by Ruby Lang
She reached out to touch him, to feel his slightly damp skin, the ridge of rib and muscle under her thumb. She rose on her knees to walk her hands along the ladder of muscle, better to see the small mole under his pectorals, which moved up-down, up-down more quickly as she wisped her fingers over his nipples and pressed her palm along the collarbone, his neck, his jaw and then leaned forward to settle her body into his, to rub her face along his shoulders, to kiss his chin, the sharp line of his cheekbone, his lips again.
He sighed. She loved it. She loved seeing him, feeling him, breathing him in.
“I want you,” she said. “Do you want me?”
“Right now. Always,” he whispered.
His hands helped hers pull off her dress and underwear. They fell onto the bed and he rose up to look at her and she loved how his gaze took in all of her. She loved how the morning sunlight shone behind him, making it seemed like his skin glowed, how it picked up the glints of his dark hair and made every strand shine.
“Look at you,” he said.
“Look at you.”
He sat back, running his hand down her body, warm and quick, pausing at the juncture of her thighs to press down, and oh, it felt good, good enough to make her swing her legs wide open to let him look down deep into her, and as his hand played on the delicate skin inside her thigh, she moved herself restlessly up toward him.
He bent down and kissed her there, licked her in thick strokes. She pulled at the short hairs at the back of his neck and he raised his head again. His lips were wet, wet with her. He said thickly, “I have to be inside you.”
They were both scrambling to grab his pants and the condom in them. She made him stop for a brief moment so she could look down at his cock, so she could remember. In a long, aching moment, his hand sloppy and shaking, he covered himself and then she pulled him with her arms and legs and all the muscles she had inside her, she pulled him deep into her.
They kept their eyes open as they kissed now, as if they were both eager to see everything. If she’d closed them, she would have missed the small drop of sweat traveling down the side of his nose, jarring down with each thrust into her, each cry she made. She wouldn’t have glimpsed the flare of his nostrils as she pulled him tighter into her, as he answered her with a hard pump.
It felt so good, so good to be alive, to be inside, around each other, to be hot and to feel their muscles working and to hear every stuttered breath, every lush smack of her thighs against his. It felt strange and good and new, and in a moment, just as she felt the smile spread over her face, over her whole body, she felt herself lift up as if to the sky, to the sun, and she threw her arms wide open, even as his body moved in her, as he worked and worked through his own gasping pleasure.
And then with a sigh, they both came down, back to the townhouse, to the high, hard bed in that sunlit room, back to each other.
In a moment, their phones would probably start ringing. People would ask where they were. They’d have work to finish.
“But we can have this,” Ty said, in response to her unspoken thought.
“Not all this,” she said, gesturing at the townhouse.
“Some of it. The important parts. Each other. A start.”
* * *
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To purchase and read more books by Ruby Lang, please visit Ruby’s website at www.rubylangwrites.com.
Coming February 2020 from Ruby Lang and Carina Press, House Rules, the third book in the Uptown series.
Author’s Note
The townhouses of Strivers’ Row on West 138th and West 139th Streets between Adam Clayton Powell Boulevard and Frederick Douglass Boulevard (officially the St. Nicholas Historic District) are real, as is the account that Magda gives about their conception, construction and history of ownership. (However, I would not advise strenuous activity on the rooftops of these homes—much less during a blackout.)
The 136th Street Garden is not real, although it could be. Many urban gardens—some city-sanctioned, some not—thrive in once-empty lots across Manhattan, planted by people who saw the potential of these spaces to become beautiful.
Acknowledgments
Huge thanks to my editor, Alissa Davis, for her keen and compassionate eye, and to everyone at Carina Press, who have been a pleasure to work with.
Much gratitude for my agent, Tara Gelsomino, who continues to be my biggest booster.
A hearty thank-you to Ana Canino-Fluit, whose patience and recommendations were invaluable. It is a gift to be able to show one’s work to such a careful and empathetic reader.
Thank you to Amber Belldene, whose insights into my very rough manuscript were so important.
I wrote most of Open House at my branch library and it’s safe to say that I am thankful for librarians every single day. I’m also most grateful to the members of our local urban garden for their cheerful work, bright flowers, and for the community.
Special thanks to my husband, who keeps it together even when times are stressful.
Finally, during the writing of this book, I had the pleasure of hearing Ysaÿe M. Barnwell’s “Wanting Memories,” performed by a local choral group. Dr. Barnwell, a member of the seminal, all-female African American vocal ensemble, Sweet Honey in the Rock, grew up in New York City. In the composer’s notes for this song, she writes, “When my father died and then my mother, and I prepared to sell the house I grew up in, I found bags of photos, letters and other memorabilia—the kind of things especially an only child hopes for...”
Many of these photos and letters (and a recording of “Wanting Memories”) can be found at www.ymbarnwell.com. Thank you, Dr. Barnwell, for your words, and your music.
