6: In Which She Wants to Talk

6: In Which She Wants to Talk

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My Boyfriend Calls Me Names during Sex

Dear Amor,

My boyfriend of four years is the sweetest person I know. He treats me right, takes care of me and makes a decent amount of money doing something he loves. Our sex life has always been all right. We have sex at least three times a week. However, he’s taken to calling me vulgar names during intercourse. I’m not turned on by name-calling and want to know what’s brought this sudden change and if I should tell him I don’t like it or not. I don’t want to hurt his feelings. Please help. Zoe – NT

I took a long swig of my coffee, setting the mug back down on the coaster. Zoe from Newtown was bitching about nothing. So what if her boyfriend called her a bítch when he climaxed? Shaking my head, I began drafting my reply to her. Josie Sheffield, the editor-in-chief of Iron Woman, ran through all the pieces before they went to print. She was a nice enough woman, all blonde curls and wrinkles. At forty-seven, she was exactly twenty years my senior, yet I really liked her.

I skimmed through more agony-aunt emails and drafted replies to the interesting ones, like ‘bestiality fantasies’ and ‘my transvestite boyfriend’. By noon, I was tired. My neck and back ached from being hunched over my laptop since seven and my eyes were itchy from staring at the screen too long.

“Beats getting cursed at by disgruntled listeners,” I muttered to myself, taking my mug to the kitchen. I was supposed to have lunch at Grace’s but lately, my weekends were usually spent doing other things.

Speaking of which...

I tiptoed into my bedroom and smiled. Ashton looked like a big kid when he was asleep. He slept on his back, his arms tangled in the sheets. Hair tousled and long-lashed eyes closed, he let out a soft snore. The gentle noise tore me from my thoughts and I quickly slipped out my room.

What the hell am I doing?

Watching someone sleep was more than intimate. It silently spoke of infatuation. I couldn’t be infatuated by Ashton West. That was crazy. He was an escort.

Yes, an escort you're sleeping with now.

Weeks had passed since the first time and I wasn’t any closer to feeling less guilty about it. I could not be infatuated by a man I paid to be in my company.

I forced out a laugh and got started on lunch. Ashton loved sleeping in. Correction – he loved staying in bed. I learned that he could make love until our limbs cried out from overuse. And then he passed out and didn’t stir until the smell of my cooking roused him.

At the back of my mind, I knew that what was going on between us, however electric it was, was absolutely wrong. Ashton worked for Monty and I had to contact Monty for his time. The fact that he was here on a regular basis – and not to take me out anywhere – was a betrayal of Monty’s trust. Then there was the little reality that I was still paying per date. Ashton sure as hell wasn’t refusing the money, although, yes, in essence I was paying Monty, who would give Ashton his cut, but still – he was getting money out of me.

“When I’m in your bed, I’m yours,” he’d said, but that didn’t change the fact that I was still paying him.

Stop. Stop analysing things before you realise that you should cut your losses.

My conscience was right. But it was wrong at the same time. I had to cut my losses. Besides, there was nothing wrong with appearing in public without a man at my side. This was the twenty-first century, after all.

“What time is it?” Ashton groaned, his voice startling me. Wrapping his arms around my waist, he pressed his lips against my nape.

“Almost one,” I replied, spinning around and slinking my arms around his neck.

He leaned in and kissed me forcefully, his lips claiming mine. Before I knew it, everything in the kitchen ceased to exist, except for the feel of his mouth against mine. The feel of his tongue sliding past the seam of my lips to duel with mine.

“Should’ve woken me up,” he breathed as he pulled away, a hand cupping the curve of my breast.

This is what I live for now.

I shrugged out of my bathrobe, the swathe of silk falling to my feet. “You looked tired,” I teased, fingering the waistband of his boxers.

“Tired? Babe, please. Ashton West doesn’t know the meaning of that word.” His boxers came off and I pushed myself against him, eager to have him inside me. There was no other man I would trust to be inside me without a cond0m.

