Ryan forces my knees apart and then crawls on top of me as my head and body go to war. He urges me onto my elbows, all my nerve endings throbbing as his body overtakes mine. I grab onto his neck with one hand as he grinds and rolls, every inch of him surging against every inch of me. And it’s So. Fucking. Hot. I can barely stand it. Then I look up into his eyes and I’m shocked at what I find; emptiness, nothingness, just a vacant stare.
He really has given me what I want; he’s shown me Jack the Stripper.
My heart constricts, because this isn’t the Ryan I know and definitely not the one that I want.
I hear Emily’s voice inside my head: Don’t be scared. Show Ryan who’s boss, then let him break you down. Let him know you can be strong and confident, and still be vulnerable in his arms.
Well, I guess now is as good a time as any to take her advice.
I push Ryan off me and onto his back. “Alana, what the-”
“Shhhh,” I put my finger over his lips to silence him; his eyes are huge as he looks up at me. I wonder if I can kiss him? I want to, but I don’t.
Then I stream my fingertip down his jaw, over his chest, teasing his skin, stroking and caressing until I reach the line of his shiny blue briefs. He throws his head back and lets out a little moan. Then I start to move, channeling my inner Brittney Spears.
No, I can’t believe I’m doing this, but this is the effect Ryan has on me. He pushes my limits, he always has. That’s why I love him. Why I’ve always loved him. He makes me feel alive.
I mimic his moves, rolling my body over his to the rhythm of the music; bumping and grinding, amplifying the friction that’s already crackling around us. Then I sit up and straddle him, shake my hair out and smile temptingly. Ryan runs his hands up my thighs with his fingers splayed as I circle my waist in a seductive dance. I stop him with an impish finger wag before he gets too far. He bites his lip and groans as I place his hands over his head. He strenuously watches my every move with parted lips, ragged breath and a spellbound expression.
I start to untie the string of my wrap dress, a little, white sexy number I thought Ryan could have some fun with.
Little did I know how much fun we were going to have.
Slowly, still keeping with the seductive drum of the music, I unwrap one side of the dress, then the other, revealing a blush pink mesh bra with a diamond studded front clasp, and panties that match. Both completely see through.
“Fuck, Alana,” Ryan growls, grabbing my hips and bringing my body down to his, showing me just how much he approves. I brace myself with one hand on his chest and feel his heartbeat pouring out from underneath it. Then I lean down and kiss him, closing the distance between us. And not just the physical distance, the emotional one. If I want to truly know Ryan, I need to walk a mile in his shoes, although tonight, I feel like I’m running a marathon.
I go to slip off my dress when Ryan stops me, “Not here.”
“Why not here?”
“Because, I don’t want our first time to be on a leather couch that has a hundred thousand miles on it in the back of a crowded night club. Or anyone getting a glance of your ass in the air either, it’s mine.”
“You also don’t want to give the other women any ideas?” I quip.
“Something like that.” He sits up so we’re nose to nose. “You’re so fucking incredible,” he says, then kisses me slow and hard, boiling the blood in my veins and roasting the muscles in my body, signifying exactly where this night is headed. And I can’t wait.
“You ready to get out of here?” He wraps my dress back around me and ties the string, double checking to make sure the knot is tight; the look in his eyes is carnal, almost predatory.
I nod, because there is suddenly a lump in my throat the size a boulder from the anticipation and fear. Oh God, sex with Ryan, and Jack the Stripper. Reality has just kicked in.
We barely get into Ryan’s apartment with clothes on.
We did nothing but paw and pull and press on each other in the elevator and down the hallway to his front door. My whole body is screaming for him to touch me, anywhere, everywhere. Right. Now.
He pushes me back onto his bed and aggressively attacks my neck with kisses, stroking every inch of my body with his hands, shoving my dress up past my waist. He groans as he grinds his hips into mine. He’s ready. We both are. I think. Shit. That’s my problem. I think too much. I think about Ryan slipping out from between the beads with another woman, I think about what we did behind the curtain and wonder if he enjoyed himself as much with her as he did with me. I think about all the women he’s had; and all I’ve had is him.
