I park my Camry in the visitor parking lot in front of the museum instead of the employee parking in the basement. I don't like the idea of my car sitting in the sun all day but I need to talk to Marjorie. I've been expecting her to make contact all week and she hasn't. I remove the headrest from the passenger seat and head inside.
I expect Marjorie to contact me within the hour. I'm going out with Aaron this evening and I don't want the agency all over my business. Marjorie doesn't call until 10.30 am.
"Ms. Heaton, this is Mary Jane Shelby from Dr. White's office. I'm calling to remind you of your cleaning appointment today at two pm. Is the time OK or would you like to reschedule?" It's Marjorie's voice.
"Could I come in at four? My boss has refused me permission to leave work early."
"Sure. No problem Ms. Heaton. I'll see if I can bump another patient and put you in at four."
"Ok", I reply as Marjorie hangs up. She calls back a few minutes later.
"Ms. Heaton, I can pencil you in at 4.30. Is that acceptable?"
"Yes. Thank you, Mary Jane."
"You're welcome, Ms. Heaton. You still have our address I believe?"
"I'm sure I have it somewhere." I don't.
"It's 9237 Sam Houston Parkway. We're located next to the Walmart Supercentre."
"Alright. See you at 4.30 Mary Jane. Have a good day."
"You too Ms. Heaton."
Dr. Dennis White's clinic is located in a converted warehouse next to a Walmart just as Marjorie said. He shares the building with a yoga studio, juice parlor, a chiropractor, and a law firm. Every single one of them has garish signs announcing their business.
White's sign is the largest. "White smiles by Dr. White," it announces in bold white lettering.
The waiting area is empty but Marjorie is at the reception desk. Her hair is dyed an unnaturally light shade of blonde. It's almost white. Her makeup is artfully done and she looks three decades younger. All the wrinkles are gone and her face is softened by a permanent half-smile. It takes me quite a while to confirm that it's indeed her. With her white nurse's uniform, she looks almost innocent and otherworldly.
"Welcome Ms. Heaton," she calls to me as she comes out from behind her desk to turn the sign on the door from "open" to "closed" and then locks the door.
I give her a puzzled look. "You're the last patient of the day," Marjorie explains. "This way," she gestures and leads me down a hallway to an examination room.
The clinic is very quiet despite the noise of the freeway outside and the Walmart parking lot next to it. Some top-notch soundproofing. Marjorie leads me to an empty examination room, bids me sit, and then locks the door.
"Where's Dr. White?" I try making conversation.
Marjorie gives an angry look and answers dismissively, "He's with another patient." She pulls out a bug sweeper from her handbag and carefully passes it over the walls, ceiling, furniture, and even the medical waste disposal bin in the corner. She does this twice and while it only takes a couple of minutes, it feels like an eternity.
She turns to me when she's done. "What did you want to talk about?"
I have no idea how to start and I mentally beat myself up for not rehearsing on the drive over. I just blurt it out, "I don't want to document my relationship with Aaron. Not for the agency."
She just raises her brows and looks at me, wordless. I stumble on, "My assignment at Strauss is complete. He's no longer a person of interest to the agency. I'd like to have some privacy and I need permission to cut our encounters out of my report."
"Ok," Marjorie acquiesces. I'm surprised. I expected a stronger reaction. "Pursue your affair and keep it to yourself. The agency only expects the broad strokes."
Broad strokes? "What broad strokes?".
"The status of your relationship. If you're getting along, getting married, breaking up, getting knocked up, revealing your real job, and stuff like that."
Getting married. Getting married to Aaron. The thought is a beautiful one. "So I can tell Aaron I work for the CIA?"
"Of course not," Marjorie's response is a stunning rebuke. "You can only reveal that kind of information to a spouse, Elizabeth. Not any random bastard you wanna spread your legs for. And even then, you can't discuss the details of your assignments."
"That was uncalled for," I protest hotly. "My own mother doesn't know I work for the agency. Why would you assume I'd just blurt it out to anyone?"
"People in love do stupid things," she counters.
"Who said I'm in love?" I try to sound affronted but vocalizing the question brings thoughts I have been suppressing to the surface. I have never allowed myself to think about it and yet it was always there, bubbling under the surface.
Of course, I love Aaron. I have loved him since the day I first set eyes on him, my smelly fart befouling the air between us. I had suppressed my feelings because I thought I would never have him but the past week has changed everything.
