Melted and Whipped

by Cleo Pietsche

  But sleep eludes me.

  This is too new, too exciting. From the firmness of the mattress to the silky texture of the sheets to the light pine and smoke scent of the room, my senses are overwhelmed. The more I try to relax, the faster my heart beats.

  Porter Loughton is in bed with me. We had sex. Kinky sex. Mildly kinky? Well, it wasn’t like anything I’d done before.

  Porter won’t mind, I’m certain, if I go sit in the living room. I can watch television or flip through a book. The latter appeals to me, so I quietly slip out of bed, all the while taking care not to disturb Porter.

  I visit the bathroom. A striped navy blue and forest green robe is hanging on the back of the door. It’s unabashedly masculine, but I don’t see any others, so I slip into it after I wash my hands. Then I wait until the toilet is silent before I ease open the door.

  Porter is still asleep. I glide into the hallway without making a sound.

  Once the door is closed behind me, I relax. Faint lights line one edge of the hallway, and even though it’s not enough to read by, I can certainly see where I’m going.

  Somehow I make it to the living room without getting lost. I stand at the window and stare out over the moonlit valley, losing myself in the jagged outline of trees.

  I love these mountains, these forests, but I’ve never seen them like this. I guess most people haven’t.

  The only view from my living room is a brick wall, the side of a ski equipment rental store. But within minutes, I can be standing at the top of a mountain. Maybe not my own private mountain, but I’m more than happy to share.

  Even if I’d stayed at my office job for a century, I never could have afforded a place like Porter’s. Okay, I probably could have swung it for a week with a group of friends. A large group.

  Maybe it’s because Porter asked me about my goals, but I find myself thinking about my business plan. My sister gave me a hardback notebook to record everything related to my potential next career. According to my calculations, I need another five thousand dollars in savings. Which is to say that I need five thousand total. I’m not irresponsible, but it’s impossible to save money. My apartment is both crappy and expensive, and I’m lucky the landlady hasn’t kicked me out so she can rent it to tourists for fifteen hundred bucks a week.

  The town is full of people who aged out of their jobs giving skiing and snowboarding lessons. Now they work as bartenders, baristas, and waiters. They migrate to the city in the summer, when it’s slower, sacrificing stability to stay near the powder that keeps them alive.

  The ones who do leave… One thing is certain: if they’re not on the mountain, then whatever they’re doing, however much money they’re making, they can’t be happy.

  The sky is beginning to grow lighter, I think, though it’s difficult to know for sure. Part of me wants this quiet night to last forever. I feel peaceful here. At least I can think about the future without becoming completely panicked.

  I wonder if it’s because the house has such good energy. Yes, the house has energy. It’s happy. That’s probably because it’s spotless and well laid out and lovingly decorated, and because I had an amazing night and a million orgasms. Not so mysterious, after all.

  I laugh at myself.

  “I can’t say I’ve had that reaction from looking out the window,” a deep voice says.

  Reflexively, I spin, my fingers clutching the bathrobe at the chest. “Thank you for the heart attack,” I say.

  “First one is free,” he says, coming to lean on the far end of the windowsill. He’s wearing boxers and nothing else, and his body is so damned perfect. “You like the view?”

  “Are you kidding? I’m burning with jealousy,” I confess.

  “You’d be surprised at how many of these mansions are empty for large chunks of the year,” he says, staring out over the trees. “When people have seven or eight beautiful homes, it’s hard to spend more than a few weeks in each one.”

  “That’s a shame,” I murmur. “At least yours won’t have that problem.”

  “No, but my Manhattan penthouse is currently empty. It’s… I have to say it’s one of the most beautiful homes I’ve ever been in. I bought it from a friend who was getting divorced and wanted to be rid of it. It’s got a view over Central Park.”

  “I prefer the view here,” I say.

  “So do I,” Porter says, a bit like it’s a secret. “Especially now.”

  “Because of the sunrise,” I say. The barest streaks of orange and pink are appearing.

