Lauren's hand moved, sliding along my torso and past my navel, and her fingers dipped into my boxers. We looked down at the same time, staring at her fingers against my skin, her palm over my belt buckle, and the thick bulge of my erection as it pointed northeast.
"Yeah, I think I'd like some day drinking," she said with a smirk.
19
Lauren
Okay, so the fizzle out wasn't happening.
It was probably better that way. Moderation, right? I was the queen of moderation; it was the only reason my ass wasn't the size of a picnic table.
I leaned against the elevator wall and eyed Matthew. He was the last person I expected to see when my flight from Chicago landed, and I still couldn't wrap my brain around him flying to New Orleans. He said he wanted to be with me, but there was something behind his eyes I couldn't get past. "I see you haven't gotten treatment for that creeping problem yet."
"And why would I?"
He shot a glance at the group of woman alongside us in the elevator, and wrapped his arm around my waist, pulling me in for a quick kiss. It was nothing like the overwhelming moments we shared in the airport, or the borderline indecent ones in the cab, but it reminded me of the immediacy, the automaticity with which I responded to him.
Whether I liked it or not, my body knew Matthew, and knew what to do without my direction.
I tried suppressing a wide yawn when we stepped off the elevator, shielding my mouth to hide my exhaustion, but he noticed with raised eyebrows. Time zones were kicking my ass. That, and American Horror Story. "I'm tired. It's a long, bizarre story. Or not so long, but definitely bizarre."
Matthew grasped my hand at the threshold to the room, a sweeping view of the French Quarter stretching before us, and the muddy Mississippi in the distance. He didn't have to tell me he upgraded the suite; there was no way in hell I reserved a room like this when I'd been staying in glorified shoeboxes the past two weeks.
He stood behind me, his arms wrapped around my torso. "Too tired for…drinks? We could just talk."
I pivoted, shaking my head. Talking seemed far too complex right now. "Remember all those times you promised to bend me over your desk? Let's work on a rendition of that."
Walking through the double doors leading to the bedroom, I kicked off my shoes and stripped out of my clothes, and laid against the tall, four-poster king bed, my face to the fluffy down blankets. He edged my feet apart, and made room behind me. Not looking up from the bed, I heard the rustle of fabric and the metallic purr of his zipper, then I felt him, and that was all I needed to rouse that deep spiraling ache in my core. He was hard and hot, and rasping his stubbly chin over the most sensitive parts of my shoulders, and I was never comparing him to bread ever again.
His fingertips trailed up and down my spine, and then lower, over my ass, slipping inside me, and I knew I'd never been so wet. As much as I told myself I didn't want this, my body wasn't lying about what it wanted. "Miss Halsted," he growled.
He pressed into me, his head sliding through my slit, and I was already there, the early tingles of orgasm crawling up the backs of my legs, around my ribs, through my scalp. His hand spread over my back, pushing me flat against the mattress, and when he finally filled me, we moaned, greedy and hungry and desperate for each other. We didn't move for a long moment, and I savored the weight of him inside me.
"I think your pussy missed me." He moved my hair to one side and kissed my neck. "I think it wants to come all over me right now."
"Mmhmm," I said. "It missed your cock and your fingers and your tongue."
He grabbed my hands, stretching them out over my head, holding them in place, and brought his other hand to my clit. My teeth connected with the blankets, and I groaned against them, knowing I was seconds away from dissolving into a sloppy orgasm puddle.
Matthew started moving, sliding in and out at a leisurely pace while his fingers hovered near—never exactly on—my clit. I sensed him straining, his muscles pulled taut, his breaths coming fast, his control eroding with each measured stroke.
"Did you miss me?"
There was a method to his agonizing madness. As if he knew there was one place I couldn't hide from him, one moment when I was wholly unfiltered, his thumb strummed my clit—just as I'd shown him—and I came, screaming, "Oh fuck, Matthew, yes, I'm never leaving you again."