I can still feel his lips on my forehead seven days later. I know it's just a hallucination but the sensation is so real I can smell him. There are times I've held out my arms to hug him and only encountered air, realizing I was hallucinating again.
Marjorie doesn't bother to answer my rhetorical question. She just scoffs. I give her a questioning look.
She finally speaks, "I told you that lovey-dovey nonsense isn't for the likes of you and me. Sunshine and rainbows are for civilians. The best a spy can hope for is a good one-night-stand. I would strongly advise against any long-term relationships but this isn't the KGB. I can't forbid you from seeing your little boyfriend or kill him off. As much as I would like to."
"Thank you," I hit back sarcastically.
"Don't be so salty Elizabeth," she replies. "A good heartbreak never killed anyone. If anything, it's great for character development. Toughness is forged out of pain."
Shut the fuck up. "You're a philosopher now?"
"No. Just an old girl sharing some wisdom that you're going to ignore anyway."
"You aren't wrong about that," I look her squarely in the eye as I say that.
She looks at the clock. It's ten minutes to five. "You need to run along now. Dennis should be just about finished with his root canal."
I do some shopping in the Walmart next door before driving home. I'm pensive all the way. Marjorie has promised me only pain and heartbreak. I kinda see her point. The life of a spy doesn't gel particularly well with the future I have in mind for myself. Why didn't I think of that before joining the agency? You were angry at Ralph. All you could think of was killing him.
.
I could always leave the agency but I signed on for five years. I have 18 months left on my contract and I resolve not to renew it when it runs out. I push all concerns to the back of my mind. I'll deal with them later. I'll just live in the moment for now. I turn up the radio.
I get home at six. Aaron is picking up at seven so I run straight to the shower. I wrestle with whether or not to put out tonight while shaving. My body wants him but my mind says string him along. Build anticipation until it reaches its zenith.
But I don't wanna play games with Aaron. Besides, I'm not sure I can even keep it up. I seem to lose all my self-control around him. His scent is an intoxicating drug, his voice a calming ballad, his embrace the sweetest thing in the world. I just want to curl up around him and forget everything else.
The doorbell rings at 6.50. It has to be Aaron. He's 10 minutes early. I've showered and done my makeup but haven't yet picked out anything to wear. I remember learning that arriving early was a form of mindfuck because it makes the people arriving on time think they're late, shifting the power dynamics in your favor. If that is what Aaron was going for, he has accomplished it beautifully because now I'm feeling tardy.
Not wanting him to think I'm running late, I hurriedly put on a sleeveless knee-length black dress and head downstairs to open the door for him. I'm halfway down the steps when I notice it's the same dress I wore to grandpa's funeral. I haven't worn it ever since.
I open the door and Aaron is standing there, flowers in hand. As usual, he's dressed in his uniform. Black suit, white shirt, no tie. Dressing is so easy for him. "Ready?" he asks as he hands me the flowers, purple tulips. How did he know?
"I still need to put on my shoes. Come in," I gesture. "And I'm also not sure about this dress."
"It's beautiful. You look spectacular in it. Twinnies," he says standing next to me as he holds out his jacket against the dress. It's the same exact shade of black and the same fabric. I don't know why but I just put the flowers on the coffee table and throw my arms around him. I inhale deeply, filling my lungs with his scent. He gently caresses my back. I want to tell him how much I've missed him but I don't want to seem too needy.
We just stand there, holding each other, perfectly happy. His chin rests on my head and I bury it in his chest. He runs a hand through my hair, then my back, then my hair again. I just hold him tighter and tighter. Our hearts start beating in sync. I could die now.
I must have dozed off against his chest because the next thing I remember is him gently shaking me by the shoulders, "Elizabeth. Elizabeth."
"Mmmh," I murmur with my eyes half-closed.
"I think you dozed off," he says. He looks amused.
"Oh," I finally open my eyes and jerk my head back. "I'm sorry. Long day at work," I lie. Work wasn't any more stressful than usual but I'm not going to admit that being held by him was so calming that I fell asleep on my feet.
"I need to change out this dress," I mumble as I head away.
"The dress is ok. Why do you want to change it?" Aaron asks.
"I wore it to my grandfather's funeral."
"You definitely have to change it," Aaron says emphatically. "Funeral dresses and dates are not a romantic mix. I don't want to be haunted."
