Well, one woman could. But only if he let her. And he wouldn't let her.
She thought about their previous date while she prepared a plate with treats, her own version of tapas. Initially, she'd thought that when the doorman signaled her on the intercom that Ted had arrived, she would ride the elevator down and meet up with him in the lobby-or outside, if he was leaning against the mailbox and texting someone on his BlackBerry. But then she'd remembered the way they'd talked at the wine bar, and the way they'd gazed at each other, and the way she'd felt when he'd kissed her, and she'd resolved that they were ready for the next step. The next several steps.
At least she was ready.
Ted's kiss that night, before he'd walked away, convinced her that he was ready, too.
So had the flurry of emails they'd exchanged yesterday and today. Every hour or so, she would check her phone and find another note from him, brief messages, just a few words that implied so much more than they said: he was thinking about her. As much, as often, as she was thinking about him.
She'd left work early and stopped at Whole Foods on her way home to pick up some snacks. Some cheese, some cured meat, and a tub of pitted black olives, because he'd told her he liked them.
When she'd gotten home, she'd changed into casual clothes, fixed her hair, put on some makeup-it's just Ted, she'd reminded herself, although she already knew there was nothing just about him-and scampered around the apartment, tidying the place up. There were advantages to having an apartment the size of a phone booth, she thought as she plumped the pillows on her bed, which was in full view of the kitchen alcove. No getting around that. He would walk in and see her bed.
A hot shiver skimmed the length of her spine.
It's Just Ted, she told herself again. He'd already seen her naked-back when she was a teenage girl with admirably thin legs and perky breasts and every square inch of skin dewy and taut. She shouldn't be apprehensive about his seeing her naked now, even if she was sixteen years older. She was more graceful these days, she assured herself. She knew a little bit more today than she'd known then. She would like to think she might have a better idea of what she was doing and how to please him.
If it came to that. He might stand in the doorway, announce that he had a seven-fifteen reservation somewhere and they'd better leave immediately so they wouldn't be late for it, and never even see the platter of meats and cheeses and black olives she'd prepared, or the wine bottle she'd removed from the refrigerator so it would be chilled but not icy.
When she'd met him at Fanelli's a few weeks ago, she'd been nervous because she hadn't known what to expect or what she wanted. Now that she knew exactly what she wanted, she was twice as nervous.
Her intercom buzzed. She stopped fussing with the platter of snacks, rinsed her hands off so they wouldn't reek of olives, and lifted the receiver. "There's a gentleman here to see you," her doorman reported. "That Ted Scallop fellow again."
Erika laughed and decided not to correct the doorman's mispronunciation of Ted's name. "Send him up," she said, then set the receiver back in its cradle and turned to survey the apartment. All right, he wouldn't see the bed right away. He'd have to enter the room first, and with the carefully chosen spread and pillows, her bed could almost pass as a sofa. Not really, but almost.
She sniffed her hands-no olive smell-and then flinched at the jarring sound of her doorbell. It's just Ted, she whispered before opening the door.
Seeing him was like getting slapped in the face, only without the pain. The whole time she'd been in Sun Valley she'd thought of him, just as she thought of him pretty much every waking minute when she was home-and most sleeping minutes, too. But still, viewing him, standing before the man she'd loved as a boy and acknowledging her love for him now, was jarring. It lurched her nervous system into a new alignment. It simultaneously clarified her vision and made her see stars.
"Hey, Fred," he said, stepping into the apartment.
He was inside. She closed the door and promised herself that whatever happened next, whether they left right away or had a nosh and then left, or had a nosh and then didn't leave, would be fine with her.
"This is it?" he asked, gazing around.
"This is what?"
"Your whole apartment?"
"No, actually it's a duplex, only the stairs are invisible. Yes, it's my whole apartment."
