by Erin Zak
“Tell us about you, Cecily,” Max says as he leans back. He stretches his arm behind Armando. “What makes you tick?”
I feel the heat rising in my cheeks. I didn’t expect this question at all. I glance at the remainder of my after-dinner drink, an espresso martini. “At one time, it was the desire to have a baby.” I sigh. “Then when that didn’t work, I inundated myself with work,” I say before I look up at Max. “But lately?” I glance at Francesca. “It’s her.” I shrug and smile at the shock on her face. “Kind of ridiculous.” I take a deep breath. “Isn’t it?”
“Not at all,” Armando says with a chuckle. “I feel the same way about this guy.”
“What else? Tell us more. I feel like we barely know you.” Max chuckles. “I mean, if you want to tell us, of course.”
I don’t really know what to say. “Well, I’m married, for starters.” Max starts to cough, and I can’t fight the laugh that bubbles from my throat. “I’m sorry. I’m separated from him.”
Armando smiles. “Didn’t expect that.”
“So you tried to have children?”
I turn my attention to Francesca. I know part of her interest lies with wanting to get in my pants because, well, ditto, but she also seems to care. Like, maybe she thinks getting to know what’s under all these layers I’ve built up will make it easier. To what, I don’t know? Getting to know me won’t make it easier to leave. It won’t make it easier to not see her again after Monday. It won’t make anything easier. Except falling for her, which has thus far been easy enough. “I did, yes. Unsuccessfully.”
“I’m so sorry.” She places her hand on my clasped hands in my lap. “You would be a great mom.”
I smile. “How would you know?”
She tilts her head, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “I have a good sense about this.” Armando chuckles, and we both turn to look. “Something funny?” she asks with a tone that has to be reserved for sibling rivalry.
“No, no. Not at all.” He waves. “Y’all’s eye-fucking game is legit next-level, though. I’m impressed.”
I gasp. Francesca laughs.
Max smacks him on the arm. “Armando,” he says in a low voice.
“What?” he asks, laughing the entire time. “I’m just sayin’.”
“Don’t be an ass.” Max looks at me, clearly trying to hide his laughter. “I’m so sorry.”
I shake my head and let out a breath. “It’s okay. I mean, he’s not wrong.” And we all softly laugh as we finish our drinks.
Chapter Thirteen
Cecily
I dab the damp washcloth along my forehead and along my jawline. I’m perspiring, and I have no idea why.
That’s a lie.
I know exactly the reason.
We’re back at the Heights. In my suite. And I’m trying my hardest not to cross the line with her. I want it. She wants it. But there is no looking back once we do this. While we might be okay on the surface, I fear deep down we will be wrecked when I leave.
Or we will be wrecked with guilt over the past.
The past…I can’t stop thinking about Willow and how much different everything has been with Francesca. I was ready to put everything in one basket with Willow. And I mean everything. I am leaving Luke. I already have a deposit on an apartment in River North, within walking distance to work. I haven’t told anyone, though. Not my sister, Brenda, who I tell literally everything to. Not my friends, who all would be supportive. Not my parents, who wouldn’t understand at first but would hopefully try.
How do I tell them I’m leaving Luke, but I’m also going to start a relationship with a woman? Oh, no, not the woman you’ve already met, Mom. No. Not her. A new one. Who is a casino bartender. In Vegas.
I’m freaking out as I stare at my reflection. As nervous as I am, at least I still look good. Happy. Relaxed. Healthy. The lack of sun in Chicago during winter and spring can wear a person down. There’s something to be said for how seeing the sun can change a person’s mood.
Well, the sun and also finding someone so unexpected.
I turn from the mirror and slip off my heels before I open the master bathroom door. Francesca is sitting on my bed. She’s sitting. On. My. Bed. And her tie is off, along with her jacket and heels. She looks so sexy. I need help holding myself up. I lean against the doorjamb before I force myself to acknowledge her presence. I smile. At least, I think I’m smiling. I have no idea. My legs feel like an old static-filled TV sounds. I pull a deep, deep breath in and hold it for one beat, two, three, before I let it out through my nose. “Hi,” I say softly. I can barely find my voice, let alone my brain capacity.
