He glances at Mel, as though looking for an answer to an unspoken question. Then, turning back to the rest of us. “So yeah, I’d have embarrassed myself many times over if that’s what it took to get her to notice me. She’s still the most astounding woman I’ve ever met.”
“Here, here,” I add, lifting my glass in a toast to Mel.
The expression on Jamie’s face as he looks at his wife is pure love. And for a brief moment, my two closest friends share a silent conversation that feels as if it’s the only one tonight that’s mattered.
I glance at Sarah and smile, and she squeezes my hand under the table. I wonder how many times she’s seen that same look on my face, and recognized it for what it was. So many times I’ve wanted to tell her. So many times. Ironically, it’s always been the overwhelming truth of it that holds me back.
§
At about 9:00, the boys head off to bed. Jamie wants to show Sarah his music studio, so Mel and I follow along.
The studio is pretty decked out with a wide variety of Jamie’s instruments, recording equipment, and comfortable, distressed leather sofas. He might very well agree that his greatest extravagance is the collection of guitars, lined up on the back wall. He says that every one has its own set of songs. In fact, he still has the first guitar he ever owned.
Still, his pride and joy is the Fazioli piano. He’s very competent on it. And most of his songs were written on that piano. I’m certainly no expert on musical instruments, but even to my untrained eye, it’s quite something.
And judging by Sarah’s reaction, she thinks so, too. Her eyes are as big as saucers, and her mouth falls open slightly as she walks over to the enormous instrument.
“Go ahead. Give her a try.”
Carefully, she sits down at it, and, almost reverently, lays her fingers over the black and white keys. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so magnificent.”
Gently, she presses one, releasing a soft, sweet sound. She looks up at Jamie and smiles widely.
“Come on, now, don’t be gentle about it,” he encourages.
She doesn’t need much more prompting than that, and launches into one of Cadence’s early hits–a big piano-driven rock ballad that Jamie wrote for Mel. Jamie laughs appreciatively when he hears the first few chords. It must be such a trip for a musician to have someone else play his own song back to him. It’s hard to imagine what that feels like.
She moves from the chorus of that song right into a classical piece. Her fingers are flying over the keys by this point. I recognize the melody, but wouldn’t be able to name the song for the life of me. What I realize most, though, is that Sarah’s good. Very good. I had no idea.
Jamie looks over at me, and raises his eyebrows as if to say, ‘Really??’ I just shrug my shoulders back in amazement.
I study her–the way she leans into the piece, the way her hands seem almost connected to the instrument, as though it’s compelling her. She looks so at ease in front of that piano. And so happy.
Bumping my elbow with hers, and reminding me that she’s still standing there beside me, Mel whispers quietly, “I like her.”
That small statement holds a lot of meaning for me. I know Jamie likes Sarah. Of course he would–she’s an absolute sweetheart, and she’s into everything he’s into. But most importantly, Jamie likes her because I do. For him, it’s always been that simple. He doesn’t question it; he doesn’t need to know anything more.
He never asks for details; he just stands by me, no matter what. One hundred percent unconditional support. It’s one of the best things about him.
But Mel is a different story. Maybe it’s the lawyer in her, or maybe it’s the mother in her, but she is much more contemplative. Mel listens and analyzes; she wants to understand things and come to reasonable, logical decisions. She’s protective of me, and I know she’s spent a lot of time tonight watching Sarah and I together.
Her endorsement is carefully considered.
“Me, too,” I respond.
She sees the understatement in my answer, and smiles at me, nodding her head. I put my arm around her, and pull her in close, feeling fortunate, once again, for the family I chose.
Chapter 11
Sarah
“DID YOU HAVE A GOOD time tonight?” Danny asks me, as we make the short drive back to his place.
“It was great. They’re such a nice family. Surprisingly down to earth, considering the band’s success.”
“Yeah. Jamie didn’t come from much. His family was pretty messed up, so he appreciates where he’s at now.”
“I’d say where he’s at now is impressive.” One glance out the window to the row of impeccably manicured homes underscores my assessment. “Didn’t Steve Jobs live in this neighborhood?”
Danny smiles. “Yes. Pretty close by. When we were kids, Jamie and I used to take the train up to go trick-or-treating around here. We always thought the people who lived in these homes had the world by the balls. I actually think that’s why Jamie bought that house when he could finally afford it; I think for him that was the mark of making it.”
“You said Jamie spent a lot of time at your house growing up–was he close to your parents?”
“My mom, yes. She made it a personal mission to fatten him up.”
“And your dad?”
He shrugs. “It wasn’t that easy to be close to my dad.”
“Why?”
The headlight of a passing car moves across his face, giving sudden definition to his angular jaw and cheekbone. He just shrugs again, keeping his eyes on the road.
“Were you close to your dad?”
I can probably guess the answer, considering the way he all but shuts down when the subject comes up. He doesn’t respond right away, and at last turns to glance at me briefly.
“Our relationship was complicated.”