I need to stop thinking and get out of my own head.
“Alana?” he’s kissing me. “What’s wrong baby?”
“Nothing, why?” I try to kiss him back, but I’m losing momentum. Shit.
He pulls his face away with a don’t be a bullshitter expression. “Don’t lie to me Alana, I can feel it, something’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong,” I try to pull his lips back to mine, but his head won’t budge. He just stares down at me with a forceful glare.
Resigned, I ball my fists over my eyes and sigh. “What do you want me to tell you? I’m insecure? I’m trying not to think of all the women you have all over you? Or of all the women you’ve had?”
“You’ve been with other people?”
“One other person Ryan. One other person besides you, and it was a disaster. I don’t even think it counts.”
“What do you mean?” he asks confused.
We never did dredge up my intimacy issues or talk about my sexual past, if you could even call it that. One boy my sophomore year of college, the all-around nice guy I could never pull the trigger with. Even though I tried, desperately. I couldn’t muster up enough courage to go through with it. I was so messed up after Ryan; I had trouble letting anyone in.
Sexually that is.
We’d start but never finish. And the one time it got to the point of penetration I absolutely freaked. We stopped speaking after that and I swore off men ever since.
“Intimacy was hard for me,” I tell him, “because I was always afraid I’d wake up, and whoever I spent the night with would be gone. I didn’t want to hurt like that again.” I look away from him. This conversation sucks. I don’t want to look weak. It’s a character flaw embedded by my father. Remingtons aren’t weak. They don’t show emotion. They don’t even have emotions.
I’m not a very good Remington.
“Alana,” he coos, and I want to slap him. Maybe kiss him. “I didn’t know.”
“I didn’t want you to know.”
“You have to talk to me.”
“Talking isn’t my problem, Ryan.”
Thinking is.
“You didn’t tell me,” he stipulates. “Do you really think I’m not going to be here in the morning?”
I shrug, because for all intents and purposes I do believe he’ll be here tomorrow, but there’s still a hurt, eighteen year old girl inside me who needs to come to terms with what happened. That Ryan didn’t leave because he wanted to. He made a choice that affected more than just us. And it hurt us both the same.
“I don’t want to disappoint you,” I mumble; and now I’m beet red. I’m pretty sure when Emily told me to be vulnerable in Ryan’s arms, she didn’t mean like this.
“Alana, you could never disappoint me,” he shifts while still on top of me. “I may have had more lovers than you, and I may take my clothes off for countless women, but you are the only one who can strip me bare.”
I take a deep breath, his words are like holy water washing over me; a baptism of the soul.
His declaration is all it takes. And just like I reassured him all those years ago, it will be perfect, it’s with you, he reassured me all these years later.
We’re even now.
I smile at him. A genuine, indisputable, unquestionable smile and pull his lips to mine.
There’s no hesitation for either of us.
It’s right. It’s the right time, with the right person, in the right place.
Ryan rips my dress open, disintegrating the string. Both of us hot and heady and breathless, and in no time at all there’s nothing between us; no clothes, or doubts or inhibitions.
He pushes inside me and I cry out, clinging to his body.
He’s gentle, but commanding, and holy crap, he knows exactly what I need. I’m lost quickly; every part of him touching every part of me. Physically and spiritually. I hold on tighter as my whole body tenses; all warm and ready and needy for him. “Alana,” Ryan moans, almost insufferably, as I match each one of his sensuous, stabbing, soul consuming thrusts. Reveling in the sound of his rapturous voice, I suck on his skin and nip at his neck straining in ecstasy as he drives me harder and higher until he pushes me right over the edge. Twice. I barely register it when he stills inside me; the two of us sweaty and slick and panting uncontrollably.
