He’s working me with long, steady strokes, a calm rhythm that makes me think he’s going to take his time. God, it feels so good that I think I might collapse, but I won’t, because he’s holding me up. Mostly with his cock.
“I can paint too,” he says, grunting as he thrusts. “With pleasure.”
I gasp as he tilts his hips under, changing the angle and making it just that much better. “That was really cheesy,” I manage to say.
“But it’s still true.”
“Fuck you,” I say, but it comes out as a moan, and it sounds like a confirmation and not a complaint.
He presses his lips to my neck, and the kiss shivers down my spine. “As you wish.”
I don’t have time to make fun of the old phrase because Christian’s not holding back anymore. He drives into me, relentless, pounding, and every hit drives me higher. Each thrust draws a cry from me, until it’s one long sound, and I beg. I beg for him to fuck me harder, to make me come.
I’m pressed fully against the wall now, Christian’s body against mine. The cold friction of the wall contrasted with the heat and movement of his body put me that much closer. And then I’m there. The bright, shining promised line just barely out of reach.
“Please,” I beg. “More.”
He gives it to me, thrusting to the hilt, and I scream, coming. I gush onto his cock, and he comes too, sending warmth deep into my pussy. Sheer bright heat and pleasure flash up my spine and outward, and I try to move, but I can’t the way he has me trapped between his body and the wall. I’m helpless in the face of this pleasure.
I curse, struggling to breath as it subsides, sagging against the wall. That was easily the best orgasm that I’ve had in a long time, and I have no words right now. Christian slowly pulls away from me, and then quickly scoops me up and carries me to the bed. He puts me on my back so I can do the required reclining before excusing himself to clean up.
When he comes back, I’m honestly still trying to catch my breath, and my voice is hoarse. “Thank you for your service.”
He chuckles, pulling on his pants. “Anytime. Speaking of, how often did you want to meet?”
“Well,” I say, “It’s pretty common for people who have sex every two or three days to get pregnant faster.”
Christian nods. “Every other day then?”
“You’d be willing to do that much?”
His eyes travel up and down my naked body. “It’s not exactly a hardship, Audrey. I can’t do Monday, but Tuesday should work.”
I blush and look away. “Then yeah, every other day is fine with me.”
“Great.” He finishes buttoning his shirt and slips on his shoes. “See you on Tuesday.” He’s almost to the door when he turns. “Is your number the same? I think it’s probably easier than using Heartility to communicate.”
“It’s the same.”
“I’ll text you then.” He is out the door, and I’m there watching him leave, dealing with the fact that for the first time in three years, I don’t want him to go.
8
I'm almost to the subway when my cell phone rings. It's my mother. It's a little late for her to be calling, but not unheard of.
"Hello?"
"Hi," she says. "How are you?"
Fucked and satisfied are the first two words that come to my mind, but I can't say that to my mother. "I'm good," I say. "Just on my way home from meeting up with a friend."
"Great, I don't want to bother you, I was just wondering what you're doing tomorrow?"
I think for a second. “No solid plans right now."
"Would it be possible for you to make it out to the house tomorrow? I’m throwing a surprise party for Celia at the end of next week and there are a few things I could use your opinion on. Artistically."
My eyebrows raise nearly into my hairline. Neither of my parents were super pleased that I ever considered being an artist, and were very relieved when I went into a profitable trade like grant writing. The fact that she's asking for my artistic opinion at all is a big deal. "Sure," I say. "What time?"
"Anytime in the afternoon is fine."
"Okay, I'll be there."
She hangs up with little fuss, and I continue on my way home. But my mind is swirling. Christian. Alexander Prince. My mother. In some weird way it feels like everything is conspiring together to get me to reconsider a career in art. My first class in the workshop is on Monday, and I only hope that it goes as well as I've imagined it to for the past two days.
* * *
The drive out to Long Island is not my favorite, but it's not the worst road trip to take. My parents live pretty far out, well past the bounds of what would be considered New York City, but not quite so far that it's considered the Hamptons.
They’re pretty well off, the beautiful house and yard — the reason they throw a lot of parties — but they would never be considered wealthy. Not by New York standards. I didn't think to ask last night why they're throwing Celia a party. My younger sister's birthday isn't for several months. Throwing a party now certainly would be a surprise, but my gut tells me something else.
I kind of zone out on the way there, my mind tracing the same thought patterns it's had for days. I keep thinking about Christian, and his willingness to do this for me. I keep thinking about my art class tomorrow and what it's going to be like to study in a formal setting. I keep thinking and wondering if somehow last night created a baby that I'm not aware of yet. I managed to keep myself from taking another pregnancy test, but only just.
I pull into the driveway in the early afternoon, and everything looks the same. Big white house, perfectly manicured lawn — my father's pride and joy — and gorgeous flower beds fully coming into bloom in the late summer.
The door is unlocked as it usually is. This is one of those neighborhoods where crime is unheard of and neighbors pop by on a semi-regular basis. Having your door locked would be more of an inconvenience than anything.
"Hello?"
My mother’s voice comes from the formal dining room. "In here!"
