by Mary Frame
For a second, I forget where I am, but then I suck in a breath that tastes like honey and sunshine and a warm hand snakes down between my legs and grips my erection.
“Good morning.” Gwen’s hair is a rumpled mess. She looks like she’s been thoroughly fucked.
I grin at her, knowing I can’t possibly look half as enticing as she does right now, but that isn’t stopping her hand from wandering between my legs.
I groan.
“It’s my turn,” she says. She fumbles in a drawer next to the futon and pulls out a condom. Thank God she had extras. All I had was the one I stole from Brent’s car and we’ve gone through more than a few, in between dozing off and on all night.
She covers my cock with the rubber and then she’s sitting on top of me and I lose all thoughts for a good twenty minutes until she’s the one lying on top of me, all dead weight and delicious, curvy, long limbs. I run my hands up and down her thighs. I don’t think I could ever get enough of this and the thought is both glorious and terrifying.
My mind pokes at me. It wants to think about the future, and about Brent, about how he might feel about last night, but I purposefully shove the thoughts away.
“Shower?” Gwen says.
“And breakfast?” I add.
“It’s like you’re reading my mind.”
The shower takes longer than it should because Gwen all wet and soapy is a dream that I don’t want to wake up from. Gwen shares in the fun, enjoying the moment and not bringing up the future. Or the fact that we’re hiding from the real world. I just want to hang on to whatever is between us for a little bit longer. At least for the rest of the weekend.
After our shower, we’re in the small bathroom together. She’s given me a spare toothbrush and I’m brushing my teeth while she’s blotting her long hair with a towel.
She stops drying her hair and turns toward me, biting her lip. Thoughts swirl behind her eyes. “I wish we could go somewhere today. Do something together, in public. Go to breakfast? There’s nothing to make here but . . .”
I spit out the toothpaste into the sink, my mind whirring with possibilities. I know what she’s really saying. Where can we go where we can be ourselves and not be noticed? Where can we nurture this new and tender thing growing between us without prying eyes?
Nowhere in the city is completely safe.
“I have Brent’s Porsche,” I say, thinking. And then it hits me. “I have an idea. But we’ll have to grab something to eat on the way.”
“What are you thinking?”
I smile. “It’s a surprise. Pack an overnight bag, and dress warm.”
She squeals and hugs me before running out of the bathroom. I’m a little distracted by her exit because, well, she’s completely naked and it takes me a minute to shake myself out of my stupor.
It’s only the work of a few phone calls to set everything up.
Brent has a practice bag in his trunk with some clean jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. He’s bigger than me, especially in the chest and arms, but the pants mostly fit except for being on the long side. I’m thankful I don’t have to stop home and grab my own clothes and risk running into him. Which turns my thoughts to the only thing that could ruin my high from the last twenty-four hours.
Brent.
My brother.
My brother who told me that he’s falling for his fake girlfriend. The same woman I’ve had over me, under me, around me so many times now that I’ve lost count.
Guilt threatens to choke me, but that doesn’t stop the thoughts.
My brother who never took advantage of the fact that my past girlfriends would continually throw themselves at him.
But they weren’t Gwen.
He didn’t have . . . this. This insatiable need for someone.
I should tell Gwen about Brent and Brent about Gwen and then . . . and then what?
I can’t let her go. Not yet.
All thoughts of Brent and what a terrible brother I am get shoved to the side. I’m going to enjoy this time while it lasts. Because it can’t last. Can it?
While Gwen is getting dressed, I run to the bodega on the corner and grab a couple of breakfast burritos. There’s a middle-aged woman at the counter with kind eyes, and I remember what Gwen told me about how she would have starved if it weren’t for Maria at the bodega.
I leave a large tip before heading back to Gwen’s.
She’s ready when I get there and we waste no time.
“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” She’s got her hair pulled back in funky pigtails and she’s wearing jeans and boots and a sweater. She’s sitting cross-legged in the passenger seat looking like the most delectable thing I’ve ever seen, even with the salsa on her lip.
“Nope. And there’s rules.”
“Rules? What kind of rules? Naked rules?”
My brows lift. “You want some naked rules?”
She taps a finger against her mouth, like she’s seriously considering her reply. “Maybe.”
“We can put those on the table.” I stop at a light and take the moment to turn and cup her face, tilting her head toward mine to flick the salsa from the corner of her mouth with my tongue.
When I pull back, her eyes are shut and her mouth is open slightly. She shakes herself and then blinks at me. “Definitely need some naked rules.”
I smile. “The other rule is no cell phones.” I hold my phone up and shake it. “Mine’s off.” I toss it in the back seat.
“I can get behind that.” She pulls her phone out of her purse and powers it down before throwing it in the back with mine. “I have a rule, too. I get to take your picture as much as I want.”
I grimace. “As long as you don’t show them to anyone else. Ever.”
“Ugh, you’re so annoying. But fine. I don’t mind keeping them all to myself.”
Once we’re out of the city, I link her hand in mine, relishing the feel of her slim fingers in mine.
