All of It

by Kim Holden

  Five minutes later we’re on our way to our room.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you spoke French?” I ask as we enter the tiny elevator. He’s swinging our hands back and forth between us.

  He smiles like he’s just given up a secret. “I did tell you.”

  I narrow my eyes. “You said you spoke a little French. That was not a little … that was goddamn sexy is what that was.”

  His eyebrows raise and he grins wickedly. “Well then, any chance I might get lucky tonight, Madame?”

  I nod slowly. “Oh, oui,” I say, forcefully pinning him against the elevator doors with my kisses. He answers without restraint. We stumble out when the doors open.

  Dimitri fumbles with the heavy iron key as he tries to open the door. It takes several attempts and I hear grumbling under his breath before the door finally cooperates and opens.

  Our bags are already stacked neatly just inside the door, so there’s no chance of an interruption from hotel staff. Nice.

  He stops me before I step inside, and sweeps me up in his arms in one gallant motion. I gasp as my feet leave the ground. “What are you doing?” I ask, giggling.

  “I’m carrying you over the threshold.” He winks. “It’s tradition.”

  I feel the heat of his body through the fabric of his shirt and my dress. His arms are strong around me. I run my hand up through the hair at the back of his head. “I think I’m warming up to tradition.”

  “That’s good, because there’s one last wedding night tradition that I’m dying to try out.”

  He kicks the door shut behind us with his foot and carries me to the king size bed. It’s covered in a gold silky comforter and lots and lots of pillows. The bed is tall and he doesn’t have to lean over to lay me down upon it.

  His body never leaves contact with mine as we hit the bed. He’s on top of me; though it’s not the weight of him that’s taking my breath away. It’s him. Everything about him. My body, from the tips of my toes to the top of my head, is on fire. The heat is rising slow and steady, filling me up.

  His hands slide over the slippery surface of my dress from my waist, up over my ribs, and across my chest; they pause before touching bare skin where the neckline plunges. His touch is hot, as if the blood pulsing through him has risen in temperature several degrees. His hands stop to rest at my temples as his fingers lace into my hair. He smiles before he lowers his face to kiss me. I close my eyes and inhale as I anticipate his lips on mine.

  There’s a hitch in my breathing as I feel the tip of his tongue at the hollow of my throat instead. It traces a line slowly downward where it stops between my breasts, restrained by the fabric of my dress. Kisses make the return trip and fall on every square inch of exposed skin until they reach my collarbone. I feel the strap of my dress pull aside and the kisses continue across my shoulder leaving my skin burning with sensation in their wake. The last kiss lingers and I feel the faintest bite on my upper arm and the devilish impression of a smile sinks into my skin. I keep my eyes closed and focus completely on his touch.

  The tip of his nose brushes softly following the line below my collarbone, up my throat, under my chin; back down my throat to my other shoulder where he pulls the remaining strap aside with his teeth.

  I have not moved up until this point, in a state of paralyzed arousal. I exhale loudly and pull up his shirttail to release it from beneath his waistband. He’s already unbuttoned the top few buttons so I strip his shirt off over his head and throw it on the floor next to the bed. My hands explore his torso like a sculptor working clay. The muscles across his chest and stomach are rigid. I can feel the excitement pulsing through him. He’s coiled up tighter than a spring.

  Before I know it, every piece of clothing has been removed and we’re pressed against each other, breathing heavily, completely committed to this animalistic act of lust and love.

  The kissing is so exacting and intense I have the feeling it’s not really kissing anymore. Like we’ve crossed over into a whole new world—a place no one’s ever been before. Then suddenly the kissing slows and softens … and pauses. Dimitri is breathing deeply, gritting his teeth. A few seconds later the look of concentration passes and he whispers, “Are you ready?”

  My heart is slamming against the inside of my chest and the sensation of burning has engulfed me. I nod and whisper, “Say something in French.”

