You Can Have Manhattan

by P. Dangelico

  She blinked, her mouth quivering. “This sweatshirt is not ugly.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  She nodded once, one chin jerk, and I pressed my mouth to hers, giving it everything I had. Moving forward, I backed her up against the kitchen island covered in cooking supplies while our mouths searched for the right angle, tongue meeting tongue, my dick painfully hard pushing into her belly.

  Hands under her ass, I picked her up and dropped her on the counter. Utensils and pans fell off the edge with a loud clattering sound, and still, we didn’t stop kissing, the chemistry as explosive as it had always been. Cupping the back of her head, I stepped between her legs and made love to her mouth––to my wife’s mouth. My wife. That sounded pretty damn good to me.

  “Wait!”

  I pulled far enough away to get a look at her face. “What?” My gaze went straight to her swollen lips, made that way by my kisses.

  “Have you slept with other women?”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Never mind.”

  I kissed her hard. “Your faith in me is touching, Mrs. Blackstone, and no, not since I married you.”

  She kissed me harder. “Carry on.”

  Grabbing the edge of the sweatshirt, I yanked it up and over her head, threw it away.

  “No more Mr. Nice Guy,” I muttered against her lips and she started giggling.

  “When have you ever been––”

  The words died as soon as my mouth latched on to her nipple. Then she moaned, clamped her legs around my waist, and her head fell back in satisfaction. Hooking two fingers over the top of her shorts, I pulled them down and off and took her panties with them. They dropped to the floor, done for the day.

  Next to her hip, there was a bowl filled with sliced strawberries and another with cake batter. I dipped a finger in the yellow stuff and painted it on her tummy, the strip of light blonde curls below taunting me. My dick was more than eager to get to the main attraction, but I’d be damned if I was going to be rushed to the finish line when I’ve been waiting for months to savor this moment.

  “What are you doing?” she said in a weak voice that made me smile.

  “Making living art.”

  With the flat of my tongue, I licked off the vanilla-flavored batter and heard her suck in a ragged breath, her fingers sifting through my hair and closing around a handful. Her legs lifted, her heels dug into my shoulders.

  “Scott…”

  “You like this?” I blew on her and watched her body bow, her teeth dig into her bottom lip. More batter, this time tracing the seam of her pussy.

  “Stop teasing me!”

  Stifling a laugh against the sensitive skin on the inside of her knee, I pushed two fingers inside of her and kissed her there.

  “Scott…”

  I would’ve done anything to hear her say my name like that. Like she was about to blow past her self-control and I was the cause. To that end, I dripped more batter on my wife’s already sweet body. Some on her belly. Some I let slip down between her thighs. Then I cleaned it up with my mouth, savoring each lick, kissing every square inch of exposed skin. She was close. I could sense it, her body drawing tight. I added my fingers, sucked, and she screamed. Her hand in my hair tightened then relaxed.

  One thing was for damn sure––I’d never taste vanilla again without thinking of my wife. Vanilla had just become my favorite fucking flavor.

  Sydney

  The hype was real. In the privacy of my mind, his name was forever going to be BHB: Believe the Hype Blackstone. He feasted on me like he was getting paid top dollar to do it…like he was a master freaking artist. And do it right, he did. I couldn’t even keep my eyes open. The onslaught of pleasure made me fall back onto the cool marble countertop of the kitchen island like I was offering myself up for sacrifice, my hands scrambling for purchase, fingers hooked around the edge.

  Why did I ever not like him? What the hell had I been thinking? I could’ve been getting this for months, I thought. Ignorance is not bliss. Whoever came up with that is a moron––probably a man. Sex with Scott, on the other hand…that was bliss.

  More stuff went crashing to the ground. His arms cinched like steel bands around my thighs to keep me from falling off as well. With his mouth and fingers, I came not once but twice so hard I actually screamed. He was right, I was so wrung out I was ready for a nap.

  As I labored to catch my breath, he began placing kisses on my thighs and my eyes snapped open…he was kissing my scars. Gently, deliberately. A surge of emotion jammed in my throat, my eyes glassy with it. I expected skill. I expected sensual fireworks. I didn’t expect tenderness.

  “Scott…” I forced out, the sound rough and vulnerable, begging him to stop but hoping he wouldn’t. He’d said he missed me. I’d missed him more.

  His head lifted. He pulled me up off the island and picked me up. I wrapped my arms and legs around him, his solid strength, his steady presence, his big heart, as he carried me into his bedroom.

  Laying me down gently, he let go long enough to pull his thermal shirt over his head, revealing blocks of muscles I couldn’t wait to worship as thoroughly as he’d done to me. Then he pushed down his jeans and took his Tom Ford boxer briefs with them.

  Seeing them brought a smile to my lips. But that smile dropped in a hurry when I got a good look at his erection. This was a man made for “sinning” and if that was true then I wanted to be a sinner too. I was suddenly sweating from how turned on I was. As if I hadn’t come twice already––a certified record for me.

