Most of all, I feel incredibly feminine. I’ve just watched the sexiest man alive fall apart in my hands, and I want to purr in satisfaction.
A.J. collapses against the mattress as if he’s been flung there by some giant invisible hand. I swallow—something I’ve admittedly not been too keen on in the past but at the moment I adore—and swallow again, then gently lick him clean, lapping up his salty goodness.
“You taste like hazelnuts.”
His laugh is ragged. “You like hazelnuts, Princess?”
“I love them. They’re my new favorite food.”
His grin fades. He quickly grows serious, watching me lovingly clean every drop of what he’s given me off his shaft, his crown, my hands. Somehow there are even a few splatters on his abdomen, and I lick those off like a kitten with a bowl of cream.
I feel like Cleopatra. I feel like Helen of Troy. I feel like the most beautiful, sexy woman who ever walked the earth. The irony isn’t lost on me that I’m on my knees, in the position I’m in, but right now this feels like the most powerful position in the world.
Then I suffer a little twinge of paranoia. My tongue falters. My hands fall still.
A.J. is used to having professionals do what I just did. Professionals with vastly more experience than I have in the area.
He doesn’t miss my sudden hesitation. “What’s wrong?”
“Was that . . . did I . . . um . . .”
It takes him a nanosecond to catch my drift. He grabs my arms, hauls me up his body, positions me on top of him, and starts to chuckle softly into my ear. “Are you asking if it was good for me, too?”
I hide my face in his neck. “Maybe. But don’t answer unless the answer is yes.”
He gives me a squeeze, laughing now. “Princess, it was fucking epic. That blow job was a gold medal winner. I’ll dream about it every night for the rest of my life.”
Grinning, I look up at him. His eyes shine, amber and gilt in the shadows, bright beneath the dark chocolate curve of his lashes. His hair is mussed and his smile is soft, and he’s so handsome it hurts. My breath hitches, and my heart does this odd thing where it expands and contracts at the same time. I reach up and press my hand against his cheek.
“I’d like to give you one of those every night for the rest of my life.”
His laugh dies in his throat. His lips part, his brows draw together, the expression in his eyes turns haunted.
“No,” I whisper, recognizing that look. “Stay with me. Don’t go back into the dark.”
He closes his eyes. A low, soft sound of despair escapes his lips. Gathering me closer, he presses his lips to my forehead, and leaves them there.
Slowly, with as much gentle loving as I can put into a touch, I run my fingers over his chest, his biceps, his tense, corded forearm. I don’t know what to say, or if there’s even anything that could be said to help him, to take away whatever pain he’s so obviously in, so I try to convey with my touch that he’s safe with me. That I know he’s hurting, and, though I don’t know why, I’m here for him.
With all my heart, I want to be what makes him feel better. I want him to feel as safe with me as I do with him.
Looking up at the ceiling, A.J. blows out a hard breath. I keep silently stroking his skin, listening to his jagged heartbeat, trying to soothe him. I try not to think of anything else, of what might happen next, of what tomorrow will bring. I told him I’d take only one night, if that’s all he was willing to give, and I meant it.
At the time I meant it. Now, only a short while later, getting only one night with him seems like an impossibly cruel joke.
But I won’t think about it. I’m here, he’s here, right now we’re both safe in the circle of each other’s arms.
The sigh he heaves sounds resigned. When I look up at him, he’s staring down at me with all the light extinguished in his eyes.
“You can’t go now,” I beg, terrified he’s leaving.
“No, angel, I can’t. That’s the problem.”
Without another word, he rolls me to my side and curls up behind me. Within minutes, he’s sleeping deeply, as if he’s been set free. I lie awake in the dark, listening to him breathe.
When the alarm goes off in the morning, A.J. is gone. On the pillow next to mine lies an origami sculpture. Not a bird this time.
A heart.
