he exclaimed, pulling her back as she whisked passed him at quitting time, the heady essence assaulting his brain—because that’s where sex starts. She was thrilled when John Marshall caught her around the waist and folded her over his desk, her skirt hiking up to expose everything Mother Nature gifted her with.

            The woman was making him crazy. There she was—bare, open, beckoning, and deliciously pink.  He licked his lips. Hell, he wanted to lick her there, eat her. But instead, he unzipped and rubbed his aching erection against the pink spot.

            “You can stop me,” he gritted.

            “So how do I do that?” she breathed.

            “I was with Kristen last night, Shay. Does that help?”

            “I was with John Cross.” There! We’re even.

            “Were you satisfied?”

            She didn’t answer.

            He answered for her, “Neither was I.”          

            This is wrong. So wrong.

            “Go ahead say no. I dare you. And while we’re creaming like no tomorrow, ask yourself why you can’t.”

            As he said this, John Marshall was already pushing into her and she was already starting to dew around him. And…heaven help her—they flamed up like flash fire, over too soon.         He stayed put, fondling her breasts and fingering her core. She wiggled her hips for him to dismount. “John?”

            “Marsha?” he joked, channeling an old “Snowdrift” TV commercial, shifted her, and carried her to the sofa, deciding one orgasm wasn’t near enough for either of them.

            “John!”

            “Marsha!”

            Shay laughed. “Stop it!”

            “You wore this ‘fuck-me’ skirt to incite me.”

            “No. For accessibility, you fool.”

            “Then you know what I want.” He unbuttoned her blouse, pushed up her bra and sucked wantonly on her nipples until they mushroomed in his mouth signifying there was still fire down below to be doused. She sighed in ecstasy, holding his head to her breasts.

            “Yes, I know because I want the same thing!”

            “Baby, you’re like a psychotropic drug in my veins. I can’t get enough of you.”

            Her response was to undulate her pelvis feverishly against him; closing her eyes against the sheer euphoria of that small bit of rubbing. She clutched his penis and stuck it inside her, stuffing herself wholly. She couldn’t get enough of him either. “Can we stay like this forever?”         

            Forever. Well, at least until John Cross arrived home in a few hours.

            That office interlude sealed the deal in his mind. So what was going on in her mind?

            He was flung off guard at Shay’s attempt to play hard to get. No more pussy accessible short skirts worn in his office. She locked herself down in a corporate slack suit. No more outrageous flirting. No accidental brushes against his thigh. She eluded his touch and refused to mix work with play when he voiced his need to have her. Take it up with, Kristen, she advised him. And made good her escape at quitting time. This went on for weeks. John Marshall was at the end of his tether.

            He did take it up with Kristen.

            The strawberry blonde did her carnal best to soothe the raging fiend that was his lust.

            It just wasn’t working. She wasn’t Shay.

            What was up with Shay?

            What did she want?

            Women!

            The Johns put their heads together and came up with an idea. On those rare times Shay slept in her own bed—she was usually menstruating. John Cross’ bloodhound nose was sensitive to her smell. And so, she stayed away out of deference to him. But the other John had no such constraints.

            John Marshall swung open her door without knocking to find Shay in her sitting room, curled up in a chair, a floor lamp glowing down on the pages of a book in her lap.

            “I should have locked that door.”

            “I have a key.”

            He stood for a minute saying nothing else.

            She looked up at him dismissively and dropped her eyes back down to her book. He looked positively wonderful in his black Stetson.  “Going out? Don’t let me stop you.”

            “I was. I changed my mind. What are you reading?” he asked casually.

             Can’t he read her cold shoulder?

            “To Room 19 by Doris Lessing,” she replied.

            He advanced into the room, curious. “What’s it about?”

