Fearsome

by S. A. Wolfe

  “No. I’ll take it.” Carson smiles.

  Carson moves on top of me, holding my hands and pinning them down on either side of my head. His leg pushes mine apart and he positions himself at my sex. He’s already hard and eager to resume his quest to keep me in his bed.

  My eyes begin to drift closed with arousal. “Look at me, Jess. Look at me.”

  I stare right into those steely blue eyes as he teases my body with the tip of his cock, light thrusts dip into my wet folds before filling me up completely. Since my hands are trapped and I can’t touch him, I arch up so he’ll use that perfect tongue on me. He sucks and bites my nipples and then finds that good spot inside of me that he caresses with his length in a sideways motion which brings me to an early climax. The orgasm is short, though explosive. I bring my legs up and wrap them around Carson and it sends me off on another round of spasms; smaller in intensity, but deliciously long.

  “Don’t stop looking at me,” he says with a raspy voice.

  “You are so demanding, Blackard.” However, I keep focused on his eyes that bore into me with love. Carson keeps rocking me through my pleasurable moans until he gets even harder and rubs against me in a way that makes him come with violent thrusts and grunts.

  He releases my hands, but stays inside of me and lets the bottom half of his body weigh me down. He holds himself up on his forearms and positions his hands in my hair. “I just want you to be mine,” he says.

  “You have me; body and soul, and all the parts in between.”

  Forty-Three

  The gallery is spectacularly crowded. Most people are here for Martin and Yvette, who have representation in several major cities in Europe as well. They are the artists with the star power, but I’m thrilled to ride behind on their coattails. Tom is working the crowd, introducing the artists to potential buyers.

  I do my best to talk about my paintings and answer questions like a seasoned pro, however, people take one look at me and start peppering me with questions about my age and education. Tom is rather proud of that and uses it to our advantage. I feel a little like a sideshow circus freak, but then it is selling paintings. The little red dots start going up next to my paintings on the wall and a little bell inside my head tinkles like when an angel gets its wings.

  Imogene has put my red mane up in a high, loose twist, so the curls still fan out casually, but my neck is exposed, showing off a glittery, vintage rhinestone necklace with pearls, rosary beads and a hundred year-old locket, courtesy of L & I Creations. I wear Carson’s necklace triple wrapped around my wrist along with Aunt Ginnie’s diamond stud earrings, a black wrap dress, black tights and my black boots. I have an understated glamour thanks to Imogene who didn’t want me to look like the amateur, over-eager artist.

  Everyone I know from Hera is in Tom’s Chelsea gallery. Everyone except Carson who said he’d meet me here. That is a little disappointing. I wanted to walk into the gallery with him on my arm, but he said he had something important to do before the show.

  Lauren and Imogene are walking arm in arm with Leo and Jeremy. I’ve already introduced them to Kate and Marissa who immediately found common ground and hilarity in what young women their age share. Archie, Lois and Eleanor are wandering by the various pieces together, chatting and sipping champagne. They look right at home in a New York gallery. Bonnie and her crew from the diner are here as is Carson’s staff from Blackard Designs. Even Harvey made time to come see my show. Not that I’m expecting him, but if Sushi Dan happens to show up before Carson, I’ll really be livid.

  Finally, my head is drawn to the door of the gallery and I see him. Everyone sees him. Heads turn when the tall, sexy man—my guy—steps into the gallery. My heart stops, squeezes and then bangs loudly in my chest. I am trembling, awash simultaneously with relief and joy. He is wearing a black leather jacket, a black T-shirt, jeans and boots. He shaved, although his hair is pushed back in its usual mop of sexy. Just the way I love him.

  He looks around the room, not noticing the pretty, leggy models and all the other people in the room before his eyes lock on me. His mouth curves and he stalks towards me. I swoon watching my tall, hunky boyfriend come for me with a swagger and a smirk that puts me on the moon.

  “Hey.” He smiles and slips an arm behind my back before he kisses me on the lips. “Nervous?”

