Just One Night, Part 2_ Exposed(2)

As he strips down I find myself breathless. He’s the reason the Greeks decided that the human form was worthy of worship. His desire is on display and I reach for him but he doesn’t immediately oblige.

Instead he kneels before me, pulls down my soaked panties, opens me with his tongue.

I arch my back and cry out. I’m so tender now, so ready. More people have come to watch. Women and men. They touch me with their eyes as surely as Robert Dade touches me with his hands and mouth. His tongue continues to toy with me, moving slowly at first and then faster as his fingers plunge inside of me, making the experience complete.

This time it’s me who runs my hands through his hair, me who tugs as an overwhelming desire pounds through my body. My hips are raised; the orgasm is coming, I hear the whispers of the onlookers, hear the clicks of their cameras as I explode, unable to contain myself for even a moment longer.

And then Robert pulls away, smiles. . . . The lounge chair I’m on seems wider now, sturdier, too. He straddles me, lies on top of me, presses his cock against my core . . . but not entering, not yet.

He looks into my eyes as I silently plead and the audience holds their breath. They share my anticipation, share my need and, when, with a hard thrust, he pushes inside of me, I feel their approval as my entire body rocks with the force of him.

I move my hips with our rhythm. I run my nails down his soft skin, feel his hard muscles, feel him push himself farther and farther into my body.

He pulls my leg over his shoulder and drives in deeper still. His eyes never leave mine. I can feel his breath, smell his aftershave on my skin.

I can barely contain myself; the passion is too much but he holds me still, pinning my arms above my head as he sometimes does, forcing me to do nothing but receive this pleasure as the world watches.

Now every part of me is palpitating as he leads in this erotic dance.

“Robert,” I moan his name, the only word I’m capable of saying, the only word I can think of in this moment.

He smiles and speeds up the rhythm. It’s the final push I need. Again my back arches, my head thrashes from side to side, my breasts reach up, my nipples brush against his chest as I cry out again, and this time his voice joins mine as we climax together, there on the deck of the boat.

People are watching, but they can’t touch us. We’re too powerful to be bothered by their attention. We don’t even bother to acknowledge them as we try to catch our breath, holding each other, drenched in our sweat.

People are watching, and they see me, see the woman Robert sees, see the animal, the strength, and the vulnerability. But I don’t see them. Everything right now is the man who is on top of me, breathing deeply. He looks into my eyes and I know we are safe.

“I’m falling in love with you,” he says.

And I smile.

* * *

THAT’S THE REALITY I want to believe in, but as I lie in Dave’s bed, untouched but completely violated, I find that the fantasy doesn’t have enough substance for me to hold on to. It floats away into my subconscious, waiting for sleep to come where it can live again.

But I know sleep is a long way off. Dave is snoring by my side, seemingly at peace. Yet how is that possible? How can he be peaceful after the violence of our last encounter?

Because I didn’t choose to stay on the boat. I left Robert standing on the deck. I walked away as he called my name.

Dave had found out the truth. Robert doesn’t know this, but I left because I got Dave’s text. He was waiting in the parking lot for me, and he was ready to use the new information he had gleaned to humiliate me at work, with my family . . . he was threatening to make my nightmares come true.

I went to Dave to stop him, yes. But more than that I went to Dave because I owed him. I needed to make up for the hurt I had caused by choosing Robert.

Had I done that? Was he satisfied in his revenge? Maybe yes, maybe no. Dave would say there had been no revenge. He would say he was helping me.

Months ago, on some cable news channel, I heard a terrorist interviewed by a reporter. He had hostages, but he called them “guests.” On cue, the hostages nodded their heads and sung the praises of their captor. He was the perfect host, they said. They loved every moment of their forced imprisonment.

Had those words scraped at the captives’ throats?

I’m not a hostage in the Middle East. I know Dave has no plans to kill me. Physical torture is not in my future.

But I do understand what it feels like to have to praise the man who is intent on making you suffer. I know the humiliation and the impotence. I felt it when I talked to my parents earlier in the evening before they took a flight back home. With the phone pressed to my ear I thanked them for coming out to the “wonderful” surprise engagement party Dave had thrown me. I looked down at the red ruby engagement ring on my finger, a ring I once coveted, and told them I couldn’t wait for the day when I would become Mrs. David Beasley.