(COMPLETE) Devil In The Waters, Chapter 6, Afternoon Delight

THAT AFTERNOON

Without planning to do it, she found herself in a hot shower midmorning, even putting her face and hair under the stream, thinking then, shit, she would have to dry her hair now. And she did that, too, looking vacantly at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, the whining of her hairdryer drowning out any errant thought about the lunacy of what she was doing.

Then it was 11 A.M., and she was in the family room with idle hands. She painted her nails in black, then with her heels on the couch on a spread out towel, she did her toes as well. The whole while she watched her soap opera on Netflix. But now it was lunch, and it was time she had to confront some things.

Was she really going to go out and meet Devin?

Up to this point, though it was like she was on autopilot, everything she’d done this morning was noncommittal. She did need a shower. Hadn’t washed her hair in a couple days, so that had to be done; sure, her nails were done last Saturday, not exactly chipping since then, but what if . . . ? . . . Was it possible she didn’t want Devin to see her with the same nail polish three days later? Boy, that was like high school. Worried about those tiny little indicators and what they showed to those with watchful eyes . . . She’s wearing that same outfit again, same color on her nails, dad hasn’t had a new car in five years . . . “Shit,” she said, putting her face in her hands, letting her shaggy black mane hang around her wrists, smelling like tropical coconut, the 2-in-1 shampoo from Costco she told Josh not to buy, and yet it was the exact one he bought. I thought you said you wanted the 2-in-1 . . . 

She couldn’t go out to meet him. Wouldn’t. Though, maybe she should, at least, talk to Devin. But then again, maybe it was better to let it all go by. When Devin’d sent the message her knee-jerk reaction was to ignore it—delete it and never respond. Let this nasty little grape wither on its vine and die, fall off and turn to fertilizer for someone else’s story. But then she considered meeting with him and talking to him, maybe they could come to some sort of arrangement where they both would agree to ally, and if they stayed strong, they could say anybody claiming they saw anything or heard anything was just misrepresenting or misunderstanding. Then when—or maybe even if—Josh heard from someone, there would be some deniability. But then again, maybe meeting Devin would make things worse…

Of course it would make it worse. What was she thinking?

But then the apartment buzzer rang on the phone, that god damn awful buzzing sound left over from another decade that had her jolting right off the couch. She trotted quietly across the apartment like she was sneaking up on the squawk box, picking up the landline to see who was ringing her. It was Devin, his distinct gravelly voice saying, “You coming down or am I coming up?”

She said, “What the hell are you doing here? . . . You’re in the lobby?”

“You don’t have a car, where were you going to meet me?”

How did he know whether she had a car or not? She said, “I don’t want to talk to you, just go away.”

“You said you wanted to talk to me.”

“Not here.”

“Come down to meet me.”

“I’m not coming down, Devin, just go away.”

After a dreadful, quiet beat, Devin said: “You know we need to talk.”

She stood there in the hall, biting her lip knowing Devin was right, they should talk, but also knowing she was right. Just go away . . .

“I can’t come down,” she said softly.

“Buzz me up.”

Again, a knee-jerk reaction that made sense: No. That’s the worst idea possible. But then what? Go down and meet him? Some of the neighbors seeing her in the middle of the day with another man heading out for lunch? If it was mentioned to Josh, she would have to come clean. What if someone saw Devin coming up to the apartment?

How would they know which apartment he was going to? And why do you think everybody’s watching what you’re doing?—talk about a guilty conscience.

She said nothing, pressed three, the button that would unlock the front vestibule door. Then she was hanging up, slamming the phone in the base, running to the bathroom and checking herself in the mirror.

This shaggy haircut she was sporting these days, what the hell was that? Bangs, but long ones that came right down over her eyebrows, practically touching her eyelashes sometimes. All puffy on top, shaggy too, her natural waves coming out as she got more mature, liking it at first, but now seeing her reflection in the mirror seeing some sort of strange 70s New York art scene poser, or, worse, was the hairstyle comedic?—maybe one of the guys from Spinal Tap . . . She ran fingers into her mane, shook it loose, shaking her head and making a pouting face. Fucking lipstick, she thought, you need lipstick—but it was too late now to do that. She looked at her nails, glad she had done that at least. Then down at her toes, wiggling them on the bathroom tile. Black cotton pants, black tank top, it would have to do . . .

