by J. Kenner
"For the sake of those guys, I certainly hope not. No hands on my girl except mine." As if to illustrate the point, he slides his hands up and down my arms, and I sigh with a low, delicious pleasure, then grab his belt buckle to tug him closer.
"I think it's time for you to finish what you started, mister."
"Is that what you think?"
"Mmm hmm."
His lips brush mine in a gentle buss, but then he takes my lower lip with his teeth and tugs, and I feel it all the way to my core. "Maybe I should make you wait for it."
I'm sure that he's teasing, and so I'm laughing when I take a step back. But the laughter dies when I see his face. "The voicemail?" I ask.
"Believe me, the only one sorrier than you is me. This shouldn't take long, but I need to deal with it. And while I'm in the office I'll see about getting flights and hotel rooms for you two."
"You're a very cruel man, Ryan Hunter."
"Maybe I am. But I promise to be very good when I see you again."
Chapter Six
I don't know what crisis has exploded for Ryan, but I do know that it keeps him out all night. He's planning to be home by eleven, though, which is just enough time to drive me to LAX for my two o'clock flight with Moira to Chicago.
But a call at ten-thirty changes all that. I don't recognize the number, but I answer anyway. Usually, I ignore unfamiliar numbers, but today I'm afraid that Moira had to get a new phone--for all I know she lost it again--or that Ryan's calling from a landline at the on-site location he's visiting because the cell reception is crappy.
Whatever the reason, I answer--and am surprised as shit when the voice at the end of the unfamiliar number with a 310 area code is my mother.
"I'm in the airport," she says between saying hello and the time it takes me to ask why she's calling from an LA area code. "My phone ran out of juice, and they don't have plugs on the plane. Hundreds of thousands of dollars in technology, and they can't add a simple plug."
"They have plugs in first class," I say. "Next time upgrade. Why are you here? Can I talk to Dad?"
"I stopped at the first phone I saw after they let us off the plane. Can you come here? I could meet you. I think they'll let me out of security if I get another boarding pass."
"Mom," I say sharply. "Why are you at LAX at all?"
"I'm on a terribly long layover," she says. "I'm on my way to Hawaii."
"Really?" I'm excited for them. My parents never take a vacation. "Daddy must be thrilled."
She makes a sniffing sound. "To tell the truth, sweetheart, I really don't know how your father is. We're separating."
The words hit me like a punch in the face, and I actually stumble backward. "Separating? But--"
"I'm so sorry." I hear my mom's wet sniffle. "Oh, there I go again." She blows her nose loudly. "I didn't want to tell you this way," she says. "I wanted to tell you in person."
My mouth is hanging open, and I'm not sure if that's in shock or simply from the weight of all the questions I want to ask. But I don't ask a single one. Instead, I just say, "I have to catch a flight at two. I'll be there in an hour, and I'll meet you inside security."
One hour and twenty-two minutes later I've not only finished packing, but I've called Ryan and told him I'm taking myself to the airport to meet a friend who's on a long layover. I'm not entirely sure why I didn't tell him the truth--except, yes, I am sure. I'm not ready to talk to anyone except my mom about what she said. Because I still can't believe it's true. And the moment I say it out loud, it's like I've made it real.
At any rate, I've managed to get all the way from Studio City to LAX, park my car, make it through security, and sprint to the airline club where I'm meeting my mother. I don't actually belong to any of the clubs, but Nikki has a membership at all of them, and so I'd hit her up for a couple of passes. She'd texted them to me right away, and now I'm sitting at a table by the window with my mother across from me, looking out at the tarmac and assuring myself that this can't possibly be real.
Except it is. Painfully, awkwardly, horribly real. "But why?" I ask as the waitress brings me the pre-lunch glass of wine that I desperately need. I take a long sip. And then, since my mom still hasn't answered, I take another.
"Mom," I press. "What happened?"
Her mouth moves, as if she's not sure if she's supposed to be laughing or crying. "Life," she finally says. "Just...you know."
