by Serena Grey
“Because they’re parents!” She exclaims. “My mom will probably start planning our wedding.”
“Really?” If that’s what she’s worried about, I can live with it. “Sounds interesting. Just tell them we’re friends.” I find her parents’ address somewhere in my phone and continue. “Tell them I’m in the area, and I’m picking you up or something. I really want to see you.”
She sighs. “Fine.”
“I’m already on my way.”
I arrive at the charming brick house less than an hour later. The drive is lined with flowers and shrubs, and more flowers line the paved path to the front door.
I’m slightly nervous as I ring the bell, like I assume a teenager would feel arriving to take his girlfriend out for a first date.
The door opens and Rachel is standing there. Her eyes light up when they land on me, but the hesitation I sensed earlier is still there.
She looks as if she’s not sure whether to kiss me or turn me away.
“Your security guys obviously know what they’re doing,” she quips. “Did they unearth a copy of my birth certificate too?”
“I only hire people who know what they’re doing,” I say before pulling her into my arms and kissing her full on the lips. It’s a short kiss, not nearly satisfactory. I release her just as an older man walks into the foyer.
He’s either Trent or Taylor Foster. Her dad and her uncle, Laurie’s dad, are identical twins, and the duo behind Trent & Taylor, a successful ready-to-wear fashion brand, which they sold a few years ago. I doubt I could tell them apart, though I’d guess this is Trent, Rachel’s dad.
I smile politely, meeting his eyes as he sizes me up. “Good afternoon, Mr. Foster. I’m Landon Court.”
“Good afternoon,” he says pleasantly. “Don’t just stand there. Come in.”
He takes my hand in a firm handshake, leading me to the living room, where Rachel’s mom and her Aunt Jacie are waiting with questions. Rachel abandons me to their interrogation, and I have no choice but to turn on the charm.
They’re both remarkable women. Lynn Foster is a well-known painter with exhibitions in some major galleries, and Jacie, originally from Barbados, was a famous international model in her day.
Lunch is lively. Laurie and Rachel’s little brother, a tall boy who looks to be barely twenty, join us downstairs. Laurie looks miserable, and I rethink my statement that she’ll get over it.
Maybe she won’t.
And maybe Rachel won’t get over Jack Weyland either.
Where would that leave me?
Right where I was before she came into my apartment, and into my life, alone.
The thought is sobering, so I focus instead on the conversation and the laughter. It’s impossible to miss the love and affection that fills the house. I’ve missed my family all my adult life, but I’ve never really felt what it would have been like if things hadn’t fallen apart. Now I have an idea.
It’s hours later when Rachel and I decide it’s time to leave. Laurie is staying behind, so Rachel says her goodbyes and joins me for the long drive back to the city.
In the car, she’s quiet, deep in thought. Does she have regrets about letting me meet her family?
“Do you come home often?” I ask, my eyes on the road.
“About once a month.” She sighs. “My mom’s very pushy.”
“Is she? I thought she was sweet, and your aunt too.”
Rachel snorts. “Don’t be deceived.”
She’s joking. Beneath her words are a deep affection I can only envy. “Are you eager to get back to the city?”
She gives me a teasing glance. “Why? Do you have plans for me?”
“Actually, I do.” My childhood home is less than an hour’s drive away, and I want her to see it. I’m not sure why I’m taking her there—to show her some part of my life too, maybe, but my home is not a place of light and laughter. It’s a place of sad memories.
Memories I haven’t even shared with her.
We soon arrive. A long gravel drive leads to the house from the gates. The house itself, a Greek revival style mansion, is set on a bluff, and behind it, there are miles of sandy beach.
Wilson Hayes meets us outside. He used to be the manager of the Swanson Court in New York, but after my mother died and my father became a shadow of himself, he practically became a parent to Aidan and me. He managed the property and arranged for my father’s care, as well as the summer trips to France to visit our grandparents. He’s retired now, but he still manages this house and lives in a spacious apartment on the property with his wife, Betsy.
