He rattled around in the kitchen, cleaning up, stacking the dishwasher, not meeting her eyes.
“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it,” she said.
He closed the dishwasher drawer with a little more force than necessary, making silverware rattle. “It’s not okay. I’m having trouble dealing with the fact I don’t have the privilege of being in your life.”
He didn’t look at her until he finished that sentence, and when he did, it was to show his frustration and reflect her own confusion.
Sponge cake. Layers of sweetness and complexity. Cheesy toast. All the ingredients and knowing when to use them. Halsey was as unique as his alicorn. “I’m having trouble dealing with that, too.”
“Can we go back to the fantasy? We have the whole weekend.”
“I’d like that.”
He rounded the counter. “In the fantasy, I can feel you up under my shirt, carry you back to bed, and have my way with you.”
She stood on the stool rung and opened her arms to him. “Your way seems to be everything I like.” They met nose to nose and his hands slid under the T-shirt to spread over her butt, and she liked that, too.
“How is it I can’t get enough of you? Don’t let me take you some place you don’t want to go with all this.”
He could easily do that. But for now, she wasn’t thinking about Sunday night, about leaving and knowing that their future contact would be emails about the practical aspects of returning Cookie Jar’s money. For now, she was scraping her teeth over his bottom lip while she pressed as close to him as she could get, and he helped with that by holding her tight.
She was so gone on him, when a bell rang she wasn’t sure if it was in her head.
“I have to get that,” he said.
“I’m not sharing. They’ll go away.”
“It’s a delivery. We needed groceries.” He rubbed her back. “And maybe some other things.”
The bell rang again, and she let him go to answer it.
He came back with shopping bags and put a red one in front of her. “Much as I want to keep you naked all weekend, I thought you might feel a little vulnerable without your own clothes.”
She peeked in the bag. “You bought me clothes?”
“A little to get by on.”
The first thing she pulled out was a plain black tankini. “Your version of getting by might be different from mine.”
“There’s a pool. I thought you might like a swim.”
If it fit. She checked the tag. It was always hard to tell with swimwear.
The next thing out of the bag was a simple gray T-shirt dress like the one she’d worn when he’d first come to her apartment. It would definitely fit. There were black leather slides her size, a pair of wide-leg yoga pants, a tank with a matching linen cardigan, and plain cotton underwear.
“You checked my shoes for my size, but the rest?”
“I had to guess the rest from the labels in your scuba suit and bra. I want you to be comfortable, and I didn’t want you having to slink home in your sequins and pearls.”
“You didn’t have to do this.” It was unbelievably considerate. He didn’t splash out on sexy lingerie. He didn’t buy her a crotchless teddy or a naughty nurses outfit. He’d shopped carefully, spent moderately, and bought items that were practical and modest not to embarrass her, but for her comfort. She was overwhelmed again.
Best she could do while a thousand thoughts of how much she loved this, loved him for his thoughtfulness bounced around in her head, was to burrow into his arms.
In the bedroom, she pulled herself together, broke off the shop tags and removed labels, and bounced back into the living room dressed for a day of hanging out with her alicorn. The pants were fantastic, the tank a little tighter than she’d normally wear, but the grin he gave her made it worthwhile.
It was then she got the apartment tour. Four bedrooms, including the two she’d seen, and a home office that was half work space and half gallery. The furnishing in the rest of the loft was modern, expensive, and luxurious. His kitchen was gourmet, almost made her want to cook a meal in it. The office was all about the quirk. Halsey’s inner antique collecting freak flag was hoisted high. He had a huge wooden desk that might as well have been the Resolute. He had a collection of tiny old cameras hidden in tie pins, hats, walking canes, lighters, and pipes.
There was an awesome lipstick pistol and pair of spectacles that had a space in the arms that once held cyanide pills. She picked up a small metal bullet-shaped capsule and opened it to find a tiny rasp, saw, file, screwdriver, knife, and pliers and almost dropped it when he said it was a rectal tool kit from the sixties.
He grinned at her. “It’s my museum of devious doings. Now that you’ve seen this, you know all there is to know about me.”
Not yet she didn’t. She didn’t know what he looked like unshaven or what made him sad or how to reconcile the contrary concepts of Halsey as a genuine, caring, best-of-breed boyfriend with the fact he was a fake. In that, it was like her father all over again.
She waggled the capsule at him. “Have you ever had cause to—”
He took it out of her hand. “No. Zeke, however…”
And the more immediate concern was that she didn’t know how he’d react when she was the instigator of devious things. “Have you ever done it on the desk?”
He frowned and then the sun rose in his eyes. “No. I work at that desk.”
“If I moved this old typewriter…?”
“Remington.”
“And that old telephone…?”
“Stomberg Carlson candlestick.”
“And your laptop and that, whatever that is.” A small glass trinket box with a hinged onyx lid.
“It’s an art deco inkwell.”
“And if I took off my new pants and sat right up there on that leather pad, you wouldn’t be tempted to do me on the desk?”
He groaned. “It would be uncomfortable.”
“That would be half the fun.”
