Love Abstract (The Art of Falling Book 2)

by B. L. Berry

  Brock sighs and shrugs. I try to push him out from my lap, but the dude is a fucking brick. He may look a bit on the lean side, but he is heavy.

  “But,” he raises his index finger into the air grandly, “I know how you can get yourself back in sync.” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

  “We’ll be fine, Brock. Let it go,” I deadpan. I don’t need this right now. And I certainly don’t need this from him of all people. There is shit to do. I try to push him again, but he just laughs.

  “You just need to use your power of … persuasion.” He folds his arms across his chest and winks at me. “And, honey, you’ll win. You have all of the power. Don’t you know that the vagina always wins?”

  I snort softly under my breath. “How do you figure?”

  Brock rolls his eyes, shocked that this is news to me.

  “It’s a scientific fact. That little clit of yours has more than eight thousand nerve endings bundled tightly together. The penis? It only has four thousand. Clearly, your hoo-ha wins. That glorious golden ticket that Grandpa Joe broke out in a musical number over in the Willy Wonka movie? He was singing about your vagina. And Buzz and Woody in Toy Story? Think about it! With names like that they are all about your vaj. That tunnel of love is superior, baby!”

  I roll my eyes and laugh as I push him off of my lap.

  “What? It’s true. You’ve got the ultimate finger food between those thighs.” He waves his finger in the general vicinity of my crotch with a wicked smile. “That vagina of yours is a magical thing. If I had one, you bet your cute little ass I’d be out flaunting it more often than not. You are seriously underestimating the powers that your vagina possesses.”

  “Brock! Can we please stop talking about my vagina?”

  “Oh shush. You know I’m just jealous.” He winks. “All I’m saying is that for better or worse, your vagina is the key to setting things straight again. Why not use it for good?”

  My eyes grow wide at his comment, and my mouth hangs open, words failing to express my disgust and amusement. Is he really implying that I should be putting out to get back on the same page with Phoenix? I mean it’s not necessarily a bad idea. It feels very much like something that the old Ivy would do, but I guess every now and then she had a halfway good idea. I, however, don’t want to receive advice from my gay artist in residence who I’m desperately trying to keep at arms length purely for professional reasons.

  “I’ll think about it.” I roll my eyes, humoring him.

  “All I’m saying is give it a try when you get home tonight. Sometimes you just need to shut up, turn off your damn brain and let your body do all the talking to make things right again. Trust me, I bet you’ll see just how extraordinary that snatch patch of yours can be.”

  “Go home, Brock.” I shake my head incredulously.

  “You, too. Go home. Get laid. Come back tomorrow in a better mood, please. Your negativity is crushing my mojo.”

  I want to tell him where he can put that mojo, but I bite my tongue, knowing that the comment would end up the butt of yet another inappropriate sexual joke. So I simply shake my head in disbelief. Brock blows me a kiss as he leaves and I sit in silence, mulling over his suggestion.

  I throw myself back into work and when I finally come up for air, I notice just how late it actually is. Midnight.

  Fuck.

  I am certainly not earning any brownie points these days. I quickly wrap things up and head home with the resolve to at the very least make a subtle insinuation with Phoenix.

  After all, an apologetic blow job couldn’t hurt, could it?

  A BELL CHIMES GENTLY AGAINST the door when I walk into the laundromat later that evening. Phoenix looks up from his chair, surprised.

  “What are you doing here so late?” He closes the book he’s reading and stands. His arms open wide to welcome me, and I quickly close the space between us.

  “I could ask the same of you.” I smile and let him wrap me in his arms.

  “Well, the laundry room flooded, and you were running dangerously low on underwear, so I thought I’d help out since you’ve been so busy with work lately. I’d hate to be the guy whose girlfriend simply doesn’t wear panties because all of hers are too dirty. Not that I’d complain in our own home … but … you know.” He blushes at the admission.

  Oh, Phoenix. You are ever the overprotective, borderline jealous boyfriend. And I love you for it.

