Then Came You

by Kate Meader

  I can’t help myself. I need him to see as well as hear. Throwing back the covers and the pillow barrier, I face him on my side.

  “Think my fingers are doing just fine,” I tease.

  He smiles, slow and sensual and so Grant. “You trying to prove you don’t need a man, Bean?”

  No, just that I don’t need this man. However, I recognize that Grant watching me while I get off is probably not the self-sufficient, do-me-myself image I’m trying to cultivate. We do what we must.

  The speed of my strokes picks up, the sound of friction commingling with my raspy moans. Grant never takes his eyes off me.

  “That’s it, baby. You’re so close, I can tell. When your eyes change color—yeah, there it is.”

  I come hard while he talks me through it, filthy little nothings the room’s soundtrack.

  “My eyes change color?”

  “Yeah, usually they go from gray to silver when you get emotional, but when you come, it’s like sparks of blue and violet.”

  “You never said that before.”

  “Don’t tell you everything, Bean. But I will tell you that watching you lettin’ loose has always been the hottest thing I’ve ever had the pleasure to witness.”

  I lean in and kiss him, deeply. “What else have you never told me?”

  He thinks for a moment. “Some of those sounds you make put me in mind of a possum giving birth.”

  I thump his arm. “Grant! I do not sound like that! And hey, I think you’re forgetting that you’re still tied up—”

  I don’t get a chance to finish that sentence because I’m flat on my back with a beautiful, beefy barrel of a man lying over me sans restraints. Hard and glorious, he slots perfectly between my thighs. I’m still sensitive, and the feel of him right there where I need him is delicious.

  “Guess my binding skills need work.”

  “Don’t think you’ll ever be able to keep me away.” He rubs my nose, a gentle nuzzle that makes my heart swell. “No matter what happens, Bean, I’ll always be here for you. Where you’re concerned, I’m a lifer.”

  I swallow around the lump the size of a ham hock in my throat. “Quite the punishment.”

  “Happy to take it.”

  And then he proceeds to show me how happy he is.

  Chapter 13

  Grant

  I just spent two hours digging out my damn car. The snowplows are on the streets, so it looks like we can move. If we’re lucky, we’ll hit Boston by Thanksgiving dinner.

  I’d rather stay here. We’re finally getting somewhere, and dropping into the fucked-up Gates family dynamic is not going to help. But she needs to be home for her grandmother, so I’ll dig, dig, dig away.

  Once done, I call home. “Happy Thanksgiving, Momma.”

  “Happy Turkey Day, hon! Aubrey’s people treatin’ you right?”

  “We’re still a few hours out. Got stuck in the Finger Lakes for a day.”

  “That must’ve been…interesting.”

  My brain downloads a set of moving images depicting the events of these last few days and what’s happened between Aubrey and me. Though that makes it sound like it was truly mutual. Technically, yes. But I know in my heart of hearts that I took advantage of her. I reason that it’s because Aubrey has always been so tough to crack. Any chance I have to get under her skin I have to take.

  Even when she’s a broken woman, still grieving her loss?

  Fuck, I’m a selfish bastard. But these last few days, I’ve needed her just as much as she needed me.

  “Grant, you still there?”

  “Yeah, just thinkin’.”

  “Damn, I hate when you do that. When you got quiet, I knew somethin’ big was going to happen. Like losing your virginity with Missy Capshaw at the lake—”

  “Momma…”

  “You powered down your vocal cords for three days while you psyched yourself up for it.”

  I snort. “Should I have talked it over with you first?”

  “Well, it wouldn’t have hurt! Could’ve told you that Missy wasn’t worth that precious gift. Not when she already had her sights set on Tommy Jackson.” No man can rightly reckon with the notion of his virginity as a precious gift, especially when expressed in the voice of his mother. “You’ve always been too sensitive, too caring.”

  Emotion clogs my throat. It’s her way of saying no woman is good enough for me.

  “Aubrey and her people are different from us,” I reason. “She’s never had that care.”