  “Yes, but that’s not why.”

  My gaze slides to him, and I discover he’s staring at me. There’s naked lust in his eyes, a heat so tremendous that I wonder why the world around us doesn’t burst into flames.

  “To be clear,” he states as he moves closer, “if you were in New York, I’d prefer that view, too.”

  I snort a little, and I’m glad he can’t possibly see my blush.

  “No one would disagree with me. You’re stunning, Emily. Do you really not know that?”

  Now I really think he’s full of it, and I want to tell him not to waste his breath giving me compliments. But before I can, he brushes his lips across mine.

  With a little moan, I part my lips, allowing him access even though part of me is tempted to resist so I can experience the pleasure of having him demand that I yield.

  Yes, I want him to dominate me again. Because the events of last night are already receding in my memory. I can remember the sensation of his hand smacking my ass, but I want to feel the sharp pain again.

  I crave it.

  Porter makes a low, male growl of approval. It reverberates against my skin, and not only do my nipples tighten, not only does my pussy get wet, but it clenches so hard that I gasp.

  Only then do I realize I’m close to an orgasm. Just from a kiss.

  When Porter slides a hand into the robe to fondle my breast, I do orgasm, right there, gasping with pleasure and surprise, my body spasming. It’s not nearly as intense as the ones he gave me a few hours ago, but it’s definitely an orgasm.

  “That was interesting,” Porter says as he pulls back from the kiss. “I knew you were sensitive, but I had no idea you were capable of that. You’re a lucky woman.”

  I burst out laughing and can’t stop. Everything in my body is mixed up. “That has never happened before.” I bury my face in my hands, embarrassed, surprised, happy.

  He draws a finger across my jaw, down my throat. “Now I should tell you to stop flattering me,” he says, echoing my words. There’s a difference, though. I was embarrassed by the attention, but Porter is joking.

  He knows he’s good. As I stare into his amused eyes, my own smile falters.

  I’m falling for him, but I don’t want to fall for him. We’re not kids anymore. A night of amazing sex doesn’t mean a relationship.

  “I need to use the bathroom,” I say, ducking out from under him. It’s still dark, and I lose my balance.

  Porter is there with a steadying hand on my elbow, his other hand sliding around my waist. His touch makes me shiver, and I know if I don’t get away right now and pull myself together, I’m going to be in trouble.

  “Hold up,” Porter says. “I’ll turn on some real lights.” He walks away, and a moment later a soft glow illuminates the room.

  “Thank you,” I murmur.

  In the bathroom, I splash cold water on my face. What the hell is happening to me? Is it trust? Am I confusing trust with love?

  Damn, I don’t want to fuck this up. Why can’t I relax and go with it?

  I rinse my mouth even though my breath is fine, and I wonder if maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I don’t need to be careful. Porter didn’t give me a lecture about not getting attached.

  But maybe he didn’t feel he needed to. After all, we’re not fourteen.

  What if I decide it’s just theatrics, that I can’t trust the signals I’m reading? And what if I’m wrong?

  I stare hard at my reflection and try to figure o
ut what Porter sees when he looks at me. He’s attracted to me. He likes me as a person. But we haven’t spent that much time together tonight. If he was interested in dating me, he had plenty of chances. Hell, he could have made an effort to stay close after graduation.

  Maybe tonight was just about sex.

  “Emily?” Porter knocks on the door. He sounds concerned.

  “I’ll be right out,” I blurt. I don’t think I’ve been in the bathroom for so long that he needs to be concerned, but maybe I have. If that’s the case, then I really am losing it.

  “It’s important,” he says. “Your phone kept ringing and, given the hour, I thought it might be critical. It’s your brother-in-law.”

  I throw open the door. My hands tremble as I take the phone. “Greg?”

  “Stacy’s in the hospital,” Greg says flatly. “She was bleeding.”

  “Oh, no.” This is what we’ve all feared since the moment she became pregnant. “Is… is she—”

  “She’s fine,” Greg reassures me, but I know him well enough to know when he’s bluffing, putting on a brave face. He’s scared out of his mind.

