“Solo fulfillment,” Khela said. “I like the sound of that.”
“I’d like to start by introducing you to a few of our Partner Pleasures,” Friend said. She selected a thick, bright red tube that looked and moved like a glob of jelly. “This is one of the party favors you’ll all be taking home tonight, and—”
“Favors!” Sofia shrieked. “I forgot to hand out the favors.” She scurried from the room, and a few seconds later scurried back with a black shoebox. She handed out mechanical pencils, which at first glance looked like ordinary office pencils.
But then Khela looked at the eraser. The little rubber item topping the end of the pencil was a green glow-in-the-dark phallus.
“Maybe I should hand these out at my next book signing,” Khela murmured to Daphne.
“I dare you,” Daphne giggled.
“Use the pencils to fill out your order forms,” Sofia told them. “And remember, I get twenty-five Aphrodite dollars for every hundred dollars of merchandise you guys buy, so buy lots!”
“What’s that jelly thing for?” Mrs. Willmore asked Friend, who casually played with the peculiar red tube.
“This is a gift for the man whom you bless with favors from the goddess within,” Friend smiled.
“What the hell is she talking about?” Mrs. Willmore asked. “All I want to know is what that blood clot she’s playing with is for.”
“When you’re sharing oral pleasures with your partner, sometimes your jaw grows tired,” Friend explained further. “This unit, the Trouser Wowser, is filled with a biodegradable gel that holds temperatures for up to forty-five minutes. If your partner likes it cold, you can put it in the refrigerator for ten minutes. Don’t freeze it, because it could rupture.”
Friend paused her spiel to give Daphne the chance to stop giggling.
“Or, you can microwave it for forty-seconds. But no more than that,” Friend warned, wagging a prim finger. “You don’t want to burn your mister’s mister.”
Friend passed the gel tube around, allowing the ladies to get a feel for it. Literally.
Mrs. Willmore wrinkled her nose. “I hope this thing hasn’t been used,” she muttered.
Khela politely declined the chance to fondle the Trouser Wowser. Daphne took it, and after juggling it, playing catch with it, stretching it, sniffing it, and seeing if it would bounce, she rubbed it on Khela’s bare knee.
“Great,” Khela hissed. “Now I have to take a bath in hydrogen peroxide when I get home.”
“Can we skip all the For His Pleasure stuff?” requested the short-haired woman in the green Docs. “I have a her at home, not a him.”
“Yeah, let’s get to the good stuff,” Mrs. Willmore agreed. “I wanna see something with an engine.”
The other ladies laughed and clapped, but they quieted when Friend picked up a black box the size of a flute case.
“Now we’re talkin’,” Mrs. Willmore said, nudging her redheaded friend with her elbow.
“This is one of our most popular items,” Friend began as she removed the lid from the long box.
All the women, even Khela, leaned forward to better see what Friend would show them.
They all sat back, somewhat disappointed, when she displayed a long ostrich plume that had been dyed lilac.
“This is the Tickler,” Friend said. “And it’s unisex.” She paused for laughter that never came.
“We’re all romance writers here,” Sofia whispered loudly. “It’ll take more than a feather to stoke our imaginations, hon.”
“You’d be surprised at how the simplest tools can provide the biggest thrills,” Friend said.
“Cleopatra knew that,” Khela said.
“Pardon?” Friend replied.
“Cleopatra is credited for being among the earliest women known to own a B.O.B., only she did it literally, with a calabash filled with buzzing bees,” Khela explained.
“Bees or a feather,” another woman remarked, “I don’t know which is worse.”
“The toy is only as good as the person wielding it,” Friend said, waving the feather as she might a magic wand. “Could I have a volunteer?”
The women froze, afraid that the slightest twitch of muscle or wink of eye would draw Friend’s attention.
“I’ll do it!” came a male voice from the kitchen.
Eugenio, sweat glossing his bald head, bounded into the sitting room.
“Ugh. Honestly, Eugenio,” Sofia complained. “Didn’t I ask you to man the blender?”
“Please, Eugenio, sit,” Friend said, offering the black folding chair she had sat in during Sofia’s introductions.
Eugenio, smiling snarkily, happily sat. He revealed his anticipation for whatever was to come by rubbing his knuckles along the black nylon of his track pants. He gleefully tapped his toes, his white athletic shoes noiseless against the white carpet.
Friend took the feather and guided it to hover over Eugenio’s bare forearm. “Imagine lying in bed on a hot summer night with the man who brings out the goddess in you,” she crooned in her dreamy, high-pitched voice. “He looks at you, and he sees the goddess of his dreams.”
“If she says godd-ESS one more time, I’m going to up-CHUCK,” Khela whispered to Daphne.
“You take Aphrodite’s Feather,” Friend continued, “and you invite the warrior inside your man to come out and play.” She stroked the feather lightly along Eugenio’s forearm.
He giggled like a kindergartner, pulling his arm back and scratching the place the feather had touched.
“Oh, are you allergic to feathers?” Friend asked.
“No, it just tickles, that’s all,” Eugenio said.
“ ’Genio!” Sofia cried, aghast. “God, you’re so annoying!”