  “And you’re the one to give it? Even at the expense of your own sanity? I just knew I’d lost you that first week of law school. When you called home and told me you’d met the woman you planned to marry.”

  “You never lost me, Momma. Quit bein’ so dramatic.”

  She chuckles, owning it completely. “Grant, I just want you to be careful about that heart of yours. It’s such a good one, and you’re such a good man.”

  “Only as good as the woman who raised me.” That sets her off. “Momma, don’t start cryin’ now.”

  She sniffs. “If a mother can’t cry to make her only son feel guilty for not being here on her favorite holiday, then what can she do?”

  I laugh. “I’ll be there Sunday. Three more days, Momma. Love you.”

  “Love you more, baby.”

  When I hang up, I’m left thinking on what she said. How she lost me the day I met Aubrey. I tease her about being so extra sometimes, but damn, she has the right of it.

  Two days into law school, and I was still assessing the lay of the land. Who was who, who wanted to bang who, who was already banging who. Or should I say “whom.”

  My momma had joked that I’d come back to Helen, Georgia, talking like a Yankee, if I came back at all. (The woman sure knew how to turn those guilt screws in good and tight.) Northwestern Law on the shores of Lake Michigan in Chicago would fashion me into a regular old dandy.

  But there’s no changing your name, Grant Roosevelt Lincoln, she’d said—oh, only every fucking day. You are named for three of our greatest presidents, and I know you’re gonna make me proud.

  No pressure, then.

  This lecture hall was the largest I’d ever been in, quite a step up from Georgia Gwinnett, where I majored in business. I wasn’t a complete country bumpkin. Atlanta knew how to throw a party. Hell, we had a Macy’s! But Chicago had a different feel to it, for sure. Even getting coffee was weighted with significance; if you chose the wrong combination of terms for your latte, you’d betray your down-home origins.

  I’d taken a seat in the Introduction to the Legal System lecture about six rows back, somewhere in the middle. While I can hold my own in a classroom, I didn’t want to be lumped in with the overachievers down in front or the party kids up back. Where, and who, people gravitate to on the first day of class could tell you a lot about them.

  The hall was filling up, a healthy buzz going, when a shadow entered my peripheral vision. The guy taking the seat to my right was grinning at me like a fool. Dark hair, strong features, and—there it was—a mouthful of orthodontist-perfected teeth. I’d already met him, had even heard of his family during one of my business classes at Gwinnett about the industrialization of farming in the nineteenth century.

  Meet Max Henderson, meatpacking heir, trust-funder, clean-cut all-American whose last name was on a polished-gold plaque outside the lecture hall we were currently sitting in.

  “Lincoln, how are you this perfect August morning?”

  I sized him up. There were plenty of seats, and he could have chosen to sit anywhere. We’d chatted briefly during the Taste of Northwestern Law mixer a couple of days ago, and I hated to say it—I’d liked him. I wanted to hold his wealth and looks and charm against him, but I’ve never been a grudge-bearer. Hi
s family name might be on the lecture hall, but he’d have to put in the work like everyone else.

  “Just fine, Henderson.”

  He smirked, and I found myself laughing at our absurd “let’s call each other by our last names” private school shtick. He opened his laptop, a top-of-the-line MacBook, and side-eyed my legal pad and pen. “Old school, huh?”

  “I take better notes this way.”

  “You going to the game tonight?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.” The school had organized a bus and tickets to the Cubs game. Probably shitty seats, but I was looking forward to seeing the hallowed grounds of Wrigley for the first time.

  “Wanna sit in the third row behind home base?”

  I snapped to attention and squinted. Hard. “Don’t fuck with me, man.”

  He smiled. “My family has season tickets, four seats. Sure, I could be throwing back beers in the bleachers with this lot, but I figure I have three years to get to know them.”

  “And there are only so many Cubs games you can attend. Precious currency.”

  “Fuck, yeah. Cubs before the classmates I will crush with my superior brain before the year is out.”

