“I don't know, Carter,” she says. “I really don't.”
I nod. “I hate that I understand, but I do,” I say. “But, let me ask you a question, is there anything inside of you, any small part whatsoever, that wants to give me a second chance?”
She sighs and sits back in her seat. I can see her conflicting emotions playing out on her face. Which tells me that some small part of her wants to give me a second chance. Good news for me. All I need to do is capitalize on it.
“I really don't know right now, Carter,” she says. “If I'm being honest, then yes, a small part of me wants to give you a second chance.”
“That's good then,” I say. “That's something I can work with.”
“But, I can't trust you,” she says. “You walked away and hurt me once. Very badly. I honestly don't know if I can come back from that.”
“Well, that's not as good,” I reply. “I believe we can come back from it though. In fact, I know we can.”
“Why, Carter?” she asks. “Why are you working so hard to make this happen?”
“Because it matters to me,” I say. “Because you matter to me.”
“After all these years?” she asks. “Why?”
I lean across the table, my eyes earnest, and fixed on hers.
“Because you're mine, Darby,” I say. “And I'm yours. That's the way it was meant to be. And fate, or whatever you want to call it, is giving us another chance, and I'm not willing to let it go. Never again.”
There's uncertainty on her face, but also something more – a deep, hidden yearning. She's trying to keep it in check, refusing to give herself over to it completely. She's fighting hard to keep her emotions locked down inside, but I can see the struggle going on inside of her.
But, it's there, all the same. I can see it. I know this isn’t going to be easy, and that she's going to be a tough nut to crack.
Nevertheless, knowing that some small piece of her wants this – that believes we can come back from the past – is a start.
Chapter Twelve
Darby
My mind is a chaotic whirlwind of thought and emotion. On the one hand, I can't believe I'm sitting in the back of a car, enjoying an evening with Carter freaking Bishop. On the other hand, I'm appalled that I'm sitting in the back of a car, enjoying an evening with Carter freaking Bishop.
He seems sincere about wanting to earn my trust and repair the damage from ten years ago. He seems sincere about wanting to be with me again. And I'd be lying if I said I didn't get a little bit of a thrill when he said – more than a few times – that I was his. That I belonged to him.
There was a time when I wanted nothing more than to be his. To have him lay his claim to me. Possess me. Mostly because I knew it was a two-way street.
But, that was a long time ago. A lot has happened over the last decade and so much has changed. Can we really just pick up where we'd left off? Could I carry on like nothing ever happened? More importantly, do I want to?
Carter's changed a lot over the last ten years. He dresses a lot nicer. He obviously has a lot more money. He's a lot stronger today than he was back then. He no longer tries to hide his intelligence or forces himself to talk like an uneducated street kid. He's a lot more comfortable in his skin than he was back then.
Yet, some things haven't changed. Not one bit. He's still fiery and has a take-no-shit attitude. That attitude seems even stronger than before. Maybe the fact that he presides over such a vast financial empire, and has more money than anything, has only fostered that feeling in him.
He still makes me laugh like he always did, though. His irreverent sense of humor hasn't changed a bit. He still challenges me intellectually – a rarity among the men I've dated. He pushes me. And, he's sexy as hell.
The fact remains, however, that he'd devastated me. He'd taken my young, fragile heart, and set it ablaze. And I don't know if I can ever move past that. A small part of me thinks I can. Another part of me says otherwise.
“Where are we going now?” I ask.
“You'll see.”
As the car winds through the crowded city streets, my curiosity only deepens. We're heading into Brooklyn for some odd reason. After another twenty minutes or so, the car pulls to a stop at a curb in front of a small building. His driver opens the door and we slide out. Carter says a few words to the driver and then offers his arm to me. I take it, looking at the neighborhood around us.
Big chunks of Brooklyn are being redeveloped as the hipsters move in, start nesting, and take over.
The evening is cool, which is nice. One too many mojitos left my skin feeling a little warm by the time we left the restaurant, but as we step out of the vehicle, I feel the chill, and pull my cardigan around me a little tighter.
“You know, what I said at the gala was true,” Carter says. “About you being the one to open my eyes to everything, and teaching me to really see and appreciate art.”
“Yeah?” I ask.
He nods. “I meant every word I said.”
“That's sweet, Carter.”
“You've enriched my life in more ways than I can even begin to list,” he goes on. “It sounds trite, but you broadened my perspective in so many different ways, Darby. And there isn't a single day over the last decade that I didn't wish I could reach out and tell you that.”
“I think you give me too much credit.”
He shakes his head. “Actually, I don't think I give you enough,” he says. “Nobody has had a bigger influence or impact on my life – and on me personally – as you. Well, you and Pops, but for entirely different reasons, obviously.”
I don't know what to say, but without thinking, I lay my head on his shoulder as we stroll. There is a sudden warmth spreading through me that has nothing to do with the mojitos from dinner. No, this warmth is something else entirely. It's something I know well. And something I know I should be terrified of, but for some reason, I’m not scared. Not at the moment, at least.