  “Very. I wish we drove in together. My stomach was so nervous when I got here; I thought I’d throw up.”

  “You never had a problem speaking at conferences and you don’t have to give a lecture here. Relax and enjoy the ride.” His deep voice is very soothing.

  “This is different. Talking about numbers is one thing. Talking about my art; it’s personal and subjective.”

  “Ah, Ms. Channing is out of her element,” he teases me and picks up my twitchy right hand. Both of his large, warm hands envelope my hand and he looks at it with purpose then at me. “You don’t have to prove any theorems or yourself. I was here earlier today and spoke to Tom while they were setting up. You’re going to be fine.”

  “You were here?”

  “I told you I had to come in early before the show to do some business and I stopped by to see the paintings. I saw most of them at your house, but I wanted to see the set up before the crowd came in. Tom gave me a personal tour.”

  “Hmm. I guess you already know him since you bought my other paintings last year, right?”

  “Yeah.” He kisses my hand and puts it down at his side, keeping it clasped in his.

  “Oh farfegnugen,” I mutter, looking past Carson to the gallery entrance.

  “What?” Carson asks, laughing.

  “My parents.”

  Carson turns and we both witness the attractive, well-dressed, middle-aged couple stop to look at one of my paintings.

  “Well, aren’t we going to go talk to them?” Carson uses his free hand to touch my earlobe and inspect the diamond stud.

  “Yes. Can we wait a moment, though? They’re looking at my paintings and I can’t judge their expressions. Can you?”

  Carson looks back at my parents who float through the crowd, studying my paintings with complacent facades. “Do they always look so serious?”

  “Yes,” I say, but then, I thought the same thing about Carson before he let me see his light-hearted side.

  “Do you think they’ll like me?” he asks, watching them.

  “Do you really care?”

  “It would be nice if your parents like me, sure. It will make holidays easier, but I’m not going to worry about it. Too much.”

  “No. They probably won’t like you. They don’t like most people. I don’t even know if they like me.”

  “They love you. That’s why they are here,” Carson reminds me.

  “Yes, they love me as their child, but I’m not sure they like me. They obsess too much on my faults and it makes it hard for us to talk in a friendly way.”

  “You don’t have any faults. They’re insane.” Carson squeezes my hand and smirks.

  “Right. I’ve got all the right moves. How can my parents not see that?” I scoff.

  “Let’s get to it,” he says, leading me by my hand to my parents. I like that he treats it as a team effort.

  “Jessica,” my mother exclaims when she sees us approach. She gives me a peck on the cheek before standing back, putting a comfortable distance between us. She is dressed impeccably in a grey, fitted dress that complements her short blond hair and lovely face. For someone who eschews pop culture and trends, she looks very pretty and trendy as well as looking a decade younger than her fifty years. My father looks fit and handsome, a math professor who resembles an investment banker.

  “Jess,” my father says in his authoritative, professor voice. He kisses my forehead and I smell his aftershave.

  There are no hugs or tight, smiling embraces about how long it’s been even though we live only a two-hour drive apart. My parents are not touchy feely in anyway, although in this second, maybe for the first time, I see that
they love me. Maybe it’s because I recognize love now. Their faces flush and their thin, stern lips curve slightly upon seeing me and maybe knowing that is enough as far as parents go.

  Yet I know it’s not enough as far as I feel about Carson. I want the thrills of being in love; the giddiness, the laughter, the sparkly, lust-filled eyes and the outward passion. I want to shout and jump with joy when I see Carson, the same way my insides turn into a bounce house when I think about him.

  Carson’s left hand squeezes my hand as if he knows what I’m thinking.

  “Carson, this is my mother, Michelle Channing.”

  “Mrs. Channing.” Carson shakes her hand while his other hand holds mine in a vise grip.

  “And this is my father, Robert.”

  “Mr. Channing.” Carson shakes his hand, too.

  “Congratulations, Jessica. A fine show and your work is so unusual,” my father says.

  “But do you like it?” I ask, trying to decipher his comment.