"No," I say. "I don't know." I hear panic rising in my voice. This makes no sense. My mother and father have been a fixture in my life. And, yes, I know that all parents are the center of their kids' lives, but these two have been like a stone edifice. A statue representing what complete love and devotion looks like. A love so intense and blinding that it actually scared me. First, because I was afraid I'd never find anything like it. And then later, because I was afraid that I'd get lost in it, sacrificing my own dreams and ambitions to the altar of couple-hood.
Is that what happened here? "Did you get bored? It's not too late to go to law school, Mom. I interviewed a guy a few weeks ago who started law school when he was fifty-five, and he--"
"No, that's not it." She presses her hand over mine, which is awkward because my hand is curled around the stem of my wine glass. And right now I really want to lift it and take another drink.
"Mom, please," I say as I watch tears well in her eyes. "Tell me what happened."
She pulls her hand back so that she can wipe the tears away. "I'm sorry. I didn't think I had any tears left to cry."
"You're staying with me," I say firmly. "I'll text Moira and tell her I have to cancel, and we'll go back to my place and eat chocolate cake and drink wine and watch every sappy romantic movie we can think of."
"No, sweetheart, you--"
"Mom, yes. You aren't putting me out or getting in the way or ruining my plans or any of those things."
Her smile is almost impish. "My sweet little girl. Do you have any idea how much your father and I adore you?"
Her words startle me because all these years, their adoration was for each other, and I was left with sloppy seconds. She must see some of that on my face because she frowns, the expression deepening the furrows on her face, making her seem that much older and sadder. "Oh, baby. Your father and I--we were too damn selfish, weren't we?"
"No, you--"
"We were so wrapped up in each other." Her expression shifts to wistful, and despite everything she looks almost happy. Then it fades, and there's nothing left but the shadow of memories in her eyes.
"Mom?"
She shakes herself, and her familiar smile returns.
"Seriously, Mom, let's get out of here."
"Absolutely not. Melinda and Penny are already at the condo, and I have no intention of missing this trip."
I think back, trying to place the names. "The women you met at that Mahjong club you joined?"
"That's right. Melinda's husband died five year ago--not even sixty!--and Penny's husband left her, too. You could say we've bonded."
Too?
Penny's husband left her too?
"Wait--hold on, wait. You're saying Daddy left you? That's what started all this?"
Mom plasters on a smile, then nods. "Apparently his midlife crisis came a little late. I always thought once we passed fifty it was supposed to be smooth sailing down the other side of the mountain. But I was wrong." The smile turns rueful. "Like I was saying, maybe we were so wrapped up in each other we just burned out."
"Oh, God..." I lean back in my chair, my hand over my heart. My chest is tight and I have to remind myself to breathe, breathe, to just fucking breathe. "Is there--I mean, is he--oh, shit. Is he having an affair?"
I actually wince as I say the word. And, I notice, so does my mother.
But she doesn't answer. Instead, she bends down and picks up her bag. "I'm in a completely different terminal, sweetheart, so I'm going to go. I wanted to tell you in person so you could see that I'm okay."
I want to shout that she might be o
kay, but I'm not. How can my parents be separated? How can my dad be having an affair? Is he having an affair?
"You call and talk to your father, okay?" Her words are gentle. "No matter what, he loves you."
"Does he?" I say. "Maybe he just stopped. He stopped loving you, didn't he?"
She winces, and I feel eight years old. Not twenty-eight. "I'm sorry," I say. "I didn't mean that. I just--"
"I know, darling." She's at my side now, and I stand up, then lose myself in my mother's tight hug. "You go off and have fun in Chicago, okay? And you don't think about me or worry about me. I'm fine. We'll talk when I get back, okay?"
I nod, even though I don't want her to go.
I want to tell her about Ryan. About how he wants to get married. About how I'd been afraid, but then everything seemed so clear.
And about how now everything seems murky again. Like I'm in a dark room and everything is in shadows and I can no longer get my bearings. Everything seems surreal, like the whole world is just a trick of the light.
I feel as though I'm stumbling through the world, and maybe I am, because I sure as hell have no memory of getting to my gate. I'm just there, boarding pass in hand, when Moira jumps up from one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs and waves at me.
