by Rob Manary
“Fuck, Icarus, you taste good.” She smiles. I slide my finger from her. Tenderly, she takes my rapidly deflating dick and kisses it. She slumps on my lap, holding my incredibly sensitive cock. She seems as spent from her orgasm as I am from mine. I’m so vulnerable right now. By her smile she seems to know it. She gives my dick a little squeeze. “Mine,” she says playfully.
St. Claire lays her head on my lap until there is a knock on the tinted window. Always too soon the world interrupts us. A voice calls, “That’s fifteen, Rachel.”
Saturday, Day 13
I am almost out the door of my suite when the phone rings. It’s five a.m. and I am going down to the hotel’s fitness centre to do my cardio. I pick up the receiver. “Hello,” I make a point of saying.
“I’ve got you trained! Good boy.” St. Claire laughs, really it’s more of a giggle and I am delighted. “Today’s your day, and we’re not going to spend it in bed. I think you owe me a date or two. I’m going to bed now. Give me a couple hours and I’ll meet you. Impress me, Icarus, I don’t think I’ve ever had a real date.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever had a real date, either,” I confess. “A girl took me bowling once, but I don’t think that counts. She didn’t put out.”
She laughs. “Pick me up at eleven. I’m not wearing anything fancier than jeans and I’m not wearing underwear. Your turn to hang up,” she laughs. I hang up on her.
I am almost out of my suite again when the phone rings. I pick it up. “Hello?”
It is St. Claire, again. “Icarus, I just wanted to say....” Her voice is soft, serious. There is a pause that lengthens. “Fuck, I don’t know what I wanted to say. I’m tired. I just wanted to say...” She lets out her breath in a long almost musical sigh.
I don’t know what to say, either. I hope I know what she is trying to say. I think I want to say the same thing she is struggling with.
“I’m so retarded for you,” she settles on, but I know it is not what she called to say. She wanted to say those words. I feel it in my soul. I want to say those words to her. I can’t either. Fuck, how I want to say those three magical words to her.
“I’m retarded for you too, St. Claire,” I reply.
“I practiced saying it in the limo all the way to my hotel. That’s not what I wanted to say, Icarus. Fuck, just fuck, this is all happening so fast. I’m babbling. I thought I could do this over the phone. Do you know what I’m trying to say? Do you know how I feel about you?” She laughs nervously.
“I know what you’re trying to say. I know how you feel. I feel the same way.”
“Good. I’ll see you at eleven.” I can hear the smile in her voice. There is another long pause before she disconnects.
Rachel St. Claire loves me. The idea scares me. And, I love Rachel St. Claire. That idea terrifies me. I realize I have never felt this way. I have never been in love. I’m almost knocked off my feet. I reel like a drunkard to the bed. I have to remind myself to breath. It is a long time before I can move.
On my way back from the hotel gym I stop at the concierge. I have no idea what to do on a date. I don’t think I’ve ever had a date. I’m sure I’ve never planned a date. I ask the concierge what there is to do in Toronto. He looks at me as if I have lost my senses, but he is a professional. He offers to send brochures to my suite. I thank him with a generous tip. Where do you take a world famous rock star on a date?
I decide to take St. Claire to a dozen places and a dozen places I discard. Finally, I settle on something I hope she will find unique. I want to “wow” her. This is our first date. I dress shortly before eleven in a pair of vintage blue jeans and a chocolate brown sweater. At the last minute I throw on the purple scarf she bought me, the one she said she loved on me.
I grab a cab and pick her up. She grabs me by the scarf and we exchange breathless kisses, her lips on mine the minute she slides into the backseat. Before I can even tell the cabbie where to go we are making out like teenagers. “McCaul and Dundas,” I instruct him when St. Claire lets me come up for air. She takes my hand after her enthusiastic greeting and we watch the city go by.
I finally get to look at her, and as always, she is stunning. She wears jeans and a red top that clings to her lean frame, accentuating her ample breasts. She is braless, and she claimed she wasn’t going to be wearing underwear. I fight the urge to slip my hand under her top and run my fingertips over her tiny nipples, to slide my other hand down the front of her jeans and caress her hooded clit. I know she wouldn’t protest, but my modesty prevails. She leans her head against my shoulder and I stroke her hair.