            “A woman pretends to take a lover after her husband reveals he’s having an affair. She is devastated. So she invents this lover and once a week, she rents the same room  No.19  in a second-rate hotel; her husband believes she is with her lover, which he approves. When her husband insists that the four meet, in the spirit of broadmindedness, for dinner thus socializing, she panics. She cannot produce a lover. So, broken-hearted by her husband’s betrayal to go outside the marriage for sex, and that he did not love her enough to remain faithful, she goes to room  No.19,  turns on the gas and kills herself.”

            “Depressing.”

            “Exactly. Just the thing to cheer me up on a wet and wintry afternoon! So, John—what were you planning to do on this dreary Saturday?”

            “You.”

            She curled tighter into her chair. “I’m afraid I must disappoint you. The well is dry. Nothing’s happening here. Don’t you have plans with your latest conquest, Kristen…Kirsten?”

            “I cancelled.”

            “Because you thought—why venture out in this pneumonia weather when there’s pussy in the East Wing a few strides away.”

            He took his hat off and slapped it on his thigh, startling her. “Yessiree! Had my hand on the knob ready to go out the door when I thought those very words, damn it!”

            “Tough tiddy!”

            He tossed his hat on her settee and threw his hands up in surrender.  “Okay, I give up, Shay. What have I done?”

            “It’s what you haven’t done.”

            “You’re treating me like the plague and I want to know why.”

            “Maybe I don’t like being treated like an indentured servant.”

            “When have I—”

            “I want my raise. You promised me a raise after six months’ probation. It’s a part of my contract. I won’t let you take advantage of me just because…because we’ve been intimate. If my work is not satisfactory then tell me.”

            He slapped his forehead.  “Why didn’t you remind me instead of making us suffer through this exile…ploy….whatever! Baby, it slipped my mind. The forms are on my desk somewhere. I’ll complete your evaluation and get the paper work to the board on Monday. Shay, you should know I’m perfectly pleased with your job performance and I’ll inform the board that.”

            “Don’t leave out the part where you’re perfectly pleased with my performance in bed.”

            “Can we stop this petty non-sense?”

            “Petty? Money may be petty to you because you have plenty of it. You have no financial worries…no obligations…”

            He looked confused. “Shay, if you’re in financial straits, I’d be more than willing to help.”

            “The straits…they’re not upon me yet. But I have to plan for the future. I just want what I’m due.”

            He nodded. “Now, that’s settled—can we be friends again.”

            “Were we ever friends, John?”

            John Marshall sighed. “You know what I mean—lovers. We have an implicit arrangement.”

            “Implicit arrangement? That’s a new one.”

            “You think you can screw me a few times and walk away? I’m not to be played with.”

            “John Cross is my lover; Kristen is yours. Go to her.”

            “I’d rather be with you now, this very minute.”

            “Too bad. I’m having my period.”

            “Perfect.” John Marshall was not thwarted, having been tipped off by John Cross. “There is a God.”

            “Yes, thank God I’m not pregnant. Not that you’d care one way or the other.” Not the way he profligate sperm inside her.

            He pulled her from the chair into the circle of his arms, the book falling to the floor, and kissed her.  A tongue and teeth butting kiss. Deep and wet. On and on. Until they gasped for breath.

            “I meant tonight is going to be a new experience for us.”

            “Are you deaf?  I’m on my period.” 

            “So what? Is that supposed to deter me, Shay Lyn DeBurgo? Well, it doesn’t. The very thought of being inside you while you’re like this messes with both my heads!”

            And now her head.

            “I’m sorry. It’s just not happening. Not today.”

            “Are you in pain? I know some women suffer cramps…”

            “I’m not cramping.” Though she should have pretended she was.

            “Shay, sweetheart, I want you in this presentment. Anything wrong with that?”

            “Lots,” she decried. “First off, it’s peculiar. Least of which it’s…untidy.”

            “Not peculiar at all. Untidy? I’m fascinated by your naiveté.”

            “You’re much too confident of yourself and of me. I should refuse you.”

            “You won’t. Here’s why: my cock mixed in your life’s blood doing things. You’re curious about that.”

