Roses are red

But fade when they’re plucked.

Asses are heart-shaped

And this girl’s is…

It was the Valentine Celia hadn’t dared dream would happen. As she wrapped herself in red and applied crimson lip gloss, she recalled his welcome in Java Moment only two days prior. His face’s warmth had made her heart sing an aria. What contrast to its gloom one year earlier.

“Sorry. It’s just bad timing.”

Those words had rendered everything bleak, a feeling compounded by Celia’s secret. As his divorce proceedings grew more bitter, communication fizzled. Her birthday text to him elicited a brusque Thanks. Bad timing indeed, she decided, resolving to move on.

And then, as from a pale February sky, the phone-call. “Celia…” That rich baritone, recognisable from three warm syllables.

“Mac?”

“The same. Free to talk?”

“Always,” she responded, disregarding her current relationship status.

Friendship was renewed over coffee, whereupon he asked, “Fancy that Valentine’s date we never had?”

Crap–Dylan already had somewhere planned! “Isn’t everywhere booked up?”

“No booking required. I’m manager, head chef, and server. You’ve eaten there before.”

And been eaten. What luxurious erotic nights she’d enjoyed, marred only by her guilty agenda. God, if he’d known…

Celia dispelled that brooding thought. “True. It’s Michelin starred.” Mac’s smile almost made her swoon. Mentally she ditched Dylan. “I’d like that,” she answered. “Very much.”

“Good. It’s time you got the Valentine you deserve.”

She brushed out her golden-brown tresses, observing her reflection and wondering how her trademark innocence could belie last year’s deceit, or cause heartache like yesterday’s break-up. To dump a guy on February 13th… Poor, sweet Dylan. The card he’d sent pre-bombshell languished unopened. But six weeks of dating an earnest boy couldn’t compete with Celia’s man-sized crush on Mackenzie Lewis.

“Follow your heart.” It was advice from an unlikely source. Self-styled bitch boss Miranda French wasn’t given to romantic sentiment, and the identity of her recurring temp’s coffee date–extracted from Celia by that near preternatural stare–made the encouragement more surprising still.

“But…” the mortified secretary had stammered.

“He’s my ex-husband?”

“Well… yes.”

“Ancient history. Consigned to my past.”

“Okay, but…”

“Why recommend him after all the bad blood?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Fair question, Celia. Look–divorce summons no one’s better angels. Plus, as pairings go, Mac and I were a Molotov cocktail–destined to explode. Nonetheless, I somehow still care for him. Enough to wish him good things.” The intimidatingly glamorous woman perched on Celia’s desk, capturing her hand. “And you’re exactly what he needs.”

Celia got teary at the red-haired beauty’s magnanimity.

“I couldn’t be happier,” Miranda said with unimpeachable sincerity. “Here’s wishing you an unforgettable Valentine’s night–something I’m guessing Mac will supply.”

Staring into her vanity mirror, Celia reddened again, recalling Miranda’s follow-up counsel. “Keep the dress demure and the lingerie scandalous.”