  He moans, “Je ne peux plus attendre. Je te veux tout de suite,” as his mouth descends on mine and I feel flooded with an urgent heat and desire like I’ve never felt.

  Life is sometimes … burning.

  Chapter 26

  Forget not

  Regret not

  Live

  The night is the best night of my entire life. Some things are worth waiting for. In fact, I would have waited a lifetime for last night. Ten lifetimes even.

  We fall asleep just as the sun’s beginning to rise and rest blissfully until noon. When I open my eyes, Dimitri’s awake and propped up on one elbow, gazing at me and sweeping my hair away from my eyes.

  “Bonjour, Madame Smith-Glenn.”

  I smile. “Bonjour, Monsieur Glenn.”

  He smiles. “You’re right, speaking French is sexy.”

  I laugh and rub my eyes. Mid-yawn I ask, “What are we going to do today?”

  He wraps me up in his arms. “Someone wise once told me—” he says, kissing my temple, “—that the point of travelling—” he kisses me again on the neck, “—is to have experiences—” and again on my shoulder.

  “I think that I’d like,” I say, as he nuzzles his nose into the crook of my neck, “some more of that.” I kiss the tip of his nose. “But I think she also said something about sightseeing.”

  He sighs and rolls over on his back, releasing his hold on me and looking at the ceiling in mock defeat, “There is also that I suppose.” He looks at me and winks. “Where do you want to go first?”

  The next five days are a whirlwind of unforgettable sights during the day and unforgettable experiences during the night.

  We recount it all on the plane ride home: the Eiffel Tower (kissing at the top under a full moon), the Seine (walking hand in hand at twilight when the air was still warm), Notre Dame, the Louvre, the Arc de Triomphe, the Champs-Elysées, the Jardin du Luxembourg, the Sorbonne, the Panthéon, the patisserie in the 7th (I think Dimitri is addicted to pistachio macaroons), and the hotel. God, I’ll never forget that hotel.

  I loved every moment of Paris, but I’m so glad to be home. Our home. Mr. and Mrs. Glenn’s home. I’m so happy to share it with him. Sometimes it feels like he literally gives me the world. Even though I know money isn’t important to him, the scales are extremely out of balance. I don’t want to be a burden, but I know I’ll never make the kind of money he does. So it gives me some satisfaction that I’m able to provide us with a home, albeit sparsely-furnished.

  Sunny remodeled the kitchen while we were in Paris, our surprise wedding gift. And over the weeks following the honeymoon, we manage to purchase all of the items we’d been lacking. Our house looks amazing. I guess that’s what happens when your mother-in-law is an interior designer though. I swear she’s half fairy and uses pixie dust or something; she’s magical. Over the next few weeks, Dimitri converts half of the garage into his art studio and office and can now work from home full time—except for when he’s traveling. The gallery remains at Sunny’s for obvious reasons, but the walls of our home slowly become covered with paintings. Some are permanent (gifts to me), and others are on rotation; I’m sad to see them go when they’re sold, because I get attached.

  My birthday comes in October, and I’m reduced to tears when I come home from work to find Dimitri sitting in the front room playing “Happy Birthday” on a brand new upright piano—my piano. He’s serenading me with a cheesy rendition of the song, singing loudly and finishing with “you look like a monkey and you smell like one too.”

  “Why are you crying, baby?” he asks, laughing, when he finishes. “I was
only joking.” I walk over to the piano bench, where he pulls me down to sit on his lap. “You don’t really smell like a monkey,” he says softly, wiping my cheeks with his thumb.

  I laugh through the tears. “You didn’t have to do this.” It’s been months since I’ve shed a tear and I seem to have opened the floodgates. “Thank you. I’m sorry I’m crying. It’s just overwhelming to see a piano sitting here again. I didn’t realize how much I missed it.”