"Jamie! Over here!"
She waves me over, but I barely get two steps before she's bounced over to me and engulfed me in a hug. "I'm so excited!" she says, though she hardly needs words. Her body language says it all. She's so buzzed she's practically vibrating, and despite my own mood, I can't help but smile.
Apparently, my smile's a little weak, though, because she cocks her head and frowns as she peers at me. "Hey," she says. "You okay?"
There is no way--no way in hell--that I am letting my personal problems bring this girl down.
"I'm awesome," I say, and I will myself to mean it. "We're going to have a great time tonight. And you're going to kick serious ass tomorrow morning, and then we'll find you the most amazing apartment ever. Deal?"
She laughs and holds up a hand for a high-five. "Absolutely."
It's only a four-hour flight, but because of the time change, our plane doesn't land until after eight. By the time we get our bags and get from the airport to the Drake Hotel, it's almost ten and we decide to forego going out in favor of a drink at the bar.
"Only one, though," Moira says. "I have to be fresh tomorrow."
We go to our rooms only long enough to dump our luggage, then meet back in the bar. And by the time midnight rolls around, we've both finished two glasses of wine and are well on our way to finishing off the bottle.
"Should we get another bottle?" she asks, refilling her glass.
I pull the bottle away before she has the chance to pour too much. "Hold up there, cowboy. Weren't you the one who wanted only one glass?"
"Calms the nerves," she says. "I'll sleep better." She leans forward, her chin on her intertwined hands. "I'm kind of a nervous wreck."
"You totally have no reason to be. This is already yours, remember?"
Her mouth screws up in thought. "Nothing's ever set in stone."
I think of my parents' marriage and down the rest of my wine, then empty the bottle into my glass. "Good point. But I'm still cutting you off after that." I point to her partially filled glass.
She nods stoutly. "To the last drink," she says. "May it do the trick."
I clink my glass against hers. "And to your new internship."
"And to you and my brother," she adds before she takes a sip. She swallows and grins. "You know you guys are awesome together."
I sigh a little, because Ryan is half the country away, and tonight, I could really use his arms around me.
"Hey," Moira says, leaning forward with sleepy eyes. "You okay?"
"I just miss him." That's the truth. It's just not all of the truth.
We finish our drinks, sign the check to my room, and then head to our floor. "You're the best." She gives me a sloppy hug outside her room, then tells me she'll see me in the afternoon. "I'll text you after I get back from meeting with the team," she promises, then pouts. "It's unfair you get to sleep in."
"Aspirin and a full glass of water now," I say. "Trust me on that one."
She salutes, then shuts the door, and I'm left alone in the hallway in one of the loveliest hotels I've ever seen. I sigh, then head toward my room, wishing that Ryan was beside me and telling myself that I shouldn't call him the second I get to the room because I know he's working. He told me he was going to put in extra hours, so that he could ensure that he was free and clear on Thursday to spend time with his mother when she arrives in LA.
I don't want to be a needy, pain-in-the-ass girlfriend, and so I'll wait for him to text or call me. But that doesn't change the fact that I want him at my side.
I hesitate at my room and actually consider going down for another drink. It's just going to be lonely in there. In the bar, at least I can be lonely surrounded by other people. But I don't want other people, either. Honestly, I'm not sure what I want. When I was with Moira, I didn't have to think about the bombshell my mom dropped on me. But now it's in my head--and I so don't want it to be.
"Fuck it," I mutter, then go inside. I'll read, fall asleep, and if I'm lucky I won't dream.
Because he's an amazing guy, Ryan booked a suite for both Moira and me, and when I walk in the living area, it glows with a dim orange light that's escaping from the partially closed bedroom. I drop my purse on the floor near my still-locked luggage and head that way, thankful that I'd left a lamp on so that I won't break my neck searching for a wall switch.
But when I reach the bedroom and pull the door fully open, I gasp and stand there in absolute shock. Because the light isn't coming from a lamp. It's coming from the room service style table set up at the foot of the bed. A table with three flickering candles, a bottle of champagne, and strawberries with chocolate fondue.