Then there was knocking on the door. Distinctly Devin. Even the knock coming confident.

And she was doing that long-striding prance thing, going light on the balls of her feet, undoing the chain and turning the deadbolt. She opened the door a crack and saw Devin standing in her hall looking so wildly out of place.

* * *

They stared at each other a long uncomfortable beat until Devin finally said, “You going to invite me in?”

“Yeah,” she said, still peeping through the gap in her door up at the man. She held the door in both hands, walked backward bowing graciously to him has if he were a welcome guest. Never even invited the guy to her house.

Devin came in, hands in the pockets of his suit pants, eyes already moving around her apartment, picking out all its inadequacies, she was sure. She closed the door behind him, first poking her head into the hall, happy to see that Devin hadn’t been seen, then closed the door and locked it. She turned to Devin then turned right back and ran the chain across the door as well. What was that—worry that Josh might show up for lunch, catch you two together?

Now she was standing behind Devin, him taking up a huge amount of space in their foyer. He was tall, maybe a full head above her, hair neatly trimmed at the back and the sides, brushed off his brow and temples in thick black waves. His suit was black, or maybe charcoal, a ghostly stripe in it that you had to look carefully for, the pant legs tailored, breaking nicely on monk-strap brogues that shone with polish. She came to stand beside him, folding her arms and tucking her hands in her armpits.

He was staring at the large framed photograph of the main entrance of the Lungshan Temple in Taiwan, a picture taken by her father from the temple’s outer courtyard about twenty years ago. He said, “What’s this?”

“A temple in Taiwan,” she said, explaining the picture, “my dad took it.” The photo was a moody black and white, high contrast, all bright sky, most of the temple’s wall hidden in mysterious shadow, its bowed spine of a pagoda roof stark against the clouds.

Still examining the photo, Devin said, “Family vacation?”

Now she felt stupid, the picture having a certain artistic quality she liked guests to see when they came in the front door, and now reduced to a dumb vacation photo her dad had taken. She said, “Not really a vacation, we stayed a couple months with family every summer.”

“In Taiwan?”

She repeated, “I said the temple’s in Taiwan.”

He said no more, not wishing to engage in her bristly patter, smirking already as he stood straighter and faced her, showing a certain smug amusement.

“Yes, in Taiwan,” she said.

He said, “Are we going to talk?”

“You’re the one that wanted to talk, so talk,” she said.

He chuckled, his eyes going over the family room now. He said, “How long you lived here?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t realize you’re in the real estate game—this is a business call?”

“Just making small talk, Kimmy.”

“I’ve got things to do today, Devin, I know you do too. So why don’t we just make this quick?”

He stepped deeper into the apartment, moving from the foyer into the mouth of the living room, and she followed, coming to stand beside him leaning her back on the wall. He said, “I came here, Kimmy, because I wanted to apologize.”

She chuckled, looking at his angular profile, its haughty attitude, but honestly surprised that he would say that. “Apologize to me? You know I’m surprised, right?”

“I should apologize, don’t you think?”

She agreed. “Yeah, you should.”

“Maybe I said some things over the line.”

“Yeah, okay,” she said, “maybe I overreacted.”

“We got pretty worked up,” he said.

And just like that she could hear the innuendo in his words and knew his apology was just greasy manipulation, him looking to see what more he could get from her. She crossed her arms and showed her loosest unimpressed expression.

Devin said, “You going to show me around?”

“Show you around my apartment? No.”

He turned to face her finally, looking down at her and there was that aggravating smirk. A know-it-all superior expression on his face, studying her. He said, “Is Josh home?”

“Of course not. You think I’d agree to this if he was here?”

Devin laughed again, light, but still with that gravelly arrogant sound. He eased off the wall, walked into the family room, looking into her kitchen through the pass-through. He said, “Where is Double-A today?”

“Who’s Double-A?”

“Your husband.”

“He’s at work.”

“Where’s he work? Market research or something, right?”

“He’s at A.J. Swanson.”

“Mid-level management?”

“He’s got twenty employees under him.”

Devin nodded, looking around the kitchen, putting his palms on the pass-through countertop, his big well-manicured hands flat on the tile surface.

She said, “What’s Double-A?”

Devin turned, leaned an elbow on the countertop, face turned away looking out past the TV and beyond the windows to the bright sunny day, saying, “What we called Josh back in grade school.”

“Why?”

