Undying Love

by Nelle L'Amour

  She pretended she didn’t see me and kept her head buried in the comic.

  I sidled up to her and poked my head over shoulder to see what she was reading. The Avengers. “Why do you read superhero comics?” I ventured.

  “Because they can wipe out the bad guys and save the world,” she said, burying her nose deeper into the pages. “I’ve read them since I was a kid.”

  She had always been looking for someone to save her from her wretched, loveless childhood. I had to remember that beneath her tough-as-nails veneer, there was a thick layer of vulnerability. A soul that needed rescuing.

  “Baby, look at me.” I gripped her by the shoulders and spun her around to face me. Her watery eyes met mine.

  “I’m sorry I said what I said. Sometimes I say things I don’t mean.”

  “Shut up, Madewell.” She slammed her lips against mine, then pulled away. “You are my Superman.”

  I held her face in my hands and bore my eyes into hers. “Don’t ever run away from me again, baby. You had me scared shitless.”

  When we got home, she gave me a blow job that made me fly.

  And now, I was going to be her Superman for life.

  The ceremony started without my mother. For whatever reason, damn her, she wasn’t coming. My eyes met Maria’s as a pang of sadness shot through me. Mí pobrecito! I heard her say silently.

  The ceremony was short, but beautiful. Allee and I had each written our own special forever vows.

  As I braced myself to recite mine, I saw my mother saunter up to us from the corner of my eye. She was chicly dressed in a pink, raw silk suit, but she looked older than the last time I’d seen her. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and fine wrinkles were etched around her mouth and eyes. Perhaps, she was in between injections. But the sadness in her eyes told me it was something more. She flashed a faint smile as I began my vow. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach even though I had practiced these words so many times before. A gentle squeeze of the hand from Allee and her loving gaze gave me the power to go forward. I began with a quote by Henry David Thoreau.

  “‘It’s not what you look at that matters; it’s what you see.’ When I first laid eyes on Allee Adair, what I saw transcended everything I had ever seen before. I saw a work of art that all the money in the world could not buy. And now I ask her to give me everything that she is in exchange for my love, and to share her life with me as long as we live.”

  Allee’s tearful eyes stayed locked on me the whole time. Her lower lip quivered and then she bit down on it to stifle a sob. I could hear Maria positively bawling and was shocked to see my mother withdraw a lacy hanky from her clutch bag to dab her eyes. A small crowd of spectators, some dressed in jogging outfits, had joined our wedding party and watched the scene unfold with hushed, voyeuristic stares.

  Now, it was Allee’s turn. She took a deep breath and then broke into a dazzling smile. Her eyes never strayed from mine as she began with a quote from Picasso:

  “‘Some painters transform the sun into a yellow spot; others transform a yellow spot into the sun.’ Ryan Madewell, who paints with words, transformed me into the sun. I promise to rise with him and set with him every day of my life… until darkness prevails and death do us part.”

  With exception of the Picasso quote, she had kept the rest of her vow secret; her words melted my heart; it was if the noisy city had grown silent because I could hear not hear a sound but her voice. I battled tears. How much she loved me! How much I loved her!

  More sniffles, even among the unknown onlookers. They were contagious. Marcus handed me our wedding bands, two simple gold bands that we had picked out together. Inscribed in each of them was one word: Toujours. “Always” in French.

  Following Beth’s lead, Allee and I exchanged I do’s. There was no hesitancy or tremor in our voices, just pure joy. With a warm smile, Beth pronounced us man and wife. We were now Mr. and Mrs. Ryan Madewell IV.

  As cheers and applause broke out among the spectators, I kissed my beautiful bride, so passionately, so deeply. It was as if I’d never kiss her again.

  A celebration followed with a luncheon at Tavern on the Green, a romantic restaurant located in Central Park. It was a joyous celebration of our union. In the elegant crystal-chandeliered room we’d reserved, champagne and laughter flowed before the meal was served. Duffy got to sit next to Samantha. She revealed she was from Southern California like him—and a surfer. Allee had tossed her small bouquet to her, and I swear it wouldn’t be long before we would be attending my best friend’s nuptials. When Sam excused herself to go the ladies’ room, Duffy mouthed to me, “Dude, I’m in love.” I gave him a thumbs-up. I had a hunch his dick was finally going to get some heavy-duty action before the day was over.

