by Grey, R. S.
He stands and takes two steps away from the bed. Towering over me as I lie on the sheets, perfectly exposed. My skin is on fire from his kerosene-soaked caresses. He stares, as self-assured as ever, while he tugs off his belt and unbuttons his pants. Dark boxer briefs are tugged low and my lips part before I wet my lips.
“Do you have a condom?” I ask, my voice pitched with need. “If not, I’ll call down to the concierge and demand one. Do they keep that sort of thing behind the desk?”
I’m already reaching for the phone when he tells me he has one in his suitcase. I turn, looking over my shoulder as he retrieves it and tears it open with confident ease, unrolling it while I stare.
I think my role in this scene is supposed to be Girl Waiting Patiently on Bed, but I can’t wait. I stand up and walk toward him, pushing him gently back toward the wall. He smiles and accepts my eager kiss before spinning us around, caging me in. The wallpaper is smooth as he hoists me up, guiding my legs around his waist.
“Here?” he asks, brushing his hand between my legs so he can taunt me with soft circles.
“Anywhere,” I tell him, sounding frenzied. “The wall. The floor. The bed. Just—”
That sentence is cut off sharply when he angles himself between us and pushes inside me in one hard thrust.
“Big,” is the word I choose to say.
It hangs between us and he actually laughs.
LAUGHS.
Then he pulls out of me slowly and thrusts back in again just as hard. Again. Our hips meet and I emit the most pitiful cry of “I’m dying.”
He covers me with kisses, finds my mouth, and keep us together as he moves inside me, doing the work. Every thrust keeps me pinned against the wall. Every little brush of his thumb sends me full-force toward the edge of existence.
He knows it. He knows how to grind against me, over and over, harder and harder and I’m telling him I love him. I don’t know when I started. It might have just been in my head at first, but it’s repeated over and over again until it comes to life between us, the words sealing us together.
“I love you,” I say again, right before my eyes pinch closed and my toes curl. My thighs grip his and my heels dig into his back and I’m lost to the waves racking through me.
“Whitney,” he moans, sounding as if he’s in pain.
I’m killing him. I am. He’s pumping so hard and his face is buried deep in my neck. His sweat clings to me and then I feel him come too. It’s so all-consuming I fear we’ve lost ourselves in it. We don’t exist anymore. At least not the way we did before tonight.
I kiss his cheek as he catches his breath. I comfort him like he’s comforted me so much this evening. My arms cling to his neck, and without a word, he carries us into the bathroom and turns on the shower. I’m set down on the bench and he leans over me, hands resting on either side of my hips.
Our eyes are at the same level when he blinks those brown eyes and tells me simply, “I love you too.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Derek
I consider asking Whitney to marry me while we split the chocolate milkshake room service delivered after our shower. I’m tempted to just blurt it out with no preamble. No ring. A casual inquiry into whether or not she’d enjoy spending the rest of her life as my wife. Till death do us part. The urge intensifies when she leans over and steals a bite of the burger I have poised in front of my mouth. She’s greedy about it, taking too much and smiling mischievously while she wipes the ketchup from her lips.
Marry me, will you?
I nearly ask the question again later, in the middle of the night, when I wake up and scoot down the bed, tugging her t-shirt up and over her stomach so I can press kisses up her thighs, barely visible in the dark.
I spread them and she laughs and says, “What a way to wake up,” as my head dips between her legs.
I hold Whitney’s hand in mine on the way to her parents’ apartment in the morning. I look down at her ring finger and try to imagine what size she wears. 2? 10? I have no idea. I’ve never gifted a ring to a significant other.
I make a mental note to ask Carrie.
“Could you pull over right here?” Whitney asks suddenly.
She has the tone and sheer-panicked look of someone who’s about to be sick. Once the car has swerved over to the curb, she leaps out, tells the hired driver to give her “ten seconds”, and disappears into a donut shop.
I know she’s nervous to confront her parents, and I wouldn’t put it past her to bolt like she did last night. When her ten seconds have passed and then some, the driver looks back at me as if I’ll have answers for him.
She’s a mystery to me too, man. Sorry.
That’s when Whitney finally emerges again, carrying an unmarked white pastry box. I assumed she was running for the bakery’s restroom, but it appears she was buying a peace offering in the form of fried dough.
She slides back into the car and we all inhale deeply. That smell should be bottled up and sold.
“Thanks for waiting for me,” she tells the driver. “Want one?”
A few minutes later, we pull up outside her parents’ building and the driver waves us off with his half-eaten bear claw, assuring us he’ll wait right here for us to return.
We take the stairs slowly. She stops multiple times, turns around, takes a half-flight back down, mutters to herself that this is a stupid idea, suggests we leave the donuts outside a random apartment and leave.
“Like this nice lady. Look, she keeps a vase of flowers by her door. I bet she likes donut holes.”
I catch up to her, spin her in the right direction, and nudge her forward.
“If nothing else, you need to get your luggage,” I point out.
“Do I? Because you said we’re flying first class on the way home and I’m pretty sure they give you those little slippers and a robe.”
“Only for international flights.”