“I love you, Alana,” he breathes. “I swear to God I never stopped loving you. You were the only thing that got me through.”
And I know exactly what he means; got him through those years in prison.
“I wish I could have been there for you,” I skim my fingertips softly up and down his bare back, his chest rising and falling against mine from his heavy breathing.
“Me too,” Ryan drops his head in the crook of my neck. “Me too.”
“Are you sure you don’t need a date?” Ryan asks for the millionth time. I’m trying to talk hands-free as I pin my hair up with the phone wedged between my shoulder and ear. It isn’t working so well.
“Yes, I’m sure,” I fumble, “and besides, Emily sent the head count in weeks ago. There isn’t a seat for you at the table.”
“I am not above wedding crashing. I can stand at the bar all night.”
“Ryan,” I laugh.
“Fine. Send me a pic of you in your dress at least.”
“I will,” I smile, “but I gotta go, the limo will be here any minute. I’ll call you later.”
“Okay, love you babe.”
“Love you too.” I hang up, then stare down at the phone. There isn’t anything I want more than for Ryan to come to Emily’s wedding with me. It doesn’t really matter about the head count, there would’ve been no problem adding him. Especially if he was my date. But what would I tell my father? Dad, this is Ryan my secret boyfriend who strips for a living? Who, by the way, you also convicted five years ago on a drug charge. Why don’t you just lock me in a tower now?
I can only imagine my father’s interrogation; where are you from, what’s your family background, where did you go to school, what’s your occupation?
And when Ryan answers every single question wrong, my father will freeze him out. Then forbid me to see him and when I refuse he’ll rip the carpet out from underneath me, forsaking me as his daughter.
Ryan will meet my father on my terms, when I know he can’t take him, and everything I want, away. It may take years, but I’m more than willing to sacrifice. I just hope Ryan is too.
There’s a beep in front of my house. It’s time. I run down the curved staircase, my mint-colored bridesmaid dress rippling at my knees.
I hop into the white Navigator limo to find Emily is decked out in the most beautiful wedding dress I have ever seen. It’s over the top; an ivory Lazaro bridal ball gown. The corset is covered with a sheer overlay that elongates her bodice. The skirt is organza, asymmetrically layered and flows like a waterfall down to her feet.
She’s absolutely glowing. My uncle John the same; so proud and full of love for his daughter.
He’s dressed in a black tux with a mint green vest that matches the bridal party colors.
As I sit across from them, I can’t help but feel a pang of envy.
What I wouldn’t give for my father to look at me that way.
To see me at all.
At least I have my uncle John. He loves me like a daughter, even if I’m not his own.
I’m grateful for that. For him. For Emily.
They’re my only true family.
I stand by the bar sipping champagne. Emily and Alex’s wedding went off without a hitch, and now I’m just taking it all in. I can’t believe my cousin is married. I can’t believe she actually went through with it.
I feel his presence before I see him. It’s like a gust of cold wind. My father. The honorable Merrick J. Remington is standing next to me.
“Alana,” he says, like I’m an acquaintance.
“Daddy.”
“You look very nice,” he says impassively.
“Thank you.”
Silence.
I see a woman patting the corners of her eyes, she’s been crying. I think she’s one of Alex’s aunts, I remember her from Emily’s bridal shower. She’s a very nice older woman who dresses impeccably and treats her two Pomeranians like the children she never had. It reminds me of the last time I cried. It was shortly after my mother died. I was ten and it was Christmas morning, and there were all sorts of presents under the lavishly decorated tree. But I couldn’t bear to open one. Not without her. My father came downstairs and just looked at me from across the room. He didn’t say a word. Just stared as I cried my eyes out. Then he forced me to open my gifts, wallops of tears shredding my face. When I was finished, surrounded by piles of soaking wet wrapping paper, he stood up in his smoking robe and slippers, looked down at me and said, “Remember this feeling Alana. It’s weakness. And Remington’s are not weak.” Then he disappeared for the rest of the day. I was only ten but I was appalled. My father was calling me weak because I was mourning my mother’s death. Someone I loved. And, because I was showing emotion. But I also knew if I wanted to survive in this house without her, I was going to have to man up. So I cried every single tear I could that day, and then never cried again.
