Spring Romance: NINE Happily Ever Afters

by Tessa Bailey

  Nick clicks the locks off and opens my door. He’s standing so close, one hand on the door handle, leaning in toward me like he’s ready to breach the space between us, about to take that penultimate movement before a kiss. I glance up at his face and he’s looking at me. Slowly he leans forward and I take Sheryl Sandberg’s advice.

  I lean in.

  Slowly, softly, his lips touch mine, a burst of flavor and heat quenching the anticipation but making me thirst for more. Seconds pass, eternity in the form of intimate touch, the deepening passion turning into a free fall. I’m loose and spinning, falling into nothing and everything at the same time, his hands holding me in place, his hard body locking me into the only location in the world where I need to be.

  Not want.

  Need.

  Then he straightens and smiles into my eyes, questions pooling there, barely held back, lips twitching with intensity. I turn and slide into my seat. Neither of us says a word.

  The briefest kiss – a taste, a tease, a promise – and I am undone.

  This is a revelation to me.

  The Massachusetts Avenue Bridge takes us back to Cambridge. At night, this is my favorite view—suspended over the Charles River, Boston glittering on one side and Cambridge on the other. Two beautiful cities reflected in the same water. I turn in my seat. On one side of Boston, the gold leaf State House dome is illuminated; on the other side, above Kenmore Square, is the famous neon CITGO sign. The panorama is magical, like being in a snow globe, except it’s summer.

  I sit back and look up through the open sunroof as the stars slide by slowly.

  What’s going to happen when we get to my apartment?

  Will we sleep together? I want him to sleep with me.

  I report to him. He can’t.

  I look over at him, serene and purposeful, his hand leaving the steering wheel and finding mine, resting our clasped fingers on my thigh.

  A promise, all right.

  An invitation.

  He damn well better kiss me again.

  And more.

  On the other hand, we work for Anterdec. There is plenty of precedent for inter-office romance. The entire world knows that Declan McCormick just married one of his direct reports. And I still want to know more about what’s going on with Andrew and Amanda.

  Of course there’s no ‘Visitor’ parking space available on my street. Or on the cross street.

  On the next street over, we round the corner just in time to watch a Volvo sliding back into an open spot.

  So unfair. So frustrating. So Cambridge.

  Please can we just fast-forward? Teleport, maybe?

  Four blocks away, we finally see a spot at the far end of the street. We look at each other and smile. We pull up alongside the space.

  It is the size of a Smartcar. There’s no way.

  I smack the dashboard. Nick smiles.

  I have an idea. “Just go to my parking spot and pull in behind my car,” I say. “No one can have a problem with that.”

  Ten minutes later, we are inside my back door.

  “Would you like coffee?” I ask, turning the lock.

  His mouth is on mine.

  I breathe him in, taste him, move my body along with his. My back is against the door. His hands are pulling my skirt up. His palm runs along my thigh, my hip, pulling me against him. I feel his hardness, and I reach for his belt buckle, frantic for more of him. The clasp opens.

  My god, he’s gorgeous. I start to bend down and he stops me with a kiss.

  “Not here. Not yet. You first,” he rasps.

  Nick pulls me to my feet and kisses my mouth again. We stumble through my open door. He kicks the door closed and I’m on my back on the couch, my skirt riding up, his face between my legs. There is no pretense here. No quiet flirt, no mixed drink, no spiked coffee and coquettish glances. This is pure, raw energy in sexual form, and we’re drawn to each other’s hot skin like a magnet to iron.

  “You’re just as beautiful here as everywhere else,” he says softly, and covers me with his warm mouth, his tongue circling slowly, then faster, fingers pulling my thong to the side, his hot breath nearly enough to send me over the edge, and oh, God, this feels divine. I push my hips forward, abandoning myself to the feeling, familiar and yet completely new, as I feel him smile against me, his attentions both masterful and uninhibited.

  Now I know how to make him smile.

  I am moaning now, in a language even I don’t understand. The sensation builds, and builds, my fingers tightening in his hair, until it crests and the intense shimmering heat spreads all through me.

