by Mary Campisi
18
She spotted Elliot when she was still a good fifty feet from baggage claim. He stood to the side, arms folded, newspaper tucked under one hand, wearing tan slacks and a navy polo shirt. Jenny’s heart skipped as she closed the distance. When he saw her, his expression turned serious, searching. And then he smiled.
Jenny moved toward him, willing her body to his. When she reached his side, she turned suddenly shy and self-conscious, behaviors that were as foreign to her as peppermint gum.
“Has it really only been two days?” he said, his voice low, gentle.
She laughed, a nervous hiccupy sound, as she checked the calendar on her watch. “Yup. It’s only been two days.”
“I missed you, Jenny.”
I missed you, too. She nodded, said, “Me, too.”
He took her bag, set it down beside them. “Come here.”
She moved toward him, her gaze locked with his. This is what she’d been waiting for. This, she thought as he wrapped his arms around her, pulled her against him. Their lips met, melded, tongue to tongue, searching, exploring, honoring. She pressed her body against his, close, closer. His hand slid down her back, kneaded the top of her hip.
“Dr. Drake? Is that you?”
Elliot broke the kiss, stared at the sixty-something woman with the pink-rouged cheeks and sweatshirt that said “Seniors Do It Better.”
“Mrs. Abblebee. What…what are you doing here? I thought you were going to visit your daughter in Arizona.”
“I did,” she said, “but I came back a bit early,” She smiled at him, winked at Jenny. “You know how it is when you miss your man,” she said.
Elliot turned a dull shade of red and cleared this throat.
“Who’s your lady?” Mrs. Abblebee said, squinting to get a better look at Jenny.
“This is my friend, Jenny Romano.”
“Your friend, Dr. Drake?” She laughed, a tinkling sound filled with years of knowing. “You meant girlfriend, didn’t you? You’re a pretty one,” she said to Jenny. “Lucky, too. We were all after him, but nobody could seem to land him.” She smiled again, a broad smile that showed a mouthful of bridgework. “You take care of him, you hear?” She tsk-tsked. “The girls are going to be heartbroken, Dr. Drake, just heartbroken when they find out you’ve got a girlfriend.”
“Mrs. Abblebee—”
“Ida,” she corrected him. “How many times did I tell you to call me Ida?”
“As many as I’ve told you to call me Elliot,” he said, sounding more like his old self.
“Well, in my day, it was a sign of respect to call a doctor a doctor, none of this first-name this and that.” She waved a hand in the air. “So, to me, you’ll always be Dr. Drake.”
Ida Abblebee leaned toward Jenny. “Now, you take care of this young man, ’cause if you don’t, we’ve got a whole line of eager females who will.”
Jenny nodded, wondering if “the line” was made up of white-haired senior citizens.
“Good-bye, Ida,” Elliot said.
“Good-bye, Dr. Drake.” She waved. “Good-bye, Dr. Drake’s girlfriend.”
Elliot grabbed Jenny’s bag and clutched her hand. Then he turned and said under his breath, “Let’s get out of here.” They worked their way to baggage claim, moving fast. They didn’t speak again until they were in his car. “I dropped the van off at Grace’s last night.” He gestured at the cream upholstery of the Volvo. “I didn’t think the Harley would be too practical with your luggage.”
“No. Good choice.” It was all she could manage. Elliot’s girlfriend? Is that what she was? Well, he hadn’t denied it, but he had introduced her as his friend. So, what was she? More importantly, what did she want to be?
“Jenny.” Elliot took her hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you back there.”
“It’s okay.” What did he mean, the part about Mrs. Abblebee, or the kiss? And who was embarrassed, him or her? She wanted to know and yet she was not going to ask him.
“No, it was poor judgment on my part. I’m sorry.”
“Elliot.” She faced him, unable to keep her mouth shut. Maybe she was about to make a fool of herself, but she needed clarification. “What was poor judgment? Telling Mrs. Abblebee I was your girlfriend or the other…the kiss?”
He hesitated a second, cleared his throat. “Well, actually—”
She yanked her hand away. “Forget it, I don’t want to know.”