“Locker room stuff—we used to say Josh’s dick was like one of those little batteries you put in electronics.”

She bristled, clucked her tongue, rolled her eyes and slumped against the countertop. “This shit again. You came here to apologize but pull the same garbage?” She scowled and shook her head at him. “Is it supposed to be attractive to people, telling them you’ve got a big dick?”

“I didn’t say a thing about mine.”

“That’s the power of omission. Singling out someone disparagingly in an attempt to highlight the opposite factor in yourself.”

Now he rolled his eyes. “It was grade school anyway, Kimmy, I’m sure Josh hit puberty just fine.”

“My husband hit puberty just fine, Devin.”

Devin smiled, and when their eyes met there was an electric knowledge that zipped between them. While Josh may be fine, she was a lot more familiar with Devin than what she let on. She looked away.

“Not quite what I heard.”

She met his eyes. “You want to start a fight all over again? I’m not falling for it this time.”

His smugness melted and he made a happy, peaceful face. “Kimmy, I came here to be your friend. We let ourselves act badly on the weekend, me ten times more than you, and I’m here for you, for your sake.”

“You’ll pardon me if I don’t quite believe you’re here for benevolent reasons.”

“What did you tell Josh?”

She looked at him like he was an idiot. “Nothing.”

“Did you talk to anybody?”

She shook her head no.

“You talk to your friends?”

She shook her head no again.

“Are they gonna rat you out?”

She shrugged her shoulders, heavy depressive feelings settling on her. “I don’t think so.”

“Nothing happened. Isn’t that right?”

“Nothing happened,” she agreed.

“So we’re good?”

“You tell me,” she said, not looking at him.

“That’s what I’m here telling you, Kimmy. Hey, come on, look at me . . .”

She turned her face his way, her jaw set firm, the muscles in the corners near her ears bulging and flexing as the urge to strike him renewed. Only, he was behaving himself. What could you be mad at him for now? Aren’t you just mad at yourself?

They stared at each other a long time, and his eyes didn’t move away. A slow smile began to creep on his face, and he said, “Look, I let things get out of hand because it felt good to let it get out of hand.”

“It felt good to be an asshole?”

“You make me feel a certain way.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It was exciting.” He smiled.

“It’s not going to happen,” she said looking in his eyes.

“That’s fine,” he said, “I had time to think, you know, put into perspective why maybe I said some of those things.”

“And what’s that perspective?”

“Of all the people from high school, Kimmy, do you know who matured the most?”

She knew he was going to say her, but she shrugged her shoulders.

He didn’t even need to say her name, saying now, “You’re one of those girls that was a kid in high school, but, the way you are now . . .”

“What—I’m a grown woman?” she said sarcastically.

“Yes.”

“Girls grow up, you know.”

“Not those other girls, not the ones from high school. They never really changed much, they get set in their ways, get hitched or go nowhere, but not you . . .”

She said, “If I show you around will you go then?”

“Hey,” he said, putting out his hand like he wanted to hold hers. “I’m serious, Kimmy, I’m not here to be a jerk, I’m trying to make things better. I know you’re mad at me, just work with me . . .”

Before she knew it—just the way she’d found herself mindlessly standing under the stream of the shower—she put her hand in his. But he didn’t creep her out, hold her delicately, caress her knuckles or anything like that, he shook her hand like they were making an agreement. Partners in crime, as it were.

“Yes,” he said, looking in her eyes, “show me around, then I’ll go . . .”

* * *

Before heading down the hall with him she paused, wringing her hands together nervously and saying, “Do you want a cup of coffee or something?”

Devin said sure, and then watched her as she walked into the kitchen and filled the kettle with water. He stood behind her with his hands linked together on the pass-through counter, taking up a huge chunk of that space with his large frame. Devin’d matured too. In high school he’d been tall, and well-built from playing sports. Now that he was a man, he’d filled out. Not just handsome, not just physically fit, but a man with presence. The expensive suit, expensive haircut, the physical space he took up, the way he carried himself . . . There was unmistakable power in his presence, enough that he looked completely out of place in her simple apartment. She set the kettle to boil saying, “I mean, I’ll show you around, I don’t know what you’re expecting, it’s not a big apartment.”

“Humor me,” he said, and she knew he was trying to get her into the bedroom. But she wouldn’t go there.

