A Taste of Utopia Read online

  At times like this, I question the wisdom of getting further involved with her. But I am unable to resist. I’m blinded to anything other than Lottie.

  Emotions I don’t recall ever feeling are carving a place inside my chest. These feelings are like corn kernels bursting open when heated. They tumble and bump over one another in a fast and unorderly series of pops. A cosmic explosion of feelings. And my chest is expanding, swelling to accommodate them all.

  I guide her to the bathroom. After turning the water on, I say, “I want to take you pressed against the wall, your sweet pussy hot and tight around my cock, your mouth crying out my name.”

  She gasps, her eyes dilate, and her face flushes red. Oh, how I enjoy arousing a woman. How beautiful it is to awaken dormant desires, unveil exotic fantasies, break self-imposed bias, or unlock invisible shackles that prevent people from achieving nirvana.

  “Get in,” I command softly.

  She obeys.

  After so many years working as an escort, I have acquired a particular skill. After only a few minutes with a woman, I detect her uttermost desires. The dark and gritty ones. The unacknowledged desires hidden deep within the prism of the soul, those that lurk in the shadowed corners of the heart.

  It is as if it emanates out of her pores directly into my nostrils. I inhale the knowledge deeply and use it to provide a woman with unfathomable sexual completion.

  I step under the jet and close my eyes. A cloud of steam engulfs my body, awakens my senses. Rivulets of water stream down my skin, creating a burning path. But what excites me the most is the intensity in Lottie’s eyes as they examine my body.

  Knowing she is inexperienced, I allow her time to peruse my form.

  When my eyes flash open, her gaze meets mine. Her lids are heavy. Her lower lip captured between her teeth.

  “Wash me,” I order.

  Her nervous eyes flicker to the soap and back to me. Oh, how I like that she’s shy.

  I hold up the bar of soap, handing it to her. She reaches for the washcloth, but my hand stops the movement. “No, I want to feel your touch on every inch of my skin.”

  A visible shiver runs through her body. My dick throbs in anticipation.

  Her trembling fingers circle the bar of soap, allowing it to spin under her palm and lather up.

  I take a step away from the jet. We’re a foot apart. My body is an offering at her alter to use for her pleasure.

  Her hand, small and soft, strokes my chest lightly. A growl roars on the back of my throat, the sound empowering her. A savage desire covers her pupils.

  I close my eyes. She continues with the soft sweep of her hands, across my chest, over my shoulder, along my arm and elbow, down to my fingertips, and back on the inside of my arm. Her fingers squeeze the bulge on my biceps and glide over the sensitive skin of my underarm. Damn, her fingers weave through the hair under my armpits and that alone has to be the most sensual and arousing touch I have ever experienced.

  After the other side of my body receives the same treatment, I turn offering my back. I hear her fumbling with something, and then she pours shampoo over my hair. Her fingers follow. They firmly massage my scalp. And I swear I have to keep another groan from leaving my lips. What’s wrong with me?

  She finishes the task and pauses so I can rinse. Good, I need the reprieve to gather my self-control.

  When I step back within her reach, my back brushes against the peaks of her breasts. They are erect, hard like pebbles. I resist the urge to turn and pull them into my mouth. This is Lottie’s time.

  Her fingers find my upper back, rubbing in circles, slow and tantalizing. They glide down to my lower back, hesitating before reaching my bottom. I reach back and find her trembling fingers. A gasp escapes her lips. I cover the back of her hand with mine placing it on my butt cheek and moving it in a circling motion. When she seems comfortable in touching me so intimately, I slide her fingers in between the globes. Her hand jerks a little, but she doesn’t withdraw.

  I have never done something like this before. I never liked, nor have I ever been aroused by anal play—not mine anyhow. But this is beyond lust or sex. The intimacy of the act is intoxicating. Delirious.

  She proceeds to lather the back of my thighs and calves.

  I swirl around and face her. Since she is kneeling on the shower floor, her face is aligned directly with my erection. It takes the strength of Hercules to keep me from shoving my dick inside her parted lips.

