Perfect Strangers

The first thing I do when I get back into the apartment is head straight over to the computer in Estelle’s library and fire it up.

Into Google’s search bar, I type “You’ve got another thing coming.”

Google helpfully provides me with 798,000,000 results.

The first one is a video for the heavy metal band Judas Priest’s song of the same name, which fills me with smugness. If a famous rock band recorded it as “thing” instead of “think,” I’m obviously right.

My brief bout of smugness lasts until I scroll farther down the page and find an article in Merriam-Webster regarding usage of the phrase. When I click the link, I’m dismayed to learn that a debate still rages to this day about the correctness of word choice. Apparently “think” is the older usage, originating in nineteenth-century British English, and “thing” is more current—and more common—but frequently criticized by language purists as an incorrect bastardization.

In other words, James and I are both right…except he’s more right than I am.

Hello, dented ego, my old friend.

Because I’m in need of a morale boost, I dig my cell phone out from my handbag on the desk and send Estelle a text.

Question for your superior literary brain: Which would you say is correct? “You’ve got another THING coming” or “You’ve got another THINK coming?”

While I wait for an answer, I wander into the kitchen. I kick off my heels, open the fridge, and stare into it for a while until I realize I’m not hungry. I haven’t eaten since breakfast, but between the orgasm at the book store, James’s sudden impersonation of Houdini at dinner, and the memory of how far up my lip curled when I told him he was wrong about think vs. thing, what I’m really craving is a drink to settle my nerves.

I pour myself a bourbon and am just about to tuck into it when my cell phone chimes. Estelle has answered.

DOES THIS MEAN YOU’RE WRITING AGAIN??

Not even five seconds later, my phone rings. I smile and hit the Answer button. “Hi, Estelle.”

“Doll!” she shouts gleefully. “Tell me you have good news!”

I can’t resist teasing her a little. “Gee, no pressure or anything. Couldn’t I just be asking your opinion?”

She scoffs. “Puh. The only time you’ve ever asked my opinion on anything is when I took you to lunch at Le Bernardin for your thirtieth birthday and you couldn’t decide between the sashimi and the caviar.”

“That’s not true! I distinctly remember asking your opinion on whether or not I should marry Chris.”

There’s a long pause, then Estelle says soberly, “No, doll, you didn’t. You would’ve fired me as your agent if you had.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, surprised.

There’s another long pause, which is so unlike Estelle it gives me an uneasy feeling. The woman normally has no filter.

“What I mean is that Christopher isn’t a good guy. And he certainly wasn’t good for you.”

That shocks me. Though Chris and I are divorced, I feel defensive of him. I’m upset and confused that she’d speak about him this way.

“Estelle, what are you talking about? We had our differences, like any couple, but we—”

“He abandoned you when you needed him most,” she cuts in, her voice hard.

I remember how alone I felt, sitting on that cold pew in the church by myself. How gutted and alone.

My voice shaking with emotion, I say, “Everyone deals with grief in their own way.”

Estelle’s voice softens. “Yes, they do. But a father who doesn’t show up to his own child’s funeral—”

I snap, “He couldn’t deal with it. That’s not unusual. The grief counselor said—”

“—or his child’s birth—”

“He wasn’t able to get away from work in time! You know she came early!”

“—who left his wife in a foreign country on their honeymoon—”

“For God’s sake, Estelle! He’s a diplomat! A war broke out! He was needed! I’m the one who said it was fine for him to go!”

In the wake of my angry outburst, we both fall silent. Estelle sighs heavily. Then she says, “Anything he did was fine with you. All his silences, all his absences, all the ways he didn’t meet your needs…all fine. Because you loved him.

“But he didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve you.”

The hot prick of tears stings my eyes. My throat is so tight I can barely swallow a mouthful of bourbon, but I manage to choke it back. It burns a hollow path down to my stomach and sits there, angrily churning.

I speak through a clenched jaw. “Anyway. To answer your question, yes, I’m writing again. I’m writing quite a lot, actually. And it’s goddamn good. I’ll send you what I have soon. I have to go now. Thanks, Estelle. Bye.”

I click End, then throw the phone all the way across the room. It hits the wall with a clatter, splinters apart, then falls in pieces to the floor.

I leave it where it is and head out of the kitchen, swiping angrily at my watering eyes.

There’s a Juliet balcony off the living room with a small deck, just large enough for one person to stand on. I push the curtains aside and open the French doors, then step out and lean against the curved railing.

The sky is sullen with dark clouds. The bass rumble of thunder echoes somewhere off in the distance. The air is humid and fragrant with the sharp smell of ozone, all signs of a coming summer storm.

When the first drops begin to fall, I turn my face to the sky and close my eyes, letting the rain mingle with my tears.

“A father who doesn’t show up to his own child’s funeral.”NôvelDrama.Org owns this text.