  He strokes my hair. “I know. But you’re twenty years old today. I hear that’s the perfect age to start taking piano lessons. Twenty’s the new ten,” he says, smiling sheepishly. “Or something like that. And I know this incredibly handsome, and talented, and patient piano teacher who works for next to nothing. Did I mention he’s really handsome? I know that may be a little distracting, but you’re a married woman and would never be tempted by such—”

  I interrupt him with a kiss. “Thank you. It was really thoughtful. And I would love for you to teach me.”

  He acts playfully shocked. “What? Me? How’d you know?”

  There are two small pieces of paper folded over and safety pinned to his shirt. I flip the one on the left with my finger. It says: “Incredibly handsome, talented, patient piano teacher for hire.”

  He rolls his eyes mockingly. “Oh, I completely forgot I was wearing that.”

  Then I flip the other one. “Can I work off a tab or do you demand payment at the time services are rendered?” It says, “Will work for sex.” I laugh. Sex is still new and exciting for us, really exciting for him—to the point of near preoccupation. But what can I say, he is a boy, and he waited a long time for me.

  He’s still in character. “I’m glad you noticed. I try to be upfront. It’s a bit embarrassing when my clients aren’t privy to my terms ahead of time and then there’s this whole, ‘Oh my God, what are you doing?’ reaction when I take my clothes off at the end of the lesson. Believe me,” he says, shaking his head and exhaling dramatically. “It’s much more enjoyable for everyone this way.”

  “It’s come to prostituting yourself in return for piano lessons? For shame, Dimitri. Clearly we need to find you a hobby.” I pause, and then kiss his temple. “Really … I mean it, thank you.”

  He hugs me tightly and kisses me on the cheek. “You’re welcome, Ronnie. Happy birthday. I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  The lessons begin the next afternoon, and we manage to fit them in at least twice a week, though Dimitri insists I practice every other day. I don’t mind; in fact, I enjoy it. It’s an escape. And to my surprise I’m good at it. It comes easy, just like Dimitri always said it would. Dimitri’s an excellent teacher. He’s talented and patient, just as advertised (he’s also handsome, and contrary to terms, he rarely demands payment on the spot. He’s taken to keeping a running tab on the back of my sheet music, though).

  I also decide it’s time to start taking colleges classes. Dimitri is thrilled. He was understanding, but disappointed, when I let my scholarship to the University of Colorado slip away after my parents’ death, and I think the more time that passed, the more he thought I had resigned completely. I’ve decided to apply for my first two years at a community college near our home. Tuition is a fraction of the cost of a state university, and all of the credits will transfer. My goal is to finish up my degree at the University of Colorado eventually. I’m registered to start classes in January, and I’ve worked my class schedule around my work schedule. Sunny’s very flexible and encouraging, and it will allow me to continue working full-time for her while taking a full load of classes. I’ll be busy. But I like busy.

  Come January, I realize that I’m not just busy. I’m crazy busy. But I guess I got what I wished for. Working and going to school is a huge commitment, but Dimitri and I adjust quickly and get into a routine. I take classes through the spring and into the summer, too, in hopes of making up for lost time. Dimitri travels a lot, showing his art at exhibits in several East Coast galleries. He’s even asked to display paintings at two contemporary art museums. He’s so humble and never makes a big deal of it, but it is a big deal. And if he’s not going to be outwardly proud, then I’ll be proud enough for both of us.

  Dimitri also starts taking guitar lessons. He said he’s played for a long time, but he wants to improve. I’ve never heard him play, even though I’ve begged him to many times. He says he’ll play for me when he feels up to par. Knowing him, that will be at the point that he could easily join a rock band and tour the world. And I thought I was critical of myself. Dimitri is the real perfectionist.

  We ramble on blissfully through our first year of marriage. God, I love him. He’s my best friend, my other half. He makes me happy like no one else can. We never argue. And aside from the fact that his clothes can never quite make it in the clothes hamper (it seems they always fall short … like two inches short … on the floor next to the hamper), there’s nothing irritating about him. I know no one’s perfect, but Dimitri’s perfect for me. We balance one another. And we’ve been through a lot. It feels so good to be at peace, taking care of each other day-to-day.