  I pray she will finish washing me quickly. A man can only hold back so much.

  She responds to my silent plea, and before I can register what’s happening her fingers move down to my happy trail, leaving suds and a burning sensation in their wake. The pads of her fingers brush the tip of my dick.

  “Fuck,” I growl. All the muscles of my body coil in a sweet torment.

  Her fingers, slick from the soap, glides down my shaft. I groan. She adds a little pressure to her grip around the base of my dick.

  The savage beast I have been keeping locked in breaks loose.

  I grab under her arms, pull her up, and press her back against the marble wall. My mouth crashes hers on a frenetic assault. My hand frantically seeks her sex.

  “Baby, your cunt is so hot,” I say, rubbing my thumb on her clit and sliding two fingers inside her swollen pussy. “So ready for my cock,” I growl with my tongue tracing the shell of her ear to find the erogenous spot behind it.

  “Seth,” she cries, tightening her grip on my hair and riding my hand. My lips continue to slide down, paying homage to the silky skin of her neck, her shoulder. I bite and suck hard, marking what’s mine.

  Her body shakes uncontrollably. She has reached the brink of a precipice. I stop and withdraw my hand.

  Her eyes flash open, a whimper leaves her mouth.

  “We’re going to come as one,” I say in a feral rasp.

  I collect the condom I had previously placed beside the bottle of shampoo and sheath myself in record time.

  Her legs wrap around my hips. I position my cock on her scorching opening. With one long and deep thrust, I sink into her. That’s when I accept the truth: I’m spellbound. On that night, under Ursa Major, this woman put a spell on me.

  I drive inside her fiercely, uncontrollably, ferociously. With all of me. I’m a man rediscovering the scope, breadth, width, and complexity of being alive.

  Lottie’s back arches against the wall, her legs in a tight vice around me. Her hands grab my biceps on either side.

  I take her lips captive. My tongue invades her mouth, seeking touch, contact.

  As my hips continue plunging, she trembles and her muscles coil. A groan leaves her mouth. I devour it. The steam intensifies the scent of sex and soap. I inhale deeply, relishing every breath.

  Her narrow pussy contracts around me. Her mouth cries my name repeatedly.

  My body quivers. My dick jerks. Every muscle in my body twists and tenses as if ready to snap. A powerful release follows. A bone-deep charge of sensorial lushness permeates through my body as if it had just been struck by a lightning bolt of pleasure.

  Oblivious to time, I keep our bodies united and bury my face in the crook of her neck.

  Our breaths start to calm as our bodies descend from the cloud of lust. My hazed eyes slowly refocus on the gray veins of the white marble wall. My mind sluggishly attempts to gear up and understand the rawness and vulnerability that’s resulted from the mating of our bodies.

  “Tell me you felt that,” I say in a whisper barely above the sound of the water.

  “I felt that,” she says, her head nodding against my chest.

  “I don’t know what it is. But it’s real.” It was as if the sky parted and a vortex of secret pleasures lifted me up, sucked me in, and swirled me up in the air, leaving me exposed to the unknown.

  I wonder if Lottie really felt it. In those five seconds of orgasm, I swear I was certain I was going to die. It was an explosion of nuclear proportions with the aftermath rendering me he
lpless. Like a worn out seashell that, because of the constant pounding of the waves against the sand, has become so fragile that the slightest touch can pulverize it.

  Silently, we separate our bodies and resume the washing. The mundane task almost anticlimactic after the rapture of pleasure we just experienced.

  Once we are dried and dressed, we return to the previously abandoned breakfast. Lottie is avoiding eye contact. I’m relieved for it. I need to get a rein on my thoughts and feelings. And I think she does too.

  Lottie

  SETH IS RAISING up a wall between us. It’s so tangible I can almost touch it. For some reason, after the shower he looks different. Pensive and withdrawn.

  By no means have I ever wanted my life to turn into an insta-love romance novel. However, I acknowledge that there is an active and rare force connecting us. It runs deeper than the explosive body chemistry we have. It runs deeper than the unbearable lust I feel whenever my eyes find him.

