Beautiful Forever

by Geneva Lee

  There aren’t words to describe the feeling that’s overcome me. He seems to understand this, and he moves beside me, drawing my body close to his. Brushing the wet hair from my face, he kisses each cheek, then my forehead, then along my jawline. He worships me slowly and my body softens under his touch.

  Still after all this time, I’d expected a little more urgency. Jameson seems to understand the need to take it slow. We’ve been through a lot recently.

  But my paranoia gets the best of me. Am I just laying here like some cold, dead fish? I reach up and tangle my fingers through his hair, tugging his face closer so that I can capture his lips. He surrenders, but only long enough to steal my breath away.

  “There’s no need to rush,” he murmurs the reassurance.

  I let him take charge then. There will be plenty of time for the more female-empowering positions of the Kama Sutra later. Right now, I give him my faith, my body, my everything.

  He accepts it with each sweep of his mouth over mine and each caress of his hands on my body. I give myself to him, and he offers himself to me. We take and we give, allowing the heat of our bodies to conquer any apprehension we might feel. When my fingers find the buckle of his pants, his hands close over my wrist.

  “Are you sure?” he asks.

  I can’t find the words, not with all the emotions swelling inside of me, so I nod. This simple act of consent speeds us along a bit, and my heels shove his pants down. He settles against me and I can feel the heat of him. Even with our bodies still separate, in so many ways, we’re closer that we’ve ever been before. We pause on the cusp of something that might change our relationship forever.

  “I love you.” His words are a vow. He traces them along the soft, bare contours of my body.

  I find my voice, so I can repeat the precious statement. Three simple words that carry more weight than any others in the world.

  Our lips crash together, his tongue flicking my mouth open so that he can deepen the kiss. I arch against him, but he doesn’t accept the invitation. Instead, he breaks away, panting. Brushing his thumb over my lower lip, he smiles. “Hold on a sec, Duchess.”

  When he breaks contact, I bite my lip where he touched it, trying to resist the impulse to squirm. He tears open a foil packet. For a split second, I realize there’s a lot of things we haven’t discussed, and I make a mental note that it’s time for me to get on the pill. Before I can berate myself for not being more cautious, he lowers his body over mine and the worries melt away.

  I wiggle my hips, and he grabs them, holding me steady. His patience can be infuriating, but when I finally feel the first, hard edge of pressure, I gasp. My hands seek the sheets, and I grip them tightly.

  A look of concern settles over his face. “Do you want me to stop?”

  I shake my head. I guess my one and done experience a few years ago didn’t qualify me as broken in. “I’m okay.”

  He moves slowly, gradually closing the last bit of distance between us and pausing occasionally to allow me to adjust. Once we’ve managed it, we stay like that for a few moments. Finally, I release my grip on the sheets, and hook my arms around him to signal that I’m ready. Jameson brushes his lips over mine, allowing the kiss to become something more organic. Our bodies take the hint, moving in rhythm with one another, until the slight discomfort I feel morphs into a small ripple of pleasure. Jameson responds to my pleased gasp with gentle urgency, rocking against me, and coaxing me towards my shattering moment of bliss. He meets me there with a low growl that tears through him.

  Neither of us move for a moment. It took us so long to get here that the idea of breaking up the party now is unthinkable. Instead, our limbs twine together and we shift until we’re on our sides, never breaking contact.

  I’ve never really been one for long walks on the beach or love letters. But staring into the eyes of the guy you love after making love is pretty all right.

  “What are you thinking?” he asks softly.

  “That it was worth the wait,” I confess, not bothering to hide a sheepish grin.

  “And?” he presses.

  “That I hope you’re not going to make me wait that long for the next time,” I tease.

  He presses his forehead against mine. Our skin is damp with sweat, but he laughs. “How about we do it again right now?”

