“I am,” he agreed. “So hard.”
He began to move then, in rhythm, but slowly. He leaned his forehead against the back of my head, and I could tell he was watching where we were joined. Watching his cock as he pushed in and out of my swollen pussy.
Knowing what he was looking at drove my excitement further. Combined with the feeling of being watched by the entirety of Central Park, I knew I wouldn’t last much longer. I braced one hand against the window and reached my other hand through my legs to graze his balls as he thrust inside of me.
“That’s good, Gwen. I like that.”
I continued my play, alternating my attention from my clit to his balls. Then his tempo picked up and he moved both his hands to grip my hips. I needed both mine on the window now to brace myself. Our bodies slapped together as he pounded into me.
“Tell me how you feel, Gwen.” When I couldn’t formulate words, he prompted me. “Do you feel good?”
“Yes.”
“Does my cock make you feel good?”
“Mmm…yes.”
He had to know how good he made me feel; I was clenching around him, my body ready to explode with pleasure. He liked to hear it—I’d learned that from him in our short time together—but also, as he questioned me this time, I heard something else hiding under his words. He didn’t just like it; he needed it. As though he, with all his command and confidence, needed reassurance. As if he longed for an intimate connection that transcended touch and entered into thought and feeling. As if what he really meant to ask wasn’t does my cock make you feel good, but do I make you feel good?
He did. He did make me feel good, and I suspected even as my orgasm gathered and grew, that the good he made me feel also went beyond the physical. So when my climax ripped through me, stiffening my limbs and stealing my breath, I answered him. Answered his true question, the one he couldn’t really ask. “Yes…Yes…Oh my God, yes.”
He shoved into me harder, deeper, lifting me to my toes as he chased his release. The lamplights in the now completely dark park below streaked across my vision as his invigorated efforts spurred another orgasm. JC followed right after, groaning as he spilled into me. He collapsed over my back, yet somehow his hands now wrapped around my waist were the only things keeping me from falling to the ground. I was wasted in bliss. My strength was gone, and all that existed was his strength in its place.
I was still blinded and panting when he spun me around to face him minutes later. He studied me as he stroked the hair from my face. Then, he kissed me. Sweetly. Luxuriously.
Yet, there was a hint of hesitation to this intimacy. A distinct taste of holding back. There were secrets on his tongue that went beyond his full name and birthdate.
For the first time it occurred to me that I wasn’t the only one of the two of us using sex as an escape. Only, what exactly it was that JC was escaping from, I had no idea.
Chapter Nine
Eventually we discovered the bed.
After we did, we stayed there all night. The next Wednesday when I arrived, he was there waiting for me, and with hardly any words at all, we headed straight to the bedroom. There wasn’t any place I’d rather be. I’d never had sex like I did with JC—primal and heated and unrestrained. He pushed me to make noise, to be heard, to free my voice. He continued to question me, continued to beg for reassurance in his subtext.
I gave him what he asked for. I answered, I cried out. He even made me scream once or twice. After only a handful of nights, I knew him in ways I’d never known another person. Knew his body, knew what turned him on and off. Knew when he wanted me to beg. Knew when he wanted me to bend.
And I still didn’t have the slightest clue what the initials JC stood for.
Overall, our arrangement was working out pretty well. Though I was wrong about one thing—I did fall asleep. Not the first night we spent together, but the next. It was February, and I was fighting a cold. Plus, I was still worrying about Ben, who seemed better from the reports that we received, but still wouldn’t talk to us.
Those were my excuses for nodding off, but truthfully, JC had worn me out. He’d fucked me until we were hungry and needed to order room service. Then, after we’d finished eating, he’d fucked me until I slipped into sweet oblivion.
When I woke, I found my body exquisitely sore and the bed very much empty.
I waffled, trying to decide if I really wanted to get up and look for him or if the warmth of the covers was too enticing to move. His voice drifted in from the living room, and my ears perked up. But he was too quiet to be talking to me, so I decided he must be on the phone. I glanced at the nightstand clock—it was almost three. Was he ordering more food?
Then I noticed his tone had an edge to it that I’d never witnessed in my carefree lover. A mixture of curiosity and concern pulled me to investigate.
Still naked, I crept out of the bedroom, not wanting to disturb him, and stood back at the mouth of the room. He’d thrown on his boxer briefs and was pacing the room, his ear pressed against his cell. I could hear the faint buzz of the other person on the line—a man—who was doing most of the talking. Occasionally, JC would interject with an “Uh-huh.” Even in those short syllables his irritation was evident.
After a few seconds, he stopped suddenly and said, “Yeah, I’m pissed.” It sounded like the response to a question. Something like, Are you mad? “And no, it’s not because you called me at three in the fucking morning, though that isn’t helping.”
I knew I shouldn’t be listening. Despite my guilt, I couldn’t move. I was frozen—captivated by this glimpse into JC’s other world. The world that was his real world and had nothing to do with me.
The other guy said something to which JC responded, “People don’t just vanish without a trace. And I’m paying you a shitload to keep an eye on him.”
A chill ran through me. Where I could usually separate myself from interest in JC, I suddenly was very intrigued. Who was he paying? What was so important to disturb JC in the middle of the night? Who was JC watching and why?