  Our first wedding anniversary is low key, mainly due to the fact that I’m going to school non-stop and he’s buried in his work. When Valentine’s Day approaches months later, he insists we take a long weekend and get away from our obligations.

  “Where do you want to go?” I ask, excited by the prospect of a reprieve, if only for a few days.

  He wraps me up in his arms and says, “I would love to go back to that hotel in Paris. We saw all the sights last time, so this time we’d only need to concern ourselves with the—what did you call it—experiences?”

  I confirm with a nod, “Experiences. I’d love too, but that’s a long trip for a weekend. I think we’d better settle on somewhere closer.”

  “Damn time constraints,” he mutters under his breath. He stares off, thinking of alternatives.

  I wink. “Experiences can be had just about anywhere,” I say, suggestively.

  He smiles wickedly. “True. What about Jackson, Wyoming? We could stay at Mom’s house.” Sunny kept the house they lived in with Dimitri’s dad, and she uses it as a vacation home now. We’ve been there a few times, mostly over the holidays. It’s great, but it’s full-on winter in Wyoming.

  “I’d really like to go someplace warmer, where we can be outside. I’m so over winter.”

  He nods. “Outside experiences. I like the way you think.”

  I roll my eyes. Though the idea kind of excites me, at the moment I don’t let on.

  He’s deep in thought again. “Warmer, like beach-warm, or southern-states warm?”

  “Umm … southern states warm would work.”

  His eyes search mine. “Ever been to the Grand Canyon?”

  I smile. “You would be safe to assume that if I haven’t been there with you, I haven’t been there.”

  “The Grand Canyon it is then. It’s so impressive; I think you’ll love it.”

  “Any math exams or research papers due at the Grand Canyon?”

  He smiles. “I haven’t been since I was a kid, but no, not that I recall.”

  “Perfect.”

  • • •

  The Grand Canyon is impressive, to say the least. The colors are so vivid. The formations so vast they seem to go on forever in the distance. It looks like a painting. We spend the first day hiking and are famished by dinnertime. After consuming stupid amounts of food we return to the hotel where we immediately fall into a state of sleep so near comatose it’s almost scary. We are exhausted. I’m definitely out of shape.

  The second day is Valentine’s Day. The first half of the day is spent on a long drive around the canyon taking lots of pictures. Dimitri informs me this is the “sightseeing” portion of the day.

  The “experiences” portion of the day is spent at a five star hotel in Phoenix that evening. That particular evening may go down in history as one of my favorites. There’s Champagne, pink lilies, candle
s—lots of candles. And Dimitri—lots of Dimitri.

  The trip ends all too quickly, and a couple of weeks later I’m lost in school and work. One morning before a test, I wake up with something tugging at my memory. It’s heavy. Like there’s something I’ve forgotten. I scan my brain for clues but just feel an overwhelming sense of urgency. For the life of me, I cannot figure it out. Even after my test, the feeling follows me through the day. I try to shrug it off, but it clings to me. It makes me feel uncomfortable, like I’m walking around without pants, or like I’ve lost something without knowing what the thing is.

  I’m unlocking my car (I finally broke down and bought one this past summer. Her name is Hazel, because she’s not at all “sexy” but more “reliable” and “solid”) after finishing up from work when I feel a sudden knot in my stomach. And then I feel incredibly dizzy, like I’ve just stepped off a roller coaster. I open the car door and take a seat behind the wheel, digging through my bag for my phone. I open up my calendar, it’s my lifeline, and look at today’s date, tracing back one day, two days, three days … panic begins to gnaw at me. I continue to count: four days, five days, six days, seven days …

  “Shit!” I say to myself. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. My period is a week late. I’m never late. But, I can’t be pregnant; I’ve been on The Pill since just before our wedding. And I take them faithfully …

  Except when I forgot them at home when we went to Phoenix.