Hitting That Sweet Spot

by Lara Ward Cosio

  Turning around, he stroked her cheek as he often did, tracing the light pattern of freckles there. He was watching her rather than kissing her and after a moment she furrowed her brow at his inaction.

  “Fee, we’re okay, right?”

  “You tell me, CQ.”

  “Don’t do that ‘CQ’ thing now,” he said.

  He had recognized a while back, that she used her school nickname for him when she was being casual or trying to put distance between them. She hadn’t done it consciously this time, but realized he was right.

  “Okay,” she said softly. She trailed her finger over the stubble along his jawline.

  With black hair, deep blue eyes, and high cheekbones, Conor was drop-dead gorgeous. But he was even sexier to her in the mornings when he had some scruff on his face. He usually kept himself clean shaven, but she had convinced him once to grow a beard. It was a devastatingly handsome look on him but he hadn’t cared for it and was soon back to his normal clean cut style.

  “You know I love you?” he asked.

  She knew that when he said this it was the real deal. He hadn’t been able to freely admit to Sophie, the only other woman he had really loved, how he felt for so long, and so to say it now to the person he was with was something he took seriously.

  “I know,” she said. “You know I love you?”

  He closed his eyes and smiled in satisfaction. That’s all he would need to feel better about things. He wouldn’t question their odd disconnect. He wouldn’t try to get to the bottom of why they were having such a hard time getting back into their groove. Maybe he had a point. Maybe she was reading too much into whatever was wrong. All they had to do was move forward and they’d soon be back on track.

  “We are alone, right?” He looked at her. “You got Danny Boy out of here?”

  “Yes, Shay came and got him.”

  “Good. ‘Cause I don’t want anyone to hear you moan but me.”

  “You’re going to make me moan, are you?” she asked, already feeling a tingle of anticipation.

  “And scream. And beg for more.” He pushed her onto her back and pulled up her shirt in one smooth motion.

  “I don’t beg.”

  “Is that right?”

  She smiled as he trailed a series of slow kisses over her neck and down to her breasts, teasing her nipples with his tongue. He placed his hand between her legs, rubbing gently over her pajama pants. The touch was so light that she longed to push herself against him but she knew that’s what he wanted, so she stayed still.

  He brought his lips to hers and kissed her deeply while keeping one hand between her thighs and the other stroking at an increasingly sensitive nipple. Content to go as slow as possible, he took his time kissing her, coaxing her into his rhythm while continuing to gently pet her. Drawing out her anticipation like this had her breathing in quick gasps. Then she felt a shock wave through her pelvis when he tapped a single finger against her clit. The sudden firm pressure was a relief from the buildup he had created with his other light touches, and she couldn’t stop from moaning.

  His smile broke their kiss. “That’s what I like to hear,” he murmured.

  When he pulled at the waistband of her pajamas, she lifted her hips so he could slide them off. She had to fight her disappointment that he had left her panties in place. But he soon began kissing his way down her belly and she knew what was coming next, even if he did linger with kisses and gentle bites at the tender skin on the inside of her thighs. Finally, he pulled her panties away and she let her legs fall apart for him.

  Once again, he did the unexpected, though. He moved up and took her hand, bringing her middle finger into his mouth and sucking it before pushing it between her legs.

  “Show me, honey,” he said, his voice low but urgent. “Show me how you touch yourself when I’m not here.”

  This change of direction threw her. She wanted him, not to play this game. “But you are here,” she said.

  “I’ve thought about this. A lot. I want to watch.”

  “I want you.” She tried to kiss him but he turned away.

  Placing his hand over hers, he moved her fingers where he wanted them as he spoke. “Do you just play with your clit? Or do you push your finger all the way in?” Once again, he had allowed only the lightest touch, making her ache for more.

  “Please,” she whispered.

  “Are you begging me?” he asked with a smile.

  When she realized what he had done, how quickly she had fallen for this tact she pushed him away from her. “You bastard!” she said with a laugh.

