by JD Hawkins
“If I used a line you’d know it—and it wouldn’t be terrible.”
“Well,” she says, biting her lip a little, “I guess I could just change back into my work clothes.”
I shrug.
“No need. I’ll give you the pick of my shirts. Got a pair of sweats you can borrow—roll up the cuffs, you’ll make it work,” I say.
“Like that time you gave me that green hoodie?”
“Gave you?” I fix my expression into a mock glare. “You stole that thing.”
“I did not!”
“I couldn’t believe it. I forget one of my favorite sweatshirts at your place, and the next time I see you you’re wearing it!”
“You said I could have it!” she says, slapping me playfully on the shoulder.
I laugh and rub my shoulder, pretending it hurts.
“Looked better on you, anyway.”
“I loved that thing,” she says wistfully, looking somewhere off in the distance, “wore it til it was just a few threads thick. Might still have it in a box somewhere, I think.”
I open the car door and wink at her before exiting.
“You can keep it.”
We’re silent in the elevator ride up to the top floor. I can be silent with Melina, but there’s something more to it than the comfortable silence of old friends. A tension between us, the quiet seeming intimate, rather than a distance. We stand close. Close enough for me to feel the heat coming from her fatigued body.
The elevator opens and I lead the way to my apartment, opening the door for Melina first and following behind her so I can drink in the curve of her lower back, the poise of her walk as she steps carefully into the open-plan suite.
“Whoa,” she whispers. “This is incredible. You could fit my place in here three times over.”
“Mine too,” I say, “at least, my old place in New York. Still costs about the same, though.”
Melina looks at me almost with a sense of wonder, as if I built the place.
“I’d kill to have a place like this. It’s so open. Oh!” she gasps, noticing the French doors across the living room that open onto the balcony.
“Go check it out,” I say. “It’s a great view.”
She rushes over, pulling the doors open and teetering onto the small terrace like she’s scared it’ll crumble beneath her. “Wyatt, this is incredible…look at all the buildings, and the mountains over there. We’re so high up it’s almost scary.”
I come up beside her and when I place my hand on the small of her back she relaxes a little, pressing herself against me.
“I’ll protect you,” I say, halfway between playful and deadly serious.
“I know you will,” she says, but I don’t take my hand from her back. Instead I step forward, as if to assure her it’s ok to look out over the edge, that I wouldn’t let anything happen to her.
Her hand wraps tightly around the railing, body stiff as she looks down at the city. I slide my hand a little further around her waist, holding her now, close enough to feel her body against mine—achingly close.
Once again there’s that shared silence, where nothing is certain between us except that we both like this.
Melina lets out a little sigh and then turns away from the cityscape to direct those soft, expressive eyes up at me. “I believe you were about to show me that shower?”
“Right this way,” I say, taking her hand to lead her through the apartment.
I open the door to the bathroom, half of the room taken up by a glass-walled shower that you could fit a basketball team into. Its shower head the size of a hubcap, its heated-tile floor a rich Italian marble.
Melina laughs and shakes her head at the extravagance—the only reaction I’d expect from her.
“Check it out,” I say, pulling the door open and stepping inside, “even got a little place you can sit. A mirror here…couple of jets on the walls… What do you think?”
Still shaking her head, she says, “I think it’s more like a carwash than a shower.”
I can’t help laughing. Not just ‘cause it’s funny, but because it’s so her. This is a girl who drinks her beer out of the bottle, after all. It’s been too long since I spent time with a woman like her.
Melina steps forward and kicks off her sneakers, a mischievous smile playing itself across her perfect face.
“Well,” she says, as she pulls her shirt up over her head, “let’s see if this shower lives up to the hype.”
Few women can catch me off-guard like this, but all I can do is watch with growing desire as Melina steps past me toward the shower, unhooking her bra and then sweeping down her workout leggings in one elegant, smooth gesture.
She steps inside and turns on the jets, giving me a full view of that lush ass while she waits for the water to heat up. Then she spins around and steps under the water, her eyes closing, and I have to hold back a groan as she tilts her head back and lets the spray cascade down the lines of her naked body. All I can do is watch, transfixed by how perfect this moment is, mesmerised by every inch of her.
She opens her eyes again and looks at me, one eyebrow raised.
“You not coming in?” she says. “Showering together is good for the environment, you know.”
I kick my own shoes off and almost tear at my clothes, desperate to get close to her, to feel her bare, wet skin beneath that water.
Once I step inside, she turns her back to me. I stroke my hands along the lines of her body, fingers flowing down across her smooth skin with the cascade of water. She’s sensitive, shivering and warm under my touch. I don’t know how she’s gotten so bold all of a sudden, but she’s everything I want right now and I’m not stopping to ask questions.
I grab the shower gel and pour some into my hands, then rub it against her skin, turning the water sudsy and soft. She sways and leans back against me as I stroke her body, moaning softly as I massage the foam around the curves of her ass and breasts, circling her nipples with my fingers until they’re tight and hard.
She spins to face me and presses her hands against my chest, our wet bodies heated by the water and each other. When I reach down between her thighs, she bats me away with a smirk.