About the Author
Ruby Lang is pint-sized, prim, and bespectacled. As Mindy Hung, she wrote about romance novels for The Toast. Her work has also appeared in the New York Times, The Walrus, Bitch, and other fine venues. She enjoys running (slowly), reading (quickly), and ice cream (at any speed). She lives in New York with a small child and a medium-sized husband.
Ruby is the author of the acclaimed Practice Perfect series. Find out more on her website (www.rubylangwrites.com). Follow her on Twitter (www.Twitter.com/RubeLang) and Instagram (www.Instagram.com/ruby.lang). Or sign up for Ruby’s newsletter (bit.ly/Rubesletter).
Read on for an excerpt from Playing House, the first book in the Uptown series, currently available from Ruby Lang and Carina Press.
Chapter One
Sunday
In all their years as wary mutual acquaintances, Oliver Huang never expected Fay Liu to be so happy to see him. But here she was, in this showcase home on the Mount Morris Park historic house tour, flashing Oliver a huge, almost desperate smile. She stepped right up to kiss him heartily on the lips, and in the process knocked his glasses askew, smudging them.
Then as he reached up to adjust them, she commandeered his arm and linked hers through his.
Fay was a fellow urban planner and, most importantly, she was a partner at Milieu. They had mutual friends. He’d even sent her firm a CV, and had finally received a follow-up from one of her partners expressing interest just that morning. For a fuzzy moment, he wondered if she was here, had sought him out directly, to arrange the interview. Still, he hadn’t expected Fay to be quite so warm and, well, handsy? lipsy?—was that a word?—about greeting a potential employee.
And wasn’t she married?
But she gripped him more tightly and snuggled into his side. She felt good tucked into him. So, he allowed himself to relax, to enjoy touching another human body again, to almost hug someone, to feel needed, and wanted, and seen.
It was such a fleeting, wonderful connection. Fleeting, because in
less than a minute, he understood what this was.
A man clomped up to them and scowled at the picture Oliver and Fay presented, standing in the upper hallway of the brownstone, looking for all the world like a pair of proud new homeowners.
Such a lovely illusion.
“Oh, so this is the boyfriend you were talking about,” Clompy Man said.
Fay tipped her head back, her glossy hair catching the light, and gazed up at Oliver adoringly. “Oliver, Brent here was offering to take me to the rest of the stops on the tour. But I said I was waiting for you to arrive, because I know you’re such an architecture hound that you wouldn’t want to miss it.”
“I’m sorry I was late. I got held up at the, uh, boxing gym.”
To her credit, she did not roll her eyes. Boxing gym. Oliver had never been inside a boxing gym if that’s what they were called. Fay said, “That’s all right, honey. I know how much you enjoy sparring. You’re so strong and quick on your feet.”
She gave his biceps a squeeze, two, as if the first weren’t enough, and he almost laughed aloud.
She felt it, too. Even if their improvised dialog was stilted and terrible—or maybe because it was—they shared genuinely amused grins.
Brent the Clomper didn’t appear quite as delighted with their acting skills.
He stood there, looking at them, breathing heavily. Eying Brent’s heavily muscled torso, Oliver wondered if he was about to get into a fight for the first time in his adult life. It was unlikely—very unlikely. And yet, Oliver found himself considering what would happen if he had to take the bigger, younger man. Oliver was actually quick on his feet—but Brent was taller and much heavier. But Oliver also knew—he knew this for a fact—that if Brent swung, Fay would join in angrily and enthusiastically. Both of them together could definitely defeat one Clompy Brent, although they’d probably break Oliver’s glasses, not to mention scuff the dark wood floors of this brownstone, knock over the antique side table that held a collection of candles and pictures, and possibly damage the expensively restored newel posts of the gorgeous staircase in the process. That would be a damn shame.
Nonetheless, Oliver tightened his fists. So did Fay. For a moment, they stood tense, frozen, the smile on Fay’s face becoming slightly wider and more ominous, although the scariest thing about it was how attractive Oliver found it.
The old floor creaked. The sounds of greetings came from downstairs. A small group of people was likely bounding up the porch steps, eager to ooh and aah over Harlem real estate.
Clompy Brent flicked his eyes down toward where the sound emerged and he grunted. Evidently deciding that historic preservation was the better part of valor, he gave Fay a curt nod and went ponderously down the stairs.
Oliver sagged in relief—and a little disappointment. When the crowd passed beneath them through the front hall, he turned to Fay and she turned to him and they said, simultaneously, “Are you okay?”
A pause.
Fay started again. “He was so persistent. Sorry to involve you.”
Then, as if realizing they were still standing close, Fay slipped her arm out from his and they stepped away from each other.
“Don’t apologize. It’s messed up that you felt like you needed a cover.”
Fay shook her head as if to clear it. “That was tense, wasn’t it? He started pestering me one house back on the tour. I said I wasn’t interested, and he didn’t listen. When we got to this house, I told him I had a boyfriend and then I started trying to edge back downstairs to find the greeter when you arrived. But really it was nothing. It was fine.”
