by JJ Knight
Arianna turns to me. Her sundress whirls in pale yellow. It makes her look like a goddess. The curls she meticulously straightened at the hotel in Paris this morning have fought back and won, framing her face with tendrils.
“It’s beautiful!” she says, slipping into a chair. “Oh!”
I set the baby in her bucket on a small sofa in the corner of the room. It’s definitely no suite, with little space for walking around. But it’s not an impersonal hotel either. The walls have blue and gold wallpaper. The frame around the window is hand carved.
Women like these details, I know. Especially someone like Arianna. She appreciates everything. I want to give her things that make her feel that joy.
I pour each of us a glass of wine.
Arianna’s face is awash with happiness. “This is the best night I’ve had in a while,” she says. “Everything looks perfect.” She picks up her knife and fork. “And I’m starving!”
I am too, but not in the way that she means. The candlelight kisses her skin, accentuating her cheekbones, catching highlights in her hair.
The shadows are deep across her collarbone, down in that cleavage of the sundress.
But she’s gotten determined to keep herself away. I should respect that. I will respect that.
I drag my attention to the food. Prime rib. Roasted potatoes. A salad made of just avocado and tomatoes. It’s all delicious. The food. The company. The view.
There is a harmony here with Arianna, the baby sleeping in her little bucket, her tummy free from the pains she once felt. I’m content. It’s unfamiliar. Suspect. After chasing dreams all these years, why would I feel it now? I haven’t acquired any tricky new company. No new start-up I have purchased has gone public.
And yet. I feel it. A release of that ache I felt after leaving Alabama. That need that drove me to get out of there, away from cleaning up after dirty grounds at greyhound races.
Away from my father. His constant reminders that I would come to nothing, be nothing, do nothing.
“Hey,” Arianna says. “You okay?”
I adjust my expression. Obviously my boardroom face is not fooling her tonight.
“I’m fine. How is the food?”
“Swoonworthy,” she says. “I just want this moment to freeze. I could stay right here for at least a year.”
“And let your child spa run itself?” I tease.
She laughs. “They can handle it. They’re good people and I have plenty of them.”
“You could probably increase profits if you cut back on your staff,” I say. “Sounds like you might have a few more than you need.”
She stabs the air in front of my face with her fork. “No. No. No. My spa is not about profits. Sure, I want to support myself, but I don’t want anyone who works for me to feel like they don’t have time to nurture the children in their care. They can’t be overburdened. I won’t let them burn out. I take care of them. They take care of the babies.”
“All right,” I say. “So what made you choose this model over the capitalist one?”
She stabs a bit of avocado and twirls it on the plate. “I wasn’t nurtured. My power parents left me to be raised by nannies.”
“Were they horrible caregivers?”
“Some were. Some were good. It was hit or miss, and I don’t want that for these children. My spa is expensive to hit the right demographic. And I have amazing staff so I can keep their lives from being like mine.”
“But your day care ends at kindergarten, right?”
She frowns. “Yes.”
“So then they have to make their own way.”
Her shoulders droop a little. “They do.”
“So why not expand? See them all the way to adulthood. Elementary. High school. The whole experience.”
“It’s tricky,” she says. “There’s accreditation. There’s space. I can’t expand easily. Real estate is rare and expensive. I have to be in the right location to reach the right parents, but then I’m locked into spaces that are too small.”
“Surely Manhattan isn’t the only place where rich kids get neglected. Expand somewhere else. Try your model where space isn’t an issue, and work on the other pieces. Accreditation. Reputation. The business model.”
Her eyes flash. “It’s a big dream.”
“All dreams should be so big,” he says.
She tilts her head. “What about your dreams? What made Dell become a cutthroat investor and collector of start-ups?”
I take a sip of wine. “I don’t talk about my past. But I do like where I am now. I can go for any opportunity I see. Airlines. Professional sports teams. Entertainment conglomerates.” I lean forward. “If I want it, I can get it.”
