by Hope Irving
Our communication style is odd; Alie continues to comment on my posts like she did before we met, and I make a point to reply. I texted her earlier this week because I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to let her know that I had a good time. It’s so uncharacteristic of me to text after I take someone to dinner, but then again, nothing about her is ordinary. My dick gets the message and twitches in approval.
Don’t get too excited, buddy. For now, I can’t figure out what she wants. Online connection is incredible. Real life needs adjustments… just like I do.
Perched on one of the tall barstools a few feet away, I watch my friend swivel from the counter to set two impressive plates on the marble island.
“You know it’s written all over your face, right?”
“Mmm?” My mouth is full. My jaw is in motion. My bewilderment is complete.
“It’s the woman from New Year’s Eve, isn’t it?” My jaw drops in a cartoon fashion. “Gross!”
I rapidly chew and apologize yet again, scolding myself. Alie finally replied to my text!
The silence is heavy, but I’m too hungry to have this conversation this second, so I munch my lunch in silence. Once I’ve finished, I confess that she’s right. I admit that Alie flew here from Paris. I admit that our dinner was nice but awkward. I admit that I’m conflicted. From my excitement at her proximity. From the distance instilled since her arrival. From the unmistakable yearning that her text stirred in my dead heart.
“Go, silly. I’ll take care of unboxing the rest of your stuff. You’ve been nothing but a burden since we started this morning. It’ll go much faster without you around.”
There’s another round of hugs, then I thank her.
For everything.
We’re two stops from 190th Street when the A train’s driver abruptly hits the brakes in the middle of a smelly tunnel. Why are some of the windows open in the middle of winter? Why do people pee in subway tunnels? Why is this happening now that we’ve almost reached our destination?
From both the shock and the suddenness, Alie’s hand slips from the steel subway bar, and she’s propelled forward.
Her delectable body slams into my chest, pounding her rack against my upper body and rendering my clothes a useless barrier to my escalating horniness. It’s as brutal as it is appreciated, no matter the surroundings.
People complain; I don’t, fighting the urge to laugh at this twist of fate. Swiftly, I open one arm to hold her flush. She looks up at me. If I’m not mistaken, I see astonishment, followed by relief, until a mischievous glimmer flashes through her expressive eyes. A rush of heat instantly raises my body temperature. As much as I should unzip my jacket, I barely allow myself to move, apart from widening my stance for better balance.
Nah, let’s be honest, I’m an asshole who wants her snuggled between my legs.
Getting antsy, I tap my left foot on the floor and manage to do a decent job of blocking most of the dirty thoughts that our tight embrace ignites in me; she didn’t even put up a fight.
Pace yourself, big boy!
Then the cabin turns pitch black.
People complain; I don’t, grinning like a moron at my unforeseen luck.
Seriously, if this isn’t the universe pointing out the obvious, I don’t know what is!
Blessed Tig, take two.
My mouth crashes into hers. Her body stiffens against mine, then relaxes as mine stiffens for an entirely different reason. It seems that I’m bound to be hard around her… not that I’m complaining, as long as I can do something about it, which isn’t the case right now. I’m not one for PDA, but the total darkness is the perfect excuse to go from timid to demanding in under two seconds flat. Oddly enough, Roberta Flack’s song resonates inside my head, the one that Mike played when Alie and I left his bar. The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face: “I felt the earth move in my hand…”
Yup, like that.
My lips capture hers. Holy shit! I close my eyes to let the new sensations take over; I’ve kissed my fair share of women by now, but the toe-curling thrill that accompanies this kiss is ridiculous. Our tongues tease. Our tongues caress. Our tongues tangle. The softness of her lips amazes me. The warmth of her lips pleases me. The ardor of her lips electrifies me. The stinky tunnel, the sweaty crowd, and the overheated cabin disappear a little more with each touch, and I get lost in this unprecedented kiss.
The driver mumbles some barely audible information about a mechanical glitch and the train being stuck for a few minutes longer. Or something similar. Who cares?