She came around to the family room again, walking underneath him as he watched her, smirking, heading down the hall. She said, “This is Josh’s office, no big deal,” and kept going. But Devin had stopped to look again, saying, “Josh is happy there? At Swanson.”

“Yeah, he is.”

“That’s what he went to school for? Marketing?”

“Business,” she said.

Devin pushed himself off the frame, sauntered to join her. She pointed to the closed bedroom door, said, “That’s our bedroom,” saying it fast, then walking into the guest bedroom that had been converted into her Katt Basket room. The basket she’d started in the morning sat on her worktable like a reedy sunburst, the lights had been turned off, her space dim but navigable because of the bright summer day out the windows. She said, “This is where I make my baskets.”

“Right,” he said, arms folded, standing in her room next to her worktable looking at the things on her shelves. He said, “You make these?” nodding his chin towards two baskets that were on the top shelf.

“I did.”

He took one down, flipped it over, examined it. “That’s amazing. You do this by hand or is it a machine?”

“I weave them by hand.”

“Are you serious?” he said, holding it up to the light now, the spiral pattern shadows cast from her basket playing on the angular ridges of his handsome face.

“My grandmother taught me.”

“Is it Chinese or something?”

“Kind of,” she said. “Taiwanese, Japanese influence.”

“How much do you charge?”

“For a single basket?”

“Yeah,” he said, placing it back on the top shelf where he got it from

“A hundred-fifty.”

“How many can you make in a day?”

“One and a bit, sometimes two, but I’m happy just doing one.”

He gestured at the bundles of reed grass, tied in manageable bunches with twine. “How much does this grass stuff cost?”

“Like what’s my profit margin?”

“Yeah,” he said, suddenly appearing to her like a financial manager.

She got defensive saying, “Look, Devin, it’s just a hobby.”

“Didn’t sound like a hobby when you were talking about it at Tiffany’s. Sounded like you treated it as a business.”

“Well, yeah, I treat it as a business.”

“Can you get other people to make them for you?”

“It’s kind of a hard skill to acquire.”

“Are there machines that make them?”

She paused. “Yes.”

“Would you sell your name?”

“No. That’s not what I want to do.”

“So all you’ll ever make is $150 a day?”

“Look, when I wasn’t pregnant anymore—”

“I’m not saying anything,” he said, “I’m trying to be your friend.”

“Making the baskets makes me happy, okay?”

“You’re making them for someone. If making baskets makes you happy, you could sell the name, sit back on the profits, have fun making baskets for yourself. Best baskets you ever saw . . .”

“I’m going to go back to work at some time.”

“So that’s the end of the basket company?”

“I don’t know. I don’t really think about it.”

“But you think about going back to work?”

“Of course.”

Devin took a deep breath, considering what she said and looking out their windows to the undulating boughs of tree tops and the street beyond. He said, “You come out of Western?”

“Yes.”

“Law school?”

“Queens.”

“Shit, Kimmy,” he said.

“What?”

“You speak Chinese, don’t you?”

“You know I do.”

“I don’t know that. I thought so, though.”

“So what?”

“You know what I would pay a young lawyer who knew her shit, who didn’t back down . . . and she could speak Chinese?”

“Right,” she said, giving him a snide look, “the import export game . . .”

“I have people that speak Chinese, but they’re not half as smart as you are.”

She looked away, vigorously scratched the back of her neck making her hair flutter. She said, “I’m going back to my other firm.”

“Immigration law.”

“So?”

“Helping Chinese come over here, get them on their feet so they make more money than you?”

She made an exasperated sound, folded her arms and glowered at him.

He didn’t wilt. “You know it’s true.”

“It’s not true, Devin. I help people. It’s hard to navigate the rules, it’s hard to find a reliable advocate who’s looking out for you . . .”

“And who’s looking out for you?”

“I am,” she said. “Josh is.”

“I’m glad,” he said. “I think you’re an incredible woman.”

“Oh God,” she said and rolled her eyes dramatically as a defense mechanism.

He said, “I do. You don’t see it, but you’re a killer in disguise . . . The way you fought back . . . ?”

She cocked her head and tried to look serious. “Did I scare you?”

“You know what it did to me,” he said.

She didn’t respond, let it hang. Let it drop. Said nothing. “That’s the grand tour, Devin,” she said, “you want that cup of coffee now?”

* * *

Instead of coming into the kitchen, Devin stopped at the mouth of the family room making her turn around. She crossed her arms, said, “What, you didn’t get me into the bedroom so now you’re going to leave? What about our coffee?”