  After downing her third glass of champagne, my mother excused herself from the table. She had a long-standing commitment with one of her charities. She was being honored and was expected to be there to give a speech. Whatever.

  I excused myself from the table and escorted her to the entrance of the restaurant. I held her up by her bony arm. Having imbibed so much champagne in so short a time on an empty stomach, she was not walking in a straight line. I didn’t want her to fall down.

  “Thank you, Mother, for coming.” I gave her a peck on her sallow cheek. “It meant a lot to Allee and me.”

  “She’s not Charlotte, but I suppose she’ll do.” Her words stung me, but I held back a snake-tongued retort.

  Before she parted, she reached into her pink clutch and handed me an envelope. “This is from your father. He wants you to have it.” She averted looking me in the eyes.

  I took the envelope from her and slashed it open. Inside was a check for one million dollars. You’d think my eyes would grow wide, but they didn’t. Everything inside me clenched with anger. So he thought he could buy me back. Just like the way he bought conglomerates to add to his empire.

  I thrust the check back into her hands. “Tell him, I don’t need his money. Nor do I want it.”

  Wordlessly, my mother put the check back into her clutch. Her glazed, weary eyes met mine. “Your father misses you, Ryan.” With that, she tipsied away, holding her head high as best as she could.

  I couldn’t wait to take Allee back to my loft. Rather, our loft. Unfortunately, we had to postpone a honeymoon to Paris. Allee was in the middle of a new Modigliani installation at the Met, and I was under deadline to get in my latest New Yorker piece. So, I had secretly decided to bring our honeymoon right to our bedroom.

  When Marcus dropped us off, I scooped up Allee into my arms.

  “What are you doing, Mr. Madewell?” she giggled.

  “I am carrying Mrs. Madewell over the threshold.” I replied as the electronic door to the loft lifted. “Close your eyes and promise not to open them until I say so.”

  Allee smacked my lips with hers. “Okay, promise.” She squeezed her eyes shut.

  When the elevator door opened, I carried her straight up to our bedroom. “Cripes, how much do you weigh?” I asked jokingly.

  “Fuck you.” She pounded my chest, her eyes still glued shut.

  “Okay, you can open your eyes now.”

  Allee blinked open her eyes, and her mouth dropped wide open with shock. Before us, smack in the middle of the space, was a magnificent antique four-poster bed. Allee had complained long enough about sleeping on my mattress on the floor and was always joking with me about not being able to afford a decent bed.

  I had found this bed at a nearby antiques shop. When the proprietor had told me it was straight out of a grand Parisian hôtel particulier that had belonged to one of Picasso’s muses, I knew I had to have it. The price was exorbitant, but I didn’t care. I could afford it, and it was almost like owning a Picasso, which I couldn’t afford. As I handed the dealer my credit card, I pictured ravaging Allee on it.

  The dealer offered to arrange having a deluxe custom-made mattress made for the bed and delivering it on our wedding day. He also offered to have the bed made
up perfectly if I picked out bedding and sent it to him.

  Immediately after purchasing the bed, I scooted uptown to D. Porthault and picked out the finest Made-in-France bedding, including pillows, a duvet, sheets, and pillowcases. Unlike my former king-size mattress, this bed was only a double. Allee would have no choice but to cuddle with me in my arms every night.

  “Wow!” exclaimed an overwhelmed Allee. “Did it come from some fancy hotel?”

  The luxurious bed indeed looked like it belonged in the Ritz, where I had stayed several times on family trips to Paris. Propped on it, were a box of French chocolates, a bottle of chilled Cristal champagne, two fluted glasses, and my special little gift to Allee… a small needlepoint pillow that had the Eiffel Tower and the words “I’d rather be in Paris” woven into it. I had come upon the whimsical pillow at local tchotchke shop and knew it couldn’t be more perfect. My dick hardened at the thought of making love to my beautiful new bride on the virgin mattress.

