Out from Under You

by Sophie Swift

  More than anything, yesterday morning made me certain that I want to be with Lia.

  But it also reminded me of how much I love to be in the kitchen. The smells of ingredients combining, the sounds of liquids boiling and metal pots clanging. For the first time in a long time, I felt like myself in that kitchen.

  “Walker,” a voice breaks into my thoughts and I swivel my chair around to see a boardroom full of stern eyes staring back at me.

  I sit up straighter in my chair. “Yeah?”

  A few snickers chorus around the room.

  “Care to enlighten us with your thoughts on the matter?”

  It’s Gavin Billings talking. He’s a total prick. And he’s been out to get me since the day I walked in here.

  I glance down at the legal pad in front of me, hoping to glean some clue as to what is being discussed, but it’s blank. I clear my throat, struggling to come up with an ambiguous question that doesn’t expose me. “Uh, what exactly are you uncertain about?”

  More snickers.

  “I’m not uncertain about anything,” Billings says in his usual snooty tone. “I’m simply asking if you agree with the rest of your colleagues about the direction of this deal.”

  All right. I have two options right now.

  1) Come clean and admit that I’ve been fantasizing about a woman who’s not my fiancée this entire time.

  2) Lie.

  The choice is obvious.

  “I...” I fumble. “I agree, of course.”

  Satisfied nods circle the table. Billings looks peeved, tipping me off that he was in the minority of whatever was just voted on. Which means I made the right decision.

  Not that I care in the slightest.

  I say I agree, and some billionaire earns enough money to buy his third yacht.

  Did this ever feel important to me?

  I peer at the clock on the wall. I swear the second hand has just stopped ticking all together.

  After the meeting, I attempt to make the time pass by returning emails and filing paperwork, even though it’s technically my assistant’s job to do that. But I have to stay busy. My mind keeps wandering to Lia on the train. Wondering what she’s seeing through the window. What she’s thinking. Is she as nervous about tonight as I am?

  But why am I so nervous?

  This is Lia.

  Sweet, selfless, vulgar-mouthed Lia. I’ve never felt anxious around her. She’s always been a constant in my life. Something solid. When Alex and I were on the rocks (too many times to count), Lia was the one thing that never changed. The person I could count on for a laugh. Or to say something wildly inappropriate.

  When four fifty finally crawls onto the clock, I bound up, grab my suit jacket off the back of my chair, and slide my arms through the sleeves.

  “I’ve got an appointment” is all I say as I hurry past my assistant’s desk on the way to the elevator.

  “What about your five o’clock with Billings?”

  Shit. I guess I must have blocked that from my mind.

  Fuck it. Billings can kiss my ass.

  “Tell him something came up.”

  I exit onto Park Avenue and insert myself into the traffic of bodies traveling down the street. Penn Station is seven blocks from here and I don’t think I’ve ever made such record time.

  I burst through the doors of the concourse, out of breath, but with four minutes to spare.

  As I wait, I shift restlessly from foot to foot, trying to figure out what to do with my hands.

  Why is this so difficult? What do I normally do with my hands? Do I clasp them behind my back? Cross my arms over my chest?

  Jesus, Grayson, get a grip!

  I finally resolve to stuff my hands in my pockets. I glance to the left and see another nervous-looking dude holding a bouquet of flowers.

  Fuck! Flowers!

  Should I have gotten her flowers?

  Then at least I’d have something to hold.

  No, I quickly decide. Lia is not the type of girl to like something as conventional as flowers. She’s too original for that. She’d much more appreciate something funny and personal.

  And then an idea strikes me. I check the digital clock on the bottom of the massive hanging train schedule. I can make it if I run. Fast.

  In a snap decision, I turn and dash out of the station. I glance around the intersection until I spot a newsstand on the other side of Seventh Avenue.

  Please let them have it, I think, as I wait for the light to change. I dance a jig on the edge of the curb, eliciting strange looks from other pedestrians waiting to cross.