            “Conversely, I think it’s an ideal time for me to show restraint.”

            His hand came up, caressed the lobe of her ear. “Hell no to that. What would it prove?”

She answered, her voice croaky, distracted by his touch: “That I can refuse you and maintain my self-respect.”

            He laughed at that. “Shay, I enjoy these exchanges. I do. But, honey, cut the bull. Your self-respect has no trade value to me. I thought I made that clear in Paris. I want to fuck you. I can give a rat’s ass about your self-respect. So get over yourself.”

            He caressed the other ear, and she wilted.
            “I’ll be keeping my granny gown on. It’s my security blanket.”

            “If it gets in my way, I’ll rip it apart,” he declared as he swept her up into his arms and carried her to her bed.

           

            Later, as they lay united as one, her nightgown in one piece, she divulged:  “I’m not sexy to John when I’m on my cycle.”

            “John Cross is a fool.  His loss is my gain. And you, my dear, do not know the power of your own body. But you will. When I’m finished with you.”

            “When you’re finished with me?”

            He kissed her nose. “Poorly expressed. Enlightened you, I should say. Shay, I’m not going anywhere.”

            After that, there was no way around it. She was his for the asking. Actually, he didn’t bother to ask: he just unzipped. Like Pavlov’s dog, Shay’s vagina would slaver, responding to the soft rasp of his zipper. For his viewing pleasure, her daily in-house attire was a costume of short skirts, low cut blouses, and G-string panties…if any at all.

            John Cross didn’t protest her attire when she worked with John Marshall. John Cross benefitted from it too. Quickies at lunchtime were better facilitated. Sometimes he wouldn’t get out the car: he texted her to join him outside in the driveway and like old times they would do it in the driver’s seat, a leisurely half hour or so, her straddling his lap, his hands beneath her skirt playing with her soft fatty tissue, as he rocked back and forth, in and out.

            He dismissed her concerns of being exposed in broad daylight, vulnerable to discovery.

            “John, someone might pop up …and catch us.” It was not unusual for members of the Foundation to arrive unexpectedly.  Or delivery vehicles to roll up to the mansion doors.

            “Honey, these windows are tinted darker than a hearse! If anybody can manage to peep thru the moon roof or the windshield, they’re welcome to enjoy the show.”      

            It wasn’t her imagination that John Cross was totally a hyper sex-beast in the car; once even breaking the latch beneath his seat. The risk of being spied upon, heighten his love jones. He was kinky like that.

            As for John Marshall, in the interest of time and opportunity, their sexual encounters were hasty, impromptu, gorge-filled, and not always discreet.

            It was surprising that John Cross never caught them.

            Discreet?

            They were downright reckless.

            One time he almost did, coming home early when he said he had to work late. In the Rec Room. John Marshall between her thighs as she sat aloft on the Funhouse arcade machine. The Rec room was adjacent to the garage and they heard the blare of his car alarm; but instead of pulling apart Shay hooked her ankles across John Marshall’s backside, drawing him in deeper.

            “Did you lock the door?”

            “Yes. But hurry,” she urged.

            “We’ve got ten minutes before he starts looking for us.”

            John Cross’ routine was to promptly shirk his business attire for relaxing sportswear.

            “Baby, we’ve done it in less,” he reminded her.

            Screw the afterglow—bring on the orgasm.

            Mission accomplished.

            Co-conspirators.

           

            The exercise pool was the venue of ten percent of their couplings; a huge risk. John Cross could have walked in on them at anytime. Also, more than once, when John Cross was fast asleep, his love making amounting to an incomplete play, Shay would slip away to John Marshall’s bed for a touchdown and a field goal, and sneak back, her absence undetected.

           

            “You again?” he’d tease, as she came into his bed.

          “Do you mind?”

          “Shay—what did I tell you in Paris?”

          “You don’t mind John’s sloppy seconds?”

          “Something like that. Just tell me what you need, sweetheart.”