  “Oh, Madewell,” sighed Allee dreamily, still in my arms. “It must have cost a fucking fortune.”

  Funnily, this was exactly the kind of reaction I was expecting from her. By now, I had gotten used to her judging things by how much they cost. In the world I had grown up in, money had no meaning, except for the number of zeroes in your investment portfolio.

  I told Allee about the provenance of the bed.

  “You’re bullshitting me!” she replied.

  “I swear on my life I’m not.”

  “Mon dieu!” she gasped in her raspy voice. Her eyes watered. She was both awed and moved.

  A smile danced across her face when she spotted the little needlepoint pillow.

  “So, Mrs. Madewell, would you rather be in Paris?”

  Allee thought for a minute, I’m sure just to taunt me. “Hmm… I’m not sure.”

  She was such a tease. My cock couldn’t wait anymore. It was time to break in the mattress. After consuming her mouth with a delicious all-tongue French kiss, I gently lowered her to a standing position. Her eyes burnt into mine as I unfastened her delicate vintage wedding gown and let it fall to the floor. I was shocked that she was completely naked beneath it. Had I known that when we got married, I might have made love to her right in the middle of Central Park.

  She stood before me and let me admire her magnificent, curvaceous body. My dick was swelling beneath my slacks, my balls tingling with desire. “Oh, my wife, you are so, so beautiful.”

  “You make me feel beautiful.” With lust in her dark eyes, she moved into me. She undid my ascot and then removed my waistcoat and my trousers. I hurriedly stepped out of my boxers and my sockless shoes. My rigid rod was shooting at her like a missile.

  I swept her into my arms again and laid her down on the bed. Her long curls spread across the plump pillows as she tipped her head to gaze up at me with her hooded eyes.

  “What are you waiting for, Mr. Madewell?” she rasped softly.

  “I just want to look at you, Mrs. Madewell.” Her breathtaking beauty mesmerized me. After several long minutes, I crawled into the bed, sprawling my body next to hers. Her silky flesh skimmed mine.

  “Let’s toast each other!”

  Raising myself, I grabbed the bottle of champagne and popped it open. Usually, I did this expertly, but this time, the champagne exploded, splattering all over Allee’s body. The shock of the cold spray made her jolt and yelp.

  “I’m sorry, baby.”

  Allee was now laughing, that deep, sexy, contagious laugh that made me laugh too, and want to fuck her hard.

  “Madewell, you’ve gotta learn to do that better,” she managed between snorts.

  I set the bottle on the floor. “Do I need to learn to do this better?” I asked, already lapping up the bubbly that glistened like dewdrops on her tender breasts. Her moan was my answer.

  The combination of the champagne and her own sweet flavor sent a ripple to my hard as rock cock. After flicking her sensitive, rose-tipped nipples, my tongue slithered down her taut torso. It stopped to slurp up the little pool of champagne that filled her navel, and then glided down her abdomen in a straight line to her center. Beads of champagne sparkled like fairy dust on her silky sable triangle. I rubbed my nose against the soft, damp area, inhaling the delicious scent of her. She moaned again.

  My champagne-laced tongue moved to her honeyed folds. Fuck, she tasted good. My hungry tongue rolled around her exquisite clit, hardening it and bringing her to cries of desire. I was ready. And so was she.

  “Spread your legs, Mrs. Madewell.” She eagerly did as she was asked.

  I mounted her. It seemed fitting on our first night together as a married couple to take her this way. Primal. Raw. Basic. I pounded into her with no reserve, grunting with each deep, feral thrust. She moaned. I was hitting her hot spot and stimulating her clit. Our heartbeats drummed together, and our hipbones, like cymbals, crashed against each other. The flapping of our flesh was yet another percussion in this band of love. We sang along with our moans and groans.

  Her breathing grew ragged and so did mine. I couldn’t hold back. Harder! Faster! Holy fuck! She was bringing me to the edge. To the point of no return. Before I knew it, I was coming, showering her with my release, and shouting her name.

  “Oh, Madewell!” she screamed out as she shuddered around me.

  I stayed inside her, neither having the energy nor the desire to withdraw. She didn’t move either. While my head nuzzled into the crook of her neck, she stroked my hair and hummed.