  Normally, this kind of attention would embarrass me.

  But not today. Not now.

  And besides, this is New York City. I’m just another nut job waiting for a green light.

  My stomach is doing cartwheels as I step off the train and follow the horde of people heading for the concourse. The overnight bag in my hand is weighing me down as though it were full of bricks.

  It’s amazing how such a simple little duffel can cause so much emotional turmoil in your head.

  First there was the question of: Do I even bring it?

  Grayson did invite me to come see him in the city. But he didn’t actually say the words “spend the night.” I mean, it’s not like I expected him to take me out to dinner and then put me back on a train at midnight, like Cinderella getting back in her pumpkin coach. But still, the fact that the word “overnight” was only implied made me feel like a presumptuous slut as I filled the bag with toiletries.

  Then came the hurricane of thoughts and emotions that accompanied the decision of what to put in the bag.

  Obviously this is not a casual visit. It’s not like I’m coming to catch up with my old college roommate. I wasn’t going to pack my sweatpants and Disney World sleep shirt.

  But I didn’t want to pack straight-up smutty lingerie either.

  Not that I had any to speak of.

  And then on top of it all was the ever-present, hovering storm cloud of knowing that I was deliberately getting on a train to visit (and undoubtedly have sex with) a man who is technically still engaged to my sister.

  Needless to say I haven’t eaten all day. And I barely slept last night.

  I asked Olivia to cover the restaurant while I was “visiting a friend in Vermont.” I gave the same excuse to my dad who smiled broadly like I’d announced I was joining the Peace Corps.

  “Good for you!” he sang. “It’s about time you got out and did something fun.”

  I mean, seriously. The man acts like I live in a convent.

  The only person who knows the truth about where I am is Danika. After I told her what happened in the restaurant yesterday, and my conversation with Grayson last night, she made me swear on my life to divulge every single torrid detail of my visit to the city when I got back.

  By the time I reach the stairs leading to the main concourse, all sensation has disintegrated from my fingers and toes. Twenty people might very well be stampeding over my feet right now and I wouldn’t notice.

  But then I see him, and every fear and trepidation and anxiety just sort of slips away.

  He’s standing at the top of the stairs, his hair messy and wind-blown, his gray suit slightly wrinkled and yet still sexy as hell on his tall frame. His smile isn’t wicked or mischievous. It’s playful and goofy. The same smile I saw eight years ago on the boy who rescued me from that party. And in his hand, proffered forth and splayed out like playing cards, are five foil-wrapped tubes of LifeSavers candy.

  A jubilant giggle bubbles up from my throat and spills forth into the concourse. I’m still laughing when his arms encircle me and pull me so close I can smell the spicy hints of his aftershave from that morning.

  “Hey there, Lil’ Killer,” he drawls in that irresistible hint of an accent. Then he presses his lips to mine, instantly taking me prisoner.

  “Grayson,” I whisper into the side of his mouth. “What if someone sees?”

  He squ
eezes me tighter against him, burying his face in my hair and breathing hot into my ear. “I don’t care who sees.”

  When he pulls away, he holds the LifeSavers out to me, grinning like a little boy giving his teacher an apple before class.

  I wipe the smile from my face and try for a serious tone. “I thought I told you I don’t need saving.”

  His grin just broadens. “Well, I thought, you know, maybe just one more rescue mission.”

  He bends down to pick up my overnight bag. I watch for a reaction, something that hints I’ve gone too far. But his grin never falters. He just keeps looking at me with those dazzling dark brown eyes that have the ability to turn my legs to jelly.

  He slips his free hand into mine and laces our fingers together.

  Inside my head, a voice is screaming how wrong this is. How public it is.

  This is Alex’s city. Alex’s fiancé. Alex’s life. And yet here I am, openly seizing it. Consciously swooping in to fill her absence.

  And I have the overnight bag to prove it.

