by Cee Smith
“Well, don’t wait too long. Like I said, those prices are already getting up there.”
“I know. Hopefully I’ll have an answer soon.”
I ended the call with my mom, only to have Tea prance into my room not two seconds later.
“What? Have you been waiting on the other side of my door for me to get off the phone?”
“Maaaaaybe.”
“OK? Did you need something, or were you just being nosy?”
I laughed already knowing the answer to my question.
“Both,” she said while shrugging her shoulders, as if she couldn’t help herself. “I want to go out!”
“Feel free to go. It’s cold as fuck out, so don’t forget your jacket.”
She straightened out, curling her little fists as she stared me down. “You know what I mean. Come on, when was the last time you went to a bar just to hang out? Besides, I need fresh meat.”
“So that’s why you want me to go? You need a wingman?”
“You do kinda owe me.”
I blew out an exhaustive breath, already dreading the idea of getting dressed and working against the wind in our trek to the bar down on 98th.
Twenty minutes and twenty additional pounds of sweaters, jackets, and wool accessories later, we found ourselves unbundling at the two empty seats at the bar. After a couple minutes of looking over the menu, Tea ordered our drinks while I canvassed the bar, trying to spot the poor soul who’d find himself enduring a cold walk of shame after a night spent with my friend.
Green and red glittering Christmas bulbs hung from the lights above the pool table near the front window.
“What’s with the face?” Tea asked, pulling me from my observation.
“My mom asked about Christmas.” I threw my hands atop the bar and began picking at the imperfections of my cuticles.
“Oh,” she grimaced at my blatant dilemma. “And? What did you tell her?”
“I didn’t tell her anything. I didn’t want to make plans. What if all of this with Everett blows over?”
The bartender deposited our drinks and moseyed back over to the other end of the bar to patrons more available in making small talk. I watched him while I spoke to Teagan, aware of all the ways he wasn’t like Vett. His hair was too dark, too messy. When he spoke, I caught glimpses of his bottom teeth. They looked like unpolished diamonds, still jagged and unclean. The one thing he had in common with Vett were they both had green eyes, but while Vett’s were something closer to hazel—lending a spark of light—this guy’s were murky. Nothing about him glowed. He was just another random New Yorker like all the rest.
“—haven’t heard back from him?” Lost in thoughts of Everett, I’d missed her question, but I knew what she wanted to know. It was the number one question that had been plaguing me since I left his apartment two weeks ago. When would I hear from him?
“No. Not yet.”
She took a sip of her drink, and from the expression on her face, I knew she was thinking of the right words to say. I’m sure when she thought about getting out of the house, this wasn’t what she had in mind—sitting over drinks while I rehashed the details of my current problems.
“I’m not being a good wingman. Let’s talk about something else. Who will be the next notch on Teagan’s post?”
The rest of the night I spent being the friend my roommate deserved—rating possible men, engaging in superficial conversation with strangers, and keeping up with her drink for drink. All the while, thoughts of Everett lingered on the periphery. Where is he tonight?
Wednesday, December 2nd
For dignity’s sake, I’ll pretend I wasn’t counting the minutes, hours, and days I held onto my phone like a life preserver. I like to think it was my diligence that willed the message to finally come.
Tomorrow, 7 p.m. I’m not promising anything, Everett’s text read.
Once again I stood outside his door. This time completely unaware of what awaited me. There was so much I needed to say. I’d spent weeks thinking about what I wanted to say, how I was going to convince him I wasn’t crazy. That what we had was worth taking a risk on.
He invited me in with arms opened wide, welcoming me like he’d never done before. I wasn’t sure what that meant for the night or our future, but it was a good sign. It gave me hope. Perhaps his mom was right.
“Thanks for inviting me over. I wasn’t so sure you would ever speak to me again.”
“I told you I needed time to think.” His words sounded unusually soft. Gone was the hard man I’d grown so accustomed to.
“I guess we weren’t working from the same timeline?”
“You never were very patient.” He shook his head as he turned his back to me and headed into the kitchen. “I hope you haven’t eaten. I ordered dinner.”
Chinese takeout boxes were piled onto the dining room table, and I wandered over to a chair just as he popped open the lids. Steam released from the containers, taking with it the little knots of worry embedded in my stomach. As plates were set and napkins were passed, I felt those first date jitters I had never had the chance to feel.
“I know we have a lot to talk about, and I owe you an explanation—”
“Not tonight. Let’s leave all of that for tomorrow. Tonight I just want to remember.”
“Remember what?”
“Everything that could be mine.”
“Could be?”
“I need more information before my decision.”
I went to his house prepared to say as much or as little as he wanted, but the idea of telling him everything terrified me.
He was giving me an out and I took it. Struggling with what to say, I watched him from beneath heavy lashes, searching for words. For the first time I found myself absolutely speechless around him.
A comfortable silence descended over us. Observing him superseded eating as I once again became lost in his cool demeanor. The way his jaw hardened as he chewed. Or how he looked as comfortable holding chopsticks as he would a fork and knife. I know how crazy it sounds to be that intrigued with the mundane trivialities of everyday life, but something about him made me stop and take notice of all of the little things. Perhaps that was what I was obsessed with—his ability to make time stop long enough for me to notice the subtleties of ordinary life.
