by kj lewis
I kick the shoes off as Adam goes back to whatever he was doing. Jules closes the door giving us some privacy.
“They’ll be tasteful,” Jules promises as I hand her the pants. I slide on my underwear and step back into my dress.
“I know they will be. This really is some of your best work. I’m excited to showcase it for you. You deserve the credit, Jules.”
“You were my inspiration.”
“There’s nothing going on between Blaine and me. It was a kiss that I should have never let happen. I kissed him back ‘cause he’s a good kisser. Not because it meant anything.”
“I’m not talking about Blaine.”
She is waiting for me to be the first one to say it. I’m saved by a knock at the door.
Jackson hands me the keys to his Range Rover.
Jackson and Patrick had interrupted before Jules could coerce the Graham story out of me. Luckily, she was so distracted by Jackson’s praise for her design that I didn’t have to think of a way to describe what I am feeling when I’m not sure I even know. Finally ready to leave this week behind, I am relieved to be hitting the road with another one of my favorite couples.
“I know you have control issues, plus I have work I want to finish on the way so I won’t have to do it when we get there. Patrick wants to read, so here. You drive.”
“Cool!” I bounce into the driver seat and Jackson closes my door and climbs into the back. In the cup holder is a Diet Coke.
“You, sir, are my ace buddy.”
I adjust the mirror and seat and we’re off. In no time we are across the Brooklyn Bridge and headed to 495. Depending on traffic the drive can take anywhere from two-and-a-half to three hours. Patrick and I are singing about how we went from San Berdoo to Kalamazoo just to get away from you, courtesy of the Black Keys. Jackson is sound asleep in the back seat. So much for accomplishing work.
An hour into the drive, Patrick pulls out a magazine and turns down the music.
“What are you reading?” I glance at the cover.
“Cosmo.”
It sounds funny even coming from Patrick.
“See,” he points to an article about how to give the best blow job. “I want to make sure I’m always in the know on the latest techniques,” he says like he’s preparing for a business meeting. “I’ll read aloud, so you will be too. After the pic in the park, I would say you might have an opportunity to try a few new ways to ‘satisfy your man’” he teases, using air quotes.
“I told you. They aren’t seeing each other,” Jackson interjects from the backseat, changing positions but never opening his eyes.
“So, just sex then?” Patrick looks at me like a kid in a candy shop.
“Like you need advice.” I change the subject. “You’ve got more experience than any woman writing that article. They would be smart to do an article that is from a gay man’s point of view telling straight women how to give the best blow job.”
“What a great idea. I’ll have to pitch that idea to them.”
After reading the entire article to us out load, he announces, “Hell. I will definitely have to call them. That article was lacking. It didn’t mention anything new and it doesn’t teach women what they really need to know.” Patrick spends the next fifteen minutes going over what he thinks should be in the article.
The rest of the drive is easy. Spending time with Jackson and Patrick is always fun. They’re so easy going and they really have it together. They love each other. All the other bullshit is just that. Bullshit. They’re solid.
“I’m about twenty minutes out of your way. Want me to Uber it to the Taylor’s?”
“Of course not,” Jackson says, suddenly awake. “We’ll drop you.”
“I don’t mind,” I say looking at him in the rearview. His look tells me I might as well drop it.
Patrick and I dream about the amazing houses we start to pass. These are the ones that you can see. There are so many that are obstructed by hedges and gates, leaving the house to your imagination. I can’t comprehend the need for a twenty-thousand square-foot house. Who would want to live in something that big? I would love a cozy one bedroom with a big porch. That would be the perfect size for me.
The Taylor’s house is smaller compared to some we are passing, but no less incredible. It has seven bedrooms and nine baths. It’s huge by my standards. By Hampton’s standards, it could be considered modest. The last time I was here, Mrs. Taylor, Ruth, told me they own the largest private beach front in East Hampton. The property is extensive. Her great-grandfather bought it before East Hampton exploded with high-end real estate.