I keep thinking about what Ryan said, that he wants to be the father he never had. Someone loving, and caring, and actually there.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m strong enough to be the mother mine once was. Someone tough, yet tender and affectionate.
Someone who doesn’t need to be the lifeline between father and child. Because that’s what she was.
On so many levels I hate this man.
On so many levels I love him.
I won’t lie, law school’s a bitch.
Over the last three months I’ve read so much I’m surprised my eyeballs haven’t fallen out of my head. I’m closing in on the end of my first semester. It’s no longer warm and sunny in the city, the days have grown shorter and Thanksgiving is just around the corner. Thank goodness, because I need the reprieve. Not that I don’t love every single second I’m on this campus. I do. I’ve just been feeling a little distant lately, from myself, from my family, from Ryan; I’ve been overly focused on school. Borderline obsessed. So the days off will be restorative. And with me immersed like this, Ryan battles for every second he can get with me. I warned him, but he doesn’t seem to mind. I think that secretly, he likes the challenge.
I head across campus to the library where I’m meeting my study group, when I hear my name being called. I turn to see my uncle John walking towards me. He’s decked out in one of his expensive suits; a black three piece with a white collared shirt. He has his coat over one arm and a huge smile on his face. As he reaches me he pulls me into a tight hug. “How’s my girl?” he asks, with so much emotion you’d think I was really his daughter.
“Fine,” I reply happily. “What are you doing here?”
It’s a nice surprise.
“I had lunch with an old law school buddy,” he grins. “Professor McMillan, do you know him?”
“I’ve heard the name, but he’s not one of my professors.”
My uncle John is one of the most renowned lawyers in New York City. All of his clients are A-list, and every case high profile. He lives every law student’s fantasy. Okay, maybe not every law student’s, but definitely mine.
“Where are you headed?” he asks.
“Looking forward to the long weekend?”
“Yes,” I drop my head back thankfully.
“Are you coming to Thanksgiving dinner?”
“Of course, where else would I go?”
It’s not like my dad’s cooking.
“I just thought you might have other plans.”
I look at him speculatively, the cool November wind blowing the ends of my long, blonde hair around. “Why would you think that?”
“Emily may have mentioned you have a special someone in your life. I thought you might be spending the holiday with him.”
I think I just went into cardiac arrest. “Emily told you?”
My uncle fumbles over his words, “It slipped out. Then I grilled her. But I think it’s great. You deserve to be happy.”
I stare up at my uncle John, speechless and slightly panicked. “You can’t tell my father.”
My uncle freezes. “Okay,” he drawls, “I wouldn’t do that without your permission anyway. But can I ask why not?”
“Ryan…” I huff. How do I explain this without having it sound worse than it is? “Ryan just isn’t who my father would choose for me.”
My uncle sizes me up. He knows all too well what I mean; going against my father is like rising up against the government. There are consequences, severe consequences.
“Alana, you know I’ve never agreed with your father’s parenting style. He may be my brother, but I’m not afraid to call a spade a spade. He’s an egotistical asshole who has no right to tell you who to be or who to love,” my uncle’s eyes are fierce. We’ve had this conversation many times. The ‘be who you want to be’ lecture never gets old. One day I’ll tell him it was my fire, that he fed my drive to emancipate myself from my father’s chokehold and live the life I want, with the person I want.
But I’m not going to bite the hand that feeds me. Not today. My father pays for everything, school, my apartment and my credit card bills. So until I can stand steadily on my own two feet, I’ll play pretty little liar for as long as I have to. My uncle may not like it and I freakin’ can’t stand it, but that’s just the way it has to be.
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