When I pick it up and cup it in my palms, it fans open like it’s alive. It’s blood red, the white copy paper saturated with ink from the fat red Sharpie sitting out on my desk. I lift it to my nose, inhaling the pungent, chemical smell.
I wonder how long it took him to make. I wonder if he watched me sleeping while he made it. I wonder what he thought about while he worked, folding, creating, his fingers deft and precise.
Outside my bedroom window a nightingale begins to sing, and my eyes fill with tears.
I can’t remember ever feeling this happy.
A.J. comes to me again the next night. And the next. And the next.
It’s always the same. I leave the door unlocked, and lie in bed with the lights off, waiting. He comes very late, usually around midnight. He enters without a word, takes off his shirt and shoes, crawls into bed beside me. We talk for a long time, nestled back to front, limbs entangled. Each night his questions are more serious, more intimate, increasingly more difficult to answer.
Of what in my life am I most proud?
Of what am I most ashamed?
What’s my most treasured memory?
For what am I most grateful?
If I only had twenty-four hours left to live, what would I do?
Sometimes I have to think long and hard before I answer. No one has ever asked me such things, and I’m not prone to introspection. But I never tell him anything but the entire, unvarnished truth. I don’t hide. I don’t lie. If I think an answer might not paint me in the best light, I tell him anyway. I want him to know me, warts and all.
I want him to see me, inside and out.
By the time he’s exhausted his questions, my body is so high from his proximity, so strung out with the need to feel his hands and mouth, I’m nearly squirming in his arms. He always knows when I can’t bear it a second longer. He laughs his husky laugh into my ear, then takes off all my clothes, and sates me.
There is no penetration. After the first night, he doesn’t let me use my mouth on him again. It’s like he got himself under control, decided on a format of Q&A followed by giving me a mind-blowing orgasm or three, and stuck to his plan.
Afterward, he sleeps like a coma patient, and I wake up alone.
It’s wreaking havoc with my emotions.
Not to mention my face.
“Sweetheart, you look like shit. Are you coming down with something?”
Grace can always be counted on to pull no punches. We’re at Lula’s with Kat on a weekday night at eight o’clock, and I’m trying desperately not to fall asleep at the table and slump facedown into my steaming bowl of albondigas soup.
“Just tired,” I mumble. I pick up my margarita and yawn into it before taking a swallow.
“Work going rough this week?” Concerned, Kat watches me as she munches on a tortilla chip. The ginormous diamond ring on her left hand nearly blinds me as it catches the light.
“Mmm. Sort of.”
Both Kat and Grace narrow their eyes. Grace flatly says, “Chloe.”
As I’m the worst secret keeper in the world, they’ve already got my number. I sigh, rubbing a fist into my left eye. “I can’t talk about it. Not yet. I don’t want to jinx it.”
In slow motion, Kat lowers her half-eaten chip to the table. “Oh my God.”
Grace asks, “What?”
I already know what Kat’s going to say, but I’m too exhausted to get worked up about anything at this point. “She just figured out why I’m tired.”
Grace raises her brows, looking back and forth between us.
Kat says, “You’re sleeping with him.”
Grace whoops in glee, pound
ing the table with her fist. “Yes! Finally! Is this why you haven’t returned my calls for four days? You’ve been on a sex spree? Tell, tell, tell!”
Because the cat is clearly out of the bag, I don’t bother to deny it. But it does need a little correcting. “Technically, yes, I’m sleeping with him. Sleeping being the operative word. Well, at least he is.”
Grace eyes me. “That doesn’t sound good.”
I take a long pull of my drink, buying time. I look at my best friends, the two people who know me better than anyone else, who’ve spent countless hours in my company, with whom I’ve shared years of laughter and tears, been with during bitter breakups and many life milestones, and trust completely. In fact, I trust these women with my life.
And, if I’m guessing right, they don’t know me as well as A.J. does after four nights.
That idea is seriously screwing with my head.
“Here’s a little quiz for you, ladies: What would you guess, if asked, that I’m most proud of in my life?”