With no qualms, Ashton obliged, picking me up and setting me on the edge of the counter. Slowly, almost lazily, Ashton plunged himself into me. I threaded my hands through his unruly hair, tugging him toward me, pressing his mouth against my bare chest. His slow, precise thrusts were agonising. Each sensation he caused threatened to drive me insane. I wasn’t a screamer – it was something I'd thought was supposed to stay in blue movies – but when I was with Ashton, the only thing I did was scream: His name, curses; anything. He had turned me into his filthy wh0re and I loved it.

My hands hungrily grabbed his shoulders, nails digging into the soft skin. I felt his entire being tense and then relax as he climaxed, his hands tight around my waist. His orgasm set of mine and I fell apart in his arms, breathing heavily.

“I keep forgetting what that’s like,” I murmured, sighing as he lifted me of the countertop and set me on the ground. The cold linoleum was a relief to the heat that seared my entire body.

Ashton pushed a strand of hair out of my face. “What?”

“Not having to fake an orgasm,” I lied. Quickly, I stooped to claim my robe, wrapping it around me. “I, um, have to finish cooking. You're a distraction.”

He smiled mischievously, raising his hands in defeat. “Yeah, yeah. Go ahead. I need a smoke.”

My brow furrowed. “I thought you were quitting.”

His face clouded over. “I said I was trying.”

“Sure, but –”

“But nothing, Amor.” His voice was like a knife. “You’re not my mother.” And he stalked out of the kitchen, leaving me glaring at his retreating back.

***

“How’s work?” my mother asked, squinting at her crossword and sipping on a glass of lemonade. Her feet were propped up on a small wooden stool and the sun made her seem ten years younger. She loved being outdoors on the patio.

“Work’s fine,” I said vaguely, staring out at the lawn. Anthony, the gardener, was pruning my mother’s prized hydrangeas. She didn’t have the energy to pick her flowers anymore so, when I could, I brought them to her.

“Another word for field, Amor,” Mum said detachedly, eyes focused on the paper. “Six letters.”

“Meadow,” I said automatically, picking at the hem of my dress.

She squealed. “Right. I should’ve gotten that. Your grandfather owned a meadow. He sold it when Grace was two. It was my favourite place in the whole wide world...”

She put down her crossword and got the faraway look on her face that made Grace shake her head and contemplate calling an old-age home.

“Rabbits and cows and goats,” Mom said softly. “It was lovely to live in the countryside. Just lovely.” She sighed, returning to earth. “Grace wants me to sell this house.”

At that, I felt my face harden. “She what?”

“She says it’s much too big for me and...perhaps she’s right.”

“This is Dad’s place. Was,” I amended soberly. “It’s the family home, for shít’s sake.”

My mother’s eyebrows raised. “Watch your language, Amor Page.”

“Sorry, Mum.” Clearly Ashton’s beginning to rub off on me. “It’s just that...you can’t sell this place. There are too many memories here.”

“And too many ghosts.”

I stared at my mother. Perhaps it was my imagination but did her skin suddenly look too papery? Too fragile? Too old?

Yes, the house was huge. Huge and ancient. But she had help. There was Maggie, the elderly maid who’d been with us since Grace’s first steps; Francine, my mother’s nurse; and Anthony, the sweet, old gardener. The house was far from empty. My mother could survive in it. It wasn’t as if she was on her own. Grace was being a stuffy tight-arsed bítch as usual.

“Mum, are you happy?” The words were timid, even to my own ears. I was afraid of what the answer would be.

“Are you?” she countered, her eyes dancing. She let out a yawn, leaning back in her tatty old armchair. “Siesta time, sweetheart.”

I was stuck on her question. Was I happy?

*

“There are a few things I’d like to discuss with you.” I took a long sip of the red wine I’d ordered five minutes after sitting down. Dutch courage.