Placing the chopsticks to the side of his plate, he rested his forearms atop the table. I followed suit, aware of his unspoken words.
“Go upstairs. Take off your clothes and wait for me at the foot of the bed.”
I dropped my eyes to the table from the pressure of his forceful stare and the way he undressed my needs with one look. Beneath the table my hands quivered, eager for just a touch of him. Could he sense my desperation? Sense the restlessness I’d kept contained for weeks?
After everything that happened, did I even deserve to be as fortunate as to have one more minute with him? I still wasn’t sure as I nodded my head and removed myself from the table.
Every step upstairs echoed of the past, reminding me of the last time I ascended those very stairs. The stairs creaked and I remembered to breathe. As I approached the landing—mere feet from the foot of his bed—I remembered the girl here only months ago. It felt like a fog clouded around the memory, obscuring what I remembered of that day. Standing at the landing, it seemed like all of this was a manifestation of wishful thinking.
Had I dreamt this into reality?
There was no time to ponder that. Everett was still downstairs waiting, but I had no gauge of when he would be joining me or what he had planned for the night. Once again, I was completely at his mercy.
When was I not?
Thursday, December 3rd
I woke up just as the sound of the shower cut off. Propping myself up on my elbows, I watched Everett reach for the towel hanging on the wall. Water dripped down his muscular back and legs, and steam pushed past the opening between his legs, releasing a cloud of humidity into the room. Memories from the night before came riding in on th
e billow of steam.
The chill of approaching winter seeped through his window and was still present in the wood that I kneeled on. I remembered the unusual comfort I felt while waiting for his next move. There was a different kind of tension that hung in the air. Maybe that was due to the fact that we were in his home surrounded by his things or just someplace other than the club. Being in his home brought a different set of expectations. The walls were down. It was just him and me. Nothing between us. No pre-set schedule of when this would begin or end. For the first time, we were facing true freedom within each other. The thought terrified me. There was no rulebook for what would happen next. Nothing to tell me what to expect or what I should do. I was free-falling without any idea what would happen to me or us now that we’d crossed that line of separation.
His hand met the back of my neck, slipping between the blanket of my hair. It wasn’t often I wore it completely down, but if last night was about reminders, he needed that one. He needed to remember the girl from the train. The one who could take direction, the one eager to please, the one completely enamored by him.
I was still that girl.
Now more than ever.
I just needed him to understand that while my methods were a tad out of touch, that didn’t change what we shared. There was unparalleled magnetism here. He felt it too, I was sure. He only needed a reminder not to give it all up.
The touch of his hand made my spine stiffen in anticipation. His thumb massaged the side of my neck—pointing out my frenetic pulse. He smothered his skin against mine, pushing so firm against the tendons I could feel my racing heart in the thick of my throat. As if he could sense my eagerness, his hand relaxed, allowing the curtain of my hair to flood my back once again.
With my back facing him his finger tipped the bottom of my chin up, forcing my eyes to meet his. “Tell me something. Are you more eager or scared?”
“I’m not sure.”
He nodded his head as if he assumed as much.
A hand brushed the side of my neck as it traveled toward its intended target. He cupped my breast—the weight of my flesh settled into his palm as he grasped and kneaded. With his body hovering at my back, the musk of his desire cloaked me, wrapping me up in the headiness of the moment. I took him into my lungs, looking to appease the desperate parts of me that ached for him.
I was still tense, wrought with the knowledge of everything that had transpired. Filled with fear of what he might or might not have known. His hands worked to assuage my worries.
Our contact broke and I listened to the sound of him removing his clothes. Every scratch of his nails across the buttons of his shirt, the clasp of metal as he released his belt, the soft whisper of his clothes meeting the floor. Each sound only seemed to heighten my awareness of what would happen next.
The air was cold but my body was flushed with an inescapable heat, flared on by the sound of his crisp directive.
“On the bed. Face up. Hands out.”
No time was wasted as I leapt up from my position on the floor. I arranged myself just the way he instructed and watched his face, his body for a reaction. He stood proud, as comfortable in his skin as any suit he’d ever worn. With lust-filled eyes, I absorbed every part of him. His broad shoulders, the heavy outline of his abs, the way his length stood, unabashed. He didn’t so much as clutch his length to stifle the pressure building between his legs. Instead, he watched me while I watched the swollen head of his penis transform from a dusky pink to a blistering red.
He took one step toward the end of the bed. Then another. It wasn’t a prowl of seduction. It was a lesson in patience. This was a reveal, an unveiling, a desire meant to be stoked and coddled, not smothered and snuffed out quickly.
Purpose glowed in his eyes, and where I would usually find a cocky smile, he had none. He wasn’t boasting in his domination over me. There were neither hidden thoughts nor clever words. Everything was right there on the surface for me to see.
“Show me how you want me to touch you, Indigo.”