I was too busy shattering to care what I admitted, but I knew I wasn't ready to absorb his reaction, and kept my eyes screwed shut and my face buried in the blankets.
"Good," he growled. "I missed you too."
He didn't relent, the pressure low in my belly building again, and when his words turned into unintelligible pleas and demands, I whispered, "I want to feel you coming inside me."
He pumped into me, his fingers steady on my clit while I exploded again, and then he came with a hoarse roar and his teeth on my back. I expected to find my limbs and vital organs in bits all over the room, obliterated by the force of my climax and the tension between us. We stayed there, panting, basking in the aftershocks, and I wanted this little moment to continue forever.
"Get under the covers," Matthew said. He pulled out, and slapped my ass. "I'll be right back."
I climbed onto the mattress, groaning as my muscles relaxed into the marshmallow bedding. I needed to take notes and do some major redecoration at home. Rolling to my side, I smiled at Matthew's beautiful face when he returned from the bathroom and joined me. So scrumptious.
He drew his finger down my arm, but didn't smile back. "Be honest with me."
I stopped admiring the pillowcases. That sounded cryptic.
"Since you've been traveling, the only thing you've wanted from me is news about your project. I want to know if that's the only thing you're getting out of this."
My lips parted but no sound came out.
"I need to know why you've avoided me for two weeks. You don't even acknowledge my texts most days, and I need to know if you're over this, or I did something to piss you off."
I couldn't lie in our warm glowy bubble anymore. I brought the blankets to my chest and scrambled off the bed. "Did it escape your notice that I just had sex with you? Do you really think I would have done that if I was over it?"
"No, no, no, that's not what I'm saying," he said.
What did I get for being uninhibited with a hot architect? For doing things I'd never done, never dreamed of doing? For breaking all my rules about men and relationships and sex? All of it thrown back at me.
"Did you come here just to ask me that? And then what? You're on the next flight to Boston?" He paused, glancing back and forth between the bed and me. "Or did you come here to fuck me and then tell me I'm a slutty, slutty whore?"
I searched for my clothes, still clutching the sheets, and refused to look at him when he walked across the suite and stepped into his boxers. He handed me his Cornell t-shirt, and I snatched it from his hands without a word, storming to the other side of the room. I couldn't handle this swing, this violent shift from high to low, and I needed space to breathe.
"That's not why I'm here, and that's not what I was implying, and you know that. You know I'd never say anything like that, ever."
"Really? How am I supposed to know that, Matthew?"
"I fucked up, and it came out all wrong." Matthew rubbed the back of his neck and groaned. "I missed you like crazy, and you weren't talking to me, and I didn't know why."
"It's not about the goddamn project, Matthew! How about being busy? I tried to tell you I wouldn't have time for—"
"I know all about busy, sweetness. That one's not working on me."
We gazed at each other across the room, and despite Matthew's intensity, I refused to look away first. He continued staring into me as his long legs ate up the distance between us and his hands gripped my waist.
"Tell me what you want," he begged.
I knew that request so well, but this time, the words weren't there. When we were together with nothing but breaths and kisses
between us, I understood—deep, in a tender place I couldn't locate on a map—what we needed and wanted. I knew. But now, with him in his unbuttoned jeans and me in his t-shirt and daylight soaking the air around us, I couldn't reach that place. "I don't know."
Matthew stared at me, nodding, and shifted his focus out the window. I stood there, pantless and vibrating with fury—maybe it was hurt or indignation or even whiplash—while his hands drew small circles on my hips and anchored me in place. I understood that his words came out in the wrong combinations, but the thought that I was getting naked with him for architectural work still crossed his mind more than once, and he let it.
"You stopped talking to me, and I don't know why," he murmured. He tucked my hair over my ears, running his fingers through the strands and down my back. “But I do know you should stop pushing me away."
I shouldn't have crept out of his bed that foggy Saturday, and I shouldn't have left town without telling him it was time to fizzle out, but maybe—just maybe—I always wanted to leave those doors slightly ajar. To find out what I was sacrificing. To sample something I shouldn't have. To break some rules.
