Using his fingers around my wrists, he pulls my hands away and places them at my sides. “This is how I needed to see you. You could give me all the lace in the world, and what I needed was unmatched socks and this.” He runs his finger under the edge of my bra, just touching my nipple.
“You were a fan of those red panties.”
“I’m always a fan of red panties.” He leans down for a kiss. “But I’m a fan of you like this even more.” His lips come to mine. They’re smooth, and I taste just a hint of Burt’s Bees. A little minty and soft. I can feel his smile against mine at first, but slowly, with my lips and tongue exploring his, he changes from polite, handsome, upright Benjamin Beck into the hungry, demanding, aggressive man that gave me the time of my life in that hotel room.
“Oh God, yes,” I purr into his mouth, because I love this side of him, the Master I first met, before we knew what we were to each other. Before the back and forth and the maybe-maybe not. Back when it was simple and easy and two people on fire for one another.
Just as hungry as he is, I tug his sweater up his body and break our kiss with the snap of wooly static.
“We’re going to go slow,” he says, pushing some hair away from my face. “Yeah?”
“Yes, please.” Such sweet agony, nibbling when we’re both starving.
But we don’t go slow, not at first, because we can’t. It’s the first glimpse of home in a month, and we have to get there together. My hands are all over him now. My thumb presses into his nipple, his fingers pinch mine, I hear his breath linger in his mouth. With my other hand, I explore that cock a little more. I touch his balls, and he pauses in the kiss, giving me a “Fuck yeah” into my mouth. I’m tempted to get down on my knees in front of him, but I want him to lead the way this time.
“I’m yours. All yours.”
He has exactly no trouble interpreting what I mean. Gripping my hips, he walks me over to the couch in front of the cold fireplace. It’s this big oxblood-red leather thing, button-tufted and studded with brass rivets. He turns me around and folds me over the arm, pressing the back of my head down to the seat with his hand. My cheek touches the leather cushion, cool and luxurious against my skin.
I expect him to pull my pants down fast and get inside me right away, but instead he slowly unpeels my leggings and panties. “Stretch out your arms,” he whispers as he undoes my bra. Slowly, he traces every inch of me. Up and down my back, giving me goose bumps, finding that ticklish spot just below my ribs. Every inch, he savors, and I savor back. My muscles quiver as he learns that if he moves around the curve of my hips to my pelvis, my knees involuntarily weaken and drop from under me. The first time it happens, I brace myself, but then he says, “Just let go.”
And so there I am, laid out like a cat on that sofa, literally purring and shivering as he explores all the secret places I’ve never told anybody about. He’s careful and respectful of the scar, though, and especially tender on that side.
“It doesn’t hurt, “I whisper.
“It hurts me.”
The clatter of his belt comes shortly after, the unzipping of his fly. One hand firmly grips my stomach while I hang on to the sofa cushions. From the sounds behind me, though, I can tell he’s taking off his socks, and I smile into the sofa. What a prince.
The skin of his cock is smooth and warm against my inner thigh. He dips himself into my wetness, but not all the way inside me.
“Shit, Naomi,” he says. “Are you always…”
My cheek shifts against the leather as I nod. “For you.”
With my fingertips on the cushion, I walk back into him, until I’m at a right angle to his body, holding on to that leather sofa arm with my hands. I arch my back the other direction. He lets out a low growl as my ass cheeks compress his cock. In response, he places one hand on that part of my hip that makes me literally weak in the knees and begins rubbing my clit with the other.
“I’m going to make you come,” he says. “Just like this.”
He wets his fingers inside me, but momentarily takes them away to taste me. His finger leaves his mouth with a tiny pop.
“Fuck, see. That,” he says.
And then he goes after me, after my orgasm and need. His touch is expertly strong, but never overwhelming. He knows exactly how to take me to the point of insanity.