  And all I want is more of him.

  “You’re delicious,” he tells me, continuing his gentle sucking as I shudder, half my mind blown away by the sudden intimacy and craving for ten thousand layers more of this man, the other half shattered into ten thousand pieces of confetti that whirl around like a cyclone of arousal.

  “I want you,” I tell him, sitting up, legs weak and thighs wet as I strip out of my t-shirt and he pulls his polo shirt off, our hands frantic, breathing labored.

  He steps out of his jeans and, bending down, picks me up in his arms.

  “Where is your bed?” he asks.

  I point and whisper, “In there.”

  Then he’s laying me down and he’s over me, his strong arms on either side, pulling the rest of my clothes off until we’re both gloriously naked, the need to touch like a fever that won’t break.

  I open myself to him, then wrap my legs around his waist. He pauses. I reach for my nightstand drawer and open it. He pulls out a condom and takes care of the niceties, then enters me slowly, his eyes locked on mine, and he gasps. I can barely hear his words, but I think I hear him say, “My Chloe.”

  Our eyes meet.

  “You,” he says as he begins to move, then dips his head down to suck one tight nipple into his mouth.

  And then he starts to move. We move together, faster and more urgent, until his breathing changes to something more ragged. He makes his final thrust. With a kind of quiet roar, he explodes into me, and his hot pulsing pushes me into my own climax, matching his.

  I am his.

  * * *

  I wake up slowly, but don’t open my eyes. There are strong arms around my waist and slow, steady, warm breath on my neck.

  That is not Minky’s breath.

  Oh my god oh my god, it’s Nick!

  Lie perfectly still, Chloe, don’t wake him up. Try to breathe like a sleeping person. Sloooowly. I just want this moment to last, like forever, and if he wakes up he will grab his clothes and run out the door and I’ll be left here making one cup of coffee and trying to smell his scent on the bed pillows. Again.

  Or—wait—that was Joe.

  But dammit, I have to pee.

  And brush my teeth. My mouth tastes like cat box. I can’t stand it.

  But if I move, he’ll wake up and this moment will be over.

  My leg is asleep. I can only feel vaguely uncomfortable pinpricks. I need to shift, but if I move…

  Concentrate on how wonderful his skin smells. Concentrate on the feeling of being held. Relax and concentrate on his breathing.

  I can’t. I really have to pee.

  Maybe if I slowly inch my way out of bed, not moving the mattress at all, and silently slip to the bathroom, and gently close the door so the latch doesn’t click, and…

  This is ridiculous.

  I am an adult.

  A slightly hungover adult.

  Tequila.

  Sigh.

  I stand up. And almost fall down from my tingling leg.

  Nick stirs, and stretches. He opens one eye and smiles sleepily.

  “Hurry back,” is all he says.

  Oh, I hurry. Yes I do. Dash to bathroom, pee, brush teeth, wipe off last night’s lipstick, brush hair, little spritz of perfume on all the places that count. All of them.

  Takes me thirty seconds, tops.

  Sliding back into warm, sex-smelling sheets and
feeling your lover’s skin welcoming yours, with nowhere else to be and time to spare, is the greatest luxury known to a woman. This is exactly the experience that O tries to approximate for every client. And we can’t even come close to the real thing.

  His breathing evens out as he slips back into sleep and I curl in his arms, relaxing in a way that is new. No man has spent the night in my bed in a very long time. Joe never did. His wife would wonder. Even when I suggested he pretend he was on a business trip, he always had an excuse.

  The slimy ones always do, right?

  It’s daylight, and I’m entirely sober now. I can really look at Nick, see the muscles in his shoulders and his ass, see where the hair on his chest begins and ends, see how he responds to every touch. His face is relaxed in sleep, light brown hair mixed with dark blond and a little silver, with that slight coloring at the temples that makes him look distinguished. His beard stubble has more grey than brown, and I want to lick his lips. He tasted so good last night.

  He was so good last night.