  Watching me closely, never taking his eyes away from mine, he lowered himself over me. Words got lost, sentiments saved for another day. There’d be time for that later. He pushed my knees apart and entered me in a single solid thrust. Not gentle. A claiming one that announced his intentions as clearly as his words had done back in the kitchen. I came three more times that night. Scott was a man of his word.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sydney

  The next week was bliss like I’d never experienced before. An underlying whisper of a voice kept telling me to be careful, fairytales belonged in children’s books, not in real life, and this one had begun on shaky legs at best. Regardless, I didn’t listen. I dove headfirst into it––and so did Scott.

  I cooked him my favorite meals and he taught me how to ride a horse––better yet, a pony. We took trail rides around the property whenever the weather permitted, and Scott showed me all the reasons he loved Wyoming.

  I worked. He worked. In the meantime, I was growing extremely uneasy about Frank’s secret. He’d been missing more and more days at the office, and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that it sapped some of the sweetness out of this new and improved marriage.

  One day Scott surprised me at noon. He said he had something to show me. We drove to a high point with an unobstructed view of Upper Falls, the famed waterfall of Yellowstone while my stomach did somersaults. When I’d asked him what the rush was, he’d said, “You consider yourself lucky, right?”

  He gave me a sexy smirk and I kissed him, pouring everything into that kiss, hoping he could feel what I felt for him. Every feeling felt like a first with him. And in many ways that was true.

  “Very lucky,” I told him, looking into his eyes. Lately that sentiment had grown roots. One look at him and no one would argue.

  Sure enough, twenty minutes later, a sun shower started and shortly after a rainbow appeared across the sky.

  “How did you know?” I asked, dumbfounded, in awe.

  His mouth shaped into a lopsided smile, his eyes dancing with mirth. “It’s my job to know.”

  I’m not prone to flights of fancy, but the man made a rainbow appear. Was it any wonder I was falling in love with him?

  “Just stand still for five more minutes…” Romeo scooted away and started running in circles around me, his entire massive Wolfhound body covered in shampoo.

  It was high time these two got a bath and the weather was finally coo
perating. I’d found a spray nozzle out back and went to work.

  “Romeo! Get over here! Stop it.” The more I chased, the faster he ran, tongue hanging out, tearing up the lawn because this was the best game ever! Then Juliet got in the mix, barking loudly, and it all went to hell. Romeo suddenly hit the brakes and shook, sending suds flying everywhere––and me screaming when some hit me in the face.

  “What’s going on here?” an amused man inquired. Behind me, Scott was grinning. Taking off his ball cap, he adjusted his hair and slammed it back on.

  “They smell like cow shit is what’s going on,” was the obvious reply.

  I wiped my brow with the back of my wrist and watched Scott’s gaze track up and down my body, taking his time to thoroughly evaluate my wet t-shirt covered in dying suds, my hair falling into my face, and my bare legs shoved into my Hunter boots. He was so distracted that he missed Romeo coming at him like a heat-seeking missile. Before he knew what hit him, Scott was on his back, lying spread eagle on the ground.

  Oh sweet, sweet vengeance. I still missed my orange ASICS.

  I doubled over in laughter while he blinked, trying to ascertain what the heck had just happened to him. Stepping over him with my legs straddling his body, I bent to get a better look and tipped his ball cap off his head. “You okay there, Sweet Nuts?”

  Next thing I know, I’m lying on top of him. Eyes hooded and aimed at my mouth, he murmured, “Better now, Sunshine.”

  We kissed and touched and got covered in mud. He stood, and with pure muscular power, took me with him. We peeled our clothes off even though it was only March and still a little nippy out. Then he grabbed the spray nozzle and hit me in the chest with the cold water. The look of pure shock on my face––

  “Oh, you’re gonna get it now.”

  He chuckled darkly. “And I’ll happily take it. This is better than a Girls Gone Wild video.”

  I snatched the hose out of his hands and aimed for the jewels, but he turned in time to save “future generations of Blackstones.” His exact words. I was also labeled a “genocidal maniac,” for my actions. Which was a bit extreme, if you ask me.

  After we’d rinsed the mud off, he wrapped his warmth around me, chased away the chill, and kissed me as he backed me up to the side of the house. His restless hands moving over me possessively, with the authority and conviction of a man who knew all my secrets and still wanted me.

  Reaching between us, I guided him inside of me, my legs instinctively circling his waist. He wasn’t rough, he wasn’t fast. He pressed his face into the curve of my neck and made love to me. Two people moving as one, seeking absolution for the sins of the past and gaining acceptance for having repented. And once we were both wrung out and satisfied, legs trembling, holding each other tightly, he said, “I never want to be divorced, Syd…not even once.”

  “Who keeps calling?” asked my lover, the same man I happened to be married to. I was lying in bed, enjoying the view when yet another call from my grandmother’s lawyer came in. The husband had neglected to put on a shirt as he packed his duffel bag, and he wasn’t going to hear any complaints from me.

  “My grandmother’s lawyer. He’s been badgering me for months…I told him I don’t want anything.”

  Stepping out of the walk-in closet, he searched my face, his brows bunched with concern. “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” I replied and meant it.

