by Amelia Wilde
“Well…you haven’t mentioned anyone else,” he said slowly, affecting a completely transparent nonchalance. “Like, for instance, Mike Seaver back there at the symphony?”
I smirked. “Did you just reference Growing Pains?”
He shrugged again and offered a casual grin. “I liked that show when I was a kid.”
“So did my dad. God, you’re old,” I joked, earning a quick pinch at my waist. I jumped, but the hand kept me from moving too far.
“So, you guys dated?” Brandon prompted, suddenly engrossed with removing an imaginary piece of lint off my hip. I stilled his fingers, prompting him to look back up at me.
“We went on one date. A few weeks ago. After, um, the plane incident. Then…”
“I came back around?” he suggested with an impishly raised brow.
“You could say that.”
I pulled him down for a brief kiss, but he stayed for something more involved. A few moments later we separated, both breathing significantly harder. His fingers resumed their caresses over my waist and hip.
“But you did live in Paris for a year,” he asked. “City of love…I’m sure you had a few frogs put the moves on you.”
I rolled my eyes. “Hardly. Well, it’s not that no one did, but…most of that year I spent trying and failing to have a relationship with my mother.” I looked up at him. “She lives just outside of Paris with her family, as you know. And, like I told you, they were, um, busy most of the time I was there.”
I didn’t add that she had only managed to make one of our scheduled dinner dates the entire time I’d lived there and hadn’t once invited me to her house to meet my siblings. I had spent most of the year moping around museums and practicing the piano, playing the occasional performance with other NYU music students. My mother never came to any of them. When I did venture out, it was usually to drink way too much and end up sick in my dorm. I was miserable in Paris and had taken the first plane back to New York once finals were over.
Brandon examined me carefully, obviously reading in between the lines of my statements. “So whisking you off to Paris really wasn’t the best idea,” he finally muttered.
I shrugged. What could I say?
“And so, there’s never been anyone else…special?” Brandon wondered, returning to the subject of my romantic history yet again. “I find that hard to believe.”
Now it was my turn to avoid his gaze. “Ah…I wouldn’t say that. There was one…guy.”
“Tell me.”
The command was quiet, but unmistakable. I sighed. I didn’t really like talking about Patrick, but Brandon deserved to know what he was getting into. He’d bared his soul to me once before.
Apparently, Valentine’s Day was over.
“His name was Patrick Harlow,” I relented, ready to get the story over with as quickly as I could. “I met him while I was an intern at Goldman Sachs. He worked there too. We used to hook up casually, and then we started dating after I graduated and came on as a junior associate. We worked a lot of long hours together, so it developed…naturally, I guess.”
I squirmed uneasily at the word—it didn’t come close to describing how I’d felt with Patrick. He’d had the ability that some men have to make a woman feel like she’s the center of his world in one breath and completely inconsequential the next. I was constantly chasing his wavering approval and attention, the pursuit of which led me into a lot of situations I regretted.
“Was he good to you?”
I looked up. “No,” I said quietly. “He was not.”
The hand on my stomach paused, its fingertips clenching slightly at the fabric.
“How?” It was amazing how one small word could carry so much vitriol.
I exhaled roughly through my nose and looked away. “Brandon, you really don’t want to hear this—”
“Skylar,” he said gently and stroked my cheek. “I do. I promise I won’t be mad. Well, not at you, anyway. But I want to know everything about you, just like you want to know about me. So please just tell me what that shithead did, if you can.”
I sighed again and gave in. I told him about how it had started between Patrick and me, with flirtatious instant messages and late-night drinks, eventually a few casual hookups. It seemed like a natural progression from our work life. He was a good Jewish boy from New Jersey, which endeared him to my grandmother while he gained my dad’s favor with nice bottles of whiskey and Mets tickets. I recounted how Patrick had introduced me to all his family and friends too, paraded me around Montclair like I was a model, called me his “little firefly.” I was, in his words, “his most precious possession.”
