Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 94489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
"Your housekeeper taught you about relationships?"
"Who else?"
True.
"If you come home, and see someone's car, are you glad it's there? Or disappointed."
"You live in Manhattan."
"See their coat on the rack. Their keys on the table."
"Am I glad I see my boyfriend's coat?"
"Are you relieved, when it isn't there?"
I am. I was. With Sol. I cared about him, I did, but I was relieved when he had to work late.
"I was always relieved to come home alone. I never felt a desire to fall asleep next to someone. Or tell her my secrets. Or plan a life together."
"Never?"
"Never. I didn't even miss women when they went on business trips. Or crave them when we went weeks without a night together."
"You went weeks?"
"Sometimes."
"I never craved Sol."
"Did you love him?"
"I thought so, at the time. Now, I don't know. He was all right on paper, but I couldn't trust it."
"So you're here."
"So I'm here." I take my last sip. "And you?"
"Why am I here?"
I nod.
"Because I find you irresistible." He stands. Offers his hand. "And I want to spend as much time as possible listening to you come."
Chapter Fourteen
SIMON
Vanessa excuses herself to clean up in the washroom in the bedroom.
I use the one in the hall.
Once again, standing here, trying to find a hint of sense.
I still hear my brother's voice. Only, this time, he isn't chiding me for my inability to love.
He's offering a high-five. And a hug. And pontificating on the brilliance of love.
You think you enjoy sex, Simon, but try making love. Go ahead. Roll your eyes. I don't care. It's because you don't know.
That's how it feels.
Like you really are making love. Creating it. Bringing it into the universe. Taking as much as you can and still having more to share.
Who wouldn't want that?
I wash up. Then wash my hands and face again, for good measure.
My reflection is strange. Barely recognizable.
The same deep eyes, square jaw, broad shoulders.
Everything else is different.
No suit jacket. No tie. No defenses.
It's ridiculous. I'm six inches taller than Vanessa. In every external way, I'm stronger.
But she's a million times stronger than I am.
She's here. Trying.
Not escaping to the bathroom to talk herself into facing intimacy.
Or maybe she's doing the same thing in the bedroom.
She's like me. In too many ways.
I take a deep breath. Roll my shoulders with my exhale.
My desire for her is overwhelming.
But I'm facing it.
For Bash.
And for me too.
The lights are off in the main room. The curtains are drawn. The soft blue of the city streams through the windows. The pockets of yellow light. All the steel and glass of the city.
Beautiful.
For a moment, I keep my eyes on the skyscrapers around us. Then I turn to the bedroom door. Closed.
For Vanessa's privacy?
Or something else?
I knock.
"Come in." Her voice is a low purr.
Soft light fills the room as I pull the door open. The scent of wax and roses. Candles line the space. Petals cover the bed.
"Was this you?" she asks.
"By proxy."
"By proxy?" She steps forward, into the light, still in her cocktail dress and heels.
"I didn't arrange the flowers."
"But you asked?"
"I did."
"And you had specific ideas for how it should go?"
"I always do." I offer her my hand.
Her fingers brush my palm.
I pull her body into mine.
Her arm hooks around my neck.
It's strange being this close while we're both dressed.
New.
Terrifying.
Maybe Bash was right. Maybe I'm not single because I'm busy or broken.
Maybe I'm single because I'm a coward.
Too afraid to face this kind of intimacy. Risk.
I haven't done it in a long, long time.
"And people are who they are." Her fingers dig into my skin. "When they work, when they play, when they fuck."
"They are."
"You're a man who knows what he wants."
I nod.
"And you want to adorn the place where we fuck?"
"Yes."
"Who did you ask?"
"Danielle."
"Your brother's girlfriend?"
"She's a photographer." An erotic photographer. She takes sensual images. She knows how to set a mood.
"Your future sister-in-law is helping you get laid?"
"It was a trade. This, for permission to use the room for a photo shoot."
"Right. The naked pictures." Her fingers brush my collar. "Do you like them?"
"Not in particular."
"She's an attractive woman."
"She's my brother's girlfriend." Among other things. "She's not mine."
"Has anyone been yours?"
"You." I bring my hand to her lower back. Pull her closer. "For tonight."
"Does that mean you're mine?"
"For tonight."
"Would you take pictures?"
For anyone else? No. "For you."
"Take pictures of me?"
"Yes."
"Look at them when you fuck yourself?"
"Yes."
She releases me. Steps back. Runs her fingers over the rose-petal covered sheets.
She pushes her strap off her shoulder. Pushes the dress over her hips.
The fabric falls at her ankles.
"You like to watch," she says.
"Yes." My eyes pass over her slowly. Her wavy hair. Her dark eyes. Her lips—freshly painted that deep shade of red.
Her bare shoulders, chest, stomach, thighs.
Naked except for her heels.
Every inch of her dark skin on display.
I take a step toward her.