She sits back, eyeing me curiously. “What does Dell the human need?”
I’m done tiptoeing around this particular issue. I set down my glass and eye her steadily, piercingly.
“What I need right now is you.”
Chapter 38: Arianna
My fork stills. I have known that Dell wanted to add me to his conquests.
At first, I wanted it too. But then I wasn’t sure. Now, he’s got me locked in his gaze and I’m certain I can resist.
My eyes travel over to the bed, only a few feet away.
And there’s only one bed. I’m so tempted.
I set down the utensil and take another drink of wine. After another intense few seconds, Dell releases me from his attention and resumes his meal.
“You know,” he says after a moment, “it’s a shame I didn’t get to see that dress.”
I sigh with relief that he’s changed the subject.
“It is very beautiful,” I tell him. “I’m not sure I’ll have any occasion to wear it back home.” I don’t add that I’m never invited to charity galas anymore, not since I started my own business and broke the trust-fund mold.
Dell looks around, gesturing at the room. “Why can’t this be your occasion?”
The room is dazzling, classic, beautifully appointed, and softly aglow with the strings of light. A flash of boldness streaks through me. “All right,” I say, setting my napkin on the table. “But only if you wear the tux.”
“Fair enough,” he says. “You take the bathroom and I’ll change out here.”
My heart hammers as I cross the room to the garment bag hanging by the door.
I can’t believe I’m doing this. But Dell asked. And it is a shame I can’t wear the dress to anything fancy.
Phony baloney, I tell myself as I close the door to the bathroom. I’m going back on everything I decided two nights ago. To adopt Grace. Be a mom.
But, the devil on my other shoulder argues, why can’t I be a mom and a lover?
I stare at myself in the mirror. Arianna, you’re crazy.
Stop. Just get dressed.
My curls are back. So much for my elaborate blowout this morning. I wet my fingers and smash them down. They spring back within seconds, like that’s their superpower.
I tug the sundress over my head. I have a strapless bra beneath it, and I strip that away, rubbing at the marks on my skin. The new dress has support built in, so Michel said. Doesn’t matter. The way the sheer part dips in the front, the beadwork creating a pattern that exposes me down the middle, there is no bra that would work.
I kick off my shoes. At first I think I’m screwed. Without the stilettos I’ll trip all over myself walking back to the room.
Then I see them, sparkling at the base of the bag. Paul-Simon and Michel thought of everything.
I look at my underwear. They are plain cotton, pale yellow. Not a match at all.
I frown at them. I probably have some silkier ones in my bag. Out there.
Not going to help me in here.
Shoot.
I don’t know what Dell is going to see. But I can’t handle the dowdy panties beneath this kill-them-dead dress. So I slip them off and fold them inside the sundress.
Now, I’m naked.
I hear Dell moving around the roo
m. I wonder about his state of dress. I guess guys don’t ever worry about their underwear matching their outfit. Double standard.
I remember him in the gray boxers, and then him taking them off right in front of both me and Carrie. My cheeks get hot. I wouldn’t mind seeing that again.
Would I?
Dell’s attitude felt like a seduction, but then, we weren’t exactly moving to sexytimes. We were getting dressed.
And there is the issue of a baby in the room. She could wake up at any time.
I can’t worry about these things. I said I would put on the dress, so I’ll put on the dress.
The gown slides off the hanger. I catch it with my arm, still astonished at how heavy it is.
One of the folds catches on the back of my hand, and I realize I’m still wearing the diamond solitaire Dell gave me in the car. His “investment” ring. No use taking it off now. It suits the dress.
I step into the gown and shimmy it up over my hips. This might be a lot harder without Michel to help. I slide my arms through the sheer top. My boobs don’t look anything like they did before.
I reach inside through the neckline and push up on them, like Michel had. Now they press in the right spot. The support lifts.
Now for the zipper.