No, at the moment, I'm enjoying being with Carter. Somehow, everything just feels… right. I want to hang on to this feeling as long as I can.
“Here we are,” he says.
I lift my head and look at the building standing before us. I slide my eyes over at Carter, feeling a smile spreading across my face.
“I stumbled onto this place a while back and make a point of stopping by now and then,” Carter says. “There are some interesting pieces in there, but I think, walking around in there and taking it all in, somehow made me feel closer to you, like I was still connected to you. It sounds silly to say out loud, but it's true.”
“It doesn't sound all that silly to me. It’s sweet, actually,” I say. “I've heard of this place. I haven’t had the time to check it out yet. I've always meant to.”
“Well, no time like the present.”
Carter escorts me to the door of Morton's Gallery of Modern Urban Art, and holds it open for me. He follows me inside and lets the door swing shut behind us. The inside of the gallery is neat and clean, every exhibit perfectly lit, and the variety of work is utterly amazing.
“Carter,” comes a deep, booming voice. Good to see you, brotha.”
“Harold,” Carter replies. “Good to see you too, man.”
Carter turns and smiles, pulling a large, black man into a tight embrace. They pound on each other's backs like men do when they hug – as if that somehow makes it manlier and more acceptable or something. Carter isn't a small guy, but Harold practically dwarfs him. Six-foot-six and easily three hundred and fifty pounds – pretty much all muscle, from what I can tell. Harold’s hair is dark and shot through with gray, and he wears black-rimmed glasses, and a neatly-trimmed goatee.
Carter steps back and motions to me. “Darby, this is Harold Allen,” he says. “He owns the gallery.”
“Very nice to meet you, Harold,” I say.
I hold out my hand and Harold takes it. My hand looks like the hand of a newborn infant in his giant paw, but his touch is surprisingly light an
d gentle.
“Nice to meet you as well, Darby.”
“Harold here used to play pro football,” Carter says. “He was a tight end with the Eagles for about a thousand years.”
“Seven years,” he says. “I'm not Methuselah, kid.”
Harold's laugh is good natured and infectious, and I find myself smiling.
“I – I'm sorry,” I say. “I don't watch much football.”
“That's okay, sweetheart,” he says. “The team I was on aren’t worth watching anyway.”
“From pro football to urban art?” I ask. “That seems like quite a radical change.”
He shrugs. “I've always enjoyed art,” he says. “Got a scholarship to play football, and a degree in art history from the very outstanding University of Michigan.”
“Wow,” I remark. “That's amazing.”
“Anyway, nice to see you both,” Harold says. “Please, take a look around and let me know if you have any questions.”
“Thanks, man,” Carter says.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Of course.”
Harold gives us a smile and walks away, his massive frame disappearing among the displays. Carter puts his hand on the small of my back and starts to guide me through the gallery.
“What turned you on to this place?” I ask.
He shrugs. “You did.”
“Me? How so?”
“The first couple of times we went out, you took me to look at street art, you called it. Do you remember that?” he asks. “At the time I remember saying it was just graffiti, and you – changed my mind about it. You opened my eyes. To that, and a lot of other things.”
I laugh. “Wow. And here I thought you were just humoring me by going along.”
He shakes his head. “If I'm being honest, I thought I was too. At first, anyway,” he says. “But, seeing those murals and whatnot through your eyes, having you talk to me about them, hearing you share your perspective – it really got to me.”
I look at him, stunned by his revelation. I really thought he was just humoring me back then. But I can see by the way he’s looking at some of the pieces that he has a genuine appreciation for them. It makes me happy.
“I mean, don't get me wrong,” he says. “I'll never know as much about art as you do. I'm sure you forget more every day than I'll ever know. But, there are some pieces I've seen – and collected – that really speak to me. And I seem to recall you saying something about that – about good art being able to resonate with you.”
“I never thought I'd hear anything like that fall out of your mouth, to be honest,” I say.
He laughs and gives me a sly wink. “Yeah, it surprised the hell out of me too,” he admitted. “But, it really speaks to the impact you had on me, and my life, Darby. And maybe, that tells you a little more about why I'm not willing to give it up again, now that I have a second chance.”
“Very smooth,” I say.
“Just the truth.”
I punch him in the arm playfully and we continue through the gallery. I'm more focused on the paintings and sculptures than anything else.
We stroll around the gallery for close to an hour, examining all the pieces on display. There are some beautiful, evocative pieces that I take pictures of to save for later. We say goodbye to Harold, but as we go to the door, Carter stops me.
“Hang on, I forgot that I needed to talk to Harold about something.”
I nod. “Oh, okay.”
He steps away, walking over to speak to Harold. Their voices are low, and I can't make out what they're saying, but the big man starts to laugh and claps Carter on the shoulder. A moment later, he rejoins me at the door and we step back out into the night.
Arm in arm, we walk back down toward where Roger is waiting with the car.
“Thank you,” I say. “That was really amazing.”
I give him a smile and take his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. As we slip into the back seat, and Roger closes the door, Carter turns to me, a look of earnestness in his face.
“Will you come home with me?” he asks.