“Good evening Wilson.” I smile apologetically. “Sorry to disturb you on such short notice.”
Wilson waves a hand. “It’s your home, Landon, and we’re always happy to see you.”
Too bad I’m not always happy to see the house and be reminded of the memories it holds of my father drinking himself to death. I introduce Rachel, and Wilson looks from me to her, grinning.
“Welcome Ms. Foster. It’s great to see a new face at Windbreakers.”
Rachel smiles back, and Wilson leads us inside.
“I ordered dinner from town,” he informs me in the hallway.
“Thanks. We’ll eat upstairs at eight. How’s Betsy?”
He laughs. “My wife is coping with me as best she can.”
Upstairs, Rachel looks transfixed by the sight of the beach and the Long Island sound. “The view is lovely.”
She’s my view, and she’s lovely. “I agree.”
She turns around and catches me looking at her. I’m sure my face communicates exactly what I’m thinking, because her cheeks stain.
Her reaction turns me on even more. “Come. I want to show you the bedroom.”
“You’re supposed to show me around the house,” she scolds. “It’s the polite thing to do.”
“I’m not very polite,” I say with a chuckle, leading her to my bedroom and closing the door behind us. “What I am is very aroused.” I nudge her so her back is against the door, and I drop to my knees, tugging up her dress before dragging her panties down and out of the way.
Faced with her bared flesh, I can hardly wait to cover her with my lips and draw in the taste of her. Once I touch her, there’s no doubt that her body is mine. She arches back, thrusting her hips forward.
Nice. With my mouth still on her, I tug her panties down the rest of the way and free one leg, hooking it over my shoulder, opening her up to the onslaught of my tongue.
She trembles and moans and calls out my name, her body arching and jerking with every touch of my tongue. It’s not my fault you taste so good, baby. It’s not my fault I want to devour every part of you.
I don’t let her go until she screams my name, her body seizing with the force of her climax.
Licking my lips, I rise to my feet, satisfied. She’s trembling, leaning on me for support.
“Tell me that wasn’t better than showing you around the house,” I say with a grin.
“What house?” She grabs me and covers my lips with hers, sliding her tongue inside my mouth as she presses against me. My cock strains against my pants. I’m about to carry her over to the bed when she slides down the length of my body. As soon as she’s on her knees, she frees my cock, making a sound of approval as her fingers curl around me.
Her hand feels great, but it’s nothing close to her mouth. When she slides her lips over me, my breath leaves my body.
I surrender to her touch, my eyes closing as she works her lips and tongue around me until my brain stops functioning. I support my weight on the door behind her, rocking into her mouth, trying and failing to hold back.
She cups my balls, stroking gently, and I can’t take it anymore. I barely manage to warn her before I explode in her mouth.
She meets my gaze, licking her lips. Jesus! Everything she does turns me on. Drawing her to her feet, I dispense with her dress and bra then get rid of my clothes.
My bed is a king-size four-poster. I sco
op Rachel by her waist and carry her over to one of the posts. Wordlessly, she curls her fingers around the polished wood, grabbing hold as I tug her hips backward, toward me, and enter her from behind.
Christ she feels good.
She backs her hips up to meet my thrusts, moaning without reservation. I want to fuck her forever, to feel her fall to pieces again and again. I stroke my fingers across her back then find her breasts, squeezing gently and teasing the hard nubs of her nipples. I change my pace, going slow then fast, feeling her orgasm over and over until she’s spent.
My release, when it finally comes, wrecks me. I barely keep myself from collapsing on the floor. We both make it onto the bed and lie in a tangled heap. Her head is on my chest, her eyes closed. Gently, I stroke her hair.
Her eyes open and she lifts her gaze to mine. She studies me silently without saying a word.
My hand stills on her hair. “What are you thinking?”
She shrugs. “How good this feels, just lying here with you.”