Oliver was quiet for a bit, trying to process what she’d said. She was slightly embarrassed judging from her abrupt manner—not that she had anything to be ashamed of at all. But the other thing that stood out was that she’d made up a fake boyfriend instead of referring to her husband. Which meant... He glanced at her hand. No ring. Maybe she wasn’t married anymore. So not the point here. But why did he suddenly feel so—not happy, not relieved, but...alert? Interested.
He hadn’t felt interested in anything for a long time.
She added grudgingly, “I’m really glad I ran into you.”
“An architect friend had a ticket that he couldn’t use. I wasn’t about to pass up a chance to scope out people’s houses.”
She laughed at that—maybe a little too hard. So, he asked gently, “Would you like a cup of coffee or some water, or something? Or if you don’t mind, would you show me around? It’s the first time I’ve ever been on the Mount Morris Park house tour.”
“Are you kidding me? The restorations are gorgeous, but the tour also really highlights this area’s community-led revitalization. Have you seen all the businesses that have opened up on Malcolm X Boulevard lately? Plus, what New Yorker doesn’t love ogling real estate?”
The fact that she relaxed instantly told him he’d done the right thing in giving her a project: namely, him. But of course, he couldn’t quite feel at ease around her because her firm had his CV. If he didn’t want to live with his brother forever he was going to have to get that job. She still hadn’t said anything about it—in fact, she seemed oblivious—but Fay could potentially be his next boss. His sexy, non-ring-wearing-and-therefore-possibly-available boss. It was the worst kind of in-between space to be in with her: not closely acquainted enough to be friends, not quite coworkers, not quite flirting.
Instead of thinking about jobs or how he’d always liked her, he concentrated very hard on the leaded glass skylight that she was pointing out and tried to ignore the tingle that crept up his spine when her insistent hands pushed him toward the next set of stairs in order to show him the pitted, stained brick of an old fireplace that hadn’t yet been restored. They chatted with the greeter, Ms. Gloria Hernández, who was oblivious to the drama that had taken place upstairs.
“Oh, we get all sorts of people here who want to know about the history of the area. And then there are the ones who think they’re on some kind of house shopping spree and say things like, I’m gonna rip out that tile over there and put in a chandelier made of diamonds and hundred dollar bills up here. And some people who just want to poke through their neighbor’s medicine cabinets.”
Ms. Hernández peered at them as if to decide which of the three categories they belonged in and Oliver tried not to look like a rich asshole or a person with too much curiosity about other people’s meds.
Fay said hastily, “We love the neighborhood. Also, we both have a professional interest.”
“Are you historians?”
“No, we’re urban planners.”
“What’s that all about?”
“Well, we work with city government and developers and community groups to look at how land is used to figure out how to grow and accommodate a community’s needs. We look at zoning and infrastructure. We talk to the residents and community leaders and try to help all these groups figure out what kinds of businesses they need, or if they need more schools, or more bike lanes—”
“No bike lanes. Hard enough for my sister to park already. Every Tuesday and Thursday she has to sit in her car for a half-hour to wait out the street cleaners. She’s read everything by Toni Morrison twice already. Although I suppose it doesn’t sound so bad when you put it that way.”
“We also make recommendations for more affordable housing.”
“Well, I know all about that. I’ve lived in my building since 1969, and if I hadn’t bought early, I wouldn’t be able afford five square feet to myself anymore. A young couple like you, if you want to start a family in this neighborhood, if you aren’t the CEO of something, you can forget about it,” she said. “Urban planner, that’s a real job, huh?”
Fay laughed. “Oh, it’s very real.”
But Oliver noticed that Fay didn’t bother to say that what wasn’t real was Ms. Hernández’s assumption that he and Fay were a couple.
“I like letting you take the lead.”
She gave him a slow smile that he felt down to his feet. “I like that you let me take the lead.”
She walked off and it was a few seconds before he managed to catch up to her.
A few other people at the next stops made the same assumption, too, and neither bothered to correct them. It was easier to concentrate on other matters: to pause to look up the history of the neighborhood on their phones, to hold up before and after pictures of houses that had been burned-out shells, to hope that more houses had stayed in the hands of Black residents, to pause to argue lightly about the Whole Foods that had sprung up on 125th Street. “I’d forgotten how slowly I move when I’m with another urban planner,” Fay said suddenly, laughing. “But that’s how we earn those billable hours, isn’t it?”
It wasn’t a bad thing; in fact it was a small inside joke. But thinking about his billable hours—his career, his current lack of a job, the fact that her firm had been so slow to respond, the fact that he was living with his brother, well, it put a damper on Oliver’s mood. He could have asked for her number right then. He could have said something about meeting again next weekend to walk through Marcus Garvey Park, which they hadn’t had nearly enough time to explore. But he had no business asking out anyone right now, not when he was a mess, and especially not when he felt that slight thread of unease around the fact that he was in the running for a job with her firm.