This has been such a great evening, and I don’t want to ruin it by prying into an area he doesn’t seem to want to talk about. But I want to know him better, and I need to understand this part of him in order to do that. When I push him, Danny’s always forthcoming about things. The problem is that there is so much he doesn’t tell me. It’s the one thing about us that I wish I could change.
So I wait. Expectantly. He knows I’m not going to let it go this time. And in our silent standoff, he finally gives in.
“My dad just didn’t approve of me.”
“How is that possible?”
He shrugs defensively. “It’s possible.”
“What does that mean?”
“There’s nothing to tell, Sarah. I just wasn’t what he wanted. That’s it. End of story.” He fires an icy glance at me that seriously takes me aback. Then he changes the subject, as well as his entire demeanor, with expert and calculated abruptness. “So, can you stay tonight?”
“Um, yeah, I can,” I press out, reeling from the whiplash of our conversation.
“Good. Because I have plans for you.” There’s a wolfish gleam in his eye as he reaches out and runs his fingertips up the inside of my bare thigh.
I know in my head that this is textbook distraction. I’ve employed it countless times, myself, over the years to avoid emotional intimacy. And yet, even recognizing it for what it is, I’m still powerless to fight it. His pull over me is that acute. And he knows it.
He runs his tongue over his lower lip as he drags my left leg apart from my right, giving him all the access he needs to effectively shut down my brain. I feel the cool air rush up between my legs–the feeling is astonishingly sexual.
“That’s right. Look at you.” His fingers reach their destination, and the wetness there betrays any weak attempt on my part to regain control of the situation. I close my eyes to try to stave off the ache in my belly. But instead, it just heightens the awareness of his touch. His thumb skates over the elastic waistband, finally pushing it down, and finding my aching clit. I moan and sink lower in my seat, as my legs spread wider.
Oh, God, this man is my weakness.
“Show me what you need,” he coaxes, like the devil himself. “Take my hand and show me.”
Looking up, I meet his ardent gaze.
I’ve spent a fair amount of time thinking about why Danny’s touch is so intoxicating to me; why it is that he makes me feel adventurous in a way I never have before. And I think much of it stems from the fact that, after having spent so many years withdrawing into myself, feeling embarrassed about my home life, and doing everything I could to fly under the radar, I’m finally with someone who actually sees me.
Me.
Maybe his ability to do that comes from our common experiences, or maybe it’s just that I can’t hide from someone who, himself, is a master at deflection.
Or perhaps it’s simply because he’s so determined to see me.
Whatever the case, he’s uncovering things in me that I haven’t even yet identified, myself. And being with him lets me explore them in a way that’s liberating.
I distantly register that he’s pulled the 4Runner over, and we seem to be parked in a residential area. Still, I can’t quite make myself care.
Taking his hand, I press two fingers down the front of my lingerie, and begin to pleasure myself with his touch. He groans low and hungry in response to my wanton behavior, and I sense that he’s stroking himself over his jeans with his other hand.
I spread my legs wider, and together we spread my growing arousal over sensitive skin.
“Touch yourself. I want to see you make yourself come.”
I whimper when he takes his thumb away from my clit, so close to orgasm at this point that I’m begging for release. Who is this girl that I become when I’m with him?
“Touch yourself.” The forceful tone of his voice is a turn-on, in and of itself. I relinquish all concern over what I’m doing, and just give in to the extraordinary sensations of the moment.
“Oh, Sarah. I love watching you do that.”
I hear his reverent voice, but it feels disconnected from me–from what I’m doing. With almost no effort, I become the source of an orgasm that rips through my body with tremendous force. The climax is jarring.
In its wake, the air in the car is thick with the smell of sex.
“Suck me,” he whispers urgently. “I need to be inside you.” The look on his face is hard, lust pungent in every rapid breath.
But I need it, too. I practically dive for his cock, taking his length, and stroking him hard with my hands. There is no gentleness, no finesse, no time for teasing. He presses his head back against the headrest.
“Ah, harder.” His hands pull roughly at my hair, as he thrusts deeper into my throat.
I redouble my efforts with one, two, three strokes, and then he’s coming forcefully, and groaning loudly in relief.
His fists are still knotted in my hair, and we’re both breathing audibly as the absurdity of the situation sets in. I lean forward and kiss his lower abdomen, before rising up in my seat to collect myself.
His erection has barely slacked, and glistens from my efforts.
“Oh, Christ. I want you in my bed.”
Not taking the time to even straighten his clothes, he starts the engine, and we speed the short distance to his driveway.
§
Danny
The truth is, my original plan was to distract Sarah from her line of questioning about my father. I don’t like to talk about him. I just don’t.
But I never expected that simply running my fingers up her thigh would lead to that. I thought I’d tease her a little, we’d have some playful banter on the way home, and that I’d take her to bed once we got there. But instead, I watched her unravel before my eyes.
I swear to God, as long as I live, I will never forget the sight of her making herself come in my car. That visual is hotter than any porn I’ve ever seen; it made me insane with lust.
But that’s the effect she has on me.