People around us complain; I don’t, preparing myself to shoot her my most innocent grin as soon as the moment ends. We’re not there yet.
More. More. More.
My tongue claims hers. She opens up for me, fisting my jacket and pulling me closer. I swallow the moan that she heaves, registering that my pulse has quickened to a point that is borderline scary. I ignore it when, once again, she freezes for a split second before she forgets the rest of the world, and her body goes slack. I’m grateful that she’s much more responsive than on Sunday, as if she’s adjusted to the fact that I’m a real person, not just a voice that manages to get her off on a regular basis. My heartbeat continues to play tricks on me as we get acquainted. Exploring. Cajoling. Fighting for dominance. She’s appealing. She’s intoxicating. At this very moment, she’s everything.
Without warning, the cabin is flooded with light. My smile is cocky rather than innocent. Her eyes express lust rather than irritation. Our intimacy is praised by a round of applause rather than a report of misconduct. Alas, it no longer exists.
Her penetrating gaze boring into mine, she stands a few inches from me, her jaw reddened by my stubble. Incapable of articulating anything, my chest heaves up and down in a feeble attempt to rein in my wayward state. Witnessing how her front teeth furiously bite the center of her bare lower lip, my thumb instinctively reaches to release it from her assault. With that, her eyes close and her breathing falters. If the way my heart swells is any indication, I’m delighted by the effect that I have on her. For what it’s worth, touching her lip was a bad idea for more reasons than I can count. First, it draws my already filthy mind to her sinful mouth, yet again. Second, it doubles the amount of X-rated images coursing through my mind. Third, it threatens to make my dick swell along with my supposedly dead heart.
It’s a beautiful crisp winter day. Sunny. Freezing. Together… and I can’t wait for us to reach the mysterious and magical destination that I teased her with after we left the Met. For once, I would have preferred to take the scenic route through the city, but the ride from Columbus Circle would’ve taken too long.
Her chocolate eyes peer up at me, stripping me bare, and she eventually breaks the silence. “Seriously, where are you taking me?”
Oh, so that’s how you want to play this?
A question that she’s been impatiently asking ever since we left the William Turner exhibition, where we had a blast—common interests, fascinating points of view, and never-ending debates. Meanwhile, I’ve been trying to determine how she guessed my passion for his work; her answers remained evasive. She couldn’t have known the impact that his art had on mine because I only disclosed that to Delia. She couldn’t have known that, thanks to Turner, Delia pushed me in the right direction to start painting. She couldn’t have known how life-altering his influence had been for me. As disturbing as I find our age difference—especially when I consider my less than honorable intentions—things like this make me want to ignore it. “Please… Tell me where…” she pleads.
“I said ‘No spoilers.’” I pretend that I didn’t throw myself at her minutes ago. “Don’t you know by now that I’m a man of my word?” There’s so much I wish I could confess. There’s so much our relationship needs. There’s so much she deserves. Honesty. Truthfulness. Reality.
All in due time…
Instead, I wiggle my eyebrows and burst out laughing at how dramatic I’m being.
Her fist flies to her hip, a
nd her left brow spikes up. “Really?” The sarcasm in her tone throws me off because I can’t decipher if the question’s rhetorical.
Honesty it is. “You have no idea.”
My admission triggers the suddenly unwelcome memory of the day I dropped down on one knee and proposed to Delia with what I considered to be a massive rock at the time; after all, it represented a year of the meager salary of the trainee that I was back then. I had promised that I’d do right by her. And I did.
Alie’s rocky voice sounds worried and it’s all because of me. “Hey, what’s the matter? You’ve got that look again… the one you had in the restaurant after running into the really tall guy.”
So, you’re that observant.
“Don’t mind me. I’m fine.” I school my features to show her exactly that.
“You sure?” She frowns, obviously unconvinced, and shifts slightly to let people get in and out around us. One more stop. “You don’t look fine.” Her gloved hand caresses my arm over my winter jacket, which I find both remarkable and endearing. She squints with her eyes zeroing on me, as if acknowledging her impulse. With a shrug, her hand goes back into her coat pocket.