She didn’t drop her pants. She took off her top because the new bra was cut differently from what she’d normally wear, and she was more out of it than in it. “Also, I might be virgin at desk sex. Gird your alicorn.”
His mouth dropped open. Any decision he was going to make that didn’t include sex on the desk in the museum of devious was knocked clear out of his head by what she’d said, how she looked, and how much he wanted to touch her.
It took all of five seconds for him to clear the surface of the desk, lose his T-shirt, and come at her, boosting her up to sit on the cool, green, leather writing pad and planting hot lips on her collarbone.
Fingers busy at the clasp of her bra, he said, “Zeke says my desk is an extension of my dick. He might be right.” He cut off her laugh with a kiss and then broke away to deal with pants: hers, his. “He can’t ever know about this.”
They did the devious on the desk. Twice. Once with Lenny laid back over it and a second time with her standing, her hands on its surface, braced, with Halsey doing wonderous things to her from behind. It was intense, a little bruising, and she loved it.
“I will never be able to sit at this desk again and not remember you spread out for me,” he said, one hand between her legs, the other pinning her back to him.
“I’m not unhappy about that.”
He bit her earlobe lightly. “Not fair play.”
“Life is unfair, and then you die.”
Or orgasm, if you were very, very lucky and the man who held you knew how to pay attention to the secrets your body gave up to him and the lies your brain told you.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Sex always made Halsey hungry. Sex with Lenny made him feel like he could eat a forest green Mercedes-Benz 280SL Coupe Roadster. He cooked linguini with shrimp for lunch, served it with a side salad, and they ate while watching an episode of Mindhunter.
It should’ve been an episode of Good Behavior. Although the show annoyed him, it would’ve reminded him he wasn�
��t playing for keeps no matter how much Lenny liked his pasta and his body.
On his big comfy sectional, with Lenny in his arms, they dozed, something he never did during the day. When she stirred, he made coffee and they snuggled up again while rain thumped down outside, and Lenny talked about her objectives for D4D. He had to prod her to get her started, but once she did, she became animated about on-the-ground partners and case studies and experiments in minimum wage welfare.
He could listen to her forever. Fell in love with her enthusiasm and her knowledge and her passion. When she got tired of talking and stalked his lips, he fell in love with how those qualities pertained directly to him. There was enthusiasm in the way she climbed over his legs to straddle him, knowledge she’d gained in how he liked to be touched in her hands, and passion he tasted on her tongue.
“We’re getting good at this making-out thing,” she said between kisses.
So good it almost erased all desire to do anything else, to think anything else but that this should be forever.
“Feel like a swim?”
They could find a temporary forever in the Jacuzzi.
There was no one using the pool deck. He set the jets going, got rid of his pants and shirt, and wearing the Speedos he swam laps in, stepped into the warm water.
“This suit is a little small,” Lenny said as she unwrapped her robe and tossed it on a bench.
“Not too small.”
She put her fingers to the legs of the pants and wiggled it back into place over her ass. “You’re not the one wearing it.”
He made a play of covering his eyes, peeking through his fingers. “I won’t look.”
There was a snap, snap of elastic before she stepped into the spa across from him, the water traveling up her legs and stopping midthigh. There was something about the way she ducked down and then stood again, wet to her shoulders, the way the suit stuck to her skin, raking high on her hipbone, outlining her body, and her moan of delight that made him go hard.
“The way you’re looking at me, I hardly mind this is two sizes too small.” She ducked under again and floated across to the seat opposite him. “The water is gorgeous.”
He was lost for words, because all he had were corny ones. She was gorgeous, outside and in.
She touched her toes to his shin. “Sorry I talked at you for so long about D4D.”
“I liked hearing about it.” Her ambitions and dreams were more tangible to him now. Her passion more inspiring.
Her struggle would be keen. She was Jeffrey Bradshaw’s daughter, and Bradshaw had stolen from people who couldn’t afford to lose and would never forget it. They’d never give Lenny the benefit of trust. He tried to tamp down his concern. It wasn’t his place to make her doubt.
“You’re a good listener.” Her toes trailed up to his knee and down to his ankle again. They helped him manage the impulse to offer advice she wouldn’t want.
He rubbed the sole of his other foot over her instep. They’d played at so many things in the short time they’d been seeing each other, but there was something so simple and honest about footsie it made him deliriously happy.
“It all falls apart if I can’t secure a strong pipeline of donations. My direct mail open rate is low, and I’m not getting any invitations anywhere. I’m worried I’m not on the scene enough,” she said.
“I’d offer to be one of your donors, but I know you don’t want my dirty money.”
She flicked water at his face. “The confusing thing is that your dirty money already goes to do good. I have trouble wrapping my brain around that. I can’t dislike you for it.” She let her arms drift out to her sides, skimming the water. “I thought my picture in the social pages might help. Perhaps I have to change my name first.”
“How do you feel about changing your name?” It’s what the families of convicted felons often did to get away from the shame, to start again.
“It could be good, especially for Mallory, shifting to Mom’s maiden name. I’d be Lenore Dresden. It doesn’t sound too horrible.”
Lenore Sherwood sounded better.
Jesus Christ.