  At last, I pulled my hot, slick cock out of her and rolled over so that our heads shared one of the pillows plumped up against the bed’s headboard.

  Parched from our heated round of sex, I grabbed the champagne and took a swig of it straight from the bottle.

  “Give that to me,” said Allee, her voice hoarse. Snagging the bottle out of my hand, she took not one swig, but two, and sighed loudly. “To us!”

  I wrapped an arm around her, letting her head rest on my chest. We shared the remainder of the bottle, passing it back and forth, like it was soda pop.

  “So, Mrs. Madewell, I ask you again. Would you rather be in Paris?” I playfully smacked her with the needlepoint pillow.

  This time she didn’t hesitate or play games with me. Turning her head, she gazed deep into my eyes. A sincere smile played across her face. “No, Mr. Madewell, I’d rather be here with you.”

  I crushed my lips into hers. Insatiable, Mr. and Mrs. Ryan Madewell IV rolled over to face each other and made delicious love three more times.

  “I love you, Allee Adair Madewell,” I whispered between flutter kisses.

  “I love you more,” Allee rasped, stroking my hair.

  That wasn’t possible, but I wasn’t about to end our first night as a married couple with an argument.

  Finally wasted, we drifted off in each other’s arms. Our honeymoon had just begun.

  TWENTY

  Every day of our married life together was a honeymoon. My days rose with Allee, and they set with her. She was my sun. I couldn’t get enough of her and missed her every second she was away from me.

  I was made Contributing Editor at The New Yorker and continued to write short stories whenever I had some free time. Allee couldn’t be happier either. She loved her job. She loved her life. And she loved me.

  After work, we often would go to my health club and work out until we both glistened with sweat. Usually, we would take a shower, but there were nights where we just couldn’t wait to have each other and bask in each other’s hot juices.

  Most nights, we ordered in, but at least once a week, Allee would cook me a fabulous meal. I told her I was going to have to work out longer and harder because I feared her scrumptious French cooking was going to put on the pounds. “Ha, ha, Madewell.” She laughed. “I’m gonna get you fat so no other girl will look at you.”

  After dinner, I would write, and Allee would do research for upcoming exhibitions or thumb through one of the magnificent art books in our gr
owing collection. The way she sat cross-legged with her long legs folded in front of her was totally distracting. I kept imagining and wanting my cock in that triangle of space between them. Sometimes, I couldn’t resist, and I would ravage her before we called it a night. “Madewell, you’ve gotta learn to keep your pants on,” she’d always chide. I knew she secretly loved it as much as I did.

  Weekends were always a lot of fun. Determined to run the entire marathon together next year, we went running for miles in Central Park on Saturday and Sunday mornings. In the afternoons, we went gallery hopping; Allee was convinced she was going to discover the next Picasso. When we got home, we would analyze some of the pieces we’d seen, usually getting into a major disagreement, and then we’d make everything okay again with a session of glorious lovemaking. On Saturday nights, we’d either go to a movie and dinner or double date with Duffy and Samantha. Just as I’d predicted, they’d become a couple. Duffy’s life had finally turned around. He remained Editor in Chief of Arts & Smarts— and he was getting laid. Big time. It was just a matter of time before Duffy was going to ask Sam to marry him.

  Allee and I both loved newsstands. With the growing popularity of online newspapers and magazines, many of them had sadly closed throughout the city. Fortunately, the one closest to us hadn’t. Having grown up in the publishing business, I still loved the feel of paper beneath my fingertips and flipping from one page to the next. We always looked forward to buying the Sunday New York Times on Saturday evening. I couldn’t wait to read the Book Review, and she gobbled up the Arts & Leisure section. Then, on Sunday mornings, usually after making love, we’d curl up on the bed over coffee, and read the rest of the paper.

  I also always bought a copy of the latest Arts & Smarts. It made me feel attached in a bittersweet way to my old buds. Duffy, I had to say, was doing an amazing job. I was proud of him. While, at first, I had misgivings about leaving the magazine, which had been my life and baby for five years, I now no longer missed it. I couldn’t be happier with the way things had turned out.