“Jenny—”
“I said forget it, really. I don’t want to know.” She crossed her arms over her chest, stared straight ahead. It was college all over again, with her boyfriend taking her home to meet his parents and the next thing, bam, he tossed her out like day-old Chinese food, soggy carton and all. And now, Elliot would do the same thing. He’d use his psychology on her, he’d be an expert on that, and when she finally let her guard down and opened up, he’d inch away, telling her she didn’t fit into his “professional” persona. He’d do that, she knew it, so she’d do it first, before they got any more involved, before they slept together, before she fell in love with him.
“Jenny, what’s going on?”
She kept her eyes on the car parked in front of them, a black Lexus, shiny, with a sun roof. Stupid, stupid, stupid, why did she have to be so stupid when it came to men?
Jenny spotted Elliot out of the corner of her eye. He was leaning against his door, arms folded over his chest, watching her.
“Can we please leave?” she asked.
“I missed you, Jenny.”
She said nothing.
“And all I could think about was touching you, being with you.”
Her insides started to heat up, curl into a tight ball, low in her belly.
“And when I kissed you, I forgot where we were, what we were doing, what I wanted to do…and then Mrs. Abblebee popped up out of nowhere and reminded me that we were in a very public place and I was well on my way to doing some very private things to you.”
Like what? she wanted to ask. Tell me, every detail. Instead, she said, “Then you weren’t embarrassed that it was me you were with or that you’d been kissing me?”
“Of course not. It had nothing to do with you; it had to do with me and protecting you, protecting our privacy.”
“Well.” Her heart started to flutter like a balloon blowing in the wind. “It’s not like we did anything that personal.”
“You wouldn’t be saying that if you knew what had been running through my mind.” His voice was dry, matter-of-fact.
She turned to him, her breathing coming in choppy puffs. “I…I just didn’t like the way it made me feel, like I wasn’t good enough to be seen with you in public.”
“There’s nothing further from the truth.” He leaned forward, stroked her cheek. “I’m proud to be with you.” His voice dipped. “It wasn’t about you at all.” His fingers trailed down to her neck, hovered along the opening of her cotton blouse.
She wanted him to touch her, wanted him to—
Elliot snatched his hand back and swore under his breath.
“What? What is it?”
He shook his head, raked a hand through his hair. “Do you remember when I told you we needed to be friends, establish trust and honesty before the relationship could go any further?”
“I remember.”
“Well, I lied.” He met her gaze, his brown eyes almost black. “We’ve got the friends part down, but the rest, the trust and honesty, we’ve got a long way to go. We’re still feeling each other out, figuratively speaking, and yet, that’s all I want to do, literally.”
She stared at him, said nothing.
“You’re driving me crazy, Jenny. When I’m around you, I can’t think straight; all I want to do is touch you, get close, as close as I can get.”
A low thrumming swirled through her. “And that’s a problem?”
“Hell yes, it is. I’m not like that; I’ve never been like that. I respect women, respect their choices. I’m not the kind of guy
who meets a woman at eight and tries to get in her bed at eleven. I like to take my time, understand the situation, analyze it, ponder the possibilities, know what I’m doing and where I’m going.”
“So, where are you going with me, Elliot?”
“I don’t have a clue.”
“That’s not always bad, you know…especially if the woman wants to go there with you.”
He smiled at her, a long, slow smile that made her tingle all over. “Truth, Jenny? Okay. I haven’t been able to think of anything but touching you.” He trailed his finger along the inside of her shirt, traced the outline of her breast. Oh, but she loved those fingers. “Honesty? I couldn’t think of anything but tasting you.” He spread his fingers, cupped her breast. She moaned, leaned forward, trying to get closer. “When I’m around you, I can’t think straight…frankly, I can’t think much at all.”
“Oh, Elliot…”
He slid his hand between her legs, pressed his fingers against her, found her mouth. She was drowning, drowning in her own need…He filled her mouth with his tongue, deep, deeper…she pulled him in, sucking, stroking. She moved her hand up his thigh, cupped his groin, felt the hardness pulsing beneath her fingers.