Ashton’s face was a picture of boredom as he regarded me from across the table. “Is this supposed to be a business meeting?” He loosened his tie, glancing around at the casually dressed diners. “Great spot.”

Count to five, Amor. Don’t explode and make a scene. “I speak to everyone this way.”

“Not when you’re screaming my name.” Ashton picked up a menu then, thinking better of it, set it back down on the table. He sent me a look, gauging my reaction. “Sorry, that was immature.”

I smoothed the red-and-white checked tablecloth, reddening. “Don’t worry about it.”

“So...what do you want to discuss?” He was all ears now, looking serious.

I cleared my throat, suddenly at a loss for words. When I’d booked him for the evening, I’d told Monty that we were going out to ‘some black-tie event’. However, Oliver’s was a far cry from that. Strictly speaking, it was a burger joint, and Ashton was overdressed in a charcoal-grey suit and black tie. I’d gone the smart-casual route: A sea-blue cotton dress and pumps. I should’ve informed him.

“I don’t think it’s a very good idea for us to sleep together anymore,” I said confidently, belying the swirl of cold panic I was feeling inside. What would I do without the early-morning orgasms? The taste of him in my mouth? The illusion that I wasn’t the Amor Page from so long ago?

Ashton’s mouth opened as if to say something but closed again. A smile tore across his face. “You’re right.”

Well, that was easier than I thought, I mused, mystified by the disappointment stinging me.

“I’m glad you agree.” I forced a smile onto my face. “We can go back to the normal agreement. Which reminds me, I hope you –” I broke off when I noticed the look on his face. “What?”

“I believe I’ve dropped my fork,” he said, his voice strange.

“Then pick it up?”

“Exactly what I was thinking.” And he disappeared under the tablecloth.

Fortunately, a six-foot giant in a suit slipping under the table in search of a piece of cutlery wasn’t interesting enough for the patrons of Oliver’s. No one paid us any attention and I patiently waited for Ashton to come up, tapping my fingertips on the table.

I felt something brush against my thigh and jumped, knocking my knees against the table. Peering under, I was shocked to find that Ashton’s hands were there.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I hissed, glancing around me and wondering if people thought I was mumbling to myself like a bag lady.

Ashton didn’t answer. Instead, he softly kissed both my knees and pulled the tablecloth back down. My heart was racing. I didn’t know what he was capable of but I did know that he was unpredictable, like a crazed typhoon.

When his hands traced the inside of my thighs, I dissolved, gripping the edge of the table. A thin smile was pasted on my face as I met a passing waiter’s eyes. I squeezed them shut, now actually mumbling to myself.

God, please help me.

My legs were spread apart and to be honest, I did little to rebel. I was putty in his hands. Kissing his way to the crotch of my damp panties, Ashton used his fingers to push them aside. I swallowed hard, my mouth dry, bracing myself for what was to come.

He didn’t disappoint.

He played with my labia, spreading them apart before running his tongue along my opening. My insides went liquid and a strangled moan left my lips. Ashton mashed his face into his task, his hands on my hips under the table. I suddenly couldn’t breathe and it took all my willpower not to rotate my hips and urge him to go deeper. Eyes still shut, I held onto that table like it was a lifebuoy and I was sinking; sinking into a pool of seventh heaven. Ashton furiously sucked on my clít like it was a third nipple, drawing me into his mouth and giving me one of the most unbelievable, eye-opening – literally – climaxes of my life.

I was still gasping for air when our waiter appeared at our table, a smile on his round, chubby face.

“Are you ready to order, ma’am?” he said brightly, pen and pad in hand.

I shook my head and his brow furrowed.

“Are you okay, ma’am?” He glanced at Ashton’s empty seat. “Is he coming back?”

Ashton popped out from under the table, fork in hand. “Dropped this.”

“I could get you a new one, sir.”

“That’s okay,” Ashton said cheerfully, his eyes on me. “I’ve already eaten.”