"You're scared of ghosts?" I ask playfully.
"Not particularly," he says. "There is no scientific evidence that they exist. But there is also no scientific evidence that they don't exist. Either way, I would rather not find out tonight."
I just smile at this. But then I trip on the first step and almost fall because I was looking at Aaron instead of where I'm going. He catches me before I can hit the ground.
"We don't have to go out if you're so tired. We can stay here. I'll cook," he offers.
"You can cook?" I'm incredulous.
"Of course. My mother was very insistent on her kids learning basic life skills. I'm not particularly talented in the kitchen but my meals have been described as edible."
This makes me look at him funny. He raises his hands in mock surrender, "My pancakes are ok."
"Pancakes for dinner?" I ask.
"Why not?" Aaron counters, seemingly prepared to debate the issue. I don't think I can win that debate so I wimp out with, "I just don't like the idea."
"Ok. If you have mozzarella I can make pizza. It's hard to screw that up," he offers.
I already played the exhaustion card and it's too late to back out. And I also like the idea of a quiet night at home with Aaron cooking for me. "Sure. I have some cheese in the fridge."
"Ok. Go get changed, I'll make us dinner." I head up the stairs as he makes for my kitchen.
I struggle with what to wear. Normally, I'd put on sweatpants or just walk around in panties and an oversized t-shirt but I don't want to look too sloppy or too sexy too soon. I want something informal and modest enough to wear around the house yet sexy enough to get his blood pumping.
I settle on a yellow floral sundress. The neck is cut low enough to give a preview of my breasts but not too much, just a hint of cleavage. It ends a few inches above my knees and rides up my thighs when I sit down. I put on panties but decide to go braless. I'm home after all.
I find Aaron's jacket on the couch. He's in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, kneading dough on the counter. I can see the oven light is on. He's preheating it. I'm drawn to his forearms. Thick and muscular with a string of visible veins and a light dusting of flour. I swallow. I've never seen them before. He always wears long sleeves. He almost catches me ogling.
"Can I help?" I ask as I notice his head starting to turn. He's aware of my presence.
He smiles as he runs his eyes up and down my body. I feel like he's undressing me with those eyes. "Sure. Grate the cheese." he turns back to kneading.
I stand as close to him as possibly can while grating cheese, casting surreptitious glances at his forearms. Watching the muscles rhythmically tense and relax is oddly erotic.
He finishes kneading the dough and spreads it out with a rolling pin. He greases a baking tray and places the dough on it. Then he starts squirting ketchup on it. That doesn't seem right. "Should you be using ketchup?"
"Not really," he answers. "But you don't have any tomatoes or pizza sauce. Ketchup will do just fine for now."
He sprinkles some salt on the ketchup and then asks me to spread cheese on the pizza. He takes a pack of sausages out of the fridge and starts slicing them into thin pieces, spreading them on the pie, pops it in the oven, and sets the timer. "Dinner will be ready in 17 minutes my lady," he says cheerfully with a mock bow.
I join him by the sink where we wash our hands together. Up close, I can see the tiny hairs on his forearms. Once we're done, I pat his hands dry with a towel. I love the way he holds them out. I don't have any furniture in the kitchen so we walk back to the living room.
He attempts to roll down his sleeves but I instinctively grab his forearms to prevent that from happening. I don't want him to cover them up. Aaron looks puzzled while I'm experiencing feelings that I don't quite know how to express. We lock eyes and just gaze at each other in silence.
Seizing the initiative, I stand on the tips of my toes and peck him square on the lips. This gets him moving. His hands close around my waist and he returns the kiss. His lips are urgent, insistent. I wrap my arms around the back of his neck and kiss him back with similar ferocity. My lips are gonna be bruised from this.
The world fades away as we kiss under the light bulb. He tries to pull away when he gets a hard-on but I pull him right back and slip him some tongue. He tastes of mint and fruit and passion. My arms are a vise around his neck. You're mine. You aren't going anywhere, I whisper internally.
I enjoy the sensation of his manhood throbbing against my stomach as we tongue wrestle. It's oddly flattering and reassuring. It emboldens me. I press my belly against it and I deepen the kiss.
His hands wander from my head to my back, ribs, waist, and then back to the head. I wish he would grab a boob and squeeze my ass but he never does, always stopping and lingering at the edges before going back to the safer parts. He's uncertain of boundaries and doesn't want to overstep so I give him a helping hand. I take one of his hands and place it squarely on my butt. I place the other over my left breast.