That one hurt the most. Of all the times Chris was absent, that time carved itself so deep into my heart the wounds are still as fresh as if they were slashed there yesterday.

My baby girl was gone, my soul was in ashes, and my man was nowhere to be found.

Everything crumbled after we lost her. We couldn’t talk anymore. We could barely meet each other’s eyes. The silences in the house would stretch on so long I’d sometimes wonder if we’d lost the ability to communicate. Group therapy was a horror, more painful than pouring acid on open cuts. All those stories of loss piled up on top of my own until I felt suffocated.

Marital counseling wasn’t much better. There was no way to make sense of such a senseless thing, and no amount of talking was going to help or change it.

Then, finally, after Chris packed his bags and moved out, I went to individual therapy on my own in one last ditch attempt to find peace with the worst thing that had ever happened to me. Or at least some sort of meaning.

But there’s no meaning to be found in violence. Murder is an end unto itself.

A moan jolts me out of the swamp of my memories. I open my eyes and look across the courtyard from where it came, at a window that was dark only moments before but now is illuminated.

Gigi and Gaspard are in their bedroom, doing what they do best.

I turn away and go inside, chugging the rest of the bourbon. Then I turn out all the lights and go to bed.

I wake up hours later knowing instinctively that something is wrong.

It’s that mother’s intuition. The heightened hearing. The sharper sense of smell. The finely-tuned antennae you never lose, even when your child has long since been ripped from your arms.

Heart pounding, I sit up in bed, my ears straining to hear any sound. I’m not sure if it was a sound that woke me, but I listen hard into the dark. My eyes slowly adjust until I can make out the edges of the dresser, the curved arm of the chair near the door.

And the tall figure of the man standing beside it.

I scream in terror, but he’s on me before I can jump out of bed. He grabs me and pins me beneath his heavy body, flattening me against the mattress as I struggle wildly underneath him.

“Olivia,” growls a rough voice into my ear. “It’s me. Stop. It’s only me.”

I fall still, panting, realizing from one heartbeat to the next that it’s James. It only takes another few seconds for the fury to hit.

“What the fuck!” I shout. “You nearly scared me to death, asshole!”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? You’re sorry? How did you even get in here?” I continue to struggle, but he’s not letting me go. If anything, his hands tighten even more around my wrists. He slides a leg over both of mine, stopping me from kicking him.

“You left the front door open. I knocked and rang the bell, but you didn’t answer.”

I was so distracted by the stupid thing vs. think argument when I came in that I can’t remember if I locked it or not, but it doesn’t surprise me that I left it open. I did the same thing the other night when he took me to dinner. The man always puts me out of sorts.

“So you thought it would be a good idea to just waltz in uninvited?”

“I told you I’d come.”

“And I told you not to!”

I feel his hot breath on my neck when he whispers, “Tell me to leave and I will.”

I lie there glaring at the ceiling and grinding my teeth until I get my breathing under control. Part of me wants to snap Get the hell out…but there’s another part of me—a bigger part—that doesn’t.

I haven’t had a man in my bed in years. Years. Every neglected nerve in my body is shrieking.

And considering it’s this particular man, who gets me so hot with a single look that my eyes cross, I’m inclined to let him stay and see where this is going.

I grit out, “You can stay, but you’d better make it up to me.”

He releases my wrists, props himself up on his elbows, and kisses me. It’s a gentle kiss, a searching one, and seems apologetic. He knows I’m walking on the razor’s edge of my temper.

He says, “I want to make it up to you, sweetheart, but you haven’t given me your list yet.”

Grr. “Fine. You want a list of what I like to do in bed? Here’s the top five: sleep, read, watch TV, cuddle my boyfriend pillow while daydreaming about winning the Nobel Prize for literature, and sleep.”

It takes me a moment to realize the slight shaking in James’s chest is stifled laughter.

“You said sleep twice.”

“That’s because I really like to sleep!”

He kisses me softly in the sensitive spot under my earlobe, making me shiver. “I see. And what is a boyfriend pillow, exactly?”

Another kiss, lower on my neck, and I shiver again. “You’ll laugh.”

“I won’t.”

Kiss. Kiss. Nibble. Kiss. He works his way slowly down my neck to my collarbone, then dips the tip of his tongue into the hollow of my throat. He adjusts his weight on top of me, sliding his leg between mine.

He’s so big and heavy. So warm and solid. So strong. And God, how I love it.

There’s nothing that makes you feel more like a woman than lying under the powerful bulk of a man.

“It’s…um…like a big comfy sleeping pillow about half the length of my body.”

“Mmm.” He slides a hand under me and squeezes my ass, drawing me closer against him and flexing his hips.

He’s already hard for me. My pulse goes arrhythmic. I clutch his shoulders, sinking my fingers into the fine fabric of his suit.

Why is he still wearing his suit? Did he come straight here from wherever it was he went? “It’s very supportive,” I say, breathing harder. “I love my boyfriend pillow.”