  He leaned over her and raised his eyebrows in that devilish way he could. “Don’t worry. I’m gonna make you scream next.”

  That was the thing about Conor Quinn, he always kept her interested. And wanting more.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Being called to pick up Danny Boy was an all too familiar occurrence for Shay. Not counting this call to go to Conor’s, there were four other episodes over the last decade where he had to step in when his brother had gotten himself into some kind of trouble. They included the time he had passed out in a heroin haze in a tattoo shop, the time when his erstwhile girlfriend locked him out of his apartment in the middle of the night after making a bonfire out of all his things in the middle of the street, and the time when a pub owner had to break down the restroom door to get him out when he was trying to shoot up. And those were just the times when Shay and Danny Boy happened to be in the same city. The fourth time would happen at the worst possible time and almost resulted in Jessica leaving Shay before they ever really got started.

  When Danny Boy was off on one of his extended disappearing acts, Shay wouldn’t hear a word from him. The silence became a comfort of sorts because it allowed Shay to create a period of stability where Danny Boy wasn’t the center of the universe. It was during one of those pockets of freedom when Shay met and began dating Jessica. Shay kept his hotel room on indefinite status, returning home to Dublin for brief periods but spending most of the late summer and fall in New York, enamored with Jessica, even as he had to share her with work and school. She would earn her bachelor’s degree in mid-December.

  “I’d love to do something special to celebrate your graduation,” he told her one night as they lounged in bed.

  “Yeah? What do you have in mind, rock star?” She was holding his hand in hers, running her fingertips over the callouses.

  He smiled. She was playfully calling him out and he knew he deserved it. Other than good meals and stays with him in his Empire State-view hotel room, he hadn’t showered her with the kinds of indulgences befitting a man of his fame and wealth. She deserved to be pampered and more, but he was not a natural romantic and didn’t have practice at coming up with grand gestures with women.

  Turning on his side to face her, he watched her in the pale light. “Jess, let me take you on holiday. It would be lovely to travel with you.”

  Her eyes lit up. “Really?”

  “Yes. Anywhere you’d like. You name it.”

  She thought for a moment. “I don’t know. Somewhere exotic, though.”

  “I’ll sort it, then. Your passport is good?”

  The prospect of him coming up with all the arrangements made her smile. That pure delight was priceless and Shay was excited to start planning their trip.

  The next day, Shay phoned Sophie to seek her advice on not only where to go but how to structure the trip. She was glad to help, and enthusiastically came up with a dozen options and even offered to email him detailed itineraries to consider.

  In the end, he chose the country he thought best fitting of Jessica’s request for somewhere “exotic.” Sophie helped him design a trip that would explore the local culture in a way that was both lavish and authentic.

  ~

  Shay kept the destination secret from Jessica until the day of her graduation. He argued that it was her gift, after all, and so he couldn’t possibly tell her before then. Because she was graduating mid
-year, she didn’t walk in a ceremony, but rather completed her final projects and exams and received her parents and brothers into town to celebrate. Her parents, Alex and Hope, owned several tourist souvenir stores in San Francisco that did well enough that they now only oversaw the operations. When Jessica and her brothers, Henry and Davis, were growing up, they’d often spend more time at one of the stores with a parent than at home.

  Shay joined them all at a Chinese restaurant, staying only for drinks as they gathered at the bar. He didn’t want to take away any more precious time from them than he already was by whisking Jessica off on holiday in two days’ time. It was also a good way to limit the awkwardness that came with meeting his girlfriend’s family, something he was terribly inexperienced with. Her family was eager to get to know him, which he attributed to Jessica having talked him up. But unlike his friend Gavin, he was not a natural showman or even good at small talk. Jessica guided the conversation, saving him from his introversion.

  When the restaurant hostess told the group their table was ready, Shay thanked them all and wished them a lovely evening.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” Jessica said, pulling on his hand as he tried to leave.

  Shay scrambled to come up with more excuses for why he couldn’t stay.

