by Scott, S. L.
“Speaking of,” I start to say, but rise up on my toes and kiss him instead of finishing with words.
His lips are cold from the frozen yogurt and he tastes of berries. His free hand finds the back of my head, holding me to him, both of us wanting more. Our chilled tongues heat quickly once they touch, mingle, and slide. A moan escapes as I forget about my dessert and savor him instead.
Although I don’t, he must have remembered where we are because he stops with a gentle smile on his face and whispers. “You make me want to do things to you, Ms. Weston, but not on a New York street.”
I toss the rest of my frozen treat into the garbage and take his hand. “Yeah, I think we’re done here. Let’s go back.”
He tosses his own container and we start walking. We don’t talk on the way back, anticipation building with our pace. As soon as I lock the deadbolt, he’s on me, pinning me against the door with his body, his mouth on my neck, hands in my hair. My right leg lifts seemingly of its own accord balancing against his hip. His hand grips my thigh, holding it up while sliding down.
Breathless and with his eyes closed, he leans his forehead against mine. “You are driving me crazy, Jules. I feel out of control around you.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m not used to that.”
“You do the same to me,” I say with a breathy pant. “I haven’t felt like this in a long time.”
“And I thought I was special,” he teases.
Leaning my head back against the door with a thud, I laugh. “You know what I mean.”
“I know exactly what you mean.” Looking me in the eyes, a more serious tone takes over. “You all right with this?”
“I am. Look, I find you attractive, extremely attractive and, well…” My body heats against his, wanting him. “You turn me on probably more than I should admit to. You have beautiful eyes,” I say because they are and the way they look at me makes me weak in the knees.
He bites down on his bottom lip, gazing down at me, then says, “You have beautiful everything, Jules.” He kisses me.
This is the moment. The moment I need to decide if I’m going to take this further. He’s made his feelings clear, but am I ready for more…
Further.
Further emotionally.
Further physically.
Further into a relationship with this man who seems to be perfect—a perfect man who is interested in me for some reason despite being broken. Does he not see that? Is it not as obvious on the outside? Have I become that good of an actress?
He’ll find out and when he does I’ll lose him. But maybe…
Maybe he can heal me.
Maybe that’s why we seem to work right now.
Maybe he needs me just as much.
Maybe he’s broken on the inside too.
He sighs, touching my cheek. “Hey there, where’d you disappear to?”
I look down, ashamed that I got lost in the muss of thoughts clouding my brain instead of appreciating what’s right here, what’s tangible and real, loving and giving. I slide my hand up his neck to his cheek and look at him. His small smile shows his concern, despite trying to mask it. “I’m sorry,” I reply.
“Jules, we can slow down if that’s what worries you.”
I like the way his hands feel on me, gentle, patient, but firm. Strong. I lean forward tucking myself against him, resting my cheek on his chest and close my eyes.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
“I like you, Austin. Definitely more than I should—”
“Why shouldn’t you? Tell me. Are we moving too fast?”
“We messed around on our first date, but it took us three years to have a drink. So it’s fast in some ways and not in others, but I like it. You make me feel and I haven’t felt anything in a long time. It’s nice.”
“You haven’t had feelings for anyone in a long time?”
“Yes… and no. I’ve not felt anything at all for years. I’ve been numb.”
“You were hurt.” He guesses right.
I drop back against the door, not ready to face him, staring at the space that has developed between us when all I want is his warmth again, his hands all over me. Instead, he tucks them into his pockets, the exact opposite of what I want. “I was, but I’ve been hurting myself ever since.” I take him by the arm and walk to the couch.
I deserve to be happy, I repeat, hoping one day I truly believe it. But for now, I convince myself that I’m good enough for this great guy. I swallow hard, then say, “It may sound strange, but I want this, you, what’s happening between us. I like it and I don’t want it to stop. I don’t want to do this slow and careful. I just want to continue enjoying this.”