          She took hold his penis and fed it into her vagina. "That's all I'm going to say..."

            Other times, John Cross fell asleep without reaching for her at all. And in a state of vexation, she’d seek out the always welcoming, studly arms of John Marshall.

            All in all, reckless behavior.

            But how can something so wrong feel so right? How many times had that question been asked of the Universe?

            Shay felt way in over her head, torn between guilt and insouciance. And insouciance was steadily gaining the upper hand as they became increasingly careless.

            “Do you think John suspects us?” she asked John Marshall six months into their veiled deception.

            “Have you done anything different in his bed?”

            “I don’t think I have.”

            “If you’re worried…we can always tell him before he catches us.”

            “Any other bright ideas?”

            He left his desk, stood behind her at the work table and eased her skirt over her naked derriere, the sound of metal-on-metal glide of his zipper and his halted breathing in her ear.

            “Here’s one: we keep fucking…”

             Words to live by.

           

            Then one day out of the blue, he said: “let’s take a break.” Shay was confused but he said nothing further in defense of this sudden request. Perhaps he was simply tired of her. It had been six months, after all, and he never lasted past three or four with his other paramours.

            Maybe he had found a new conquest and needed all his energies for that endeavor. John Marshall was an indemnified playboy. Why would he change for her?

            “How long of a break?”

            “I’ll let you know.”

            Two weeks passed before he touched her again. And when he did his approach was more aggressive than usual, causing her to wince. “Sorry.” He kissed her throat.

            “Tough meeting?”

            “The worst. I don’t want to talk about it. I just need this…”

            So, with only hitches in her breath, she let him be as vigorous as he wanted as he worked out his stress inside her body.

            “You’re the best,” he said gratefully, coming long, and lingering short.

            I was a substitute punching bag, she thought.

            “Compared to whom…this week?” She was sated but dissatisfied.

            “Shay, don’t start.” He pulled away, sat up on the sofa and buried his face in his hands. “I’ve had a tough afternoon. A tough week. A tough month!”

            “Don’t I know! I just got the brunt of it.”

            “What’s with the attitude?”

            “Do you really care?”

            “If you’re disenchanted…you do realize we can stop anytime.”

            “That sounded like a threat.”

            “Shay, I don’t need this.”

            “Have you lost interest in me, John?” she asked, standing, straightening her clothes. Oh, no: the part she hated, begging. She didn’t want to be that woman.

            John Marshall was already zipped and belted and back at his desk. “We just spent half an hour banging our brains out. What kind of question is that?”

            Shay tried to put John Marshall’s extracurricular carousing out of her mind and just concentrated on what she had with him. She wasn’t always successful.

            “A better question is: do you care for me? Or am I just a sex object?”

            “I could ask you the same question,” he countered.

            “You think I’m using you?”

            “Aren’t you? Since John can’t get his little johnny to work half the time.”

            “I admit, that’s part of it. But only a small part. I like you…very much.”

            “I think I need more from you than just liking me, Shay. I can get ‘like’ on a street corner all night long.”

            “And evidently you do!”

            “I need the other women. They’re my safety net.”

            “Well, that certainly went shish! over my head!”

            “You’ve got John; and you’ve got me at your beck and call. Shay, your trouble is you want to eat your cake and have it too. You figure it out.”

            “You want me to confess our affair to John?”

            “It’s better if it comes from you.”

            “What would this revelation accomplish? He’ll be hurt. And angry. He’ll throw me out.”

            “He can’t throw you out. He’s a lodger in my home.”

            “He’ll hate me. He’ll quit me. He’ll kill you.”

            “Stop the melodrama. Together we’re stronger than he. Don’t you know your boyfriend? He won’t buck us. The most he’ll do is mope for a while before he gives in.”

            “Gives in to what?”

            “Sharing you…with me…openly.”

            The board meeting must have really gone sour.

            “What do you think?” John Marshall-Bey consulted with John Cross during their Saturday morning jog. “I’ve planted the seed. It’s up to her now.”

