by Kilby Blades
“All I want right now is a hot bath,” she said.
He nodded, looking completely dejected.
“See you in bed,” she said.
He nodded again.
“I may take a walk.”
She opened her little clutch purse, recovered the key ring that was inside and placed it in his hand. But instead of simply taking the key, he held her hand in his, as if asking her not to move, as if he were about to speak.
But he didn’t speak. He just stared at their joined hands for a long moment. And he finally let her hand go, sighing as he did. Ten minutes later, her long dress was on a hanger behind the bathroom door, with steam from the bath hovering around it. Darby was neck-deep in hot, scented water, hoping it would wash away thoughts of complicated men.
She was roused from her meditative stupor when she heard him slip open the bathroom door. She cracked open one eye just long enough to catch a glimpse of him. She heard his steps on the tile floor before the shower water started to run. When the shower door closed, she realized she wanted to get out, to be in bed by the time he emerged.
So she did get out, unplugging the stopper that had been holding the now-tepid water inside the tub. After rising, she toweled off. Back in the bedroom, she noticed that he had built a fire in the fireplace. She didn’t bother to turn on the light as she rummaged in her suitcase for pajamas.
She felt his presence behind her and absently acknowledged to herself that she’d thought she had more time. Before she could muster the courage to face him, he spoke.
“I don’t like feeling like we’re fighting.”
“You and I aren’t supposed to fight, so we don’t,” she said, not turning toward him.
“We do a lot of things we’re not supposed to do.”
And when he said it, her rummaging stopped. She was wholly unprepared to have this conversation.
“We’re not fighting,” she repeated, her voice weaker. “And even if we were, we have to stop. I—” she choked back a sob, thinking about the agony of the past few weeks. “I don’t have any more fight left in me.”
He stepped toward her and placed both hands on her arms, and bent his head until his forehead rested on her neck.
“I’m sorry.”
She reached her hand back until her palm settled on the back of his neck and touched it tenderly. She doubted he knew what he was apologizing for.
“No more talking tonight,” she said gently.
They stood like that for a long moment until she dropped her hand and took his, abandoning her plans to find pajamas. When he slipped in bed next to her and folded her in his arms, she snuggled in as close as she could, not wanting to fight, either.
But what had begun as a chaste good night kiss blossomed, slowly, into something more. She’d tipped her head up to him as he’d settled her in the crook of his arm and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. He placed one hand over hers as it rubbed his bare chest, and began to stroke her hair with his other hand. The gesture normally felt comforting, like something that should have lulled her to sleep, but they’d been apart for more than a week and the lust that was bound to build between them was mounting. The uneasiness that had filled the space between them was no match for the magnetism they shared. Their lips met again, as if drawn to one another’s. Neither one had initiated it—their touches felt completely inevitable.
When their lips met a third time, the hand on his chest left hers and rose slowly to cup her face. His thumb caressed her cheek as his tongue slipped into her mouth, in search of hers. He moaned a little as their kisses became deeper, as his legs tightened around hers and their bodies pressed closer. Close enough for Darby to feel him, so hard, against her. Though his desire was impossible to ignore, she felt them overpowered by something new, something that slowed their kisses, stole their breath, and invited soft new caresses.
He was breathless when they finally came up for air, staring deeply into her eyes differently than he ever had. Usually, it felt as though he could see to the bottom of her soul. Yet now, he looked like a man who didn’t know anything, who was looking to her for answers. She kissed him again. Because being closer was the answer. It was the answer to everything.
And, when she did, something in him surrendered. She could feel it in the way his arms tightened around her, in the way his fingers, now splayed across her back as his arms encircled her fully, grasped desperately at her skin. Their movements together remained slow, though she was trembling with desire. Neither did anything to hasten their union but the intensity was building and they were holding each other as if each of them was trying to pull the other into his own body.
When their need for more was unbearable, he took her—so slowly, so deeply—their bodies ablaze in yellows and oranges from the nearby light of the fire. By then, they’d been together a hundred times, but whatever they were doing tonight was something they had never done before. She was too delirious with pleasure to dwell on such things. His every stroke felt like the air she needed to breathe. And when he came in a breathless whimper, he did something he’d never done. He whispered her name.
The next morning as they lounged in bed, she did tell him about Charlie Sweeney. About the night that he had wandered off from the other adults during one of her family’s many dinner parties. He had found her in the family room, watching TV in her pajamas. She told Michael about the smell of Sweeney’s alcohol-soaked breath, and how he had settled in too close to her as he pretended to be interested in what she was watching. She told him how the older man had pulled her down roughly. That he had kept here there forcefully when she tried to excuse herself to go to bed. That he had easily overpowered her and pinned her down under him, that she had tried to scream, but he had covered her mouth and threatened her. He had one hand over her mouth and one hand unbuckling his pants and pulling them down as he told her the sick things he would have her do to him. She was trying desperately to get some leverage—to bite his hand so that he would pull it back and she could scream, or roll him off her. At that moment, her housekeeper had walked in.
