by Amelia Wilde
I smiled and pulled my hand free so that I could take his face between both of them. The sheet pooled at my waist, but Brandon wasn’t distracted. I pressed my lips to his.
“I think,” I said between kisses, “we’ve gained a lot instead. Don’t you?”
In response Brandon opened his mouth and captured mine, nipping and pecking as he pressed me back into the pillows. His mouth drifted drown, sucking on the delicate skin around my neck and moving farther down to one breast.
“Ah,” I cried out as he bit my nipple, lightly. “Don’t…mmm…don’t you have a flight to catch?”
“It’s my fucking plane,” Brandon mumbled as he shifted to the other side.
He sat up suddenly to kick off his shoes, loosen his belt, and unzip his pants. Before I could protest further, he had already applied a condom from the nightstand and was on top of me, peering down with his luminous eyes.
“You are so goddamn beautiful,” he whispered as he slid in, causing me to wince slightly before I could relax.
I strained a little, but was shocked by how willing and ready I was.
“Skylar,” Brandon mumbled before kissing me again. “I need you. Just…ah, baby, fuck, you feel good…just one more time.”
He slipped a hand down to help me out, but I pulled it away, surprised to find I didn’t need it. That now-familiar tension was building on its own––building from just him.
Brandon stopped to look at me. “You okay? Shit, babe, are you sore? I didn’t think to ask.”
“I’m fine,” I insisted, tilting my hips to urge him on. “I just…keep going, will you?”
Every nerve ending in my body was on fire. He pushed against the exact right spot, the spot he’d tormented with his fingers so successfully that first night in my apartment and multiple times last night. I knew that if he kept going at that same, steady pace, I’d eventually explode without any extra help.
“You sure?” Brandon asked, but he’d already started to move again. “Like that?”
I nodded. He balanced on his forearms, weaving his fingers through my hair as he worked. His scent, fresh from his shower and utterly intoxicating, engulfed me, and I wrapped my legs around his waist, urging him closer.
“Please,” I muttered, “harder.”
Brandon started to speed up to a deeper, more unforgiving pace even while his lips were soft and tender.
“Fuck, baby,” he muttered as I started to clench around him. “I can feel you squeezing. You’re so fucking tight.”
He was struggling now to regulate his pace. He pressed his head into the pillow, his hands drifting down to grab my ass and lift it roughly to meet him, blow for blow. The slight shift of position was all it took, and after just a few deeper, penetrating pumps, I came apart around him with a yelp. Brandon followed suit, and both our bodies seized together as we grasped, pawed at each other and the blankets, completely immersed in one another yet desperate to get closer still. Brandon kissed me like it was a life force, an anchor in a tide that threatened to carry him away. I wrapped my arms as tightly as I could. I felt the same way.
As the shaking subsided, we lay there lifeless, with Brandon’s large body pressing mine into the bedding. He gave me one last long, lingering kiss before burying his face in my hair.
“I don’t want to go,” he said as he started to pull out, very slowly. “You feel too fucking good. God, I can’t get enough of you.”
I sighed. I understood the feeling all too well.
“You have a meeting at ten,” I reminded him, with obvious regret. “And I have work too.”
Brandon groaned into my hair. We lay there for a moment, listening to each other’s heartbeats until he pushed up, made quick work of the condom, and fixed his pants. It was amazing how quickly he could revert to basically perfect. I probably looked like a troll doll.
“I do have to go, goddamn it,” Brandon said as he lay back down beside me. He gathered me close, so I was nestled into his big frame, my naked back to his fully-clothed front. “But I’ll be back on Friday. Can I take you out? Someplace nicer than pizza this time? Nothing too crazy, I promise.”
I traced the piping of the pillowcase with my finger, looking out the massive window to where the sun was shining over the bright white expanse of the Commons. The occasional snowflakes would flurry off the tops of the trees in the wind, but the sky was a brilliant blue above the magical dreamscape. Eventually, it would turn to gray slush built up on the side of the roads, but right now Boston was the most beautiful place in the world.