I pull up to the gate, where I’m greeted by a security guard. He gives me entrance, and I wind my way up the path to the house, about three miles from the gate.
The house itself is what you would expect to see in an East Coast beach house. With cedar shingles, large windows, and a lot of beautiful molding. It’s grand but not pretentious. It feels like home.
I park in the circular drive. The air here is much cooler than it was in New York. It feels like it might rain.
“You guys want to come in?”
“Thanks, but I think we’ll head out and get some groceries on our way. You going to be okay here by yourself?” Jackson hands me my computer bag and camera but carries my suitcase up the six cobble steps, leaving it inside the large door.
“I’ll be just fine,” I assure him with a round of hugs and kisses before they head out. “Thanks for the ride.”
I enter the house and set my items on the round table next to an expansive staircase in the front foyer. The first thing I notice is the view. This house was built with the ocean in mind.
I stand in the living room and take it all in. The entire back of the house is made up of two-story floor-to-ceiling windows and doors with a large expansive deck off the main level. To the left is a large kitchen and a dining room that seats twenty. To the right is the Taylor’s master wing. There is a basement area below that is only visible from the beach. You can access the pool on that level. There are two bedrooms down there and a game room.
Making my way to the kitchen, I see a note from Rosa, the Taylor’s housekeeper. She has left a stocked kitchen for me. Opening the refrigerator, I see that she means business. It’s like a farmer’s market in here: a bounty of fruits and vegetables—plenty of things to choose from. Seeing all the beautiful colors makes me hungry.
I grab my suitcase and climb the stairs. From the upstairs landing, there is a wing on the left that has two rooms and an office, and a wing on the right that has two rooms and a library. The wings are offset to each side so as to not disrupt the large bay of windows rising from the family room below. I take a left and head to the room I stayed in the last time I was here. Like the rest of the house, it’s impeccably decorated. The highest level of comfort. I can’t keep the smile away at the blissful thought that I have a whole room to myself. Just like downstairs, it has a full wall of windows and a door to a private balcony accessible only by the three rooms on this side of the house.
I have had dreams about being in this bed again. It’s like being wrapped in a cloud. I slide off my dress and climb into the silky cotton sheets. The sky is turning gray from a storm moving in. Pulling the covers up to my neck, it’s not long before I drift into a peaceful sleep.
Thunder wakes me to a dark night. The clock on the nightstand reads seven-thirty. I’ve slept two hours. There’s usually a little sun left at this time of day, but I guess the darkness rolled in early with the storm.
Climbing out of bed, I pull the suitcase into the large walk-in closet and open it to unpack. Nothing looks familiar. I dig through it and realize these are all Becca’s clothes. Jackson must have seen it in the hallway and grabbed it instead of mine. Great. There is no way her clothes are going to fit me. Not to mention she’s a good three inches shorter than me. I text her to let her know about the mix up and to make sure they please bring my suitcase with them.
There’s no way I
am going through Ruth’s closet, and I know their sister Lucy’s clothes will not fit me. Jules doesn’t have any clothes here, either.
I try the door to the other room on my end. I’m guessing it’s Graham’s since no one was staying in it last time I was here. I locate the closet to grab a few things to get me through until Tuesday when my clothes arrive. He doesn’t picture me as someone who shares, but he can get over it. He’s had his tongue down my throat and thinks I’m a whore. He can lend me some sweats.
Not surprisingly, his closet is pristine and organized. He even keeps suits here. I shuffle to the causal side and grab a couple of white t-shirts and a pair of jeans with a rip in the knee. I pull out an oversized sweater for cool nights on the beach. I look around at my other options and grab two white button-up Oxford shirts and a pair of slippers. This should do me. Something to bum around in, and something warm to go to the market in.