Sarah seems to want to explore something reckless inside of her, to let go a little bit, and to come out from behind her usual careful control. And I’m absolutely humbled by the fact that she trusts me enough to be the person to do that with. It stirs every elemental urge of mine as a man to possess her, and to lead her–sometimes push her–beyond any restraint or limitation she’s placed on herself.
I’ve had plenty of partners in my life, but I’ve never had sex like this. Ever. With a lot of women, sex is a means to an end. They enjoy it, but there’s often something else on their agenda. With Sarah, there’s no agenda–she’s as hungry for me as I am for her. That’s wildly arousing, and it has made our chemistry explosive from the very beginning.
I pull her from the car, kissing her hungrily, as we stumble up the steps and tumble through the front door. Half-removed clothing is hanging from our tangled limbs, making our progress impossible. Screw it. We’re having sex right here on the living room floor.
I bend her over on her hands and knees, bunching her skirt above her hips from behind. She grips the rug as best she can, and I run my hands over her ass, just taking in the whole lust-filled moment.
I work my length into her, and begin thrusting, slow and steady, so that I can savor every inch of contact, every moment of pleasure. She may be the most perfect woman I’ve ever known.
If all of this ended tomorrow, I don’t think I’d ever have a partner again in my life, sexual or otherwise, who could compare with her.
I’m not sure why that pops into my head, and the thought is momentarily startling. I feel like I need to tell her.
“Sex with you is the best I’ve ever had. It’s so good, Sarah. I can’t get enough.”
That actually wasn’t at all what I meant to say–it’s not just the sex I can’t get enough of; it’s everything about her.
“Me, too, Danny,” she breathes.
I should stop and clarify, but I can’t bring myself to slow the pace. My cock is throbbing inside her; stopping is not an option.
Another groan tears from her throat, and she begins to contract around me, shattering her ability to hold herself up on her own. God, I love it when she’s like this.
I grab her by the waist, and shove deep, emptying myself inside her with a guttural grunt. Collapsing on her back, her body gives way to mine, and we lie there on the rug, desperately, gratefully spent.
§
Sarah
Fun fact #2 about Sarah: I’m a bit of a masochist. Case in point: Danny and I have moved from the rug to the big suede couch, and are lying contentedly in front of a warm fire, his arms wrapped tightly around me. It’s heaven.
For whatever reason, I begin to wonder how many girls, just like me, have been wrapped in his arms, just like this. I know about Carolyn, of course, but he hasn’t ever mentioned anyone else. This is not the right moment to ask. No one would ask that now. And yet…
“How many girlfriends have you had?” There. That doesn’t sound so bad.
He shifts uncomfortably behind me. “What do you mean by girlfriends?” he asks carefully.
Crap. Maybe it is bad. “Well, how many women have you…been with?” And I think I just made it worse…
“Do you really want me to answer that?”
No. “Yes. I mean is it like… a lot?” I don’t know where I’m going with this. No, of course I don’t want him to answer that, but I don’t seem to be able to stop myself from asking.
I feel him lift an arm off of me, and run a hand through his hair. He inhales a deep breath, as if deciding how to proceed. Then he exhales, decision made.
“For a long time I wasn’t looking for a relationship. I had a couple of girlfriends in college, a couple after college. And Carolyn, of course. But mostly I was…unattached.”
A man-whore. I get it.
“Is monogamy difficult for you?” Did I really just ask him that?
He laughs, thank God. “No. I’ve never been unfaithful when I’ve made a commitment to someone. It’s just that earlier in my life, I wasn’t much into commitments. I liked my freedom.”
>
“But Carolyn changed that.”
“Yes. But maybe not for the reasons you think.”
I’m turned away from him, unable to see his face, but I feel his hesitation before he continues.
“When I was younger, my adversity to commitment was largely rooted in just wanting to…have some fun. But after my folks died, it just became harder to open myself up to people, to allow anyone close enough to become important to me. Does that make sense?” he adds quietly.
“Yes.” I understand it completely. “Losing my dad so unexpectedly always made me feel like depending on someone else just left me open to more hurt…more loss. I guess protected myself by keeping most people at bay. I think I’m still guilty of that, really, but I’m trying to be better.”
He hugs me tightly, kissing my hair, and stroking it gently. He seems to relax, his taut muscles softening against my back.
“We’re very much alike in that way.”
We are. And sometimes it scares me.
“So, what changed for you with Carolyn?” My fingertips brush over his wrist and forearm, tracing the veins, and feeling the soft, springy hair.
“Her brother is Jamie’s publicist, and so we started hanging out a lot. Just as friends in the beginning, though I knew she had feelings for me. We were pretty close for about three years until one night when she kissed me. I was shocked; maybe I shouldn’t have been. But I couldn’t really think of a good reason not to go with it.”
He pauses as though he’s still thinking about that decision.
“Carolyn’s a beautiful woman. And she was good for me in many ways. She pushed me to take a step back from my work and renovations on my house, and to live a little more. I didn’t think I had it in me to be a very good boyfriend to anyone, but she was patient and taught me so much about being in a relationship. I owe her a lot for that.”
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