  “My gift,” she continued. “You have to tell me where we’re going!”

  “Oh,” he said with relief.

  “Yes, we’re all dying to know,” Alex said. He was tall and solidly built, and his ready smile was bright and welcoming.

  Shay met the man’s eyes and suddenly felt the seriousness of what he was doing. He was taking a woman he had only known for a few months with him out of the country. Her father would naturally hope to hear it was a safe and staid spot like western Europe. But that wasn’t exactly the case.

  “Ah, yes. Well, Jess requested an exotic location,” Shay said.

  “Please don’t say China, because that is a trip we’ve been talking about making for more years than I can count,” Hope said with a pained smile.

  “No, no,” Shay said. “It’s Morocco.”

  “North Africa! Good call, man,” Henry said and clapped him on the back.

  “Didn’t get any extra tickets, did you? I’d be down for that trip!” Davis said with a laugh.

  Shay laughed, too, but was more interested in Jessica’s reaction. He looked to her and saw her staring back at him with wide eyes.

  “How’d I do?” he asked, uncertain what her expression meant.

  He didn’t have to wonder long as she threw her arms around his neck and squeezed him tightly.

  “I’m so excited! This is going to be amazing!”

  Mindful of the audience of her family watching, he held her gently for a moment before pulling away.

  “I think you did good,” Alex said with a laugh.

  “You can trust I’ll take care of her,” Shay said.

  “You better,” Davis said, holding a hard expression long enough to worry Shay. But then he and the rest of Jessica’s family started laughing.

  Their easiness with him was almost enough to make him change his plans and stay for dinner. They seemed to be what a family should be—warm, connected, and caring. Seeing this on display was a curiosity for him. He was drawn to them, both for the comfort it promised and for the sheer novelty of it. His own family had been the mirror opposite of Jessica’s. For a moment, he allowed himself to think what it might be like to be embraced by them. But his instinct was to quit while he was ahead, and he soon said his thanks and goodbyes all over again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  They arrived mid-afternoon to Ménara airport in Marrakech, and Shay guided Jessica through the crowds to passport control. Though this was his first time in Morocco, he had been in countless airports over the last dozen years and instinctively knew how to navigate the bureaucracy of entering a new country. Jessica followed his lead as they presented the customs agents with the declaration forms they’d been given prior to landing.

  The giddiness she’d had during their first class flight from JFK was now tempered by the crush of the crowds trying to move through to the arrivals terminal amidst the chaotic barrage of Arabic, French, Spanish, and English conversation. It took them almost an hour before they reached the sanctuary of the private car service that would take them into the heart of the city.

  Relieved of their bags, they sunk into the leather seats of the Mercedes G-class SUV for the short drive to Jemaa El Fna, the medina, an enormous walled main square dating to the Berber Empire, where they planned on exploring the maze-like souks, or shops. Their driver spoke decent English and gave them tips for how to haggle with the shopkeepers. He also let them know that while some vendors could be combative in trying to get the price they wanted, plenty of others would be hospitable, offering them mint tea, a Moroccan staple.

  When Shay said he was hoping to find Bob Music, a shop known for its varied music collection and authentic native instruments, the driver warned him not to let anything he purchased out of his sight for fear that he’d be the victim of a bait and switch. He said more than one tourist had paid for a high quality handmade ginbri or rebab, traditional stringed instruments, only to find a cheap touristy knockoff in the “complimentary” case.

  “Why is it called ‘Bob’ Music?” Jessica asked.

  “Bob Marley,” both Shay and the driver replied to her surprise. Shay explained that Bob Marley was hugely popular in Morocco.

  “I like this country already,” Jessica said with a grin.

  Though the driver offered to act as their guide, Shay asked that he instead fetch them in a few hours to take them to their hotel just outside the city in time for a late dinner.

  As soon as they stepped out of the SUV, their senses were overloaded with the unique sights, sounds, and smells of the Medina. They stood transfixed by the clashing odors of sweet mint, pungent and unfamiliar spices, and motorcycle fumes.

