82 - My Life Is Not My Own

“I’m sorry,” Jon breathed into her ear after his arm was snugged tightly around her waist.  She’d been standing in front of the bathroom mirror brushing her hair, and the Aerosmith concert tee she was wearing only came about mid-thigh.  It was most enticing and Jon slipped his other hand under the hem to cradle her hip while gently swaying against her back. 

“For what?”

She’d hardly said a word the entire way home and now that he was sufficiently soaked in wine, he was feeling a bit remorseful for the way he snapped at her.

“For losing control of my temper.”

The hairbrush was placed on the vanity so that she could place her hands on top of his and she let her head loll back onto his shoulder.  “I’d say you were justified.”

Bowing his head, he discreetly inhaled the fragrant cascade of hair that flowed down to the top of her breast.  Lime.  She seemed to be favoring the margarita smell again lately, he noted, slowly twirling her around.  When she faced him, Jon cupped her jaw and slowly tilted her face upward with one thumb. 

“I love you.” 

She melted into his kiss, her arms slithering up his bare chest to loop around his neck.  Sighing softly into his mouth, she tangled her fingers into the hair at his nape before whispering, “I love you, too.”

He sifted his own fingers through the silky curtain of gold that now trailed down her back.  She looked worn out, but he took a chance in asking, “Are you exhausted?”

“Close to it.  My afternoon nap wore off a long time ago.”

Touching his lips to hers again, this time he extended his tongue to lick at the seam of her mouth and coax it into opening.  At the first inkling of her submission, he voraciously pillaged the damp cavern until the sweet, minty toothpaste flavor dissolved into the unique taste of Sheridan. 

Courtesy of his wine-buzz, he was feeling far more philosophical than usual and Jon mused that maybe he’d been in love with her since that first night.  He sure as hell hadn’t gotten her out of his mind and the desire was as strong now as it had ever been. 

“I want you, baby,” he inhaled, stroking the edge of his thumbnail along the high ridge of her cheek.  Using the other hand to pull her hips against his, he drove the hard, hot evidence into her stomach. “Lemme have you.”

“Mmmm…”  Petal-soft lips parted so that she could take a lazy nip at the plumpness of his bottom lip.  “S’pose I could put my exhaustion on hold for a few minutes.”

That was all the incentive Jon needed to push the black cotton shirt up over her head and to the floor, allowing her voluptuous breasts to fill his hands.  He loved the way they felt spilling out of his palms and the way a simple flick of one nipple had her moaning with ecstasy.

“You sure as hell don’t sound exhausted.”  The words were muted against her collar bone as he nuzzled the flesh there.  A double-flick of both stiff peaks earned him a gasp before she restlessly arched against him.

Grinning, he skated around the soft globes’ circumference, balancing their weight in the crook between his thumbs and fingers and angling one toward his mouth.  His lips closed around the dusky tip and he used his tongue to flick.  When she purred with pleasure and held his head to her bosom, her hips swiveled with the expertise of a hula dancer.

“Suck,” she pleaded, fingernails scraping the back of his scalp.  They went from scraping to digging when he drew sharply on the tasty little morsel.  Jon kneaded the voluptuousness and sucked hard once again, his arousal becoming painfully stiff when she yowled like a cat in heat.

“There’s my kitten,” he breathed over the tip, satisfied when it drew into a rock-hard pebble.  “You want me, too, don’t you?”

“Mmm...”

Her scarlet panties were shoved unceremoniously to the floor and he hoisted her onto the vanity while dropping his own pants.  Her knees fell apart without hesitation and the vulnerable folds that made her a woman shimmered wetly in the light.  They beseeched him to get lost in their dewiness. 

“So pretty,” he approved gruffly as his fingertips glided into a secret valley of the softest, hottest flesh imaginable and found a tender bud of flesh throbbing with anticipation.  He pushed his thumb against it and rotated.  “You have the prettiest pussy and it’s just begging to be reamed by my cock.  What about you, Sex Kitten?  Are you begging?”

“Nnnhh...” She let her head fall forward and bit his collarbone – hard enough to leave a mark.  Damn if that wasn’t a turn-on.  “I don’t have to beg.”

Jon drew back to look down his nose at her, feeling sufficiently challenged.  She closed her eyes and whimpered when his middle finger circled that magic hot button and then traveled lower, lightly circling the entrance to Heaven.

“You don’t, huh?  And why do you think that?”

Hips rolling forward, she chased the finger that was drenched in the overflow of slick desire, yet refused to plunge into the pool that produced it.  Her satisfaction wasn’t on his immediate agenda, but her supplication was.

