by Carla Ryan
"You asked me to come."
"To talk," you say, standing by the couch.
"You don't want to talk," Marigold scoffs. She comes out from behind the kitchen counter and starts towards you, hotter than a lingerie model on the catwalk. "You want this."
Your skin tingles with the need for her touch, but you stand your ground -- by running to the other side of the couch.
"No, I want more than this," you say. "I want you to forgive me. I want you to be my girlfriend. Is that what you want?"
"I do want that," she says, coming up beside you.
Any joy you might have felt at her words is tempered by the frown she's wearing as she says them. She studies you, narrowing her eyes and scrunching up her mouth. While her desire appears to have vanished within the last thirty seconds, seeing her make such a cute face only serves to get yours ramped up again.
"I do want that," she repeats, her words beginning to slur together, "but ida knowfi can trustchoo. Can I trustchoo?"
"Yes," you say firmly, but she shakes her head.
"I just don't know." She taps your nose, then moves away from you. Opening the bathroom door, she gives you a prime viewing of her derriere as she peers in, then closes it again.
"Then I was over Gus's house," she continues, "and they said I could help myself to food — human food, not the cat’s food!” She glares back at you as if you had suggested such a thing. “Then I found a bottle of champagne waaaay up in the cabinet." She opens the next door. "Oh! I found it!" she says giddily, disappearing into your bedroom.
Warily you peek in and see her taking off her bra. She's not even looking at you though, and it's more like she's getting ready for bed than trying to turn you on. Whether she's trying to or not, however, is irrelevant, and you linger for a second longer than you should before spinning around and leaning against the wall.
"And then you came here?" you ask, sliding down to sit on the floor.
"I did!" You hear your sheets rustle and risk another peek. She's now in your bed, her panties on the floor beside her bra. You shut your eyes and turn around again, fighting the urge to crawl in there and have your way with the beautiful woman of your dreams who is literally in your bed naked!
“The bottle was all dusty and lonely," she says, yawning. "I only had a couple mugs full, and then I had an apiprasy... I mean an apospany... I mean..."
"An epiphany?"
"No, the thought thing, where you think of the thing?"
"An epiphany," you repeat, the fire in your blood slowly dying out.
"No!" she giggles. "That's the other thing!" Her laughter swells into hysterics, and you can't help but join in. The tension within you falls away with every chuckle, until you finally trust yourself to sit on the edge of the bed.
"What did you think of?" you ask, smiling at her curled up on your pillow.
"I thought," she says, closing her eyes, "that if we had sex again -- but real in the bed sex -- and you stayed, that then I'd know I could trustchoo."
A sudden sadness washes over you. In your letter, you told Marigold that you weren't sorry for what you did because it brought you two together, and led you to where you needed to be to want a real relationship with her. But now you wish you'd never come out here. All of this emotional growth you're so proud of was at Marigold's expense. She's had so much pain and deception in her life, and you can't stand the thought that you added to it.
Lying down beside her, you stare at her beautiful, peaceful face, and your eyes fill with tears.
"I'm so sorry," you say, your voice cracking.
"That's 'kay," she says without opening her eyes. She yawns again. "Can we do it now?"
Smiling, you kiss her forehead. "Not tonight."
"Mkay," she whispers, nearly asleep already.
You watch her until her breathing is slow and even, and then go to the kitchen, returning with her dress and a tall glass of water. Leaving her other discarded clothing where it is, you put the dress on the foot of the bed and the drink on the nightstand, then grab the pajamas you were wearing earlier. After guzzling your own water, you brush your teeth and lay a sheet out on the couch.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Honking seagulls wake you up the next morning around sunrise. You shut the windows and try to go back to sleep, but your brain is already wide awake and swirling with questions. Is Marigold still here? Does she remember any of last night? Will she stay?
The first one is easily answered. You crack the bedroom door open and see her splayed out nearly diagonal across the mattress. If you two do ever share a bed, you're in for some rough nights.
The other two will have to wait. After washing the taste of wine out of your mouth, you brew some coffee while cleaning up the remains of last night. Marigold's still not up yet, so you get out your laptop and do some work on the couch, trying to distract yourself from the fact that the arbiter of your future is sleeping in the next room.
You're on your second cup when you hear the bedroom door creak open. But when you start to turn around, it shuts again.
"Marigold?" you call, getting up. "Are you alright?"
The door slowly opens again. Shielding her eyes, she comes out, wearing her dress and a scowl. "Where's the bathroom?" she asks, her voice hoarse and scratchy.
"Next door over," you say softly, trying not to smile at how adorable she is with her hair all fuzzy from sleep.
With her eyes almost completely covered, she runs one hand along the wall to find her way.
"Can I make you some breakfast?" you ask.
She mumbles something in reply, but you can't make it out before she disappears into the bathroom. Some people swear by a protein-heavy breakfast to cure a hangover, and others go for nothing but liquids. You've always been in the first camp, and since you've been waiting all morning to eat with her, you're starving. Chef's choice it is then.