But then he started to turn more hot and cold. There were moments where I thought he might have been unfaithful—he’d forget to call me for an entire weekend, then show up on Monday with a Tiffany box. He was angry at my decision to go to law school and accused me of wanting to whore it up in Boston. He’d punish me with passive aggressive comments in front of friends and family, or more unexplained absences. And yet I couldn’t quite let go.
My attempts to regain his affections became increasingly desperate as I agreed to more outlandish escapades to please him. The week after I gave notice at Goldman, his friends caught us having sex in a supply closet. The way it happened, with preemptive laughter before the door even opened, made me think it was planned. After all, Patrick had wanted to continue while they watched. As a last resort to save our ailing relationship, I even tried a threesome once, only to be pushed off the bed while a two-bit barfly gave my soon-to-be ex a blowjob. Less than a month later, we were through for good.
“That was two years ago,” I concluded.
Brandon stared into the fire as he digested all the details. I waited nervously. Would he think me disgusting now? Slutty? Pitiful? I had thought all those things about myself once too; it had taken Jane a long time to convince me otherwise.
“I…don’t understand,” he said finally, running his hand back through his hair.
I swallowed. “I know. It’s hard to explain. None of it’s that bad, really. I stayed. It’s hard to explain why it was so hard to leave him.” I couldn’t even explain that to myself most of the time.
“No, Red, that’s not it.” He looked at me kindly, without pity, but there was a trace of fire behind the sweet expression. “Not you,” he clarified. “I don’t understand him. Shithead doesn’t even begin to cover it. He’s lucky he’s not here right now; I want to punch his manipulative fuckin’ lights out.”
His tone was calm, but I could hear the slight lilt of Brandon’s accent, betraying his underlying rage.
“Does he still work at Goldman?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I think he got in trouble after the subprime market collapsed, so maybe not. I honestly don’t care anymore.” I blanched, concentrating instead on twisting the sheepskin wool with my fingers. “Please don’t go looking, all right? I don’t need a white knight with a vendetta. I’ve already been with someone possessive, and it was awful.”
Brandon exhaled through his nose multiple times, clearly doing what he could to calm himself down. “I just don’t understand how a man—if you can even call him that—could not see what he has in front of him. How he could fuck up the best thing—the best person—he could ever hope for in his pathetic excuse for a life.”
“Things change,” I replied weakly, looking up at the ceiling. The firelight flickered against the shadows of the wide beams. “You can be in love in the beginning, but it can always turn to shit. I learned that the hard way.”
“Then it wasn’t really love to begin with.”
We lay there for a few more moments, watching each other’s faces silently in the golden reflections of the fire.
“You’re hard to read sometimes,” I said finally, not so much to break the silence, but to break up the runaway nature of my own thoughts. I was coming dangerously close to putting the cart before the horse.
“I just…I want you to know something. And I don�
�t want you to freak out about it.” Brandon blinked, his blue eyes wide and scared. “I…I don’t know how to do this slow with you, Skylar. But I’m trying. I just want you to know…that whatever we’re doing here...I’m in.” He took a deep breath and opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something more. In the end, he just exhaled and repeated himself, like a mantra. “I’m all in.”
About a million thoughts skittered through my mind. I wanted to shout that I felt the same way. I wanted to say that his touch made my skin feel like it was as alight as the flames next to us, that I’d never felt a connection so powerful, so immediate. Not with Patrick; not with anyone. I wanted to tell Brandon he could have my heart and soul if he wanted those too—that maybe he already did.
But a small voice—the one who remembered the way the last fire I’d engaged had burned me so badly—screamed the obvious. It was too soon. We barely knew each other. There was plenty of time for things to progress naturally.
So instead, I threaded my fingers through his hair, urging him close so I could say to him with my kiss what I couldn’t yet express out loud.