We arrive at the Art Gallery of Ontario. I can tell she is disappointed even though she offers me a warm smile.
“Relax, St. Claire, I’m not taking you to a museum.”
She punches me in the arm. “I would have gone,” she laughs. “It’s your day.”
I pay the cabbie and hand in hand I lead her to the large Henry Moore sculpture beside the art gallery. A boy in his early twenties waits for us in an obnoxious bright orange shirt. He’s visibly star struck. “Rachel St. Claire. Brandon Fahr. I’m a big fan. Of you both,” he stammers. “Nobody told me. It’s a surprise. It’s good to meet you. My friends are never going to believe this.” At length he remembers himself. “I’m James, with Urban Adventures. I’ll be your guide today.”
St. Claire squeals and squeezes my hand. “An urban adventure. I love it!”
I let her exchange pleasantries with James. She is much better at that sort of thing than I am. James gives us his best pitch: “On this walking tour we’ll explore Chinatown and Kensington Market, the most colourful neighbourhoods in Toronto. We’ll sample both local and international delicacies as we wander the often crowded, but always friendly, streets lined with unique vendors and specialty shops. Please follow me.”
I did a little research and Kensington Market is supposedly like New York’s Soho District. I figured there was little chance St. Claire would get mobbed there or in Chinatown. I am happy to get such a genuinely delighted reaction from her.
James is an excellent guide. He takes us through the winding streets of Kensington Market, often through alleys, pointing out landmarks, and letting us stop to admire the graffiti murals that adorn almost every building. I loved the work, the skill obvious to my eye. “The store owners commission artists to do the murals,” James explains.
In Kensington Market, St. Claire and I get a few glances and double takes, but we are unmolested. We stop at several of the shops. At one of them, I am sent outside as St. Claire spots something. I’m pretty sure she is buying me another scarf. She’s so cute about it I laugh at her, and she sticks her tongue out at me as she emerges with a scarf shaped package. Why is it that the hours when I have to wait for St. Claire seem to creep at a glacial pace, but when we are together time seems to speed by? Life is like that I guess.
St. Claire never lets go of my hand. In my hand I can feel the commitment ring that she wears. I look to her and it’s as if she reads my mind; her eyes sparkle and we laugh. I’m in love, even if I can’t say the words.
We leave Kensington Market for bustling Chinatown. It is as if we step back in time. The street is full and there isn’t a McDonalds or Starbucks to be seen. The stores look like they must have decades ago. On the street there are stalls selling fish caught this morning, meat that I wouldn’t guess at the animal, and fresh fruit. The stench is a little overpowering. The vendors hawk their wares calling out in a dozen different languages and dialects. The street is full of people, the solitary car or two I see must creep along. As promised, we are given the opportunity to sample international delicacies. I decline. St. Claire makes fun of my abstinence as she and James, several times, dive into food I wouldn’t even guess the origin of.
St. Claire and I laugh often and honestly. James is our guide, and a very good one, offering us history lessons, and allowing us to stop whenever we want, but St. Claire and I are in a very private world. A world only large enough for the
two of us. A world of half hidden smiles at James’ sometimes tiresome encyclopedic like lessons, a world of knowing laughs, and a world of jokes only we share.
We part company with James, but not before he has us both sign his shirt with a thick black magic marker. “You better not sell this on Ebay,” St. Claire warns with a laugh. I try to tip him but he won’t allow it. I like the kid.
I hail a cab and St. Claire and I slide in. “That was fun, Icarus. I have to come back to Kensington Market and do some shopping. I could spend the whole day there, fuck, what a blast, an urban adventure. You did good, Icarus You really should have tried the abalone, though.” She laughs, making a face of disdain that I must have made when originally offered the so-called delicacy.
“I have a rule about eating seafood from a street vendor,” I say, then to the cabbie, “300 Front Street West. Front and John,” I instruct him.
