Adam's Fall Page 24

  Startled by my wayward thoughts, I stop my sex-starved mind from wandering down the street to the nearest bar in hopes of a hookup. Though my body isn’t cooperating, I try to refocus on the scene in front of me.

  I realize that as I daydreamed, Ross began removing the robe from Lily’s petite body. Brushing the soft material from her shoulders and arms, she’s now completely exposed. The velvety black silk lies in ripples underneath her, a shadowbox of contrast to her pale and luminous skin.

  She’s beautiful. Smaller but firm, her pert breasts thrust upward as she arches her back. Ross brings his hand back above her breast and trails his fingers downward to tease her nipples with a light touch. The movement has me biting my own lip to keep from moaning along with Lily. The sexual charge between them is making it difficult for me to stay professional.

  Ross continues his caressing down to the juncture of her thighs and then separates his hands and lets each one travel down her legs. He keeps his fingers on the outside of her thighs, curving them under each knee—a forgotten pleasure. Lily shows how hard she’s containing herself by gripping the edge of the wedge pillow.

  Tantra is about prolonging and heightening the sexual experience, but I fear Lily will detonate the instant Ross touches anywhere near her clit. I hope he realizes this likelihood and delays his direct touch there. If he does, she’ll likely experience the orgasm of her life. Lucky woman.

  Ross slowly continues to ease his fingers down her legs. He circles her ankles delicately. With one hand he encloses her ankle, lifts it to his lips, and begins placing light kisses on the inside of her calves. Making his way up to her knee, he licks the underside at the speed of dripping honey. He somehow manages to keep his eyes trained on Lily even while they glaze over with desire.

  Turning her leg away from him, Ross makes his way up her inner thigh. His nibble-like kisses are making Lily a twisting hot mess. Could she even orgasm without his direct touch? It’s not uncommon in Tantra, but I hope she waits until either his fingers or mouth touch her clit. The feeling will be even greater for her.

  As Ross nears the apex of her spread legs, he looks up at me and then focuses on the bottle of body oil next to my legs. I get his message loud and clear. The time has arrived for the central aspect of the Yoni massage.

  I grab the bottle off the warming plate. Nothing worse than body oil cooler than one’s body temperature. Ross takes the warm bottle from my hand and returns his focus back to Lily. Her body is still and tense, waiting and anticipating his next move.

  Ross tips the bottle and starts to let a small stream of oil fall upon Lily’s inner thighs, each toned leg getting a light coating of the warmed oil. Next he leans forward and kisses the area right above her clit, a true sign he worships her body.

  After sitting back up, Ross begins to rub the oil against her skin, starting close to her knees and gingerly working his way up her inner things. The lines of oil are dripping as they run down the curve of her thigh, but Ross catches them, and Lily’s skin begins to shimmer in the dancing candlelight.

  Ross places his slick hands on the outer lips of her sex. He skates up and down, never touching her inner folds but making sure he caresses the intersection of her legs and body, an area tender and sensitive to the touch.

  Lily tries to move her legs together, needing to relieve the sexual tension. Ross is on to her sneaky moves and pushes against her attempt. There is no escaping his slow and lingering assault. She has become his willing captive.

  “Ross, Ross.” Lily breathes his name—her first words since the massage began. The only other sounds are her soft moans and hums of pleasure.

  Over and over, Ross rubs and massages the bare skin of her sex. His touch circles from the top of her mound down the sides of her outer core. He leaves her inner folds untouched, but each pass of his fingers gets closer to her clit.

  Following the teaching of the Yoni massage, Ross deliberately prolongs Lily’s need for release from the sexual build-up she’s experiencing.

  Lily starts to shake, and I wonder what's happening to her. Since she’s facing away from me, I can’t see her face. But it doesn’t take long for me to realize she’s actually crying. Tears of healing. A common occurrence with deep and intensive tantric sex. I can’t suppress a sense of satisfaction knowing this special touch of Tantra has worked its way into her soul, exposing and healing scarred emotions she likely didn’t know were there.

