by Lexi Whitlow
I can’t help but peer up into the high peaked roof windows of the Dakota and wonder about the people who live there and what kind of homes they keep.
“Are you a John Lennon fan?” Ben asks, following my gaze up to the Gothic details of the building’s roofline.
“Not especially,” I admit. “I know some of his music. I know a little about him.”
“You’re studying the building,” he observes. “Most people who linger on the Dakota for any length of time are usually wondering about the place where he lived and died.”
I tell Ben what little I know about John Lennon, and that it’s more bad than good. He had a rough childhood; his mother surrendered custody of him, and his father wasn’t in his life at all. He married young and had a child whom he then abandoned to marry another woman with whom he raised another child.
“You’d think growing up the way he did, he would have known what it’s like to be left without a father, but he did the same thing to his first son,” I say. “Everyone I talk to thinks he was a saint, but he seems like a fairly selfish man to me.”
Ben is surprised by my summation. He says, “You’re the first person I’ve ever heard describe him that way, which is interesting, because I’ve always thought about the same thing.”
“Really?” I ask as we walk. “What made you think differently from everyone else?”
Ben’s expression becomes pensive, even guarded. Finally, slowing our pace, he says, “My mother either died or surrendered me when I was two and a half. I have no idea who my father is, or if he even knew I existed. I’ve been on my own, one way or another, for as long as I can remember.”
What? I stop walking, facing Ben. “You don’t have any family?” I ask, finding the idea almost incomprehensible.
He shakes his head, resuming our walk. “I don’t talk about it a lot. I don’t even know why I said anything.”
He looks a bit shaken, like a piece of his armor has peeled off.
“How did you grow up?” I ask. “Where did you live?”
“Foster homes,” Ben says. “A lot of different ones.”
We walk block after block and I lose track of time and distance as Ben reluctantly reveals his story. He’s never had a real family. He never had a mother hold his head when he was sick. He grew up fending for himself, without siblings, or grandparents, or anyone to show him how to be or who to be. He grew up alone.
As distant as I am from my own family, I still carry every lesson they ever taught me with me every day of my life. I have Grandmama whispering in my ear, telling me to be the best I can be, and my father always behind me, pushing me to work hard, to do the right thing. I have my mother in front of me, always reassuring me that I’m loved. My sisters and brothers, though they’re all grown now, some with families of their own, laugh with me in my quiet moments, reminding me not to take life too seriously.
Ben has none of that.
“You remind me a little bit of one of my foster mothers,” he says. “Her name was Stella, and I think she really cared about all her kids. She was kind and down to earth. She took no shit off us, but she loved us and listened, and she cared. There were four of us in her house when I was there. I was the youngest, at twelve.”
“How long did you live with her?” I ask.
“Two years, four months, sixteen days.” He smiles sadly, thinking about it. “She was sick. Eventually she got so sick the kids she was supposed to be taking care of were taking care of her. One day Social Services showed up and took us all away. She died a few months later.”
That’s awful.
We’ve walked for what seems like miles, and as I look around, I know my own neighborhood. I’ve managed to navigate us here by muscle memory alone. My doorstep is just a few yards ahead.
“Stella was the one who gave me books to read and who made me promise to go to college,” Ben says. “Without her, I probably would’ve wound up in jail, or worse.”
That seems hard to believe given how generally decent Ben seems upon closer inspection. He’s a good-hearted, honest guy with a lot in his background that could have made him angry. Instead, he’s chosen to be easy-going, forthright, and a gentleman with excellent taste in antique roses.
We’re so different in so many respects, and yet our differences seem to amplify our commonalities. I’m also an orphan of sorts. Aside from my mother, who has risked condemnation from the bishop to stay in touch with me, my family has no contact. I’m shunned. Father’s parents in Lancaster county won’t live much longer. One day I’ll learn that my parents have made their last trip to Pennsylvania or New York, and they’re never coming to see me again. If I showed my face in Daviess County, Indiana, my entire family—right down to third cousins—would be vilified by the Bishop in retribution for my sins.
I pause in front of my stoop. We’ve walked at least twenty-five blocks to get here. I pause, laying a hand on the wrought iron rail.
“This is my house,” I say, looking up at the narrow façade. “I can’t believe we walked the whole way.”
Ben smiles, looking up too. “This is a nice place. Not many of these old brownstones left.” He bites his lip, hedging. “I’m really sorry to see this night come to an end. I loved talking to you. You’re easy to talk to.”
I don’t want this evening to come to an end either. With everything I’ve learned about Ben, I realize I’ve gotten so many things wrong. I assumed so much based on his appearance last night, thinking he was some entitled boy from money who never had to fight for anything. He’s none of those things. He’s much more complicated than I imagined. He’s struggling to find his way. Maybe I can find a way to open my heart to him like so many people here opened their hearts to me when I first arrived, lost and struggling too.