  I sigh, his arms tightening around me, and I find my mind sinking into a soft place I never go, a place where I just am. I’m not a design director, not a mother-to-be, not a mistress, not a daughter.

  I get to be me.

  And as I fall back asleep, I wonder if Nick feels what I feel, too.

  * * *

  Nick

  I haven’t woken up with a woman’s ass curled against my front in a long, long time.

  I’ve forgotten how good it feels.

  Chloe is soft in slumber, her skin golden and relaxed, fine bones angular and artistic in the morning light. She’s breathing deeply, slowly, her body loose. I sit up just enough to look over her shoulder and see the sheet is my friend, her breasts peeking out, uncovered. She smells like her verbena perfume, the scent so strong that I wonder if she sprayed herself earlier, when she got up for a moment.

  I slept over. In a woman’s bed. She’s beside me.

  I’m beside myself.

  A woman hasn’t slept all night with me since Simone.

  Chloe shifts, as if she senses I’m watching her, and I brush my fingertips along the fine bones of her hip, resting my palm there with a territoriality that feels a little too caveman-like for my own comfort.

  Can’t help it, though.

  We’re spooning, which was comfortable a few seconds ago, but as I look at her closed eyes, the lashes resting gently on her creamy skin, the broad planes and high cheekbones of her face a work of art, I feel myself harden.

  Last night was amazing.

  How about we make the morning even better?

  “Mmm,” she says, the sound a mix of slow awakening and an offer as she turns over, her body warm, her arm reaching for me, eyes still closed. “Nick?”

  “Morning.”

  She smiles, still not looking at me, and my palm squeezes her, the air freezing in my lungs. What’s she thinking?

  I take the lead and lean in for a kiss. She wiggles closer, her legs entwining with mine, mouth cute and tentative until the kiss deepens. Within seconds it’s clear what we both want.

  “Last night was amazing,” I say, putting words to what I’ve been thinking.

  “I don’t usually do this,” she says with an open smile, those dark brown eyes alert yet sultry, aware but still relaxed.

  “Do what?”

  “Have a sleep over.”

  “Me neither.”

  “We’re breaking all our rules,” she says, her arms reaching up around my neck, her torso pressed against me, hips finding my erection, grinding just enough to make it more than clear what she wants next.

  That’s how exceptions work, I think, but before I can say it, I’m over her, hands taking in the smooth fullness of her breasts, pert and small but more than enough, one nipple tasting like sweet musk and sunshine.

  Blood pounds through me, sending energy to places long dormant, and all I want is to be in her again. The easy intimacy is so foreign. Pure.

  Perfect.

  And then her head disappears under the covers. No giggles, no hesitation, no awkwardness. Chloe knows what she wants and goes for it.

  I’m dreaming, right?

  The slick warmth that envelops me and makes my abs tighten isn’t part of any dream I’ve ever had before, though. Miles Davis plays in the background, a tune that morphs into a rhythm that becomes damn near feral.

  “Chloe,” I choke out, overcome by the hot surprise of this morning gift. I look down to see the covers tenting her, her mouth working magic on me, one hand on my inner thigh, the other cupping my ass.

  No woman has ever been so uninhibited in bed.

  And then she does something with one hand and her tongue that makes me forget anything exists but her, this bed and—

  RING!

  I sit up sharply, pulling back, shocked by the sound of my phone’s ringtone.

  “Nick?” Chloe’s muffled voice comes from under the covers, then her face peeks out like a turtle in a shell.

  “Damn it. That’s my phone. Someone’s actually calling me.”

  “Ignore it.” Her head disappears under the covers again and oh, God….

  I sigh. “I can’t.” Regret infuses every syllable as I twist and reach for the phone. Where is it? I climb out of bed and search the floor for my pants. “My kids. You know…”

  “Oh.” Her voice holds a tone of surprise. “Right. Of course.”

  I don’t want to blow this. I don’t. And if this is some stupid work issue, I’ll kill the caller. But if something happened to Elodie or Amelie or Jean-Marc and I didn’t answer the phone…

  I grab my phone and climb back in bed.

  Elodie.

