Us, Again

by Elle Maxwell

  * * *

  During the drive I find myself hoping for red lights so I can steal longer glances at Mackenzie. She has on just enough makeup that every beautiful facet of her face stands out. Her hair is up in one of those twist things so her neck and collarbone are exposed. Whenever I get the chance, I take in the view intently, mentally mapping the trip I plan to take over all that skin with my tongue later.

  I valet the car when we get to our destination in the Seaport area. According to my best friend Google, Menton is supposed to be one of the best restaurants in Boston. It’s French, so I’m not sure what to expect on the menu. I just hope Mackenzie enjoys it.

  I made a reservation so we’re led straight to our table. I’m on Mission Prince Charming, so I go way back in my memory banks and pull out the shit I learned in etiquette class, pulling out Mackenzie’s chair for her then offering my help as she shrugs out of her coat. She turns to drape it over the back of her chair, and I get my first look at her outfit. I was eyeing her sexy heels in the car, but I had no idea she was hiding this under that coat.

  “Damn, Kenz.”

  My voice sounds an octave lower than usual, probably because my body is in shock from the instantaneous migration of blood south. In seconds, the low-key buzz of awareness in my dick, which is always there in Mackenzie’s presence, escalates to fully turned on.

  All of my clothes are the same ones I bought back in high school when I was leaner, and the jeans I’m wearing are no exception. They didn’t seem too tight when I put them on this afternoon, but with my sudden erection trying desperately to burst through the zipper and get to Mackenzie, the situation has become downright painful. I may need to finally suck it up and go shopping, if for no other reason than to give my poor dick some more room to appreciate Mackenzie, which will inevitably happen frequently if I keep seeing her. Please let me keep seeing her.

  The entire back of her shirt is … not there. It’s just miles of her beautiful toned back and creamy skin. When she sits down my eyes zero in on the front of the shirt. I would have seen a bra … Is she not wearing one? Or did they invent magical gravity defying bras while I was out of touch?

  I stare and stare, but the pretty fabric reveals no answers to my pressing question (pressing … like my dick that’s basically going to be permanently deformed with an imprint of my jeans’ zipper.)

  Her amused voice draws my eyes up to her face.

  “Are you going to stare at my boobs all night trying to guess if I have a bra on or are we going to order and actually talk?”

  Is she a fucking psychic or am I just that transparent?

  “You say that as though they’re mutually exclusive options.” I shoot her a smirk in which I try to embed all of my dirtiest thoughts.

  She shifts her weight and crosses one leg over the other. It’s one of her tells when she’s turned on. Yeah, she got my message.

  She starts looking at the menu, but I can’t take my eyes off of her. I could just stare at her all night. There are candles throughout the restaurant, but their glow is nothing compared to her. I love that despite all of her efforts to protest that this isn’t a date, she clearly put in the effort to dress up.

  It is a fucking date, and by the end of tonight, at the very least, I’m going to kiss her again.

  “Anything to drink?” our server asks.

  Mackenzie looks at me uncertainly. Her hand is hovering over the wine list but I see her hesitation.

  “Are you … I mean, would it bother you …?”

  Ahh, I get it. She doesn’t want to drink if it will test my sobriety. She’s precious.

  “Choose a wine and we’ll get the bottle,” I say confidently.

  When the server leaves, I reach over and take her hand, so small and fine inside my roughened paw.

  “I’m not an alcoholic, Kenz. I keep things in moderation nowadays, but I’m not going to fall off the wagon.”

  “So, you’re … okay? Are you going to meetings?” she shakes her head and laughs lightly. "I have all this training on how to have serious conversations, but I’m screwing this up royally.”

  I squeeze the hand I’m still holding.

  “You’re doing fine.”

  She gives me a small grateful smile.

  “But no, I’m not going to meetings.” I go on quickly when I see her frown. “I’m not an addict. I was fucked up back then and I abused drugs as a really stupid coping mechanism. It wasn’t fun having to deal with all my shit without them suddenly, but once I started to get my head on straight, I’ve never craved them or anything. The prison shrink said I was basically using the drugs to self-medicate.”

  Mackenzie’s eyes fill with tears that sparkle as they reflect the candlelight.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “What do you have to be sorry for?”

  “I wasn’t there for you. I didn’t see you were struggling that badly. Maybe if I’d been more supportive—”

  “No,” I cut her off, my voice firm. “None of the shit I did is on you. It’s not on anyone but me. You didn’t see because I worked my ass off to hide it from you. You were the only light left in my world, and I wanted to keep the darkness from touching you. I was too fucked up not to self-destruct, but the last thing I wanted was to let any of it destroy you.”

  A single tear escapes from one of her eyes, and she dabs the corner of her fabric napkin to it self-consciously.

  “Finding out you were hiding things from me, that you were hurting and I didn’t help you … that destroyed me.” Her voice is soft and threaded with agony.