“I think I’d like to buy one of those feathers,” Khela said offhandedly.
Everyone, even Eugenio, looked at her.
“I don’t know, I think it’s broken,” Eugenio said. “A feather doesn’t really cut it, at least not for me.”
“The toy is only as good as the person wielding it,” Khela interjected. Liking the sound of the phrase purloined from Friend, she asked for a closer look at the feather. Friend handed it to her.
“How would you use Aphrodite’s Feather?” Friend asked her.
Everyone watched Khela run the vane, the soft, flat, web-like part of the feather, along her palm. Holding it by its stem, she pulled it through the circle formed by her thumb and forefinger.
Instantly, she pictured Carter as he’d been the last morning they had awakened together. The night had been mild, and they’d slept with the windows open. Carter, his long, lean body at complete rest atop her tangled bed sheets, looked like one of Rodin’s greatest works made real.
Khela clutched Aphrodite’s Feather between her fingers, and slowly brought it to Carter’s chest. In sleep, his hand batted at it, likely annoyed by its slight tickle. Khela, smiling now, brought the feather lower. With its tip, she traced the dark-gold trail of hair arrowing toward Carter’s thighs. He absently rolled perfectly flat on his back, subconsciously craving more attention as evidenced by the response of flesh yet to be touched.
Khela lay the feather gently on him, allowing the downy softness of the vane to settle upon him before she drew the feather along his full length. His body began seeking her even before he completely awakened, and Khela helped him out by placing herself upon him.
“Gimme that feather!” Sofia said, snatching it from Khela, thus pulling her out of her reverie. She hadn’t realized that she had shared her imagined scenario until she saw the faces of her audience. Mrs. Willmore’s color was high, but not as flushed as that of her redheaded friend, whose cheeks blazed.
Friend had finally stopped her odd swaying, and Eugenio sat rapt and slack-jawed in his chair.
“C’mere, ’Genio,” Sofia demanded, grabbing his collar as she passed his chair. Eugenio stumbled over his own feet as he tried to keep up with his wife. “We’re going to try out this feather, babe!”
> Daphne looked at Khela, who blushed fiercely.
“You’d better make up with Carter,” she advised. “Quick.”
* * *
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
Khela licked her lips. She could still taste the fruity martini she had consumed at Sofia’s, but she couldn’t tell if it had been apple, mango, watermelon or raspberry. Her taste buds were dead. Every part of her had felt dead ever since she had shared her feather fantasy.
Idling in front of Carter’s building, Daphne waited for Khela’s answer.
Startling Daphne with her agility and speed, Khela hopped out of the car, her black handbag dangling from her shoulder. “I want to do this, and I want to do it now, while I have the guts,” she said, leaning into the window. “I’ll see you when I see you.”
“I’m going to wait until he buzzes you in,” Daphne said.
“Great, hon,” Khela said, mimicking Sofia. Her high-heeled black Mary Janes tapping out her progress, she climbed the steps leading to the walkway to Carter’s townhouse.
Once she found Carter’s name on the resident directory, she pressed the buzzer corresponding to his apartment for a good minute.
“He’s probably not home!” Daphne called, leaning across the seats to shout through the passenger window when Khela got no response.
“It’s Saturday night,” Khela hollered back. “He better be home. If he’s out with another woman, I swear, I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” Carter demanded angrily, throwing wide the front door. Khela jumped back, releasing the buzzer.
“See you later,” Daphne shouted. “And good luck.”
Khela watched Daphne pull slowly into traffic before turning back to Carter, who stood with his arms crossed over his chest. “I’d like to talk to you,” she said with a calm she didn’t feel as she stared at him. The sight of him restored all feeling to her, and her heart throbbed painfully as she waited for him to say something.
“Come on up,” he finally said, dropping his arms and offering his hand.
* * *
“What are you doing here?” Carter asked, breaking the awkward silence they had suffered during the elevator ride to his apartment.
Khela, her heart hammering against her chest, tried to calm it with deep breaths as she moved through the foyer and into his living room. His wasn’t the apartment of the typical building superintendent, unless that super happened to be related to Warren Buffett. The carpet beneath her feet was so thick Khela almost felt as though she were walking on a mattress.
Carter’s furnishings were tasteful, simple and comfortable-looking. The extra-long sofa, which faced a gloriously large fireplace, complemented the width of the big bay windows, which offered a look at the Prudential Center. Carter fit his environment perfectly, dressed in a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, khaki trousers and white socks.
Strolling past Carter, Khela went to the fireplace. She caressed the glassy smoothness of the marble mantel. Her brain flashed her an image of a snow-covered Boston day spent sharing the warmth and crackle of a fire with Carter.
She shook her head, ridding herself of the image as she continued her self-guided tour of the place. She went into the dining room with its dark pine table, chairs, hutch and buffet. She passed the bathroom without entering it, but noted its location, and she entered his office. Through the opposite door she spied the foot of a high, wide bed, but the office held her interest.
It was so unlike hers.
Khela’s bedroom and office had blended into the same space, the loft area high above the rest of her living quarters. The place where she worked and the place where she slept were inextricably linked, much to her detriment. When she was seriously working, she often wanted to be sleeping. When she was sleeping, she often dreamt of working.