I dig my fingers into the arm of the couch. I get lost in his pelvis pressing against mine, his cock actually throbbing as I begin to come. He folds his body over mine, and his teeth sink into my shoulder.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I say. His teeth sink in a little harder. And I’m a million ripples rolling out on still water.
22
As she comes, a thick rush of her wetness spills out onto my fingers. If I was hard before, I don’t know what I am now. That night in the hotel, I hadn’t known her. And knowing her has only made me want to fuck her until she can see how she’s made me feel.
Her orgasm still rolling, she almost drops back down, her knees weak, it seems. “I’ve got you,” I say, pulling her tight to my body. With my cock bent down, pinned between her ass and my thigh, the need for her builds and builds. I walk her towards the bed, making a vice for her nipple between two fingers and keeping my other hand to the handle of her hip. I couldn’t take my hands off of her now if I had to.
I spin her around and lay her on the bed. Her hair is a mess behind her, and so fucking beautiful, so devious yet angelic, it damn near knocks the wind out of me.
With my fist around the base, I press my cock into her lips. Her smell is on my mouth, my fingers, everywhere. Lemons and ocean and all the fucking wonders of the earth.
She’s pawing for my cock too, my balls, her fingers begging me to get inside her. “If we get interrupted, I’m going to die,” she says through heavy breaths.
“We won’t.” I’m pressing into her, my head just parting her walls.
Her back comes up off the bed, and I place my hand under her spine when it does.
“If someone bangs on the door, don’t stop.”
“Not this time,” I tell her. The head of my cock opens her up further. “Never again.”
“Promise,” she gasps.
“Fucking promise.”
Our eyes never separate, except for the periodic slow blink of bliss. When I pull my cock all the way out of her, she whimpers, “Don’t go.”
“How do you know what to say to me…”
“I need your cum inside me.”
Fuck. That. Goddamn it, that.
One hand to her side, I shelter her with my body, elbow above her shoulder. Each of us keeps one hand to the other, my thumb to her cheek, her fingers to the back of my neck. Her other hand travels up and down my back, dragging along skin to skin. I feel the first wave of pre-cum, and I groan into the kiss. Her fingers come along the back of my head, spread out, and rake through my hair.
“Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop,” she says. “Ever.”
“There, there, there, fuuuuuuuck,” I say into the soft skin of her neck. My head drops to her shoulder. Everything tenses hard. “Fuck, Naomi. Holy fuck.” This orgasm, it isn’t three good pumps. It’s one long ferocious spill. Finally, drained of everything, I collapse on top of her, my face next to hers. She feels so fucking good. She smells so fucking good. She is so fucking good.
“Holy shit.” My voice is muffled by her hair and the sheets.
Her ankles find their way to the top of my ass and stay there.
I grip her as tight as I can.
Her fingertips on the edge of my ear, her lips on my temple. I’m the broken man. I surrender. I’m all hers.
For a long while, we stay just like that. The rain keeps pouring down on the windows.
I let go of her for only a moment to draw the big comforter up over us. I press my head to her breasts and close my eyes, feeling the cool cotton on my back, and her warm, soft body everywhere else.
23
Fingers trailing down my forearm wakes me up. I don’t open my
eyes. I just lie still, wondering how long he’s been watching me sleep, how long we’ve been here at all. I love the way he touches me, the way he goes from gentle to ruthless in an instant.
“I can tell you’re awake, pretty girl,” he says.
I open one eye.
He’s smiling at me. “You’re beautiful when you sleep.”
Rolling over in his arms, I get my wits about me. It’s not easy. I’m melted into the feel of his skin on mine, the way the trail of hair on his stomach is tickling the base of my spine.
Into my hair he says, “It’s snowing.”
I sit up a little in his arms, and sure enough, he’s opened the drapes a few inches and I see big flakes falling outside, golden in the slightly yellow lamplight. Snow globe flakes. Movie scene flakes. “What time is it?” “Eleven.”
I roll over, putting my face against his chest and pulling the comforter up over our heads to make a fort.