  “Thank you,” I say sheepishly. “Listen … I know I’ve been really wrapped up with the gallery and Brock’s show and with traveling back to Chicago, and I haven’t had much time to spend with you. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I’m guilty of working late, too.” He kisses my forehead and leads me over to the plastic chairs in the back corner. “How’d you know I was here?”

  “When I got home tonight, I was bummed you weren’t home. I was looking forward to curling up with you in bed.” I playfully walk my index and middle finger up his shirt with a shy smile. “I heard music next door and stopped by Thom’s, thinking you were over there having a drink with him. He mentioned he saw you leave with a few baskets of laundry, and I figured the only open laundromat in a ten-block radius was a smart starting point. Looks like I was right.”

  “You didn’t have to come down all this way, you know. You could have just called.”

  “I did. But someone left his cell phone on the coffee table.” I smile and hand him his phone, secretly proud I didn’t go snooping through it when he wasn’t looking. Learning to trust is a tough thing. “Besides, I’ve missed you. Lots.”

  “I’ve missed you, too. I’ve missed us.” His lips meet mine hungrily. “I hate that we haven’t made time for each other lately. We live in the same freaking apartment, yet we rarely get to be together.”

  Sadness and relief wash over me. I'm thankful that he misses me just as much as I’ve missed him, but I hate that this is what our life is right now. We both know that this craziness is only temporary. But I want nothing more than to curl into him and never let go, even when the sun rises.

  “Come here,” he says, pulling me to his body tight. “It’ll be all right. We’re both giving one hundred and ten percent to prove ourselves to the proverbial man. But we’ve got each other. And really, that’s what matters.”

  “I know. I just don’t want our professional success to come at the cost of our relationship. I hate that.”

  “Me too, Ivy. Me too.”

  I think about how we've gotten away from our weekly date nights to explore the city and it hits me just how much I miss him. It’s hard not to feel like a lovestruck, smitten pathetic schoolgirl when I get in my head like this.

  I look at my adoring boyfriend and give him a sad smile. Sensing my need for his touch, Phoenix leans down and kisses me feverishly again. His tongue slips into my mouth and blissfully dances around mine. He tastes so fucking good and smells like he stepped out of the shower. He reaches up to take my face in his hands, and electric tingles shoot straight through my legs.

  I can’t get Brock’s suggestion out of my mind.

  He pulls away, cutting our kiss short. A small whimper escapes my lips, and I fight the urge to pull his mouth right back to mine. He takes a loose piece of hair in his hand and lets it fall through his fingers.

  “But look, you're here now. And the clothes have at another forty minutes in the dryer. So let’s make the most of our time together.” He beams, happy with my presence. “Unless you’re tired? I could meet you back at home.”

  “Nope! Not tired,” I say a little too eagerly.

  Phoenix sits down in the plastic chair and picks up the book he was reading before I arrived. I instantly recognize the cover and raise an eyebrow at him.

  “Pride and Prejudice?”

  “Hey, don’t judge. I've never read it before and I know it’s one of your favorites. I wanted to see what it was about.”

  My heart bursts as I lie across the plastic chairs, putting my head in his lap. He brushes my
hair delicately as he begins to read Austen's words aloud, describing Elizabeth's visit with her Aunt and Uncle in Pemberley. She is standing at a window, detailing the estate before her, but really she is describing Darcy and her change of heart.

  The humming of the dryer paired with Phoenix's voice and Austen's words soothe my body. It’s difficult to not get lost in the romanticism of it all. My fingers instinctively stroke the soft khaki fabric of his shorts. There is nowhere else I'd rather be. No one else I'd rather be with. I am his and he is mine.

  When Phoenix reaches the end of chapter forty-three, he closes the book and shifts his weight underneath me. I sit up and watch him blush as he adjusts his growing erection.

  “Sorry,” he whispers.

  I smile inwardly and look at the clock on the wall. It's nearly one fifteen, and there's no one else around. And I highly doubt anyone else will be coming at this hour.

  “Don't be.” I like that I can do that to him. I reach over and lightly tease the bulge in his pants, giving a shy invitation with my eyes.