He dumped himself under and came up with mineral water streaming from his hair. What was wrong with him? Shut that down. Lenny didn’t need that. She didn’t need anything he had to give, except sex and someone she could talk to who wasn’t going to judge.
He reached for her, and she came into his arms, both of them groaning on contact. She sucked at his neck, and he floated her into his lap with no idea what he was supposed to do with the sideways slew his brain had taken. This was a weekend, and it had always been clear there was too much more wrong than right between them. A bad guy, good girl, set up where there was no redemption if they stayed together.
He kissed her neck and jaw, slid on the wetness of her skin, found her mouth, and tried to lose himself in her. The swimsuits were flimsy barriers, a good deal of Lenny’s ass was available for his hands, and her suit was cut low over her breasts, her nipples barely covered. The water lapped at her ribs. He kissed across her chest then rolled the suit to expose her breast, covering it with his hand.
“We can’t here,” she said.
“Hmmm.” He pinched her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. He shouldn’t be thinking they could, but then, she shouldn’t be rubbing against his cock. He ducked his head and latched onto her nipple, and her moan echoed on the tiles.
“Oh God, that’s good. Maybe we could.” She put her hand to his cock and squeezed, then she had it out of his suit. “I’m virgin in a Jacuzzi.”
Couldn’t have that. “Come slay my alicorn.”
With Lenny astride him, he was able to push past the elastic leg of her suit and inside her. If anyone came in, they had the cover of bubbles and their bodies, and since the door was at the other end of the lap pool, they’d get some warning.
“I don’t even care if we get caught, because I want this.” She tugged his head up so they could kiss, and he thrust till he was seated inside her to the hilt. The pleasure hit was intense. With her natural lubricant washed away, everything was tighter and more urgent.
He had the straps of her suit off her shoulders and her breast bobbing free before he set up a slow rock of his hips. He didn’t know if he could get her to come this way, but it was electrifying, and since she was squeezing him inside and rocking her hips, her back arched, hands gripping his arms, she thought so, too.
The pressure was different this way, more friction, and the edge of her suit caught the side of him and that was an extra stimulant, but everything was weightless, and he needed both hands to hold on to her.
“Could you come?”
She lay her torso back, arms wide, floating. “I don’t know. You?”
“Yeah.”
“Go on. It feels good.”
A few thrusts up while he held her hips down and that’s all it took. He came with a shout that was loud enough it could be heard on the street, and Lenny sat and wrapped around him, her face tucked into his neck, laughing.
“You needed that,” she said.
He used her wet hair to turn her face so they could kiss. He wanted to block out how much he needed that, how much he wanted Lenny to be part of the rest of his life. “Owe you one.”
She nipped his ear. “I think you’re good for it.”
He could barely move. The heat of the water, how he felt about Lenny, and the release had done him in, but he was plotting how to even the score when the door to the pool deck clanged shut. They pulled apart, Lenny fixing her suit as an enormous pink flamingo floated past on the surface of the lap pool.
“Will you let me cook for you?” she asked.
He’d let her do anything she wanted to him.
He’d let her leave.
Back in the apartment, both showered and dressed, Lenny rummaged in his fridge and pantry. He’d already suggested ordering in, but she was insistent. “The least I can do is feed you.”
The last date who’d cooked for him was…
total blank. It must’ve happened at some point, but the dates had been thin on the ground for a long time now, which is probably what made this time with Lenny feel special. It wasn’t just great sex. He was starved for honest affection. He needed to remember that. For his mental health, he needed to find a way to fill that part of his life.
Lenny hummed while she cooked steaks and tossed a salad. He set the table and did the whole fancy-cut-glass candlesticks and best silverware thing, with Sam Smith crooning as background music and an orange sunset that was a better backdrop than anything he could’ve magicked up himself. They had one more day of make-believe. One more day to pretend they were any ordinary couple going deeper with each other.
If he could break all the clocks in the world, nuke Pacific Time, Mountain Time, Central Time, and every other zone that was going to call the end to this weekend he would, to keep them in this suspended state of pleasure.
He barely noticed what the meal tasted like. He noticed everything about Lenny—the tiny scar on her cheek, the way her lips came to bow peaks, her ears neat and perfect for holding random lengths of hair away from her face. The way her eyes broadcast as much mischief as they did determination. She’d tied her damp hair up into some messy arrangement on the top of her head, pieces of it falling softly around her face in a tousled look he found impossibly seductive for all its lack of art.
Their bare feet were tangled under the table, and their conversation was tiptoeing on the edge of reality.
“Thank you for a lovely meal,” he said.
She raised her glass of wine. “For a lovely day. I feel like I’m on vacation, not twenty minutes from home.”
“The advantage is no jetlag.”
She broke eye contact. “You really think I won’t feel jetlag.”
He abandoned his seat, went to her side, and took her hand, bringing her to stand. “I think we’re both wearing rose-colored glasses.” That wasn’t his whole truth, but they’d gone deep and could both drown in the sentiment, and that wouldn’t work for Lenny.
To Sam’s “Pray,” a song about fear and hope, he led her from the table into a space away from the sharp edges of furniture and took her in his arms.
Fool Me Forever (Confidence Game) Page 20