Our eyes meet, and my breath hitches. “I’ll be fine in a second.” I swallow the lump in my throat. The lump of memories that I cherish but can’t enjoy, considering the situation. “Thanks.”
My gloomy mood is saved by the bell as she takes my hand to exit the subway at our final stop. We walk up the steep hill and, once it’s in view, she stops and gawks as her eyes take in the astonishing place: a secluded medieval haven located in one of the busiest cities in the world.
“Welcome to The Cloisters. I was hoping you’d never heard of it so I could brag.” Based on her expression, I know the surprise is complete. “This whole museum was brought here piece by piece from several regions in France. It’s even nicer in the spring, but I really wanted to show it to you.”
“It’s gorgeous. Can we get in?” Her voice has regained all of its childish playfulness, the amazement unmistakable.
“Of course! Come on.” And when we arrive at the entrance, I tease her again. “So, aren’t I a man of my word?”
She spontaneously deposits a soft kiss on my flaming hot cheek.
“You are.”
Chapter Sixteen
Womanizer
Aliénor
“No, no, no!” I’m torn between my initial reluctance and my overwhelming need to prove that I’m capable of getting past previously mentioned reluctance.
“Why not?” Tig’s eyes bore into mine as he sips on his seltzer thoughtfully. His sinful lips are circling a bright pink straw, and I’m debating whether he’s purposefully drawing attention to his mouth. “You’re the one who dragged us here after all!”
“I’m going to make a fool of myself. No way. I’m not that drunk!”
“You’re such a chickenshit, Queen Hen!”
“You couldn’t be more wrong, King Cocky.”
“Didn’t we already prove that point on the phone a while ago? And don’t forget that we agreed that my nickname is King Cock because—”
“Oh, come on! Are we back to that? Seriously?” Once upon a time, we had this conversation. Twice upon a time, I can’t allow it. My palm slams my forehead so hard that I wince and shake it off. Damn, that’ll leave a mark. I growl before remarking, “Guys are so full of shit… or should I say full of yourselves?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Relax, would ya? Why plural anyway? You should know by now I’m not like other guys.” His hand reaches across the small round table to touch my forearm. His playful tone contrasts with the unbearable ache that takes residence between my legs at his simple touch. I’m hot. I’m bothered. I’m conflicted. He’s the epitome of a womanizer, and I want to prove him wrong, but that first kiss…
As much as it pains me, there’s more to him than meets the eye.
“And just so you know, I’m not bragging… stating a fact is all, sweetheart.”
I straighten my posture at his ridiculous term of endearment. “Keep telling yourself that.” His hand is gone now that I put some necessary distance between the mysterious Tig de Luca and me. “Anyway, I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. You’re right.”
His eyes grow as big as saucers. “I’m right?” His voice is clearly mocking. “Are you okay?” The answer is no, but I’m not ready to disclose the many reasons why. “I didn’t think it would be that easy to convince you.” He wiggles his eyebrows, keeping his tone light. Then, he closes the distance between us once more and strokes my arm. Again, a jolt of electricity shoots through my traitorous body. What the hell is wrong with me?
Yeah, I haven’t felt like myself lately, and I’m afraid that alcohol isn’t solely responsible. I’ve never been so affected by a guy before, and it heightens my inner conflict.
“Oh… wait, wait, wait, I found the perfect song for you.” Tig leans in closer and is about to add something when I cut him off.
“Don’t forget, we don’t get to pick our own songs.” The oddity of this place is that it’s incredibly small—not that I’ve ever set foot in a karaoke joint before, but I pictured something much bigger—and you can’t pick your song. You’re only allowed to select the genre. Then you pluck a piece of paper out of a jar and boom, you’re on stage. Also, it’s packed with locals—both Brooklynites and Asians—who seem to know the rules of the house.