Of course, you're not much of a chef, but your scrambled eggs are palatable, so you get to work cracking shells and searching for the right kind of spatula. The timing works out perfectly, with Marigold shutting the water off right as breakfast is about ready. When she steps tentatively into the living room, towel drying her wet hair, she looks surprised to see you behind the stove.
"I couldn't understand what you said before," you say. "Do you want some eggs?"
"I said..." She trails off, staying by the bathroom door as she watches you serve breakfast from across the room.
"Don't let them get cold," you say, doing your best to keep the nervousness out of your voice. She looks so uncertain, so awkward, like she'd gladly run out the door if you turned your back.
"Maybe just some tea," she says, hanging up the towel.
"Tea?" You glance back at the cabinets. "I think I remember seeing tea somewhere in here. I'm more of a coffee drinker -- although I've been meaning to switch. Everyone keeps saying tea is better for you."
She starts searching the cabinets. You put the kettle on the already hot burner, then take a seat at the kitchen island, leaving her eggs on a separate plate in case she changes her mind.
"Whoa." She gives a small chuckle when she finds your peanut butter shelf, but then instantly winces, bringing a hand to her temple. "There have to be at least ten jars in here."
"I bought most of those here," you say, starting your breakfast. "A couple of them are pretty good."
Closing it with a soft smile, she keeps searching, eventually finding a small tin full of tea bags in a drawer by the fridge. "Cups?"
"I know where those are," you say, pointing to the correct shelf.
You've never wanted a woman in your house, never wanted to let anyone into your personal space. Now, watching her in your kitchen, you're surprised at how nice it is. With her here, you feel more at home than you ever have in your Boston townhouse.
She sets the cup down and leans over, resting her head on her arms and letting out a long breath.
"How are you feeling?"
"Like an idiot," she says to the floor
.
"You're not even remotely close to an idiot," you say, taking a bite. "That's my wheelhouse."
With a faint laugh she smiles up at you, looking far more beautiful than a person with a hangover should be allowed to look.
"Your wheelhouse, huh?" she asks.
"Oh yeah. Big time."
There's something you need to say. You've known since last night that it's the right thing to do, but even though now is the perfect time to say it, your mouth won't form the words. Just because you need to say it, doesn't mean you want to.
The humor in her eyes goes dim, and she glances down at her wrist, which is no longer bare. There was too much going on last night for you to notice, but the copper key charm is back where it belongs, on a new matching copper bracelet.
"Thank you for finding my key," she says. "Where was it?"
The teapot starts whistling, so you wait for her to pour her tea before answering.
"I was visiting the warehouse on Tuesday and saw the Spare bin in the office," you explain. "It was empty, and I realized your bracelet might have fallen in there when we..." The memory of that day stirs a flame low in your stomach, but you take a drink of water to snuff it out. "...when we were in there. I checked the tracking and found it at an artist's studio in the Berkshires. I called and told him what happened, and luckily he hadn't used it yet. I drove out the next day and picked it up."
She lifts her wrist and holds it with her other hand, running her thumb back and forth over the band.
"The wire is upcycled piano string," you add. "It should last a long time."
"Really?" Her face lights up as she takes in the coiled copper wire with renewed appreciation. When she looks back up at you though, the excitement fades. "Thank you for doing that."
"I know how much it means to you."
With a slight shake of her head, she says, "You don't, actually."
Huh?
She picks up her cup and sits on the couch, blowing on her steaming tea.
"When my mom married Tristao, it was like a fairy tale. We moved into a mansion, there were maids and cooks, and I had an entire room full of toys. Anything I wanted, I could have."
You take the last bite of your eggs and start tidying up the kitchen as she continues.
"Within a couple years, I noticed my mom acting differently. It was little things at first, like not saying thank you to the staff, or wearing more makeup than usual. Then she started skipping my spelling bees and piano recitals, saying that she couldn't miss her friends' parties or else they wouldn't invite her anymore. Instead of spending time with me she would buy me things, things I didn't even want, like expensive jewelry or fancy clothes. She bought me a car for my fifteenth birthday -- I couldn't even drive yet -- and it was the head maid who handed me the key. Dad was away for business, but at least he called me, and Mom was on a spiritual retreat with a bunch of the other rich moms. No phones allowed."
"I hope you took it for a spin and crashed it into the front gate," you say, drying your hands.
A ghost of a smile briefly warms her eyes. "I gave it to one of the housekeepers." She looks back down at the bracelet. "Wealth turned my mom into a vain, selfish person, and it only got worse after she became sick. This reminds me of what she used to be like, and how close we once were."
She blows on her tea again, taking a cautious sip before saying, "Money changes people." Looking up at you, she adds, "And people change when they're with someone who has it."
"Believe it or not," you say, joining her in the living room, "I know exactly what you mean." You start to sit on the couch, but think better of it and drop into the recliner instead. "Have you met my mom?"
"Once. I met her and my dad for lunch when she was out here. I didn't know she was your mom at the time though."
"Did you know that she's worth more than $200 million?”
Her eyes widen as she sets her cup down. "No I did not."