It appeared to be all the encouragement Brandon needed. His shoulders blotted out the fire as he moved to kneel between my legs, gently running his hand up my legs and taking the hem of my skirt with them. I arched my back so he could pull the dress over my head and toss it to the side so that I lay naked in nothing but black silk underwear and the sheer, thigh-high stockings. He loomed over me, surveying my body with eyes blazing as he removed his vest and shirt.
The warm light cast shadows in the hard lines of his body, making the edges of his pectoral muscles and the V-shaped lines of his abdomen that much more apparent as they moved. I watched appreciatively as he tossed his clothes to the side, unveiling his raw beauty. He trailed both hands lazily over my shoulders, traced his fingertips over my collarbones, and continued lower to cup both breasts and run his thumbs over my nipples.
“Gorgeous,” Brandon murmured, face alight with desire.
He bent down to worship one breast, then the other with his mouth, flicking each nipple with his tongue before seizing it in between his teeth. He bit down, just hard enough to make me lurch. His hands continued their trek down my body. There was a sharp, coarse breath when he reached my stockings.
He stopped his ministrations at my breasts, which by that point had me gyrating slightly, and sat back up to admire the thin material on my legs.
“These,” Brandon said hoarsely. “I like these a lot.”
I smiled, my hips arching slightly toward him. Brandon had an agenda; that much was clear. He took his time, sliding one stocking off, then the other, followed by my underwear, and then, finally, allowing me to wrap my bare legs around his waist. His hands gripped my thighs just a touch more roughly, and his breathing drew increasingly uneven.
“I want to be gentle with you, Skylar,” he spoke gruffly, kneading my muscles as he spoke. “But I’m not sure I can tonight.”
I pulled my legs from his grasp, ignoring his grunt of disapproval, and sat up on my knees. I ran my fingers over his torso with a sigh, just as I had been longing to do since he’d removed his shirt, then trailed down to unfasten his pants.
“Take these off,” I commanded quietly.
With a quick, blue glance, Brandon followed my order without a word until he sat in front of me, as naked as I was, arms resting over bent knees.
He really was beautiful. Brandon had the taut grace of an athlete, but without the bulk of a bodybuilder. His fitness was naturally made from exercise and genetics, nothing forced, rendering him completely comfortable with his body. Light-blond fuzz covered most of his skin, curly and slightly thicker over his chest and legs. In the firelight, he looked like he had been dipped in gold: a Viking ready to plunder.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked softly.
Although I didn’t normally want to take charge when it came to sex, tonight felt different. I wanted to know I could give him the same kind of pleasure, the same kind of release he gave me. After baring such a vulnerable part of myself, now I wanted the control.
So, I remained silent, just pushed gently so that he was now the one on his back, and I could hover over his big body. I ran my nose lightly across the lines of his stomach, down the muscular ridges of his abdomen, and into the hollows of his hipbones, making him jerk slightly. As I started to drift farther down, his hands clasped my shoulders.
“Skylar, you don’t have to do that,” he said.
I pushed up so I could see his face. “Don’t you like it?”
“I, well, yeah, of course I do. I just don’t want you to feel like you have to.”
Quickly, I bent and took him in my mouth, causing his entire body to jerk. Just as quickly, I released him, sat back up, and smiled.
“I want to,” I assured him and went back to savor him more carefully.
“Oh, thank Christ,” he breathed. I could feel his body relax while his breathing became increasingly erratic.
I didn’t usually like doing this, but it was different with Brandon. The control I had, the subtle changes I felt with each different movement, the rising tension pulsing through his corded muscles: all of these made me even more aroused than I already was.
With my other hand, I grazed a few fingers over his balls and trailed below them, past the soft skin of his perineum around the tight edges of his anus. Brandon jerked again, this time in surprise.
“Wha?” he breathed, clearly overcome with what I was doing with my mouth. “Ah!” he cried as I slipped my finger in. “Jesus…fuck! Skylar, what are you doing?”
I stopped my ministrations to look at him. “Haven’t you done that before?”