A petite Asian woman wearing impressive platform shoes marches our way with a small smile on her wrinkled face. Tightly clutching the jar full of folded colored paper, she extends her hand towards the couple to my left, and the guy chooses a yellow one. Classic rock it is. Then, he bites the center of his lower lip and yells out the song title. It’s greeted with whistles and applause as he gleefully rushes to the stage. The jar is passed onto the next group that, thankfully, isn’t us… yet!
The tattoo artist shrugs and pushes the glass towards me. “Liquid courage,” he offers, then winks. As if reading my mind or anticipating my silent question, he continues. “In case you haven’t noticed, courage is my middle name.”
He still hasn’t confided in me about his obvious drinking problem—or rather former drinking problem—and this confession isn’t going to occur in the next few hours. The fact that we’re surrounded by noisy patrons might have something to do with his inability to come clean.
“And you’re saying this based on the wild kiss you stole on the subway?” I tease him, caressing his bicep over his gray sweater before I even realize it.
His taut muscles feel good under my touch. I’ll bet that the tremble that passes through him has nothing to do with the chubby forty-something businessman who’s suggestively making wide circles with his hips and stretching his already tight dark blue suit to the max while butchering Like A Virgin.
“Among other things, yes. Didn’t it require courage?”
“Mmm... Let’s see… No, because you’d been dying to experience it for a while.”
“Aren’t you the cocky one!”
“Shocker! But tell me I’m wrong.”
He shrugs again, and I take that as a concession. “Come on, it was dark. Remember?”
“Oh, I remember alright, Queen Hen. But you could’ve pushed me away or slapped me, and you kissed me back...” Of course, I kissed him back. A devious smile flashes across his face. “Because you’d been dying to experience it for a while but were too chickenshit to go first.” His mouth returns to the straw. His mouth returns to his drink. His mouth returns to haunt me.
“I wasn’t afraid. I was curious how long you’d wait to make a move. It took you long enough!”
Yeah, and I’m very surprised about that; aren’t you the fast and furious type?
“Are you complaining now?”
“I wouldn’t dare. It was a damn good kiss.” His smile switches to confident.
Why deny it or be shy about it?
“Thanks! And I agree with you. It was a damn good kiss!”
As much as I enj
oy screwing with Tig, our kiss forced me to adapt. He stole it from me and I was too floored to react, apart from gladly returning the gesture to get things back on track according to my plan. Scratch that, I said gladly returning, and I meant it. As it happens, the unexpected kiss unlocked something in me that I never suspected existed. That’s why I chose to ignore it at first.
I remember every second of our blissful first kiss. I remember every emotion of our scorching first kiss. I remember every sensation of our awakening first kiss.
How his lips were soft yet commanding. How his tongue was timid yet bold. How his scruff was teasing yet comforting.
When I was a young girl, I’d heard some friends discuss how some guys were good kissers and others weren’t; I didn’t understand what they meant. To me, you kissed, period. Thanks to the man that I used to despise, I now realize how clueless I’ve been. It seems that he poured everything he had into that kiss. And suddenly, kissing meant something. No, no, no! Kissing him meant everything.
Hence, the complete mystery that he suddenly became to me. Hence, the insane attraction that he effortlessly aroused in me. Hence, the ridiculous state that he magically put me in.
Isn’t a kiss supposed to mean something when the feelings behind it are genuine? Is he trying to prove that I can receive the best kiss ever from someone I don’t care for? Is a fairytale kiss more than a legend about awakening a numb princess from her trance?
The more I thought about the kiss, the more I hated him.
Seeing signs promoting Valentine’s Day specials around every corner didn’t help. Every time I saw a sappy commercial with a kiss, I was transported back to our panty-dropping kiss. No wonder I gave into him so easily and happily reciprocated while we were on the subway that day. I blame the darkness for letting my guard down. I blame the darkness for getting lost in the amazing kiss. I blame the darkness for hiding the appearance of the overly tattooed man I abhor in favor of the skillful mouth that made love to mine… because frankly, there’s no other way to put it.
