Undying Love

by Nelle L'Amour

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  EPILOGUE

  SNEAK PEEK

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  BONUS MATERIAL

  UNDYING LOVE

  Nelle L’Amour

  Undying Love

  Copyright © 2013 by Nelle L’Amour. All rights reserved.

  First Kindle Edition: April 2013

  Cover and Formatting: Streetlight Graphics

  This eBook is licensed for the personal enjoyment of the original purchaser only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  Dedicated to my dear readers who make the long, hard journey so worth it

  “True love doesn’t have a happy ending because true love never ends.”

  —Barbara Johnson

  ONE

  I could have asked the tall, willowy blonde with the mile-high legs and the Kate Moss face to show me a painting, but instead I chose the bookwormy, bespectacled brunette. She looked like the type who knew where a secret treasure would be and would just get down to business. The blonde, who was already eying me flirtatiously, reminded me of all the girls I grew up with and dated—including Charlotte, my soon-to-be ex-girlfriend. Both were wearing the basic tour guide uniform—a gray pleated skirt and navy blazer with their Metropolitan Museum of Art employee badge clipped to the lapel. Except, while the blonde’s skirt fell to the middle of her toned thighs, the brunette’s fell below her knees, leaving a lot to the imagination.

  “Excuse me, can you possibly show me something that is, in your opinion, one of the museum’s hidden treasures?” I asked her.

  “What for?” she asked suspiciously.

  Her raspy voice was heavy-duty New York. Not the cultured kind associated with the tony Fifth Avenue neighborhood I grew up in, but rather BBQ. Someone who lived in Brooklyn, Bronx, or Queens and called the Big Apple “New Yawk.”

  “I’m doing an article on the city’s secret art treasures,” I said.

  “Oh, so you’re a reporter.” The tone of her voice was snide, in fact, borderline belittling.

  “I like to think of myself of a writer. One day, I’m going to write a novel.”

  “Really? And what do you write now?”

  “Articles for Arts & Smarts.”

  She rolled her eyes at me. “That’s such a piece of crap magazine. Intended for tourists and wannabes in the art world.”

  Her cutting words stung me, but I hid my hurt feelings. “Hey, it’s a living.”

  “You don’t look like you need to make a living.”

  I was taken aback. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re rich.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “You’re wearing pressed, premium denim jeans, a three-thousand-dollar designer motorcycle jacket, and expensive, black leather loafers with no socks.” She paused. “And because I’m not.”

  I had to give it to her that she was observant. Mental note to self: I need to tone it down.

  “So, Allee, what can you show me?”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “It’s on your employee badge.”

  “Right,” she said, with a flash of a smirk.

  Score one for me. I followed her as she led me to the elevator. She moved quickly, with a blend of authority and grace. I couldn’t help wondering what she looked like underneath that oppressive uniform. There was something about her.

  Thick silence accompanied the elevator ride to the museum’s third floor. Alone, we stood side by side, facing front. Twice, I stole a glance at her. Despite the oversized, tortoise-shell spectacles, she was actually rather pretty. Maybe even beautiful, in an unconventional way. She had a strong, dimpled chin, upturned nose, and cheekbones the size of Golden Delicious apples. And there was that slender, long neck that gave her height and elegance. Her skin was milky white and made a stunning contrast to her lustrous, ebony hair that was gathered in a messy bun. I had the crazy urge to pull down her hair to see how long it was.

  Having gone to cotillion (Man, did I hate it!) and way too many debutante balls, I was accustomed to holding doors open for women and letting them exit first. When the elevator hit the third floor and the doors slid open, my formal etiquette education went up in smoke. She shot out like a bullet, leaving me helplessly behind. I had to sprint to keep up with her.

  “Follow me,” she said. She walked briskly, with long strides, and while I was used to speed—being a runner—it was challenging to keep up with her. Maybe because I was distracted by her toned calves and thin, elegant ankles that peeked out from below her longish skirt. I also kept thinking about what her ass looked like every time it shot out between the vent of her blazer.

  She led me to a painting. I studied it. At first, I couldn’t make it out. And then I gaped. It was an abstract of a man and woman fucking face to face!

  “What do you think makes this painting so great?” she challenged me.

  I studied it further. “It’s in fifty shades of gray.”

  She scowled. “What else?”

  My eyes stayed fixed on the painting. “Their bodies are one.”

  She nodded. “Okay… and what’s the artist communicating about sex?”

  Hold on. Wasn’t I was supposed to be the one asking the questions? Instead, I was pondering them.

  She tapped her foot and folded her arms across her chest. “I’m waiting for an answer.”

  My eyes focused on her contoured chest. There was definitely a nice set of tits under her blazer.

  She harrumphed. “You know, Golden Boy, I don’t have all day.”

  I studied the painting again. “That sex is the union of two souls,” I stammered.

  She smiled for the first time. I was taken in by her upturned, ruby lips, which wore no lipstick, and the little dimples that bracketed them. Even without makeup, there was something about her.