He laughs, the weight of the conversation lifting. “I do too. I like what we’re sharing. I’ve not been in a real relationship in a few years, not one that was good and honest. I think we may be good for each other because this, this is as honest as it gets. Our cards are down—”
“Our walls are down.”
A soft smile covers his face. “Let’s just enjoy this.”
“Just have fun?”
“Just have fun discovering what this is.”
“I want that,” I say, hope seeping in.
He kisses me. Hard. Topples me over and I want it, this, him. A kiss is not enough. I need more. I want more. I want all of him.
Will he?
Should we?
I block those questions out of my mind, living in the here, the now, with him, with perfection and green eyes and dark hair with soft waves, strong arms, hard abs, hard… other parts—hard and large other parts.
I grind up. He grinds down. He moans, and like a drug fix, it sends me straight to my happy, freeing place. My skirt is pushed up to my hips as he slides between my legs. Light wool pants and a pair of boxers can’t hide his arousal.
I moan because I’m so fucking hot for him right now, especially when his hand touches me… Right. There. I practically rip the fabric belt of my dress open, my body exposed in the quick movement.
AFTER CATCHING OUR breath, he says, “I’m sorry. I hope I wasn’t too rough.”
“You weren’t.” I reach up, soothing, comforting him. “Did it feel good?”
“Too good, but I didn’t mean to… you know, I didn’t want it to happen like that on a couch. I got carried away. I don’t sleep around as much as the gossip columns say.” He sits back on his knees. “I would have preferred to romance you.”
I cut off his need to apologize, “Austin, it was fun and it felt good. You felt good.”
He lies down, squashing me, but I love it. A calm washes over us and we exhale, sinking further into the cushions of the couch. “I like this. What we have going here,” he says earnestly.
Snuggling closer, I hope he feels the same satisfaction that I do. I whisper just in case he doesn’t, “I do too.”
“I’m going to Europe for two weeks on Thursday.”
With my eyes closed, I say, “I have a show that will keep me busy.”
He kisses my temple. “Don’t miss me too much.”
With a gentle laugh, I roll onto my side and wrap my right arm over his stomach. After placing a soft kiss on his chest, I reassure, “I’ll miss you. More than you know. You‘re already starting to feel like a habit I can’t break after just two dates.”
“You’re just in it for the fantastic orgasms I give you.”
“Might be,” I joke back.
This is nice.
This is easy.
Easy is good.
… And then I think of Dylan.
MY PHONE FLASHES with a missed call as soon as I turn it back on. I had turned it off while visiting with Jean-Luc, wanting to check on his progress for his upcoming show in two months.
“You look different, beautiful Jules.” Jean-Luc is very intuitive. I’ve always liked that about him. He noticed the change in me as soon as I walked into his loft.
“How so?” I ask whimsi
cally, a small smile forming on my lips as I walk around the large space.
“Your aura has shifted. You seem happy.”
I laugh, then scoff at the notion. “These windows need to be cleaned. You need to let some sunshine in.”
His body warms my backside, his chest to my back. The smell of oil-based paint mixed with a hint of cleaner and his sweat, fills the air around us, stronger than my perfume. The rough skin of his hand runs down my arm. His lips are at my ear as he presses his bare chest against my shoulders, only a tiny dress strap between us. “I like you better sullen and hard to get. Aloof is sexy when you do it.”
“I never purposely act aloof. Sullen maybe, mainly miserable. That’s what I was going for. I guess I failed. I’m reevaluating my whole emo image as we speak,” I deadpan. It’s easier to play along with his dramatics. He’s an amazing painter when he’s riled up.
“Emo,” he repeats, chuckling, his breath hitting my neck. “Yes, emo and sunshine don’t go well together.”
“Changing.”
“Don’t,” he whispers. “Don’t let someone change you, who you are. You’re perfect, always, delicate and perfect to me.”
I turn slowly around, our chests now touching, no professional space remaining between us. I lean forward toward his ear, cheek to cheek, and whisper, “We’re perfect as we are. Let’s not change this, the distance we keep works better than the reality ever could.” I kiss him lightly on the cheek, then take a step back. “Thank you for accepting me how I am.”