  Chapter 11

  We fall asleep, tangled together, as dawn bursts into view outside our windows. When I blink dreamily a few hours later, the orange glow of sunrise has been replaced by late morning sunlight. I’m alone in the bed, so I roll over and stare at the ceiling.

  Everything has changed and nothing has changed.

  Except that I’m in a better mood then I can remember having been in for weeks. I giggle as I draw the sheet over my body. Then I yank it off the bed.

  Tucking it around myself, I go exploring. When I reach the living room, Jameson grins at me over a cup of coffee.

  “I thought you might be hungry.” He gestures to the dining room table. It’s been laden with silver platters and pitchers. I take the lid off a plate and then another.

  “Did you order everything on the menu?” I ask.

  “I thought the Duchess might have an appetite this morning,” he teases.

  I shove a piece of bacon in my mouth “The Duchess does.”

  I could stay like this forever, but I am in New York City.

  “What are our plans today?” I ask as I pluck a promising looking croissant from a platter of pastries.

  “I thought we could go out and see the city.”

  “Or we could stay in?” I suggest mischievously, my carnal side getting the better of me. “Neither of us are dressed after all.”

  Jameson abandons his coffee and prowls toward me, “What are you suggesting Miss Southerly?”

  There’s no resistance from me when he throws me over his shoulder and carries me back to bed.

  * * *

  It’s nearly noon by the time either of us manage to get dressed. Jameson suggests another round of room service but I shake my head. “We’ll never leave this suite if we do that.”

  “Tired of me already?” he asks.

  “Never,” I promise. I don’t have to say more, he understands.

  I’ve never been to New York and while I know the laundry list of tourist spots that I’m supposed to see, I defer to his wisdom.

  We barely make it into the lobby before Mr. White accosts us.

  “Mr. West, I was wondering if I might have a word with you?” he begins, but Jameson cuts him off.

  “It’s Saturday, Mr. White,” he reminds him, “and I need to show my girl the town.”

  My girl, I think to myself. Everything sounds a little sexier coming out of his mouth this morning. Then again he’d given me a few demonstrations last night that showed just how sexy that mouth could be.

  “Of course, of course!” Mr. White steps away and waves cheerfully, “Have a lovely day!”

  “Unbelievable,” Jameson mutters through clenched teeth.

  “Give him a break.” I can’t help feeling benevolent today.

  “If it was up to that man, I’d spend the entire weekend with his lips attached to my ass.”

  “No you wouldn’t, I’d fight him for you,” I promise.

  “Oh yes?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.

  “Definitely, that ass is mine.”

  I’m surprised when the car heads north. “Are we going away from the city?”

  “Greenwich,” he confirms. “I need to feed you. It’s my responsibility after draining you of all your strength.”

  He takes me to a falafel place that’s so small there’s only room for a few bar stools at the counter. A charming mish-mash of colors compliments the simple menu of three items. Having never ordered falafel nor eaten it, I allow him to order for me. When he presents me with my food in a paper basket, I study it first.

  “Trust me,” he urges. I narrow my eyes but pick it the pita.

  “What’s in it?” I a
sk.

  “Heaven,” he says with a full mouth.

  I take a bite and a variety of exotic, unrecognizable spices explode on my tongue. Next to me Jameson watches, clearly on edge, as I finish chewing and swallow.

  “You know how you have all that money?” I ask. His face falls, no doubt he expects me to admonish him for not taking me to a fancy restaurant instead of this hole in the wall. “Can you buy one of these and put it in Belle Mère?”

  “Your wish is my command, Duchess.”

  When we’re finished, I’m stuffed. I can spy our car and driver, idling around the corner, but I stop Jameson before he can beckon it to us.

  “Let’s walk for a second,” I suggest. I need to move if I’m going to digest this food baby I’m packing.

  Greenwich, as it turns out, is charming. We find a row of brownstones lined by a canopy of trees. The emerald shade of their leaves makes it a few degrees cooler as we wander along. I sigh, my arm looped through Jameson’s.