Kat blinks, frowning. “How does this relate to the topic at hand?”
“I have a point, trust me.”
Always up for a challenge, Grace jumps right in. “Your business.”
I shake my head. She immediately guesses again. “Your hair.”
“Be serious.”
“I am serious. Your hair is glorious. You could earn millions doing shampoo commercials. It’s the only thing I’m jealous of you about. Well, I’m also pretty green over that Patek Phillipe your father bought you for your twenty-first birthday. It might be even better than your hair.”
I sigh. “I knew I could count on you for some deep insights. Kat?”
Kat hesitates for a moment, sucking thoughtfully on the little red straw in her margarita. “Maybe your degree. I know how hard you worked to get it. I know how proud you were when you graduated. It was a huge accomplishment.”
Slowly, I shake my head. “No. What I’m most proud of is my relationship with you two nitwits. You’re both strong, intelligent, amazing women, who I admire tremendously, and you’re the best, most solid thing in my life. I’d rather not know my own parents than not know you.”
Stunned silence.
“Here’s another one: Of what am I most ashamed?”
Grace quickly recovers. “That’s easy. Cory McLean.”
Cory McLean, who I’d conveniently suppressed the memory of until this moment, was a boyfriend I had in my freshman year of college. There was a drunken incident involving the hood of a convertible Porsche, an awkward striptease, and a cell phone camera. My father had to threaten legal action to have the video taken down from the web. It wasn’t until my senior year guys stopped calling me “Coochie Carmichael.”
“No. The thing I’m most ashamed of is the time I saw Jeff Douglas from my high school’s football team kicking a homeless guy in the stomach behind the El Pollo Loco on Washington Boulevard, and I didn’t stop him. Or tell anyone about it. The poor man was just lying there on the ground, getting beaten, and I didn’t do anything. Because it was Jeff Douglas, Homecoming King, Jock of the Century, I just walked away. And I’ll never forgive myself for that.”
I look down at my soup. The tiny floating meatballs seem as appetizing as clods of dirt.
“Sweetheart,” says Grace, moved. “You never told us about that.”
I look at her, then Kat. “I haven’t thought about it in years. That’s the way I’ve always lived my life: one thing after the next, set goals, achieve them, move on, don’t think about anything sad or unpleasant. Shrug it off. Live in the here and now. But for the past four nights, A.J. has asked me questions I’ve never even asked myself, and I feel like . . . I’m getting to know myself better. Because of him.”
Kat sits back in her chair, staring at me with understanding dawning over her face. Grace takes one look at her expression and her head snaps around like that girl from The Exorcist just before she spews green puke all over the room.
She gasps. “No. Abso-lutely-fucking-no!”
Kat nods. “Yep.”
Grace covers her mouth with her hands. Her gray eyes look ready to pop from her head. From beneath her palms comes a muffled, horrified “You have feelings for him.”
I can’t deny it, so I take another swig of my drink.
“Jesus H. Christ on a crutch!” Grace shouts, jerking upright in her chair. The mother with her three young kids in the opposite booth shoots us a death glare, which everyone at our table ignores. “Chloe, for God’s sake, I said have a fling, not fall in love! A.J. Edwards is NOT the guy you fall in love with! What the hell are you thinking?”
I look at her. My gaze is steady, as is my voice when I answer. “I’m thinking I underestimated him, and so has everyone else. I’m thinking he’s pretty damn incredible. I’m thinking of putting my heart in his hands, and giving him a lot of rope to run with it, even though it scares me to death, because I’m thinking he’ll be worth it. What I’m not thinking about is what’s going to happen next.” My voice drops. “Because what I’ve gotten from him the last few nights is enough to last me for the next fifty years.”
Grace’s mouth hangs open in horror like the guy in that Edvard Munch painting.
Kat knocks back the rest of her drink. “What about Eric?”
“I care about Eric. But I never felt this way when I was with him. I’ve realized he’s not the one.”