            “I think your idea to make yourself scarce for a while might do the trick. Absence making the heart grow fonder and all that jazz. We’re into this thing six months or so; but I’m tired of the fraudulent game we’re playing. All this holding back is getting to me. While you’re away in Belgium, combined with my sexual inconsistency will give her a chance to put things into perspective. Or—we go full court press, issue an ultimatum, and risk her walking out on us.”

            Like the others, John Marshall thought, but didn’t voice it

***************************

MAY 2016

Debbie Does Dallas and other anomalies

            Six weeks later, upon his return from Belgium, Shay made an appearance in John Marshall’s office.         

            “John, I need to talk to you.”

            At last, she’d come to her senses, John thought, weary of punishing her. A man can take just so much before he becomes the victim of his own machinations.

            He leaned back in his leather upholstered chair that inclined pretty far back without being a recliner. He often reminisced fucking Shay in this chair while he was on the other side of the Atlantic.  He tossed down his pen and gave her his full attention as she looked quite serious.

            This woman wasn’t to be taken slightly.

            John Marshall hoped that his absence accomplished its goal and that she was here to beg to be in his arms again…and would do anything to make that happen. Then John Cross and he would have her just where they wanted her. Sharing their love and their beds, co-op style.

            She wore a sexy black/aqua Brazilian workout jumpsuit, which showed off her toned arms, small waistline, and curvy hips. Her breasts were half spilling from the bodice. A black headband caught back her bouffant of natural curls grown longer and highlighted with skeins of gold in his absence. Sexy. And what was with her new alluring make-up? Come hither?

            The scuttle in his pants confirmed it.

            She was pretty dolled-up to be headed downstairs to the gym. Was she going out looking like that?  He didn’t like it. That another man could come along and pluck her from the Johns had crossed their minds. That’s why they kept her close without actually imprisoning her.

            Or maybe, just maybe, she was trying to seduce him.

            It would take zero effort.  His mind was already high inside her vagina.

            “Sure, Shay. What do you need?” he asked as she dropped down in a chair opposite him.

            Shay thought: Lordy…Lordy, he looked down right tasty in those glasses. What did she need? To jump your bones, you handsome vampire.

            “Welcome back, by the way.” She came right to the point. “I missed my period. I’m always regular. I think I’m pregnant. You said we’d cross that bridge when we came to it.”

            He stared at her. Was she aware how incredibly vise-like her vagina was and still at the same time supple as cookie dough?

            Not only that—the least of all that—her vagina was lined with some sort of cilia that fluttered along his length like eyelashes and tickled his crown! Did she realize she held all the power between her legs? How long could he play hard to get when all he wanted to do was lie with her and come all day?

            She waited. But he merely leaned back further in his chair and laced his fingers.

            “Are you listening to me?”

            John Marshall removed the wire-framed glasses and laid them aside on the writing shelf.   “I heard what you said: you think we’ve crossed that bridge…and what you didn’t say—the baby could be mine. Right?”

            “And you obviously don’t agree!”

            “Shay!” John Marshall brought his chair upright.  God, how he missed her. Sex with other women just wasn’t doing it for him. Sex without love never would. And he loved Shay. “Calm down, sweetheart.  It’s okay.  I’d love it if I was the father! A baby in this home is a good thing no matter the paternity.  But I don’t want that to be the defining reason we reveal ourselves to John.”

            Shay nodded. “But I’m ready now. I’m ready to come clean with John. I should have done so at the beginning but I love him. I don’t want to hurt him.”

            “Neither do I. I love him too, you know, and if there is a baby…we’ll go to him, of course. But first, I want you to see an obstetrician. I’ll arrange it.”

            She stood. “Of course. I might be agonizing for nothing.”

            “Whatever the outcome, we’ll talk to John. That’s what I want.”

            “And suffer the consequences?”

            “You’re assuming there will be consequences. Don’t.”