"Hello, kitten."
His voice comes from behind me, and I whirl around to find Ryan smiling at me. He's wearing jeans and a starched white button-down open at the collar. He's staring at me like I'm the only thing that matters in the world, and right in that moment I don't think I've ever been so happy to see anyone in my whole, entire life.
"Ryan," I say, but he just shakes his head and moves closer, then presses a finger against my mouth.
"No more talking," he says, reaching down for the hem of my T-shirt and pulling it over my head.
Already, I'm aroused. My inner thighs tingling. My cunt throbbing. My nipples hard and tight against the lace of my bra. I'm a little drunk, too. From alcohol. From happiness. From the touch of his finger against my bare skin.
Slowly, he traces the outline of my bra. Then he tugs the cups down so that my breasts are both free and bound. I groan and bite my lower lip, because the sensation of cool air against my sensitive nipples is amazing. And all the more so when he urges me backward so that I'm pressed against the wall as he bends his head and then gently circles my nipple with the tip of his tongue before grazing the sensitive bud with his teeth.
I gasp, my fingers threading into his hair, the sensation driving me so crazy that I don't want him to stop. And when he does stop, I cry out, "no" in protest.
He presses a finger to my lips. "I thought I told you no talking. Baby, don't you know bad girls get punished?"
I swallow, my eyes wide. My skin tingles from the electricity that just those simple words send dancing over my body, and I feel the muscles of my sex clench greedily, longing for his fingers, his cock, his mouth.
But he gives me none of that. Instead, I see him slip his hand into his pocket, and when he takes it out, he has a simple chain with two plastic-tipped clamps on the end. Gently, he opens the clips and then fastens each end to my nipples.
My breath comes in stutters as my body adjusts to the pain as he tightens each clamp, sending a hot wire of pleasure shooting from my nipples down to my clit, now throbbing in time with the blood I feel pulsing through m
y breasts.
He takes a step back, his eyes going from my breasts to my face. Slowly, he smiles, his eyes lighting with humor and heat. He grasps the chain and gently tugs it, increasing the pressure on my breasts and pulling me to him. "Oh, yes, kitten," he says. "I do like that."
Slowly, he brushes his fingertips over the exposed tip of each nipple, and my body shakes unexpectedly as violent sparks cut through me and my cunt throbs in what feels like a series of small orgasms, winding me up and making me so wet and needy that if I were allowed to talk, I'd beg for him to please fuck me right then, right there.
"Go ahead, baby," he says, and though I don't realize at first what he's talking about, I realize that my hand has slipped under the waistband of the yoga pants I'd thrown on to run to the airport and meet my mother. "I want to watch you get off."
I don't hesitate. I want this too much. This wildness. This passion. I slip my fingers down over my clit and stroke myself as Ryan grabs the waistband and tugs the pants down. I'm wearing flats, and I kick them off, then scramble to get out of the pants as he tugs them over my feet.
He tosses them aside, then stands up, his hand going immediately to his zipper. He tugs it down and frees his cock, already rock hard. "Legs around my waist," he says, as his hands cup my ass and he lifts me.
I do what he says, letting him manipulate my body so that my legs are hooked around him and I'm held in place by that connection and the pressure of the wall against my back.
"Oh, baby," he says as his cock slides against my rear. "Lift up. Take all of me."
I put my hands on his shoulders and push myself up as he positions his cock. Then I lower myself, taking him in so slowly that his stuttering breath shakes my body, too, and his murmurs of, "oh, kitten, Christ, yes," make me that much wetter.
"I can't take it anymore," he says. "I have to feel you come."
He pumps into me, slamming us both against the hotel wall with such force I'm certain that my back will be bruised and the wall dented.
He's using both hands to keep my hips moving in time with his thrusts. But as I get closer--as my muscles start to contract around his cock--he uses one of his hands to tug on the chain connecting my nipples. A wild, crazed sensation cuts through me, and I explode, my body shattering in what has to be the most intense orgasm of my life.