I snuggled back into Brandon. I’d miss him this week, more than I wanted to admit.
“Okay,” I said, finally letting go of the last vestiges of reserve I’d been holding onto. I just couldn’t do it anymore. “Your choice.”
Brandon sighed contentedly. He kissed me gently behind my ear and continued to hold me close until I fell back asleep watching light on the new snow.
But when I woke up again a few hours later, he was gone.
25
Brandon and I traded texts and phone calls throughout the next week, developing a natural rapport that gave me a bit more faith in our burgeoning relationship. It was a nice feeling. His job required him to travel a fair amount, and God knew I’d be even busier come summer, when I’d be studying for the bar and hopefully preparing for a new job.
On Thursday night, I was putting the finishing touches on a paper for my Postmodern Law class when my phone buzzed on my desk. I picked it up and smiled.
Brandon: hey beautiful. how’s the paper going?
Quickly, I typed in a response.
Me: good. almost finished. what are u up to?
In less than a minute, my phone buzzed again with a picture of a posh hotel room, taken from the vantage point of looking down Brandon’s trim waist and long legs toward a blazing fireplace. His shoes were off, and his big socked feet were crossed at the ankles, a pint of beer in one hand at the far edge of the photo.
Me: u and your fireplaces. looks nice. jealous.
His reply buzzed almost immediately.
Brandon: wish u were here too. miss u.
Before I had a chance to type something else, my phone rang with Brandon’s name and picture.
“Hey,” I answered, turning back to multitask on my paper.
“Hey yourself, Red,” Brandon rumbled, his baritone slightly deeper from the late hour. “I just wanted to hear your voice.”
I grinned. “Thanks. It’s nice to hear yours too.”
“So listen, I know you’ve got to finish that paper, but I just wanted to check in about tomorrow.”
As if I could have forgotten. He’d only brought up our date literally every other time we’d talked.
“Yeah,” I said somewhat absently, having spotted a typo on my screen. “Dinner, right? Do you know what time you’ll be in yet?” His schedule had been up in the air most of the week—something about the deal he was working on.
“Ah, yeah, probably sometime early afternoon. We’re signing the papers at noon, thank fucking God, so hopefully I’ll be able to get out of here right after that.”
“That bad, huh?” I frowned at the screen, trying to rework another sentence.
“I just want to see you, baby.”
His words set a small, warm fire in my belly, and suddenly grammar didn’t seem to matter so much. I swiveled around and propped my feet up on the edge of my bed, wrapping an arm around my waist as if I could mimic his touch.
“I want to see you too,” I admitted, and immediately a hum of approval zipped through the phone.
“Good. So, I was thinking I’d pick you up around six.”
I looked up at the ceiling, contemplating the schedule. “Six? Isn’t that kind of early? I don’t even finish at the clinic until five.”
“Oh.” The disappointment in his voice was palpable. “Well, I was thinking I’d get tickets for something, and then we could go to dinner late. Do something nice since it’s Valentine’s Day and all.”
Immediately I spun back around and made a stealthy dash for my closet. “Sure…yeah…what kind of tickets?”
Brandon chuckled, low and satisfied. He probably knew he was catching me by surprise, the bastard.
“I don’t think I can tell you that yet, Red. Gotta keep some things a secret, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know…I sort of like predictability.” I thumbed through my clothes, trying to decide if I had anything decent enough for a fancy dinner date with a man like this on the most romantic day of the year. Shit. I stopped, deciding to focus my energy instead on convincing him to divulge his plans. “Plus, you don’t exactly have the best track record with surprises.”
“I think I’ve done all right,” Brandon purred, and I realized he wasn’t just talking about gifts. Okay, so he wasn’t so bad at surprises.