“Hi.” Her voice… Goddamn, her voice. I cringe. I never use that word, but I can’t help it.
“Sorry.” Why am I apologizing?
“For?”
Ugh. Calm down, Cecily. Calm the heck down. “Taking so long. I was—”
“Giving yourself a pep talk?”
I pull my gaze away as I chuckle. She’s right, but I debate for a moment if I should be honest. “Busted.”
“It’s okay.”
When I look back, she pats the spot next to her. I do as instructed and start moving toward her. I’m pretty sure that if I check my pulse, it will tell me I’m close to having a heart attack. Thank God heart disease doesn’t run in my family.
She holds her hand out, so I take it. I am trembling. “Listen,” she says when I sit next to her. The distribution of weight causes her to be taller than me. I glance up at her eyes, at the sparkle of her eye shadow, at the way she licks her lips. “I didn’t come up here to have sex with you.”
Disappointment. The feeling shakes me to my core so hard it takes my breath away. Then following like a tsunami is fear. Fear of being on the wrong page, fear of being too ugly, too fat, too everything she doesn’t want. And right behind fear is the possibility that I’m overreacting. Maybe she is in the exact same spot as me, ridden with excitement and guilt and desire and anxiety.
“Don’t get me wrong.” Her breath brushes my cheek, chin, down my neck, until it causes goose bumps to erupt on my arms. “I want to, so badly.”
I want to speak, but my voice is caught somewhere between why don’t you, then? and did I do something wrong?
“But I don’t know if you’re ready…” The way her voice trails off has me leaning closer. I’m so close to her lips that if I move just a fraction, I’ll be able to kiss her. I’ll be able to let her know that I’m ready. Yes, I’m scared, nervous, worried, but I’m ready for whatever this may bring. And then she says quietly, “Or if I am.”
I’ve read enough romance novels with the phrase “my heart clenched,” but this is the first time it has actually happened to me. It never happened with Willow. And it one hundred percent never happened with Luke. Or with anyone else, for that matter. She must see the sadness as it washes over my face because she places her hand on my knee.
“My heart was shattered before I met you, Cecily. And I wasn’t sure if the pieces would ever fit back together. Or if I even wanted them to. I thought maybe I was supposed to be broken forever.” She closes her eyes, and I can see the wetness of tears around her lashes. “I don’t know if I deserve to be loved.”
“Why would you say that?” My voice is a whisper. It’s all I can muster.
“She basically said those words to me. Told me I was crazy, not good enough, and all I wanted was an explanation. I wanted to know why…”
“Francesca,” I start, but her eyes stay closed, and I find myself unable to articulate how this woman who broke her was obviously a horrible human being. I have hurt people before. I have been the horrible human being I so easily describe this woman as. The act of hurting someone else never makes sense, not even when you’re the one doing the hurting. “She doesn’t get to break you and also take away your ability to heal.” She nods, her eyes still shut. I place a hand on her face, pull her gently so she’s facing me, and she opens her eyes. Her mascara has smeared the tiniest o
f bits, but it only makes her more beautiful. More real. “I will be here for you, no matter what, in whatever capacity you need. Broken, healed, and everything in between. Okay?”
“How did I find you?”
“I mean, if we’re being technical, I think I’m the one who found you.”
She grins. “You think so?”
“Oh, yes. You would have never seen me if I didn’t see you tossing bottles around like you were some sort of Latina Tom Cruise.”
She laughs her lovely laugh. “A Latina Tom Cruise?” She tosses her hair over her shoulder. “I guess if I’m Tom Cruise, you’re Elisabeth Shue?”
I shrug. “I guess so.”
