Eventually, I'm able to grasp thoughts. I'm breathing heavily. I'm panting. I'm gasping. I'm drenched in sweat.
I'm exhausted. And all because of Lance Anders … God, it might be painfully hard, but I need to control myself, to do what's right. I can't do this again, fantasize about him … Nothing good will ever come out of it. Even if he wasn't my stepson, I'm 35 while he's only 21.
Sighing, I huddle under the sheets, and only then do I realize I have a smile on my lips. Sure, this was wrong and I won't be doing it again … But it felt good. I needed this. Oh, I needed this badly.
No other man has ever affected me like that. Ever.
I need to find out more about him.
But how?
But he's already made my body shake too much for now. In another minute, I'm off into a dreamless sleep.
26
Jocelyn
I wake up and look at the clock. It's already 7:30 am. I yawn and get up, wondering what fresh source of sexual frustration today is going to bring.
Don't look at me like that. If you tell me you're sexually frustrated too, hun, I'm just going to roll my eyes. I swear.
Sure, maybe your husband or boyfriend isn't as active as he used to be. And if you're single or widowed now, I truly am sorry.
But I'm not. I'm married to a man. A very powerful man who should be exuding confidence and control due to his position as mayor of the greatest city in the world. But he doesn't touch me. Not once. Not ever.
My fingers can only do so much. A vibrator can only do so much. Do you remember that phrase we used to toss around when we were girls and used to be silly? I say we, as in collectively, this generation of women, by the way. What was that phrase – oh yeah. ‘Dildos are great, and vibrators are fun … but nothing can beat the almighty tongue'.
Remember that one? I think when I was in college my friend was the one who quoted that to me-Joyce Walker-and I used to live by it. Why use something battery operated or made of plastic when you could get guys to get you to paradise?
At least until I got married. That's when Michael came into my life and completely erased any notion that my husband would be my sexual partner in life.
Maybe I could have walked that road by myself, but one of the first things Michael ever did after I moved in was to take my drawer of dildos, vibrators, and bullets, and throw them out.
"They have no place in this house, Jocelyn," he told me harshly. "If the staff ever discover them or word gets out that my wife is using toys to pleasure herself, then the scandal could be disastrous."
"Then why don't you pleasure me?" I remember asking him, taking a step closer. I used the cute pouty face that had worked wonders for me in the past-everything from getting me out of having to watch football with a boyfriend, to an A+ from a professor in Comparative Literature in college.
"Because, quite frankly, I have more interesting things to do with my life," Michael said as I stopped and realized my come hither look wasn't working. "You'll just have to go take a cold shower. I'm late for a meeting anyways."
That's been my life for the last six months. Sexual drought.
I've gotten very good at running and exercising-although it gets me horny at times looking at other people's bodies. I've tried to take up sewing. I've done a lot more cooking. Hell, there are some afternoons I just self-medicate and drink a bottle of wine by myself, trying to forget.
Everything seems to make me hornier.
So, anyways, that's what I mean when I say I wonder what frustration is going to happen to me today. Because as bad as it was before, it's honestly only gotten worse.
Since he moved in.
Who? Come on, babe.
Who do you think.
Mr. Apollo himself. Lance Anders, with the body of a god and the face of an angel. An angel of lust that is.
I put on my robe over my teddy and head down the stairs. Michael has already left for work and against my better judgment I'm curious to see what Lance is up to.
He's not on the first floor when I get downstairs, and that's when I hear a thud.
He's in the gym.
I know I shouldn't go down there. The gym and pool are in the basement of the townhouse-it's a New York thing for people who don't have backyards-and Lance working out is guaranteed to get my hormones raging.
But maybe, that'll be a good thing. Maybe I can use that to go for a run, or something.
At least, that's what I tell myself as I race up the stairs, wash my face, put on a pair of yoga pants and a sports bra and put my hair back in a ponytail.
I pause to put some color on my face before heading downstairs.
What? I'm just looking a bit presentable. If I'm going out for a run through Central Park, I might as well look the part too.