“Come on,” I wheedled. I pulled one dress, then another—all of them basic, boring, and black. “A girl’s got to plan her wardrobe. Don’t you want me to look all sexy for you?” I tried to make my voice sound light and flirtatious, but failed miserably.
Brandon burst out laughing. “Babe, you know the ‘gotta please my man’ shtick doesn’t really work for you, right?”
“Gah!” I erupted. “Okay, can you just tell me whether or not it’s formal? Going to the opera is pretty different than seeing a garage band, you know?”
“Hmmm.”
He was so obviously enjoying this. I rolled my eyes and stomped my feet.
“I think,” Brandon said finally, “that you’ll be fine in a dress. Something that shows off your legs.”
“Brandon!”
“I’m just kidding!” He laughed through the phone so hard that I couldn’t help but giggle with him. “Okay, you’ll want to dress up a little. But it’s not black tie.”
“That’s no help at all!” I screeched.
“Red?” Brandon asked, his voice suddenly sweet. Its calming effect was immediate.
“Yes.”
“It’s just a date, not the Oscars. I can give you until six thirty if you really need it, but that’s it. If Kieran tries to make you stay late, tell her I’m giving my funding for FLS to the business school instead.”
I snorted. “Yeah, I bet that would go over well.”
I wasn’t worried. I could splurge on a cab if I needed to get back in time to get ready. If I could figure out something to wear in the first place.
“And seriously. You’ll look gorgeous no matter what. Wear a paper bag if you want. I just want to spend the evening with you.”
I took a deep breath. I still had no idea what to wear, but his adoration was touching. I exhaled slowly.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll figure it out. Brandon?”
“What, Red?”
“No gifts. I mean it.”
He chuckled again. “We’ll see.”
“I mean it!” I yelped.
“Okay, okay, I got it. Listen, I need to finish up some stuff and get some sleep. See you tomorrow, beautiful.”
“See you then,” I said, feeling my insides once more turn to goo. “Bye.” I tossed my phone onto the bed, all thoughts of my paper temporarily cast aside. “Jane?” I knew my night-owl roommate would still be up.
“Yeah?” she called from her room.
I looked at the pile of dresses flung on my bed. My bank account wasn’t going to like me very much this month, but there wasn’t much to be done about that.
“You want to go shopping again tomorrow? I’m going to need a new dress.”
After I finished my paper, I was too ramped up to study, which was unfortunate, considering I had a lot to do the next day. And yet…there I was, lying on my bed like a grumpy teenager at nine o’clock at night.
Rolling to my side, I glanced at the picture on my bedside table of me, my dad, and Bubbe on the day I graduated from NYU. The purple graduation gown made me look like Barney and turned my hair fluorescent in comparison. But it was one of the few pictures I had of the three of us. Someone had taken it candidly by mistake; while I was giving a cheesy, perfunctory smile, Dad and Bubbe were beaming at me, their eyes glossy with pride and love. I loved that picture because it reminded me of how critical they were to my life—how I wouldn’t be a fraction of the person I was without their unconditional support.
Bubbe’s face had been decidedly darker when she’d mentioned the ticket in Dad’s pocket. He hadn’t owned up to anything when I’d spoken to him. It had been a few weeks since then. Maybe it was time for a serious call. He needed to know I loved him enough to care too.
Dad’s phone rang twice before it went to voicemail. I checked the clock. It was possible he had a gig, but usually he only took them on Fridays and Saturdays because of his early morning hours during the week. Still, even though he usually had to be up by five, he wasn’t likely to be asleep before ten o’clock. I decided to try the house line.
Bubbe, of course, picked up after only one ring. “Hello?”
“Hey, Bubbe, it’s me.”
“Skylar, bubbela! What are you doing calling here? Is everything all right?”
“Oh, sure, it’s fine. Dad wasn’t picking up. Thought I’d try here. Is he there?”
I heard a brief scratching over the phone, as if she was writing something down. Probably Sudoku.