As she told the story, she could feel Michael’s body humming with emotion and she knew this was difficult for him to hear. It was difficult to talk about. She had nearly been raped in a house full of adults, most of them lawmakers. And her own father had made sure that nobody found out. It was implied at the time that her mother was too drunk that night to see her, but when she was older, Darby realized that she had probably been drugged by Frank. Just as she realized later that the “painkillers” Darby had been given for her bruises probably weren’t painkillers at all.
When she would later reflect on the fact that the housekeeper who had found them was the one who had been sent up to help her for a few days afterward, but soon left her father’s employ to return Honduras to “spend more time with her family”, that maybe that hadn’t been what had happened, and it had it hadn’t been voluntary. With the clear perspective of an adult and as somebody who had since been trained in rape behavior and pedophilia, it sickened her more now than it had then to realize what had really gone on. As she relived what had happened, for the first time in so long, she realized how much unfinished business she had with her father.
“Who is this guy again?” Michael asked. Darby had referred to her assailant simply as “he” the whole time.
“Charlie Sweeney. He used to be my dad’s campaign manager.”
“Charlie Sweeney,” Michael repeated with disgust. He seemed to be taking a mental note. Later that night, she dropped him back off at O’Hare. He had to be in New York that week.
It wasn’t until much later, until days later, in fact, that Darby realized why Michael had asked to know Sweeney’s name.
PLEASURE. EVEN AS SHE SLEPT, Darby felt the gentle hum at her center, growing stronger as she began to wake. She didn’t consider why her bed felt different or what was making her feel so good. In that halcyon moment, the intensifying hum was all that mattered.
She rubbed her legs together, h
er body far ahead of her consciousness in its quest to enjoy whatever was happening. It was then that she became aware of her nipple. Not yet wakeful enough to know what was being done to it, she felt the direct connection between it and her core. As whatever amazing thing had been done to one nipple was now being done to the other, the hum became a throb. She panted, just as she felt a wave of heat prickle her skin, creating a light sheen of perspiration.
She arched her back, and rubbed her legs together again. When she heard the muttered curse, she let her eyes fall open and finally let herself come to. She was eager to preserve the dream but her body had begun to comprehend the reality: that Michael was there, and ready to have his way with her.
He didn’t see that she was awake at first, which gave her the rare chance to catch him off his guard. His eyes swept over her body with a mixture of reverence that made her heart hurt, and desire so raw it scared her. As she watched him slip his fingers under the edge of the t-shirt she didn’t remember putting on, his fingers splayed to graze a spot above her hip. From the darkening of his eyes and the clench of his jaw she could tell that he was exercising extreme restraint.
“What are you waiting for?” she provoked, her voice raspy with sleep.
His eyes shot to hers and something different welled up inside her as they connected. It was the first time their eyes had met in nearly two weeks and the feeling of him looking into her still stirred her to the tips of her soul.
“Permission.”
She moved his hand lower, placing its heel on her pubic bone and curling his fingers so that he would take firm hold over her crotch. By then, she could feel how wet she was, and knew that he would be able to feel it through her underwear. As his fingers squeezed to cup her, he shut his eyes.
She watched him breathe for a few seconds. He was expending effort to collect himself, and she wondered how long he’d been waiting for her to wake up. Eyes still closed, he let his head dip back in toward her and she watched him bite her nipple through the fabric of her shirt with blind precision. She recognized it as the sensation she’d felt a minute earlier when she’d still been groggy. It was more tantalizing, somehow, than if he had bitten her bare skin.
Impatient, she moved his hand again, this time to hook her fingers on the sides of her underwear. Together, they shimmied them off. He rose to his knees so that he could do the same. Before he fell backward on the bed, he brought his arms around Darby and pulled her down on top of him. He guided their hips together quickly and impaled himself on her with such heated force that she whimpered appreciatively at the sensation. When she was on top like this, he usually let her ride him and synced up to her pace, but not then. Instead, he grabbed her hips forcefully and began driving her up and down on his shaft as he pistoned his own hips to meet her thrusts.
She smiled, because he was almost never like this, so turned on that his grip slipped on his usually impeccable control. It was her favorite version of him. Her climax was coming fast, but she could tell from his helpless moans that his was coming faster.
“I wanna see you come,” she was barely able to pant because it was so, so good. She knew her words would send him flying over the edge.
And a moment later he did, and it was glorious. His hips rose off the bed and he held her still for a long moment, buried to the hilt inside of her as he throbbed his release. She was seconds behind him, and he resumed his thrusts long enough to let Darby ride hers out. They were both covered in sweat when he released her, placing her gently down on the bed next to him. He slung his arm underneath her head, pulling her to him as they lay together catching their breath. Before she could relax into him fully, he lifted her chin up and kissed her long and slow and deep, as if they hadn’t seen each other in months. But it had only been two weeks, two painfully slow weeks.