  “Excellent. Tell your readers that if they want to get laid they should visit this painting. It’s a little known Picasso.”

  I pulled out a notebook and pen from my satchel. There was definitely a story here.

  As I started to scribble down my thoughts, she yanked my pen away. “You don’t need notes. When you write your article, write it from your heart.”

  She glanced down at her watch, an inexpensive cloth band one. “Sorry, time’s up. It’s my break.”

  “Let me take you for coffee,” I insisted. “To thank you.”

  “Let me take you. I get a ten percent employee discount.”

  The museum café was busy, but we managed to find a table for two.

  We had something in common. We both liked ou
r coffee with a lot of cream, no sugar. Despite my protest, she still insisted on paying for the coffees, but I bought a dessert. One to share. A crème brûlé. My favorite. I was ravenous as I hadn’t eaten lunch.

  “So, Golden Boy, what’s your name?” she asked after sipping her coffee.

  “Ryan.”

  “Nice. Now we’re both on a first name basis.” Though she was still wearing her glasses, her eyes, the color of espresso beans, burnt right through me.

  “Why did you agree to have coffee with me?”

  “I felt sorry for you.”

  “So if you think I’m such a loser, why don’t you just leave?” I made an “L” with my thumb and index finger on the word “loser.”

  She flashed that dimpled smile. “Because I like the way you hold your coffee cup.”

  Pinky out. Fifth Grade. Miss Primrose’s Etiquette Class.

  I took it as a compliment, especially coming from her, and thanked her.

  We dug into the dessert. “So, how long have you worked here?” I asked, fumbling for small talk to make a conversation. She wasn’t exactly what I’d call easy to talk to. Or maybe it was just the unnerving effect she was having on me.

  “Almost a year. I was an intern first.”

  Her tongue languidly rolled around her upper lip, savoring every last bit of the creamy custard. Beneath the table, my cock tensed.

  She glanced at her watch. “I need to go because I wanna keep my job.”

  She pushed back her chair and stood up. “Here’s your pen.”

  I took it from her and twirled it between my fingers. “Are you going to watch the marathon tomorrow?”

  “I haven’t given it much thought. Are you?”

  “I’m running in it. My first time.”

  “Good luck, Ryan.” She reached into her purse. “And here’s a couple of bucks for my share of the dessert. No backsies.”

  I was stunned when she slapped the money on the table. What was with this girl?

  Before I could say a word, she tore off. Maybe, next week, I’d visit the museum again. There were lots of beautiful and interesting works of art to look at, and she was one of them.

  TWO

  Though it was November, the weather was unusually warm. This was definitely not going to help me through my first New York City Marathon. Stretching my calves, I stood gathered with thousands of runners of all ages who had come from all over the world to run this famed race. I was number 1212. Along with the identification bib, I was wearing an official marathon t-shirt and blue runner shorts that complemented my worn-in Nike athletic shoes. I was ready. I had trained all year. And had loaded up on carbs both at dinner last night and breakfast this morning.

  The minute the race started, adrenaline shot through my veins. A team of co-workers, led by my best bud and colleague, Duffy McDermitt, cheered me on. Crossing the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge, which was closed for the event, I took in the magnificent view of the city and felt exhilarated. Though I wanted to run as fast I could, I knew I had to pace myself. Covering all five boroughs of Manhattan, the distance spanned a little over twenty-six miles. I had to be careful not to burn myself out early on.

  I was doing well, running at a solid, even pace. My goal was to complete the race in less than five hours. While the various ethnically diverse neighborhoods I ran through were a blur, the sound of so many spectators cheering me and all the other runners on was motivating. As the temperature rose, I was grateful to all those who handed me a cup of water or Gatorade along the way. New Yorkers could really be there for you when they wanted to be.

  About halfway through the race, I slowed down. My legs were lead; I was sweating like a pig, and my breathing was labored. I was questioning if I’d be able to finish, but I knew, by the worn-out looks of other runners, I wasn’t alone. My father had drilled into me the value of not quitting. Once an all-star quarterback at Harvard (MVP ’72), he never quit. I wasn’t allowed to either.

  But, man, let me tell you, as I crossed the Queensboro Bridge heading back into Manhattan, I wanted to throw in the towel. The climb up the bridge was agonizing, so far the most difficult challenge in the race. My thighs were burning, and so were my lungs. Sweat was pouring from every crevice of my being. I didn’t think I could go on. While there were only ten or so miles left, these miles were going to be far more challenging than the sixteen I’d already run. No matter how much I had trained for this race, it was not enough. “Hang in there, Madewell,” I said to myself, my breathing now short, constant pants.

  “How ya’ doin’, 1212?” came a voice from behind me a little after I exited the bridge.

