We woke together in a warm tangle of limbs and hair and comforter, the gray velvety light of dawn filling the windows. The snow was coming down hard in huge fluffy flakes—so hard that I couldn't make out the Philadelphia skyline. I extricated us from bed, wrapped Lena in my robe, and pulled on a pair of flannel pajama pants. We dashed upstairs to the office like two little kids, eager to see if we would get a snow day. Sure enough, almost a foot of snow was piled against the French doors.
"And here I was wondering if we'd have enough snow for it to stick."
"Jonathan, it's not dawn. It's three a.m. That's just the light on the snow." Lena pointed at the clock on the desk then returned her attention to the terrace and its transformation into a winter wonderland. "Look! Hugo is covered already!"
"Hugo? What are you talking about? Let's go back to bed. You're so exhausted, you're babbling."
"He needed a name, so I gave him one." She pointed at the far corner of the terrace where a fearsome gargoyle served as a sentinel. "Hugo. Gargoyle. Notre Dame. Get it?" She hip checked me as if I was addled.
"Cute. Let's go back to bed." I grabbed her hand and dragged her toward the stairs. "The snow will be here when we wake up. Promise."
We crawled back into great-granddad's opium bed and let the swirl of snow and shadows and touch lull us back to sleep. It was more intoxicating than any drug.
MISSY
I woke up alone—the snow was still falling, the sky outside more silvery than gray. I wrapped myself in Jonathan's cashmere robe, stopping for a moment to enjoy its soft caress against my bare skin. Someday I'll have one of my very own. The smell of brewing coffee led me into the kitchen like the Pied Piper. Jonathan was leaning against the island, a steaming mug in hand, engrossed in the news story currently playing.
"It has to be late. May I have a cup of coffee? Then I'll get ready to get back," I said.
"Get back where? It's a state of emergency. The snow won't let up until late tonight, and they're saying it will top off at three feet or more. There's already eighteen inches on the ground."
"But you technically have a military transport . . . it can get through the snow."
"That's not the issue. Streets are closed to civilian vehicles. The National Guard is chauffeuring essential personnel. I'm sorry to say neither of us fall into that category. They've already closed campus until Tuesday. You're stuck with me." He handed me my coffee, perfectly sweetened. "We can get a head start on that project for Fabian if that makes you feel any better. As long as the Internet connection and power hold up."
"Power?" The storm was serious if there were worries about losing power. Growing up in Chicago, we never had a snow emergency that completely closed the roads.
"No power basically means no TV or appliances. The Drake has back-up generators to keep the steam heat up and running, so it's not all that dire. The fireplaces kick out a good bit of heat too. I'm sure we could find a way to entertain ourselves if we lose power. If I do say so, you couldn't pick a better place to be stranded."
He waggled his eyebrows as he popped me up onto the counter next to him, and we settled in to watch the continuing news bulletins and sip our coffee. It felt so domestic. And it's more than I bargained for.
Thanks to Mother Nature, I was in a snow-bound bubble with Jon Drazen, playing house. Our version of playing house included spontaneous spankings, orgasm denial, and a round of professor-student role-play that resulted in a broken ruler. Oddly, we were also able to get a lot of work done on our joint commentary project, selecting the themes and the featured works.
When we weren't working on our project, I was struggling with a provenance project for my conservation class that required the translation of a number of documents from French and Russian. Even with the translation software, the result was usually a hodgepodge of English that read like a coded message. The office area was a great place to work with the added bonus of the view—which for an hour during the day was Jon lifting weights in a pair of shorts and sneakers. I didn't get much done during that hour. What woman would? Watching him got me revved up, and the sweaty, animalistic sex that followed usually killed my productivity for the day.
But it wasn't all sex and work in our bubble—despite how hard I tried to keep the focus within the parameters of our arrangement. Keeping him at arm's length emotionally was impossible. Not when I was confronted with facets he inadvertently revealed: glimpses of the little boy he once was in the midst of our impromptu snowball fight on the terrace; the thoughtful friend who translated all of those frustrating documents and left the results on the pillow one morning; the caretaker who stoked up the fire and made me hot chocolate. I was fighting it every step of the way, but I could see myself falling for the snarky, sweet sadist. Jon, my classmate, and Jonathan, my Dom, were blending together.
