by Penny Reid
He turned me in a sweeping motion so that my back was against the door and his hands roamed down my sides, grabbing fistfuls of my sweater. Soon I felt his palms on my stomach and back, his fingers whispered over my flesh, up my side, cupped my breast through the thin fabric of my lace bra.
I moaned into his mouth and dug my nails into the muscles of his back, and our bare stomachs touched.
Alex rocked against me once, and I clamored, arched, and stretched my body in order to meet his center with mine.
But then he withdrew and took his hot hands and mouth with him. He turned away, his back to me, and the only sound in the room was our labored breathing. I leaned against the door fully for support, and I knew my gaze moved over his body with all the hungry concentration of a starving lioness.
Roawr! …and damn.
He was so adept—so very, very gifted—at stoking my fire then leaving me with a giant lady hard-on. In fact, I suspected maybe this was his superpower.
“Good.” He repeated, but this time he said it to the room.
When he turned to face me, his expression light, I wondered how he found it so easy to control himself. He’d once called me a machine. He was the machine. He was a robot. He was a start-up-Sandra’s-motor robot.
“Good?” I asked, because I didn’t feel good. I felt…unspent.
“We should get back. I don’t want….” His eyes searched mine, and I saw a measure of peace in them that hadn’t been there prior. “I mean, they’re usually not too crazy as long as I don’t disappear for long or too often.”
He held out his hand to me—not to shake, but to hold—and I didn’t hesitate to fit mine in his grasp.
CHAPTER 13
Saturday’s Horoscope: Your plans will be hijacked. Make the best of an impossible situation, and you might be surprised by the outcome.
I WOKE UP Saturday morning feeling refreshed and alert. I imagined I was in one of those old-school TV commercials, my hair perfectly coiffed as I awaken, breathing in the aroma of coffee brewing with a smile on my face.
This was only two-thirds true. Yes, I was smiling. Yes, an automatic timer on my coffee machine ensured that caffeine was only minutes away; but no, my hair wasn’t perfect. Also, I had eye crust and dried saliva at the corner of my mouth.
Alex, not the coffee, was the reason for my smile.
We’d emerged from the storage room the night before, we walked—quite brazenly with me tucked under his arm—down the sidewalks of Chicago like normal people. We then collected my coat and purse and parted in front of my building. As a parting gift he gave me another zingingly zingish kiss. But first, plans were made for a Saturday afternoon outing at the Chicago Art Institute.
When I walked into my apartment Friday night, I did a little happy spin dance and began searching Ravelry’s knitting pattern database for appropriate knitwear man-patterns. Alex was inadequately attired for a Chicago winter. I wanted to warm him up; the desire to wrap him in heat-trapping fiber was strong.
It is a universally acknowledged, inalienable truth that a knitter faced with the unadorned neck, head, and hands of a person she cares for feels an overwhelming compulsion to smother that person in fancy hand-knits.
I gave in to this instinct at once and cast on a manly hat pattern using my treasured stash of bulky black cashmere that I’d been saving for a cozy sweater. The yardage would be enough for a hat, scarf, and gloves. The hat was finished four hours later. I am a super-fast knitter, and bulky weight yarn works up quickly.
My last order of business before falling blissfully asleep Friday night was to text Thomas, both to thank him and to cancel our Saturday lunch. It read, You walk in beauty, like a knight in shining armor. Also, no lunch tomorrow. My shirt is in the shop for repairs. I love you like MC Hammer loves Gestalt Theory.
After coffee and toast for breakfast—I was a lazy breakfast eater—I set to work on Alex’s matching scarf. I made steady progress until the time came for me to dress for our date.
I considered bringing the hat with me to the gallery, but ultimately decided to wait until the set was complete. I didn’t want to give him his gifts piecemeal. I hoped that if I foisted the set on him all at once, he might feel overwhelmed enough to wear it.