"Tell me what you want, Matthew."
"I want you to let me hang out with you this weekend. I want you to stop disappearing," he said. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if he were trying to withstand a tremendous discomfort or repress a gruesome memory. "And I want to stop calling it drinks. I want you. Just…you. We'll see what happens after that. Okay?"
I didn't want to pretend I could find a way for this to work without my life running off the rails, but I didn't want to say no either. My hands roamed over his chest and shoulders and I nodded. "Fine," I said. "But you suggested I was using you, and I'm not okay with that. I hate that you entertained that thought for more than one hot second, and you entertained it so hard you came down here to ask."
"I never believed it," he murmured. "Never. But when you don't talk to me I invent my own stupid explanations."
"Just to clarify, you're not saying I'm a slutty whore?"
"Sweetness, you can be my slutty whore whenever you want, and I'm telling you right now, I'll worship you for it." His thumbs brushed under my eyes and he frowned. "I already worship you. You get that, right?"
"I think so."
"You should." He inclined his head toward the bed. "This was exhausting, and I just want to hold you because I said tremendously douchey shit and you don't deserve that. And I haven't seen your fine ass in two weeks, and that's far too long. Snugglenap?"
"Mmm," I sighed. "Yes please."
We crawled into the bed and curled around each other, our fingers laced together. My body melted into him, and the tension skittering between us seemed to dissipate. It was a struggle to keep my eyes open, but the pressure of Matthew's stiffening shaft against my bottom kept me from falling asleep. "You probably want me naked and telling you all my deep, dark desires."
"I just want you." Matthew pulled a blanket up to my chin and circled his arms around me again. "This is all I need."
"Me too." My head bobbed against Matthew's chin, and I dropped over the edge of sleep.
The room felt cool, and when my eyes peeked open, I noticed darkness pouring through the windows. There was tapping over my shoulder and I yelped, scrambling to my knees and ready to strike. My heart pounded as I stared at Matthew, his laptop open on his thighs and his hands folded in his lap, an inquisitive expression on his face.
"This is new," he said, gesturing to my defensive stance.
My fingers landed on a wet patch on my cheek, and I tried to brush away evidence of drool. I glanced at the clock and combed my fingers through my hair. "You let me sleep for six hours?"
Matthew shrugged and powered down his laptop. "Isn't that the point of the snugglenap?"
I grabbed my toiletry kit and headed to the bathroom to deal with the drool remnants and brush my teeth. "Just figured I'd wake up naked with your cock in my mouth and your head between my legs."
Matthew vaulted off the bed and I saw him braced against the doorframe. "Can I interest you in that now?"
I smiled to myself as I applied a fresh coat of mascara. "Maybe if you woke me up an hour ago, but I'm starving."
I breezed past him to rifle through my bags for clean clothes, which were in short supply after two weeks away from my washing machine. Tossing his t-shirt to a chair, I slipped a gauzy kimono-style shirt over my head and stepped into a pair of jeans. Matthew's chest pressed against my back, his hands skimming under the shirt and cupping my breasts.
"Give me ten minutes," he said, his lips hovering over my ear.
"I could give you ten minutes," I said, my body softening into his. "But it's never ten minutes. And I'm hungry."
Matthew rained kisses along my neck and shoulders, his fingers brushing the soft undersides of my breasts while his hips bumped in a lazy rhythm against my ass. He groaned, squeezing my breasts before walking away. "Hard to believe someone so heavenly could be so fucking evil."
"You love it," I said. I dropped a scarf into my bag and headed toward the door.
"Something like that," he murmured.
As we walked down Chartres Street toward the Jackson Square restaurant, Matthew pointed out the blend of French, Spanish, and Creole influences in each building, and contrasted the architectural styles we saw: Greek revival, Art Nouveau, Art Deco, Renaissance Colonial, Gothic, Victorian, Italianate, Queen Anne, Postmodern, Mid-century Modern. He knew with a glance which predated the Civil War, which survived the Great New Orleans Fire in 1788, which had been restored.