  Phoenix shudders in consent, just like I knew he would. He closes his eyes and rolls his head back. “Ivy ... What are you doing?”

  Exactly what your body wants me to do. Exactly what my body wants me to do.

  “Making up for lost time.” Slowly, I tug on his fly zipper and graze my fingertips over his hardness. I smile as his breath hitches. I slip my hand inside his boxers and grip him firmly in my fist, pumping twice before asking, “Should I stop?”

  “Nu-uh.” Phoenix glares at me in warning then slouches a little further down into the chair and lets his legs drop to the sides. A soft laugh escapes my lips and I stroke him again before repositioning myself to lay in his lap. Pulling his shorts and boxers down slightly, I release his taut hard-on from its confines.

  God, he looks delicious.

  I take a quick moment to admire his beauty before bringing my lips to his rising length, tracing my tongue around the edge. He tastes as good as he looks. Pumping my fist once more, I take him further into my mouth as he gently moves his hips.

  His body is a banquet and I want to taste everything he has to offer.

  A low moan escapes his throat. He can be so easy to please. And I’m the lucky bitch who gets to please him.

  I nip playfully against the base of his staff and he releases a wild hiss.

  “You are going to be the death of me, woman.”

  Death by blowjob seems like a pretty good way to go if you ask me.

  “That's enough. Come here.”

  I like how he commands every part of me. I rise before him and he swiftly picks me up and plants my ass firmly on the edge of the dryer, pooling my skirt up around my waist in the process.

  He pushes the fabric of my panties aside and skillfully slides in one finger and then two, spreading my wetness up over my clit. My body is ready for him and he knows it.

  “Please,” I whimper.

  He leans down and kisses my flesh once before grabbing his cock and positioning himself at my entrance.

  “Phoenix. Please,” I beg again.

  He grabs my ass tightly and collides his body into mine relentlessly. I hook my legs around his waist and squeeze as he pushes into me over and over and over again. Between the heated vibration of the dryer and our frenzied bodies, it won't take me long to combust.

  He is my match. And each time he strikes against me, he ignites an undeniable fire. A fire that burns only for him. And each time we touch, we’ve rekindled the flame.

  “Fuck, Phoenix. You feel so incredible.”

  He plunges in once more, stilling his body against mine and kissing me fiercely. My insides clench and he moans instinctively.

  “Shit,” he pants.

  “What? Are you okay?”

  “A condom. I didn't put on a condom.”

  My body hesitates, but I know he's clean and so am I. I place my hand on his cheek. “It's okay. I'm on the pill, remember? Relax.”

  “Are you sure about this?”

  I lean back and slowly grind my hips against him, begging him to continue. I've never been so sure about anything in my entire life. I could never ask him to stop loving me, to stop making love to me. I can feel him pulsing inside of me. The sensation is intoxicating and I only want more.

  “I want every piece of you,” I whisper before kissing him with the fervor of a wild stampede.

  Phoenix picks up his rhythm mid-kiss and it’s all almost too much to handle. The intense pleasure. The risk of getting caught. The urgency to have him here and now.

  “I'm so close, Ivy. I'm gonna come...”

  As Phoenix tries to pull away, I grab his body and bring it to mine, keeping him upright as he unravels in my arms. I smile, satisfied that I could give him this release.

  “You,” he pants before bringing his lips to mine and kissing me. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

  “Yes, you should have.”

  He presses his forehead against mine and we stand there, panting.

  I jump as the dryer buzzes beneath me and we both double over in a startled fit of laughter. Phoenix pulls his pants up and fumbles with his belt while I smooth my skirt out over my thighs.

  “What about you, Ivy? I need to take care of my girl.”

  “I'll let you make it up to me when we get home.” I can’t fight the smile, knowing what awaits us when we get back to our apartment. Phoenix tosses me a warm towel from the dryer. I hop down, do what I can to clean myself up and help him quickly toss the clean clothes in a laundry basket, not caring about the wrinkles.