“Let’s just stay here. We can barricade ourselves in,” I say.
“That would be fucking fantastic.” He presses his chin to my head. His voice is extra sexy down here, with it echoing against his rib cage and the downy comforter all around us.
“Nobody will put it together,” I say, snuggling in closer. He rises up on an elbow, making the tent a little roomier. “We’ll just vanish. There’s a place that makes awesome sandwiches down the street. They’re super shady and they’ll deliver to an open window. Nobody ever,” I kiss his cheek, “has to bother us again.” As he lies back, the comforter falls on his face. “I don’t want anything to mess this up. I was thinking about how to get in touch with you.” He turns so we’re nose to nose again, and I can’t help but move my hand up to his jaw. His eyes follow my hand. He smiles, and then he looks back at me. “Even those texts are risky.” He shifts his head slightly and gives me a kiss on my palm.
“Throw rocks at my window. It’s the little one in the corner. Fourth floor,” I say.
He snorts. “Can you imagine?”
I laugh a little. “Honestly? Yes. After you pulled me through that window, I think anything is possible.
“I've never seen someone so graceful get so jammed up.”
“Says the guy on the other side of the window!” I giggle. “What about Skype? That could work. We could each make a new account.” He looks to be contemplating it, and I admire the way his Adam’s apple moves when he swallows. Let’s face it. I admire everything about him. I want to take a painting class just so I can use him as a life model.
“I don’t know. Would it be bizarre if I suggested something a little old-fashioned?”
I perk up. “I’m all for that. I’ve got a fixation with period drama.”
He shakes his head at me like, What a piece of work.
“What! The costumes! The romance!” I say, feeling just a little defensive. “So great!”
He smiles. “I’m shaking my head because I do too, for God’s sake.”
“You do not.”
“Yes, I do. Poldark? Fuuuuuuck.”
Through my giggles, I cling on to him so tight, I feel like I’m going to break him right apart.
“What old-fashioned thing do you have in mind?” I have to say it twice because the first time is just a blubber of noise against his shoulder.
He shifts my hair back from my forehead. “Letters. Actual letters. We can hide them.”
I pull back into the fort an inch. “How long have you been thinking about this?”
He shrugs. “Roughly since I met you. If you fold up a piece of paper into quarters, it fits right into a sandwich bag.”
And so it’s settled. We’re going to write letters, old-fashioned letters, and hide them for each other. In the Zen garden.
We are those people.
We get dressed, piece by sad piece, and finally stand face to face against the locked door. My fist to his chest, I say, “Promise me this isn’t the last time.”
“This is only the beginning.”
As we leave, under the gently falling snow, we agree on a gap between the stones, three rows up, four rows over, right behind the Japanese elm.
And just as I’m leaving the Zen garden, he whispers, “Thank you.”
The snow falls softly between us, dampening our whispers a little. I answer, “See you tomorrow. At breakfast.”
The next morning is icy, with ice pellets flying from the sky onto the granite sidewalks. One of those terrifying days that makes me wonder if the entire legal staff of Yale just sits around crossing their fingers and actually praying to Jesus that nobody slips on a staircase and splits their head open.
Lucy and I go to breakfast, arms out on either side of us and legs at awkward angles.
Once inside the dining hall, things are far less exciting, but at least we’re warm. With our scarves and hats still on, we make our rounds through the dining area. Nothing seems good, not even cinnamon rolls. So I settle for my old childhood standby, slightly stale Raisin Bran. Dad was frugal, I’ll give him that much. We sit down at a table by the window. It’s got two advantages: It’s only big enough for the two of us, and it has a direct line of sight to the Master’s house. It’s a little wavy through the old panes, but clear enough.
This morning, I realized I didn’t even come home with underwear on. There’s no way we left it in the suite, I’m sure of that, because I double-checked. He must have grabbed it for me. I love that idea, him grabbing something of mine. Something to keep and hold on to.
