Tied Up In Knots

 

 
I laid face down on the bed exhausted and completely satisfied. I guess you could say that Duncan more than scratched that itch.
 
His approach to sex was so much different than Patrick's. Patrick was playful in bed exploring new areas trying new things, always with a tickle or a sweet joke causing me to relax and giggle during sex. Patrick was always good in bed, and made me feel completely comfortable, which I needed to satisfy his kinky side. He loved bringing toys, props and costumes into the bedroom. Lingerie made him wild, but he never made love to me without telling me how much he loved me, whispering sweet nothings, telling me he worshiped me, and the things we could get our bodies to do together. He was a genius at foreplay teasing me to the brink and working me to a frenzy before finally taking me and relieving the painful aches he'd created. He was always attentive making sure I was pleased and requiring that I tell him just how please I was. Making love to Patrick was fun, exhilarating and very emotional, and he wasn't lying when he said he could make me cry after sex, just from the pure raw emotions of our love making.
 
Duncan on the other hand was more hard core. He made love like an athlete, using his stamina and strength to bring me to places that I'd never been. He was good, really good and could go all night long when my body would take it. Just as in everyday life, Duncan didn't talk much during sex, sure there were moans of pleasure and the occasional calling out my name or whispering a drawn out and completely erotic, "fuck," but never words that would distract him from the main event. He was rougher and stronger and used that to his advantage and mine, and every time caused my knees to shake and my chest to arch off of the bed in exquisite pleasure. He was big, bigger than any man I'd known in that way, and when needed, when I wasn't entirely ready for him, he'd put his tongue and finger skills to work until I couldn't take it anymore and begged him, accepting the pain as part of the pleasure.
 
There was no comparison between the two men in everyday life - they were complete opposites, and in the bedroom the rule stood fast.
 
Duncan moved the sheet down to my lower back, and licked just along the curve of the swell that lead to my ass, then dragged his tongue upward toward my shoulder blades. "How was your day?" he asked stopping just long enough to get the words out.
 
"Are you really going to try to have this conversation with me while you're doing that."
 
"Mmhm. You taste so fucking good after we make love. I can't help myself." His tongue wagged between my shoulder blades. "Want me to stop?"
 
"No. I like it." I giggled
 
"Then tell me about your day."
 
"Mmm. OK. You really want to hear about this?"
 
"Yes."
 
"I'm working on a hit and run case with Rick. The victim was a 23 year old guy on a bicycle. The bastard took off in his black BMW 7 series and left him on the street to die. What kind of person does that Duncan? And the courts let him get away with probation. What the hell kind of justice is that? Thank God for civil cases. At least we can get him and his family some money. I can't wait until I'm the one trying these cases instead of scrambling over briefs and old cases for arguments. I swear I can already do a better job than most of the attorneys in that office."
 
"It'll come baby."
 
There was a long pause while he bathed me like a cat taking long slow licks on my skin, now working on my neck, and letting his fingers flutter over the hot skin of my back. "I love how hot you get for your work. It's really sexy."
 
I laughed not bothering to explain that Patrick always called me a nerd when I'd talk about my work, and here Duncan was telling me it was sexy. As soon as Patrick came into my mind I felt a terrible pang of guilt. Laying in another man's bed, his friend and teammate's bed, letting Duncan touch me like that. As much as I wanted it and needed it, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was the one cheating now.
 
"What else?" he asked. "What else did you do today?"
 
I smiled at his interest, that he wanted to know what my day was like. "That was the only case I worked on, but Patrick showed up at the office."
 
Duncan's body grew ridged, and he immediately stopped his assault on my skin. "Really? Divorce stuff?"
 
I instantly wondered if maybe we weren't ready to talk about Patrick. Maybe it was a mistake to tell him about Patrick's involvement in my day, but I'd already said it, and I couldn't back pedal now. "Kind of," I replied, "He took me to look at apartments. Part of the deal, since he's not selling the house is that he's got to buy me an apartment." Duncan didn't say anything, and the usual amount of time for him to process and respond came and went and still he was silent. He also hadn't touched me. It wasn't unusual for him not to respond to something that I said, but it was unusual for him not to touch me.
 
I turned over still impossibly close to him, exposing my entire upper body but quickly pulling the sheet over me, feeling modest all of a sudden. "Duncan what?"
 
"I don't want to be that guy"
 
"What guy?"
 
"The one that gets jealous of his girl's ex."
 
"I'm your girl?" I asked shyly looking up at him through my long black eyelashes. He’d said it twice that evening. It was a silly question, juvenile even, but for some reason his answer meant something to me, and I hoped it would serve to lighten the mood.
 