  I squeeze her hand again and start to say something, but the bottle of red wine she chose arrives just then and the fancy waiter makes a whole production out of pouring it and having her taste the first sip. Thank fuck he didn’t ask me to do that because I wouldn’t have known to smell it and swirl it the way she does. And I wouldn’t have looked half as good doing it.

  When we each have a glass of wine, I raise mine in the air. She tentatively follows my lead.

  “To second chances,” I say.

  “To staying in the light,” she adds.

  * * *

  So, from what I can tell, French food is … small. The server brings out a seemingly endless number of courses, each one microscopic. The salad is probably delicious, but I can’t really tell because the three lettuce leaves are barely enough for my taste buds to register them.

  The experience is a unique form of torture: having a parade of great smelling food placed before you only to find that they measure portions based on the dietary needs of squirrels.

  I don’t say anything because, even though I’m ravenous, tonight is about Mackenzie, and if she’s loving this French shit, then I’ll gladly suffer.

  When the main course is on the table in front of us and the server is out of ear shot, she leans in and murmurs conspiratorially.

  “Do you think we’re being Punked? Or do French people just hate themselves?”

  I try to smother my laugh in the fancy cloth napkin but mostly fail.

  “Want to get out of here and get some real food?” she asks.

  “Oh thank God.”

  Her laughter is light and happy and so goddamn beautiful.

  “Tacos? Anna’s delivers to my place.”

  “That sounds perfect.”

  15. MYTH BUSTING

  Graham

  Now this is a date I can get down with.

  We’re relaxing on Mackenzie’s couch, the coffee table before us strewn with the leftover debris from the Mexican food we just destroyed. I’ve never doubted Kenz’s brilliance, but this has to be one of the best ideas she’s ever had. She managed to time things so perfectly that we pulled up to her driveway when the delivery guy was standing at the door. I scared the shit out of the poor guy by walking up from behind him when he was expecting the front door to open, but I gave him a nice cash tip to make up for it.

  For the millionth time tonight, I scan Mackenzie from head to toe. She’s definitely dre
ssed for more than chilling on a couch.

  “Guess I failed at doing the grand gesture fancy date thing. Sorry I’m the worst millionaire ever.”

  “You are a millionaire, aren’t you?”

  And this is just one of the ridiculous number of things I love about Mackenzie Thatcher. She doesn’t say this with a single gleam of greed or opportunism in her eyes. It’s a statement of fact, as calm as if she were verifying that my height is 6’2”. There’s no reason she wouldn’t be intrigued by money—her parents have always been financially secure, but it’s nothing compared to my current cash flow situation. Yet she doesn’t care.

  “This is nice,” she says with a smile, indicating me and the couch and the takeout bags.

  I’m still staring at her. For the past hour as we ate our second dinner, she’s been telling me all about her internship for the semester. Her face lights up with enthusiasm when she talks about it, and I love seeing her in her element, completely nerding out about work she clearly loves.

  “I’m proud of you, Mackenzie,” I say then start rambling as I try to justify the words that just popped out of my mouth. “I mean … I guess that could sound kind of condescending, or something a parent would say, but that’s not how I mean it. Obviously, I’m not in any position where I even have the right to feel proud of you. But I am. Maybe proud isn’t even the right word. I’m inspired by you. I’m in awe of you. I’m amazed by everything you’ve accomplished and just … who you are.”

  I pause and she surprises the shit out of me by launching herself across the couch before I can even take a breath. Then she’s kissing me fiercely while threading her fingers through my hair pulling my face closer to hers. Fuck breathing. This is better than air.

  Just like the last time, we go from zero to sixty so fast we could give a Bugatti a run for its money. We may still be fumbling through learning how to talk to each other again, but there is no ramp-up needed for this. It’s almost as though we’re picking right back up where we left off. Our bodies just know each other.

  The kiss is desperate, hungry, frantic in the best way. Our tongues are battling, teeth clashing, as passion takes precedence over finesse, our panting breaths commingling, our hands clutching at any and every part of the other that we can reach.

  I disconnect our mouths and move my lips to the skin on her neck. I run a finger over the place where her skirt and shirt just barely fail to meet, finally touching the creamy strip of skin whose intermittent appearances have been torturing me all night.

  “You did this on purpose to drive me crazy, didn’t you?”

  She shoots me a sexy as hell look of pure mischief and seduction.

  I snake my hand under the shirt’s edge and run my palm up her tight stomach. My hand almost spans the whole length of her torso, and she shivers when my callouses scrape over her silky skin. I continue my journey up, up, until I’ve reached the underside of her breasts. My fingers meet only skin.

  I release a low animal sound from the depths of my throat.

  “I knew it!”

  I bring my other hand in to join the party, so I now have one perfect globe in each palm. I squeeze, making her squirm and shiver.