“I came here to take you out, Kimmy, I wasn’t trying to get into your apartment or your bedroom. I had something come up, I don’t have a lot of time. Maybe next week you can come out for lunch with me and we’ll talk business.”

“Not likely,” she said.

“That’s up to you. I don’t think you know what you’ve got.”

“What have I got, Devin?”

He strode toward her, and she hadn’t expected it. She bumbled a step backward, her bare heel going off the hall carpet and onto the granite tile. Her back bumped against the wall. Devin stood before her, looming over top of her making her look up. He said, “You know.”

“I know what?” Her skin tightened, her bravado waning.

“Deep down you know you’re a lot more.”

She whispered, “A lot more what?”

“You want more.”

“I’ve got everything I want.”

“That’s why you’re twenty-seven years old making baskets?”

The argument it was her own company, her own rules, she was her own boss, was moot—he’d exposed the truth, flipped open her books with some simple mathematics. It was a fun business, but she had a law degree; she was hiding out in the apartment.

“I’m a good lawyer,” she said.

“I bet you’re good at everything.”

“I am,” she said.

When he brought his hand up to touch her neck, she grabbed his wrist dug her nails into it. “Don’t,” she warned him.

“Next week when I come, I’ll get you out of this place. What do you say?”

“I told you what I think.”

He lifted his hand from where he touched her neck; she let his wrist go. But he ran two fingertips from her collarbone down over the cotton of her chest, his middle finger riding right over top of the hardened bud of her nipple, making her hiss a sharp intake of air . . . And his hand kept going, moving swiftly but softly, his palm resting on the flat of her stomach. Her mouth fell open and she looked in his eyes. He ran his flattened hand low on her stomach, his fingers slipping under the waistband of her drawstring pants, right underneath her panties. She gasped, went on her tiptoes, pressed her back against the wall. And when he touched her at her core, she trembled and closed her eyes.

“I see the real you, Kimmy—am I the only one who sees that woman in there, that killer?”

“Don’t,” she said again, but made no move to stop him.

His two fingers pleasured her, stroking and pushing, making her wet, all happening so fast she couldn’t believe it. He hooked those fingers, he had big fingers and the two of them went inside her together, as big as a dick. She let out a soft whimper, eyes closed, face turning away from him.

“Fuck, Kimmy, the woman you’ve become puts all those other girls to shame, you’re all I thought about since Saturday.”

His fingers plunged in and out of her; she had the strength, the resolve, now to bring her hands together and grasp his wrist. It took two hands to circle him, and she could feel the muscles flexing in his forearm as he pleasured her. Her calves and thighs trembled; instead of squirming away she tried getting higher on her toes to make it harder for him to finger her. But he continued, making a low grumbling sound. When her eyes fluttered open she found him with eyes boring into hers.

“We can’t,” she said.

But her hands undid the knot on the front of her pants, and her thumbs pushed out the waistband to draw out the tightness of the string. The loosened pants fell around her ankles. The tightness of her panties, stuffed with Devin’s large hand, reminded her how bad what she’d just done was. She gripped the side strings of her panties, pulled them tight, trying to trap his hand inside them.

“No, don’t,” she said but he still fingered her.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he said, “so fucking unbelievable,” getting closer to her, not trying to kiss her—like he knew if his lips came near hers the spell would be broken, his fingers inside her somehow more acceptable than his lips on hers.

All she could do was whimper and complain, standing there getting fingered in her front hall when she swore there would be nothing that would happen between them, up on her toes, her hands going around Devin now, slipping inside his jacket and feeling the muscle under the silky cotton of his expensive dress shirt. She hugged her cheek to his chest, everything from the waist down turning to liquid; if he stepped back she would collapse on the floor.

“Fuck,” she blurted, right hand snatching down between them, trying to find his big dick. It was down the side of his pant leg, half hard and so incredibly huge. She squeezed it, kneaded it, her grip in the middle.

Devin’s other hand came between them, his plunging fingers never stopping the pleasure he was delivering, finding his zipper and drawing it down. She slipped her hand inside the yawning opening of his boxers, desperate to hold his manhood. Her grip went around it, feeling the scratch of his pubic hair, the stickiness of his skin. He was so big.

He whispered, “I left you aching, didn’t I? Kimmy didn’t get what she needed . . .”