  That made me laugh again. I liked his competitive streak, and while his “season tickets” thing was kind of a douche move, I wasn’t going to say no.

  “I’d be honored to be your plus-one at the Cubs game, Henderson.”

  “Losers,” I heard behind me, though it sounded more like “looz-ahs.”

  Both Max and I turned, and that was all she wrote. Think of Snow White from the Disney cartoon. Then think of Snow White with a sheet of night-dark hair down past her shoulders, skin the color of white marble, intelligent gray eyes, and ruby red lips I imagined would look perfect wrapped around my dick. Even with that crooked kick at the corner of her mouth that said she might give great head but your cock would get bitten off if you crossed her.

  “Aubrey, your rabid Red Sox nationalism has no place here,” Max said to the vision behind us. “You made your choice of law school, and now you’ve got to live with it. Chicago all the way, baby.”

  My heart sank. They knew each other, and it was clear as day how this was going to go down. Little details gnawed away at my self-confidence. The diamond bracelet on her slim wrist. The cut of her pale green blouse—definitely not mass-produced and definitely not green, more like chartreuse or some other fancy color terminology that trips off the tongues of women like this. And don’t get me started on the name.

  Aubrey.

  Never had I heard a more lah-de-dah, blue blood name for a girl. Henderson had already planted a flag because green multiplies with green, and Georgia rubes raised by single mothers who worked three jobs did not win quality girls like this. Maybe if I’d mixed more at the mixer, I’d be making jokes about rabid Red Sox fans.

  Max waved between us. “Lincoln, have you met…?”

  I was already on my feet and turning around with my arm outstretched. I wasn’t about to introduce myself to this woman while sitting. My momma would’ve cut me with a boning knife.

  “Grant Roosevelt Lincoln.”

  She blinked up at me, those gray eyes turning silver. Color tinged her cheeks, a watercolor blush. She swallowed, then shook her head slightly, as if to wake herself up.

  “Aubrey Elizabeth Gates.” She took my hand and squeezed it. Still holding on and using me as leverage, she pulled herself out of her seat. Even with the height and row differential, she was at least a foot and half shorter than me. But there was something in how she held herself, nothing small-statured about it. This woman knew how to command a room. She was used to getting what she wanted, I’d bet.

  “Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Gates.” I dragged on that “Ms.,” too.

  “Southern boy?”

  “Georgia to the bone.”

  That slight hitch to the corner of her mouth was her showing appreciation. She exuded a chilly aloofness, but that mouth was the most sensual part of her. Fires raged beneath. I intended to stoke them.

  “Boston girl?” I asked, to keep the conversation going.

  “My veins are filled with chowder.”

  Right then my veins were filled with rocket fuel. Every cell in my body was exploding with a want I should have been questioning because this wasn’t my usual. Traditionally, I had a hankering for athletic blondes, sturdy farm girls who wouldn’t crumble under my rough touch. This woman had a fragility about her that terrified me, yet drew me close in rabid curiosity.

  I wished she wasn’t so damn tiny, though, because when I took her to bed the first time, I’d be working hard not to break her.

  “Northwestern Law class of 2013,” a voice called out, “welcome to Intro to the Legal System and the most grueling three years of your lives.”

  “You ready for this, Bean?” I asked Aubrey, this beautiful blue blood girl from Boston.

  She licked her lips, and my cock stirred, but damn, I didn’t care if she saw it. Aubrey Elizabeth Gates should know what I was bringing.

  “I’m always ready.”

  She released my hand and took her seat. With one last stare to record her in my brain for posterity, I turned and sat.

  Out of the side of his mouth, Max muttered, “The three-name strategy. Nice.”

  I smiled. “You trust-funders aren’t the only ones with game, Henderson.”

  And I took that game all the way to the hoop and scored. Winning Aubrey became as important to me as graduating first in my class. I achieved both, but I hadn’t reckoned on it falling apart at the first hurdle. Not a day has gone by that I don’t regret not giving our marriage a little bit more room to run. Now I have a chance, and I admit I don’t mind playing dirty. I want her back.