Backing away from me with a smirk on his face and a paintbrush in hand, he points it accusingly in my direction. “You’ve met someone. Tell me, Jules, does he let you have your quiet moments? Does he let you thrive in your sadness and love you regardless?”
I roll my eyes. “You’re such an artist. Not everything has to be so extreme. Sometimes things happen that mess with the flow and then you come to realize that everything flows better than it did before the change.”
“So I’m right. Just tell me he’s opposite of me. Lie to me if you have to. You’re good at lying. Convince me that my hope being dashed is purely because he offered you something I couldn’t.”
“He’s nothing like you.” I tell him the truth, though it would be easy to fall for Jean-Luc if I let myself. He’s very sexy in his own way. He has great eyes, or maybe it’s just the way he looks at me that I find so appealing. “He won’t destroy me or drag me to the dark places to wallow, the places you like to frequent.”
He’s painting, his back to me, solid black on the canvas. He glances at me over his shoulder as if he’s studying me for the lies, or the truth, to see if he can figure me out. He’s always seen me clearer than most. We’re similar, or were. I’m not sure today. “Stay true to your heart, beautiful Jules.”
I nod, but he doesn’t see.
I listen to my voicemail in the back of the taxi while returning to the city from the borough where Jean-Luc lives. Hearing Austin’s voice makes me smile. “I’m in Paris. Six hours separates us by plane. Five hours on the clock. I don’t like it,” Austin says with a laugh. “I want to be on the same continent. I don’t know.” He sounds embarrassed for admitting his feelings. “I just want to be near you again. Feel free to put out a restraining order on me for this fucked up stalker sounding voicemail.” I laugh to myself as I continue listening to him. “I miss you. Is it too early in our relationship to say that? You know, I’m just gonna hang up now. It’ll be safer for the both of us if I do. We’ll talk soon. Call me or I can call you again or email, text, pigeon carrier. This is why I need to hang up now. I suck at this. Goodbye, Jules.”
I disconnect, smiling and hold the phone to my chest. He’s so sweet and funny. He warms me on the inside, not from embarrassment or lust, but from happiness, pure unadulterated happiness.
When I return to the gallery, I find a bouquet of gerbera daisies in all different colors arranged in a vase that I recognize instantly as a Boda. The purple and orange colors of the vase are beautiful and highlight the flowers. The glass appears to flow boundless, which always intrigued me about the artist. Austin sure knows how to woo a woman.
Smiling, I anxiously pull the card and read: I missed you. I still miss you.
I call him, not caring about the cost of the call or the late hour in France. I just want to talk to him. He always makes me smile and it grows when he answers, “Bonjour, Mademoiselle Weston. This is a pleasant surprise.”
“Bonjour, Monsieur.”
“Tres bien, Jules.”
“Austin, I miss you too. This is all so crazy and fast and—”
“But right, so right.”
“Yes, this feels so right,” I add. “The flowers are beautiful, the vase is stunning. I’ve always loved Boda. Thank you so much.”
“What?”
“The flowers,” I repeat, but the line crackles, the connection dodgy. Damn distance. I speak louder to make sure he can hear me. “Thank you. I love it. You don’t have to send me expensive gifts though.”
“Jules—”
“How long will you be gone again? I want to see you. We can video chat.” I drop my voice down to a whisper, so the other employees can’t hear me. “You know, private video.” I giggle, my happiness making me silly.
He doesn’t. Instead I’m greeted with silence, except for the crackling line binding us together.
“Austin, can you hear me?”
“Yeah, private video chat sounds good.” He lets out a breath that’s heard loud and clear. “We should do that. But I think you should know that I didn’t send the flowers.”
A knock at the door draws my eyes up from my desk. A delivery man, holding a pale pink box wrapped in black ribbon, stands there. “Hold on, Austin. I have a delivery I need to sign for.” After signing his order, I take the box to my desk and pick the phone back up, holding it to my ear.