I reach low and manage to get it partway up my back. Then I reach from above, but I can’t quite snag it. Dang it. How can I make an entrance if I can’t get in the dress?
I turn my back to the mirror so I can see how far I have to go.
It’s still an entire hand’s width away. Dang it.
I crack the door open an inch. “I can’t get the zipper, but I don’t want you to see the dress!” I say.
Dell is near the bed in pants and a partially buttoned shirt. His grin is infectious as he approaches the door. “How about you just put your back to the door and I promise not to peek at more than I have to?”
“Okay,” I say. I face away.
I feel a tug and hear a little zip, and then the dress is completely closed.
“Thank you!” I say.
“Anytime,” Dell responds. “And I do mean any time.”
I laugh a little as I close the door. Dang, that man is charming. Would he really be a total ass the day after? I mean, he spent a week with Winnie, and they talked to each other just fine.
I think about seven full days in Dell’s arms, and I feel lightheaded. And the Duchess, devouring him in every one of those bedrooms.
Surprisingly, I don’t feel jealousy. I’m the one who is here now. Maybe this night could turn into a week. Maybe a month. Maybe there is something different here. Maybe it can last.
Maybe I’ve had too much wine.
I turn back to the mirror. God, this dress. I know where Dell’s eyes will go first. The cleavage. Then the roundness of my breasts. This gown is perfect for a boob man. Then my waist, which looks like an hourglass.
“Not bad,” I whisper to the mirror. “Not bad at all.”
I fuss with my hair a few more minutes, trying to make it into something more than a mass of curls. But without a straightener or gel or conditioning spray, I’m pretty much as is. Finally I just let it go. His eyes aren’t going to go above the neckline anyway.
I crack the door. “You ready?” I ask.
“I was born ready,” he says.
Oh, Dell. I almost trip when I remember the shoes. I duck back inside and slide them on my feet. Now I’m really ready.
I push the door open and step out, imagining I’m a model on a runway, as if that could ever happen to a frumpy riot-haired practically thirty-year-old like me.
Dell turns, then freezes, then his mouth opens, then closes.
Finally, he speaks. “Arianna, it’s…”
And apparently words fail him again.
“It’s your thing, isn’t it?” I ask. I cup both of my breasts and push them even more tightly together than the dress does. “Look what it does to my boobs!”
Dell stutters a bit more. I stop examining my crazy cleavage and look up at him. He seems paralyzed or something.
“Are you okay?”
He forces himself to recover. “I am. I am.” He grabs his lapel in both hands and tugs, as if pulling himself together. “That dress is, like, I don’t know, maybe…”
“Divine?” I offer, quoting Paul-Simon and Michel. “Transcendent?”
Dell nods. “I never want to see you wear anything else again. Ever.”
“Might be hard to do my job in these,” I say. I move my leg to show the shoes, revealing the slit up to my thigh.
“Oh, that’s…” he falters again. “Yes. Shoes. Very tall.”
I draw my leg back. “Are you sure you’re all right, Dell?” He’s always been so smooth. I can’t imagine he’s been rendered speechless by a dress.
“Yes,” he says. “I’m fine. Some music?”
“Dancing?” I ask. “Like at a ball?”
“Why not?” he says, picking up his phone from the table. “We’ll keep it low for Grace.”
I glance over at the baby seat. Grace is still very much asleep.
A slow jazz number begins. Dell holds out his hand. “May I have this dance?”
“I’m not sure you were added to my dance card,” I say. “Is your family born of nobility?”
“Not a blue blood among us,” Dell says. “Only rakes and scoundrels.”
I pretend to tear up a piece of paper. “Well, then, seduce me, O rake and scoundrel.” I step closer and Dell takes me into his arms.
His mouth moves close to my ear. “I plan to.”
My body shivers. His hand is warm and strong, holding mine. His other hand is low on my back, his fingers trailing down. Everything tingles. The roots of my hair. My cheek, so near his. My hip, which connects with his when we step. My feet, slipping across the hardwood floor in time with his.