I want to remember this moment forever.
Chapter Nineteen
The best lesson I was given is that all of life teaches, especially if we have that expectation.
–Sam Abell
GWEN
IT DOESN’T TAKE LONG to figure out where Marc is taking me, but I don’t say anything, enjoying the comfortable silence between us interspersed with casual touches and the snap of my camera.
I take pictures of him driving, smiling, kissing my fingers. I want to capture these moments and hold them close. Something to remember later when . . .
I’m not thinking about that.
The future is for tomorrow. Today is about me and Marc.
The Hamptons are quiet in the winter. The streets are nearly empty. We drive past dried-up fields and bare trees, through small towns full of clapboard houses and buttoned-up buildings. We go all the way to the end of Long Island—as far east as you can get without driving into the ocean—and end up in Montauk.
As he winds the car into a neighborhood, I catch glimpses of the empty beaches. It’s too cold to swim, but I still want to walk along the beach with him, even if I freeze.
He pulls up in front of a two-story grey clapboard house that backs up to the beach.
We park in the small driveway. A set of wooden stairs leads down from the front porch and disappears around back.
“We’re here.” He grins at me and then slides out of the car, opening the back door to pull out our bags. I get out and breathe in the crisp, salty air, stretching before following him up the stairs.
The front door opens into a long, open room. A couple of chairs and a small couch cluster around a fireplace and above it a flat screen on the wall. A dining set with a glass-topped table and bench seats nestles between the seating area and the kitchen, which is lined with stainless steel appliances, white cupboards, and a butcher-top island. In countless shell- and pebble-adorned photo frames, children romp and laugh in the sand.
Everything is clean and high quality, but instead of being sterile, t
he pictures clustered on the side tables in the living room and arranged on the walls give everything a homey, lived-in feel despite the fact that no one lives here full-time. A sliding glass door in the kitchen leads to the backyard. Next to the front door, a staircase leads up to the bedrooms, or so I assume.
“This is nice,” I say.
“Mom bought it when we were kids. We used to come here in the summer.” He tosses our bags on the couch and then walks into the kitchen. “Are you hungry?” he asks, opening the fridge. “We have a guy that maintains the property in the winter. I had him stock it with all kinds of stuff because I didn’t know what you might be craving.”
“I am hungry.” Something in my voice must register with him because he steps back from the fridge and lets the door fall shut, his eyes meeting mine.
I walk over and grab the bottom of his shirt, pulling it over his head and tossing it onto the floor. “Have you ever had sex with anyone here?”
His throat jerks as he swallows. “No. I’ve never brought a woman here.”
“Good.”
We christen the kitchen island. Then a chair in the living room. Then the bench seat in the dining room.
Once that’s been taken care of, we’ve worked off all the calories from the burritos and it’s after lunchtime.
“Let’s go out to eat,” he says.
“Didn’t you say you had a bunch of food here?”
“I know but I want to take you out.”
“I won’t argue with that.”
We go to an Italian restaurant on the beach in Montauk, Harvest on Fort Pond. There’s only one other couple in the restaurant and they look over eighty. Well, we are eating dinner at four thirty.
We hold hands and talk and eat pancetta roast shrimp and penne pasta, like lovers.
We take a couple of slices of apple blueberry pie to go.
Then we head back to the house and walk along the beach as the sun sets. I take more pictures. Marc in front of the tumultuous waves, in a sweater with windblown hair, while he laughs at something I’ve said. Marc gazing into the distance as we watch the sun escape under the waves. Marc watching me take his pictures with a rueful grin that turns into a grimace. Marc sticking out his tongue when I won’t stop taking his picture. Marc coming after me and picking me up, tossing me over his shoulder and running with me down the beach.
Okay, well, I get pictures of the sand under his feet and some shots of his butt when he’s carrying me like that, and they’re terrible shots because he’s jostling me around too much, and yet they might be my favorites.
When we get back to the house, frozen and windblown, he makes a fire and we sit in front of it. I show him some of the pictures I’ve been taking, wanting him to see what I see.
“Look.” I click the button to give him the slide show, and when he’s seen all of them, his eyes flick to mine.
“You’re a talented photographer. Those are probably the best pictures I’ve ever been in. I look nearly normal.”
I smack him on the leg. “Stop that. It’s not because I took the picture, it’s you. I’m only the link. It’s not who takes the picture, it’s who’s in the picture. Photography is about making a connection to people. It’s empathy. It’s . . .” I try to put it into words, the way I feel about taking pictures of people. Of real moments and emotions. “The best part of photography is capturing a moment of humanity and freezing it forever. To be honest, I don’t even see your scars anymore. Just you. And you are beautiful.”
He shakes his head. “You almost have me believing it.” He takes the camera from me with gentle fingers and puts it on the coffee table. “About those naked rules.”
My smile is as big as the Atlantic. “I’ve never made love in front of a fire.”
“That’s something we need to fix.”