  “I suppose I thought you’d have more traditional compositions similar to the portraits you used to do in high school,” he says, not answering my question.

  “No, this is what I expected.” My mother surprises the hell out of me. “A girl who spends her life studying numbers and science isn’t going to do anything traditional. She’s going to do the unexpected and I suspect there are a lot of interesting ideas in that head of yours. I like the messages you put into your paintings, Jessica. You have a lot of passion and it shows.”

  A happiness I haven’t felt with my parents in a long time reappears like an old memory, but this unexpected delight leaves me mute. Without waiting for me to respond, my mother turns her head to examine Carson. I can’t imagine what she thinks of the towering, attractive eye candy next to me; her once geeky prodigy of a daughter.

  “Carson Blackard,” my mother says with recognition in her tone. “You were such a responsible young boy. More like a little man back then, so grave.”

  Carson gives a very reserved smile.

  “Well, those were difficult times for all of us. How are you and your brother doing?” she asks and if my mother was the huggy type, I’d give her good one for remembering the Blackard boys.

  “We’re both doing well, thank you.” Carson isn’t nervous like me. He looks very confident meeting my parents.

  Then my mother glances at our hands tightly clasped around each other’s fingers.

  “Are you two dating?” she asks, looking from Carson to me.

  “Mom.” I laugh lightly. “When have I ever really dated? Seriously. We’re not dating,” I say and Carson shoots me a deadly look. I ignore him and turn back to my mother. “Carson and I live so close to each other that we don’t need to date. I’m ninety-nine point nine percent sure I’ll be marrying him someday, though.” I blurt it out, confident that it’s the right thing to say because it’s the truth. My mother’s composure droops a little when her mouth falls open at the same time that my father gives an uncomfortable cough and Carson barks a little laugh.

  My mother looks confused. “You’re not dating, but you’re going to get married?”

  “We’re together,” I clarify. “Boyfriend sounds like such a juvenile term. Carson is more than that.”

  “Oh.” My mother regards Carson again, trying to sum him up based on what she remembers about the sad little boy who tried to take care of his family.

  “Blackard,” my father says gruffly. I’m pissed that he addresses Carson by his last name.

  “Yes?” Carson is polite.

  “No, I meant, Blackard as in the furniture. That’s your company, correct?” my father asks and I sigh with relief.

  “Yes, I have a furniture company and another business that does renovations. I also have some home construction projects going. Sustainable, green homes.” Carson states it as simply as possible even though he has earned a solid reputation in his business and could elaborate, perhaps even brag if he weren’t so modest. I’ll have to start bragging for him.

  “I read an article about you,” my father states. “Let me think, what magazine was that?”

  “Should we take a walk around and see Jess’s work?” Carson puts an end to the discussion about himself.

  Carson never lets go of my hand. We follow my parents around the gallery like they are two bored tourists who feel obliged to look at every painting on display. They compliment a few pieces, some of which are mine, but for the most part they regard everything with a silent scrutiny. My father did have a good laugh when he saw Grenade Girl.

  “Jess, this one reminds me of you,” he says with the first smile of the evening. My mother reads the caption and winces before moving on to another painting. Carson sneaks a kiss on my temple when he sees my troubled face observing my mother.

  “I suppose it could be worse,” I whisper to Carson.

  “It could always be worse.” Carson laughs. “How do your parents look when they are pleased? Do they smile much?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. Maybe this is them being pleased. I don’t know anymore.”

  “They’re here. That’s what matters.”

  Tom walks by us and flashes ten fingers at me with a big smile on his face.

  “What’s with the jazz hands?” Carson asks when Tom is gone.

  I laugh. “He’s sold ten of my paintings so far tonight. Not bad.”

  “You’re hot shit.”

  “It feels pretty good,” I say. “It would be better if we weren’t hanging with my parents. They’re like the walking dead. Look at our friends across the room. They’re laughing it up and having fun.”