His quiet pondering made me nervous. "I know you heard me last night. I Love you Lydia. You are everything I want in a woman.” He stopped and looked at me, seemingly trying to see if I believed him. “You were with Patrick for awhile, and I’d seen you around, here and there, but you were always just kind of Patrick’s girl, and then his wife. But then there was this one night after a rough St. Louis loss, we really got our asses handed to us. You came into the locker room. I saw the whole thing, the way you took in all of our sullen faces. You didn’t say a word, just walked toward his stall. He was throwing things and fighting with the buttons on his shirt, being his typical emotional self. But the way you handled him, without speaking, you moved his hands from his buttons and carefully closed each one for him. Then you took his tie and you put it around his neck. You let your hands move over his chest and tied a perfect knot in his tie. You softly pulled him to you by his shirt collar that you had just straightened, and kissed him. Just a peck really on the corner of his mouth. That’s all it took and he was fine. All his stress from the game was gone, all his anger, all his frustration disappeared. You could just see it, gone from his face. He grabbed his jacket and put his arm around you, and you left together without exchanging a word. That was the first time it happened to me. I was out of my mind jealous. I wanted that. I wanted you to do that for me. After that I’d look at you from across the locker room, I'd watch you with him, and wonder what it would be like to be with you, if it was my bed you were in at night, and not his. I was insanely jealous of him then and now that you’re in my bed, in my life like this…” he stopped to tuck my short black bob behind my ear, “now that I've got my shot with you, I can't help but want to keep you away from him. I fucking hate that your last name is Sharp, it's like he still owns a piece of you."
 
I was rendered speechless by his words. I wasn't expecting any of that, I had no idea that he thought of me that way while Patrick and I were together, and his confession of jealousy was something that was obviously very hard for him.
 
“Duncan…”
 
I searched for the right words, but he pressed his finger to my lips, silencing me. “Stop. Don’t say anything. I don’t want you to say anything. I know you don’t love me, not yet anyway. I know you still love him, but I also know that it’s me you come to at the end of the day, and that you’re starting to care for me. This is becoming more than sex, more than mind blowing, earth shattering sex.” He paused and smiled at me. “I could see that in you tonight. I can deal with it. As long as there is hope that your heart is going to belong to me someday. That he will be gone for good. I’m willing to wait, and I’m willing to fight that battle. He doesn’t deserve you Lydia. I don’t know that he ever has, but one thing is for damn sure, I’m not going to let him hurt you again, and I’m not going to let him fuck up my shot at making you happy. He already fucked up his own.”
 
Duncan didn’t want me to respond, and I was incredibly grateful for that. He’d said so much. His confession overwhelmed me. We had crossed a line, Duncan and I, we’d gone from bed partners to something more. For him, it was love, and who was I to doubt that. I’d fallen in love with Patrick in mere hours of being with him, maybe Duncan was in love with me. For me, I’d grown to care for him. I wanted to be with him, and maybe more importantly, I didn’t want to be with anyone else. Well except the one man I couldn’t seem to escape.
 
I waited in Duncan's bed, while he slipped into a pair of boxers and headed toward the kitchen. He returned with a tray of food, a bottle of wine and two slices of cheesecake. He twirled the pasta in small bite size portions and fed me from his fork, and before I could swallow, he’d place his lips over mine and kiss away any remnants of sauce. Food didn’t seem to of great importance to him choosing to nibble on my neck instead of eat from his bowl. When I’d finished eating, he took the tray to the kitchen and started his cleanup efforts, but his absence from the room left me feeling lonely. I'd been alone for six months and now I was realizing that I didn't have to be alone, not when I was with Duncan. I didn’t want to be alone anymore.
 
I picked up his black t-shirt from the floor, and held it to my face, breathing the amazing man in through my mouth and nose. I slid it over my naked frame, and loved how the ultra soft material felt against my bare breasts. I surprised him as I slinked into the kitchen, and he bent down giving me a kiss that let me know he missed me as much as I missed him in just that short about of time. I helped him load the dishwasher, and pack the extra sauce and pasta away for later meals. Doing dishes, cleaning the counters, packing up leftovers, all mundane on their own, but not with a nearly naked Duncan Keith. He'd let his hand graze my bare butt cheeks as he’d move behind me or stop to stroke his tongue down my long slender neck as I dried a pot. And then there was the way his body moved, the muscles of his arms and chest as he’d participate in the completely domestic work. It wasn’t until he turned to stow ingredients into the upper cabinets that I noticed his back muscles. I immediately recalled numerous conversations with Claire over how she believed the sexiest men have extraordinary back muscles. I had never really given it much thought until that moment, but the thoughts that now clouded my mind all involved naughty things. Very naughty things.
 