  Ross appears concerned with the tears Lily is shedding. His eyebrows knit together in worry as he glances up at me, asking for unspoken advice on how to proceed from here. I mouth for him to keep going and circle my forefingers in the air in a sign to continue. He heeds my coaching, continuing to move his fingers over her sex. However, he brings his hand to her cheek and wipes away a few tears, acknowledging the agony her soul is experiencing.

  Lily leans into Ross’s hand and kisses his fingers. Nothing stops the tenderness between them as Lily’s tears subside, and once again Ross focuses on caressing her intimately.

  “Breathe together. Again,” I whisper, my words blending around the beat of the music.

  After several minutes with no sign of more tears, their coordinated breathing and centered eye contact draws them together once again. Any remnants of the tears Lily shed today are consumed with the passion Ross shows her as he administers his gentle touch over and over again. The oil glistens with her body heat and the friction of his motions.

  He glides his fingers lower and turns the palm on his right hand up, and I know he’s close to the last step in the Yoni massage. Ross uses his left fingers to open up her sex to him. Even from my vantage point, I can see she’s wet and ready, dripping with need. As he begins to touch inside her, he smartly avoids her clit. She fidgets and bucks her hips, but Ross lays a hand on her thigh and helps to still her movements.

  Lily begins to make whimpering sounds, and much to my happiness as their coach, Ross tries to soothe her with hushing sounds.

  Moving forward to Lily, I speak softly into her ear. “Focus on his fingers, Lily. Absorb the sensations.”

  She follows my instructions and quiets her body. Ross moves his curved fingers in and out of her opening. The feeling is likely to be driving Lily to her breaking point as he touches and massages her G-spot. Ross moves his left hand upward, across her hip, inching over the soft curves of her stomach and finding her breast.

  Ross squeezes Lily’s aroused nipple. He tugs and elongates it as she arches her back. He’s moving faster, but it’s their first time at this massage, and I can tell the sensations for them are reaching a critical level.

  Glancing down at her sex, Ross uses his thumb to massage her insides and presses it against her clit. With small circling movements, Lily ignites. Her legs shake far beyond the point of a slight tremble as her entire body tenses. Her cries of pleasure border on agony as she comes completely undone.

  Nearing the top of her orgasmic mountain, Lily arches her back almost off the wedge pillow. I hold my breath and try to calm my own arousal while witnessing one of the most intense orgasms I’ve ever seen a woman have. The effects continue to roll through her body like waves, starting low at her hips and ending at her lips with a ferocious scream.

  In a frantic hurry, Lily grabs for Ross as she descends from the high of her Tantra-induced orgasm. He collapses on her, kissing her face, neck, and down to her breasts before taking a nipple into his mouth.

  He thrusts his hips forward as he moves between Lily’s spread thighs. Lily brings her ankles together behind Ross’s backside and joins the motion with every push. Ross awkwardly rises up on one hand, and I know what is likely to follow as he peels off his silk robe. Now that they're completely uncovered, I decide to exit stage left and flee out the door. My departure goes unnoticed by the two oblivious lovers ascending together toward the peak of tantric bliss.

  Once I’m out of my office, I lean against a wall in the hallway. I’ve shuffled a few feet away from the door to try and respect their privacy even th
ough I’m still able to hear the sounds of passion coming through the wall. There’s no doubt I’m happy for them, but at the same time, I’m feeling a little frustrated about the lack of real sex in my life.

  Here I am, a teacher of tantric sex who passionately teaches clients how to experience sex in the most blissful manner possible, and I’ve been stuck in a sexual desert for two years. Since the passing of my husband, Jean-Paul, I haven't been ready to fully give myself to another man. Sure, I’ve practiced Tantra for a couple of years and participated in countless sessions where things got close to the edge. But I’ve never been fully fucked by anyone in a session before.

  Tantra opened a path of healing for me after Jean-Paul’s passing. I was dead inside with a grief-filled heart. I want to share how Tantra can bring others closer to their lovers and possibly heal them in the process like it has for me.