He gets the message, kissing, caressing, fondling, and squeezing expertly as he alternates between all my bits. I feel a deep sense of warmth and bliss. Our hearts beat in unison and we synchronize our breathing. I inhale as he exhales. Through all this, our lips never break contact. I've never had a kiss this sweet, deep, this satisfying.
The warmth and bliss intensify, building up to a crescendo. I can hear my own heartbeat and start feeling the blood flowing through my veins. It all culminates with a tiny explosion of white light inside my head.
A nice pleasure bomb that washes all my worries away. It feels like bathing in warm molten milk chocolate that you can taste and swim in at the same time. I'm drifting in the cloud. My knees buckle and my legs tremble. I try to unknot my arms from around Aaron's neck so I can support myself but they don't respond. I've lost control. A series of muscle tremors ripple through my body. From neck to toe. I let out a moan.
Aaron grabs me by the ass to prevent me from falling. He carries me to the couch. "Are you ok?" he asks. I'm unable to answer as a residual round of low-intensity tremors tears through me. I just give him a blank stare and try to communicate all the love I feel for him right now with my eyes.
It takes a long moment before I regain enough control of my body to move. There are still a few phantom spasms on my legs but I power through them and clamber onto his lap, nestling my head against his neck. I kiss him gently and mumble, "I think I just had an orgasm."
A half-smile flashes across his face but disappears as quickly as it had come. He doesn't say anything. He just kisses me on the forehead and pulls me closer. We sit there in comfortable silence, arms wrapped around each other, perfectly happy.
No words are said but we understand each other. I feel the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest while marinating in his glorious scent. He caresses my arm and back. I love him so much. I wish I could tell him. But I want him to say it first.
The oven timer dings and returns us to the present. We exchange a look. Aaron slaps my ass lightly. Twice. "Go get dinner," he says in that dreamy FM baritone of his. It's not a request. I don't want our current closeness to stop. I just want to curl around him and stay there for eternity. But I'm a little hungry and Aaron slaps my behind more insistently this time so I go.
It feels weird walking while knowing he's watching every step I take but I try not to think too much about it. I've had an orgasm in the man's arms. Surely I can handle a few steps. I turn off the oven, put on some mittens, and pull the pizza out. It smells heavenly and looks quite appetizing. I put it on my largest plate but it doesn't quite fit so I decide to serve it on a chopping board instead.
I slice the pizza with a knife for the lack of a pizza wheel. It takes a lot more effort than I would have thought. The eventual slices aren't even but what the hell. It looks good enough. I retrieve my best bottle of wine, a sweet red with oaky undertones. I serve the wine first. Aaron asks for water.
He winces at his first sip. He really doesn't like the taste of wine. I give him a questioning look. "What's the deal with you and wine?"
"I didn't taste a drop of alcohol until I went to college. I didn't like the taste."
"How's that possible? You never snuck a sip of your dad's beer or your mom's wine?"
"My parents didn't drink."
"What about parties? You never went to those as a teen?"
"I was sent to boarding school at 14 so I was home maybe four months a year. I attended a few parties when home but never succumbed to the temptation. I had seen Brandon get busted too many times while trying to pull a fast one on mom. Getting grounded for an entire summer just wasn't worth it for what I had heard was a mediocre experience anyway."
"You never even tried a sip at those parties? You surely couldn't get busted for that."
"No," He shakes his head. "I had spent my entire life getting it drummed into my head that alcohol was poison. That kind of programming is hard to override. And I had an alcoholic uncle. All I had to do was look at him or conjure up a mental image of Uncle Jimmy on one of his many benders and the desire to drink would be replaced by a deep revulsion of the stuff."
"Do you still do that now?"
"Do what?"
"Conjure up mental images of your alcoholic uncle?"
"The images have faded. I can barely remember what he looked like. He died of cirrhosis when I was 16."
"So you don't feel revulsion at the thought of drinking anymore?"
"There is some residual revulsion but I rarely drink anyway so it's not a problem."
I curl up next to him as he dilutes his wine. It's a travesty but I guess you've got to allow a man some shortcomings.
The pizza is still quite hot. I take too big a bite and have to blow as I chew which brings a smile to his face. I feign anger at him for mocking me. He consoles me by stroking my neck and cheeks which softens me up.