It was Monday night. The university was set to resume classes on Tuesday, so this was the last night of our extended sleepover. I had made my grandma's Sunday "gravy" and meatballs, and we were lounging in what passed for our pajamas on the floor in front of the fireplace, in a nest of pillows and comforters, finishing off the Barolo that Jon had insisted on opening. Wine with dinner meant no hardcore play, which was probably for the best since there wasn't much of me left unbruised. Once I found a comfortable position to sit or lay in, it more often than not involved one or more of Jon's body parts as a pillow.
Jon was gazing into the flames—woolgathering was what my grandmother called it. He was a truly beautiful man, and I couldn't help but stare at him. He was burnished by the firelight, his copper hair glinting, a winsome smile drifting across his face. He caught me staring, almost spellbound, which earned me a raised eyebrow.
I brushed his hair back from his face. "I never would have imagined this."
"What? Spaghetti dinner?" He smirked.
"This. It's all so decadent and forbidden. Especially you. Ginger-haired Irish boys were always forbidden fruit. So exotic and foreign. But you feel familiar. So tribal. So loyal." My hand lingered in the curls at the nape of his neck, tracing their soft curves as I tried to find the words that would still keep my feelings hidden. "Growing up, our neighborhood was the place where stereotypes never died. It was split into two parishes: St. Anthony's and St. Bridget's. All the Italian kids went to St. Tony's, and the Irish kids went to St. Bridget's. We never mixed and really weren't supposed to. Truth be told, I was always fascinated by the St. Bridget's boys. I loved their swagger and way with words. St. Tony's boys always ended up in the mill or the mafia. St. Bridget's boys tended toward more honest professions—fireman or cop. In a way, their safety was sexy. You always want what you can't have. And now I have it, at least for a bit."
"You're such a bad, bad girl. And I'm such a lucky guy that you are." He slowly unbuttoned the dress shirt I had commandeered as pajamas, exposing my breasts, and pulled my hair away from my face, spearing his fingers through it. "Your eyes are like doves behind your veil."
"A Catholic boy quoting the Bible," I murmured, unable to look away from his eyes, forest green in the dancing firelight. "You keep surprising me, Mr. Drazen."
"You keep delighting me, Ms. Corradi."
His hand came around my neck, pulling me into a slow, insistent kiss full of quiet power. It was different—more dance than domination. He pulled the hair at the nape of my neck, sending a steady pulse down my spine, never breaking our connection. His free hand slipped inside my open shirt, fondling me while mindful of the bruises and bite marks left by our weekend of play. He used the weight of his body to gently dominate me as he lowered me to the floor, trapping me in the cradle of his arms, content to kiss until we drifted off to sleep by the glow of the fire.
JON
The snow wasn't even entirely cleared before "The Schedule" resumed control of my life. That meant practice in some shape or form at the field house every day, on top of my class load and “contract obligations." Consequently, I spent a lot more time with my teammates, including Eddie Milpas.
E
ddie ran in the same circles as my family in LA, and frankly, he was a pain in the ass. The guy had no subtlety at all, which unsurprisingly had an adverse effect on his way with the "ladies." Unfortunately, when we started at Penn, we hung out because we knew a lot of the same people in LA and the familiarity was somewhat comforting to me at first. But you know what they say about familiarity. Eddie appointed himself my wingman, and it took me a semester of celibacy to finally shake him.
I wasn't eager to spend intense amounts of time with him again because all he would do was nag me to go out and stalk women. Needless to say, when I saw him in the training room at the field house, my gut instinct told me to flee. He was just a headache I did not need in my life right now.