  It's odd, being unable to completely express myself sexually with a partner. I haven’t found a man who turns my insides to molten lava, a burning desire where I am scorching with need and have to consume him or I’ll die. I experienced this with Jean-Paul, and until I find another lover who inspires a similar type of passion, I’d rather just abstain. It’s the difference between champagne and moonshine to me. I’ll wait for the really good stuff.

  Chapter 3

  Running toward the curb outside my building, I flag down the first empty cab heading down Fifth Avenue. Once it stops, I jump in and give the driver my destination. I have an appointment to meet my mother at the Red Door Spa a few blocks down. Normally, I’d walk the short distance, since walking in the city is my main source of exercise. Not to mention that sometimes the traffic is so bad I can literally walk faster to a destination versus cabbing it.

  However, I’m running late and it’s past the midday rush, so traffic is light. Yes, there are several rush hours here. Nothing about traveling around this city is easy, unless you have a driver like my mother has. That’s not my style, though. I’d feel too pretentious to have someone at my beck and call. I hated it as a child, especially during my teen years when I wanted to be my own person, able to come and go as I pleased. It didn’t help that at the time, my parents’ driver was a pervert, always staring at my chest and legs. The man was a certifiable creep.

  My mother called this morning and asked to pick me up on her way to the spa. But I knew if my Tantra session ran late, she’d be upset and grill me with a ton of questions. Many of which would have answers that would make her extremely uncomfortable. She tolerates my career choice, but has decided to let the reality of my profession sit behind a shrouded veil.

  I’m fairly certain today’s session would freak her out. The rebellious bad girl in me can’t help but smile wickedly at the thought. As progressive as my mother raised me, today’s Yoni massage would probably make her blush. Who knows, though? I like to think I am my mother’s daughter.

  ~

  Blasting through several yellow lights, my cabbie gets me to the spa in record time. I quickly tap the display screen in front of me and run my credit card through the reader. I added on a nice tip because he was quick and quiet, my favorite type of cab driver.

  Approaching the mid-rise building, I notice the signature red doors I remember from my youth have been replaced by heavy, clear glass. A small sign posted by the entrance is the only identifying remnant of the infamous red doors.

  After entering, I breeze past the lobby doorman and walk into the open elevator awaiting me. I press the button for my floor, run my fingers through my hair, and adjust my simple black dress and gray scarf as I’m whisked to the upper floors.

  On the eighth floor, I stroll inside the confines of the luxurious spa. A quick glance at my reflection on the wall tells me why I’m here. My hair needs some TLC—I am several months overdue for a haircut. Actually I can’t remember the last time it was trimmed and shaped, something I won’t confess to my well-groomed mother.

  I prefer a no-fuss routine when it comes to glamour. I tend to be a minimalist type of girl. With the exception of my red lipstick and mascara, I only wear makeup when I’m going out somewhere special. I'm amazed how lax my beauty routine became during the fifteen years I lived in Paris. One would think it's a city of flawlessly made-up faces, but in actuality the term au naturel applies to the styles there.

  The beautiful young woman at the reception desk ends her call and looks up at me with a perfect, broad smile anyone would envy.

  “Hello,” she greets me warmly and glances over me with a discerning eye. “May I help you?”

  I want to be snarky in response to her judging appraisal and say, “What do you think?” But I refrain and plaster on a fake smile, New York style. “Yes, I’m Kathryn Delcour. I have an appointment today. I’m meeting my mother, Ava Swanson. I believe she’s already here.”

  She hustles from behind the tall counter that separates us; obviously the mention of my mother’s name can move mountains—or at least put her small butt in motion. The Vanderbilt women are practically founding members of this spa. Other high-end establishments litter the Upper East Side and midtown, but no one does the complete head-to-toe beauty treatment like the Red Door. Hair, nails, and makeup, the Red Door is a one-stop salon for a special day or occasion.

  “Yes, Mrs. Delcour. Your mother is here already, and I’m to escort you to the hair salon.” I can’t help but notice her staring at my unruly black locks falling over my shoulders.