THE NEXT MORNING IS subdued. He makes me breakfast. It’s nothing fancy, scrambled eggs and cut-up fruit, a bagel and cream cheese. He even makes some sandwiches to bring with us on our way back to the city. It’s the little considerate things he does that makes my heart hurt. When I rub the goose bumps from my arms, he gets me my sweater from the living room. When I’ve finished my glass of juice, he asks if I want more.
He’s always looking out for what I might need or want.
He’s Marc.
The drive home is quiet. Not as exciting as the way out to Montauk. We’re both bracing ourselves, I think, for reality to return.
He’s going back to work tomorrow. He’s going to talk to his dad about quitting. I have my presentation and if all goes well, I’ll be leaving the city in the near future. Maybe for good.
All I’ve wanted over the past year is to leave and now I’m not ready for it to end.
We’re still somewhere on Long Island when I unbuckle my seat belt and lean over Marc in the driver’s seat.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
I answer by unzipping his fly.
“You don’t have to . . . dear God.”
I lift my head. “No, actually it’s Gwen, but I get that a lot.”
His chuckle turns into a moan when I once again drop my head, and then the rumble of the engine drops as he pulls over to the side of the road.
Thank God for tinted windows.
There’s nothing more exciting than the sound of his moans and the feel of his fingers in my hair, gently encouraging. “Gwen, I can’t,” he pants.
I sit back and then pull off my leggings, keeping my eyes on his.
He pushes a button and the drivers seat moves back.
I take a few seconds of fumbling in my purse to find a condom and slide it on. Then I’m straddling him, feeling him stretch inside me, his eyes on mine, seeking, before he kisses me on the mouth, then his lips trail down my neck and I arch against him.
My body is sore from all the lovemaking, but I don’t even care. It feels too good, too right.
His hips pulse upward, and we’re frantic, both of us clinging to something we know won’t last. I finally climax on a sob. His cock flexes inside me, coming moments after I’ve finished.
I collapse against him.
We don’t say anything.
Our foreheads touch as we breathe together and I enjoy the feel of him inside me, ignoring the damn steering wheel digging into my back until I can’t anymore. Then I slide back over to the passenger seat and pull on my leggings and buckle my seat belt. He’s moving next to me, righting the seat, disposing of the condom and zipping up his pants, but I don’t look over.
I can’t. Not until he’s parked in front of my building.
I gaze out the window for a second before turning to face him.
He’s watching me. “I should walk you up.”
“No. Don’t.”
“Can I see you tomorrow?”
“I don’t know.”
“This doesn’t feel right.”
I feel it, too, but still I ask, “What doesn’t feel right?”
“Leaving you.”
I lean toward him and our mouths meet over the center console. His hands sneak into my hair and I brace myself against his chest for a moment before pulling back. “I have to go.”
He opens his mouth like he wants to say more, but then he nods.
I slide out of the car and shut the door. I grab my bag and phone from the back seat and then I’m jogging away.
I don’t look back.
ONCE I’M ALONE IN MY apartment with nothing more than my thoughts and the scent of Marc’s skin on my clothes and on my sheets, the panic sets in.
I pick up the phone to text him, then put it back down.
A minute later, I repeat the motion.
I want to call him to tell him Martha came over and stole my saltshaker. Or how nervous I am about my presentation tomorrow, even though I’ve been practicing it for years. Or even something gross, like how I found a piece of bread from our sandwiches in my cleavage a minute ago.
I want to talk to him about everything. Stupid things, funny things, things that
don’t matter, and things that do. I know I can say anything, be completely myself and he won’t judge and he’ll support me.
Holy shit.
I love him.
I can’t. It’s been, what, like three weeks? This isn’t possible. I’m hormonal. I’ve been watching too many chick flicks.
What am I supposed to do now?
It’s either cry or drink heavily, and since I have an important presentation tomorrow and I don’t want to be red-eyed from either, I have to go with a third option.
“I can’t come over.” Scarlett calls me back after I send her a text. Her voice is a bit higher pitched than normal and she’s breathing fast.
“Are you okay?”
“No. I’m baking.”
“I thought you loved baking.”
“I do. But I’m probably never going to be able to do it professionally. Ever.” She sniffs.
“Don’t panic. I’m coming over.”
Scarlett doesn’t live far from me, a small one bedroom in Washington Heights.
She lets me in and immediately returns to the counter to stir something in a giant bowl.
It’s an open floor plan, which is a good thing because she’s set up tables to extend her counter space from the kitchen into the living room. Counter space that is now covered in mixers, baking pans of various shapes and sizes, bags of flour, spices, and other accouterments.
She’s moving like a dancer, stirring and measuring and doing whatever it is that chefs do.
“Try these.” She shoves a small plate in my direction full of different finger-food desserts. There are chocolate-covered toffee bites, mini cupcakes, and some kind of fruity wonton-wrapped creamy thing that melts in my mouth and makes me groan out loud.
“This is really good,” I say through my mouth of food.
“Are you sure?”
“I wouldn’t lie. Do you have any more of these little wonton things?”
“Yes. Here.” She gives me another plate and then takes a rag from her shoulder and tosses it on the counter.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.”