  But the sturdiness of Grayson’s hand in mine is like a soothing whisper in my ear. A reminder that I’m not alone. Not anymore.

  Whatever happens, we’re in this together.

  Experiencing the city with Lia by my side is like experiencing the city through some distorted fairy tale lens. The streets—normally dirty and littered with winos—sparkle with excitement and energy. The lights of Times Square—normally a sour tourist trap that I avoid like the plague—glitter overhead like colorful fireworks.

  It’s like someone hit Reset on my life, winding it back several years, and moving my playing piece back to the starting line.

  When I’m with Alex, we have a shortlist of acceptable restaurants, burrows, and people to hang out with. Everything else is deemed intolerable and completely off-limits. Choosing a place to eat at night is like a re-enactment of the Peace Treaty signing at Versailles. A thousand variables have to be weighed and considered.

  We ate there a week ago.

  They changed chefs.

  The waiter spilled a drink on me last time and didn’t comp our meal.

  The dress I would need to wear to a place like that is at the dry-cleaner.

  But tonight, with Lia, the city is a land of endless possibility. I feel like we could go anywhere and it wouldn’t matter. We would still laugh. We would still hungrily consume each other’s words. We would still have the best time either of us has had in years.

  We spend the first half of the evening in a little progressive dinner party for two. We start off with cocktails in SoHo, followed by appetizers at a quaint little tapas place in the West Village, Cuban entrées in the Theater District, and finally dessert at a delicious French bistro near my house in Murray Hill.

  We don’t make any plans. We don’t chart our course and tell the cab driver which roads to take and avoid. We just go. We flit in and out of restaurants at whim without reviewing the menus outside. We joke and banter with the waiters and bartenders, and tell them to “bring us the best thing they have.” We steal kisses in the back seat of cabs. We slide our hands under articles of clothing beneath the tablecloths.

  By the time midnight rolls around, we are both panting and consumed with desire for each other, but Lia flashes me a coy smile and drags me into a bar around the corner from my building.

  We grab a booth in the back, our hands immediately finding each other under the table. I lean in and brush my lips against her neck, loving the way her skin reacts to my touch, erupting in tiny goose bumps that sprinkle down her arms.

  She tips her head back and moans, squeezing my hand as I move up to her ear.

  “Drinks?” A cocktail waitress interrupts us and I reluctantly tear myself away. “Not that you need any,” she adds with a smirk.

  I look to Lia. “What do you think?”

  She grins and turns to the waitress. “Tell the bartender we want something smoldering. Two of them.”

  “Something smoldering?” the waitress echoes in disbelief.

  “As smoldering as they come,” I add.

  She gives us a strange look and heads back to the bar. I continue where I left off: Lia’s left ear lobe, wrapping my mouth around the soft flap and flicking it with my tongue. Lia shivers next to me and her reaction makes me instantly hard. I twist slightly and press myself into her, so she can feel what she’s doing to me.

  She sucks in a sharp breath as my stiffness rubs against her thigh.

  This time it’s not the cocktail waitress that interrupts us, but rather the booming sound of a bass line coming through the speakers directly behind our heads. Then the deep, husky voice of a DJ starts bellowing about “jamming in NYC.”

  Lia winces and yells over the music, “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize this was a club.”

  I laugh at her apology. “Why are you sorry?”

  She bites her lip. “Because I know you hate to dance.”

  She’s right. I do hate to dance. I never do it. It’s always been a point of contention between Alex and me. But tonight I’m a different person. A better person.

  I take Lia’s hand and bring it up to my lips. “Come on,” I say, urging her toward the growing mass of writhing bodies. “Maybe I just haven’t found the right dance partner yet.”

  When we stumble into Grayson’s apartment forty-five minutes later we are both drenched in sweat and gasping with lust. Grayson proved to be surprisingly skilled on the dance floor. Or maybe I was just so fucking hot for him, I didn’t even notice his moves (or lack thereof). He could have been doing the chicken dance combined with the bunny hop and I still would have wanted to rip his clothes off.