The pizza is quite good. It's not the best in the world but it's definitely better than the crap from Bruno's down the street. It's sweet, savory, meaty, and scalds my tongue though the last bit is entirely my fault.
"You do make a mean pizza," I compliment him.
He just smiles, puts an arm around me, and kisses my forehead. Is this what love is? I turn on the TV. "Netflix and chill?" I ask him.
"Sure," he nods.
"That one," Aaron points as I scroll through the offerings.
"The Hitman's Bodyguard?" I ask.
"Yes. I want to watch Samuel L. Jackson punctuate his sentences with curse words for 90 minutes."
"Don't you think it's a little..."
"A little what?" he hits back, combative.
I refuse the bait. "There's a better movie. It's received a lot of great reviews. Even got nominated for an Oscar. It's set during the Great Depression. I just can't seem to remember the title."
"The title doesn't matter," Aaron replies. "I make a conscious effort to avoid watching anything that comes highly recommended by movie critics."
"Why?"
"Because screw those snobs. That's why."
"So you just hate movie critics?"
"No. It's the movie critics who hate me. I like my entertainment served with a nice little dose of escapism. I'm a simple man. I like fights, tits, and explosions. A few jokes don't hurt. Those are exactly the kind of movies critics hate."
"That isn't exactly fair..."
"It's very fair. Everything critics like nowadays turns out to be a snoozefest that leaves me depressed. When was the last time a fun movie got critical acclaim? 10, 20 years ago?
Critics act like fun movies are trash and only the sad Oscar-bait flicks are worth watching. Screw that. As far as they're concerned, if a film isn't a tearjerker, then it isn't "important".
There used to be a time when the movies people liked and those that critics loved were the same. But now everything is flipped. Do you remember those annoying kids in middle school and high school who thought they were better than everyone else just because they hated all the popular things?"
"Yea," I nod enthusiastically, thinking of Elaine Newman. Where is she now?
"It seems they all grew up to become movie critics. The most annoying kid in my 10th-grade class certainly did. Reginald Arnold Dufresne III. The most pretentious little shit this side of the Atlantic.
He makes movies nobody wants to watch and makes a living criticizing the ones people are actually watching. Why on earth would I care about his opinion on anything?"
"So you just don't like sad movies?" I ask him.
"That depends on my mood. Do you know what I did today?"
"No."
"I bought a steel mill in Indiana and fired 200 people. My purchase saved half the jobs and if the recovery plan I put in place works as planned, the mill might hire 500 people over the next year and a half. But do you think that makes the people who lost their jobs today hate me any less?"
"No."
"Of course not. After such a day, I want to unwind with something fun, not a depressing tearjerker about The Great Depression."
"Hitman's Bodyguard it is," I concede.
Aaron's right. The movie is a banger. An unapologetic dude flick that doesn't pretend to be anything else. The emotional scenes are included almost as an afterthought. The romantic subplot is sweet despite being as over the top as the rest of the film. The fight scenes are ridiculous but I suppose that's the point.
We laugh along with every gag, exchanging little kisses and flirtatious glances.
By the time credits roll, we're spooning on the couch, his erection pressing insistently against my tailbone. Inner me does a little dance. I turn to face him. He looks so yummy. We start making out passionately but the couch is too narrow and I fall off. He holds out a hand to shield my head but my rump still hits the carpet pretty hard. I let out a yelp.
"Are you hurt?" Aaron asks, his face the very picture of concern.
"No. It's just a little unpleasant."
He helps me up and sets me back on the couch where he puts one arm around me and consoles me. We're there for a while before he suggests leaving. "It's almost eleven. I think I should get going."
That doesn't sit well with me. I don't want him to go. Without any forethought, I grab him by both arms and just blurt out, "Don't go. Please. I want you to stay."
"You're sure?" he asks, his eyes narrowing.
I just nod and embrace him which is weird to do while sitting down next to each other but I want to feel his warmth one last time just in case he decides to leave.
"Will you stay?" I ask cupping his cheeks.
"Ok," he nods in agreement.
I take him by the hand and lead him to my bedroom. He picks his jacket off the couch for some reason. I don't pry. It's only a single flight of stairs but that walk feels like the longest of my life. My heart rate is elevated and my senses are hyper-aware of everything. I want him and I want him badly. The anticipation is making me nervous and I can feel my palm start to moisten. I can't do anything about it because he's holding it so I will myself to calm down.