            Before Shay could get out the door good, he was at her side.  He hauled her back and kissed her with a month's worth of frustration and pent-up cravings, releasing her mouth only when she was mollified and receptive to what he wanted. “John Cross advises me that he’s pulling an all-nighter at the dealership with inventory.”

            “Yes, he told me.”

            “I was thinking…it’s been over a month since we were together…with me away and traveling out of the country…I’ve neglected you—”

            “You dumped me,” she corrected him.

            “Did I?  I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I was under a lot of stress. Miss me?”

            There was a hollow, empty feeling inside her while he was away. Yes, she missed him. Not just her body but with all her soul.

            “I did,” she owned up. “John told me you were sick over there.”

            Lord, she hated herself for being so easy. She should be stronger; put a stop to it. But no. He snaps his fingers, and she opens her legs that much wider.

            “Just a little fever. I’m fine now.”

            She cleared her throat. “Were there…women in Belgium?”

            “There are always women, Shay. Everywhere. But they’re not you. Listen, Shay, damn it—I’ve never met a woman that another woman couldn’t help me forget—until you came into my life.”

            “Do you really mean that?”

            “Shay, you’re special to me. I can’t get you out of my mind. I need you. Is that what you want me to say?”

            “Only if it’s true,” she responded.

            He smiled at her guilelessness. “It’s true, every word. I’ve missed you so much, darling. Come to my suite later tonight so we can catch up…make love…and spend some quality time…we could kick back, watch a movie maybe…would you like that?”

            “A movie…hmm…a naughty one…” she teased, her heart soaring.

            “Porn? That’s not my thing—”

            “Right. That’s more John Cross,” she quickly retracted.

            “Shay, what I was saying…though it’s not my thing…it might be fun to try something different together.”

            She brightened. “I could raid John’s stash…maybe find something not too hard core.”

            “Do that.”  He brought her palm to his mouth, kissed it reverently, and let it glide from his hold as she left him.

           

            Shay was all skin in John Marshall’s California King, the first time he had enjoyed her totally naked. “You’re so delectable,” John Marshall said, brushing his hands over her body in appreciation—this way and that, head to toe, front to back, in and out.  He pressed her back against the mattress, parted her thighs to feast his eyes until she squirmed impatiently.

             “May I?” he asked, in awe of her.

              And in a hushed voice steeped with expectation, she said:

             “You never have before.”

             “Baby, it’s not because I haven’t wanted to. There never seemed to be enough time, snatching sex the way we were forced to.”

             John Marshall spread her open with his thumbs, gingerly, exposing all, found what he mouth was hungry for, bowed his head and drew readily on it.

            “Ohhhhh....Ohhhhhh,” Shay keened, digging her fingernails into the bed sheets instead of his back she really wanted to tear into. She suspended off the mattress, but he wouldn’t let go, worrying the tiny globule until Shay exploded in his mouth. Then he separated her folds with his tongue and licked each part of her until she screamed in absolute delirium. Memo to self—he would not neglect that part of her body again. From now on he would be like a wildebeest at a salt-lick.

            Gotta have it. Gotta give it.

            So sue him. He overindulged because that’s what you do when crème caramel pudding looks and tastes this divine.



            Apologizing for getting side-tracked, John Marshall slotted Debbie Does Dallas into the player. His TV was a 70-inch wall installment and the view was perfect from the bed.  He returned with a decadent proposal:

            “Want to play a game? Whatever Debbie does—we do.”

            Shay giggled, still high off his oral tribute. “What all does she do?”

            “Beats me. Doesn’t matter, baby, it’s me and you in this bed.”  He stroked her inner thigh. “I want this experience with you whatever it is. Please. Just this once. It’ll be fun.”

            Shay handed him the remote: “Start the movie.”

            Three hours passed in a blur of glut and excess, the pause button engaged often.   

            After that—after all that, they showered together, changed the sheets, and fell into an exhausted slumber.

           

            And that’s how John Cross discovered them.