“I don’t need you . . .”

He said, “Your pussy’s wet like an overripe peach.”

She swooned, her knees dipping; his fingers plunged deep with a loud squelching. Wet dripped her thighs. “Oh fuck . . .”

He said, “You want to come?”

“N-no . . .”

He chuckled. “I can stop.”

She closed her eyes, bit her lip. “Make me . . . make me come . . .”

There was a low animal sound in his chest, and she knew he studied her while he finger-fucked her. The feeling was incredible, her awful surrender to this man she didn’t like shameful and overwhelming. Her back shimmied on the wall like she tried to escape him, but the truth was it just thrust her pelvis against his hand. The heel of his thumb mashed against her clit and a sudden tightness seized between her legs. It felt like her stomach was a shopping bag with an anvil in it. “Oh God, oh no,” she whined, and when she heard his chuckle the lust grew tighter with anger. She clenched her teeth, said, “You lied to me.”

He hummed a gravelly sound. “How?”

“You came here to get me in the bedroom.”

His fingers slowed and she moaned, her hips trying to move faster to make up for his retreat. Devin said, “No, I didn’t.”

Her eyes fluttered open and she met his steely gaze. She conjured defiance, sneered. “So you don’t want to fuck me?”

“What I’m going to do to you will take us hours,” he said, plunging into her again, fast and hard, the hump of his palm bullying her swollen clit.

“Oh God,” she panted, gripped his arm, her other hand squeezing his huge cock.

“But instead I have to go to the airport.”

“Good,” she spat.

Another sly chuckle. “You don’t want me to leave you like a rag doll in your bed?”

She gasped, moaned. “I’m married, Devin.”

“I just want to fuck you, Kimmy, we’re not running off together.”

She let his dick go, held his wrist with both hands and went higher on her toes. “I’m married, Devin.”

Devin still pleasured her, his strong hand working her insides to the release she hated she craved. “I want to give you what you need between your legs.”

She whispered, “What’s that?”

“I want to watch your face when you come, I want to see you wild . . . I want to see wild Kimmy . . .”

“Yeah?” she let him go, her hands formed clumsy fists against her stomach; she stayed on her toes, squeezed her eyes shut and turned away from him. He had complete control of her with his fingers inside her, and now she completely surrendered; make me come, Devin, then get out . . . 

“Ah, ah, ah,” she began to pant, “oh, oh no, mm, mm,” her features scrunching, but what was oncoming would hopefully be a tidal swell that would wash away all the ache she had for him since Saturday. The deep sexual need for a man she hated and who wasn’t her husband.

“You can come now, Kimmy, show me how you come . . .”

“Fuck off, oh, fuck you,” she whined and complained, humping his hand and shaking her head from side to side, but at last it came. She shouted out, bit her lip to stifle such an awful sound from an awful woman, a sound so obvious and lusty. She grabbed his wrist again, her two hands holding him in place, the sharp edge of his cuff link digging her palm.

“Look at that beautiful face, Kimmy, oh the pleasure,” he groaned.

“Ohh,” she moaned as the orgasm still warbled through her, aftershocks jolting her. Her legs went to jelly and she almost collapsed. Devin held her in place, and she fell forward against him to be supported so she wouldn’t go to the floor. His arm circled her, the fingers of the other hand still inside her and now softly massaging the last tweaks of rapture from her.

“Fuck, Kimmy, mm,” he said, “the things I’m going to do to you . . .” He bit her neck, and she dug nails into his back. Her right hand went below his belt, slipped into his fly, found his hard cock constrained in his suit pants and stroked. Now they were in her hall embraced like two high school kids at a school dance, hands in each other’s pants, her jerking him. For what—you want him to come?

As the wild ravishment ebbed from her with each heartbeat, its absence was filled with regret and shame—she let him go and grimaced, pushed herself off till she had her back on the wall again. Her ass muscles quivered.

Devin stood where he was; her eyes lowered and watched his big hands part his fly and pull out his huge cock. He let it go to watch her take it in, standing there in expensive brogues shoulder width apart, unreal manhood nodding side to side, a vein-scribbled column of hard man flesh.

She whispered, “You want to fuck me?”

“I want you to have everything you need.”

“You think that dick is all I need?”

Now he stepped toward her, cock bobbing. “I’m more than a big cock . . . and I know you’re curious what that means.”

