Elizabeth Finn - Restoring Jordan

When he stands in front of me, he lets me touch him and stroke him for a few moments before pulling my hand from his body and then pulling me to stand in front of him. Leaning to my ear, he lets me in on his plan. “We’re going to watch as we make love.” I freeze in his arms, and he must sense it as he continues. “Don’t be nervous. You’re beautiful and you have nothing to be ashamed of with me.” He looks to my eyes and I nod. I’m not really reassured, but I’m not going to stop him. I’ll do just about anything to get him inside of my body right now, and if that means playing his game, so be it.

He turns our bodies and sits in the chair as I stand in front of him. He’s stroking his length as he runs his other hand up the side of my leg, and leaning forward, he kisses my stomach and holds my waist with his hand before letting it trail over the cheek of my bottom. “Turn around and straddle me.” He’s looking to my eyes now, gauging my reaction and my fear. There’s plenty of it, but I’m also so desperate to have him inside of me that while my heart pounds in my chest, my body moves into position. I’m hovering over his groin, facing the mirror, and though I hate myself for doing it, I can’t help but look to my figure with judgment. Why should I be so self-critical when he obviously doesn’t criticize me?

He’s still stroking his length with his free hand at my waist, and the muscles of my thighs are strained as I hold myself awkwardly above him. He guides me with his hand at my waist to his rigid shaft, and he guides his cock to my entry and pulls my hips over the head of his penis. My entry distends around his breadth, and as I continue to take in the sight of us I sink to his groin, taking every last inch of his length into my body. The view is incredible. His breadth takes over the junction of my thighs, and the distention of my sex shows his girth incredibly. As I sit on his lap, he nuzzles my neck and gazes at the sight of our joined bodies over my shoulder. He’s still inside of me and holds our bodies tight together for many long moments, simply looking.

He rolls his hips forward, thrusting the remainder of the way to my depth. It’s painful and deep but intense, and as he relaxes his hips once more, he slides back out of my entry. His hands hold my hips, and he lifts slightly as he retreats farther from my body before pulling my groin back to his and rolling his hips forward once again to plunge deep to my core. I let out a strangled moan as the invasion bruises my insides. He continues our strokes in this way until I take over for his hands and lift and sink from his body on my own. He watches the penetration and retreat as closely as I do, and the sight of our unsheathed joining is powerfully intimate.

With his hands no longer necessary on my hips, one is on my breast and the other strokes my clitoris, and at his touch my most intimate muscles clamp down tight on him, and he releases a loud moan in my ear. He tortures and plucks both my nipple and my clitoris as my muscles clench and movements quicken. The moment I come, he lifts me with a hand under each thigh, leans back in his chair and starts pounding into me. He’s still watching our bodies in the mirror as he drives into me, and with one final, incredibly deep thrust, he releases himself inside of me. He’s grunting as he spasms within me, and I’m gasping for breath. He gently thrusts into my body as his relaxes, and as we both watch, his seed seeps around our joined sexes, and he groans quietly against my ear.

When our movements finally slow and still and our breathing has relaxed, he lifts my hips from his, and he helps me to my feet. His semen spills from my depths and runs down the inside of my naked thighs, and as I turn to face him he leans to my stomach and kisses trails across the soft skin as his hands caress. His fingers find the wetness that has trickled down my thighs, and he runs his fingers through it, returning them to my sex. He touches and strokes through his seed, plunging his fingers within me and trailing the cum out across my stomach and legs. When he finally stops playing in the mess he made of me, he stands and pulls my body into his, holding me in a tight embrace for many long minutes.

The phone rings for the first time since the entire company except for me departed, and as I hurry across the room to catch it, he watches me smiling. I talk to a client, telling them nothing our phone system couldn’t have told them—everyone is out for the afternoon—and when I hang up his hands are on my back. He wipes my skin clean with a warm washcloth I’m guessing Bridget will eventually discover is missing from the sample inventory. I turn, and watch him wipe every last ounce of his semen from my skin and his as well.

When we’re de-seeded—he ended up with as much on him as I did—and reclothed, I return to my project, and he sits across from me at the worktable, watching and occasionally commenting. He doesn’t leave my side until it’s time to leave for the day, and we stop for a quick dinner on the way to my place. He follows me in and stays for the rest of the evening and night, not leaving until early the next morning to go home and change.

“Well we’re going to be in town tomorrow night, and we just thought we’d like to take you to dinner.”

“I see. And how long are you staying?”

“Just one night. We’re on our way to Hawaii for vacation. You know, we’re just so busy, we never have any time to take for ourselves, and we just decided it was time.” Disgust hits my senses at her words. They’re so busy they have no time to do anything, and when they finally get around to doing something for “themselves” they decide to spend it in Hawaii rather than spending it with their son whom they haven’t seen in nearly two years. I suppose I should be grateful for the one evening they’re sparing for me, but I’m not. I’m just hurt. Not that I expected anything better from them.

In a momentary lapse of judgment, or perhaps it was a moment of clarity, I make a decision. “Mother, I’m bringing someone with me. I’ll meet you at the restaurant. Tell Father I said hello, and I’ll see you tomorrow.” I hang up with no further comment. I’m irritated, and I’m angry. I shouldn’t subject Adeline to their bullshit, but I also want her with me. She calms me, and she cares for me more than my parents ever have, and I need her beside me.