When we settled into the bistro's cozy patio, he described the Pontalba Buildings, the matching block-long red brick apartments flanking two sides of the Square, and explained the four-story structures launched the wrought iron balcony trend in New Orleans. He paused to order drinks, then continued, so charming and animated, about the complex geometry of mansard roofs.
We never talked like this. It was either sex or work or squabbling about who was bossy and who was a caveman, but it was never ordinary conversation about our interests, our passions, our places in the universe. And it was my fault. I spent so much time trying to shut him out, shut this out.
The waiter delivered our cocktails and I stirred my glass to study the contents of the New Orleans specialty, the sazerac. "To dinner outside in October."
Matthew murmured in agreement and our glasses clinked together.
I stifled a cough after sipping and my eyes flashed to him. "That is strong. Are you trying to get me drunk?"
"Of course not." He smiled, his eyes sparkling and mischievous. "I'd be happy with tipsy."
We opted to share three authentic Creole dishes, and spent the meal talking and laughing. Like everything else with Matthew, it was natural. Was this what he wanted when he asked me to stop calling it drinks? Did he want us sharing meals and stories, and hanging out together without crumbling under the need to rub up against each other? Did I want that?
Then his fingers tightened around my hand, and I realized my foot was sliding over the back of his calf.
So meals, stories, and some light rubbing?
We discovered a mutual love of many restaurants and bars, and realized we'd been daily patrons of the same obscure coffeehouse for nearly two years. Once that peculiar shock wore off, we agreed hands down that autumn was the best season in Boston. Those fools who loved springtime were kidding themselves—Boston in the spring was cold and wet and muddy, save for the odd week or two of perfection around the end of May.
I mentioned an affection for The Avengers, Iron Man, and the first Transformers, and Matthew brought up the origins of his siblings' comic-book-inspired nicknames. They referred to Sam as Tony Stark but never Iron Man—brilliant but a womanizing manwhore in the business of collecting obsessive-compulsive tendencies—and I laughed so hard my drink sprayed out my nose.
We both admitted feeling like we'd accomplished a barrelful of nothing since college, and insisted the other was insane to think so,
but that didn't stop us from comparing ourselves to others in our fields. I couldn't understand how he saw his work as anything short of extraordinary—especially after the dissertation I got on New Orleans architecture—and he argued that point right back to me until we accepted each other's compliments.
Matthew divulged a small addiction to running, and for him that was a gateway to biking and swimming, and occasionally doing all three for about one hundred and forty miles.
I told him about my treats: baked goods of all varieties, shoes, and disgustingly expensive lacy things. I didn't offer explanation other than saying the shoes and the lingerie made me feel stronger, more capable when everything was complicated, and people would be happier if they ate more cake. He feigned disbelief when I mentioned the lacy things, demanding proof even though he had watched me dress and knew plenty about my undies, and I might have slipped my panties into his pocket on my way back from the ladies' room.
Matthew inquired about my fondness for velvet pillows, and I confessed an obsession with wandering through farmers' markets and random little shops, and that my favorite place in the area was Cape Cod. I loved walking along the shore, gazing out over the Atlantic, and feeling like I was teetering over the edge of the earth and absolutely, totally free from everything else in the world, where no one expected anything from me, and I could just be. We realized we frequented the same beaches, and quite possibly the same quiet cove at the same time, but never noticed each other until I went ass over elbow down the stairs at Saint Cosmas.
When Matthew's eyes flashed with vulnerability, I shifted closer, and he told me about the hot July day twenty-two years ago when he and his siblings found their pregnant mother on the floor of her bedroom, clutching her belly while blood pooled around her. The memories poured out, and my heart broke for the little boy who watched his mother die.
The Walsh Brothers Page 17