  “Like it here?” he asks.

  “So far I’ve only seen a king-sized bed and a falafel joint, and it’s already my favorite place in the world. I might be biased though.” Resting my head on his shoulder, I wonder how many times he’s been here before. Maybe New York isn’t as charming the hundredth time you visit, but it will always hold a special place in my heart. Jameson has been to cities all over the world. Do they hold a candle to this? “What is your favorite city?”

  He flashes me a crooked grin that makes my knees weaken. “The one you’re in.”

  “Charm will get you everywhere with me.” I push onto my toes and kiss his cheek.

  “Noted.” He points to a brownstone with red lacquered steps leading to the front door. “That one.”

  “What about it?” I ask.

  “It’s for sale.”

  “What are we going to do with a place in New York? Especially when you own an entire hotel?” I ask. I’m guessing there might be a few other real estate holdings in the West family’s New York portfolio. “Are you planning on leaving me any time soon?”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  “Because I still have a year of prep left.” I don’t want the fairytale to end, but summer is fading around us. Soon we’ll have to face the reality of our responsibilities in Belle Mère.

  “And then what?” he asks.

  “And then...” My mother had mentioned college before, but I’d always planned on sticking around and bailing Dad out of whatever new mess he found himself in at Pawnography. I never thought I’d get out of town. Las Vegas is a fly strip that’s hard to break free from, but now it seems possible. So, where does that leave me? “I don’t know.”

  “We’ll figure it out,” he promises me. “Maybe we can go on some college visits this fall. NYU. You’d probably love Boston.”

  “I’m not certain I have Harvard grades.”

  “You have Harvard money,” he reminds me.

  “What about you?” I interject, not wanting to consider if Hans’s blood money could be used for that expense. “Don’t you want to finish your degree?”

  Jameson had left school—and the prescribed life his father had planned for him. Now that there is no one around to hold him to a vision of the future he didn’t share, he has decisions to make as well.

  “Most people go to undergrad and business school in the hopes that they’ll land themselves at a fortune five hundred company,” he says. “I’m already acting CEO of one.”

  No shit, Sherlock.

  “But do you want it?” I ask in a small voice.

  “I don’t think it’s forever,” he admits. “In a few years, Monroe will be able to take over. I know she’s always wanted to. My Dad was too stupid to realize she was the better choice for heir to the throne.”

  I gulp and look away before he can catch the suspicion I suspect is written across my face. Monroe has plans of her own but it’s not my place to tell him about them. “What if it all crashed and burned?”

  “Crashed and burned?” he repeats. “Are you plotting arson?”

  “No need to call the lawyers.” Or the nice men with the strait jackets. “What if you just gave it up? You let it all fall apart? Without a West at the helm, what would happen?”

  “Someone else would take over. There would be no crashing or burning. My family is invested enough within the company that we wouldn’t even notice.”

  “Then why did you take over?” After the murder, Jameson had stepped up to take his father’s place. I’d assumed the move was made out of necessity, since he hadn’t wanted to inherit his father’s position. But if what he’s saying is true, then he did it for another reason.

  “People needed reassurances,” he explains. “My family, my mother, my sister. The people who work for our company. It’s easier to accept the next person in line than to survive a power struggle within. If I play my cards right, I’ll be able to step away when I’m ready and hand it over to someone else. It’s figuring out how everything works and who everyone is first.”

  I don’t have the smallest comprehension of what he’s talking about. My family business employs one person and relies on the slave labor of its owner and daughter to survive. But I am relieved that he isn’t stuck with West Enterprises forever. How long could he play the role of Nathaniel West before he became his father?

  Jameson not too subtly shifts the topic of conversation from the serious turn it’s taken to what I want to do this afternoon. That far ahead I can commit to. He suggests everything from a visit to the iconic Tiffany to a Broadway show, but I already know my answer. “Central Park.”

  “Central Park?” he repeats in disbelief.