“And what’s the rule?” she asks.
“Not to do it!” I shake my head, and tease her. “I’ll be holding your hair up again tonight.” We both laugh.
She leans her head against my shoulder as we make our way towards John Street. I love how St. Claire and I don’t need to fill every moment with talk. I am comfortable enough with her to enjoy the silence. To be with her is enough.
We arrive at 300 Front Street and I like what I see already. I have done a little research and the building meets all my basic requirements. There is a fitness room, concierge service, and room service. That is all I need. But the glass fronted building is beautiful.
St. Claire looks up, it is impressive. “Forty-nine stories. A rooftop pool, billiards room, a poker room, and a private party room. A lounge and a bar.” I give her my best sales pitch. As I mentioned, I had done a little research and I liked 300 Front Street. I even liked the name. “300 Front Street,” I announce. “Let’s go have a look at the place.”
She squeezes my hand. “A rooftop pool? We could get into all sorts of trouble with a rooftop pool.” Then she is silent as she looks upwards again, panic sweeping across her face. She looks to my eyes and blurts out, “Are we doing the right thing? This is so fast! I want this. Do you want this?” It has apparently become real to her. I can see her fear.
She’s about to say more. I lean down and kiss her. “Shut up, St. Claire.”
I made an appointment and there is a representative waiting for us. He is polite but seems unimpressed by us. 300 Front Street West has a reputation for catering to big name celebrities. I like his demeanor, quite honestly, I dislike being fawned over. When I called earlier I made clear my requirements, a spacious two or three bedroom condo with a space that captured the afternoon sunlight. We are ushered to the elevator and St. Claire is squeezing my hand a little tightly.
The elevator doors open. “There are only three units on this floor,” the building’s agent explains. We walk together to the door at the far end of the hall and our guide opens it. St. Claire is barely inside when she exclaims, “It’s perfect. I love it. It’s absolutely perfect.” Her fear of a moment ago is evidently gone. Her grip on my hand loosens a bit as she appraises the furnished living room that opens onto a large kitchen. She releases my hand and throws herself to the couch. “I fucking love it, Icarus.”
The agent nods. “There are three bedrooms and an office. The office is large, has floor to ceiling windows and catches the afternoon sun as you requested. We can have the furniture removed from the office immediately.” He knew who I was and what I needed the space for. That sort of efficiency always makes me smile. “There is room service and full maid service daily,” he adds. “I’ll leave you two alone.” And he exits.
We open the doors to the bedrooms and peek in, but St. Claire has already decided. “Our first place together,” she says. She sounds incredibly happy.
“Our first place together,” I echo. I know I am incredibly happy.
We move to the office and she makes her way to the floor to ceiling windows. Moving behind her I wrap my arms around her waist. “What an amazing view,” she breathes.
She takes one of my hands and slides it under her shirt. I move my hand slowly up towards her firm breasts and kiss her neck.
“I’ve been wanting to do this all day,” I whisper in her ear, before returning my lips to her neck. She moans as my hand finds her right breast. I give it a playful squeeze and run my thumb across her nipple. I’m rewarded with another moan. I suck lightly on her neck and she grinds back against me. I harden and she slips her free hand between us. She gives my cock a squeeze through my jeans.
Her phone rings. “Fuck, just fuck, I’m letting it ring,” she inhales slowly. I trail kisses down her neck as I gently pinch her nipple. She groans, and taking the hand that holds hers she slides it down the front of her jeans. As promised she’s not wearing underwear. The phone falls silent as it goes to voicemail, but is incessantly ringing a moment later.
She moves my hand to her pussy, and with two fingers I spread her open. She keeps her hand on mine, holding me in place. She gasps as she is exposed. I hold her open and I begin to feel a trickle of wetness along my fingers. The phone goes quiet, but is momentarily ringing again.
“You better answer that,” I say into her ear. I start to remove my hand from her pants. She holds me in place.
“Don’t you dare stop.” She grabs her phone from her pocket. “This better be fucking important!”