It wasn’t until many moments later that she began to comprehend her surroundings. They were in Park City, for Sundance, in a hotel suite that was more like an apartment. She remembered arriving alone the night before, and spinning around to admire the space. It was a modern duplex, with a sleek kitchen, a powder room and a chic living area below. A long white leather sofa and a polar bear rug complemented the tall fireplace. A modern staircase with no railing led to an elegant loft above. She had been too tired to open the heavy blackout curtain the night before, and had fallen straight to sleep in the darkness.
Bright daylight now shone through the crack between the shades and the wall. The room was very different in the sunlight, with Michael there.
“What time is it?” the words tumbled from her mouth.
She was alarmed by how long she must have slept, because it wasn’t morning light that shone in—it looked like afternoon sun. Michael’s plane had been scheduled to get in two hours after hers. She’d intended to take a nap, and expected to be awakened when Michael arrived. He stroked her hair languidly and seemed to pull her tighter against him. It felt better than she remembered.
“Nearly noon. Last night you were dead to the world.”
It was then that she remembered sleeping heavily on the plane. The flight attendant’s motions had awakened her as she’d moved to place Darby’s seat back upright. Due to the number of people traveling to Park City that day, she had almost missed out on her First Class seat. It was a luxury she treasured, given her busy travel schedule of late. The First Class seats on domestic flights didn’t recline fully as they did on most international runs, but for Darby’s three-hour jump from Chicago to Utah, nearly anything would have done. She was so tired that she would have slept like a baby, even in coach.
She’d needed that nap. Since becoming Chief, she had gained a new appreciation for what it meant to be truly, thoroughly exhausted. But if she wanted to do well, she needed to keep her patient care strong while learning her new job. That meant long days. The new schedule was even more grueling than the one she’d kept while juggling her research, looking for a new job and keeping up with her work under Huck. She’d been at the hospital every single day that week. It had been the only way to stay on top of all her responsibilities.
In that sense, Michael’s recent travel had aligned perfectly with what her job had in store. They hadn’t seen each other since Lake Geneva, which had turned out to be a mixed blessing. It robbed her of their bedroom romps and blissful hours spent lounging in his apartment. But it also spared her having to face all that had been said at the lake.
Time to process everything had been a relief. Not only had she spilled one of her darkest secrets to Michael—she’d been thinking hard about all the things that he had revealed. The pressure he was under, the performance anxiety—everything. Since Lake Geneva, she saw him in a different light.
“I’m sorry.” She felt badly about having passed out at the embarrassingly early hour of 8:00 PM, and sleeping right through his arrival two hours later. If his body had adjusted to New York time, he must’ve been up for hours, a fact that only made her feel more lame.
She started to get up, but he pulled her down and tucked her back in.
“We’ve already missed two screenings.” She looked up at him, feeling panicked as she said the words.
“They don’t take attendance.” He kissed her hair.
She pushed herself up on her elbow and peered down at him, giving him a look.
“I thought you wanted to watch movies and go to parties all weekend.”
“No…” He drew the word out so that it was twice as long. “I wanted to get away with you.”
His fingers floated back to her hair, which she guessed was wildly teased by sex and sleep from the way he arranged stray locks behind her ears.
“It’s good to see you.”
He said it a second before he pulled her in for another kiss.
Her stomach growled, and given his aversion to her being hungry, any hopes of continuing along those lines were obliterated. Whereas seconds before, he was doing everything he could to keep her next to him, he was suddenly pushing her out of the bed, demanding that the
y shower and do something about lunch.
Though Chicago was cold, it wasn’t snowy or mountainous and Darby had been looking forward to the wardrobe she had coordinated for this setting. She wore a three-quarter length shearling in dark green suede, fur-lined snow boots that rose to her knees over a pair of skinny jeans, and a white Sherpa hat with two long tassels. She liked the way Michael took her in with the hint of a smile as they exited the suite.
Any apprehension of awkwardness about her fourteen-hour nap and the missed screenings softened immediately under his charm. At the hospital, she felt like Dr. Darby—the Chief who always had a million things on her plate. But now Michael made her feel like a girl whose only job was to relax with her man and be happy.
And she was happy. Park City was beautiful and buzzing with the excitement of that week’s events. In place of the stone-faced working stiffs she saw every day in Chicago, the people they passed on the streets here were animated and alive. Overheard snippets of conversation about this project or that excited her, and the vibrant creativity was palpable.
She had no idea how Michael had gotten them into the busiest sushi restaurant for lunch—the place was packed. He seemed to have a reservation, even though she thought the visit was totally spontaneous. She’d learned not to question how he seemed to be so on top of everything. Apparently his influence was limitless, his Carte Blanche good not only in Chicago but elsewhere too.
“So, this party tonight…”
He didn’t need to finish. She knew what he was asking. He was referring to that invitation he’d seen on her coffee table so many weeks before, the first “yes” that had given them the idea to come to Sundance in the first place.
“I’m a producer on a film.” She placed a section of shrimp tempura roll into her mouth.
“As in, you’re bankrolling it?” He looked impressed.
“Not the whole thing. I just contributed enough to earn a producer title. It’s an indie short. It wasn’t that much.” That might have been an understatement.