“Your turn now,” she says.
I let her wash me from head to toe, cock throbbing as she traces her fingers in the lines of my pumped muscles, pushing the hot, foamy water down my chest. I watch drops of water roll down her breasts as she wraps her hand around my cock to give it a few tight, wet strokes.
“That’s good,” I tell her. “But I think…mm…maybe you missed a spot.”
With a wicked grin she drops to her knees and takes me in her hot mouth, bobbing her head as she sucks at my length. I grab her hair and fuck her mouth gently, controlling my thrusts, teasing the back of her throat with the tip. It’s too good, too fast. As much as I want to come in her mouth and make her drink every last drop, I’d rather make her scream first.
I pull her up toward me, coax her mouth open and drink from her perfect lips. I wrap my arms around her and squeeze our wet bodies together, palms on her back, her ass, her thighs—running all over her like the water itself. When I slip a finger inside her, I find her pussy hot and slick, and as I pump in and out she whimpers for more.
“You like that?” I ask, but I already know the answer.
Her knees weaken and she buckles a little against the low tiled platform to the side, where all my shower gels and shampoos are. I break away from her to sweep them to the wet floor and sit her down, her back against the wall, legs parted. Then I kneel between her thighs like I’m about to pray, about to pay my respects at the altar of her glorious body.
Her eyes are half-closed in ecstasy as I kiss her stomach, bite her thighs, mouth dancing around her center, making her buck and moan, forcing her to gasp for air. Until my hunger for her gets almost painful, a gap inside of me I can only fill by taking complete control of her. Breasts in my palms, her thighs against my cheeks, her clit in my mouth.
With a
thirsty desire I kiss and suck her clit, set my hot tongue flickering against it like a tender flame, my entire body focused on this sublime connection. I feel her body tense, her hands clutching mine around her hard nipples, her head tilted back, until she takes my thumb in her mouth, sucking it hard and drowning out her loud moans.
I take my thumb back and pinch her clit as my tongue strokes inside her entrance.
“More, don’t stop… Please, Wyatt… Don’t stop.”
Two fingers inside of her now, searching out her orgasm, her whole body under my control as I search for the spot that’ll unlock her and make her explode. She’s putty in my hands, a prisoner to my tongue’s movements, dancing to every pump of my fingers and suck of my lips.
“Yes. Fuck yes,” she moans, over and over, until the words lose meaning, until the words aren’t enough, and they turn into primal yells.
Her thighs squeeze me like a vice now, the nails of her hand digging into the back of mine. She’s so close I can taste it. I don’t let up, keeping the rhythm, pushing her toward her bliss.
“Come for me, Melina,” I command. “Come for me now.”
Then she breaks. My pumping fingers hit the sweet spot inside of her, and her pussy explodes, her hot juices mixing with the shower’s water over my mouth, my hand. The last strength in her thighs squeezing me there, until the heat and the pleasure roll over her muscles like a wave, leaving her panting and spent under the shower’s spray.
I plant soft kisses back up her body, relaxed and glowing now, until I’m looking into her half-lidded eyes. A final kiss on her lips, as if sealing this. She smiles lazily at me, looking like she could drop off to sleep at any moment.
“You were right,” she says. “This is a nice shower.”
My laughter echoes off the tiled walls, and I marvel at how much I’ve been missing.
To the smell of frying ground beef and the sound of an old nineties radio station, Melina watches me from the kitchen island as I cook dinner for us, and I can feel her eyes never leaving my body. I’m in nothing but boxer briefs and an apron, she’s in nothing but a pair of my boxers with the waistband rolled over a few times and one of my old college t-shirts—looking hot enough that I might drop this spatula at any moment and take her all over again.
“So,” she says, as I pour tomatoes over the sizzling meat, “I’m curious.”
“About what?” I say, stirring the spaghetti.
“Well…so you’re my boss now—”
“Not really.”
“Pretty much,” she says. “And so I was just kinda wondering…how am I doing? How’s my job performance and stuff?”
“You take fantastic pictures,” I say instantly, as memories of that awful meeting with Jim flit through my mind. “You’re incredible.”
Melina pauses to give me a wry smile.
“That isn’t what I asked,” she says. “I mean, am I hitting those goals we talked about for the social media? Would my efforts look good on a PowerPoint? I sometimes get the impression Jim expects some kind of sales miracle, and that it’s my responsibility.”
I let out a brief laugh as I add basil to the sauce. Then I grab the pepper grinder to sprinkle some over it—using the loud sound as an excuse not to respond right away.
Once I’m done, I turn around to face her.
“Do you really care what Jim thinks?”
She shrugs, but I can see she’s too interested to let me go without answering.
“I guess I do,” she says, nonchalantly. “I mean, this is my first real job since I left college. It sucks, sure, but at least I can pay all my own bills. Just about.”
This time I fork a strand of spaghetti to try it, and take my time chewing to think about my answer. What can I tell her? That Jim was about to fire her just this morning? That she only has a month to show some results before he probably does it without consulting me?
“That’s done,” I say. “If you like it al dente.”
Melina tilts her head at me.
“You’re avoiding the question,” she says.