I set down the pot I was drying and pressed against him as he reached to the upper cabinets again. He turned his head toward me as I sunk my teeth into his shoulder blade. I felt him shudder from the pain and let out a growl. A sound that made me tingle between my legs. The urge grabbed a hold of me and I couldn’t wait. “Now,” I demanded. He turned abruptly, lifted me and I felt my body tingle as my ass hit the cold granite counter top of the kitchen Island. In a flash I was naked as his t-shirt hit the tile floor. He pushed me backwards softly, but urgently. He pulled my knees up and spread my legs in one fluid motion. I closed my eyes in anticipation, anticipation of the treat I hoped to receive. “No. Look at me… Look at me, watch me,” he instructed. “I want you to see how much I like this.” His face dipped between my legs, but his eyes stayed on mine. When his tongue finally delved deep inside me, I broke eye contact not being able to stand it any longer, my head flew back and my eyes rolled back in my head. He worked me with his fingers and his tongue until I was crying out to him, and I was begging him to end the torture. He took his giant cock and positioned it at my entrance, but before he pushed in he pulled me up to sitting. “Look at me Lydia. I want you to look at me. I want to make sure you know who’s making you feel this good,” and with that he slammed into me so hard, hitting that perfect target that he was instinctively able to find. That’s all it took for my release. I came in tremors and shakes coating him with hot clear liquid. While I was still recuperating he carried me to the butcher block table, a better height for what he had in mind. He flipped me face down and finished what he'd started. The stamina of Duncan Keith was amazing and he fucked me senseless, he fucked me fast and hard until we were both about to explode and then he turned me over, without pulling out. The sensation was amazing, but I didn't understand why he was doing it. I didn't understand until our eyes met. He wanted me to look at him, like before. He didn't want Patrick there with us. He wanted me to know that it was him making me yell out. That Duncan Keith was the man that could give me this pleasure. He made his last final thrusts pulling us both over the edge causing my back to arch and head to fly back,  finally separating the connection that had been created by our eyes. Pure Ecstasy.
 
He carried my exhausted body to his bedroom, where he held me tight to his chest and stroked my short black hair until fell asleep in his arms. For the first time in six months I wasn't alone.
 
**** Duncan's POV
 
I'd never been with anyone like Lydia. If I didn't know her; if I saw her on the street, I'd surely think she was sexy. I'd discretely check her out and probably turn to watch her saunter by, getting a better look at that scrumptious wiggle. If I didn't know her I'd tell you she was hot and then go on to say how I prefer blonds usually with curls that hit the center of their backs. But that's only if I didn't know her and knowing her made all the difference in the world. She had a milky white complexion, startling blue eyes and short black hair that left her long neck exposed for me to nibble and suck. She was gorgeous, but I'd been with my share of gorgeous women, and I know I risk sounding like a pig, but most were really only good for one thing, getting me off. The girls I'd found myself attracted to physically were great to look at, fun to play with, but not a lot going on between the ears. I'd spend the next morning trying to figure out how to get them out of my apartment. Rarely was there one that I wanted to take to breakfast or coffee, or god for bid, spend and excruciatingly painful dinner with. Maybe that made me a man-whore, but when it came to spending actual time with a woman, investing in conversation, I wanted someone who could actually process what I was saying to her, not just sit there and giggle like every fucking thing I said was a hysterical riot.  I'm not going to apologize for that.
 
Lydia was the whole package besides being beautiful she was incredibly intelligent and didn't talk just to hear her own voice like most of the women I'd been with. When I started noticing her, really noticing her, it wasn't for how attractive she was, but just the way she was, how she didn't fit in with plastic women who bounced, tit jobs and all, through our locker room. I wondered how Sharpie got so fucking lucky to land a chick like that, a woman that was beautiful, and smart, and classy, especially with his goofy, I'm God's gift to the world attitude. I guess you could say I developed a crush, I mean I wasn't a creeper exactly, so I like to call it a crush, not only on Lydia but on her relationship with my fellow Associate Captain. I wanted someone who would straighten my tie, and kiss away the hurt of a tough loss, someone who could read my thoughts and instinctively react to my moods. I wanted someone with a fucking brain, who actually knew there was a war going on in the middle east, and call me a pig again, but someone who could last the way I needed a woman to last in the bedroom. I know I could push a woman to her limits and I needed a woman that could take it, and even better, a woman that wanted it.
 