"O'Drassen, long time, no see. Where you been hiding yourself? I tried tracking you down when we had free time earlier this week, but no one was answering at your place. What gives with that?" Eddie's jovial tone had a brittle quality. His envy was always just under the surface, as evidenced by his constant need to refer to my family's less-than-savory immigrant past.
"The phones must been out. I was busy getting caught up on work before the season started and didn't even notice."
We were all in the main weight training room and Matt, the head trainer, was there to supervise me, so I tried to focus my attention on him as he coached me through some specific shoulder exercises designed to protect my arm from injury. Despite my best efforts, bits and pieces of Eddie's conversation with a JV player he was spotting on a nearby piece of equipment drifted over.
"Dude, I'm closing the deal tonight. All it’ll take is a few drinks, and before you know it, she should be screaming underneath me. She may look like the dumpy librarian, but mark my words, there's a rockin' body hiding underneath that thrift store shit. She doesn't know it yet, but she's gonna be grateful." Eddie kept going, giving the poor kid unsolicited dating advice. "The scholarship students are easy pickings. They know they don't belong here. They'll do pretty much anything for baseball players, and I do mean anything. And if you need a guarantee, I can hook you up."
Shit. Eddie's talking about Missy. What is that piece of shit up to? Roofies?
Matt and I wrapped things up, so I drifted over toward Eddie, who was still imparting his "advice."
"Sounds like you've got a hot date tonight,” I said casually. “Who's the lucky girl? Do I know her?"
"Not really a date. Missy’s just going to get to experience some of the world-famous Milpas charm tonight."
"Isn't she your tutor?" I already knew the answer to that.
"Yeah. I don't even have to put much effort into it,” he practically crowed. “I've got to meet her at the library tonight anyway. I'll just buy her a drink afterward and take her to my place."
"You're sure of yourself, dude. She's hands-off per the coach. What are you thinking? He's going to kill you if he finds out."
"How is he going to find out? I'm planning on one and done. She won't say a word."
The source of Missy's stress and exhaustion on Thursday mornings just became clear. She's had to deal with Eddie's bullshit week in and week out. I've been around Eddie for three years, and his idea of wooing women consists of endlessly harassing them until they give in or get a restraining order. After his talk about guarantees, I’m concerned he could be a predator in the worst sense of the word. It's time to shut his shit down.
***
I made my way over to the library after dinner, knowing Eddie would be finishing his tutoring session with Missy shortly. I strolled through the library looking for them, then I remembered that Missy had an office of sorts up on the third floor available for use during tutoring sessions and I made my way up there. The thought of her in a closed room with him made my blood boil. That surprised me. But I chalked it up to having seven sisters and knowing what a pig Eddie was.
I found an inconspicuous spot outside her office door to wait, and I noticed that she didn't have the door completely closed on the study room/office. Good girl. I took the time to do a little work on our project for Fabian. We had decided to do a commentary on gender, sex, and class while focusing on the early impressionist paintings. I was adamant about pulling my own weight, so we’d come up with the idea of presenting a point-counterpoint with the male and female point of view. It was brilliant in its simplicity because it mirrored the conversations we’d had on our Thursdays at the museum. That woman loves to argue. The way she crackles when she's passionate about a topic is worth the loss every time.
Through the cracked door, I heard raised voices. Missy was clearly struggling to remain neutral. As usual, Eddie wasn't taking no for an answer. Why wasn't she threatening to tell the coach? I wished she would stand up to him more. But it wasn’t my place to tell her how to do things in her everyday life—as much as I wished it was. Finally she sent Eddie out of the room. He didn't look too pleased, but at the end of the day, he wasn't stupid enough to force himself on a girl. He was sneakier than that.
I waited for a few minutes before I slid into the office and latched the door with a soft click. Missy gasped. She visibly relaxed when she turned around and realized it was me.
"Oh my God, you thought I was Eddie, didn't you?”
"What you mean?" She was flustered and apparently didn't want to burden me with her problem.
I crossed my arms. "I saw him leave after I heard his nonsense. Why didn't you tell me that he was the reason you’re losing sleep?"