The Art Institute was a good place to meet. I’d have to leave my coat and purse in a locker. However, Alex had explained the night before that we might be watched and recorded through the gallery’s cameras. He told me I’d have to cover my mouth if I wanted to say something without them detecting my words.
It felt sensational, and so very cloak and dagger. I discovered I was just peculiar enough to be excited by the prospect.
I decided to wear a thick cowl around my neck just in case I wanted to tuck my chin into the knit fabric and say something without my lips being read.
Thus, instead of meeting Thomas for our usual and predictable subdued lunch at Hotel Blake, I walked into the Art Institute just after noon on Saturday, oversized cowl in place.
I scanned the entrance lobby for Alex and felt goofy excited at the prospect of going out with him again. In fact, I didn’t try to tame the exuberance from suffusing my expression. He materialized seemingly from nowhere, maybe from a column at my left. Regardless, one minute he was absent and the next he was there. His large hand engulfed my elbow.
His attention was elsewhere as he pressed my ticket into my hand and firmly led us toward the locker room. His eyes scanned the lobby with a studiously disinterested, menacing glare. To an outsider, it might have looked like he was up to no good and hijacking me. Without speaking, he pressed a key into my hand and tilted his chin toward the matching cubby number. I nodded once, marched to the locker, discarded my coat, gloves, and hat, and turned the lock.
I brought no purse and no phone; instead, I stuffed my keys and some cash in my coat pocket.
Alex fitted his hand in mine, tugged me toward the gallery entrance, showed the nice looking lady our tickets and entrance stickers, and then we were inside. We gained several steps toward the European wing and breached its borders before Alex spoke.
“Have you been here before?” His eyes scanned the painting in front of us. He still hadn’t looked at me.
“Yes. I used to bring my lunch here and eat it in front of a different painting or sculpture every day.”
He looked at me; his eyes were full of wonder and—if I was reading him correctly—admiration. “That’s a great idea.”
“Thanks.” My smile was bright and receptive because he looked dichotomously sweet and menacing. “I thought so. I stopped coming when the snow hindered my will to venture outside. This was a few years ago, and I just never started back up again.”
Alex moved my hand to the crook of his elbow and covered it with his own. “Where did you stop?”
“The last painting was Monet’s Apples and Grapes. But I did get through most of the impressionists.”
“Do you mind showing them to me? The ones you’ve already seen? Tell me about them….”
I shrugged; I liked how we were walking in unison, how we glided, how our strides were perfectly matched. “Sure, but don’t expect great observations. Mostly I just looked for dirty pictures hidden within the artwork. Did you know Monet put a boob in all his paintings? Apples and Grapes—get it? I mean, come on. The guy was a horn-dog.”
As we spoke, I felt the tension ease from his muscles, and I noted that Alex’s omnipresent guarded and menacing aura began to melt away. Yes—he had donned his typical all black, this time paired with a silver wallet chain that hooked to his belt loop; the jagged scar on his chin was still sinister; his dark hair was still cut in a semi-mohawk that yelled subversive and yodeled dangerous.
But his eyes relaxed behind the horn-rimmed glasses, and the set of his jaw belied a reluctant smile rather than a grimace.
“He did not.”
“He did.”
“No. He wouldn’t have.”
“You know those French impressionists; all they did was fornicate,
drink absinthe, and play dominoes.”
Alex’s smile finally broke free and he laughed. My stomach performed a quadruple cartwheel and wobbled on the dismount. Even though I’d only heard his laugh during our date weeks ago, I’d missed it.
His arm slipped around my shoulders and he kissed my forehead. My hand hugged his waist briefly; then, I thought better of the opportunity and slipped my fingers into the back pocket of his jeans over his well-sculpted bottom.
Score!
We continued in this way—being nauseatingly adorable—for the next four-ish hours. Periodically, he’d surprise me by demonstrating a thorough working knowledge of basically everything about the collections in the Institute as well as art history, art theory, and the lives of the artists. He’d parse facts, ration them, and pique my curiosity, which led to me question him further.