I dip a finger between her swollen lips. I can feel how hot she is. I hold my finger barely inside her scorching hole. She grinds against me, trying to get that finger deeper inside her, but I withdraw as she moves forward. I keep my index finger only millimeters inside that sweet pussy. I can tell it’s driving her wild.
I catch pieces of her conversation, something about her lighting director and her sound mixer having a fight, both threatening to quit. She hangs up.
“I have to go,” she says reluctantly.
“I know.” I pinch her nipple and plunge the finger I had been holding at her entrance deep inside her. She cries out with a sharp intake of air.
“Tease,” she laughs, letting out that breath. I withdraw my finger from her and my hand from her pants. I move my hand from under her shirt too. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” She looks around. “Our first place together.”
She kisses me long and slow, and is gone.
Sunday, Day 14
It’s well after midnight when St. Claire crawls into bed with me in our new place. I spent some time yesterday moving my stuff from my hotel to the new condo. Only a couple suitcases full of clothes and toiletries, but unpacking and settling in devours some time. Throughout the day St. Claire’s stuff arrives without her. Her possessions are far more impressive than mine. Her stuff keeps coming and coming, and still she doesn’t appear. Guy and Wayne supervise. They hold hands and seem happy. Wayne and I do our best to pretend we’ve just met. I’m happy for him. Maybe he has found in Guy what I have found in St. Claire. I hope he has.
“I love this. Coming home to you,” St. Claire laughs, snuggling in next to me. “It’s all I could think of all day. Coming home to you. I was getting tired of fingering myself every night after we got off the phone.”
“I’m going to have to wash your mouth out with soap,” I tease.
She runs a hand down my muscular chest, running her fingertips down my abs, stopping short of reaching for my hardening cock.
“This is so stupid but I have to ask. That’s not how I wanted to start this conversation. Okay, I don’t care, and it’s a silly idea, but we’ve been on every channel, in every paper, us moving in together, us buying commitment rings. Fuck, Icarus, just fuck, I’m babbling again.”
I smile. I can tell she is nervous. I love it when she is vulnerable like this. So confident and so self assured to the world, this is a side reserved for me. A curl falls from behind her ear. Tenderly, I brush that stray red lock from her face and wait for her to continue.
“My parents want to meet you,” she blurts out. “Sunday dinner has
always been a big deal at my house. We can leave in the morning. Stay for dinner and be home here early.”
Again, I am sent sprawling for the ropes. I don’t know what to say. I can’t get the words out quick enough that I would love to meet her family. She is stammering, “Fuck, forget I said anything. It’s a dumb idea.”
“St. Claire. I don’t know what to say. Yes. Yes. Yes. Definitely. Yes!” I say.
I don’t know if the gravity of what she just asked hits her first or hits me first. We stare into each other’s eyes and both laugh nervously.
“They hated Wolf and with everything I’ve been telling them about you--”
I cut her off. “You’ve been telling your parents about me?”
I think she blushes. She buries her head in my chest. Her hand rubs tiny circles on my smooth abdomen. She is embarrassed and it is incredibly cute.
“Shut up, Icarus,” she says. “Here’s the briefing,” she changes the subject awkwardly. “My Mom loves gardenias so you can pick some up on the way to the airport and my Dad loves a good cigar. We can get the concierge to pick up a box of Cubans. Dad will love that.... and...” she pauses. “They call me Ducky,” she tries to slide the last by me half under her breath.
“They call you what? Ducky?” I laugh.
“I was a homely kid, red hair and braces. When I grew out of it they said I was like the ugly duckling that turned into a beautiful swan. Dad called me Ducky and it stuck.” She joins me laughing. “I shouldn’t have told you that.”
“It’s cute, Ducky.” I know I love her as she blushes again and punches me in the stomach. Even if I can’t say the words, I know I love her.
“Don’t even start,” she says.
“Tell me again what it was like growing up.” I just want to hear her talk. I know her childhood was a happy one. I want to hear every detail about it. She snuggles in closer to me and rests her head on my chest as I lay down. I stroke her hair as she fondly reminisces. How I love that voice. Her early memories are so much different from mine.