We start with some heavy tongue action and indiscriminate groping at the foot of the bed. He kisses me and thoroughly fondles my boobs and butt through the dress. By the time he pulls the dress over my head in one smooth motion, my panties are soaked.
I fumble with the buttons of his shirt for a while before just trying to rip it open but that doesn't work. Either I'm too weak or the buttons are too strong. Aaron gives me a helping hand and we have his shirt off in no time. There's a circular scar above his hip. It looks like a bullet wound. I should ask him about that. Later.
His pants prove more cooperative than his shirt. I undo his belt and the single button on his pants before unzipping them and pulling them down. He steps out of them for my benefit but my attention is focused on the tent his love rod has made of his boxer shorts.
I yank them down to free the little monster and get to see him in all his glory. Long and stiff with pulsating angry veins, his schlong curves upwards like a bow instead of pointing straight ahead like Ralph's. The tip is glistening with moisture. Precum. Some part of me wants to lick it clean but I restrain myself.
I stand up to kiss him again, his rock-hard member throbbing reassuringly in my hand. He pushes me onto the bed, lays me flat on my back, and pins my hands above my head with his left hand while his lips ravage mine and his right hand takes a trip up and down my body. It stops in my inner thighs and will him to take my panties off and take me but he just caresses me there, driving me wild with desire.
Fuck me! Rip those things off and fuck me! I yell internally but the torture is so sweet I moan into his mouth instead. I'm on the verge of begging him to take me when he breaks away and plants a string of kisses up and down my body. He kisses me everywhere, from my forehead to the bottoms of my feet but infuriatingly skips my crotch. There is a deep itch inside me, an itch I want him to scratch.
After what feels like an eternity of torture, he finally takes off my thoroughly soaked undies. I'm so horny I can feel my labia pulsating, inviting him in. Our eyes meet. He holds my gaze and then slowly, deliberately pushes two fingers through the slit and up my cooch.
I close my eyes to better absorb the new incoming sensations. His fingers don't move. I meet his steely gaze when I reopen my eyes. Maintaining eye contact again, he rests his thumb on my clitoris with exaggerated delicacy.
He's doing this on purpose. The bastard. I want to yell and tell him to get on with it but this slow torture is oh-so-sweet. I just hold his gaze with my eyes and make a mute appeal. I don't trust myself to speak.
He starts moving, gently massaging my clit with his thumb while the fingers inside me remain immobile. Waves of pleasure radiate from my clit to the rest of my body and I moan shamelessly.
I'm overwhelmed with sensations and emotions I can't explain. Why don't I feel this way when I flick the bean? Aaron picks up the pace, mashing and grinding my bean at a faster rate. The fingers inside me start to move but only a little. He synchronizes their motion with that of his thumb, overwhelming me with mounting sensations.
It doesn't take long before I'm undone. I let out a loud moan as my second orgasm of the night tears through me. My clitoris becomes too sensitive to touch and I have to push Aaron's hand away.
He bends down to kiss me as I get down from the high of my climax. He shows me his fingers, sleek and shiny in their coating of vaginal secretions. He shoves them in my mouth and I taste myself. Salty. The good kind. I lick his fingers clean and smile at him.
He retrieves a condom from his jacket pocket, tears the pack open, and starts rolling it down his shaft. So that is what the jacket was all about. Did you even think of a condom? I reprimand myself for that particular oversight.
So blinded by my horniness I never stopped to consider safe sex. Would I have let him do it without a rubber? I wonder. I let Ralph. But I was on birth control back then. And we dated from my sophomore year of high school. The first time we did it raw I was in my freshman year of college. Would I have let Aaron? I wonder as I watch him roll up the condom.
"Were you just carrying that around?" I try to sound stern but fail spectacularly.
He shrugs, "I hoped I would get lucky and prepared accordingly."
That makes me smile in self-congratulation. I beckon to him. He crawls to me on all fours and hovers over me, head directly above mine, legs on either side of my torso. He leans down and kisses me then parts my legs with his knee. I open them as wide as I possibly can. His curved rod slides over my slit and tickles my clit as he tries to insert it into me so I take it in my hand and guide it in.
There's a slight pain on entry but it disappears quickly. He pauses halfway through and I feel a sense of unparalleled fullness which is only intensified when I absorb the rest of his member. I think he hits my cervix. For a long moment, he doesn't move, he just allows me to grow accustomed to his presence inside my body.