  There was no mistaking that sexy, raspy voice. I stole a glance over my shoulder. Sure enough, it was Allee, her dark hair gathered into a long ponytail and a wicked grin spread across her face. She was running right behind me, holding a bottle of water. She was so close I could feel her warm breath on my neck.

  “Have some water.” Instead of handing me the bottle, she poured the icy cold contents over my head. Aah! It felt so good! Rubbing the water out of my eyes, I found her right beside me. I couldn’t get my eyes off her body. She was wearing a tight Metropolitan Museum of Art graphic T-shirt that exposed her pert breasts and nipples, even under her sports bra, and black running shorts that revealed her toned mile-high legs. I’d imagined she’d had great legs but nothing like these gams. They were smooth and taut, flaunting a rippled muscle that ran down the side of her thighs. What turned me on most was the substantial space between her inner thighs. Man, she was hot.

  “I thought I’d go for a little jog,” she said. “Hope you don’t mind if I join you.”

  Mind? Are you kidding? She was just what I needed to get through the last leg of the race. For the next ten miles, she kept pace with me. I shot her little looks that didn’t go unnoticed. She wasn’t wearing her glasses. I was awed by her profile and bouncing ponytail that made it even more electrifying.

  As we passed through Harlem onto Fifth Avenue, she sprinted ahead of me. “Betchya you can’t keep up with me, Golden Boy,” she shouted with a turn of her head and a smug smile.

  “Betchya I can,” I yelled back at her. What a tease! Calling upon every muscle in my body, I charged ahead. I don’t know if it was the competitive value that my father had instilled in me (“Son, Madewells are born to be winners.”) or that I wanted to catch up to her and wrap my arms around her, but nothing could stop me.

  Damn, she was fast. Then again, she hadn’t run twenty-four grueling miles across the city. On the other hand, I enjoyed watching her run. She ran with the grace of a gazelle, her long, muscular legs kicking up their heels to propel her forward. From time to time, she glanced back at me, firing me a mischievous smile. A smile I wanted to wipe off her face with my lips.

  Just as we edged into Central Park at Columbus Circle, I caught up to her. I clasped her hand tightly so that she couldn’t get away. And so that she would pull me over the finish line with her. As thousands of spectators cheered us on, we crossed the famed finish line together, a bundle of hot, sweaty human flesh. I clocked in at 4:40:30. Just a little under five hours. I did it! Wasted, I sunk to my knees, wrapping my arms around Allee’s long legs. She sunk down with me, wrapping her arms around me. Her hard nipples brushed against my soaking wet T-shirt. Beads of sweat clung to her like fairy dust, making her ethereal. Otherworldly. I couldn’t stop panting. She met my gaze with her espresso bean eyes, and I broke down in heaves from the pain and the emotion of it all. In the background, Lady Gaga’s “Edge of Glory” blasted. Here I was hanging onto this gorgeous, sexy girl I hardly knew—wanting her like a child wants a forbidden candy. She gently brushed sweat off my forehead with her long fingers and looked straight into my eyes, burning a hole in them. With a broad smile and her husky voice, she said, “Congratulations, 1212!” I could hear well-wishers in the crowd shouting out my name, but I saw only one beautiful person—a girl named Allee.

  A marathon volunteer passed by us, carrying a box full of bot
tled water. I grabbed two bottles, one for her and one for me. We gulped down the contents down greedily. As parched as I was, what I most thirsted for was her. Her hot sweaty body, her long legs, her lush lips. I drank it all in and could practically taste her.

  Slowly, I rose to my feet, lifting her with me. “I need to go to my health club and take a cold shower and get a massage,” I said.

  “Save your money,” she said. “I give an excellent massage.”

  My skin prickled.

  “And besides, I owe you for winning the bet.”

  “So, you have a driver,” she said with that maddening roll of her eyes.

  “Yeah,” I said, on the verge of embarrassment, as my black, tinted-window Escalade pulled up to us as we stood on Fifth Avenue. “You were right. I’m rich.”

  “I underestimated you,” she smirked. “You must be a very prolific writer.”

  “I’m just lucky.” Indeed, I was.

  My uniformed driver, Marcus, opened the passenger door. An ex-marine, he had a brick shithouse build, ruddy complexion, and buzzed bone white hair that contrasted sharply with his perpetual black shades and belied his fifty-something years.

  “After you,” I said to Allee. A little hesitant, she slid into the leather backseat with me following behind her. She deliberately stayed her distance, though I longed to cradle her in my arms.

  I admired her long muscular legs and inhaled her delicious scent, a blend of sweetness and sweat, as the SUV headed downtown to my loft. The place I called home was located on the Lower East Side. A far cry from my parents’ stuffy Fifth Avenue residence and lifestyle, it suited my downtown sensibility and was close to my office.

  We cruised down Broadway, steeped in silence until we reached my residence. Marcus jumped out of the car and let us out.

  “So, you live in a warehouse,” she said, eying the three-story depression-era brick building. Her wide eyes communicated a tinge of surprise.