“Jenny,” he broke the kiss, his breathing ragged. “I…we’ve got to stop. Let’s go somewhere…anywhere.”
She ran her hands along his thighs, brushed her lips against his ear. “We are somewhere.” Her fingers moved closer to his groin. “We’re here.”
He groaned and caught her hand. “Jenny. Stop…just stop…go sit… over there…” Elliot sucked in a deep breath, gripped the steering wheel and stared straight ahead.
“Elliot?”
“Don’t talk, Jenny. Okay? Don’t move…just give me a minute. Okay?”
“Okay.” She leaned against the passenger door, crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s hot in here, isn’t it?” She undid the top button of her blouse, watched him. His eyes were closed, and he looked like he was meditating, lost in another world. Elliot had just admitted how much he wanted her and the knowledge made her giddy and at the same time powerful. “Whew!” She flicked open another button and then another until her cotton blouse fell away to reveal the thin scrap of silk covering her breasts. Jenny lifted her right leg, crossed it over her left, hitching her skirt up several inches to reveal a long expanse of skin.
Elliot Drake needed to learn that sometimes it was okay to lose your self-control; sometimes, it was downright necessary.
“Elliot?”
“Hmm?” His eyes were still closed.
“Look at me.”
He opened his eyes, turned toward her. “Jesus, Jenny!” He leaned over, pulled her shirt closed. “What are you doing?” He tried to smooth her skirt back into place.
“Just showing you the truth behind what you’ve been imagining these past several weeks.”
“Cover up. Someone might see us.” He looked around. The lot on level 6 was deserted.
“They might,” she said, shrugging out of her shirt. “And then again”— she slid her bra strap down—“they might not.”
“What are you doing?” He looked like a desperate man, his eyes burning into her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. “What are you doing?”
“Teaching you, Dr. Drake, that sometimes even you need to lose your self-control.” She lifted her leg higher, exposed more flesh.
That did it. Elliot fished his keys out of his pocket, turned on the ignition, and threw the car in reverse. The Volvo roared out of its parking place and tore through the lot.
Well, so much for teaching Elliot about losing his self-control. The man was made of steel and she’d just made a complete fool of herself. Jenny pulled her shirt together, edged back into her seat, and stared at the arrows in front of her. But instead of going down, they were moving up. What was he doing? Elliot pulled the car onto the top level, which was deserted except for a white Honda Accord and a green Toyota Camry parked at the opposite end of the lot. He backed the Volvo into the far corner, threw it in Park and turned off the ignition.
His breathing was heavy, uneven, and when he looked at her, his eyes were bright, almost glazed. “So you want me to lose my self-control. Is that it, Jenny?” His words were low, deliberate.
“I...yes.”
“Okay.” He flipped open the trunk, got out, and retrieved a blue-and-green windshield sun shade. “Just remember one thing. You asked for it,” he said, positioning the sun shade on the windshield. Their eyes met, held. “I’m very, very close to losing the last ounce of self-control in my body.” Elliot opened the back door, climbed in. “Come here, Jenny Romano. Let me show what happens when I lose my self-control.”
She scrambled out of the front seat and climbed into the back. He sounded so normal, so in control, and she would have thought he was except for the twitching on the right side of his jaw. He pulled her onto his lap. She straddled him, steadied her hands on his shoulders, moaned when he massaged her butt. Oh, but she was falling apart, one delicious touch at a time. When he suckled a nipple through the sheer fabric of her bra, she cried out.
“Jenny,” he groaned, as he unfastened her bra, slid it down her shoulders to expose her breasts. His hands palmed them, his lips and tongue moving over each nipple. “I want you.” He buried his fingers inside her panties, stroked her swollen flesh. “And that’s the honest truth.”
“Make love to me, Elliot.” It was a whisper, a plea. “Make love to me.”
The next seconds were a whirl of sound and sensation: a zipper sliding down, a low groan, hard flesh against her fingers, a foil packet, the feel of latex, tongues tasting, licking, pleasuring, and then, when she thought she’d explode with the next flick of his finger, he lifted her by the hips and impaled her.