Then he starts moving, slowly. The sensations are overwhelming. I open up as wide as I can to receive him as he scratches that deep itch that I can never reach. He picks up speed and I arch my back to better receive his strokes. Pleasure radiates from the depths of my core in waves, each succeeding one more intense than the last.
Aaron makes no sound but I can feel his breath strain and his skin moisten from the effort. I wrap my hands around his neck and my legs around his waist, our sweat intermingling, losing any sense of self. I'm just a body floating in a sea of carnal bliss, completely weightless, experiencing limitless joy.
Aaron grunts, twitches, and stops moving. I yell out something as my toes curl. There's that explosion of white light in my brain again. I see stars dance before my eyes. Muscle tremors rip through my body in threes. From neck to arms to torso, ass, thighs, calves, feet, and back again. I even feel a fart slip out but he doesn't notice. It's quiet. I tense and brace myself for the stink but that never comes either. I finally relax.
I slowly unwrap my legs from around Aaron's waist and have another residual round of low-intensity spams tear through my thighs and calves as he pulls out. The condom is almost overflowing. "That's a lot of cum," I tease.
He gives me one of his patented glares but I'm immune to the effect now. I know he's quite sweet beneath that hostile facade. "It's been a while," he says simply.
"You don't even?" I make a pumping gesture with a closed fist.
"Not that much. The thrill of playing with my own junk faded long ago. And the urge just hasn't been there lately. Where is your bathroom?" he asks.
"Down the hall. Last door. I can get rid of that for you. I need to use it anyway," I offer.
He knots the condom at the top and hands it to me. I want to put on a robe but decide to go naked, cum-filled condom in hand bouncing like a yoyo as I walk. I dump the condom down the toilet, sit down, pee, wipe, and flush everything away. It takes a second flush to get rid of the condom. If it clogs up the pipes, that's somebody else's problem but I make a mental note not to do that again.
Aaron is under the covers when I get back so I slide right in there with him, resting my head on his chest. He places one arm around me and kisses me on the forehead. "Good night Elizabeth," he murmurs.
"Goodnight?"
"Why, what's wrong?" he's genuinely puzzled.
"I want to talk," I smile sweetly.
"About what?" he asks.
"Everything," I answer. "You don't like pillow talk?"
"Well," he stumbles. "That question has no right answers." He caresses my bare back, "Where do you wanna start?"
"Stuff like... What's your favorite movie?" I ask.
"The Shawshank Redemption. I rewatch it at least once a year."
"Ok. How about a favorite song?"
"Don't have one."
That's new. "Why?"
"I'm indifferent to music."
"How can you be indifferent to music? Are you an alien? Who the hell doesn't like music?"
"I like it," he defends himself. "Just not all the time. I like quiet environments. They allow me to think. Sometimes I find a particular song catchy and listen to it over and over until I get sick of it. Other times, I only like a single verse of a song, and most times I can go weeks without listening to a tune and be just fine."
"Phew." We exchange glances.
"Satisfied I'm not an alien?" he asks.
"Yes. You're Jewish, aren't you?"
"No. My family is Episcopalian but my own faith has lapsed. If I had a gun to my head, I'd say I'm agnostic. If it's my mother holding the gun I'm still Episcopalian."
"Oh..."
"What made you think I'm Jewish?"
"You're… er..."
"Circumcised?" he finishes
"Yes."
"That's just something my parents did when I was a kid. There could be some Jewish blood somewhere in the family tree but I'm not aware of it."
"What about this?" I ask as I run my finger around the smooth circular scar on his abdomen. "Who shot you?"
"I don't know," he replies.
"How could you not know?"
His face gets serious, "The bullet wasn't meant for me. I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and caught a stray. It missed all the vital organs." The answer isn't satisfactory but I get the impression that he doesn't want to talk about it. I don't press any further. I'll have more than enough time to pry the story out of him.
"How did you know I like tulips?" That one has been gnawing at me for a while.
"I read it in your file."
"What file?"
"Your personnel file," he sounds evasive.
"I don't recall Strauss asking about my floral preferences."
"Must have been the background check section."
WTF. "You had me followed?" I am truly shocked. Could he know about the agency ties?