“Crap. No slippers?”
She seems really upset about it.
“But we’ll get other complimentary stuff, right?” she prods as I half-push, half-carry her up the stairs. “A warm hand towel?”
“Maybe.”
“Real snacks? Not just peanuts?”
“It’s usually one step above peanuts.”
“So…walnuts?” Her eyes light up with an idea. “Wait. Let’s tell the flight attendants it’s our honeymoon! We’re newlyweds! That’s when you get the really good stuff.”
I nearly choke, wondering if I’ve somehow broadcast what’s been on my mind all night and all morning. Did I accidentally mutter a proposal when I was zoned out in the cab?
“Whatever you want,” I say, appeasing her right as we arrive on her parents’ doorstep. “But you have to do this first.”
It’s important that we’re here. Last night, Whitney dumped two decades’ worth of baggage on her parents, and they deserve to have a turn to speak and make amends. If that’s not what they intend on doing, I’ll assure her it’s fine.
I’m her family now.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Whitney
Derek knocks with a heavy fist before I can chicken out.
Dishes clatter in the kitchen and then my mother’s voice calls out from the other side of the door.
“Just a minute,” she says quickly, the deadbolt rattling.
My heart is liable to explode. I’m sweating, though maybe that’s just from the box of warm donuts I’m cradling against my chest.
The door opens, and I hold my breath, knowing this is the moment that matters. My parents either listened and took to heart what I said last night or they didn’t. Either they’re willing to make a change, or this conversation is DOA.
My mom sees Derek first and her brows shoot up in surprise. She offers him a brief smile before turning to look at me standing there beside him. For two seconds, neither of us moves. Then her gaze flits to my chest and she shuffles on her feet, adjusting her grip on the door.
“I’m here to get my l
uggage,” I say quickly, guarding myself against the worst possible scenario. “And to drop these off.”
I hold out the donuts and her forehead wrinkles in distress. “You’ll come in for a second though, won’t you? Or do you need to get to the airport right away?”
I tell her I can stay for a little while.
“Good. Come in. Come in and we can talk for a second. I think there are a few things that need to be said.”
Derek says he’ll wait for me down on the street and tells my mother it was nice to see her again. I’m glad he’s not coming in. The next few minutes will be hard enough without an audience.
Dad is sitting on the couch with his coffee, and though he’s already showered and dressed for the day, he looks like hell. Dark circles sag under his eyes and when he sees me, he only offers a small pleading smile, like he’s not quite sure how I’ll react to him.
I want to go straight to him and give him a hug, but I hover near the door, waiting. My mom isn’t sure what to do with the donuts. She holds the box in her hands. My dad clears his throat, looks into his coffee for advice, and then chances a quick glance over at me. It breaks my heart to see them like this.
I never wanted to hurt them, and I think that’s why it took me so long to gather the courage to speak up and ask for what I needed.
My mom eventually sets the donuts on the counter and then walks into the living room, flattening a hand over her hair and then her dress. She turns to look at me and speaks suddenly.
“I don’t really know how to start,” she says, frowning at the ground in front of my feet. “I know you don’t have long, so maybe we should just cut to the chase? Yes?”
She looks to my dad for backup and he nods.
“Whitney,” she continues with a weak voice. “I want you to know that your dad and I are sorry for how we’ve handled things. After what you said last night…well, we got to talking and we realize we messed up—” She looks away and takes a deep breath, trying to steady herself. When she turns back, there are tears brimming in her eyes. “Your dad and I, we love you very much, and we’ve done a poor job of showing you that sometimes. You were always our easy child—good grades, never got in any trouble when you were growing up—and I think, in some ways, we took you for granted.”
Pretty soon, there’s not a dry eye in the room.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, when I return to the sidewalk, tears drying on my cheeks, I feel a hundred pounds lighter. Like if I’m not careful, I might just float away on a breeze. Derek’s leaning against the brick wall beside the door, and when he sees me, he straightens up and pockets his phone.
Without a word, he walks straight for me, takes my luggage out of my hand, and hugs me. His hugs are my favorite thing about him. More than his kisses. More than anything we did in that hotel room last night. His body eclipses me and it’s as if I’ve just slipped behind an impenetrable shield. The world can’t hurt me as long as he’s there.
“Everything good?” he asks hesitantly.
“Better than good. They’re going to come down next month for a visit. Just a short weekend trip, but they want to see the park and get to know you a little better too.”
He nods and leads me toward the street, where our driver is still waiting.
* * *
In our terminal, while we wait for our flight to take off, I search the toy section of a store and find one of those machines that eats quarters and spits out junk in return—temporary tattoos, plastic kazoos, Chinese finger traps. I have to feed it over eight dollars before I finally manage to secure two plastic rings. One has a large diamond, the other a princess cut emerald.
I distribute the excess tchotchkes to two excited kids lingering near me whose parents are less than thrilled with their kazoo-filled future. Mom! Listen! Then, I walk back to where Derek is sitting at the gate with his laptop out, catching up on work. For a second, before he sees me, I admire him as if he were a stranger. I’m not the only one. I pass two curly-haired women, well into their 80s, who are talking about him in near shouts.