“You like to fuck,” she rasped into his ear, planting her heels into his ass cheeks to urge him closer.  Sheridan’s hand slid down his stomach and her thumb dragged ever-so-slowly over the weeping tip of his erection, finding that she wasn’t the only one who was wet.  “Your cock is already aching to be wrapped up inside of me, so just do it.  Take what you want.”

“Beg for it, and I will,” was his stubborn insistence as he continued to work the sensitive creases of her womanhood.  The valley was flooded enough to float them both into a steamy ocean of sex if she’d just confess how much she wanted it.  Needed it.

“No.”

The tip of his middle finger skated around her dripping entrance, withdrawing when she tried to lure him inside with a subtle tilt of her pelvis.

“Yes.  One little ‘please’ and I’ll make you come until your eyes cross.  C’mon, baby.  Give it to me.”

He wasn’t sure why it was so important that she give herself to him this way, this time.  She’d always been an eager lover, never hesitating to submit to whatever he asked.  Why wasn’t it enough that she’d given up her entire life for him and their baby? 

Because I gave up my life, too.  I’ve done battle with nearly every single person I love for her.  For this.

Was a little reassurance too much to ask for?  He just wanted to know, after the last two hellacious days, that she was still in the same place.  That she still needed him the way he needed her.

He didn’t know if it was in the way he’d asked for her submission or if she felt a difference in him, but green eyes riveted to blue and it took Sheridan about two seconds to read his mind.  He could see it in the way the sharp edges of desire softened to something else – something deeper.

“Please,” she whispered, never looking away.  “Please,” she repeated again when he pushed into the softness that had started to feel like the other half of him.  Her thighs tightened around his waist, her hands covered his face, neck, shoulders and chest as he planted his palms on the countertop for leverage. 

Her lips dusted against his and Jon pounded into her with a brutality that was at odds with the tenderness that now glowed brightly in his wife’s eyes.  Hiccupping a stolen breath when a bracing palm settled in the small of her back, she moaned.  The vibration tickled his lips and he broke away to bury his face in her neck as he continued to pummel her.  As he took what she offered.  As he gave everything she pleaded for. 

“Please....  Always please!”

❧❧❧

A short time later, Sheridan was exhaustedly curled inside Jon’s arms, yet unable to sleep.  From the steady rise and fall of his chest against her back, she surmised that he didn’t share her inexplicable insomnia.

Lavender and chamomile always helped.  The combination of the relaxing scents generally soothed her enough to induce a restful sleep.  If she was at home, she would mix them into a body cream and slather herself in it.

You are home. 

Sheridan exhaled a soft sigh through her nose.  Yes.  She was.  But she still had none of her aromatherapy supplies, or a place to use them if she did. 

Carefully lifting the brawny forearm from her waist, she scooted across the fine cotton sheets until her toes peeked from under the comforter and subsequently touched the floor.  She slid her arms into the long, kimono-style robe that she’d picked up yesterday in deference to Jon's children.  Her shortie satin robe wasn’t exactly fit to parade in front of them.

Running a quick hand through her hair, she crept quietly to the kitchen as her husband flipped onto his right side and settled into the pillow with a contented huff.  He had an assortment of tea in one of the cabinets, she’d noticed.  Perhaps there was some chamomile tucked in there among the honey-lemon and orange pekoe.

She didn’t find any chamomile, but there was an herbal blend that might suffice.  Putting a kettle on the stove, she located a cup and some agave nectar to use as sweetener.  The water hadn’t yet boiled when her mug was ready and waiting, so she went to the living room to fetch her iPad.

Jeri was supposed to be contacting Jon’s realtor, but Sheridan thought she would at least take a preliminary look at some houses online.  If square footage and bathroom counts didn’t bore her to sleep, there was little hope for any rest tonight.

Propping the iPad on the counter between the stove and sink, she brought it out of sleep mode, keeping a vague ear out for the sound of boiling water.  One tap of the finger brought the internet up to her Yahoo home page and, out of habit, her gaze drifted to the trending news topics in the upper right-hand corner of the screen.

Kim Kardashian topped the list – nothing new or interesting there.  Then the Patriots, followed by the Giants who were both Superbowl contenders.  Coming in a number four was…

”Oh my word…”

Coming in at number four was ‘Jon Bon Jovi pregnant wife’.

Not Sheridan King.  Not Jon Bon Jovi married or Jon Bon Jovi’s new wife, but Jon Bon Jovi’s pregnant wife. 

Even knowing she would end up regretting it, she allowed an invisible force to coerce her into touching the bright blue link.  The window changed, filling with a list of options for more information on Jon Bon Jovi and his pregnant wife.

‘Bon Jovi Does the Honorable Thing’, ‘JBJ Caught in a Baby Trap?’, ‘Who is the Fertile Femme Fatale?’ were among the “news” headlines clamoring for attention on the page.  Most of them were accompanied by thumbnail shots of the Santa Monica Pier photos.