“Check, and check.” Celia’s reflection returned her smile. She took her purse, abandoning worries over jilted exes, and started out towards her dreamy loved-up destiny.

~~~~

“Buzzing you in.” The words conjured conflicting emotions. By the time Celia had negotiated her way to his door, her breath was shallow from more than carnal excitement.

He opened to her, towering colossus-like in the doorframe, breadth of chest complimenting his height. This was her Mac–smiling in polo and slacks, and more chiselled than ever. Physically one beast of a male, but all easy charm. He proffered a single long-stemmed bloom.

“A rose for a rose. Both thorn-free.” Bending, he pressed lips to her flushing cheek. “Happy Valentine’s Day, beautiful.”

“Oh my.” Celia shuddered deliciously. “That’s quite the greeting.”

“It’s what sweetness deserves.” He drew her close, fingers light on her back. “Speaking of which…”

His mouth’s caress melted her insides like chocolate. Such tenderness was almost unbearable. “God,” she moaned, “I can’t believe I’m back here.”

“Why don’t I take this,” he said, easing off her coat, “pour us both a Malbec, and set about convincing you?”

Because I don’t deserve it, she reflected. “That sounds lovely,” she said.

“Good,” he replied. “Let’s go relax.”

Relaxation proved easier than expected, given Celia’s conscience qualms. Surrounded by the cultivated trappings of this man twelve years her senior, she felt elevated in sophistication–the woman she never could have been with besotted Dylan. Lazing together on Mac’s sofa, they re-established their rapport, glasses clinking between sips. John Legend soothed on the stereo and February’s chill was banished by warmth, not least that emanating from Celia’s unexpected beau. Their lips were brushing when he paused for dinner.

He plied her over a candle-lit dining-table. Avocado and walnut salad, followed by onglet steaks served with red wine shallots, her glass ever topped up. Could a host be more attentive, a chef more skilled?

“At the risk of cliché,” he said, dabbing his lips, “let’s save dessert for later.”

Celia’s liquification accelerated. “Good idea.” She squirmed with anticipation, flashing back to when she’d last felt and touched and tasted him.

On return to the sofa Mac’s grip was strong yet restrained. Celia’s body melted into his, her skin prickling gorgeously as he tongued her mouth. His desire asserted itself, that subterranean swell rapidly achieving magnificence. The merest brush of her hand confirmed his hardness. Summoning courage, she teased his belt buckle.

“Not yet.”

Celia paused, frozen in hard-nippled suspense.

“I have a confession,” he said.

“You do?”

“Mmhmm. Nothing terrible. Still…”

Eyes widening, she invited his confidence.

“I was angry last year,” Mac said. “Mostly at Miranda, but–well–at everything. She pulled every stunt possible to gain advantage in the divorce. Then I discovered she’d accessed this apartment to search for more. Someone had slipped her the security codes and helped provide a key copy–a smartphone app would have done the latter. Frankly, I suspected every visitor, you included. Hence my lack of communication. The paranoia dissipated post-divorce, thank Christ. But you, sweetheart, never deserved my suspicion.”

Celia’s eyes dropped mid-speech, the blood in her veins converting to ice-water. Her heart was racing for all new reasons. At ‘sweetheart’ her eyes pricked with tears, and she dared not meet his gaze. Mac raised her chin, and she stared blurrily into his earnest face.

“So, am I forgiven?”

This was her moment–for confession, truth… maybe redemption. She searched for strength to tell him and found herself wanting. It wasn’t like she had to, right? He didn’t ever need to know. Celia blinked away the tears and rallied her warmest smile. “Yes, love. Of course you’re forgiven.”

The words departed Celia’s mouth, and everything changed.

The alteration in Mac’s demeanour was subtle but profound. Before Celia’s eyes all kindness evaporated, like it had been illusory. What remained was stone.

“There she is,” he said, in calm vindication. “Same little liar.”

“Wh…” Celia faltered, her mind and emotions reeling.

“Miranda’s spy. Same little faker who helped fuck me over.”

“I…” Celia groped for a defence but floundered under Mac’s unflinching stare. He knew–the ‘how’ of it didn’t matter–and he saw too that she recognised the fact. Denial was pointless. Dream date had transformed wholesale into nightmare. Tears welled properly now, spilling down her cheeks. “I’m… sorry.”

“Oh?” he said, features flinty. “Pity I don’t give a shit. The forgiveness train just left the station, and you cancelled your ticket.”

“But…” Celia thrashed around for words. “I can explain…”

“Fuck your explanation,” Mac said. “It doesn’t interest me. Guess what does.”

“Wh… What does?”

“Here’s a hint.” A few seconds’ work at his trouser fastenings resolved her confusion. Mac’s anger manifested itself as the great throbbing phallus she recognised well. Its form and dimensions were the same, only this time it looked plain menacing.

“Done talking?” he inquired, seizing his pole’s base to emphasise its thrust. “Good. Put that mouth to use. The only apology I want is wordless and sloppy.”

Celia’s gaze alternated between his newly implacable face, and the cock for which her mouth had so recently watered.

“Two choices,” he said. “Get the fuck out or show me what ‘sorry’ looks like.”

Remorse for her self-sabotaging folly eclipsed all else, and Celia went down, opening wide. She sealed her lips around Mac’s bone-hard thickness, sealing equally–she sensed–her own fate. He was huge and hot in her mouth, and he growled as she sucked him. Encouraged, she gobbled more, working up saliva that dribbled down his shaft. Then his hands descended, and she realised that gentleness alone had rendered this cock unthreatening.

“That’s a start,” he said, bearing her downwards till she choked. “But that’s all it is.” He pulled her off by the hair, and she stared at him, wet-chinned and gasping. “Get on the floor.”