  I’m vaguely aware of Porter leading me to a sofa, of him helping me sit.

  “And the baby?” I ask, afraid to speak the words aloud, like even acknowledging the possibility could make it happen.

  “The doctor is with her now,” Greg says, and I can imagine him pacing the way he does when he’s anxious, the way he did the evening he asked Stacy to marry him in front of everyone. “We got here a few minutes ago. I called you first. Oh God,” he says suddenly, and my heart stops.

  “What?”

  “I have to tell your dad. Oh God. What am I thinking? I’ll call you back.” He hangs up.

  Stunned, I lower my hand.

  Porter shifts on the couch. “Your sister’s in the hospital,” he says.

  “Yes. I…” But I don’t know what to say.

  “Do you want me to—I can take you to the airport.”

  I stare at him, trying to make sense of his words; my brain isn’t working.

  “You need to fly home,” Porter says firmly.

  The sound of his confident, calm voice pulls me away from the churning chaos of my own mind.

  Of course he’s right. I have to go home immediately. I nod.

  “You’re not in any state to drive,” he says. “I’ll drive you to your place so you can pack some things, then I’ll take you to the airport.”

  “Okay,” I say. I don’t want to need his help, but the fact is that I do. I’m shaking so badly that it’s not safe for me to drive right now. “We can take my car, and I’ll pay for you to get a taxi from—”

  “Nonsense. I’ll drive my own vehicle.”

  I have to get dressed.

  I have to get a plane ticket, will need to spread the cost across my credit cards.

  What I don’t do is think about Stacy, at least not in any detail. I can’t allow myself to, not if I want to hold it together long enough to get home.

  Chapter Eleven

  Porter stops his luxury SUV in front of my apartment building.

  “I’ll be fast,” I promise.

  He turns off the engine. “I’m coming in to help,” he says.

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I know, but I’m not very good at sitting around in a crisis.”

  A crisis. The words echo as I unlock the front door and walk up the narrow creaking steps. They’re painted white, which puts the filth in stark relief. I’m far past being embarrassed, though. A crisis.

  This is a crisis, though I don’t want to think about it, can’t let myself…

  “It will only take me a few minutes,” I say numbly. “Please make yourself comfortable.” I gesture vaguely at the couch, which is the opposite of comfortable, as Porter will soon discover for himself, and I drop my purse onto the coffee table.

  My apartment is tiny, one step up from a studio. The kitchen and living room are all one room, and I’ve got a bedroom barely the size of one of the gondolas on the mountain. The bathroom doesn’t even have space for a tub. In a resort town like this one, real estate is worth more than gold.

  I know that later I’ll be ashamed of my shabby furnishings, the mismatched curtains, the three-quarter-sized refrigerator, the bare light bulb that hangs over the center of the main room. My home isn’t nice, and I haven’t done much with it. To be honest, short of dousing everything in gasoline and shooting a flaming arrow into the couch, I’m not sure there’s anything I could do to improve it.

  My obsolete laptop, the one I bought a few months before I was laid off, is sitting on the table. I open the cover and tap impatiently on the trackpad, willing it to rouse itself.

  “You’re flying into New York?” Porter asks, coming to stand beside me.

  I nod as I turn my wooden chair to the side so I can rest my left knee on it. My computer screen flickers, and I click on the browser.

  “If you like, I can search for flights while you pack. It’s more efficient.” He’s already pushing into my space.

  “I don’t think there are that many leaving in the next two hours,” I say.

  “To go to New York? There’s one in forty-five minutes and another in… It doesn’t matter. I can get you on that one. It will connect in Chicago.”

  Maybe under different circumstances I’d protest, but it will save me a lot of time if he looks for flights, and he clearly knows the route well. I guess it makes sense if he’s been commuting back and forth.

  “Thanks. The computer’s kind of slow,” I say apologetically.

  “I’ll survive. Go pack what you need.”