I spent months admiring Lydia and her relationship with my teammate from afar. I never would have crossed that line, never. I have too much respect for my team, for Lydia and for myself to make that kind of a colossal mistake. But when word got around the locker room that Sharpie had fucked up. I expected to feel sorry  for the guy. I know how hard it can be to keep your dick in your pants when you're on a long road trip. The temptation could be almost unbearable, almost. Sharpie had everything, everything, to be faithful for. Instead of feeling sorry for the little bastard, I was pissed, fucking enraged. When Seabs got it out of me, what had me so pissed off, he told me I needed to get my shit together. "You're getting this worked up over a chick you've barely said two words to? He's your fucking teammate, your co-alts or some shit. Bro's before hoe's, " he added at the end, and I knew he was right. But Lydia was not a hoe, she wasn't just another bitch that sauntered through. She deserved better than that, and when I shared that little bit of information with my best friend and line mate, he gave me a disgusted look. "Don't tell me, you think she deserves you? When the fuck did this happen?" I eventually convinced him that my only agenda was in the best wishes of my buddy's marriage, even though nothing could be further than the truth. Still I dropped it and went on with my life, missing Lydia's presence in the locker room, even though she'd never been there to see me.
 
I never would have guessed that on the worst fucking day of my life, the day after our loss to Detroit, the loss that ended our Stanley Cup dream that year, that Lydia would be in the bar I chose to drown my sorrows. It was 2:00 in the afternoon, barely a soul in the place, except the most amazing woman in the entire fucking world, perched on a stool at the other end of the bar. I'm not a religious man, but when I looked across the bar and saw her there, alone and doing shots, I felt like God had just handed me the opportunity of a lifetime, maybe a consolation prize for the major disappointment I'd just faced, and a damn good one at that. Despite my own woes I could see she was working on some of her own, and without question, I knew what they were. She was in love with a slimy cheating bastard. I don't know what I expected when I sent her that drink, but certainly not what came out of it. I guess I just wanted her to notice me. Just once I wanted her to see me, not her husband's buddy, not a Blackhawks defenseman, but Duncan Keith a man that if given the opportunity would do everything in his power to make her happy. When she sat next to me in that booth, and we talked and drank for hours, I didn't want it to end. She was like magic. She did things for me in one lengthy conversation that no woman had ever done before. The more she drank, the more comfortable she became, touching my shoulder, stroking my arm, even giving my chest a push as I teased her. Maybe I preyed on her intoxicated state, fuck I know I did, but I saw my shot and I took it.  Her skirt was hiked up a bit and she was turned toward me with one knee up on the bench, and my cock was twitching telling me I need to do something. I couldn't let it end with a hug and us each going our separate ways, not if she was feeling any of the connection I was feeling. Even if that connection was more intoxication on her part, I needed a chance to show her what I could do for her. When I felt how wet she was against my finger tips, I nearly lost my mind, and yes I only lived five blocks from the bar, but I wasn't about to make that trek with a raging hard on and Lydia right there in my grasp. My brain worked over time and when we walked out of the bar and saw the sign for the Plaza, I knew someone was looking out for me. Lydia deserved that; she deserved the Plaza; she deserved what I could give her, and I was going to show her just that.
 
Letting her go the next morning, not confessing my feelings to her was like torture, but the last thing I wanted to do was pressure her or freak her out with grand admissions. I searched her eyes looking for any sign of regret and when I didn't see any, I felt hopeful. She thanked me, which seemed so fucking surreal and kissed me softly on the lips before she closed the hotel room door behind her and went back to her life, a life that didn't include me.  I ran my fingers through my hair, reliving the way she had done the same thing the night before, kicking myself in the ass for not trying to stop her from leaving, for not asking her if I could see her again, for not doing something anything that would have ensured me more time with her, dinner,  coffee, or meeting back there same time the next week. I would have offered to walk her fucking dog if it meant I'd get to spend more time with her. I would have offered, should have offered, but didn't. To my knowledge, short of calling her good for nothing husband for my number, she had no way to get in touch with me.
 
I brooded about it for two days and spent just about every hour the bar was open, sitting on a stool nursing a beer and hoping like hell she'd show up. Pathetic I know, but really what were my other options. Her walking into that bar two nights later was one of the best single moments I can recall in my life. It meant that she saw me, she saw through who I'd always been to her, to see who I really was. It meant she felt the connection too, it wasn't just the alcohol. Her walking through that door was a conscious choice, not clouded by booze or anger toward her soon to be ex-husband, she walked into that bar for me.
 
Laying there three months later, holding her in my arms, knowing how exhausted she was, knowing how satisfied she was, and knowing that I'm the one that made her that way, was nothing short of spectacular. Sure I knew she was in love with another man, and I spent every waking moment insane with jealousy over his continual role in her life, but the tide was changing.  She was willingly coming to my place now after work, and she spent almost every night for the last two weeks in my bed, all by her choice. Soon Patrick would be history, and I would have Lydia all to myself.