He turned out to be my tour guide.
Even more surprising was how he was able to share knowledge without coming across as a know-it-all blowhard—again with the stealth smarts. He astonished me.
But mostly we spoke of nothing of consequence. I insisted on phantom boobs where none existed, and Alex alternately argued with me, pinched me, or kissed me. Eventually I maneuvered to his left so that I could be sure to witness the dimple when it made an appearance.
It was the best ever.
The…best…ever.
At one point, I forgot that everything we were saying was probably being recorded. According to Alex, there was a very real possibility that lip reading experts would later be translating our conversation; coding experts might try to decrypt our real intent, look for a pattern, and decipher our conversation’s hidden meaning—even if it didn’t have one.
Instead, like the smitten idiot that I obviously was, I relished our time together after being apart for two weeks. I reveled in the silly. I rejoiced in our shared desire to forget—at least for a little while—that we were anything but normal.
***
REALITY MADE AN appearance during dinner.
Before leaving the gallery, we gathered my things and Alex’s pitiful windbreaker from the locker room. A conveyer belt sushi restaurant three blocks from my apartment was our plan for dinner. It was so cold outside that neither of us tried to speak as we walked. I did, however, insist that Alex wear my cowl.
“To add a splash of color,” I asserted.
Knit in a chunky grey yarn, the neck warmer was a unisex pattern. Thick Celtic cables wound around a Mobius design. Though it could have easily been a man’s cowl, I expected him to reject the idea. He surprised me. After Alex ascertained that I’d knit it, he accepted it without argument.
I was glad he did, because I felt better knowing he was warmer. That he wore and even admired something I’d created may also have contributed to my happiness feels.
We entered the restaurant with me tucked under his arm. Once inside, I gave the hostess my name. I couldn’t help but note how her gaze lingered both appreciatively and warily on Alex. I knew how she felt.
“Take off your gloves and hat.” Alex said as he unzipped me, his voice barely above a whisper. “Put them in the pockets of your coat.”
I did as instructed and relinquished my jacket to his care. He, in turn and as soon as we were shown our table, passed it to the hostess.
“Hey, I need you to hold this for us. Do you have a coat room?”
The girl gave him a shy smile, her lashes fluttered. “No coat room, but I can keep it safe for you.” She indicated to the large hostess stand at the front and presumably a shelf or cubby where my bulky jacket could be stored.
Alex nodded at her, mumbled the word good, then—as though dismissing her—turned back to me.
I surveyed him, wondered why he was so stingy with his thank yous, considered the possibility that he may never have been taught. But the girl quickly departed and his next words drove all Miss Manners’s lessons from my mind.
“I’ve never had sushi before.”
I allowed my expression to demonstrate the fact that I found his words to be suspect. “Never? How is that possible?”
“I don’t get out much.” He split his attention between me and an approaching plate of eel. “What is that?”
I pressed my lips together so I wouldn’t laugh. “That is eel.”
“Eel?” He looked and sounded horrified, and he leaned away from the conveyor belt as it moved past.
“Yes. It’s actually sweet. You’ll like it.”
“I don’t think so. It looks disgusting.”
“Do you like honey?”
His eyes lifted to mine with a suddenness and intensity that made my insides flare, burn, and smolder.
“You know I do.”
Zing.
I liked the way his voice sounded at that moment maybe more than I liked oxygen.
“Then you’ll like eel.”
Alex studied me for a beat; his eyes narrowed and moved to my lips. “I’ll grab it the next time the plate comes around.”
I smiled. His gaze moved back to mine. He smiled. His gaze seemed to lose focus. He frowned.
Actually, he scowled.
It took me a full three seconds to realize he was no longer looking at me, but rather his glare was affixed to some point over my shoulder.
I pressed my foot against his leg to gain his attention then lifted my eyebrows in a silent question. Alex’s dark look lightened only slightly, his fury now tinged with regret. He buried his chin, mouth, and the tip of his nose into the fabric of my cowl.