I pull her closer to me. “I know what you mean. There’s nowhere in the world I’d rather be.”
She sighs and moves closer still, her body burrowing into mine. It feels incredible to be so close to her, to feel her warm, smooth skin sliding against mine.
What did I do before this? Before her?
I kiss her hair. “Are you hungry?”
She nods. “Starving.”
“It’s eight.” I get up, regretting the moment her body slides away from mine. “Dinner’s probably waiting for us.” In the closet, I find two robes and return to the bed to hand her one. A dinner tray is waiting in the private sitting room outside my bedroom, along with a chilled bottle of wine.
“Wilson seems to know what you want when you have guests over,” Rachel says, watching as I uncover the dishes. Her voice is deceptively light. “Does he have a lot of practice?”
I give her a teasing grin. “You can ask if I’ve brought a lot of women here. Your jealousy flatters me, actually.”
“So?” She’s smiling. “Have you?”
“No,” I say truthfully. “Never.” The house is not a place of good memories. I still can’t explain why I brought her here. It felt almost like I needed to, but I’ve never had that feeling with another woman.
She doesn’t look convinced. Her eyebrows go up. “Not one?”
“I’m not the playboy the gossip magazines make me out to be. I’ve had a few relationships, all with women who knew what the terms were.” I only use relationships for want of a better word. There was never any emotional connection, and there were never any promises.
A shadow crosses her face. “Like me?”
I hand her a glass of wine. “There has never been anyone like you.”
She doesn’t reply, and I wonder if she even believes me, or cares. I set out the food, waiting for her to say something.
“What exactly were the terms?” she asks finally.
Every woman who came before her now seems like a vague memory. “Exclusivity,” I tell her, “but no commitment in the long-term.”
With a delicate movement, she tugs her robe tighter around her. “And you never felt tempted to make an exception with any of the women you’ve been with?”
“No, never.” I shake my head. “I’ve felt pressured, but usually as soon as a woman starts to demand more than I can give, I walk away.”
“Oh.” Her face is expressionless. “Lucky for me I never asked you for a long-term commitment,” she says blandly.
Is she offended? Joking? Mocking me? I can’t tell. I hold her gaze. “This is just sex, and I don’t want to pretend it’s anything more,” I say softly, repeating what she said to me before we left for San Francisco. “Those were your exact words.”
“Yes.” She smiles and turns away from my gaze. “I remember.”
She wanted nothing more than a temporary sexual arrangement from me at the time. We might have prolonged that arrangement for a few more weeks, but the specter of an ending is still here, hovering over us.
It’s not what I want.
But what does she want?
I refill her wine. “Do you like the food?”
“Yes. It’s great.”
Our conversation turns to other things as we eat, and after, I finally show her around the house, which is empty. The Hayes are in their apartment, and the staff that help maintain the mostly empty house have left for the night. In one of the balconies on the upper floor, we settle on an outdoor divan and watch the sun set.
We talk late into the night, about her family, Aidan, Laurie and Brett, even work, but we don’t talk about us. Finally, she falls asleep, and I carry her to my room, to my bed. When I join her there, she snuggles against me, staying there until I fall asleep.
“It’s your father.” Wilson’s voice is breaking. “Come back to the house.”
The dread is like bile in my throat. “What happened?”
“Why don’t you come back, and we’ll talk.”
I’m driving down a gray highway. “Dammit Wilson, what’s going on? Where’s Aidan?
“Just come back.”
“Wilson…”
A truck brakes in front of me and I swerve, barely in time to avoid it. I veer off the road, stopping with a screech half off the shoulder.
I see my mother’s hair burning. “Let me go! Mom!”
I’m back in the house and Aidan is screaming. “I killed him. I killed him. I killed him.” Then he’s asleep, sedated.
“Your father’s dead,” Wilson says.
My mother is driving and I’m in the back, wishing anything would happen to make us turn back, go back home and wait for my dad.