He took a few steps further into the room. More accurately, a few steps across the room. Too many steps in any one direction and he'd collide with a wall. He studied the tiny cafe table and two chairs she had tucked beneath one of the windows, and the area rug, and the wall unit that served as a bureau for her clothes, her computer station, and shelving for books and her TV. He paused to note the cedar chest that doubled as storage and seating-in an apartment this compact, everything doubled as something elseand peered up at the high ceiling, which made the room seem both airier and narrower. After a glance at the framed prints adorning the walls, he gazed for several long seconds at her bed, and then he turned back to her. "It's so cute. It's like a doll's house."
"It's all I could afford," she explained. "I mean, Gramercy Park-half my rent is paying for the address."
He must have sensed defensiveness in her tone. "No, I mean it. It's not what I expected, but it's really cute."
Cute sounded condescending to her. Dollhouse sounded ... cute. "Well, it may not be much, but I don't need much." She hesitated, then asked, "What did you expect?"
"Gramercy Park. Big pre-war, wood-burning fireplace, spectacular views-"
"I have a spectacular view of the Chrysler building," she said, marching him over to the windows. "See?"
He stood beside her, gazing out at the distinctive landmark tower. "Cool."
"You hate it."
"No." He turned to her. "I like it. I thought you were living in a palace or something."
"Apparently, I'm living in a dollhouse."
"I guess that makes you a doll." Grinning, he admired her view of the Chrysler building for a moment longer before he turned his attention back to the artwork with which she'd decorated her walls.
One piece of artwork in particular, hanging between the closet door and the bathroom door, caught his attention. He frowned, moved closer to it, and frowned more deeply. "Holy shit," he murmured, clearly amazed.
She moved to stand beside him and admired the drawing he was staring at. It featured two lovers in bed, flanked by donkeys. It was bright and whimsical, bizarre and unique.
"I can't believe you saved it all these years," he murmured.
"Not just saved it but had it framed."
He shook his head, still apparently stunned. "I was just a kid when I drew it. A very angry kid."
"It doesn't look angry. It looks loving," she said.
"I was an angry kid in love." He moved closer, squinting as he assessed the drawing he'd sent her so many years ago. "I thought it would bring you back to me. I thought you'd see it and think, wow, he loves me that much, and you'd leave Colorado and come home."
She hadn't come home. But she'd kept the drawing, and treasured it. In fact . . . "Come here," she said, taking his hand and ushering him away from the drawing to the wall unit. She opened a bottom drawer, dug beneath her neatly organized files of bills and receipts, and pulled out a portfolio. She unlaced it, flipped it open, and displayed it for him.
The frown came back, a frown not of annoyance but of sheer bewilderment. Inside the portfolio was every letter he'd ever sent her, every note, every drawing. Even a business card he'd mailed her from Tempe, when he'd had a job as a car salesman.
"You saved everything."
"There were times I wondered why," she admitted. "I was moving around so much, doing the transatlantic sail, living in New York, heading out west for graduate school, back here again ... I was always clearing things out, giving stuff away, donating things to Goodwill so I wouldn't have to move them. But I never got rid of this."
He leafed gingerly through the letters, pausing to sk
im a few. "Did you ever go back and reread these letters? Was it a thing, like, once a year-time to haul out the crap Ted sent me and remember what an asshole he was?"
She jabbed him playfully in the ribs. "You weren't an asshole. And no, I didn't reread them. But . . ." Her playfulness fled, replaced by anguished honesty. "I had to keep them. I could never throw them out. You were the first boy I ever loved. The first boy who ever loved me. I never wanted to forget that love."
"There were times I wanted to forget that love," he said quietly. "I tried to forget it. But I couldn't."
"It made us who we are, Ted. It's a part of us."
"Yeah." He folded the portfolio shut and placed it carefully next to her computer. His smile was wistful, a poignant expression of both pain and joy as he took her in his arms and kissed her.