  “Take it easy.” Carson keeps his voice low. “Your parents don’t know what to make of your new career path and having me next to you isn’t helping. You should tell them you want them to visit you at the house sometime soon.”

  “You’re shoulding all over me again. Sometimes you’re very practical. My father will like that about you.”

  “I think he already likes me,” Carson says, swinging our hands playfully back and forth between us.

  I sigh, enjoying the moment.

  Before my parents leave I do offer an open invitation to have them visit for a weekend or even a dinner. My father seems amiable to the idea while my mother smiles in one of those noncommittal ways.

  The exhibit hours have officially ended, so I don’t have to keep performing, explaining my paintings to inquisitive lurkers. We all leave the gallery together and I’m riding on a thunderous high, complete exhilaration over being part of the show and having Carson on my arm. Our group has grown to include friends of Marissa and Kate, the Blackard employees, the employees from Bonnie’s and some of my colleagues from 5 Alpha.

  Archie, Lois and Eleanor beg off, choosing to go dine at a quiet restaurant on the Upper Eastside before they drive back to Hera. The rest of us gather on the sidewalk with the chilly snowfall nipping at us. It’s a beautiful, wintery evening in the town that never sleeps and my friends want to live it up.

  “Let’s go to Cielo!” Marissa says to everyone. Lauren and Imogene squeal with approval at her choice of dance clubs in the meat-packing district.

  “You’re finally legal, Jess. You need to dance and celebrate this great night,” Kate adds.

  I turn to Carson. He shrugs. “It’s your call. I’ll go dancing if that’s what you want.”

  “You guys go without us,” I tell them. “Carson and I have dinner plans.” He arches an eyebrow at me, but doesn’t complain.

  When the group disperses into five separate cabs to head off to the club, Carson and I are left alone, walking on West 25th Street. “Do you really have dinner plans for us?” Carson asks.

  “None. Sorry. It did not occur to me to make reservations anywhere. I know it’s shocking that I did not plan ahead, but I got caught up in the excitement of today. Although, I’m finally coming off my nervous high now.”

  Carson chuckles. “Good, because I made plans for us.”

  “You did? Where?”


  “I have a room booked for us at The Standard. You mentioned once that you like the restaurant and the High Line.”

  “I love the High Line Park and I’ve always wanted to stay at The Standard. It’s perfect, but Carson, it’s so romantic and, as I recall, you were the one who gave the speech about not being Mr. Romance.” I elbow him and he puts his free hand on my waist.

  “I figured I’d be a pretty shitty boyfriend if I didn’t at least treat you to something special on your big night. Besides, you’re ninety-nine point nine percent sure that you’ll marry me someday. I’ll take those odds.”

  “Aww, shucks. Don’t let it go to your head.” I pull his head down and kiss him hard, starved for his warm mouth.

  “Damn. I should have offered this plan back when I saw you in Archie’s office last June. It would have saved me a lot of grief.”

  “You and your goddamn shoulds. And yes, you really should have asked me out then.”

  We hail a cab and head to the meat-packing district. As much as I love dancing, I want Carson to myself, so we skip Cielo and head straight to The Standard. At the restaurant, I go overboard on clams, crab legs and Lobster Thermidor, however, Carson keeps ordering food and I keep eating.

  “Does this make up for all those chewy tuna casseroles and crunchy pasta dishes I made you?” He wipes a piece of caviar from my lip with his thumb.

  “Oh yes. This is heaven.”

  “Save room. There’s more.”

  “Not possible. I’m stuffed.”

  “We’re going to walk in the park before it closes and then we’ll go back to the room.”

  “I didn’t bring an overnight bag.”

  “I did. I had Imogene pack some things for you. It’s already in the room.” He gives me a sly smile and it warms me all over.

  “Is that why you came late to the show? You were arranging this?”

  “That’s part of it. You’ll see.”

  Our walk through the park is more of a chase to beat the curfew before they lock it. I am slipping and laughing in my boots. Carson picks me up, cradles me in his arms and jogs to the end of the park, amusing the other people strolling through.