“Sheryl, you weren’t kidding. He’s a dead ringer for that actor we used to love. What’s his name?”
“Oh who cares. Just let me admire him while I can. And turn your hearing aid down—it’s ringing again.”
Derek glances up and sees me, unleashing a smile that devastates us all.
“Oh, she must be the girlfriend,” one of them says.
“Isn’t she lucky,” the other agrees. “Lord, if I were forty years younger…”
I’m still grinning at this exchange by the time I reach Derek.
He asks why I’m so happy. I kiss his cheek then nod my head toward the two women.
“They were talking about you.”
He arches a brow. “Think I have a shot? The one on the right is cute. I like her cat shirt.”
“Should I excuse myself?”
He shakes his head as if coming out of a stupor. “Oh, you’re still here?”
“Yeah, now focus because I need to propose to you so I can get free stuff on this flight.”
He looks heavenward. “It’s like you’ve never left the house before.”
“What?! This is first class we’re talking about. Excuse me, but I grew up poor, so just let me have this.”
I retrieve the rings from my jeans pocket and hold them out to him.
He stares at them almost as if they’re real. In fact, he stares so long, unflinching, that I feel compelled to tell him they were twenty-five cents apiece. Don’t get excited.
Eventually, he reaches for the emerald one. “Think it’ll fit me?”
He tries it on his ring finger, but it doesn’t make it past his knuckle. He tries his pinky next and even that’s a stretch. He leaves it on then nods for me to don mine.
It’s a little tight, but I push it onto my ring finger.
Derek is visibly impressed. “Aren’t these meant for kids? How does that fit you?”
I shrug. “I have small hands.”
“What’s your ring size?”
“Not sure. Now listen, when they ask us about our wedding, you need to act really enthusiastic.”
Spoiler: he doesn’t. Later, after I gush to the flight attendant about our recent nuptials and honeymoon in the Big Apple, Derek looks up from his laptop and says, deadpan, “I don’t even know this woman.”
When the attendant walks away, I swat him with the safety trifold I wrench from my seatback pocket.
“Are you serious? We could have gotten free snacks!”
He’s smirking. Clearly, he thinks he’s funny. I ignore him, push up on my knees, and survey the aisle for the flight attendant. “Okay now, when she comes back, I need you to feign amnesia. Tell her you remember me now and—”
My sentence cuts off when Derek sighs and holds up his hand. A new flight attendant swoops down on us within seconds. I nearly shriek. One second, the aisle’s empty. The next, she’s there—like a hawk.
“Yes, sir? How can I help you?”
She’s all smiles and I think, Wow. No more economy slop for me. Only first-class luxury from here on out.
“I think my wife would like to order something.”
He’s joking and yet my body thrums with energy hearing him refer to me that way.
“Can I ask, what’s the fanciest thing you have to eat on this flight?” I lean over, halfway covering Derek’s lap. “Like if Bill Gates were here, what would he eat?”
Her brows knit together. “Oh, um…we serve Beluga caviar—”
I do a poor job of quelling a gag. Then I aim a careful smile her way.
“How about cake?” I suggest.
“Cake?” She’s confused. “We have a flourless torte with a layer of chocolate mousse and whipped cream.”
“Yes.” I snap my fingers. Torte is just fancy cake. “That. I want that. Please.”
It’s 9:45 AM, mind you. When Derek points this out to me, I ignore him.
“Also, congratulations on your f
irst flight with us, Ms. Atwood,” the flight attendant says with a wide smile. “The cake is a gift from all of us here in first class.”
Derek doesn’t even look in my direction as she walks away. He doesn’t need to. My smirk has a 50-foot radius. I have a gloating aura that permeates the air between us. While I wait for my delicacy to be served to me on a gilded tray, I crack open my paperback. He types on his laptop. When they arrive with the cake, he has no choice but to help hand it over to me. When our eyes lock, I can tell he’s fighting amusement. With every lick of that chocolate torte lathered with mousse and dripping with whipped cream, he tries hard to focus on his work.
I only let him have two bites.
The rest is mine. I earned it.
When we land, Derek tells me Cal wants us to meet him for a late lunch.
“Are you up for it or do you want me to drop you off?” he asks.
“No, let’s go.”
I have things to discuss with the two of them.
I was productive on the flight home. After I finished my cake, I used a cocktail napkin slightly smeared with whipped cream to map out my five-year plan. The one Derek is waiting for.
It reads as follows:
Have a kickass job
Married ??
Start a family ?!
Save lots of $$$ for retirement (okay…at least one $)
On that ^ note…learn the difference between a 401k and a SEP-IRA. Same thing??
“No, they aren’t,” Derek said casually during the flight.
“What?! Stop! This is private.” I turned my shoulder to block him from reading the rest of the list.
Floss regularly!
Build a better relationship with my parents
Learn how to change a tire
At lunch, I decide it’s best not to show Derek and Cal the actual list, but Derek insists on seeing it.
“Hand it over.”
I hold it just out of his reach. “No. Really, it’s—”
Yank.