  Even in December, the sun was warm on the backs of their necks as they took their time absorbing it all. The square was crowded with locals and tourists alike, all subjected to the entreaties of stallholders sheltered under green umbrellas or tattered sand-colored tarps. They displayed a dizzying array of wares, including woven bags, vibrant knitted hats, colored glass hanging lanterns, and mass-produced tourist trinkets that were likely straight from China. Handcarts boasted freshly picked dates, dried figs, almonds, and walnuts. There were fresh orange and grapefruit juice vendors, questionable medicine men, henna artists, and actual snake charmers.

  “This is wild,” Shay murmured as he watched a man walk past them with a monkey on a leash. “Stay close, Jess.”

  “I will,” she replied, her eyes trained in the opposite direction on a man wielding pliers as he seemed to promise tooth extractions.

  As she wrapped her arm around his, holding tight to his bicep, he could feel her body tremble slightly. But when he looked at her he could see she wasn’t scared. She was mesmerized. And thrilled. This was exactly what she had wanted.

  The minaret of the twelfth century Koutoubia Mosque loomed two hundred and thirty feet over the square and served as a western guidepost to orient them. There was no clear pedestrian pathway or right of way, and Shay had to pull Jessica clear more than once when motorcycle riders came zipping haphazardly through the crowds, bicyclists swerved toward them, or horse drawn carriages went slogging by.

  “Jesus, this looks like the spot where Robert Plant and Jimmy Page filmed,” Shay said as they made their way through the square.

  “Who?”

  Shay stopped walking. “Don’t you dare tell me you don’t know who Led Zeppelin is.”

  “Led who?”

  “I can’t—”

  “I’m just kidding, babe,” she said with a smile.

  “I nearly had a heart attack.”

  “But they didn’t record here as Led Zeppelin, right?”

  She was right. Plant and Page had come together in 1994 for a partial band reunion, forming
as Unledded, while coldly leaving out their former bandmate John Paul Jones. They recorded a live album called No Quarter in Morocco, Wales, and London. Videos at the time, and later the DVD celebrating the ten-year anniversary of the album, featured images and performances from Morocco. As not even a casual fan of Led Zeppelin, Jessica would have had to do some digging to have discovered all this.

  “Have I converted you to rock music, then?” he asked with a smile.

  “You could say you’ve opened my eyes—and ears!” She laughed once more.

  “Ah, I think I love you.” They had been using this expression with each other for months, never dropping the “think” part but the sentiment had begun to solidify to the point where they both knew it was the real thing.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The luxury boutique hotel in the foothills of the Atlas mountains some fifteen miles outside of the center of Marrakech offered a welcome respite from the beautiful chaos of the city. It was close to nine o’clock when Shay and Jessica were personally greeted by the hotel manager and shown to their suite. As they made their way through the property, they passed an outdoor heated pool, and the manager described what more they would discover when they woke in the morning. The surrounding grounds included olive trees, vegetable gardens, and a farm kitchen. There were also tennis courts and horse stables for guided rides into the rural surroundings. On-site, they had a restaurant and bar, a library filled with an eclectic mix of classics and bestsellers, and a fully serviced spa with traditional hammam (steam room) and whirlpool.

  What was more striking—and welcome—than these promises of indulgences to come was the utter silence. They had spent hours in the souks with a steady thrum created by the merchants’ harassing calls to visit their stalls, the shuffling of feet over the well-worn and uneven brick pavement, traffic noise, the drums and horns from random musical street acts, and the periodic calls to prayer. Along the way, they were wowed by the native offerings including fragrant lemons, dried apricots, chilies, capers, pickles, green, red, and black olives, frankincense, and mint. Brightly colored jewelry, scarves and kaftans were everywhere as they happily immersed in the experience. Uneven bamboo or wood slat roofs allowed splinters of sunlight through and aided the exposed hanging bulbs for light as they wandered among the stalls.