Back in my room, I put away my make-do wardrobe, slip off my bra, and put on the white Oxford. I roll up the sleeves to a manageable level, pulling the collar to my nose to inhale his scent. Combing my fingers through my hair, I slide my feet into the slippers and make my way downstairs. I open the door off the kitchen that leads onto the deck, but it’s gotten cooler since I arrived and I end up closing it, opting to eat inside. I am in love with this house and looking forward to a few days to myself.
It takes me a minute to figure out how to use the sound system in the kitchen. Once I have some music to cook to, I turn it up and shop the fridge.
Rosa has left a jar of homemade peach salsa, which inspires my fish tacos with fresh guacamole and salsa. This kitchen is a dream to cook in, and Rosa has anticipated anything someone might need or want. The only thing I can’t find are soft tortillas for the tacos. I know she has to have some in here. I search the cabinets while Stevie Wonder sings to me that I shouldn’t worry about a thing. I assure him I’m not worried, I just need some damn tortillas.
It occurs to me that some people keep them in the fridge. Sure enough, on the back of the bottom shelf is a bag of what looks to be homemade soft tortillas. I’m shifting everything around to reach them when I hear, “Ahem…”
I freeze. I’m waist deep in an oversized fridge, and my ass, sporting a pair of black lace boy-shorts underwear cut high across each cheek, is in the air. I grab the tortillas, climb out of the fridge, and peek around the door. Graham is propped up against the door frame to the kitchen with his arms folded across his chest and one ankle crossed over the other. He’s wearing a Yankees t-shirt and a pair of sweats that drape off his hips in the sexiest way.
“You’re in my kitchen.”
“Actually I’m in your parent’s kitchen,” I retort. “When did you get here?” I feign nonchalance, not wanting to give him the upper hand.
“I came up two days ago. When did you get here?”
“A few hours ago. Adam didn’t tell me you were going to be here. Did he tell you I was coming early?” I’m going to kill him. He knew Graham was here already.
“No, he didn’t.” He seems irritated with his brother.
“Hungry?” I opt for polite conversation to distract from the fact my ass was in the air. Plus, we have to be in the same house this week, we might as well figure out how to have a civil conversation.
“I am. What are you making?”
“Fish tacos with chips, salsa, and I just made guacamole,” I say dipping a chip into it and taking a bite. He walks towards me. He’s so close that I have to look up to see him. He swipes his thumb across the corner of my mouth, removing the remnants of guacamole. He puts his thumb in his mouth and sucks the dip off it, never taking his eyes off mine.
“Sounds delicious.” He takes a step around me and gets two glasses out of the cabinet.
What the hell was I thinking? There’s no way I’ll make it here with him. The way he said those two words alone about got me off. Lock it down, James.
I concentrate on my breathing and begin the prep work for the fish. I realize we are working in a comfortable silence. Me cooking and snacking, Graham setting the table and snacking.
He starts chopping the cilantro I set out, then moves to cutting up the limes and lemons. I finish the sauce just as the fish is ready.
Graham hands me a platter and I quickly assemble six fish tacos. Bringing the platter to the rectangular eat in kitchen table, I sit at one of the spots Graham has readied. He picks up my Diet Coke and replaces it with a glass of Dos Equis, then takes his seat across from me. We haven’t said a word since “sounds delicious”.
He takes a drink of his beer. “You have beautiful hair. I’ve never seen you with it down before.” Then as he continues to assess me, he cocks his head to the side and says, “Are you wearing my shirt?”
“Yep.” I mean there’s nothing else I can say. Clearly I am.
“Jackson accidentally grabbed Becca’s suitcase, so my clothes won’t arrive until Tuesday. Seeing as how my ass is bigger than hers I didn’t have anything to wear.” I bite into a taco, making a light moaning sound. Rosa’s homemade tortillas are so good--I’m going be doing a lot of running this week. He watches me eat before taking a bite of his taco.
“So, why is it your closest friends have never heard you cuss before, but every time we’re together you have no hesitation in using explicit language?”
There’s no way I’m going to tell him it’s because I don’t care if he sees the real me. I want to fuck him and only him. I believe that if you’re going to get to that level with someone, it only works if they know the real you.