  “Horse-drawn carriage rides, mimes, there’s a zoo.”

  “I thought you hadn’t been here before,” he says in an amused voice.

  “I haven’t, which is why I need to see Central Park.” No amount of persuasion can sway me from this plan of action.

  By the time we circle the block and find ourselves in front of the falafel shop once again, he’s given up.

  “This time of day it is going to be murder to get there,” he grumbles as we climb into the back of the Lincoln.

  I trail my finger down his thigh and blow him a kiss. “I have a few ideas on how we can pass the time.”

  * * *

  At one of the many entrances to the park, there is a man who has painted himself entirely in white—his clothing to his face and his hands. I can’t tear my eyes away from him. Apparently, this living statue gig is par for the course in Central Park, because Jameson is unimpressed.

  “Take my picture!” I plant myself next to the man, who still doesn’t move. Jameson groans and digs a few dollars out of his pocket. It’s only then that I realize that this living art show is less about art and more about making money.

  Regardless, I have mad respect for anyone who will brave body paint in this humidity.

  After we get our shot, Jameson reluctantly agrees to allow me to eat a hot dog from a cart.

  “How can you be hungry?” he asks.

  “I’m battling an increased appetite. I feel like I ran a marathon this morning.” Sex has to be good for the metabolism.

  “Hopefully, that appetite doesn’t lead to food poisoning.” He ignores the dirty look the vendor shoots him from behind the cart.

  As we meander through the twisting lanes of New York’s most famous green space, I can’t help becoming enchanted.

  “I think I could be a New Yorker,” I announce.

  “That’s a tall order,” Jameson warns me.

  “You don’t think I could hack it? I grew up on the strip,” I remind him as I toss the hot dog wrapper in a nearby trash can.

  “You grew up in Belle Mère,” he corrects me.

  “And survived,” I point out.

  “Then you could probably make it anywhere,” he agrees. Somehow we manage to miss the zoo. Instead, we happen upon a small pond surrounded by a low brick wall and a restaurant on one side. Little kids w
atch toy boats drift along its surface as their moms visit nearby.

  “Most of New York is not this idyllic,” Jameson tells me, but it doesn’t matter.

  Today of all days he can’t scar my perfect vision of the world.

  We find a spot under a nearby tree. Before I can claim the empty bench, I realize Jameson isn’t beside me any longer. Whipping around to look for him, I find him the last place I’d expect.

  “What are you doing down there?” I ask in a strangled voice. I can’t help hoping that he’s had a sudden onset of early arthritis to explain why he hasn’t dropped to the ground like a normal person. Because he’s not sitting on the grass. Instead, he is perched on one knee.

  It takes a few seconds for me to process what’s happening. When I finally do, I’m left with a choice but not the one he’s given me. I opt to join him on the ground. Screw tradition. I need for us to be on an equal footing.

  Dropping to my knees, I come face-to-face with the velvet box waiting in his palm.

  “You don’t have to do this,” I whisper. “We’re going to make it through this.”

  “That’s exactly why I’m asking.” Sincerity shines in his eyes. “Because we’re going to get through this, and we’ll get through whatever life throws at us next.”

  “Jameson, I can’t—”

  “Because you’re too young?” he guesses. “You don’t have to earn love. It’s not a rite of passage. My love is yours. My everything is yours. That’s not going to change.”

  “How can you be certain?”

  “Are you certain?” he asks, turning the tide against me.

  I don’t hesitate. There’s nothing to consider, because I know my answer to that question. “Yes.”

  “And I’m certain about this.” Jameson flips open the box, forcing me to face the crossroads we’ve come to. “Will you marry me?”

  I don’t even have to think. My answer is already on my tongue. “Have you lost your mind?”

  Jameson blinks. He wasn’t expecting that answer. To be fair, I’m not entirely certain I meant to say it. I clap a hand over my mouth before it can get me in more trouble.