"She used to be a rough and tumble Southie girl. When my dad left, money got really tight, and she became a hard core gold digger, dating snobby finance guys, restaurant owners, anyone with cash to burn. She changed the way she talked, the way she dressed, all to snag a rich husband and then get half his fortune in divorce."
"And now she's marrying my father," Marigold says.
"It's different with Tristao, or at least she says it is. She said that's why they're not getting officially married, to leave the money out of it." You wave your mom’s love life away, banishing it back to the soap opera it belongs in. "But that's not my point. My point is that because of her, I spent my whole life paranoid that any woman who was interested in me was only interested in my money. That's part of why I don't like people at my house."
It's starting to feel stuffy in here with all the windows closed. You get up to open them, then lean against the wall, letting the breeze cool the back of your neck.
"What's the other part?" Marigold asks, getting up and moving beside you. She puts a hand against the screen and watches the waves. The wind starts playing with her hair, and she's so stunningly gorgeous that you know you can't wait another second. If you don't say it now, you never will.
"I'm so sorry," you say.
Her gray eyes turn to you, full of surprise.
"I know I said I'm not," you continue, "but I am. I'm sorry I hurt you, I'm sorry I lied, I'm sorry I couldn't figure out what I wanted until it was too late, and I'm sorry I wasted your time. You deserve so much better, and I hope --" You turn towards the ocean, unable to look at her beautiful face when you say, "I hope you find it."
You wait for her to leave, holding your breath, holding in your tears. She's probably been waiting for the right moment to escape, and now she has it. She'll walk out that door and --
"I have found it."
Uh... what?
Marigold touches your cheek with the back of her hand, gazing at you with a sweet smile.
"But you can't trust me," you say, warmth stirring in your chest. "There's no way to know for sure."
"After last night," she says, laughing at herself, "I'm pretty sure."
"How much of that do you remember?"
She closes her eyes and shakes her head. "Enough to know that I threw myself at you, and you took the high road. If you only wanted sex, that was your shot."
"Well," you say, daring a smile, "hopefully it wasn't my only shot."
She laughs again and puts her arms around your neck.
Is this for real? Is she seriously staying?
"So this means you forgive me?" you ask, needing to hear it to believe it.
Her smiling lips close in on yours. Your body buzzes from head to toe as you taste her delicious mouth.
"I forgive you," she says, her lips grazing against yours.
That's all you needed to hear.
Pressing against her, you close the space between you. Her hands slide into your hair, but as your lips begin to trace a path down her throat, you remember your promise to let her set the pace. Just because she's forgiven you doesn't mean she's automatically going to sleep with you.
"Sorry," you say, meeting her hungry gaze. "I didn't mean... if you don't want to --"
"I want to," she says hastily, "right now," and then her mouth is on you again.
With the last obstacle removed, you set your raging desire free, kissing her with the hot passion that's been fighting to be released since the moment you saw her. Ravenous, you slip your hands under her dress, one sliding around back and one between her thighs. When you squeeze both at the same time, she hisses with pleasure.
Locked in a tight embrace, you make your way to the bedroom, tearing off clothes until nothing comes between your skin and hers. She lies down on your bed, already running her hands over her divine body as you get your favorite double-ended toy. You're so wet that it glides inside you effortlessly.
"You never told me you have a purple dick,” Marigold says, giggling.
The sound makes the warmth in your chest burst apart like a firewo
rk, spreading into every fiber of your being, filling you with a joy you've never known
"Are there any other secrets in your closet I should know about?" she teases.
Smiling, you crawl on top of her. When your purple toy plunges into her, the amusement is swept from her face as a shockwave of pleasure rams through you both.
"I'm full of surprises," you whisper, thrusting into her again.
Marigold kisses and nips every part of you that she can reach with her luscious, perfect mouth. Gasps and groans fill the room, and in minutes the tension swelling in your pounding lips is near the boiling point. Deep within, the steam begins to build. You start rubbing, the exquisite friction drawing it forward. Marigold smiles and does the same, and the sight of her trembling and hissing in pleasure pushes you over the edge. Searing hot steam bursts forth, rocking your body with powerful spasms of ecstasy.
In the same moment, Marigold's face contorts in rapture. Arching her back, she calls out your name, setting loose the second wave of bliss before you have a chance to catch your breath from the first. You cry out, overwhelmed not only by the eruptions of pleasure, but by the staggering intensity of emotions that are surging through you.
You're not sure if Marigold has come twice yet, but breathless and dizzy, you have to stop. Falling on your elbows, you rest your head on her chest, listening as her racing heart begins to slow.
"You weren't kidding," she says, tracing your spine with her fingernail. Tremors of desire pulse between your thighs at her touch. You kiss her breast. "About what?"
Rocking her hips slowly, she bites her lip and quivers from an aftershock. "It really would have been one of the best nights of my life, wouldn't it?"
"I tried to tell you," you say, circling her nipple with your tongue.
Suddenly her body goes still. You get up on your hands to see her looking up at you with a strange expression.
"Do you realize that after our parents get joined,” she makes air quotes around the word, “we’ll be —”
“I beg you not to finish that sentence,” you say, cutting her off. Wincing, you add, “Can we promise never to speak, or even think, of that again?"