James lifts his head and locks eyes with me. His gaze is intense and heated. “Interesting.”

“My pillow?”

“No, the fact that I’m insanely jealous of it.”

Because I sleep with it or because I said I love it? My heart flutters, but I don’t ask the question aloud.

I whisper, “If anything, it should be jealous of you. I’ve never given myself an orgasm while thinking of my boyfriend pillow.”

James’s eyes flare, drilling down into mine. “You made yourself come thinking of me?”

I can tell he’s excited by the idea. His voice is raw and there’s a new tension in his body, a telling change in the rhythm of his breathing.

I nod.

“When? Earlier tonight?”

Oh God. He wants all the dirty details. Why did I even open my mouth? I moisten my lips. James tracks the motion of my tongue with the eyes of a predator. “No. After I met you at the café.”

His lips part. Astonished, he gazes down at me.

I grumble, “Don’t judge me.”

“I’m not judging you. Fuck, Olivia, I am not judging you.” He laughs. “Especially considering I did the exact same thing.”

I peer at him, unconvinced.

Seeing my narrow-eyed look, he laughs again. He kisses my neck and jaw, chuckling against my skin, his stubble tickling me. “It was this ripe peach that did it,” he murmurs, squeezing my butt again. “You walked away from me and my dick got so fucking hard watching this ass sway that I had to go into the café’s restroom and jerk myself off.”

I shove at his chest. “That’s a bald-faced lie!”

“No, sweetheart. It’s the God’s honest truth.”

He kisses me, his mouth hard and demanding, his heart crashing against my breasts. Then he rolls off me, flicks on the lamp on the nightstand, and stands at the side of the bed looking down.

“Tell me what I did to you in your fantasy,” he says in a low, urgent voice, shucking off his jacket and tossing it carelessly aside. “Tell me exactly what I did.”

He whips off his shirt while I stare at him, feeling electrocuted.

And scared as shit.

I swallow and try not to hyperventilate as I watch him kick off his shoes, peel off his socks, unbuckle his belt, and rip off his trousers. If there’s a speed record for undressing, he’s about to break it.

Then he’s standing there in all his glory wearing only a pair of black briefs. An enormous bulge distends the front.

The sight of his gorgeous body must be crossing all the wires in my brain, because I say, “You fucked me like you owned me, body and soul.”

Without breaking eye contact with me, he palms his erection, squeezing it through his briefs then stroking his hand up and down the length. “Go on.”

His voice is controlled but strain shows on his face. His muscles are all tensed, as if he’s restraining himself from lunging.

Heat blooms over my skin, prickling all the tiny hairs on my body. A fine tremor runs through my stomach. I lie motionless on my back, watching this aroused, beautiful man fight himself not to pounce on me, and feel more powerful than I have in my life.

“You were on top of me. Fucking me. Hard.”

His jaw muscles flex. He slides his hand under the elastic waistband of his briefs and grasps his jutting erection. Even surrounded by his big hand, it looks huge.

My voice comes out breathy. “You fucked me like that until I was about to come, then you flipped me over and put me on my knees and fucked me from behind.”

He begins to stroke his bare cock, running his hand up and down the shaft, thick and veined. All the veins in his arms are standing out, too, and so is one in his neck that’s throbbing.

“Then you spanked me, over and over as you fucked me, until I came, screaming into the pillow.”

He says sharply, “You said you’d never been spanked before.”

“I hadn’t.”

“But you fantasized about me doing it?”

“Yes.”

His eyelids drift lower. His hand moves faster. He stands still, stroking himself, watching me, his chest moving erratically up and down.

The cotton T-shirt I wore to bed rubs against my hard nipples with every inhalation I take. I’m aware of a heaviness between my legs, a tingle quickly turning into an ache.

James commands, “Sit up,” and my heartbeat goes haywire.

I follow his instruction, folding my legs underneath me and waiting for his next command as I struggle to keep my breathing even.

With his free hand, he motions me forward. I crawl to the edge of the bed, then fold my legs underneath me again, looking up at him, my entire body trembling.

He says softly, “On your hands and knees.”

I exhale in a gust. Then I do as I’m told, acutely aware of every inch of skin on my body. My nerves are singing. My blood pounds through my veins.

Still stroking his erection, James moves closer to the edge of the bed until his cock is inches away from my face.

I can’t look away from it. My vision narrows to a tunnel, at the end of which is a huge, beautiful dick, standing proudly erect with a small bead of moisture welling at the slit in the crown.

James grasps my jaw in his free hand and forces me to look up at him.

His eyes are dark and wild.

He says gruffly, “You’re going to suck my cock and play with your pussy while I spank your ass, sweetheart. Are you ready?”

A thrill like terror blasts through me. But it’s not terror, it’s elation, the shock of how much I want this scorching through me like nuclear wind.

Quaking, I whisper, “I’m ready.”

My dark commander rewards me with a dangerous smile.