“I’m not,” she said, her breaths coming faster.

“Don’t lie, Kimmy, you wanted a lot more on Saturday.”

She shook her head no, and he held her chin to look in her eyes. His cock was hot on her stomach, and she gripped it, began absently swiping it against her skin under her shirt. “Do you have a condom?”

He grumbled a small laugh. “You didn’t ask for a condom at Tiffany’s.”

“I think I’m ovulating.”

He breathed inward through his teeth; an appreciative sound, like her fertility aroused him. His hands went to her sides; he hoisted her up and she yelped a small sound, her bare legs kicking, her pants falling off her feet, completely bottomless now as Devin set her bare ass down on the hall table, the vase clunking, the dish of coins rattling. Her curved back pressed the wall, the framed picture her father had taken of the Lungshan Temple touching the crown of her head.

“We have to stop,” she said.

Devin ignored her, eyes glued to her bared pussy, getting between her legs, his cock on her thigh. He tugged up her shirt and exposed her stomach. She sunk it in even though she was a skinny girl, and when he lifted her shirt higher, she stopped him, afraid he would expose her breasts. Her nonexistent breasts that all Devin’s high school hookups liked to poke fun at in the locker room—oh so good-natured of course: Why, Chinese girls just don’t have big breasts, their unkind words implied.

Now she saw how wet he’d made her; could see the shine inside her thighs, see droplets beaded in her patch, and wanted to close her legs—but he was between them.

“We can’t,” she whispered. “You have to go.”

Devin put his cock on her stomach and she groaned at the sight of it against her skin, the size of it, marveling how it could fit in her tight space, and how deep it would go. He ran the base into the slick cleft of her sex, over her opening and putting pressure on her clit; her head went back and clunked the Temple, knocking it askew. “Oh God,” she sighed.

“Fuck, Kimmy, I want in this pussy so bad . . .”

“I can use my hand,” she negotiated.

“Look how bad you want it,” he said.

“I don’t,” she said and gripped his cock. She choked it, watched the huge flared shape of his glans deepen in color, a sick knot tightening above her stomach. He ran it through her grip, and she turned her chin up to see what Devin Stone’s face looked like when he was pleasured. His steely eyes glowered on hers, his jaw set hard, breathing steady through his nose as his size spread her slippery grip. She began to jerk him a little faster, wanting to see his eyes roll, or his mouth hang open. But instead he thumbed his cock down so when he stroked it through her grip the underside ran over her hot furrow like a boat’s hull dragged up a beach.

“Mm,” she whimpered as white bulbs of light flickered in the sides of her vision.

Devin pulled his hips right back like he would try and put it inside her, and she pleaded with her eyes not to do that to her. Her fingertips aimed the cock head into her opening and now she dared him to take control, make him the one responsible for her badness.

With his hips, he thrummed easy pulses of his cock against her, spearing her opening but not entering into her body. It got her knees rising, wanting him to be inside her again. She caressed the top of his cock, and held his gaze.

“I need a condom,” she said, not sure if it was meant to end the effort or a genuine request that if one were available they could proceed.

“I have to go to the airport,” he said.

She grunted at the punch that gave her, the double whammy: They weren’t going to fuck (shouldn’t that be a Thank God?), and the embarrassment Devin had more self control then her. “Go,” she said firm.

That made him smile and she had the urge to lash out at his smug face again, hating that he’d got her to submit, looking to blame him for her own weakness. “Fucking go,” she said and backhanded his cock away from her pussy.

Devin leaned over her, looking like he would kiss her, and again she turned her face. Her hands gripped his upper arms, nails digging in; his arms were thick and so hard under the fine wool of his suit. He said, “I’m coming next week.”

“No.”

“Yes.” He ran his cock up her pussy, the tip of him stroking into her navel.

“I want you to leave.”

“You want me to fuck you.”

“Stop acting like you don’t want it.”

That made him chuckle and he lifted off her. He stood before her, smiling wide. He unbuckled his belt, unzipped his pants, struggled to hide his erection under the fabric, then zipped them closed again.

She said, “You’re going?”

Devin did up the belt buckle. She closed her thighs, feeling more naked now he was clothed. A married woman sitting on her hall table, her pants who-knows-where, her pussy smeared with only her own sexual product. She slipped herself off the table to stand, then tugged down her shirt to cover her nudity, but the shirt wasn’t long enough.

“I’m not the enemy,” he said.