The car swerves off the road.
My mother turns her face to me as the car burns. “Landon, help me.”
“Mom!”
My own scream wakes me. Beside me, Rachel is still asleep, oblivious to the ghosts of the house. I swing my legs off the bed and place my head in my hands. A moment later, I feel her hand on my shoulder.
“Are you okay?”
I shrink from her touch, bolting up from the bed. “Yes, I’m fine. Go back to sleep.”
She follows me, and her expression is a stubborn one with which I’m familiar. “No.” She frowns. “Not when you’re going to stay awake the rest of the night.” Her voice gentles. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”
Never! “Why? Because you’re curious?”
Her face shadows with hurt. “Because I care!”
“Forget about it, Rachel. You’ve already helped more than you know. These past two weeks with you have been the most peaceful I’ve had in a very long time.”
She cups my face in her hands. “Come back to bed.”
Surrendering, I let her lead me back to bed. She lays my head on her chest, stroking my hair as I fall asleep.
In the morning, leaving Rachel still asleep in bed, I take a quick shower before going for a walk.
I can’t stop thinking about our conversation during dinner and my fear that soon, I’ll have no choice but to let her go.
This is just sex.
That won’t be enough to keep her.
And I want to keep her.
I let the fresh air do its work before returning to the house. Betsy, Wilson’s wife, is in the kitchen making breakfast, and Rachel is with her, fresh from a shower with her hair pulled back in a ponytail.
I drop a kiss on her lips. “You’re finally awake. I thought I was going to have to transport you back to Manhattan unconscious.”
Her smile is endearingly self-conscious. “I was tired.”
“Understandably.” Color stains her cheeks, and I grin.
“Take a seat,” Betsy fusses. “It’s been a while since I had young people around to feed. Eat up.”
“Yes ma’am.” I do as she says. Breakfast smells good and tastes even better. Wilson soon joins us, and as family breakfasts go, it’s not that bad, despite the memories.
After breakfast, Rachel wants to ex
plore the beach. She runs barefoot in the sand, laughing and letting the waves chase her.
“You should come here more often,” she tells me. “It will relax you.”
“Aren’t I usually relaxed?”
“Not like this.” She takes my face between her hands and kisses me softly on the lips. “Wilson and Betsy bring out a nicer side of you.”
“Or maybe it’s you.”
She chuckles, shaking her head as she moves away. “I don’t think so.”
Later, on the drive back to the city, after a long phone call with Laurie, she puts on classical music, sighing as she leans back in her seat. Helplessly entranced, I keep stealing glances at her as I drive.
“What?” she exclaims after catching me for the umpteenth time.
“Nothing.”
She swats my arm playfully. “Tell me what you were thinking.”
I take a deep breath. “That I love to look at you. I enjoy the way you enjoy little things.”
Her face softens.
I don’t want to lose you.
The words are hovering on my tongue, but just then, her phone rings. She looks at the screen and her expression changes, a small frown clouding her brow.
She takes the call and I try not to listen to her end of the conversation, but from what I hear, somebody wants to meet up tomorrow, and it’s easy for me to guess who.
I drive silently the rest of the way. I don’t own her, and I have no right to be jealous, to feel a sense of loss because the man who has a hold on her heart will always come into the picture.
The call ends, but for the rest of the drive, she looks uncomfortable, her eyes skipping to me and then back to the road ahead.
Do you have something to say to me, Rachel?
“That was Jack Weyland on the phone,” I state, not sure why I’m bothering. It’s obvious from her body language the effect he still has on her. Now that he has reminded her of his presence, does she feel guilty about being with me?
Does she wish she was with him instead?
She turns to the window. “Yes. It was.”
I already knew, yet jealousy seizes my limbs. “And you’re going to see him tomorrow.”
“Yes.”
She doesn’t offer more, and I don’t ask. At her building, I stop the car. “We’re here.”