And everything in between.
It’s like I’m waking up from an extraordinarily long slumber. I remember, now, his kiss on the weight bench. I felt the same way. Like Sleeping Beauty must have. Awake. Really, truly awake for the first time in one hundred years.
There isn’t much room for dancing, so we shift back and forth across the small space. Each point of contact sets me on fire. I can’t believe I feel this way. I can’t believe such an intensity for another person exists.
Suddenly it all makes sense. Trysts. Suicide pacts. Till death do us part. Who wouldn’t want to feel like this?
One song ends and the next seamlessly begins. Still we move.
“You have no idea how much I want you right now,” Dell says.
“I feel the same,” I say.
“You had reservations before.”
“I don’t now.”
In the moment, there is no room for doubt. His body, his need, his desire consumes me. He dances us closer to the bed. “I would like to revise my former statement,” he says against my ear.
“What is that?” I can barely get the words out, I’m so overcome.
“I don’t want you to wear this all the time.”
“No?”
I feel air on my back. He’s unzipped the gown.
“I want to see you without it.”
His arms slide down mine, and I realize the dress is going with it. He lets go of my wrists, and the gown puddles to the floor.
I’m naked beneath it. Only the stilettos remain.
“My God,” he breathes, extending my arms, looking at me, every inch.
He kneels before me in the tux, the suit I haven’t even had a chance to compliment him on. His hands wrap around my ankles, thumbs bumping over the fragile bones.
They slide up my shins, his fingers surrounding my calves.
Then up to my knees.
My breath catches as his touch slips across my thighs. He grazes the space between them lightly then passes on by, skimming my hips and reaching behind to cup both soft round cheeks.
“Exquisite,” he says, lingering a moment. His face is near my belly button. I c
an feel his word against my skin.
As he stands, his hands move with him, up and around to my breasts.
He exhales, his thumbs tracing the circles that surround my nipples. He’s reverent, like he’s holding a chalice.
Then he towers above me, his hands on my jaw and the back of my hair, and he kisses my mouth, hungry, urgent, devouring.
I fall into him, tasting his lips, wine and spices and vinaigrette. His tongue explores me like it did that night on his sofa. Only I’m naked now, the breeze from the window brushing against my skin. Everything is heightened.
His hands clutch at my skull, fingers tangled in my hair. He kisses me as though there are no kisses left in the world, and we must hang on to this one.
My tender nipples brush against his suit, and I’m overwhelmed by my vulnerability and his control over me. But I want it. I want to lose sight of everything I thought before. I just want to be taken and feel all of it without worrying about boundaries and consequences and tomorrows.
This is worth it.
His arm slides beneath my knees and I’m in his arms. He sets me on the bed. He hasn’t broken the kiss.
When I’m lying there, he releases me and reaches for the stilettos. He takes off one, then the other.
He unbuckles, unsnaps, unzips. The suit jacket drifts down, then the pants. I hear the thud of shoes.
He strips away the tie and the shirt. Now it’s just the boxers like before, though these are light blue, fitted, hugging the erection that is perfectly delineated by the fabric.
I look up at his face. He kneels on the bed and bends down. “Now I will do it all again with my mouth.”
His lips caress mine for a moment. Then he trails them down my jaw and across my shoulders.
He pauses by the swell of my breast. Both hands take me in his palms, lifting the soft mounds. His tongue circles wide, then closes in until the nipple slides into his mouth.
Sparks fly from my body. I can’t contain the feeling. Heat rises from low in my belly. I want him down there. I want him everywhere.
But Dell takes his time, first with one, then the other. I’m left panting, wanting him to go lower, needing more. Frenzied.
He grazes my ribs, dipping his tongue into my belly button. His hands move to my thighs, and when he slides my knees apart, I’m eager to comply.