  With the car released from its snowy prison, I walk into our room at the inn to find a woman. It’s Aubrey—and it’s not.

  The mannequin before me is perfectly put together, wearing a soft sable wool dress with a gold belt and killer heels. Her hair is smoothed back in a French knot at the nape of her neck. The clincher is the double string of pearls. After seeing her in hoodies and leggings for the last few days, I should be in awe, turned on, full of admiration.

  I’m filled with dread.

  Boston Aubrey is in the house—or inn. She’s donned this armor to ready herself for what lies ahead.

  “Thought we’d have breakfast before we check out,” I say.

  She picks up the cat carrier with her non-slinged arm, and I immediately take it from her with a scoot of my eyebrow.

  “I’m not really hungry,” she says, not looking at me. “Could we grab something from the Mickey D’s drive-in? I’d like to get on the road sooner than later.”

  “We have another five hours to drive. Kind of fancy threads for the road.”

  She smooths over her skirt, as if she’s just now realizing that she changed her clothes. “I don’t want to have to change in a gas station restroom.”

  “Or maybe you need to get into a certain mindset earlier and the costume helps.” I put the cat carrier on the bed and place both of my hands on her ass, pulling her close.

  “Grant,” she breathes, a low, urgent sound. Never has my name sounded better on a woman’s lips. I want to mess her up, inside and out.

  “Aubrey, these last couple of days have been—”

  “Wonderful,” she finishes, “but probably more because we’ve both been feeling blue and lonely.”

  I can’t deny that, but she makes it sound like it was purely a function of proximity and depression. “So any hot mouth and clever fingers would do?”

  She narrows her eyes. “Are you going to make a big thing out of this? I can’t deal with it, Grant. Not today.”

  Not when she needs to psych herself up for a visit to the lion’s den. Or the lion
ess’s—Marie-Claire Gates. Aubrey has a largely dysfunctional relationship with her mother, a woman who demands perfection from everyone around her. I refused to play Momma Gates’s games, so we didn’t gel, though I tried for Aubrey’s sake. Maybe I could have tried harder.

  Today I will, if only to support my ex-wife as we prepare to descend on the Thanksgiving from hell.

  Five hours later we’re winding through the narrow streets of Back Bay—Boston drivers are the worst—as the air in the stuffily hot car chills by the second. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Aubrey wringing her hands while her shallow breaths are our soundtrack.

  I pull the car over and put on the hazards. Some Red Sox–loving Masshole behind me slams on the horn, then overtakes me with a few choice words. I’ve heard worse in court.

  “It’s around the corner,” she says.

  “Uh-huh. We need to talk about how it’s going to go down.”

  “Go down?”

  “I know I’m here so we can break the news gently to your grandmother, but maybe we don’t have to.”

  “What?”

  I need to be careful. “Maybe we tell everyone that we’ve reconciled. Takes the pressure off, so we don’t need to present one face to your family and another to Libby. You can act a little easier around them, not worry so much about what everyone’s thinking, and just focus on enjoying the holiday.”

  She’s looking at me like I’m mad. Maybe I am.

  “Aubrey? Got any comment?”

  “But we haven’t reconciled,” she says in a tone of and it ain’t never gonna happen. “I can probably fake it for an hour or two with Libby, but the entire time?”

  I lean in and grasp both her hands, warming them in mine. Her body visibly relaxes at my touch. “You won’t have to fake it. Not after we’ve cleared the air. We’re healing, Bean.”

  Her eyes widen, tears imminent. There was a time I couldn’t bear them, but now I welcome anything that spells release for Aubrey.

  “We are, aren’t we?” she whispers.

  I nod.

  “But that doesn’t mean we’re fixed.” Sounds like she’s trying to convince herself. “Eventually I have to tell Libby that we’re divorced.”