She falls back on the bed. Her hair spreads on the white comforter, and she grips the material. For someone who has spent most of her life never imagining women sprawled in front of her, it is all I think about now. I tear my eyes away and stand. I walk to the windows, taking deep breaths, hoping I can talk myself out of this. I look out at the Strip, at the lights, the hustle and bustle, the Bellagio fountains exploding into the dry desert air. I press my palms to the glass to try to ground myself. Nothing is working.
When I hear her stand, I don’t look. The idea that she’s going to leave after this is almost too much to process. If nothing else, I want her to stay with me. I want her to sleep next to me. I want to hold her and wake up to her in the morning and kiss the top of her head as she stirs. I want so much with her.
Her hand lands gently on my back, on the bare skin above the dress. I clench my jaw and close my eyes. Looking at her now would be even harder than seeing her walk away. I feel her lips on the back of my shoulder, then again on my shoulder blade after she moves my hair. Before I can understand what’s happening, I feel the zipper of my dress falling slowly, deliberately. It goes slack when her hands slide across my lower back, to my sides, up and over the back of my strapless bra, to the straps of my dress. She pushes them down my arms. After my dress falls to the floor, I finally give in and turn. She’s shed her pants, her shirt is unbuttoned, and her nude lace bra has my attention in an instant.
“Francesca,” I say as I look into her eyes, but she places her index finger against my lips.
“Shh.”
“We don’t have to do this.”
“Which is exactly why I know I want to.”
“Are you sure?”
She places both hands on my face and nods as she leans in. Her lips brush mine before she presses them fully into me. This is the first time since our kiss at her apartment, and I cannot get over how kissing her feels as if I am arriving back home after wandering most of my life. I put my hands under her shirt at the shoulders and push the white cotton down her arms. She helps pull it over her wrists but never breaks our kiss. I turn her around while kissing her and do what I’ve been wanting to do since I saw these floor to ceiling windows. I break the kiss, fumble a second with her bra before it comes undone. I toss the lace to the side and then strip her of her thong. Same color. Same material. I have to stop myself from falling to my knees and ripping it off with my teeth. I am a full-blown animal. I’m almost scaring myself, but Francesca’s giggle and the look in her eyes when I back her into the window is enough to ground me.
“You want to fuck me against this window?”
“Yes,” I say, a low growl following. “I want to…” I pause, recalling our earlier conversation from our first kiss, and I look right into her eyes when I finish with, “I want to fuck you against this window.”
“Jesus Christ.” Her voice is barely a whisper.
I trail my hand across her breasts, which are perfect in size and shape. Not surprising but definitely exciting. Her skin is gorgeous, a color I’ve never seen before. Her small dark nipples are erect, so I tweak each one, never breaking eye contact. She bites her lip when I pinch, soft, then harder and harder. She yelps, and I smile. “Too hard?”
“No. It feels amazing.”
I raise my eyebrows and pinch one more time, which causes her to moan deep in her throat. I lean down and place my mouth around her left nipple, bite, and then move to the next as she continues to make sounds I’ve only ever dreamt about before. I move my hand down her stomach, over the abdominal muscles that I thought would make me feel ugly and inadequate, but they’re actually turning me on so much I cannot think straight. When I get to her warm center, she spreads her legs a little wider. I push a finger through her folds and look into her eyes. She is drenched, so I push a finger inside her. Her low moan is almost enough to make me come. I slide another finger inside. She has her arm around my shoulders, so I wrap my free arm around her, pulling her from the window. As I thrust into her, she raises her left leg to give me better access. She’s so light. I feel as if I could lift her from the ground.
She is moving with me, so in tune it’s as if we’ve done this a thousand times before. Something inside me is screaming how this could be everything I’ve ever wanted. This could be how I’m supposed to make someone feel. This could be my life. She could be my forever.
“Cecily,” she says between moans.
“Yeah, baby?”
“I love you,” she says, and then she unravels as her orgasm takes over.
Francesca
I rest my head against Cecily’s shoulder as I come down from the orgasm. My legs are jelly, and I realize I’m still gripping her, holding on for dear life. My breathing is ragged. I am a literal hot mess, sweating from head to toe. I’m so amazed by her in this moment. And so disappointed in myself for letting it slip that I love her.