“Not at all.” I try to smile through my lie, hating that I have to do it. “It’s just…Jim doesn’t say much about you. And the fact is, you’re doing a great job considering the circumstances.”
Melina nods, and I presume she’s satisfied, though I can never be sure when she decides to keep things to herself.
“Listen,” I say, taking the spaghetti pot and pouring it into the strainer, “you wanna know what I think? I think you shouldn’t get too attached—too comfortable—in this job. You’re too good for it. Annie Leibovitz would struggle in your position.”
Melina looks down, drawing a line across the counter top with her fingernail.
“Well,” she says, deflated, “I’m no Annie Leibovitz.”
She looks up to find me glaring at her, my smile gone. I’m almost angry with her for thinking like that, for not knowing how amazing she is.
I set the colander in the pot and move around the kitchen island.
“Come with me,” I command her.
“Where?”
“I didn’t show you the bedroom.”
“Really?” Melina says, incredulous. “Can we not eat before we—”
“You need to see something,” I say, and look at her with deathly seriousness until she slides off the stool and follows me.
I push open the door to my bedroom and usher her inside. It takes a split second for her to notice what I brought her here to see.
The large photograph above the headboard, taken on film so it has grain, the dreamlike tones of celluloid. It’s one of hers.
Melina freezes before it. I watch her face go through confusion, to disbelief, to a warm smile.
“You’re kidding,” she mutters.
“I had this printed up the first year I was in college, and kept it ever since.”
The picture shows the undulating dunes of the Mojave desert, one large dune slicing down a third of the picture, the other two thirds seeming to pulsate off into the distance. My brother, Cody, is ten in the picture, his back to the camera as he carefully foots his way down the big dune. Confronted by the complex, infinite horizon, but looking as confident and unafraid as only a child could be.
Melina glances at me, but looks back at the picture quickly—as if trying to hide the slight glisten in her eye.
“Huh,” she says.
“This photo’s followed me around everywhere,” I say. “Every New York apartment I lived in. Some of the offices I had. Now here. I wouldn’t feel any place was home unless I had this photograph with me.”
“Why?” Melina asks.
“Because it means something,” I say, slowly. “I can’t tell you how many bad days I had where coming home and seeing this was the only thing that grounded me. How many times I looked at it when I was happy and felt sad, or looked at it when I was sad and felt happy…
“Even if that wasn’t Cody, even if it wasn’t you, even if it didn’t remind me of that road trip we took when we were kids, it would still move me. Every time I look at it I feel something different. Sometimes I feel like the kid, sometimes I feel like the person taking the picture, sometimes I feel like the desert. It’s just…a great picture by a great photographer.”
“You’re just saying that because—”
“No I’m not. And I’m not the only person who’s been affected by it. I’ve had more than a few offers to buy it right off my office wall, but I never even entertained the possibility.”
Melina sighs and focuses on it even more, as if she’s seeing it herself for the first time.
“You’re too good to give up, Melina. This job you have right now, it’s temporary. It’s just step one on the path to the rest of your life. You’re gonna be so much more.”
She clears her throat, and I can see she’s struggling to hold it together.“Thanks, Wyatt,” she says, going quiet for a few moments. “Anyway, I’m hungry. Let’s eat!”
She flashes me a quick smile and turns awa
y to go back to the kitchen, but not before I hear the catch in her voice, the emotion in her eyes.
9
Melina
I can already hear the bickering as I knock on the door of Wyatt’s apartment on Friday night—a potted succulent in my other hand. The voices are muffled behind the thick door, but I don’t need to hear them to know what’s going on. They’re arguing about what game to play—this is game night, after all.
After knocking again, the door finally opens to reveal Aiden, a grin on his face and a beer in his hand.
“Hey, you’re the last to arrive,” he says. “You have trouble finding the place?”
“Uh, no,” I say, the full awkwardness of the night suddenly hitting me. “Just Friday traffic.”
“Oh shit, you brought a gift, too?” he says, looking down at the plant. “I’m the only one who didn’t.”
“It’s a housewarming, Aiden,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Of course you bring a gift.”
“Wyatt’s got enough stuff,” Aiden says, as I step past him into the hallway.
I feel a sudden self-consciousness as I step into the apartment again. I’ve stayed over a few times this week already, showered and cooked meals here—yet as far as everyone else is concerned, this is supposed to be the first time I’ve been over to Wyatt’s.
“Oh, wow,” I say deliberately, as I gaze at the hallway paintings and entry table. “This place is amazing.”
Aiden frowns at me.
“It’s just a hallway, Melina.”
“I know, but…” My expression falters for a moment. Shit. Too obvious. “It’s just…really nice.”
Aiden, still frowning, looks around as if seeing it anew himself, then shrugs.
“I mean, I guess.”
I take my jacket off and slip inside the bedroom to put it on the bed, then freeze. I turn back to Aiden and stare at him, wondering if he just noticed that—how I knew where the bedroom was.
“You ok?” he asks after a second. “You look a little freaked out.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I say, laughing it off. “I, uh, thought that was the hall closet. But it wasn’t. Heh. Could you just hold this plant a second.”