“Your father? No, Danny’s not here. In fact…”
She trailed off, taking a deep breath that signified clearly a subject of major interest. In Bubbe’s world, that either meant one of two things: gossip or tragedy. My stomach clenched as I waited to hear which one it was.
“Believe it or not, your father…is on…a date!” she crowed.
I nearly dropped the phone in shock. My father was the consummate bachelor—in my entire life, I had seen him go on maybe two dates that didn’t involve my mother. I was never sure if that was because he still carried a torch for Janette Chambers, or if he was so ruined by that relationship that he never wanted to take that risk again. But on both occasions, he’d come home before ten, sat down at the piano, and played until Bubbe threw a newspaper at him so she could fall asleep.
“Are you sure?” I asked once I’d recovered my voice. “A date? Really?”
“Sure, I’m sure,” Bubbe insisted. “They even picked something up at the house before they left for dinner. I met her!”
I frowned, slightly hurt. Dad wasn’t just on a date—he’d been dating someone long enough to bring her home to meet his mother. And he hadn’t mentioned her to me.
“Well, what’s she like?” I asked. “What’s her name?”
“Well,” said Bubbe, clearly delighted. “She’s a little thing. Good too, since my Daniel’s no giant. She’s a bit young for him, a little flashy. She’s from Queens originally, and half-Jewish, she said, on her mother’s side. I know her grandmother, Rachel Kremen, because we used to go to the same temple when we were girls. Good family, although they’re Reform, you know—”
“Bubbe,” I interrupted somewhat impatiently. “What was her name?”
“Oh, yes, it was…ah…Katie…Katie Corleone. Her father’s Italian, of course, but she is half-Jewish.”
“Yes, you already said that, Bubbe.”
I was already pulling my computer off my desk and opening up Facebook. The name Katie Corleone sounded kind of familiar, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Bubbe continued to describe her face, her hair, her clothes, and any other details she could come up with while I typed in the name and location and perused the list of faces. There were a few Katie Corleones in Brooklyn, but none who looked like the person Bubbe was describing to me, and none who looked familiar.
After a few more minutes, I closed my laptop.
“You don’t say,” I murmured as Bubbe recounted the latest gossip fro
m that week’s canasta game.
I glanced at the clock. It was now close to ten. I desperately wanted to call my dad again, but I didn’t want to interrupt his first legitimate romance in almost twenty years. Poor Dad; all I’d ever wanted for him was someone who would really love him for the kind, caring person I knew him to be.
“All right, bubbela,” Bubbe said. “I have to get sleep. I’ll tell Danny you called when he comes back.”
“Sure thing, Bubbe. Give Dad my love, and you too.”
26
“Dang, that is a nice car!”
I was waiting in the lobby of my building when the Mercedes pulled up outside. Another student leaving the building whistled.
“How are you this evening, Ms. Crosby?” asked David as he opened the back door for me.
The student, a kid name Ray who lived a floor below me, ogled as I quickly approached Brandon’s kind driver. I wanted to go before I attracted any more attention.
“Fine, thanks, David,” I replied. “You?”
“Just swell, thank you.”
I slid inside, where I found Brandon frowning at my coat.
“I thought you were going to dress up,” he complained, touching the plain, heather-gray wool.
The car started, and I tipped the toe of my black Manolo at him, also displaying the sheer black hose I had on. He looked more appreciatively at my leg.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “You’ll like it, I promise. But if I wore this dress in this weather without a coat, I’d probably freeze to death.”
Brandon nodded. “Good. Well, this is for you.”
“Brandon!”
I started to protest another needlessly expensive gift before I saw that all he held was a single red rose, the kind sold at newsstands. It was wrapped with a bit of cellophane and garnished with Queen Anne’s lace. I took it from his fingers and held it to my nose, inhaling its faint, sweet scent.
“It’s perfect,” I murmured, charmed by the simple token. I twiddled the petals around my face. “Thank you.”