“Go to the airport,” she said, crossing her arms, her thighs closed together, wet and warm, toes curling on the hall carpet.

“You and I are on the same side.”

“No, we’re not, Devin.”

He stepped closer, loomed over her. She looked up. He said, “Next Tuesday I’m coming back. I’m getting the bedroom door open and we’re going to take care of that deep ache you have.” His hand touched between her legs and she jumped.

“I don’t have an ache,” she said, her voice sounding thin and useless. But she began to squirm at his touch, feeling his fingertips stroking at her entry. “And I need you to go.”

“Fuck, Kimmy,” he sighed, “If I weren’t flying to Vancouver, the things I would to you on that bed . . .” He stepped away, showed her the shine on his fingers. He tugged his pocket square out, wiped his hand as he turned to the apartment door. “See you next Tuesday, Kimmy.”

“I won’t be home, Devin,” she said.

He smiled like he liked the answer—liked it because he didn’t believe it. He opened the door and left quietly.

She waited a beat, sighed, groaned, “Fuck,” slouched, and had a huge and sudden urge to sleep. But, with her arms still folded, she crossed the apartment without her pants on, padded to the windows that looked down over the parking area, kneeled one knee on the seat of a chair and watched. In a moment she saw him two stories below, moving silently across the asphalt, the wind rustling his thick head of hair, loosing one curled strand that bounced as he walked. Devin combed it back with his hand, blipped the alarm on his black Mercedes Roadster parked on an angle taking up two visitor’s parking spaces.

She whispered, “Fucking asshole.”

As the car lit up, and Devin rolled out of their apartment complex, she moved back from the window so she wouldn’t be spotted. When he was gone, she went to her pants, put them on, flopped on the couch. Tears threatened to come, but they never did. She lay in the silence, pushing back at her thoughts, afraid to face them, and in fifteen minutes her hand was slipping under her pants again, into her panties. She masturbated, writhing on the couch, imagining things had gone another way, her long legs moving up and down, heels sliding on the leather. After she came, the ache remained. Fucking Devin.

She scrubbed the mess she’d left on the hall table, polished it. Tidied, checked for evidence of Devin’s presence. She lay back down on the couch, face furrowed and mean, hating herself. She fell asleep chewing the inside of her cheek.

* * *

NOW

And now here she was again, using her hand to find something, trying to chase away an aching need. Washing her hands in the bathroom sink, she looked at her eyes in the mirror. What was Devin doing to her? The ache was real. A deep and insistent sexual longing she couldn’t shake. Never had it before in her life. Not since high school, at least, that night with Amy and Devin. Now it was back and she didn’t know what to do. She had a loving husband who she loved in return. She had a great sex life, didn’t she? Josh satisfied her, and maybe once a week she’d do the deed herself at home alone making baskets and the urge hit her. But since Saturday there was an unshakeable hunger between her legs. The last man on earth she ever thought would be in her life again was now stuck like a sliver.

She dried her hands on the towel, flicked off the light, went into the hall.

Josh was waiting for her.

“Shit,” you scared me she said and Josh smiled.

He leaned on the hallway wall, shirtless and wearing pajama pants. He wanted to show her something, his eyes indicating downward. His erection poked out his pajama pants and he gripped it now, squeezing. She smiled, but grimaced. In that moment her first thought was Double-A, and how the boys had teased her husband about his small penis just like the girls had teased her; the two of them sharing a unity in their sexual under-development.

But Josh was grown now, and his size had never entered her mind until she was re-introduced to Devin Stone. Her hands had been all over another man today, and part of his allure was the pure masculine power that dangled between his legs.

Josh said, “I’m going to do terrible things to you, Kimmy,” giving her a mean scowl but smirking.

“Told you I napped today,” she said.

Josh pulled down the front of his PJs to show her his hardness. He was proud of it. Since the weekend he’d sputtered sexually and that wasn’t like him. She was glad to see him renewed. She stepped into his space, put her hand on what he presented, feeling him hard as stone. The size difference was pronounced; this afternoon she’d tried to jerk off another man who was incredibly hung. She groaned at the psychic pain, and fell against the man she loved deeply, kissing his neck and jerking his cock.

Josh whispered, “You ready for me?” He kissed her cheek, ran his hands on her ribs.

“Come on and show me what you can do,” she whispered, took his hand and led him back into their bedroom . . .