When I left her this morning to run home and shower before work, it was still dark. The ridiculousness of living apart from her when all I want is to be with her was profound as I exited her apartment to the darkness of early morning. I’m like some high school punk sneaking out of his girlfriend’s bedroom window. I shouldn’t have to abandon her like this. I should be able to wake with her, make love to her, shower with her, eat breakfast with her, drive to work with her, before starting my day with her. That’s the life I want—with her.

It’s now ten, and we’re meeting in the lobby to go furniture shopping for some last-minute pieces for the model unit. The project is wrapping up, and the final touches are ready to be put in place. The finish carpenters are working on the trim, and early next week the furniture will arrive. The fixtures we were asked to swap for cheaper ones are in, and while we both grumble and grown every time we see them, they don’t take away from her design. She did an amazing job, and my most favorite part of any day is watching her walk into our project and discover what new piece to the puzzle has arrived or been installed. Her face lights up as she sees her design come together, and my face lights up seeing her joy.

Monday will signify the start of her last two weeks at Foster’s, and I’ll have to have my performance appraisal of her work to her department head by the end of the week. Foster assigned it to me rather than Vera as Adeline has worked for me alone for the entirety of her time here, and I thank God for this favor. She’ll get glowing reviews from me and not just because I happen to be infatuated with her. She deserves the very best ratings I could give her, and my ethical conscience is at ease knowing she’s earned her way here at Foster’s.

When she enters the lobby, my heart flutters as it always does when she’s around. Her step is light, and she looks carefree and young. She’s wearing a sundress and cropped cardigan. The dress is a light sky blue with a full skirt and fitted bodice, and the cardigan is navy. She’s wearing a striking pair of ruby-red patent-leather flats, and the image of myself lifting her and pushing her against the wall as I pound into her body floats through my head as my groin tightens in want. Instead, I open the door like a gentleman, nod to our receptionist as we leave, and walk her, without touching, to my waiting car. Once we’re a block away, I stroke the soft skin of her fingers before lacing her fingers with mine.

She’s still received no job offers, hell no invitations to interview, from any firms in Chicago, and I will have to break down and beg her to stay before too long, and I will if I have to. She deserves to know how I feel about her, and there are times when we’re alone together I’m nearly overcome with the need to confess. I hear the words being spoken, and they sit on the tip of my tongue, ready to tumble out of my mouth, but I don’t utter a word. My hands clench as I will my mouth to move, and I open and close my mouth like a half-dead fish struggling to breath out of water. But the words just won’t come out.

I don’t have a single memory of my parents every uttering the words “I love you” to me, and I have not a single memory of my lips ever saying the words. Even married, I became good at not shying away when my ex-wife spoke those words to me, but I never reciprocated beyond saying, “me too.” It was the most I could muster, and now I’m bitter and angry at my parents for never caring enough about me to equip me for this.

She’s waiting for some sign from me. Caring for me terrifies her. But I also know she wants to. She’s afraid to go out on a limb with a man who picked her up in a bar and made it clear she was nothing more than a onetime event, and I don’t hold even a single ounce of resentment toward her for not throwing herself at me. She’s waiting. She’s waiting for me.

As we’re strolling around a great vintage furniture store near Market Street, I bring up dinner with my parents. She freezes midstep and looks at me. Her expression is indiscernible and leaves me vulnerable and ready to backpedal out of my words. “Your parents?”

A salesman shows up at just this moment, as they always do, and we end up buying a couch, a side table, and a lamp before scheduling delivery for Monday and leaving the store together. I want to reach for her hand, and normally I would, but my vulnerability and insecurity haven’t passed, and I’m terrified to touch her. But she’s not afraid to touch me, and as her fingers take mine the tension melts, and I turn, pulling her into my arms in the middle of the sidewalk.

We’re near enough to our favorite little café, and we walk hand in hand there for lunch, and the moment the host seats us she sets my mind at ease. “Of course I’ll go to dinner. I was just surprised they were in town. How long has it been since you’ve seen them?”

The heat I always enjoy seeing in her cheeks is suddenly creeping into mine. Very little embarrasses me in life, and usually not even my parents do, but when it comes to Adeline my upbringing pales so disastrously to hers, and I am embarrassed. I want her to think the world of me, and her soft, concerned eyes show pity instead. It isn’t that I don’t appreciate her obvious compassion, but it leaves me once again vulnerable and humiliated. “I don’t know. About two years maybe…” I murmur as my eyes drop from hers. “They’re just stopping for an evening on their way to Hawaii for a vacation.”

Her expression flashes with pain and anger. “They stop for one night to see you before going to Hawaii for a vacation?” She looks incredulous. Her small, unassuming self looks like she’s ready to fight someone for my honor.

But as her anger builds, mine does too. I don’t like that she’s upset. It’s a reminder she sees my pathetic existence, and in emotion I don’t quite understand, my anger directs itself at her. “They’re busy, Adeline. I mean, they’re stopping to see me. What do you think they ought to do, never take a vacation?” I’m cursing myself in my head even as the words fall out of my mouth. I’m angry, but she’s done nothing wrong! I don’t want her to have to fight for me. I don’t want her to see my imperfection. Her anger toward my parents is more like a judgment toward me, and yet logic tells me it’s not. I’m being irrational, but I can’t stifle it. I am hurt by her, but there’s no reason to be.