"No. No. I'm not aware of the methods Codd uses or who he employs. Plausible deniability and all that. I commission background checks on everyone I do business with or have to interact with on more than a handful of occasions. It's routine. "
"Codd is your bald bodyguard?"
"He prefers head of security, but yes."
What does he know? "What else is in my file?"
"Just background. Ordinary stuff. Family, school, criminal record, career, credit score, known associates, political views, quirks, and the like. There was nothing particularly concerning. I found the detail about tulips to be a nice touch." He sounds honest. If he knew I worked for the CIA, he would have mentioned it but I'll have to be careful nonetheless.
"So you know everything there is to know about me, is that it?" I need to keep pulling on that thread in case there is anything.
"I can't say I do, Elizabeth. Background checks are routine for my staff. In Silicon Valley, corporate espionage is a fact of life. Getting to market first with a revolutionary new idea or product could be the difference between billions and nothing.
There are a lot of ex-KGB guys hawking their so-called business intelligence services. And they're extremely good. My company isn't publicly traded so I don't have to worry about hedge funds trying to get their hands on a quarterly report before it's released so they can make a 6% profit on the stock movements but there are other concerns."
"Which ones are those?"
"Disgruntled employees looking to settle scores, competitors stealing research, private equity and VC funds swooping in on my acquisition targets. Then there's China!" He says China with incredible vehemence.
"What's up with China?"
"If you're developing any advanced technology, China will try to steal it. IP laws in that country are a joke and stealing tech from foreign firms is strongly encouraged by their government. You spend a fortune on research and development only for a Chinese company to steal everything and produce a knockoff at a tenth of the price. And you can't really compete with that because you need to recoup R&D costs. They don't.
And there's nothing you can do about it after it happens. The CCP can just lock you out of its market if you make too much noise. No one wants to lose access to 1.4 billion customers. So you play nice with their government and focus on stopping their spies before they get in the door. I've never hired anyone who didn't pass a background check."
I've heard a lot about Chinese industrial espionage but I didn't know it was that extensive. I didn't pay much attention during geopolitics classes at Camp Peary. I know who hates who but found the rest of the details boring. Maybe that was why I was seconded to a unit of accountants in Austin. So this was why Marjorie insisted that I use my real name. If whoever was working with the Chinese spy didn't catch me, Aaron would certainly have. The use of a fake name is hard to justify once caught.
"So, what other interesting tidbits did you find in my file?" I ask.
"Nothing that isn't publicly available information, for the most part."
"So you're saying there's nothing interesting about me?"
This puts him on the defensive, "No. No. Elizabeth. I didn't say that. Publicly available information is by definition mostly boring. I'm pretty sure you don't want to discuss your credit score or the Virginia speeding ticket you got at 19."
"The ticket was expunged from my record. You can't know about it."
" And yet I do. It was the only entry under your criminal record. And who hasn't broken a speed limit? I racked up quite a few tickets myself around that age. But there was one other thing. Why don't you like shortened versions of your name?"
"What do you mean?"
"You know… Beth, Liz, Lizzie. That kind of stuff. All your colleagues call you Elizabeth and you get mad whenever anybody calls you Liz. What's the story behind that?"
I don't know what to tell him. I've never mentioned the reason to anyone. Not even Ralph.
"Well, Beth is an old woman's name. And for the rest, well, my father used to call me that. Liz. And Lizzie." It just pours out. It feels nice to finally get that out. I burst into tears.
"Shhh. Shhh. I'm sorry," Aaron consoles me. "I didn't mean to dig up painful memories."
"It's not your fault. I've just never told anyone that," I say between sobs.
"If you like, I can have Codd track Eugene down and kick his ass."
Of course, Aaron knows my father's name. He also probably knows I used to be Elizabeth Lawson before mom changed both our surnames to her maiden name, Heaton, after father walked out on us. Eugene Lawson went to work one morning and never came back. I was six.
"Can he do that?" I ask Aaron as my sobs subside.
"If I ask him to, yes. Or perhaps you'd like to do it yourself. I know that if my dad had walked out on me I would want to beat the living shit out of him."
"I… I don't know," I stutter.
Aaron kisses my forehead and caresses my back, taking me into his arms. "Everything will be alright," he promises. I believe him. I drift off with my arms wrapped around the man I love, his heart thudding reassuringly beneath my ear. I haven't felt this peaceful in a long time. I'm still keeping other secrets from him but I'll tell him in due time. Aaron will understand. He has to.