The questions maybe should have made me fearful of the man I’d been sharing a bed with once a week, but oddly they didn’t. Whatever JC was involved in, it had nothing to do with me. But now I had a glimpse of the reasons he needed to escape from his life. The reasons he came looking for me.
Most of all, I could tell he was upset. And I had an overwhelming desire to make it better.
“Listen,” he said into the receiver now, his voice eerily low and controlled. “I don’t want to hear any more excuses. Whether there’s enough to hold anything against him means squat if the guy is MIA. Either you track down the motherfucker or I’ll find someone who can.”
He didn’t bother pushing the button to end the call, but the call was over. For a moment, I thought he was going to throw his cell. Instead he swept an arm across the desk and knocked the ceramic lamp and a clear vase with flowers to the ground, where both shattered.
I jerked in surprise.
That was when he noticed me.
His eyes met mine, his hands in tight balls at his hips, his chest rising and falling as he tried to get control of his anger. Fortunately, it didn’t appear as if any of his rage was directed at me.
The light on the floor flickered on and off. On again. Then off for good. I took a step into the dark room, now only lit by what came through the windows. “Wanna talk about it?”
He shook his head.
“Do you want me to leave?” I didn’t want to go. I wanted to tug him back into the haven of our bed and help him forget whatever was bothering him. Just like all the times he’d done that for me.
But that wasn’t what we were supposed to be for each other. We weren’t comfort—we were distractions. And if a distraction wasn’t what he needed right now, I would respect that.
The lamp on the floor flickered back on suddenly. JC said nothing, just continued to stare at me, his eyes wild in the blast of light.
He suddenly looked as sa
d as he was angry. As tormented as he was frustrated. Again, I had the urge to soothe him. It pulled at me from deep in my chest, much higher than the region of my body that feelings regarding JC usually originated.
It unnerved me more than anything else I’d seen or heard in the last few minutes. And with JC’s continued silence, I made the decision myself. “I’ll go. Just give me a minute to—”
“I have another idea,” he said, cutting me off. He stepped over the lamp and found the jeans he’d abandoned on the floor earlier in the evening. “Get your bra and panties on. And grab one of the hotel robes from the bathroom.”
“Okay. Why?”
“We’re going on a little field trip.”
When I came back from dressing, JC had put his jeans on but was still shirtless. It was a good look on him—his boxers peeking out, the deep lines at his hips that disappeared beneath his pants, the trail of light hair that dusted his perfectly taut abdomen. He wasn’t wearing shoes, so I didn’t bother with any either.
Without a word, he opened the front door and led me out. We often spent time with each other without speaking, but the silence between us was never tight and tense as it was now. I wasn’t sure he really wanted me with him. I wasn’t sure that I even was with him. I walked right next to him. I matched his stride. But not once did he look at me. We could have been strangers who happened to be going down a hall together.
In many ways, that’s exactly what we were—strangers.
I should have gone home. What was I even doing with this guy in the first place? I didn’t want to be wrapped up in his drama, which he obviously had, but I also didn’t like being purposefully left out of it.
Usually, he made me feel wanted. Right now, I didn’t feel that in the least. But what I did feel—the reason I followed him despite the tension radiating off his body—was needed. He needed me. Maybe only for tonight, maybe only for this hour. But I knew that sure as I knew anything.
We took the elevators down but got off on the meeting rooms level. The corridor was empty, but I still felt strange walking around the hotel half-dressed. I wrapped my robe tighter around myself and read the signs as we passed by—Salons A&B, The Sutton Room, The Boardroom. We went through another set of doors and turned left into a pre-function room. At the Madison Suite, he stopped.
JC tried the door handle. It didn’t turn. Then he pulled his hotel keycard from his back pocket and slid it in the seam of the door.
My entire body went rigid. “What are you doing?”
“A trick. This door has a faulty lock so if you—” There was a click, and this time the knob turned. “There we go. Come on.” He opened the door and stepped aside for me to walk in.
Tentatively, I stepped inside. JC flicked one of the switches on the wall and a single row of lights illuminated enough of the room that I could now see. It was a fairly small room with nothing much in it except for a baby grand piano on the far wall.
I heard the click of the door behind me and turned to see JC had shut us in. My heart was pounding, my palms sweaty. “Did we just break into a meeting room at the Four Seasons?”
He shrugged as he walked past me, heading toward the piano. “I wouldn’t call it breaking in exactly. Nothing got broken that wasn’t already broken.”
My pulse quickened. “JC!”
“What?”
“We aren’t supposed to be here!” If it was possible to yell and whisper at the same time, that’s what I was doing.
JC, however, talked at a normal volume. “Relax. It’s fine.”
Relax. As if. I was a rule follower. And this? This was definitely breaking the rules.
JC had reached the piano now. He pulled out the bench to sit on it then he looked back at me. For the first time since I’d found him on his mysterious phone call, he really looked at me. The way he usually did. With lust, with desire. With camaraderie. With intimacy. “Come on,” he coaxed. “Trust me.”
Always with the trust me. He had me with those words.