  I HATE TO ADMIT IT, but that horny buffoon of a man was right. A little emotional intimacy was just what Phoenix and I needed to find our way back again. And really, it’s probably less about intimacy and more about actually making a concentrated effort to be together. I could have spent the evening having him read me the phone book and I would still feel connected to him again.

  Though I’d be a fool not to admit that the nearness of him wasn’t appreciated. Because it was.

  Thrice.

  I’m just thankful that things have finally gotten back to normal. And by ‘things’ I really mean us. It feels good to be back in his arms and out of my own damn head. Because being in my mind is a scary, ugly place to be.

  Phoenix walks through the front door, already unbuttoning the top buttons of his oxford shirt. He looks so handsome with his overgrowth hair, trademark boy scout smile, and his dimple that just begs to be kissed. I instinctively give in to his natural charm and stand to greet him with a kiss on his cheek.

  “You beat me home!” he exclaims, pushing me back in his arms to take a closer look at my face.

  “I know, right? I walked into the gallery this morning and Brock had several of his sculptures in place.” Phoenix has heard me talk about how much of a train wreck Brock is and he raises his eyebrows questioningly. “I’m just as shocked as you are. I was prepared to be there late again, but we called it a day by three.”

  “I’m just glad you’re home.” I feel the smile on his lips as he leans down kiss me again.

  Mmm … me, too. I wrap my arms tightly around the back of his neck and slip further into the drunkenness of his kiss. He dips me backward, devouring me. It’s the kind of kiss that comes with intention. Insinuation. Intoxication. Inescapable want and need.

  And if he keeps this up, I will never grow tired of kissing him.

  Phoenix sets me upright after a few more minutes of our impromptu make out session, and then brings his thumb to my lips, wiping away my smudged lipstick.

  “So what do you want to do tonight?” he asks casually.

  You.

  “Well, Brock invited us out for drinks. Though I’m not sure how much more of him I can take.”

  Phoenix nods understandingly. “Based on the stories you’ve shared, I don’t blame you.”

  “But—”

  “There’s always a but!” Phoenix interjects and smacks my ass as he walks toward our bedroom. I follow behi
nd him, admiring the view that his perfectly molded pants provide.

  “But we probably should. I can practically hear James in my ear telling me to give the man what he wants. And if he wants to take us out for drinks, we should probably let him. Besides, as crass as he is, he can be a little funny.”

  Phoenix sits down on the bed to take his shoes off and sighs. I’m tempted to say, “The hell with Brock,” and take him right now, riding him until the sun shows up in the morning.

  “Really? I was kind of hoping to take you out to an improv show tonight. You know, get back to our weekly date nights.”

  His eyes turn soft and melty, much like my insides. I sit down on the bed next to him, taking his hand in mine. Our fingers interlace and he slowly traces his thumb along the palm of my hand sending shivers of delight through my body.

  “Being around Brock is kind of like being stuck in an improv sketch. It should be fun. And if we’re miserable after an hour, we can ditch him and still make the show.”

  “Fine,” Phoenix concedes. “But if we’re going to a gay bar you are both in deep shit.” He cracks his killer smile, and playfully winks at me.

  “ANOTHER ROUND OF SHOTS!” BROCK signals to a waitress, who is wearing shorts so tiny they are no doubt intended for a toddler. She acknowledges us with a wink and a nod.

  I’m not sure how much more of this my liver can take. Phoenix, on the other hand, is matching Brock drink for drink. I stopped counting when I needed two hands.

  “Thanks, Brock. But you really don’t have to do this,” I say, offering him a kind smile, tracing my finger over the edge of my glass of vodka tonic. We can’t keep blurring the lines of professionalism.

  “Of course I do, my little honey bunny. It’s the only way I’m getting you kids up on that stage.” He waves his finger to the platform at the back of the bar where a stout man with a British accent is singing to Beyonce’s Single Ladies, complete with hand movements, a little too passionately I might add.

  “There is no way you are getting me to sing karaoke. I told you that when we walked in here,” I retort.