  He was heading to Houston for two days on cattle business, and I was scheduled to return to New York. I was dreading it––no exaggeration. I was falling hard and fast in love for the first time in my adult life, and I wanted the feeling to last as long as possible.

  I wasn’t sure what awaited me back in Manhattan. All I knew was that it wasn’t going to be pleasant. Not with Frank’s condition hanging over my head. More than a few times it was on my lips to tell Scott, but I couldn’t get the words out. Couldn’t betray the other man I loved.

  Scott threw on a white dress shirt, and I got up to button it for him. “I’m gonna miss you,” he murmured while he brushed his fingers through my hair and looked at me the same way I was looking at him.

  “Me too,” I returned.

  Twenty minutes later, he was on his way to the airport.

  Two hours later, I was on a flight to Philly.

  “Your best room please.”

  The pimple-faced young woman with long brown hair manning the desk at the motor inn stared at me dubiously, jaw hanging loose showcasing crooked teeth and a desperate need for braces.

  “We only got one type ’a room.”

  The Four Seasons this was not, but there was also no getting around it. I needed to take care of business and be gone as quickly as possible and driving an hour to stay in Philly would only slow me down.

  “Then your cleanest room, please.”

  More blank staring. “They’re all clean, Mrs.”

  “Whatever,” I snapped, exhaustion getting the best of me. “Just…can I have a room, please?”

  After making arrangements for Drake to stay with the dogs, I caught the first flight out of Jackson Hole. Six hours and two stops later, I landed in Philly at midnight, rented a car, and drove another forty-five minutes to reach the only hotel (or whatever you want to call it) anywhere near my old hometown.

  Rural is the only way to describe where I grew up. And although it had some benefits––we never locked our doors at night, and the biggest issues were hunting accidents in the fall and drunken teenagers tearing up the public golf course in the summer––there was a lot of downside too. It was rural and remote.

  Not to mention, the boogeymen were already living with me.

  My heart was in my throat as I drove over the town limits. I could feel the stitches in those old wounds unraveling and what would spill out was anybody’s guess.

  I’m a thriver not a survivor. I’m a thriver not a survivor. I’m a thriver not a survivor. The mantra played on a loop.

  In the past, it had helped me climb out of a panic attack whenever I was alone in a dark room and it was a little depressing to see it resurfacing now, after all the years of therapy I’d been through. Then again, I hadn’t had to face my demons until now.

  Seventeen years ago, I drove out of here and never came back. The day I graduated high school I packed up the used Jetta I’d bought with the money I’d made working summer jobs and headed to Connecticut. It felt like my story was coming full circle. High time to cut the last cord binding me to this place––long past time for closure. My only regret was that Josh wouldn’t be a part of it.

  With each red brick row house I drove past, an avalanche of memories came tumbling back. Most of them snapshots. Most of them unpleasant with the exception of the ones that included the boy I once loved. The library where I worked the summer before my senior year looked smaller than I remembered, weathered by years of neglect. The hardware store where Josh worked was long gone, replaced by a Subway.

  I’d gotten so good at compartmentalizing my life it was almost as if I’d been a third-party observer instead of a participant. Everyone has their own method of coping. Some people turn to drugs and alcohol. My crutch was to go emotionally offline and bury myself under my work––as my therapist has repeatedly pointed out. And it had worked. Maybe a little too well.

  I didn’t call or text Scott to tell him that I needed to leave. He’d find out soon enough from Jan when he returned from Houston. I knew I should’ve called. This thing we’d been building slowly, block by block––call it trust or whatever, maybe more––was still fragile, and I didn’t want to bring it all down. But something stopped me. I couldn’t get my fingers to work, to push the send button.

  It just felt too personal. Maybe I was afraid to be let down. That this would be where he drew the line and deemed me more trouble than I was worth. I’d told myself a lot of crap like that over the years. It was easier to be alone. Nobody to keep score. Nobody to answer to. At least it had been before I married Scott.

  As much as I’
d already shared with him, I hadn’t gone into detail. Nor would I. He didn’t know the depth of it, and I was still too guarded to let anyone see the shame attached. That’s the thing seldom talked about––the shame most victims of violence and abuse suffer. It’s tattooed into your psyche. It might fade over time, but the damage is done. That thin voice whispering that maybe, just maybe, you deserved it, that you invited it, that it’s your fault, long after the scars heal…it stays.

  Motel girl’s big brown eyes widened when I handed over my Platinum Amex. In turn, the girl handed me an actual key with a big green plastic fob attached. My eyes widened.

  I mean…an actual key? I was pretty sure I’d never seen one. Not even in Europe. If that wasn’t a sign, I didn’t know what was. I needed to get the fuck out of this town as quickly as possible.

  The first of Scott’s texts came in a little after four the next morning and kept coming, and coming, and coming every half hour until I replied. Didn’t matter. I hadn’t slept a wink all night anyway. The bed lumpy, the smell of mold, the sheets scratchy. Too many ghosts hanging around.

  * * *

  Scott: Where are you?

  Scott: You left without a word. I’m getting worried.

  Scott: Sydney. Call me now.

  Scott: Can you please call me? This isn’t like you.

  Me: I’m in Philly. Taking care of some family business.