I crossed the room to him without another question. At the piano, I leaned into the curve and tried to settle my nerves by rationalizing the situation. Nothing was going to happen. No one was going to discover us. And if they did, what kind of trouble would we get in? JC was a valued client. He’d get a slap on the wrist. That’s all.
I managed to calm myself. Until JC pushed back the lid over the keyboard and played a few notes on the high end. “Oh my God, what are you doing? Someone will hear you.”
I detested how I sounded like a complete stick-in-the-mud. It wouldn’t have surprised me if JC were more than a little irritated with me about it.
He met my eyes, and I braced myself for his chiding. Instead, he gave a reassuring smile. “Gwen. Calm down. I’ve done this before. It’s fine. The walls in here are pretty thick. They’re designed to keep noise in. And if anyone does hear, they never complain. People like the sound of a faint piano in the background.”
He was so confident, so sure of himself. “You have permission to be here, don’t you?” I asked. “You’re trying to push my boundaries.”
“No. I don’t. I just want to play the piano. So sit down and shush so I can.”
It wasn’t his commanding tone that convinced me. It was the hidden plea underneath. I heard the need in his words. It echoed the unspoken need that kept me with him. Whatever had upset him from the phone call, this was how he needed to deal with it. This was his coping mechanism.
And for whatever reason, he needed to share it with me.
It shut me up. “Okay.”
I sat down on the ground and hugged my knees to my chest as JC started to run his fingers up and down the keyboard. Basic scales, but they were rhythmic and smooth and I suspected he had good technique despite not having a clue about what good technique was.
“I didn’t know you played.” I didn’t know anything about him. Why this specific thing I didn’t know was surprising was beyond me.
JC shrugged, even as his hands ran meticulously up and down again and again. One scale after another. “Rich parents who liked to occupy their child so they didn’t have to spend time with him.”
His response had been unexpected. He’d never shared anything about himself. I felt like a child clinging on to a beloved kite string in a windstorm the way I clung to this tidbit of information.
I wanted more of it. Tentatively, I pushed him. “They gave you lessons so they could ignore you?”
“Shh,” he said. But he nodded.
I might have said more, but his scales transitioned then into something familiar. A melody I knew inside and out. The piece was haunting and stirring and reflected so much from my past that it was hard to put it in context in the present. I closed my eyes and let the dark notes fall over me. Let them drown me in memories.
Her. Young. Happy. I could still picture her doing dishes while the cheap tape recorder played a collection of her favorites. It was her most cherished possession. Her only possession.
I hadn’t listened to the music in a long time now, but for a while, after her death, I listened to it all the time. Playing it until the tape had worn and long stretches of silence interrupted what had been her favorite sounds.
This song was equally bitter and sweet. Hearing it hurt as much as it healed. And JC, playing it now—I recognized it was the same for him. The way his back bent over the keys, the way his dynamics grew and subsided organically. He felt as he played. He felt deeply.
By the time he’d finished, I’d forgotten my anxiety about our whereabouts. He too, seemed lighter. His shoulders relaxed and the tension about him was almost gone. He took his hands off the keys and placed them into his lap.
He didn’t look at me for several seconds, for which I was glad. He’d played brilliantly. He was obviously a very skilled musician. And I needed the time to focus on those aspects of his performance instead of what the piece had done to me.
Finally, when he snuck a glance my way, I was ready. “That was stunning, JC. Truly.”
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He nodded once, and I realized he was uncomfortable with praise. So strange. He deserved so much praise.
But if that wasn’t what he wanted, I’d have to connect in another way.
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Philip Glass.” Specifically Metamorphosis II. I hadn’t known the names of the pieces when she played them, but I’d learned them when I bought a CD for Norma as a Christmas gift years later.
His head turned to me, his eyes surprised and pleased. “Very good. Not many people can identify him.”
There weren’t any solo piano pieces I could identify except Philip Glass. “My mother loved all his music. She was obsessed.”
“Was?”
I didn’t usually answer questions about my mother. But he’d given me a piece of his past when he’d mentioned his parents. It seemed only fair to return with a piece of my own. “She died when I was seven.”
“Died how?”
“Complications due to pneumonia.” I didn’t tell him that the main complication was that she’d had her lungs kicked in by my father when he was on a tirade. It wasn’t mentioned on her medical chart either. No one looked into it. No one asked. It was the norm in the area I lived in. The poorest hospitals didn’t often spend much time on the cases of patients who couldn’t pay for their care.
JC didn’t press. I was surprised he’d asked for any information at all. The funny thing was that, now that I’d started talking, I actually wanted to keep on talking. I never talked about the past. But now, if he asked, I would have told him everything.
But he didn’t ask. So I didn’t tell. I moved up to the bench to sit beside him. “Play me something else.”
His hands perched on the keys, but he didn’t play yet. “More Philip Glass?”
Since we weren’t going to talk about her, I didn’t want to think about her anymore either. “No. Anything but that.”
I recognized the piece he performed next but couldn’t name the composer. It had the same haunting, hollow feeling of the Glass piece. It wasn’t as simple—his hands danced nimbly across the notes, his arms stretching past me to reach the higher end of the instrument.
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