“I have a bottle of really expensive wine that’s been growing old in my cupboard ever since my friend Millie got married two years ago,” I say. “I don’t drink a lot, but if you want to come in, I’d be happy to share a glass with you.”
Ben’s easy smile could light the darkest, most desolate country byway. His smile is something he doesn’t give up easily, so when it comes, it’s precious and all the more appreciated. It lights his steely gray eyes to glacier blue, softening his chiseled features to something altogether boyish. When he smiles, I almost melt.
“I could do that,” he says, beaming. “I promise not to overstay my welcome.”
After I open the wine, pouring a glass for Ben, I excuse myself to change out of work clothes into jeans and a t-shirt. When I come back downstairs he’s occupied studying a quilt I have framed in my living room, hanging behind glass above my couch.
“This is amazing,” he says turning to me as I approach. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
It’s the quilt my aunts made for me before I was born. My mother mailed it to me seven years ago, to remind me of my family ties. So much time and love went into making that quilt, and I know my mother and her sisters still love me, no matter what the bishop says. The quilt is a work of art, a thing of beauty. I had it professionally framed and mounted, and I consider it one of my most precious possessions. The church frowns on these kinds of displays of pride; they say quilts are made for warmth and nothing more. The women who make them know better. They’re stitched together with love.
I explain to Ben what it is and how it came to be. He studies it carefully, then turns, glass in hand, gazing down on me.
“They love you,” he says. “You ran away from them, and they still love you. That’s pretty cool. I don’t even have a picture of my mother. I have no idea what she thought of me. Your family made this thing in anticipation of you, and then they sent it to you to remind you how much they still care so you’ll never forget them.”
I never thought of it quite that way, but hearing it from him, I see it. My father defied the bishop too, coming to see me to meet my betrothed (even if my betrothed was a fib, he didn’t know that.) My father, even after all this time and all the disappointments, cares a
bout me. He wanted to meet the man who I told them had claimed my heart. My father really does love me too.
I pour myself a glass of wine and settle on the couch. Ben settles beside me, facing me. We talk about lots of things, from favorite books and movies to politics. Then he turns the subject to romance and relationships.
“I know what you told me on the phone, that you don’t plan to get married or have kids,” Ben says. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t ever want to date, does it?”
I sip my wine, thinking hard before I answer.
“I’ve dated some,” I say. “In college more than now. But most guys do want to get married. People pair up. It’s natural. The thing is, with most guys I’ve gone out with, when they start to get more serious than I’m comfortable with, they either take it personally and get angry, or they try to convince me what’s right for me, which is, of course them.”
Ben smiles. “And so now you’re just sour on the whole idea?”
“Not necessarily,” I admit. “I guess I’m just waiting around for the right guy. One who doesn’t feel the need to own me.”
He nods, smiling slightly. “Well Sarah, I don’t think I could afford to own you, but I’d sure like to spend some time getting to know you better, in every way.”
The way he says it makes my knees weak and my heart beat fast.
Ben bites his lip again, which is distracting and attractive all at once. It makes me want to bite his lip too, and the thought of that makes me blush.
“I’d very much like to kiss you,” he says, fixing my eyes in his gaze, reaching out his hand to mine. “May I?”
6
Justin
Sarah has a devastatingly attractive combination of brains, beauty, and genuine compassion that renders her irresistible. Her effect on me is visceral. I want to kiss her, and more, but she’s going to make me wait while she ponders on it.
I haven’t seen a girl flush such a luscious shade of pink since middle school.
“I think…” she says, holding her wine glass close, not reaching for my outstretched hand. “I think that might be okay.”
Finally.
I move closer and take the wine glass from her hand, placing it on the coffee table beside us. When I’m so close our knees touch, I raise my hand to her chin, letting my fingers brush her pale, creamy soft skin. She leans into my hand, smiling demurely, closing her eyes. When our lips touch it’s better than I remember from last night. Softer, sweeter, warmer, and no hesitation. She surrenders, letting me part her lips, her tongue meeting mine, hot and gently curious.
She tastes like strawberries and red wine; her essence sweeps into my senses, spinning me like I’m intoxicated. I breathe her in deeper, filling my head with more of her with every breath. I haven’t been this close to a woman in a long time, and not this close to one I genuinely cared for in more than two years. Her heat and probing kisses have an immediate effect on me, making me hard before we’ve even really gotten going.
I hate that I’ve lied to her, concocting a ridiculous story about who I am. I regret revealing so much about my childhood, because now that feels like I’ve played on her sympathies. That’s not what I intended. But right here, in this moment, swept up in Sarah’s kisses, I can’t regret much because this is bliss.
My hand rounds the curve of her hip, then traces lower, palming her firm thigh, feeling the graceful turn of toned muscle. Her hands touch my chest then move up, exploring my shoulders, the back of my neck, threading my hair in her fingertips, pulling me in closer to her. She lets out a little sigh, taking a breath, then urges me down on top of her on the couch.