"It's not your problem. Eddie's harmless." Her voice betrayed her apprehension. She knew he wasn't harmless.
I needed to give her something else to focus on. Otherwise, she'd dwell on the mess with Eddie. "No, he's not. I've known Eddie for a long time, and he won't be a problem anymore. I'll see to it. Trust me on this. Now turn around, Lena."
Without missing a beat, she slipped into “Lena” mode. "Jonathan? Somebody will catch us."
"Well, you can safe word out. Always. Now where was I? Pull down your pants and put your hands on the table."
And with her options on the table, she opted to pull her khakis and girlish cotton briefs down around her thighs. God, they had little flowers on them. There was something delicious about sweet, innocent panties on her, but I didn't have time to really dwell on it. I had a specific goal in mind here. I rubbed my hand across her ass as if I was about to spank her.
She sucked in a breath. "But what if someone hears?"
"They won't." I put a hand over her mouth and the other on her cunt. She was already wet. My little girl gets off on public sex. Good to know.
I flicked her clit a few times before I pulled my cock out and took her with one hard thrust. Another gasp and she relaxed, and with that, I thrust into her hard and fast. I was rewarded as she rippled across my cock and bit into my hand to stifle the scream when we came together.
I lay on top of her for a minute before I put my cock back in my pants, gave her a pat on the ass, and helped her pull up her pants. Once she was situated, I unlocked the door and gave her a quick smack on the ass. "Consider your problems solved. Sweet dreams. See you in the morning."
Sure enough, Missy showed up in class the next morning looking far more rested than she had in weeks. It thrilled me that she put her trust in me to make things better for her. That afternoon, after we finished at the museum, I made a point of popping into Coach DeMaio's office and letting him know what I had overheard at the library. Nothing more, nothing less. I was able to set the wheels in motion to make sure Eddie was taken care of, and I did it without violating her hard limits. Loopholes. You gotta love them.
So much had been going on that I decided we needed to get away for the weekend in order to spend some time together. Finalizing our project was the perfect excuse. I was determined to do well in this class. It was so far outside my wheelhouse, I needed to prove to myself I could do it. More importantly, I’d come to understand the importance of art in day-to-day life. Before, I’d just taken it for granted. So I decided that we would go to New York for the weekend,
hit up the Guggenheim and the Toulouse-Lautrec exhibit, spend some time with some of the paintings we had actually been researching, and maybe go out for a nice dinner. It was the least I could do to thank her for all of her hard work with me as a tutor.
We were in class on Thursday when I floated the idea. "Hey, can we meet tomorrow instead of Saturday? I want to put some finishing touches on our project since it's due next week."
She kind of looked at me quizzically. "Sure."
I pulled her aside after class, into a quiet corner, and told her we would be going on a field trip for our commentary. "Pack your weekend bag, but you need something nice to wear for the places we’ll be going. Just trust me on this. Dressy business will work."
Friday afternoon rolled around, and I picked her up at Kovac's. From there, we made our way over to the train station.
"Jon? Why are we at the train station?" Judging by the look of confusion on her face, she had been expecting to stay close to home.
"Because it's more fun to take the train into New York than drive and have to worry about parking this beast."
"New York? Why are we going to New York?" Her confusion became dismay.
Maybe I’d pushed too far. I needed to find a way to close this deal. Call me greedy, but I wanted to share her first time in New York.
"We're definitely going to the Guggenheim to see the Manet and Degas. And the Lautrec exhibit is scheduled to close in a few weeks, so I thought it would be nice if we saw that as well. Lady's choice on Sunday before we catch the dinner train back." I did my best to look innocent. "We're going to the museums. Besides, how can you move to New York City without actually having been there at least once?"
She mulled over the proposition for a moment and gave me a shy smile. "Well, you do have a point. And we're already at the train station so . . . you win."
I was sure my joy at her acquiescence was written all over my face. "I always win, dove. Haven't you figured that out yet?"
The Drazen World: The Tryst (Kindle Worlds Novella) Page 6