“What? No!” Despite his indignation, he couldn’t control the slight gyrating of his hips.
“Doesn’t it feel good, though?” I asked.
Before he could answer, I took him back in my mouth. Just as I pushed my finger back in, I sucked. Hard.
“Shit!” Brandon yelled, his hips jumping. “Yes, oh my fuck, that feels good!”
“Mmmm,” I murmured around him.
He was close already; I could feel it by the tremors in his thighs and the now-constant stream of profanity. Just when I thought he was about to lose it, I felt my shoulders roughly seized, and I was yanked up to cover his body, his hard cock sliding between my thighs. It was all I could do not to open myself up and let him in with nothing at all between us.
“Quick,” he said hoarsely, his breath ragged as he shoved into my hands a condom he’d somehow procured.
Equally desperate, I rolled it on just in time for him to grab my thighs and force himself in from below.
“Oh…fuck!” I cried out, swinging crazily at the sheer depth of his impact.
Brandon drilled upward, his fingers clawing my skin so hard that I was sure I would have bruises in the morning. I couldn’t have cared less. Anticipation combined with sudden friction caused my reserve to topple almost immediately. With only a few harsh thrusts, a sudden orgasm ripped through my entire body with the force of a tidal wave.
“SKYLAR!” Brandon cried out, joining me as we crested the wave together. I collapsed over his chest, our bodies shaking roughly as he continued to move slowly, slower, and then finally shuddered to a stop.
“Holy shit,” Brandon breathed a few minutes later. His chest rose and fell deeply underneath my cheek.
“I know,” I murmured into the soft smattering of curls.
“That was…Christ. Woman, where did you learn to do that?”
Somehow, I found the energy to lift myself long enough to look down at his handsome face. “Do you really want to know?”
Brandon furrowed his brow, reconsidering the question. “No,” he said definitely. “I do not.”
“Didn’t think so.”
I flopped back onto his chest. His fingers resumed their gentle grazing over my back, and I succumbed to their rhythm, feeling myself being lulled closer and closer to sleep.
&nbs
p; “Red?” His voice, small and quiet, interrupted me from drifting off to sleep.
“Yeah?” I whispered hazily.
“You won’t go anywhere, will you?”
I rubbed my nose into the warm hollow in his chest and breathed a sigh of pure contentment. “Where would I go?”
“Nowhere,” Brandon said, and kissed me on the top of my head.
Just as gently, he got rid of the condom and grabbed a blanket from the couch above us. I burrowed into his side and sighed deeply as the soft knit covered our bodies. The last things I saw before falling asleep was the reflection of the firelight on the base of the sofa and the glint of Brandon’s eyelashes shining bright gold.
28
Sometime in the middle of the night, I was carried up the stairs to Brandon’s bedroom, where I enjoyed a round of drowsy sex before surrendering to sleep again. In the morning, after taking a quick shower together that resulted in yet another round of brain-melting orgasms, Brandon lent me a pair of boxers and an undershirt that fell almost to my knees. We ended up in the kitchen sometime after ten, eating a breakfast that Ana had prepared.
“I want to do something you want to do today,” I said after I swallowed a bite of my brioche toast with homemade raspberry jam. “What do you want to do?”
Brandon cocked his head to the right, a fork full of eggs suspended mid-air en route to his mouth. “Um, I’m pretty happy at the moment,” he said. “I’d like to finish my breakfast. Spend some time with my girl. That’s…about it. I’m not that hard to please.”
“Come on, all we’ve done is stuff I like to do,” I protested despite my grin at his words. “The symphony—”
“I’m pretty sure I picked that one, Red,” Brandon interrupted as he slathered another piece of toast with jam.
“Don’t be coy, you goon. You have about the same knowledge of classical music that I do of astrophysics,” I said. “And you took me for pizza because I explicitly wanted something not-fancy. And, of course, there was New York.”
Brandon grinned. “I liked New York. I found out a lot about you there.”