They stood beside that pile of letters and drawings, kissing for what felt like an eternity. Ted tangled his hands into Erika's hair, using his thumbs to tilt her chin, sliding his tongue deep into her mouth. He grazed the nape of her neck with his fingertips, warmed her shoulders with his palms, drew his hands forward to the front of her blouse. Kissed her. Fiddled with the blouse's buttons. Kissed her again.
She let his kisses melt her, heat her, flood her with pleasure. She was wistful, too, aware of everything she'd lost when she'd walked away from the first boy she'd ever loved, the first boy who had ever loved her. She'd gained so much by declaring her freedom, learned so much, grown so much-but she'd also lost so much. She'd lost him.
Now she had him back.
As turned on as she was by the brush of his fingers against her skin as he opened one button and then another down the front of her blouse, she was even more turned on by the way he looked at her. She had always believed his eyes had a special power, not just the power to mesmerize her with their beauty but the power to see more than normal people saw. He was an artist; he noticed the lines and shapes of things, the hues and shadings, with a discernment most people didn't possess.
But he also saw her. When he looked at her the way he was looking at her right now, she was certain he saw her yearnings, her fears, her soul. When they were young, he had seen in her the person he'd wanted her to be. Now he saw the person she truly was.
She worked her way down the front of his shirt, lingering at each button, teasing him with gentle taps and twists of her fingers against the chest she was baring. Long before she'd really understood her own responses, she'd been transfixed by the sight of him in his wrestling singlet, that clinging Lycra uniform that had exposed so much of his lanky, boyish body.
His body was no longer boyish. His torso was warm and solid, thick with muscle. When his shirt was fully open, she flattened her hands against the surface of his chest, needing to confirm by touch what she could see: that he was a man, strong and sturdy and wanting her. She caressed the firm contours of his shoulders, felt the wild beat of his heart, noted the flexing of his abs as she skimmed her hands down to the waistband of his slacks. When her hands alighted on the button of his fly, he let out a sound that was half a sigh and half a groan.
He kissed her again, a hungry, greedy kiss that swamped her with sensation. How could she open his fly when he was kissing her like this? How could she get him naked-which at that moment was her one and only goal in life? How could she think when his tongue was seducing hers, luring it, subduing it?
She was scarcely aware of the faint chill on her shoulders as he pushed her blouse down her arms and off her. Scarcely aware of the tickle at the center of her back as he flicked open her bra. All too aware of the heat in his hands as he brought them forward to her breasts, cupped beneath them, splayed his fingers over them.
"Fred," he murmured. "Erika."
"Yes." It was all she had to say. All she could say.
She was glad her apartment was so small. They had to take only a couple of steps to reach the bed. They tumbled onto it, and it occurred to her that they had never before made love on a bed.
They had never before made love, she thought. They'd had sex. And yes, she'd loved Ted, and he'd sworn he loved her. But they'd been too young to comprehend what love meant. It had been an ideal, an abstract concept.
Now it was real. It was destiny.
He kissed her, kissed her, intoxicated her with his kisses. He finished undressing her and helped her finish undressing him. They lay together, bodies pressing close and then moving apart to give their hands room to claim, to touch, to take. Every part of him-shoulders, back, butt, thighs, calves-was as warm and hard as his chest had been. Every part except his erection, which was much, much warmer, much, much harder.
She ran her fingers the length of him. "Do you like this?" she whispered. Back when they'd been teenagers, she had never asked him what he liked. She'd been too shy.
A soft, helpless laugh escaped him. "Even if I were dead, I'd like that," he said. He shifted on the mattress and lowered his mouth to her breast. Twinges of heat shot through her as he nuzzled one breast and then the other. She combed her hands through his hair, holding his head to her, thinking, Yeah, I like that. Anything he did to her, everything he did to her ... yeah, she liked it.
He lifted his head and gazed down at her. "Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?" he asked.