  We hardly lasted half an hour in that club. With all the pulsing and grinding and our drenched bodies slamming against each other, it was more than either of us could handle. There came a point, smack-dab in the middle of a song, when we both just looked at each other—our faces flushed red, our limbs quivering—and, without uttering a word, we bolted for the exit.

  Grayson closes the front door and pins me against it, leaning in to lick the sweat off the side of my neck. I whimper with pleasure.

  “We’re both filthy,” I breathe, feeling the grime of the city and the perspiration of the dance floor coating my skin.

  “I know how to solve that,” he murmurs.

  And before I can say another word, I’m suddenly swept off my feet, and slung over his shoulder. Squealing with delight, I watch the hardwood floors under his feet change to white tile, announcing that we’ve reached the bathroom. Then I hear the hum of the shower running. Grayson sets me down and his lips fly to my damp collarbone like a magnet to metal. His tongue sweeps across the crevices as his hands find the bottom of my dress and yank it over my head.

  I fumble for the buttons of his dress shirt, clawing at them like a rabid animal. He unbuttons his slacks and tugs them off along with his boxers, while I kick out of my underwear.

  He returns his mouth to mine and falls into me, pushing me back into the shower stall until I slam against the tile wall. The warm water cascades over me as his tongue tangles with mine. Water drips between our dancing lips, mixing with the intensity of the kiss, making everything slicker, wetter, more urgent.

  His torso pushes me harder against the wall, sliding against my bare breasts, turning my nipples into hard pebbles that do their best to push back. But they’re no match for his strong pecs.

  His hand slithers down my drenched body, finding my inner thigh, grabbing and squeezing like he wants to pull the skin right off. I moan and slam my head against the tiles, my damp hair whips into my face. Grayson reaches up with his other hand and frantically brushes it back, lunging for my lips again, like he’s out of oxygen and they are the only known source.

  Then his hand is on my breast, cupping it and massaging it, sending my world into a free fall.

  His other hand finds the back of my knee, forcing my leg into the air until it’s flush with the wall. His fingers trickle down the length of my t
high, teasing, exploring, finding their way inside me. I cry out as his fingertips massage me from the inside while his palm exerts pressure from the outside.

  His lips move to the hollow of my neck, whispering into my skin. Drinking the moisture right out of me as the hot rain from above keeps replenishing and replenishing.

  And then suddenly I feel his dripping wet hardness against my leg, inching its way up. When he slides into me the color drains from the room. From the world. I see everything in a stark, pulsing black and white.

  His hand pushes my leg further up the wall as he thrusts himself deeper inside me. He bends and straightens his knees, his whole body heaving up and down. The slickness of the water on our skin makes everything frictionless. I snake my hands around the back of his head, tangling my fingers into his sopping hair. His head becomes the leverage I need to move with him. To propel him faster and harder through me.

  Every time his torso slams against me, I cry out in intense pleasure.

  He moans fiercely as my hands ripple down his back, tracing the curves of his muscles, until they land on his ass and squeeze. His thrusts intensify, as do his hoarse whimpers, and I’m pulling him into me. Into me. Into me.

  My whole body is throbbing, climbing, reaching a pinnacle. The shiver of climax is within my reach. I can feel his body stiffening beneath my fingers, everything preparing itself for the ultimate bliss. He’s pulsating between my legs, getting closer.

  With one final thrust, I’m knocked hard into the wall and my body lets go. The swell of ecstasy blasts through me, crumpling my nervous system, rendering me useless and yet immensely powerful at the same time.

  He lets out a deep howl as he collapses against me, every inch of him shaking.

  I feel him soften slightly inside of me as he allows every last drop of pleasure to seep out.

  “Lia.” My name is barely a whistle of wind as his forehead comes to rest against mine.

  I struggle for breath as my arms fall limp at my sides.