“The gift is from me, Jules, not the flowers.”
When I look down at the pink box in front of me, I lift the lid. Agent Provocateur is scrolled across the top of the box. I slip the lid off the box and stare down at a black lace over soft pink bra and panty set.
Austin, his voice low on the other end of the call, asks, “Jules?”
“I’m here.”
“You got the box?”
“I got it,” I reply, nodding. I drag my finger over the luxurious material. “They’re beautiful.”
“I hope you like it. I thought they would be beautiful on you.”
The box is from me, not the flowers. My hands start to shake as Austin’s words replay—the box is from me, not the flowers.
“Thank you. The gift… it’s very thoughtful.”
“Thoughtful? I can’t say I was really going for thoughtful, but I guess I’ll take it.”
I sigh, disappointed in myself. He deserves a better response. “I’m sorry. Sexy. It’s really sexy. You shouldn’t have.”
“Believe me, it was purely selfish.”
Smiling, I laugh. “Okay, then feel free to be selfish any time you like.” I look back at the flowers still confused by the note. Austin is speaking, his mood lightened, but his words don’t register as it becomes clear who the flowers are from. Dylan. My eyes move to where the card resides. Dylan missed me… Dylan misses me now? So over the last three years Dylan missed me?
“Jules?” Austin sounds worried. “I need to return to dinner. I’m in a meeting.”
“I’m sorry.” My mind refocused. “Thank you for the lingerie. It’s very pretty.”
“I thought it would look stunning on you.” I can hear his smile return, even if just slightly.
“Thank you.”
“Au revoir, Jules. I’ll call you soon.”
“Au revoir.” As soon as he hangs up, I set the phone down on the desk, my hand starting to shake as I reach for the note again. My stomach rolls and I feel sick.
Weak.
Ambushed.
I want to throw this vase. I want to see it shatter into a million pieces, this ti
me the vase instead of my heart. Running my finger along the smooth hand-blown glass, I try to appreciate the feel. Shaking my head, I realize I could never destroy something so beautiful, something so fragile. I’m left with questions that I’m not sure I’ll get answers to.
Questions like why did he send these? Why is he back, invading a life that was created in the aftermath of him? What do these flowers mean? What did he mean when he said he can’t stop thinking about me no matter how hard he tries? Why is he trying so hard? Does he remember the good between us? Sometimes I do.
Now I’ve hurt Austin. I could hear it in his voice and I hate that more than Dylan.
I pick the panties up. They’re silky, light as a feather with such fine detailing. They’re sexy and naughty, innocent, and pretty. They’re perfect, as if Austin knows what I would pick out for myself.
I take the box and go home, leaving the vase to be dealt with another day, tomorrow perhaps.
Within an hour, red wine is poured and I have a bath running. I sink in, letting the hot water engulf my body up to my neck. Lots on my mind, but I let it fade, choosing to picture Austin instead—remembering how he touches me, and then his face as he comes undone.
My hand is underwater, my fingers stroking gently, then rougher, more determined. My mouth drops open as I work myself over, letting my mind wander around the planes of a memory I shouldn’t be remembering. Like his laughter in my ears. The feel of his hair. I let go, going with all the things I shouldn’t be remembering because I realize it’s Dylan, not Austin I’m thinking of.
I reach forward and grab the bar of soap, wanting to scrub my body, needing to wash away this memory and the pleasure it brought me.
JUST LIKE AUSTIN, the lingerie is a perfect fit. Lying on the bed, I admire the caress of the silk over my breasts and the fine detail of the lace straps. I put my arms above me and twist—hips to the side just slightly, breasts pressed together, and then I push the button. I take a few more pictures before I decide on the one I like best. After quickly typing out a message, I send it.
I crawl under the covers, setting my phone down on the base that sits on the night table. But before I have a chance to close my eyes, I receive a return text. I can’t wait to see you dressed like that in person. I’ve been thinking of you all night.