“I guess you pull it out in me,” I shrug and take a sip of my beer, committing to nothing. He looks at me for a long minute, trying to turn another puzzle piece to see if he can get it to fit.
We eat the rest of our meal without another word spoken. Just looking at each other like two stubborn goats about to ram each other. I finish the last of my tacos and stand to clear my plate.
“Finished?” I break the silence reaching for his plate. He nods his answer and I carry our plates to the sink. He stands and helps me clear the table.
“Wash or dry?” I ask him from the sink holding a cloth for each.
“I’ll dry,” he says taking the towel from my hand. A few minutes later, the kitchen is clean.
“Well,” I look him directly in the eye. “I have some work to do. Thanks for the dinner company.” I grab a Diet Coke out of the fridge and make my way out of the kitchen.
“I think it’s customary to ask permission before you take someone’s things. I don’t take kindly to people taking what belongs to me.” His eyes are dark blue again. He has one hand on the kitchen island, leaning against it with his other hand in his pocket. What is it about a man with his hand in his pocket that drives me wild?
“I’ve met your mother. I know she taught you to play well with others and share,” I challenge back, like I understand this game, when I really don’t.
He pushes off the island, moving until he is in front of me again. I lean my head back and my eyes land on his Adam’s apple. I wonder what it would taste like to take a bite of it. My nipples harden and my breath catches as I move my eyes up to his. His lips are formed into a tight line.
“This isn’t a sandbox and I am not four. Now, are you going to ask permission, or am I going to have to take back what rightfully belongs to me?” He takes a step closer, causing my nipples to brush against his chest. Though he is wearing the same clothes, his entire look has changed from mellow to maestro. I imagine this is the look he gets in acquisitions right before he goes in for the kill. He’s dominating. He knows it. I know it. This is CEO Graham. On a level I don’t want to explore, it calls to me and has me wet between my legs.
“I expect an answer,” he prompts. When I still don’t answer, his tone grows more demanding. “Emelia.”
“May I…” I pause.
“Good girl,” he says, his eyes softening in victory.
“…get you to hold this?” I ask in my sweetest southern
voice as I place my Diet Coke in his hand. Then without taking my eyes off his. I slowly unbutton his shirt and slide it off my shoulders dropping it to the ground, leaving it where it falls. His eyes slowly leave mine and electrify when they land on my breasts. My nipples harden immediately in response. I take back my drink, turn, and walk back upstairs. Two can play this game, asshole. Mentally, I put a tick mark in the win column for me, grinning because I already have another one of his shirts in my room.
Buttoning the other shirt, I’m not sure if I’m surprised or disappointed that he didn’t follow me. I know I have just poked the hornet’s nest.
Already tired of this game, I set my laptop on my desk and grab my folders. I have a lot of work to do in the next couple of days, which is why I came up early. Snagging glasses out of my purse, I put on some music and get started. It’s dark out, but the lightning from the approaching storm highlights the balcony outside the windows. I can hear the ocean from here. Between that, Van Morrison and Mumford and Sons, I relax and start plowing through the grant. I’m just about to submit it when the power kicks out. It’s pitch back. Unsettling. I’m feeling around for my phone when a familiar feeling hits me. He’s here.
“The generator will kick on in just a minute.” His voice is coming from the vicinity of the bedroom door.
“Thank you,” I say, grateful. I don’t love the dark.
As predicted, a minute later the generator kicks on. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust to the light
“Oh, no. Whew. Okay, thank goodness.” I go from frustration to elation aloud. “I thought I had lost all the work I just did,” I follow with an explanation. Taking my glasses off while standing to stretch, I catch the approbation in his eyes when he sees I am wearing another of his shirts. A smile that he doesn’t try to hide shows his approval, and I flower a little under his respect.
Returning his smile with my best and brightest, he laughs and shakes his head conceding I won that round. “Want a snack?” I ask him making my way to the door.