It was a question she couldn't possibly answer. Yes would make her sound arrogant; no would make her sound coy. She liked to look nice, but she wasn't obsessed with her appearance. Yet when she peered up into his eyes, she saw her beauty there. She was beautiful because Ted thought she was beautiful. She was beautiful because he desired her.
"Love me," she murmured.
"I think I can do that," he said, trailing his hand down her body. "Maybe a little better than last time."
Last time. Sixteen years ago. The night before she left for Colorado. That time had been so precious in its own way, so bittersweet. Good-bye had shimmered through them that time. It had hovered in the air. It had whispered itself in every kiss.
She prayed that this time would have no good-bye in it. Running her hands down his back, gripping his hips, lifting herself off the pillows to nip the hollow of his throat, she prayed that this would be the start of something, not its conclusion.
This time she understood love. She believed in it. She lived it.
This time, he knew what he was doing. They both did.
He played his fingers over her until she moaned with need, her hips twitching, her hands groping, clinging. Then-at last-he joined himself to her, and for a blissful instant her world fell still and silent. Everything was in balance, everything was as it should be. Her and Ted, united.
They moved together, strove together. They sensed each other's needs, adjusted their weight, their rhythm, their breathing until they were one single entity gliding, soaring.
Sensation tore through her, deep, wrenching pulses of pleasure that left her gasping and trembling and blessedly spent. Above her, Ted moaned, lost in his own ecstasy. She held him close, letting him sink into her embrace. His breath was raw against her shoulder. His back was filmed with perspiration.
I love you, Ted Skala.
She didn't dare to speak the words. She was afraid he might not believe her. She had thought she loved him once, and then she'd gone away. Would he trust her if she professed love this time? Better for her to wait, to prove her love to him. Then he would believe her when she spoke the words.
After his respiration returned to normal, he eased off her and flopped down on his back beside her on the bed. "Definitely better than last time," she said.
He laughed and drew her against him, planting a slow, weary kiss on her lips. "I think we're beginning to get the hang of it."
Lying on her side, she traced a wandering line on his chest with her index finger. "I wasn't sure what the plan was for this evening.. .
"I don't know what your plan was. This was my plan," he declared.
It had been her plan, too, but she let him assume this had been all his doing. "Anyway, I put together a bite to
eat, if you're hungry. Just some snacks, and some wine."
"Sounds good." He released her and raised himself to sit, propping pillows behind his back.
She crossed to the kitchen to get the plate she'd been preparing when he'd arrived. "Guess what I bought, just for you?"
"What?"
She lifted the plate so he could see it. "Pitted black olives."
She'd thought he would smile, but his expression was more meditative than happy. "You bought those for me?"
Had she made a mistake? "You said you liked them."
"Erika." At last the smile came, a slow, deep smile. "You were thinking about me when you bought the olives?"
"Of course."
"Do you think about me a lot?"
"All the time." She admitted it without embarrassment. "It's crazy," she said as she placed the wine bottle, two glasses, and the food on a tray and carried them over to the bed. "All day, all night. You're like something out of a cheesy sci-fi movie. You've taken over my brain."
That made him laugh. He grew solemn again as she joined him on the bed and set the tray down between them. "Do you think about us?" he asked.
She could see why he wasn't laughing anymore. This was serious. "Yes," she answered honestly. "I think about us a lot."
She reached for the bottle, but he intercepted her and gathered her hand in his. "Are you in love with me?" he asked.
If he hadn't been ready to hear it, he wouldn't have asked. She curled her fingers tightly around his and said, "Yes, Ted. I am in love with you."
He pulled her hand to his mouth and kissed her palm, just as he had the evening before she'd left for Sun Valley. "I've been in love with you for sixteen years," he said. "It's about time you figured this thing out."
When he'd been making love with her, she'd been positive nothing could ever make her feel better than to have him deep inside her, bound to her. But she'd been wrong.
Hearing Ted tell her he loved her was better.
Meet Me in Manhattan (True Vows) Page 19