  Chloe snuggles up as I answer.

  “Hello?”

  “DADDY! OH MY GOD, YOU’RE ALIVE!” Elodie screams, the sound so loud I flinch and pull the phone back from my ear, dropping it on my knee.

  Chloe’s eyes pop open and she gives me a questioning look.

  A deeply amused, questioning look.

  “Of course I’m alive. Has someone told you otherwise?”

  “I came home to do laundry and no one is here!”

  I look at the time. Seven fourteen a.m. The one time that child is awake before noon. Damn. Long night. Early rise.

  Chloe starts playing with the hair on my chest, then gently teases one nipple with the end of a perfectly-manicured fingernail.

  I clear my throat with meaning.

  Her eyes go impish.

  Oh, no.

  “Yeah, well….” I can’t really speak. I need to get off the damn phone. My erection deflates like a blow-up kid’s slide at closing time at a New England town carnival.

  “Where are you? On business?”

  “You could say that. What are you doing at the house so early?”

  “Getting down to business,” Chloe mutters, reaching up to bite my earlobe.

  Electricity shoots through me.

  “Daddy! Amelie said she couldn’t find you, either! Remember I’m here early because we need to do all our laundry at once? I’m going on that trip to D.C. for one of my classes tomorrow night. Is something wrong? Have you been kidnapped? The security alarm says you haven’t been home since 5:42 p.m. yesterday.”

  Damn safety system. Installed it to manage escaping kids when they were younger and now they’re using it to track me.

  “I’m fine.”

  “He’s fine,” Chloe says, just loud enough for Elodie to hear.

  And I let her.

  “DADDY! IS THAT A WOMAN?”

  I wince. Honesty is the best approach.

  “Yes.”

  “Where are you? Having coffee with someone?”

  “Mmm, coffee,” Chloe purrs. “Want some in bed?”

  “ARE YOU IN BED WITH A WOMAN?” Elodie screeches.

  I do what any red-blooded man with a naked woman in bed beside him and his barely-adult daughter screaming on the phone about his sex life would do.

  I end the
call and turn off my phone.

  Before Chloe can get out the room, I grab her from behind and gently throw her on the bed, laughing with her.

  “You enjoyed that, didn’t you?” I growl, half embarrassed, half amused.

  “Do your grown daughters always track you down when you’ve slept with a woman?” Her tone is light, but I can see the mild horror in her eyes. If the roles were reversed, I’d hesitate, too.

  I go serious, brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead, taking my time to answer. Her body is trim and smooth beneath mine, our exposed skin hot and needy, my elbows supporting my weight as Chloe’s pensive look makes me feel everything.

  And want more.

  “This is the first time.”

  “The first time you’ve slept with a woman?” she jokes. “I’m honored.”

  “The first time I’ve slept over.”

  “Ever?” Her eyes are intense, asking questions she can’t ask with words.

  “Since their mother and I divorced, yes.”

  Chloe blinks, just enough times for me to tell she’s processing the detail, trying to glean meaning. There’s plenty to find.

  I kiss her, our mouths soft and urgent, and she opens her legs, wrapping them around me, her intent clear. I feel like I’m wearing new skin, trying it out for the first time, finding it’s a better fit than the old one.

  And feeling every sensation with an acuity that is like being reborn.

  Last night was the frenzied rush to taste and tease, to conquer new territory, to try a sample to see what we liked. This morning is slower, more sensual, like a wine tasting where the goal isn’t to get drunk.

  It’s to swirl the glass, inhale deeply, find exactly which bouquet is most appealing.

  And oh, the mouthfeel.

  I’m not going to miss a single drop.

  Sex with Chloe was hot and quick the first time, the frantic rush that comes from wanting to try each other out, from the anticipation that fires the blood and makes everything urgent.

  This time, we’re more deliberate, and as I kiss my way down her torso, I find myself tasting her sweetness for breakfast, the small sounds of pleasure she makes helping to clear my mind, pushing my body to the limit. Chloe is a delight in bed, her body mine to explore, yet she surprises me now, pulling me up.