Everything in my brain screams no. That I should pump the brakes, and stop before the train runs straight off the tracks. I know I shouldn't even be entertaining the idea, since we're still so early in – whatever this is. I still honestly don't even know if I'm going to give him a second chance. I only came tonight to stop him from stop hanging around my classroom. So, I open my mouth to tell him so.
“Yes.”
My eyes widen, and my mouth falls open when I hear the word that just passed my lips. Maybe, it was the mojitos. Maybe, it was getting wrapped up in all of my old, leftover feelings from a decade ago.
More than likely, it's a combination of all those things, and probably more, but when I look into Carter's eyes, I realize I want him more than anything else. The warmth that has been spreading inside of me all night, has finally consumed me, throwing all logical, rational thought out the window.
In that moment, I have to feel him inside of me again.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
I nod. “Yes.”
* * *
“Wow,” I say. “You've certainly come a long way from Hell's Kitchen.”
I stand before the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the twinkling lights of Midtown Manhattan spread out below. The view I have from my own place in the Upper East Side – the condo I inherited after my aunt and uncle passed – is nice. This, however, is something else.
The lights in Carter's condo are dim. Candles burn on the mantel above the oversized fireplace, and on some of the small tables scattered around the main room, while soft jazz music plays from a hidden sound system. There is a sunken living room behind me. A massive fireplace takes up one wall, and two couches face each other, with a heavy glass table sitting between them.
His place is beautiful and very tastefully decorated, with simple, subtle furnishings. Beautiful works of art adorn the walls, and although it's obvious Carter has money, nothing about his place flaunts that fact. It's actually rather – restrained. Understated.
Some folks with a lot of money feel the need to flaunt it. To let everybody who steps through their doors know that they’re wealthy.
My aunt and uncle were that way, and after they passed, I had most of the stuff either boxed up and stored, or outright sold. I had no use for it, and didn’t want to become one of those stereotypes.
In the reflection off the windows, I see him approaching me from behind. My body tenses and I feel a ripple of anticipation pass through me when he slips his hands around my waist. When he presses his lips to my neck, kissing his way from my ear to my collarbone, I let out a soft moan as currents of pleasure roll through me. I raise my arm and run my hands through his hair as his tongue traces my skin.
“I've dreamed about this for ten years,” he says softly.
Gripping my waist a little tighter, he pulls me against him and I feel the length of his erection pressing against me. Heat blossoms between my thighs and I feel myself growing impossibly wet.
The truth of the matter is, for the last ten years, I've dreamed of this too. Even though I've been with other men, none have ever compared. And although it might be terrible to admit, I've even closed my eyes and fantasized about Carter when I was with a few of them.
So yeah, I know all about what it's like to dream and fantasize about something for years. You might even say I'm something of an expert on the topic.
Sliding my hand down, I grip his cock through his slacks as he continues to kiss my neck. He stops me though, grabbing my wrist and pulling it away from him.
Turning me around, he presses his mouth to mine and kisses me. His tongue slips between my lips and dances with my own, nearly stealing the breath right out of me. Our kiss grows in intensity and passion as he picks me up. I wrap my arms around the back of his neck and my legs around his waist and he carries me down the three steps into the sunken living room.
Gently laying me down o
n the couch, he hovers over me for a moment. The glow from the fireplace dances and flickers upon him, making his eyes sparkle like jewels. He kisses me again and slides down my body, a mischievous smile on his face. Pulling me to the edge of his deep, oversized couch, I shudder as he parts my thighs. His eyes never leaving mine, he slides his hands up my legs, the feel of his fingertips on my flesh sending lightning bolts of pleasure racing through me.
I let out a choked gasp when he touches me through my panties. He slides them down my legs and tosses them aside, his gaze never leaving mine. Pushing my dress up around my waist, he lowers his face, and I cry out, feeling like a explosion of pleasure has gone off the moment he buries his tongue deep inside of me.
“Mm, yes, Carter,” I cry.
He licks and sucks on me, seeming to savor every last taste. I grind myself against him, the waves of pleasure growing stronger, rocking me harder as his tongue explores my innermost depths. I arch my back and cry out, my hand gripping the back of his head tightly, urging him to keep going.
When he takes my clit into his mouth, sucking and nipping on it at the same time he buries two fingers deep into me, my eyes snap open and a loud, stuttering moan escapes my throat. The pressure inside of me is building and my body starts to tremble as he works me over like he has something to prove. Or maybe, just lost time to make up for.
“C – Carter, I'm going to...”
I can't finish my statement, as my body seizes up. My voice trails off as I moan, grinding myself against his mouth, unable to get enough of him.
“Come for me, Darby,” he says, his breath warm, his deep voice vibrating against my most sensitive parts.
To emphasize his desire, he sucks on my clit harder, pushing me over the edge, and down into the crashing waves of sheer ecstasy. I feel like I've lost control of my body as my orgasm ravages me. Carter slips his tongue back into me, tasting me, savoring every last drop, as my climax rolls through me.
“I need you, Carter,” I gasp. “I need you inside of me.”
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