He sank into the mattress and my body shivered with anticipation. I took a calming breath and closed my eyes.
“Leave your eyes open. I want to see you.”
I touched myself like it was the first time. In a way it was. Persuasion was no longer my intent. I drew forth images of our nights together—the way his flogger kissed my skin, how his hands caressed mine on the train, of all the times I slipped from my clothes and imagined his eyes drinking me in.
Spreading my labia, I grew conscious of the proximity of his body. The more I touched myself, the more aware I became of the absence of his touch.
Is he doing this because he wants to, or because this is what he thinks I want?
“Get out of your head, Indigo. Don’t think. Just feel.”
“Everett,” I called his name, pleading for the final melding of bodies. The sweet relief of torment I’d endured without him. I knew what my own hands felt like; I wanted his.
He climbed over my body, bracketing my hips with his legs. His cock felt heavy against my pelvis as he pulled me up against him. Hands clasping my neck, he held me in place, his thumbs stretching up over my jaw as his mouth captured mine. My lips separated at the push of his tongue. I clutched his wrists with both hands, holding him as if he might slip away.
Our kiss was a calm fusion of lips. An exchange of breath. A gentle reminder of how well we fit together. His tongue drew me in as he licked my bottom lip. His mouth closed over mine with soft suction, unraveling my wound up need. I relaxed my hands and Everett took advantage, sending his hands to seek out the places that made me pant for more.
When I thought I couldn’t handle another minute of feeling him pressed against me without the delicious burn of being stretched so full, his hands fell between my legs. In the dwindling light his hands searched for mine. Interlocking our fingers, he stretched my arms open wide and held me down. With eyes still locked on mine, he entered me.
While my mind questioned if I could be so lucky as to have my every indiscretion forgiven, my body was too busy listening to the language of his body. He made love to me with his mouth, his hands, his cock, his words. I’d never felt so thoroughly owned by him as I had lying beneath him in the solitude of his home.
I let the memory fade as I took in the naked body standing before me.
“Looks like I missed the show,” I said, rubbing my eyes to adjust the focus. He dabbed the towel on his skin, absorbing the pools of water still falling from his body in sheets. Unabashed in his nakedness he faced me, allowing me a full, unfiltered view of his glorious body. I took in the sight of him like an offering, unembarrassed in the way I drank in his physique. Everett was simply beautiful. He was Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man, every part of him perfectly proportionate.
He wrapped the towel around his waist, satisfied with my ogling of him. “Breakfast is ready downstairs. How about you head down, and I’ll join you when I’m done here.” He motioned to his chest, drawing my eyes to the muscles still shedding droplets of water. I pulled the sheet across my chest as I sat up and wiped the sleep from my eyes. Leaning over the side of the bed, I looked for the clothes I had shed the night before.
“You can use my robe.” He pointed to a lush cotton robe folded atop the chair on the other side of the room. I looked from him to the robe, suddenly shy of my nudity. This wasn’t the first time he would’ve seen me naked in the light of day, but I felt revealed in a way I never had before. Even after waking up to him at the hotel, it wasn’t the same as waking up in his home. In his bed.
He must have sensed my hesitation because after a beat he walked over to the chair and returned to the bed, robe in hand. With one hand still clutching the sheet to my chest, I reached for the offered covering. His eyebrow rose, taking in my reaction to his nearness. With both of us holding onto the robe, he waited for my silent surrender.
“You’re not going to make me ask, are you?”
“There.” I threw the sheet off while star
ing into his eyes. He gave me a quirk of a smile as he released his side of the material, allowing me to take the robe in hand. Taking my nipple between his fingers, he gave a tug, sending a spasm of pain through my body. My breath caught in my throat, but before I could react he kissed me on the head and retreated to his closet with a playful smile adorning his face.
The scent of food made me ravenous—my stomach reminding me of the previous night’s festivities. I ate with gusto, shoveling forkfuls of eggs into my mouth, thankful for the few moments I had alone. After the previous night I didn’t know what to think. Everett held nothing back, giving as much of himself as he always did. It was as if nothing had changed, except everything had. Every nuance of our relationship was amplified by the atmosphere. As if being in his home only worked to strengthen the bond we’d forged all those months ago when I said yes to what he was offering.
Yes to sex.
Yes to the limitations.
Yes to all of him.
As if planned, Everett made his way downstairs at the exact moment I set my fork and knife down. Patting my lips with my napkin, I watched him descend the stairs. Nerves threatened to upend my stomach. Was this the moment when everything would come to the forefront? Had he been waiting for me to finish eating so he could eviscerate me with the reminder of what I’d done? Of the lines I’d crossed and boundaries I’d overstepped? I knew what I planned to do when I arrived, but could I follow through? Could I tell him everything?
While I’d gotten the overall results I wanted, there was still so much to feel guilty for. In my attempts to get closer, I’d overstepped boundaries, following him numerous times, staging a fake run-in at Socialize, breaking into his house. Not to mention, all of the times he clearly stated he didn’t want a girlfriend and I lied while agreeing that I wanted the same.