  I risk a glance in his direction. He eats a plate containing most members of the berry family. His eyes remain distant, aloof.

  A tight hand squeezes my heart. Did I do something wrong? My mind mulls over our morning. Other than the snooping he witnessed earlier, it comes up empty.

  “I want to show you around town, but I need to stop at the office first. Is that okay?” he asks curtly.

  “Yeah, sure.” I sip from my juice. “What is this?” I ask in a lame attempt to make conversation.

  “Beets, carrots, oranges,” he replies. “No sugar added.”

  “It’s delicious.”

  “Healthy,” he adds.

  “You really are health conscious, huh?” I remember him mentioning it.

  “Yeah, you can say that.”

  “Do you ever eat any junk food?”

  “Definitely,” he says, wrinkling his nose. “I have an unhealthy addiction to Nutella,” he confesses like he just admitted to shooting up heroin.

  “Oh my, I’ve married a junkie,” I say with a mocking outraged tone.

  “The truth is sugar is an awful drug. It promotes diabetes, obesity, and heart disease. It suppresses the immune system, causes inflammation of brain cells that it is believed to be linked to dementia. Not to mention it’s responsible for premature aging of skin cells. That’s just a small summary.”

  “Wow, your honor. The defense requires a moment to better prepare a response,” I say. If he sees the interior of my dorm’s fridge, he’ll file for divorce due to irreconcilable differences.

  “Sorry. That was pushy.”

  “No, no. Just passionate.” I drink the delicious red liquid. “You’ll get along well with my mom. She’s not as opposed to sugar as you are, but she’s a firm believer in Hippocrates’ principle: ‘Let thy food be thy medicine and thy medicine be thy food.’”

  “Yep, I have a feeling we’ll get along just fine,” he agrees with a charming grin.

  God, he’s handsome. It should be illegal to be that good-looking.

  AFTER PARKING THE car, Seth links our fingers and we walk down the strip, heading to his office. I’ve yet to find out what my husband does for a living.

  “This way,” he says, pointing to the door of a commercial building in a prime location. We cross the lobby, and several people greet Seth by name.

  As we wait for the elevator, Seth makes small conversation with a tall blonde beauty. Needless to say, he’s just acting his usual self, all flirt and charm. I’m not sure I like the way he interacts with her.

  No, I lie. I hate the way he interacts with her. I try to talk myself out of it. I’m not the dramatic, jealous type. Wait a minute! Since my dating experience is almost non-existent, I don’t know which type I am.

  Am I the jealous, neurotic type? God, I hope not. It would be mortifying.

  We enter the elevator. Seth pushes the sixty-six button. The car ascends. He glances at me and his eyes become inquiring. “What’s wrong?”

  “Huh? Nothing,” I reply, with an exaggerated gleeful tone to my voice.

  “Really? You look upset.”

  “Oh, um, no. Not really. Elevators. It makes me a little jittery,” I lie.

  “I see.” He doesn’t appear convinced but doesn’t push further.

  “This is us,” he says, clasping my hands again.

  We exit the elevator, and he guides me to the last door down the hall. A small plaque on the door reads. His Secret. The name is familiar, but it takes me a moment to remember where it’s from. Finally, I recall Chloe and other girls salivating over pictures of two men clad in white underwear in an advertisement for the brand. Currently, His Secret is the most expensive and exclusive line of male intimate apparel.

  “You work for this company?”

  He nods with a small smile and pushes the door open. Inside, we cross a spacious lobby. A receptionist greets us from behind a glass table. “Good morning, Seth. Good morning, miss.” He flashes his perfectly pearly teeth at me. And I mumble a greeting.

  He’s immaculately dressed in a navy blue suit, and I swear he appears to have just stepped out of a GQ photo shoot. His brown eyes exam me briefly, but don’t give away any emotion.

  “Good morning, Fernando. Is Zach in yet?”

  “No, but he called to say he’ll be in after lunch. I prepared all the documents requiring your signature for Japan’s campaign. It’s over on your desk.”