  I hurry into my bedroom, open the shallow closet and stand on tiptoe to reach the large backpack on the top shelf. It’s not the kind used for hiking, but it’s still roomy enough to hold what I’ll need for a couple of days. Normally I could borrow clothes from my sister, but… not now.

  I throw in a pair of jeans, two shirts, some socks, bras, and underwear. I normally wouldn’t bother with toiletries—I’m sure it won’t be a problem if I stay at my dad’s house—but the waterproof bag is still stocked from my last trip. I drop my toothbrush into the top and add it to the backpack.

  Phone charger.

  What else do I need?

  That’s everything. At the last minute I grab the paperback I’ve been slowly reading for the last few weeks.

  Zipping the bag closed, I mentally run through everything I could possibly need, but I think I’m covered. I switch off the light and return to the living room.

  Porter is standing next to the door. “Ready to go?”

  My gaze darts to my laptop. The cover is closed. “But—”

  “Hear me out,” he says. “I…” He looks uncomfortable.

  “There’s no room on the flights?”

  “No… I don’t know. I…” His gaze dips down for a moment, but then he raises his eyes to mine, and his hesitation is gone. “I have a private plane. I was going to return in two days anyway.”

  “Oh,” I say, equal parts shocked and horrified. “That’s…” Actually, I don’t know what that is. My mind can’t handle this on top of everything else, and I don’t know what to say, how to react. “You can’t…”

  “My pilots and crew are on the way,” he says. He opens the door. “Come on. We have to get out within thirty-five minutes.”

  “Thank you,” I mumble. I know I probably sound ungrateful, but for the moment I’m ashamed, and I feel uncomfortable. But this is Stacy. I would never take charity for myself, but for Stacy, for Greg… Getting home as soon as possible is all that matters.

  I heft the backpack over one shoulder, but when I reach Porter, he takes it from me. “You forgot your purse,” he says, nodding at the scratched-up coffee table. “Your phone and keys are in it.”

  He’s right. “Thank you,” I say.

  Something tells me I’m going to be saying those words an awful lot.

  Chapter Twelve

  The airpo
rt Porter takes us to isn’t one I’ve ever seen before. After presenting some identification to a guard, he drives his car almost right up to the plane, which is smaller than most of the commercial flights I’ve been on but certainly isn’t the smallest.

  Dawn has turned into early morning, a new day full of promise, but as I stare at the gleaming white plane, all I can think of is Greg.

  Greg never wanted Stacy to get pregnant. Before they started dating, he knew about our family history, the rare genetic disorder that makes pregnancy dangerous. He knew how our mother had died. One day, about a year ago, he called me and asked, “Can I ask you a personal question? Feel free to smack me, but don’t tell your sister.”

  “Greg,” I said, laughing. “Since when do you care about personal or not personal?”

  “Do you plan to have kids? Have you changed your mind about that?”

  “Absolutely not,” I said, and I wasn’t laughing anymore. “It’s not worth the risk. And suppose the baby survives but I don’t? What kid needs to grow up with that kind of guilt?”

  “Stacy wants them. I can’t talk her out of it.”

  “Keep your snake in your pants, and she won’t have much say about it,” I suggested. “Anyway, she’s just talking. She doesn’t mean it.”

  He laughed, but I could tell he was worried. Then, three months later, when I was in town for a short visit, Stacy hosted a family dinner to announce that she was four weeks pregnant. She knew it was early, but she wanted to tell everyone in person. After a stunned silence, we all congratulated her, but the tears in Dad’s eyes weren’t of joy. He was scared. We all were.

  And now I know we were right to be.

  Porter gestures for me to climb the plane’s steps. “Be careful,” he says. He probably thinks I’m so out of it that I’ll slip and fall, but I grab the thin metal railing on each side of the steps. Still, we’re probably both relieved when I step into the plane.

  “Good morning.” A woman in her mid-fifties gives me a radiant smile. From the quasi-military way she’s dressed, I’m guessing she’s one of the pilots.