by Kath C. Eustaquio-Derla
by Brandi Redd

If I have to eat one thing for the rest of my life, it would probably be truffle butter. 71 Gramercy’s warm brioche slices with truffle butter are to die for. I gladly eat the entire platter Matt offers me when we reach his condo in Parañaque. Despite the catfight, the magazine launch was a huge success but given how it looked, I don’t know if I can say the same for its survival in an already saturated market.

But I don’t have the heart to tell these to Matthew, who spent the entire car ride regaling me about the preparations, the event, and the crowd’s reception. He clearly looks like he is finally on cloud nine after weeks in hell. He looks like he can finally relax now that the launch is over. He is starting to look like his old self again.

He opens a bottle of red wine to go with the takeout food from the restaurant. I would have preferred white wine to go with the truffle butter but I don’t want to be a party pooper on what is clearly one of Matthew’s best nights to date. So I finish the truffle and the wine and soon, Matthew’s groping follows.

We make it to the bedroom, leaving a small trail of his clothes on the floor. He takes me to bed with my little black dress still on and takes his time slipping off the very thin straps off my shoulders, kissing my collarbones along the way. After the dress comes off, he turns his attention to the stick-on bra and takes if off with a slight pull of his mouth. I can feel the whiskey shots and glasses of red bubbling inside me and I return the kisses he had been showering me since the late dinner.

As if on cue, I can feel the hair on my back rise to his every touch on my skin. The lace panties feel wet now, tingling with delicious anticipation of what’s to come. Thing is, I always know what’s coming whenever I’m with Matthew. I am very well aware of the routine, but the attraction I feel leaves me wanting more of what I already know.

(Adult content alert! Highlight succeeding text to read.)

As the kisses deepen, his grip feels tighter on my thigh. I try to be coy and extend the moment for a while but this only makes him come at me with much more force than what he had previously shown. The lace panties come off and for a few seconds only one of his hands explored the wet opening between my thighs, pushing one finger inside and then two and then three. The other hand is on my back now. He parts my legs and replaces his fingers with his tongue, tasting me and sending shivers down my spine. I grab his sheets and try not to move too much, terrified to break the spell he’s casting all over me.

Soon he rises and in one swift moment, he enters me and starts thrusting fast. His movement is different, unlike before, when the thrusts started slow. I can pick up a slight sense of frustration on how he moves now. He flips me, pushing me face-down on the bed and enters me from behind.

I moan, giving way to the lust that keeps me dripping wet all night. I try to raise my head so I can see his face but he pushes my head deeper into the mattress, leaving me with nothing but a view of a floor-to-ceiling window with a decent view of the south skyline.

As the moment draws near, he pulls me out of bed and tells me to kneel before his manhood. He takes off the rubber, grabs my hands and tells me to f*ck him using my mouth. I do as I’m told. I suck him as hard as I can. I feel tears starting to escape and I don’t understand why I feel like crying. He grabs my hair and pushes his dick further into my mouth until he comes. I never did.

***

I can’t remember much of what happened after he came into my mouth last night. The morning sun awakens me along with a pounding headache. I squint and realize that I am completely naked in the middle of a double-size bed with black satin sheets. My little black dress and pair of stilettos make a small puddle on Matthew’s linoleum floors. Speaking of the man, he is nowhere to be found.

I pull myself out of bed while slowly massaging my temples, as if trying to get rid of the massive hangover just by touching my head. I find his shirt last night hanging on a chair and slip it on. There are no slippers so I walk barefoot outside the bedroom and into the small living-dining area where I find Matthew slumped over a bowl of cereal.

“Hey, you’re up,” he says, taking a break from reading news on his iPad.

“Do you have coffee?” I ask. He puts down his iPad and looks as me. “What’s wrong?”

“Hangover,” I reply.

“There’s coffee in the coffee maker,” he says. “Help yourself.”

With clear indications that he is not going to be a gracious host, I walk to the coffeemaker and pour myself a cup of what I hope could be the strongest coffee in all of Metro Manila so I can quickly wake up from my stupor.

There’s a box of Cheerios and a carton of milk on the table. I also help myself to those and try to eat in front of an iPad-reading Matthew. His phone beeps, clearly one message received. He looks at it, taps a few buttons and places it down on the counter and continues reading. A few minutes later, his phone beeps again and it just hit me now that his phone kept beeping late last night. But last night, when his manhood was still buried inside of me, he didn’t give it any attention. Work, perhaps? Shouldn’t it be illegal to send work messages so late in the night and during Saturday brunch?

When breakfast is done, he places his iPad to one corner and finally gives me his full attention, full—erect—attention to be exact. I still have half a cup of coffee to finish but he insists on licking some milk off of my breast, slowly undoing the shirt I carelessly slipped on. It feels right, to be wanted by a man during brunch.

(Adult content alert! Highlight succeeding text to read.)

I give up on the coffee and we make it to the small bathroom. He quickly strips and I start to do the same. After adjusting the water temperature, he pulls me under the soft stream of warm water, massaging my breasts in a rhythmic pattern.  I am moaning one second and the next thing I know, I am coughing out water that entered my nostrils. He laughs for a while before he pins me to the wall and begins finger-fucking me hard. It would have hurt if I wasn’t wet way before we got to the shower. It feels a little more painful than pleasurable but I let him finish the act before I bend down to do that thing he likes.

“No time,” he says, pulling me up.

And then he enters me, fast, not caring if I’m primed for it. I slip on the wet floor a bit and he quickly repositions my body so he can finish in record speed. For a moment there, he wraps me in an embrace. For a second, the world is at peace. For a second, I am his. And then the moment ends and we quietly, quickly, rinse off evidence of what just happened and step out of the shower fresh, clean, unscathed.

Is this what they call a woman’s intuition? Call me clingy. Call me crazy but I sense something has changed. It’s in the air. It’s in this apartment. It’s like that big elephant in the room but only this time, I can’t really see where it’s coming from or where it’s standing.

“Ready to go?” he asks, quickly gathering his iPad, phone and keys and dropping them inside his leather satchel.

“Uh, yeah, hold on.” I do a quick check around the room and make sure I leave no traces of me. No panties, no tube of lipstick stuck between the cushions of his leather sofa, no compact on the small dining table. For a moment there, I stop to think. Why am I so conscious about not leaving a trace? It’s not as if we’re doing something illicit. I mean, it is consensual sex. Unlike in the past, I needed to make myself invisible because I was the “other girl.”

It’s different this time, I tell myself. There’s no one else.

We leave his apartment and drive in silence. Every now and then, I sneak a peek, as if checking that he’s still there. He looks different. He feels different. Lighter. Calmer. More at peace.

“It’s the weekend. Any plans?”

He looks surprised by the sudden voice talking. “I don’t know, maybe drive to Tagaytay tomorrow for a quick tennis match.”

“I see.”

We reach my condo building and he gives me a quick kiss on the left cheek. “I’ll call you,” he says and soon, he is gone. I stand in front of my building for a few minutes, feeling lost and confused for first time in many months. I stand under the hot shower even longer, trying to scrub the last bit of dirt I can sense on my skin, and I’m crying because I can’t seem to rub it off of me anymore.

To be continued…

***

Edits: Jacquie Bamba S. Zamora
What Am I To You is the prequel to Before I Do by Kath C. Eustaquio-Derla. Before I Do is available at National Bookstore, Powerbooks and Uniqube.
What Am I To You
Philippine Copyright © 2016 by Katherine C. Eustaquio-Derla
Disclaimer: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or photocopying without written permission of the publisher or author. The exception would be in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles or reviews and pages where permission is specifically granted by the publisher or author.
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