  “Anything else requiring my attention? I’ll be unavailable for the next two weeks,” Seth says, all business-like.

  “In fact, we need your approval for the New York advertisement. So I called Max and had him send the proofs. They’re also on your desk.”

  “Thank you,” Seth says.

  Two doors are located on either side of the Fernando’s desk. Seth guides me to the one on the left.

  He pushes it open and ushers me in.

  I’m not surprised when I see the clean and sterile interior of the office. Besides the rich brown desk and shelves, the room is sleek, clean, and modern. Huge windows allow the daylight to brighten the room and offer a privileged view of the strip.

  “Make yourself comfortable, I just need a few minutes,” Seth says, sitting behind the massive desk. “If you want something to drink, help yourself.” He points to a small fridge tucked in the corner. I wonder what healthy stuff he has stocked in it.

  “Thank you. And take all the time you need. I’m going to call Chloe.”

  In a far corner of the office, near a window with a magnificent view of the strip, I call Chloe. She is livid when I tell her I’ll be spending the week with Seth.

  “You barely know this guy,” she argues.

  “That’s why I need to spend time with him. Imagine introducing him to my family without knowing anything about him. My parents would know right away that something’s off.”

  “God, Lottie. I’m so freaking worried about you, and all this. Why did I ever take you here, or to Neptune? Or encourage you to have sex with a stranger? I’m the worst kind of friend. The worst.”

  “Please stop acting like this is something awful and that I’m your responsibility. Jesus, it’s not like Seth is a psycho or something. I’m at his office right now; you’re not going to believe what he does for a living.”

  “He took you to his office?” she screams. “He has one? What kind of office would that be? And you’re okay with that?”

  “How do you suppose I’m going to get to know him? Of course I’m okay with coming to his office.” Her overreaction irritates me. “And it’s the only kind of office there is. The kind that someone sits behind a desk and does work at. Jeez, Chloe, chill out. I’m a big girl.”

  “Sorry. I got carried away.”

  “Anyway, remember that line of male intimate apparel called His Secret?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s where he works. Can you believe it?”

  “Small world, I suppose,” she says with less enthusiasm than I anticipated.

  We chat for another few minutes and then hang up. Her de
meanor is worrisome, but I file it away to think about later.

  After I disconnect the call, I wander through the office. First, I approach the windows and admire the strip. The view is fantastic.

  A panel of black and white pictures hanging on a wall attracts me. I’ve seen the photos before. They’re in magazines, on billboards along the highway, on posters at the mall, and glued to the sides of buses. It’s the trademark of the company. Pictures of men wearing undergarments, naked torsos, always omitting the model’s face. Some of the shots display the back of the model’s head or a face under a blur. The anonymity of the models is alluring. A brilliant marketing strategy for a brand calling itself “His Secret.”

  I stand near a picture of two men standing on a beach wearing boxer briefs. One of them is looking directly at the camera. However, his face is swallowed by shadows. I immediately know who he is. I would recognize that body in the dark. It’s Seth. The other model looks like Zach, but I could be wrong.

  I look at Seth. A crease settles between his brows as he scribbles his signature on the papers.

  “Seth, is this you?”

  He glances my way and replies, “Uh-hm. When we first started the company, Zach and I modeled to save money.” He grins. “It turned out the images had a phenomenal marketing acceptance.” He shrugs and points his pen to the picture I’m standing in front of. “That’s from our first campaign in Spain. When we launched His Secret in Europe,” he tells me, and his eyes drop to what appears to be more pictures for advertisement.

  “Wow. This is freaking cool.”

  “What?”

  “It’s like I’ve known you forever. You do know that girls swoon all over the pictures of His Secret, right?” I can’t believe it.

  “That’s the idea.” He winks at me. And that’s when it hits me. My husband is not only the most perfect male specimen I have ever met, but he’s also one of the brains and the bodies behind His Secret.

  I turn back to the panel of pictures and continue to scrutinize them, trying to wrap my mind around the discovery. And the more I think, the more I realize that the discrepancy between us is greater than I had first believed. What on earth could a guy like Seth find in a girl like me?