Grace says, “Please don’t tell me you think A.J. is the one.”
I seriously consider that before I answer. “I don’t know yet what A.J. is. What I do know is that when I’m with him, I feel understood. And safe. And that’s enough.”
Kat says, “Last week you said he’d told you he’d never sleep with you. What changed?”
I stir my soup, take a bite. It’s salty and delicious, and makes me think of A.J.’s taste. My lips turn up. “I told you, we’re not having sex. Well, at least he’s not. I’m having the most incredible orgasms of my life. He’s doing a lot of sleeping. So basically, we’re both getting exactly what we need.”
Grace groans.
“Well, that’s one mystery solved anyway.”
Kat’s sigh sounds resigned to the whole affair. I knew I could count on her. “What do you mean?”
“Nico said A.J.’s been acting strange lately.”
I pause with another spoonful of soup halfway to my mouth. “Strange?”
She pins me with a look. “Yeah. Happy.”
My heart swells. It gets a little harder to breathe.
“Not only that, he stopped smoking. Just quit cold turkey one day weeks ago. After that, he started writing all these songs, which according to Nico, are incredible. And . . .” She pauses, gazing at me meaningfully. “His hoochie mamas haven’t been seen hanging around. In months.”
I whisper, “Months?”
She shakes her head. “Apparently not since the day we came into your shop to talk about the wedding flowers.”
“The day he left with the dishy brunette from the candle aisle, as I recall you saying,” Grace points out.
“Which he made sure you saw, didn’t he Lo? Almost as if he was making a point.”
I think about Kat’s question. In retrospect, it does seem possible. “So what do you think it all means?” My heart is in my throat as I wait for her to answer.
“I think,” she says softly, “that you’re not the only one in over your head.”
Grace waves the waiter over. When he arrives, she rests a hand on his arm and looks at him in desperation. “Vodka. Straight. Make it a double. Get it here in less than two minutes and I’ll tip you twenty bucks.”
He sprints away, on the job. While she waits for his return, Grace props her elbows on the table and drops her head to her hands, moaning.
Inside my handbag, my cell phone rings. It’s an unknown number.
“Hello?”
“You ran out on me the other day. And you’re not answering my calls. We need to talk.”
It’s Eric. He soun
ds tense and unhappy. I close my eyes, already feeling defeated. I’m not looking forward to the conversation we need to have. “Yes, we do.”
“I’m off in an hour. I’ll come to your place.”
He hangs up before I can say no, or suggest somewhere else. Feeling panicked, I look at the clock on my phone. Eight thirty. If Eric gets to my place by ten, I’ll still have a few hours before A.J. shows up.
Unless he decides to come earlier.
Or Eric won’t leave.
Kat asks, “Who was that?”
I slip the phone back in my purse. “Eric. He wants to talk. He’s coming over to my apartment in an hour.”
“Tonight? You’re exhausted!”
“He didn’t give me a chance to say no.”
“Have you talked to him since the fitting?”
I shake my head.
“Well, I don’t think you should be talking to him at your place, alone. Nico said he got a really weird vibe from Eric the other day when they talked outside before you left.”
Remembering the look in Eric’s eyes, how angry he was, a chill runs down my spine. “What kind of weird vibe?”
“Like a stabby vibe. Like he was ready to kill someone.”
Into her hands, Grace mutters, “I told you.”
I wave it off. “He’s just upset. I’d feel the same way if the situation were reversed. We went from being happy one day to me calling him the wrong name and broken up the next without ever really talking about what happened.”
The waiter arrives with Grace’s drink. She sends him a smile that leaves him starry-eyed, and guzzles it. When she sets it back down on the table she looks straight at me and says, “You were never happy with him, Chloe. You were content. It’s not the same thing.”
I drop my gaze to the soup. Softly, I say, “I know. And it’s only in the past few days I’ve really understood the difference.”
Grace groans. “You are seriously killing me.”
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