She obeyed without protest, kneeling in abject sorrow as Mac stood up and stripped naked before her eyes. His ripped athleticism was hot, achingly so, his dripping length the perfect, spearing appendage. He brought it bobbing to her mouth, claiming the back of her head two-handed. She took him in her mouth like a penitent sinner, stomach muscles tensing right before he gripped and shoved, making her swallow every pulsating inch.

Celia gagged at the surge of cock down her throat. Bunching her hair, Mac held her fast, shafting like he was stress-testing a gape-mouthed sex mannequin. Desperately she snorted air as her face got grudge-fucked. The gurgle and squelch filled her ears, Mac’s shaved balls slapping her chin at every thrust.

“Fuccckkk…” he groaned, pulling out to wrap saliva around his girth before plunging once more. “Now we’re celebrating.” He reamed her throat till spit rivered down her cleavage, soaking her dress. She was still gasping her recovery when he stuffed her mouth with his balls. “Just admit it,” he said as she moaned around his swollen sac. “Say ‘I’m Miranda’s bitch’ and we’re done here.” He extracted himself and gripped her chin, his face suffused with lust.

“No,” she pleaded, searching through tears for a shred of the gentleman who’d served her dinner. “Not hers. I’m yours, Mac.”

“Really?” He smirked. “Let’s find out.”

Without warning he re-fucked her face and reversed towards the bedroom, dragging her, throat still plugged, in frantic shuffling pursuit. Mid-journey he freed her spluttering mouth, leading her the distance on hands and knees with a fist in her hair.

“Welcome to the boudoir of love.” He hoisted her up like a puppet, and she stared. Mood lighting illumined the petal-strewn bed, while a dessert platter waited on the side of this perfect Valentine grotto. Celia could have wept.

“It’s… beautiful,” she murmured.

“Thanks.” Mac glowered, naked and splendid. “Add one treacherous Valentine slut.”

With a few deft tugs he unfastened her dress. The wraparound had hit the floor before she realised she was standing in her embroidered pink bra-and-panty set. “Fuck.” He turned her one-eighty to fondle her exposed ass. “Pretty as before. Shame you can’t wear these longer.” He snapped her bra undone, divesting her of it and her soaked panties while she squealed. “Not with dessert still to come.”

“De…”

Mac grabbed her wrist and pulled her stumbling to the confectionary-laden platter. Twin chocolate mousses formed the centrepiece. The first he scooped one-handed, spreading it thick across her tits, while she gasped. The second he slapped between her thighs, plastering her trimmed bush and pussy. “I’m going to enjoy this.”

He grabbed her body and slavered his tongue repeatedly over each breast, thrashing her nipples rigid as he licked her clean. “Fucking delicious,” he snarled, before toppling her onto the petal-strewn bed and hoisting her legs upwards. “Speaking of which…” He grabbed her thighs and shoved his face between them, tongue plunging. Celia cried aloud as he devoured her along with the mousse, all mental process consumed by his ravening mouth. She lost herself and came hard as he ate her, cunt pulsing and drizzling against his face.

The waves subsiding, both cock and countenance swam back into focus, one as mean and unforgiving as the other. “Ready?” he said, awaiting no reply, just fitting himself and thrusting. Celia screamed as Mac speared her depths, his body slamming into hers. He gripped her lower back and shafted like fuck, every muscle straining, his face a mask of erotic fury. Each stroke surged through her to the tits, and she clutched handfuls of bedspread as he nailed her utterly.

“Lying–little–bitch,” he grunted as he fucked. Then he flipped Celia onto her front, roped her hair, and shoved her face down onto his throbbing cunt-stuffer, making her gorge herself once more. She was still retching and spitting saliva as he spun her another one-eighty.

“Oh God…” she moaned, feeling him reinsert with similar wrathful intent. Had she not been reined by the same improvised ponytail, his impalement would have knocked her off the bed. His muscular heft slammed her repeatedly, iron grip securing, as he filled her up. “Spying–little–slut!” His broad palm whacked her ass on each stressed syllable. “Couldn’t even own it!” Fuck-strokes and spanking both supplied emphasis. “Well, you’re damn well owning it now, right?”

“Uh-huhhh…” Celia managed, pounded, as she was, near to jelly. At least, she grieved somewhere in her cock-deranged consciousness, he still thinks I’m hot. The thought was enough to get her off a second time.

Mac pulled out, and through her comedown she heard him rummaging. A squirt of silky liquid, trickling down her ass-cleft, heralded a new challenge.

“Spread those cheeks.”

It took a second for his meaning to percolate. “W…What?”

“You heard me.”

Oh God. Not…

Whack. Mac’s hand, sharp against her buttock. “Whose bitch are you? My ex-wife’s or mine?”

“Yours,” she mewled, piteously.

Whack again. “Whose? Fucking say it!”

“Yours!” Celia sobbed aloud. “I’m your bitch, Mac, your Valentine!”

“You’re no one’s damn Valentine,” Mac grated. “But you’re my fucking slut. Act like it.”

Celia pictured Dylan–forlorn and tragic–and the trust on Mac’s face the time she’d covertly betrayed him. She was, she supposed, a slut, and this must be what sluts deserved.

Her hands crept in reverse, pulling her ass cheeks apart to expose all. Biting her lip in prayer for her virgin rear, Celia knelt amid crushed rose petals, awaiting her punishment.

~~~~

Miranda received Celia’s text first, that post-Valentine morning.

Can’t make it in today. Terribly sorry.

She considered a moment, replying:

Feeling poorly? How was Valentine’s night?

The pause, pre-response, was exquisite.

Not what I'd expected.

Miranda’s pulse quickened.

And is that bad, or good?

A further pause, indicative–Miranda perceived–of deep deliberation.

I don’t know. I need to sleep on it.

I’ll bet you do, Miranda thought, by which time Mac’s text had landed. She perused her ex-husband’s communication with particular interest.

Please don’t assume we’re even, just because you threw your sexy little dupe under the bus. I pictured you while destroying this.

So you did think of me. Miranda smirked at the accompanying photograph–of Celia’s blushing, heart-shaped ass.