Lucy sits down across from me, and I pick up my spoon, pursuing a raisin through the milk.
“Some study session. I heard you come in and it was almost midnight,” she says.
“Constitutional law, you know,” I say. I stuff my mouth with an entire day’s serving of fiber.
She purses her lips while she peels the wrapper off a tiny blueberry muffin. “You’re glowing, you know,” she says.
I put my finger to my cheek. “Windburn?”
And out comes a garbled “Bullshit!” from around the muffin she’s just eaten whole.
I try to be serious about my Raisin Bran. Forget it. Every few seconds, I glance out the window. All I want to know is everything about him. How he takes his coffee, how he folds his shirts. How he looks standing buck naked in my room.
From the corner of my eye, I see movement. I freeze with Bran in my mouth. He’s wearing chinos and those damned loafers—when will he accept that this weather is here to stay?—along with a new winter coat. I notice symmetrical folds on the chest, like it’s just come out of a shipping box. Something about him shopping online for coats by himself kind of breaks my heart. He does put on this awesome beanie though, so at least he’s got that.
First thing that happens after he steps out of his door? He takes a spectacular spill on the steps.
“Oh my God,” Lucy says, chortling. “California never prepared him for this.”
I have an impulse to run out the door and help him. He’s lost his hat on the ice, rubbing his elbow. But he’s a big boy. So damned cute besides. After a few slips and slides, he gets up and grips the railing like he’s temporarily paralyzed.
Forcing myself to look away, I chase a soggy flake around the milk.
Lucy makes a long, “Hmmmmmm.” I don’t dare look up. I’m positive I’ve given myself away. But when I do look at her, she’s tackling a banana and doing something on her phone. Now I see him cross the quad, talking on his cellphone. No gloves. I feel like we’re going to get to full winter wear in stages. He makes some yes I hear you-type gestures and then sort of idly wanders into the Zen garden.
My heart wallops my rib cage.
Half a minute later, he emerges.
A rush of excitement fills my whole body. “I need to get back to work.”
Lucy looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “It’s ten on a Sunday. What work? Let’s go sit in the sauna at the gym.”
I snatch up my tray and bolt. “Constitutional law. It’s complicated!”
As I’m heading to
dump my forks and plate, I intercept him in the front doorway. We don’t look at each other, not even for an instant. But I swear to God, I can feel the weight of the air change as we pass one another.
However, as I’m shuffling straight-legged towards the Zen garden, I realize this was an idiot move. I can’t go jaunting in there and running back out.
Naomi. This man is making mush of your brain.
So instead of getting his letter, I make the sensible choice and head up to my room. After the breakfast rush has passed and I’ve been pretending to be busy for forty minutes. Lucy leaves for her Pilates class, and I sneak back downstairs with my ancient Yaktrax on my boots now. In the designated place in the garden, I find a piece of folded paper encased in a sandwich bag.
It isn’t Poldark. It’s better.
I tell myself not to dilly-dally. I can’t be standing there in the snow reading a love letter from the Master of Durham, can I?
Apparently I can because I am. With my back to the world, facing my stairway door, I open the letter as balls of snow roll of the page like sugar. His handwriting is lovely, strong and meaningful, no hesitation at all. It’s the same as on the whiteboard in class, but tidier and steadier. Occasionally he’ll slip an errant capital letter into his words, and it just makes it look all the more manly and confident. It doesn’t have my name on it or his, but says:
Beautiful,
My only regret is that I didn’t wake up with you in my arms. I looked for you in my bed but you weren’t there. You need to be there. I refuse to wash your smell off me. Maybe I’ll never shower again.
Yours,
B
I press the letter to my chest and raise my face to the snow. I’m smiling so hard, it pinches my cheeks. I take a deep stinging breath and wonder if it’s possible to be so happy. But when I open my eyes, my happiness is doubled because standing behind the French doors of his house is Ben, smiling back at me.
Professed Page 12