The joining was furious, desperate, with Jenny moving over him, her whole body tingling, begging for release. Elliot grabbed her butt and guided her, his hips jerking up to meet hers. Their mouths met, their tongues mated, harder, deeper, reaching, touching, body to body, heart to heart, soul to soul, until their worlds fell apart, shattered one stroke at a time, hurling them over the edge into a freefall of oblivion.
They dozed for minutes or longer, Jenny didn’t know. The sun was high in the sky when she opened her eyes, the world outside the Volvo a foggy existence, nebulous, unclear. She was still on top of Elliot; he was still inside of her.
He spoke first. “You know, there’s a bottle of wine chilling in the fridge at home and a blanket on the lawn in the garden.” He ran his hand along her arm and she shivered. “I’d planned on a picnic, just the two of us, a kind of welcome home, just for you.”
She sighed, snuggled against his chest. “I can’t imagine anything better than the welcome home you just gave me,” she murmured.
He kissed the top of her head, pulled her to him. “Except perhaps, more of the same.”
* * *
They were lying on a green-and-white striped comforter in the backyard, their clothes scattered where they’d thrown them a short while ago. Elliot had stripped Jenny naked, kissed her everywhere; the hollow at the base of her neck, behind her ears, the bend of her elbows, the underside of her breasts, the soft swell of her belly, the inside of her thighs, the back of her knees, her toes… And she had flung off his clothes, and done the same. When she found the tattoo on his right arm, a Harley-Davidson emblem, she laughed and kissed it, too.
Their lovemaking this time was more languid, rolling over and into one another, a joining that moved like a dance as they shifted and stroked, sighed and pleasured, one to another, all the time, reaching, reaching, until the final crescendo that left them exhausted yet filled with peace.
Elliot plucked a grape off the platter Eleanor had fixed, eased it between Jenny’s lips, his fingers lingering there.
“Remind me never to tell you to lose your self-control again,” she said, smiling at him. “I’m exhausted.”
He grinned. “I perform on command.”
“And you do it so well.”<
br />
He leaned over, kissed her. “So do you.”
She could stay like this, basking in the afterglow of their lovemaking, the sun warm on their backs, the heady aroma of the flower garden filling their senses. Perfect.
“Jenny, look,” Elliot said in a low voice, pointing to a cluster of lavender. “The butterfly, see it?”
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered. It was indeed beautiful, black with vibrant blue-and-green markings, one that she’d never seen before. She watched as it flitted from lavender to iris to lupine, its wings opening and closing like a fan in a flutter of grace and iridescent brilliance.
“It’s a Pipevine Swallowtail,” Elliot said. “I’ve only seen it in the garden a few times.”
“I wish I had my camera.” It would be a spectacular shot.
“You, naked, with your camera?” He let out a low laugh. “That would be a spectacular shot.”
She rolled her eyes. “I meant the butterfly, not me.”
“Oh, the butterfly, well, it’d be a good shot, too, but not as great as the one I’m picturing.”
She gave him a small smile but her eyes were on the butterfly, trying to figure out a way to capture him on film. Damn, if she could only get to her camera. “I think I’ll throw on some clothes and get my camera,” she said, as the butterfly dipped to a low-lying rose bush.
“Don’t bother. He’ll be gone by then.”
“I’ll hurry.” She sat up and reached for her shirt.
“I’ve tried it, Jenny. Trust me, he’ll be gone, just enjoy him now, while he’s still here.”
“But—”
As if on cue, the Pipevine Swallowtail flew to a group of pink lupine, hovered, then lifted, higher, higher, and fluttered away, over the fence.
Jenny sank back onto the blanket, her gaze fixed on the spot where she last saw the butterfly. “Do you think he’ll come back?”
“Maybe someday.”
“Did you ever try to catch him?” She could see the picture of the butterfly in her mind, one hundred times more vibrant than the monarch photo she’d given Grace.
“Catch him? He’d die. You can’t catch something like that.” His voice filled with a quiet sadness. “You can’t catch a creature like that anymore than you can catch a person. You can only create an environment they might want to live in. The rest is up to them.”