Fertile femme fatale?  My mother is going to die.

To be honest, she wasn’t sure that she wouldn’t die herself as she continued to read her way through the links.  The articles themselves weren’t as bad as the comments that readers left on the articles. 

The worst was:  “JBJ should know better than to fly without his cape!  The new Mrs. Jovi *shudder* might have fine T&A, but this gold digger ain’t nothin but a nasty Social Disease!  Anybody that would get pregnant on purpose deserves a retarded baby.  Get a VD checkup and make her abort that thing before you end up doing a telethon for the kid, Jonny!!”

Sheridan pushed the button to blacken the screen and left it lying there like a vile creature that she was afraid to touch again.  Hands shaking, she turned the burner off under the kettle.  Tea wasn’t going to help her tonight. 

She dazedly found her way back to the master bedroom and found Jon still sleeping soundly.  The nice, calm, even breathing that personified a restful sleep sent an unwarranted jolt of fury through her.  How could he sleep when things like this were going on?  Didn’t he know she would be freaking out over this… public witch trial that she was being subjected to?

Tranquility, Sheridan.  You vowed to make your home a safe haven from the craziness outside these four walls.

Yes, she had, but didn’t she deserve a momentary lapse?  It wasn’t every day that someone became media fodder for the first time.  She’d never been subjected to such scrutiny or hurtful words by people who didn’t even know her.  Who weren’t supposed to know anything about her yet!

It was bad enough that she was carrying around this hitchhiking poppy seed, but shouldn’t she be allowed to acclimate herself to it before she was thrown to the wolves?  She wanted a do-over.  She wanted a chance to re-think this whole thing.  She wanted to put her life on pause until she could deal with it again!

Take a deep breath, psycho.  If you wake him up screaming like a banshee, he isn’t going to be very sympathetic.  Why would he?

Folding her arms somewhat defiantly over the poppy seed’s current residence, she took the self-instructed deep breath and drifted toward the window.   There, she stared out toward the city and willed herself to find the acceptance that was necessary to get through this. 

“Kitten?”  The sleepy voice startled her and she swung around to find him propped up on one elbow, watching her through the dim shadows.

“Go back to sleep,” she instructed on a murmur.  He would be better off to let her alone until she’d had a few more minutes to collect herself.

“Is something wrong?”

Wrong?  What could possibly be wrong?  I’m just awake penciling a note for you to see your physician about sexually contracted diseases.  At the advice of your fans.

“No.”

“Baby, I can hear you duck paddling all the way over here.”  He gave a pat to the mattress and enticed, “Come back to bed.”

“I will in a little while.”

She heard his sigh a moment before he appeared at her back, the muscular plane of his chest warming her through the thin kimono.  Broad hands settled on her shoulders with a gentle squeeze.   He didn’t ask her to talk, he didn’t order her to spill her guts so he could go back to bed.  He was just there, propping her up with the quiet strength of a boulder.

It was a significant step toward restoring Sheridan’s calm and it was only a moment before she was able to find words that weren’t accusatory or bitter.  Wading into the inner pool of tranquility that was more like a mud puddle at the moment, she mused softly, “My life is never going to be my own again, is it?”

“It will always be your own.”

“No it won’t.  From this day forward I’ll be the baby’s mother or your wife – or, better yet, the woman who trapped Jon Bon Jovi into marriage by sabotaging the birth control during a drunken fuck.”

He swore under his breath.  “You’ve been online.”

“Silly me, huh?”

“You can’t read that bullshit.  Ninety-five percent of what the media gets hold of is about five percent accurate.  That’s how they get it to add up to a hundred percent.”

“I know that.  I learned that from the Richie thing, but why didn’t you warn me how mean and cruel they were going to be?  Your fans are calling me everything but a law-abiding citizen.”

“My fans are good people,” he countered firmly.  “But a few of them don’t have a firm grip on reality.  Unfortunately those few are incredibly fucking loud.  Don’t form your opinion based on them.  I guarantee that most of them will be happy that I’m happy.”

“If you say so.”

Using his hold on her shoulders, he slowly spun her around and then peered into her eyes.  “Sheridan, I love you and you love me.  That’s the bottom line.  The rest of it can all go to hell.  If I never sell another show ticket or another album, so be it.  But, I’m telling you, it’s not going to come to that.”

She nodded slightly, to appease him more than anything, because she was still worried.  It was going to be hard to get used to this life – harder than she’d imagined.

“I’m not going to like dealing with the media.”

His teeth glinted in the darkness when he smiled.  “You don’t have to.  That’s my job.  You don’t have to do a damn thing but stand by my side.”