Besides, if Lance notices, maybe he'll … .
He'll what? Take you in his arms? Take his new stepmom and wrap his arms around her? Fuck her? Please. I'm behaving like a silly girl.
Nevertheless, the butterflies in my stomach are in full force as I head to the lower level.
The basement at the townhouse doesn't look much like any other basement-it's well lit and looks like the hallway of a hotel. I hear music playing from the gym and I walk to it and open the door.
There he is. He's on a bench, shirtless, lying on a towel. He's got a pair of basketball shorts on and some sneakers, but that's all the clothes he's wearing. I watch as he lifts a barbell loaded with weights and benches it. I watch as his muscles strain, his pecs flex and his abs contract.
Those are 8-pack abs. I've never seen any before, but that's the very model of muscle definition. He's got a perfect V-cut going down his abs. The look of intense concentration on his face is amazing; he doesn't even realize I'm standing there until he finishes his set and gets up for some water.
He gives a start as he sees me, standing there, staring at him.
"Jocelyn … " Lance says, as he looks at me. I can tell his eyes are travelling my body, just as mine are travelling his.
I'm shameless in how I devour his body. I look at his nipples and wonder what it would be like to run my tongue under them. I'm sure he's looking at my tight fitting yoga pants but I can't be sure he's thinking what I want him to think.
I might just be an old lady to him. Someone past the age of consideration. He was caught fucking the President's daughter, of all people. Lance must be used to 21 year olds-he's probably got an age limit on the girls he sleeps with.
"Can I help you?" he asks me, and I realize I've been staring. Too long.
So long it's starting to look improper.
I need to say something.
"I'm going for a run, just wanted to see what you were doing," I manage.
"You're running on the treadmill in here?" he asks me, nonchalantly, taking a step closer.
No, I can't be anywhere near him. I need to leave now.
"I'll be running in the Park, around the Reservoir," I tell him, backing away. He takes another step and all of a sudden I know that if I stay I won't be able to control myself.
I head as quickly as I can to the exit located on the other side of the gym that leads up to 88th Street.
"Jocelyn," Lance says again, but I don't stop, my legs pump me up the stairs and before I know it, I'm in fresh air. I start jogging at a slow pace west, toward the Park.
That was really stupid of me, the way I acted back there. Don't worry, hun, you can say it.
I'm 15 years older than Lance and I'm acting like a teenager. Worse than a teenager. Like a lovesick little girl with a crush.
Except I'm not a little girl. I'm a 35-year-old grown woman who's acting like a fool in front of her stepson.
You can't see me, but I'm mentally kicking myself as I enter the park and start running around the jogging path around the Reservoir.
I need to stop ogling Lance around the house. I need to stop lusting after his strong back muscles when he walks around shirtless.
I need to focus. My life isn't that pretty right now. And that's probably why I'm transferring this lust onto him. I'm being blackmailed into staying in a marriage to a man who obviously doesn't love me. But I can't do anything or else my father's legacy crumbles.
I need to stop thinking about Lance and start worrying about what I'm going to do. Maybe this run will clear my head. Maybe it'll-
I don't know what happens but all of a sudden I'm falling and hitting the ground. Before I can even register what's going on I'm being picked up by a pair of strong hands.
"Shut up, or your dead, bitch," a gruff voice tells me.
Now, as the Mayor's wife, I'm entitled to NYPD security when I go out. But more out of practicality I've never used the protection service. I'm a born and raised New Yorker, I can handle anything.
I open my mouth and raise my hands, and get ready to scream.
Without realizing what happens the side of my face all of a sudden starts to sting and I realize I've been slapped.
"No screaming, or you're dead!" the voice tells me with urgency. "You're too pretty to kill before I get a chance to fuck you!"
I look around me, desperately trying to figure out what's happening.
A man in a black hoodie, with his face covered is holding onto me. His skin is dark, but I can't tell what nationality. He's got loose sweatpants on and I can smell liquor on his breath.