Carter had achieved a healthier balance in keeping his workspace completely separate from his personal space.
“You’re very good at compartmentalizing your life, aren’t you?” she said coldly, brushing past him to get back to the living room.
“I don’t appreciate your tone,” he responded once he caught her near the fireplace.
She whirled on him, fire in her eyes. “I don’t give a crap about what you think about my tone. I haven’t seen or heard from you in weeks. You’re lucky I’m speaking to you at all.”
“I didn’t invite you here,” Carter said.
“Fine,” she snapped. “Bye.”
He caught her by the arm and pulled her to him as she tried to pass him. “Don’t go,” he whispered into her hair. “I’m glad you came over. I needed to talk to you. I just couldn’t figure out how to start.”
“An explanation would be a good place.”
His arms went around her, and Khela detected a slight tremble in his body. Instinct trumped anger, and she held him tight.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his lips moving at her right temple. “I’m so sorry.”
“About what? Calling me a disappointment?”
“I wasn’t referring to you,” he said, drawing back to face her. “I’m the disappointment.”
“You’re not making any sense.”
He cupped her face. “You said you thought it was weird that a Boston University graduate would want to polish banisters all day.”
It took her a moment to place those words. After she had, she put her hands on his neck, gently choking him. “If you’re going to eavesdrop, you should listen to the whole conversation, not just the part of it that gives you an excuse to walk out on me.”
“I want to be the kind of man you deserve.”
In her Mary Janes, Khela was tall enough to touch her forehead to his. Carter’s hands moved into her hair, cupping the back of her head.
“I deserve a man who makes me feel as though I’m the only woman in the world for him,” Khela whispered.
Carter tilted his head to kiss her, but she stopped him with a finger to his lips.
“And a man who’ll talk to me if there’s a problem, not run off and sulk like a spoiled child.”
“Nothin’ I can do now but say I’m sorry,” he said, his hands tightening in her hair. “I’m so sorry, Khela.”
“Me, too. I wish you’d heard everything I said that night.”
“If it’s all the same to you, I’d just as soon get on with the business of making up the days we missed out on in our two weeks,” he said.
“No.”
“No?” he chuckled in disbelief.
“I want more than two weeks,” Khela stated.
* * *
“When you said you lived across the street, I had no idea it was in the penthouse apartment,” Khela said. She accepted the glass of wine Carter had poured for her, and she took a sip of it as he joined her on the sofa.
“You didn’t give me a chance to explain,” Carter replied. “This isn’t the super’s apartment. It’s the apartment for the building owner.” He dropped his eyes to his own wine goblet, swirling the pinot noir.
Khela’s eyes became perfect circles. “You…Y-You’re…You own this townhouse?”
He nodded. “I own yours, too.”
Khela’s stomach flip-flopped. Her heart seemed to stop beating. She set her wine glass on a black leather coaster atop his low cocktail table before she lunged across the sofa and let him have it. “In three years, you couldn’t be bothered to tell me that you were my landlord?”
Laughing, Carter caught her fists. “You make your rent checks out to CR Management,” he said. “You never associated that C and R with me?”
“When we met, you didn’t exactly look like the owner of a five-million-dollar Boston property.”
“Thank you. I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“No wonder you never seemed interested in money,” she said. “You’re probably worth more than I am.”
He shook his head vigorously. “Nope, never. You’re worth a hundred of me, Khela.”
“So underneath that cool and conf
ident façade, you’ve got the same insecurities as everyone else,” Khela said.
Groaning, Carter let his head fall back. “I totally walked right into that.”
Khela took his face and returned his gaze to hers. “I adore you exactly the way you are.”
“I thought you wanted me just because you thought I was hot.”
He expected her to laugh, or at the very least, to make a smart-ass comment. The last thing he thought she would do was caress his cheek with her fingertips, and touch his lips in a delicate kiss.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“For now?”
“For always,” Khela said.
“I want to be happy.”
“What would make you happy?”
“Someone who accepts me whether or not she understands me. Someone who’ll accept me for my faults and not punish me for them. And who’ll make me a better man without changing who I am.”
“That’s odd.”
“Why?” he asked against her lips.
“Because that’s what I want, too.”
Carter offered her a sweet smirk. “You want to be a better man?”
“I want you to be a better man.”
Chapter 12
“True love survives chaos, madness, spite and greed.
True love solves all.”
—from A Proper Princess by Khela Halliday
Carter brewed a pot of strong coffee, which gave them the fuel to talk through the night. The pale grey light of the approaching dawn tinted the heavens beyond the silhouettes of the familiar skyscrapers, where thousands of commuters would soon begin their workday.
Once their words had been exhausted, their bodies seemed to follow. Communicating only by offering his hand, Carter invited Khela to leave the fat armchair she’d been sitting in. She took his hand and allowed him to lead her into his bedroom, where he unbuttoned the back of her dress and helped her out of it. He unhooked her black bra, carefully slipped the straps from her arms, and he laid it neatly on top of her dress, which lay atop the pine Harbury accent bench at the foot of his bed.
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