  “I can’t believe you haven’t been wearing a fucking bra all night.”

  * * *

  Mackenzie

  He kneads my breasts almost roughly, maybe trying to make up for all those hours they were hiding just out of his reach. The stimulation shoots pleasure through me so intense that my thoughts disappear, and for a minute I even forget to breathe. My lungs finally protest, and I audibly gulp in air.

  As his hands continue to explore, I see confusion cloud his face. In an instant he has the sweater pulled up over my head and throws it to the other side of the room. He runs a finger over one of the pale peach adhesive pads, now the only part of my chest that isn’t bare.

  “They come right off,” I reassure him and peel one from my nipple to illustrate. His eyes are fixed on that spot.

  “What did you do to my nipples?” he grates out.

  “YOUR nipples?”

  “Yes, they’re fucking mine, and look what you did to them!”

  His finger circles and caresses the slight crease and reddened skin left behind from the adhesive. Chills break out across my newly exposed torso.

  Before I realize what’s happening, his head is bent and he’s running his tongue over the place his finger just was, laving the flesh like he’s trying to soothe the skin and remove all traces of the offensive treatment. All the while his facial hair grazes my sensitive skin. I want to speak up and argue about the ownership of my nipples, reclaim my strong “no-one-owns-me” identity, but I find I’m robbed of the ability to put cohesive thoughts together, much less talk. I tell myself I’m not conceding, just tabling that discussion for a later time.

  When he directs his attention to my other breast, he pauses and looks me right in the eye with a wicked glint. Then he rips the adhesive off. I release a tiny cry at the sudden sting, but after the first second, the tingles morph to pleasure, especially when his tongue moves right in to devote the same worshipful ministrations on this nipple as the other.

  My fingers, made clumsy by my lust haze, fumble until I manage to locate and remove the elastic that’s been holding his hair back. I toss it in the same general direction as my shirt then return my hand to his head, reveling in the way I can run my fingers through the nearly chin-length locks.

  By the time he’s thoroughly licked, nipped, sucked, and pinched my—no, at this particular moment they really are his—nipples, I’m clutching handfuls of his hair in a viselike grip, holding his head to me. My core is pulsing, ready for more.

  “Come here,” I gasp, yanking at his hair so he gets the idea and brings his face up to mine.

  Our lips crash back together in a ravenous kiss, and within seconds he has me flat on my back on the couch and is hovering over me. My hips shift restlessly trying to get some friction where I’m aching for it, but the restrictive shape of this skirt makes it impossible to get close enough. He tries to snake a hand underneath but the fabric is too thick and too tight, the garment keeping my thighs from parting any further.

  “Off,” I declare, because right now my vocabulary is limited to only the important things. “Bedroom,” I add when it becomes clear this couch is not big enough for the amount of maneuvering we need to do.

  Without hesitation he jumps up. Then I am flying through the air in his arms as he walks us toward the back hallway. It happens so fast, his strong arms lifting and holding me effortlessly as if I weigh nothing at all.

  “Which one?” he grunts, caught up in the same word-eating hurricane of pent-up lust as I am.

  I point to my bedroom door, and he shoulders through it before dropping me on the bed. He’s immediately right there with me, big paws searching all around my skirt for a point of entry.

  “Where’s the goddamn zipper?” he mutters, sounding downright angry.

  I push his hands away, my mental fog of lust thinning just enough to register fear for the life of my skirt. I reach over and tug at the zipper where it’s hiding just to the side of my right hipbone. As soon as I’ve got it pulled halfway he shoves my hands away almost savagely. His eyes are zeroed in on the sliver of skin that’s just been revealed, including a hint of the string from my thong.

  He finishes with the zipper and, painfully slowly, drags the skirt down my legs, leaving a trail of kisses along my skin as each new inch is uncovered. When it finally drops to the floor, I reach for him, gripping his shoulders to bring him back up to me. He comes willingly, and our lips reconnect as though starved after the few minutes of separation.

  I am lying prone beneath him, his big body covering my whole frame in his heat and delicious Graham-ness. Then his hand moves between us, his fingers slipping beneath the edge of my panties. He peels them off so I am now completely naked. Then, without hesitation, his fingers are suddenly right there.

  There was a time when Graham knew e
very inch of my body, and I knew his. At sixteen, we were pioneers exploring the uncharted territories of our bodies over endless afternoons and weekends in his bedroom or the back of his Range Rover. Hours of falling in love and making love as we unveiled the mysteries of sex together. We gladly sacrificed days to the pursuit of mastering ways to give each other pleasure.

  It appears that Graham remembers. His finger caresses and strokes me and immediately zeroes in on the perfect spot, where he rubs and teases with just the right speed and pressure. Unlike what I’m used to with partners, I can completely let go and give myself over to the pleasure without having to give any direction or guidance on what I need.