Oh my God.
I love her.
Is that possible? How is that possible? I only stopped obsessing over Willow two days ago. How in God’s name is it even remotely possible that I’m in love with this woman?
The embarrassment of my realization is flooding every ounce of my body as if someone opened Hoover Dam.
“Are you okay?” Her whisper is feather-soft. She’s still holding me up, and I wonder how long she can do this. It might be a while before I’m able to explain everything happening inside my body. I hope she has the patience of a saint—she has to if she’s married to a man—because I fear I may never be able to find the words. When she says, “Francesca?” I realize I’ve not answered her.
“Yes,” I say, and it catches in my throat, so I say again, “yes.”
“Okay.” Her voice is so soft still. I want to kiss her again. I want to do it all over again. I lift my head and find her lips. She smiles into the kiss. “I believe you,” she says against my mouth.
I loosen my grip and slide my hands around her until I’m able to snap her strapless bra apart. I pull it from between our bodies and toss it to the side. “It’s my turn,” I say as I break our kiss, then our body contact, and slip my fingers under the waistband of her black panties. I push them down her smooth legs. Her skin is pale, untouched by the sun, and I want to kiss every single inch. When she steps out of the panties, I stand and take her face to kiss her again. The way she kisses makes me feel as if we’ve known each other forever. There’s no need for small talk or handshakes. I have this inkling that my instincts know what she wants without asking, which would freak me out if it was anyone but her.
When she slides her tongue into my mouth, I eagerly accept it.
I love her.
The words rattle around inside me, almost causing me to falter, but I pull myself together. I may not be in love with her, but yes, I do love her. She is a beautiful soul with a magnificent heart, and I have loved every single second of getting to know her. She has made me feel alive again after feeling oh so very close to death for the past month. The humiliation I feel about how I allowed Willow to take up so much space in my heart when she never paid a cent in rent is awful. I want to scream at myself. I want to hit myself. I want to cry and throw things.
But I also want to love this woman in front of me with every last breath in my body.
“Sit down on that chair,” I say as I pull apart from her full lips a
nd phenomenal kisses. I motion toward the chair in the corner. I’ve been eyeing it since I came upstairs. It’s dark gray, oversized, and has giant yellow throw pillows. I want to make her come right there, head thrown back on those pillows, hands in my hair, my mouth on her clit. She doesn’t question me. She moves gracefully in the dark with only the city lights to illuminate the way. When she sits, she tosses her hair over her shoulder, and the sensation it causes between my legs sends a zap all the way up my spine. She places one arm on the arm of the chair, then the other before she leans back.
“What are you planning to do to me”—she pauses—“Francesca?” The tone of her voice when she says my name prompts a tremble to rip through my body. I’m supposed to be seducing her, but her question in that voice is enough to cause me to collapse. I’m wet all over again. Not shocking but certainly not what I’ve ever experienced before from a voice.
I somehow find the strength to lean next to her ear. “I’m going to fuck you in this chair.” I hear her sharp intake of breath. “Is that okay with you?”
“Yes,” she whispers.
“Scoot forward, please.” I watch as she does as I’ve asked. She’s leaning back, her entire body exposed, her ample breasts, her smooth stomach. She’s unshaven, but she has trimmed the hair to be neat and tidy. I’ve not been with a woman in a long time who keeps her hair, and I find it very exciting for some insane reason. Everything about her has me thinking about things differently, though, so if anything is insane, it’s her effect on me. I take a step closer so my right leg is between hers. When I lean down, I brace myself on the back of the chair. My breasts are awfully close to her face, so I bend my knees a tiny amount. This is about her now, so when she presses forward to try to suckle me, I laugh at her attempt. Before I place my lips on her chest, I move forward so my thigh, right about at my knee, presses into her, and holy fuck, I am delighted to feel how wet she is. I haven’t even started with the foreplay. I could fuck her right now with no issues, but I want to taste her skin, place kisses on every square inch of her.