The dining room table is covered with swatches and pieces of paper and scraps of decoration. "Holy cow, Mom."
She sighs. "Yes, it is getting a little bit overwhelming. That's why I asked for your help."
"You didn't tell me why you're throwing this party. Celia's birthday isn't for like four months.”
"You're right," she says, smiling. "But Celia decided to finally go to school. Your father and I are over the moon, so we decided to throw her a party to show her just how happy we are."
I make a face. “You never threw me a party when I decided to go to college."
"Yes, dear, but you've always been a lot more focused than your sister. She needs a little more encouragement."
Sitting down across from her, I raise an eyebrow. "And you need an excuse to throw a party?"
Her smile is sly. "Of course."
“Did Dad fall for it?”
She laughs, picking up a stack of what look like paint samples. “Of course not. He knows. But he loves me, and he loves a good party.”
“So, may I ask what type of party is this?"
"I don't really know. That's part of the reason why and you come out here."
"Seriously?" I ask. "You’re having this party next week and you don't know what kind of party it is?"
She gives me a look. “Don't give me that. We just decided this was going to happen. It's not as long of a prep time as my other parties."
"Okay," I say. "What are your ideas?"
"I have a few," she says. "One of the ideas I had was springtime tea. Another one was maybe kind of a pool party theme."
“We don’t have a pool."
“Hence the problem with that idea. What is your sister like now? I want to do something she'll like, but I've never been able to pinpoint your sister's interests."
I start flipping through some of the idea books that she has. My mother has always kept books like this around, collages that she's cobbled togethe
r for ideas, whether it be parties or decorating. "You know that Celia and I don't talk that much," I say. My sister and I have never really seen eye to eye. Part of it is just plain old sibling tension, and some of it is what my mother said, that she lacks focus. When we were younger, it didn't feel like a lack of focus, but a free spirit that I never seemed to be able to capture. Even though I shouldn't have been, I was resentful some of the time, and that caused us to grow apart. I'm not surprised that she didn't tell me she decided to go back to school. The last time we spoke she was overseas somewhere.
"Do you know what she's going to school for?"
"History," my mother says. "She told me all the time she was spending in Europe made her want to learn all about the historical things there." She shrugs. "I'm just happy that she's finally going to be getting a degree."
"What about that then? Why not make the party theme be some sort of historical setting? It'll be fun for you to plan, challenging, and since she's planning to study history she'll obviously like it."
My mother stops and looks at me. "That's a really good idea."
"I'm full of good ideas," I say, laughing.
She tosses another book at me. "I know you are, or I wouldn't have had you come help me. Now look through that and see if you can find anything remotely historical related." It's another one of her idea books. I start to flip through it, and she clears her throat. "So, how are you?"
"I'm fine," I say.
"It feels like I haven't heard from you in a while," she says. "Are you seeing anyone?"
My mind instantly flashes to Christian, but I'm not seeing him. He's just trying to get me pregnant. That's all. I refuse to acknowledge that it could be any more than that, not after he hurt me so much in the past. "I'm not."
She sighs. "You know, I've pretty much given up on hoping for grandchildren from Celia. I always thought you'd be the one."
"It still might happen," I say. "I'm not giving up on that quite yet."
"I'm just saying," my mother says, in a tone that's artificially light, "you're not getting any younger. And I know that I've mentioned it to you several times, but if you really don't want kids, I won't push you about it anymore."
I have to bite my tongue. Somehow in the last couple of years our conversations always end up here. "Mom, I told you that I do want kids."
“Well, you just don't seem to be working toward that. You've always gone after what you wanted, so I have to assume you don't."
I clear my throat. "Just because you don't see me working toward it, doesn't mean I'm not."
“All right, it's fine," she says. "I won't bug you about it anymore."
Frustration burns under my skin, and I can't stop the words that come out of my mouth. "I'm working with a clinic."
This entire conversation about kids, my mother hasn't looked at me once. She looks at me now. "What does that mean?"
"It means that I'm trying to get pregnant. No father, just me and a baby."
I don't think that I've ever seen my mother speechless, but this seems to have done it. "Audrey," she says, her entire voice in awe. "You're not kidding? You're actually doing this?"
“I am.” I feel a little bit bad about not telling her the whole truth, but telling her that I was contacting strangers online to knock me up is not an option.
She stands and comes around the table wrapping me in an embrace. I don't know what to do, my mother is not generally a touchy person. "That's wonderful," she says. "I'm so proud of you for making the decision to do it on your own. You know your father and I will help in any way that we can."
"Thanks."
She releases me, patting me on the shoulder. "I think it's very smart of you, to take it into your own hands. It's very brave of you, considering how your relationships don't seem to work out.”
I look down instinctively. Even though I know she's referring to what happened with Christian, and frankly every relationship that I've tried before or after him, it still stings. Besides, it only has to work out once. Just because it hasn't worked out yet doesn't mean it won't in the future. "I'm not bad at relationships, Mom. I just haven't found the right one yet."