  “Thank you,” I say as she leads me through the hallways covered with shiny white tiles. The décor is clean, minimal, and awash in soothing lighting. The walls are rounded curves which give the path to the salon a serpentine feel, like we’re walking through a maze. It’s a quiet and peaceful effect as we leave the harshness of the city behind.

  We stop abruptly before an arched doorway, and the familiar sound of blow dryers and chatter comes from beyond the entrance. An older woman approaches us and smiles warmly at me. I return with a smile of my own.

  “Hello, I’m Adrienne. Are you Mrs. Delcour?” She gracefully extends her hand to me but doesn’t try for the traditional handshake. Instead she moves to my side and places her hand on my upper arm and pats me in a comforting gesture. I’m impressed she knows me by name; it’s been well over fifteen years since I’ve been inside these walls, and I was a Swanson then.

  “Yes, I’m Mrs. Delcour.”

  “How are you today? Good, I hope, and ready to be pampered.” She doesn’t show any sign of judgment at the current state of my hair, unlike the attendant who’s disappeared and likely returned to her desk.

  “My hair is crying for help.” I follow with a little laugh and hold up the ends of my hair.

  “You have beautiful raven hair, Mrs. Delcour. Enviable, really.” I’m confident her compliment is sincere, and I happily follow her through the archway. I see my mother a few feet ahead of us, and it looks as if her stylist is close to having her hair perfectly coifed.

  “Hello, Mother.” I look at her reflection in the mirror in front of her as I speak my greetings.

  “Kathryn, darling!” My mother holds her hand up to stop the stylist in his labors. She stands up from the brown leather chair and wraps her arms tight around me. She’s always shown her love to me in an open and warm way without any societal pretense, unlike so many other mothers I knew growing up Manhattan. I never once doubted her unconditional love for me.

  I hug her tightly and pull back a few inches, not quite leaving her loving arms. “You’re looking beautiful as always, Mother. How are things going with the event? Everything in place?”

  We’re at the spa today in preparation for the annual Swanson Foundation fundraiser. It’s the most important night for my mother’s charitable work, where monies are raised from some of New York City’s wealthiest residents. My mother began the foundation after my father’s sudden death when I was nineteen. I know my father would be so proud of what she’s done to help those in need in Africa. As a wealthy, attractive widow, she could’ve spent her days goin
g to lunches, shopping, and planning her next getaway with girlfriends, but she chose to put her vast fortune to good use. Her money and energy have been focused on others, not herself. She is definitely my role model in life.

  “We are as ready as we’ll ever be. Natalie is great at helping put out any last-minute fires. Nothing has turned into an inferno yet.” She winks at me.

  My mother remains the heart and soul of the foundation with her optimistic personality while Natalie, her executive assistant, wears the mantle of a serious businesswoman. I’m not sure Natalie knows how to smile, although she could herd a few hundred cats, if needed.

  “Good, Mother. I don’t think there’s a more capable assistant than Natalie. Now you can relax with me this afternoon.”

  “You’re right about that. Natalie’s priceless to me. I love being the face of the foundation, but the numbers and minutiae quite often bore me to tears. Because of her, I can spend time with my lovely daughter. It’s been years since you’ve been in New York on Foundation night.” My mother gives my arm a loving squeeze before she sits back down in her stylist’s chair where his eager hands go back to teasing and setting her shiny gold locks.

  “It’s been years. Before I met Jean-Paul.” I hardly ever mention his name around her, and I can tell she wants to comfort me. The look in her eyes radiates compassion back at me. I tilt my head and smile weakly, knowing it’s time for me to move on with my life. Jean-Paul would want me to.

  “Where are my manners?” My mother laughs as she twists in her chair and catches the eye of her stylist. “Marcus, this is my lovely Kathryn. We used to come here regularly when she was a teen. I believe her first trip with me was on her thirteenth birthday.”

  “Enchanté,” Marcus says in a distant French accent before gently taking my right hand, raising it to his face, and then brushing his lips against my knuckles. The look he’s giving me oozes sex. I imagine he’s a favorite at the spa.