“Agent Bell is here,” he mumbled into the thick knit, his voice barely an audible whisper.
I didn’t turn to confirm his statement. I did, however, recognize that her presence was akin to a castration cart at a slaughterhouse. Carefree Alex was likely gone for good as long as we stayed at the restaurant.
My mouth twisted to the side and I considered our predicament.
“Are you cold?” I said, because I had to say something. While I spoke, I pressed my finger to the condensation on my water glass. I furtively wrote on the wooden table with the liquid while saying, “The yarn is a blend of cashmere and merino wool.”
With my fingers, I wrote, My apartment? Then, once I was certain he’d read it, I wiped it away with my napkin.
“I actually knit it when I was in undergrad. The yarn cost so much I didn’t eat for a month after purchasing it.”
Alex, his lips still hidden, whispered, “No. It’s probably bugged by now.”
I wrote, So? No talking needed, as I leaned toward the conveyer belt and pretended to inspect a passing spicy tuna roll.
“I had to rely on the kindness of strangers. But it was completely worth starvation. Knitters are insane that way.” I continued the inane conversation while I set the tuna and the aforementioned eel on the table.
I detected plain irritation in his tone when he replied, “No.”
I wrote, YES! But all I said was, “Here is the eel. I promise you, you’ll like it.”
Alex pulled the cowl from the lower half of his face, eyes glaring, jaw ticking. I brought a piece of eel to my mouth and chewed. It was good, sweet.
Everything about him was the opposite of five minutes ago. He was somber. The menacing aura had returned. His eyes were shielded behind giant walls of ice.
This was extremely exasperating.
We would most likely encounter this type of situation with a great deal of frequency over the next few months. I refused to cower, or sulk, or feel irritated by Agent Bell’s presence. After all, she was only doing her job. No reason we should let it interfere with our happy fun times.
In retaliation for his frown, I licked my index finger, slowly…and with feeling.
“Mmm,” I moaned, glancing at him through my lashes, and I lowered the timbre of my voice until it reached sex-phone-operator sultry. “You know you want to.”
His eyes flashed and he swallowed; otherwise, my antics elicited no visible response. “I’m not hungry anymore.”
“Yo
u need to eat sometime; may as well be now.”
“I don’t want to eat with an audience.”
“Alex, rodeos have clowns, and restaurants have audiences.”
“Then I guess I’ll starve.”
We stared at each other. His jaw flexed.
I broke the silence and said, “You starving means that we both starve.”
He flinched at that, and something behind his glare shifted. I ate another bite of eel then followed it with two slices of spicy tuna. Alex seemed to consider the double meaning behind my words. After a protracted moment, he pressed his fingers to the condensation of his water glass and wrote on the table.
Instead of filling the silence with chatter, he opted to sample the last piece of eel.
I kept my eyes on him until his hand stilled. When I looked down, I read his message on the table: OK to your place, but no talking.
I couldn’t help the small tilt of my lips. Alex had no cause for concern, as I had no plans that involved talking.
***
I TOOK THE no-talking rule very seriously. In fact, neither of us spoke again. We ate our food in silence and made eyes at each other over plates of sushi. I hoped I read his expression correctly. It either said, I want to lose myself in your exquisitely beautiful body, or it said, You were right—this eel is fantastic.
He paid the check and I objected. Alex was a waiter and, for better or worse, I was pretty sure I made quite a lot more than he did. But I didn’t press the issue because my objection was met with an insulted glare and stony silence.
Usually I don’t dispute or offer to go halfsies. Maybe I’m old-fashioned, maybe it’s because my father brainwashed me, or maybe I’m a free-loading cow who is a blight on feminist principles, but I typically staunchly believe the man should pay for dinner, especially if it’s early in the relationship.
The other rule of early dating etiquette I usually follow is no intercourse until the seventh date or one month into declaring exclusivity—whichever came later—and they had to be real dates, not hanging out, meeting for lunch, or having a night at home watching TV.