"No, of course. You are not bad at the actual relationships. I'm just not convinced you know how to pick a winner. Like that young man, Christian. How long did you go out again?"
"Three years," I mumble.
"That's right. Three years. Three years of living together and he still didn't want to commit to you? I’ll never forget the day that you came home. I thought that the two of you made a nice couple. He was always respectful, and he brought me the nicest flowers when you visited. But we can always make mistakes when judging someone’s character. I liked him until you pulled into the driveway sobbing."
I'll never forget that day either, I cried the whole drive. By the time I reached my parents’ house, I was a sopping mess, and it was all I could do not to collapse on the front lawn. Mom brought me inside and didn't ask any questions. She put me in bed in my childhood bedroom, made me soup, and sat with me until the tears stopped hours later. It was only then that I was able to tell her what happened.
But given what he's doing now, I don't like the way my mother is talking about him. I have the sudden urge to defend him and his actions, but I don't. I don't know why I would even have that instinct, after what he did.
But why did he do what he did? I've been so busy working through my pain and my anger and my arousal, that I haven't asked him. Why was he so adamant about not having children or marrying me back then? And if he was that panicked at the thought of commitment, or a child, why is he willing to get me pregnant now? Is it only because he's able to walk away?
Fuck.
Now I have to know. It's going to eat me up otherwise. But this isn't the kind of thing I can ask him over a text message. It has to be in person. I have to see his face, and know why he made the decisions that he made. I'm seeing him Tuesday night, and I'll ask him then.
"Audrey?"
I realize that I kind of zoned out after my mother reminded me of that night. "I know," I say. "But I'm not going to write myself off just because I didn't find somebody like you did. And this time, I'll know what I'm looking for."
My mother nods. "Well, at least you're being responsible about it."
She's never going to believe me until it happens, it's just the way she works. Once my mother has chosen to believe something, she needs evidence to the contrary to change her mind.
I was going to tell her about the art workshop, but I already feel like I've shared enough for one day. I don't think I could take it if she decided to undermine my ability to love and my artistic ability in one day, no matter if she wants my opinion on the party theme or not.
I spend another hour helping her look through books and making some preliminary choices, but now that she's on the path of a theme she doesn't really need my help. My mother is a master party planner, something that I will never be. So after I make sure she's gotten all the opinions she needs from me, I take my leave, my mind still circling around the question:
What changed Christian’s mind?
9
I'm practically bouncing by the time work ends the next day. There's not even enough time to go home before I head to the first day of the art workshop. It's in downtown Manhattan, the lower East side. The building the folder listed is chic and modern, and looks like an art gallery. Clean glass windows show an open space inside with art hanging on the walls.
The woman inside directs me upstairs, and in the secondary space, there are chairs set up around a central platform where something is hidden by a sheet. There are already a few people sitting down, casually chatting. The brochure specifically said not to bring any art supplies, and now I see why. On each chair, is a case stuffed to the gills with new supplies. Pencils, acrylics, a sketchbook, charcoals, and more. The only restriction on the workshop is that it will be dry mediums. Paint takes too long to dry for the time period we’ll be working in.
I run my fing
er over the new pencils. I hope we get to draw something with them tonight. Just plain pencil was how I first learned to express myself before my love of painting bloomed, and even though I'm looking forward to learning new mediums, I know that I can show off my skills best in the area I'm most comfortable.
In front of each seat is an easel with a large pad of paper. I assume that means we’ll be drawing something today.
I sit quietly until it's time for the class to begin. One by one, the chairs fill, until the entire circle is occupied. Promptly at seven o'clock, a door opens, and Alexander Prince walks inside. There's a collective gasp and murmur as he appears, and I swear I see a tiny grin on his face. He looks like he stepped out of a painting himself. Silver gray hair and beard, a cane, and formal slacks with a button-down shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows. His forearms are course with muscle from years of detailed painting and sculpting.
“Good evening."
There's a chorus of 'good evenings.'
"I'm so pleased that you all could join me, and I hope you are as well. I've seen each and every one of your work, and I'm excited about what we will be able to produce in this class."
Someone across the circle raises their hand. "What will that be exactly?"
"A fair question. I assume you all noticed that the lower level of this building is a gallery?"
We all nod and make noises of assent.
“Good. This is a short workshop, but you are all talented. At the end of this five-week session you will each have at least one piece displayed in the gallery. Whether or not you choose to put that work up for sale is up to you."
There's a flurry of murmurs at this announcement. I immediately have a storm of butterflies in my stomach. I've never shown my art to anyone beyond my family and friends. Having a piece on display in a professional gallery seems like either a dream come true or nightmare. I'm not sure which it is right now.
He continues. "Because of the brevity of this workshop, there's no way that I'll be able to cover the breadth of artistic styles you might encounter in a traditional art course. Because of that, you each will be able to choose a medium in which to take this class from the supplies provided. If you want to experiment with something you've never done before, that is your right. If, for the purposes of instruction, you want to stick with what you know, that's fine too. I've seen enough of your work that all of you would be welcome in any of my other classes, in any medium."
Getting Her Back Page 5