Instinctively, as we melt into one another without slowing our heated, urgent kisses, my knee slips between hers, spreading her legs. It’s not something I intended to do, it’s just built-in muscle memory when I’m this turned on and wound up.
Sarah pulls back from me, breaking our kiss. Her breath is hot on my face. We’re so close I can barely focus.
“We’re not going to have sex,” she says, her tone as serious as it’s been all night. “I need you to know that. Understand?”
“I understand,” I say. “Just say when.”
This is why I have lawyers, and non-disclosure agreements, and contracts with terms and conditions. My head is in bed with her already, and my cock is as hard as a railroad spike. I could be falling for a con as elaborate as Ocean’s 11 and not even know it, but I don’t think so.
Sarah kisses me deeply, spreading her blue jean clad legs wide, her hands falling to my hips, pressing me into her in a perfect, fully clothed simulation of sex. My hips rock into hers. My body screams for her flesh, but the best I’ve got is my hand slipping under her t-shirt to fondle a pert nipple that stiffens with my touch, causing Sarah to moan in our embrace.
She likes that. Let’s go with that for now.
I pull back, lifting in a push-up over her so I can see her clearly.
“Sit on my lap?” I ask. “I want to kiss your tits and admire your beautiful body.”
She laughs, a lovely, giggling tinkle of a laugh that makes my cock ache for her that much worse. I roll back, sitting, pulling her straddling me onto my lap, sliding my hands under her soft-cotton t-shirt, lifting it over her head and off to reveal the most luxurious pair of pale, ample breasts that have ever begged my attention.
She came to the party braless.
My hands and mouth can’t resist her. I suck and bite gently, rounding first one nipple, then another, until they’re hard against my teeth and Sarah’s moaning in my arms, her back arched, her head back, her Levi’s clad ass-cheeks round in my palms. I pull her closer to me until she can’t help but feel the hard bulge, crushing against my jeans.
Her belly is firm, but soft. Her skin is creamy and salty. I devour her with my mouth and tongue, kissing her from nape to navel, dreaming of being inside her. My hand naturally falls between her thighs, fingers stroking over hated fabric, places I know are soft and wet, ready for me.
Sarah moans, crying, her fingers gripping my shoulders tight with this attention, her hips rocking into mine with every bit as much heat as my own.
We need to do this.
I deftly pop the button at the front of her jeans and glide the zipper down. A second later my hand slips inside, sliding over thin cotton panties soaked with her arousal. I slide deeper, reaching in, feeling the firm button of her clit, peeking between moistened lips. I roll it gently between my fingers, watching Sarah’s face. Her eyes are seared closed. Her berry sweet, pouty lips part. Her breathing is shallow and fast.
I could probably make her cum like this.
And then just that fast her hand drops to my wrist, pushing me away. Sarah pulls herself back as she breathlessly covers herself, shaking her head, looking distressed.
“You need to go now before we go any further,” she says, pulling all the way away from me, withdrawing to the end of the couch. “We can’t do this.”
I’m hard as a rock, dizzy, ready to go, and she’s slammed on the breaks.
I take a moment to catch my breath.
“Did I do something wrong?” I finally ask after gathering my wits. “I’m sorry. I thought you were enjoying it too. I didn’t mean to—”
“No, no,” Sarah interrupts. “I was. I am. It’s just… I want to. I really want to. With you. And we will.”
We will? When?
“But I need to get some things arranged first.”
Oh. Yeah. That. My brain ceded temporary control of rational thought to my dick. And that’s why I have lawyers.
I lean back on the couch, collecting my thoughts.
“Don’t be mad, please,” Sarah implores, her voice almost trembling.
That shakes me out of my stupor. I reach for her, pulling her into an embrace, pressing her into my chest.
“I’m not mad,” I assure her. She’s being responsible. Measured. Steady. It makes me want her even more. There will be more pleasure for both of us when it finally happens.
She smells so nice, like some exotic, light perfume and tangerines on a beach. God, I want her. I want her to cum, screaming my name. I want to make her tremble and quake, making the Earth move beneath her.
“You know,” I whisper, stroking her back. “There’s a lot of things we can do that don’t involve any risk. I would love to taste you, and I swear, you’ll enjoy it as much as I will.”
Sarah pulls away so she can see me. She regards me with curiosity.
“You’re willing to settle for that?”
I grin. “It’s my second favorite thing in the world,” I tell her. “It’s not settling. It’s preamble. I want to make you cum.”
I kiss her gain, deep and hard, bringing her close into me so she knows that I mean it.
7
Sarah
I’m nervous now. This was supposed to be a quick thing, me and Ben. And now I’m stopping, hesitating, dragging it out. My pulse quickens as he tugs at my jeans.
I catch his hand again and look into those steely, impenetrable eyes. There’s something he’s hiding, something he’s not telling me. I’ve been in business long enough to know that for certain.
I hate that I don’t know what it is. What I hate even worse is that I don’t care what it is. I was taught to value honesty above all else, but we’re already caught up in the lie we told my parents. What’s one more?
