Текст книги "Running Back"
Автор книги: Allison Parr
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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 17 страниц)
“Yes, I know. I will show you and tell you about her as I do your eyes.” He walked away, not waiting to see if we’d follow. “I met her when she first arrived. She was underfed, and underdressed, and she cried every night because she was lonely and didn’t speak French. She used to sing in Russian before she fell asleep.” His voice trailed off as he rounded a corner.
I couldn’t help it. I ran after him. “When did she learn French?”
“Mmm. I taught her. That’s why I came here, you know? Not because of my art. Ah, no, that is why I came here, but not why the agency took me. They took me because I speak Hungarian and Russian and they needed someone to help the new girls. And I wasn’t much older than them.”
“So what was she like? When she first came?”
“Like everyone. Here.” He led us up a cement staircase and into a hall. He narrowed his eyes at Mike. “Men are not allowed here.”
I grabbed Mike’s arm, not intending to let him go. Mike slid me a smile. “And yet here we are.”
The man let out a puff of air, his cheeks inflating and deflating in exasperation. “Only because you are with Mademoiselle Bocharov.”
“It’s Sullivan,” I corrected.
His nose crinkled again, and I half expected him to say something along the lines of “how plebian.” How bougie? Instead, he walked us to the end of the hall. “This is the kitchen. Each girl has a small fridge.” He gestured at a wall filled with what looked like cubbies, and opened one to reveal a one by one foot space packed with milk and fruit.
The rest of the room was pretty spartan, with just one small table by the windows. Two hot plates. One microwave. No toaster, no oven. “And they eat here?”
“Mostly they eat downstairs. But they can keep snacks here.”
He led us across the hall, and opened the door to a common room. Two couches sat on beige colored carpeting, and a bookcase filled with worn paperbacks stood against the far wall. Closer to us, a flat screen TV played a British show to the three girls in the room. They looked up briefly when we entered.
Our guide waved. “The common room.”
The smallness and gray walls would have been depressing, except that out of the corner of the window, you could just see part of the Eiffel Tower rising into the sky.
How surreal.
For the first time, I actually tried to picture Mom here. Here, in this room, which looked like it hadn’t changed since the eighties. Sitting on those flat cushions of the brown tweed couch, staring at the screen, or out the windows, at the rooftops and wires and the metal structure rising above all of it.
What did she want out of life when she was here? How did she think her life was going to end up?
Mike tugged on my hand, and I realized the man was off again, down the hall with unexpectedly fleet feet, until he reached the end of the hall. He rapped on a door. “C’est Carl.”
The door opened, and a tall, skinny girl stood before us, with prominent cheekbones and a long, thin blade of a nose. She’d bound her hair up in a sleek bun, like a ballerina. “Quoi?”
“C’est la fille de Madame Bocharov.” To me, he said, “This was your mother’s room.”
I could hardly believe he remembered her actual room, but I still found myself looking past the teenager to the tiny, boxy space. Clothes were draped over chairs and the two twin beds, black stretchy things with sparkles and oversized sweaters that confused me.
On the opposite wall, the window looked out toward another building. A tree waved its leaves at us. Above the beds, photos and posters formed colorful wallpaper.
It wasn’t depressing, exactly. It was just... I couldn’t help looking back at the girl. She watched me with narrowed eyes. They weren’t like Anna’s, who must have a year or two on this girl. Anna’s eyes were angry sometimes and young at others. This girl just looked watchful. “I didn’t know she had children.” Her accent was thick and strange.
“Just me.”
“You have her email? Her agent’s?”
Fourteen or fifteen and trying to network.
Carl scowled. “Don’t bother Mademoiselle Bocharov.”
“It’s okay.” I swallowed and smiled at the girl. “Where are you from?”
“Ukraine.”
“And how long have you been here?”
“One year.”
“And do you like it?”
Her gaze flickered to Carl. “I love it. I have a good job, good friends. I live in the best city in the world. Though I would like to go to New York.”
I had no idea if I believed her. She sounded sincere. Maybe she was. Maybe my mother had been, when she recalled her memories here. I’d always thought my mom couldn’t have been old enough at fourteen to know what she wanted.
But maybe I was just being judgmental?
Mike jumped into the silence with a smile. “Everyone in New York wants to come to Paris.”
The girl darted a glance at him from under her long, spiky lashes, and then she smiled. For the first time she looked like a teenager, shy and cheeky. “Then they will all have to like me, because I have already lived here and can tell them all the best places.”
Mike laughed. I tried to, but didn’t get more than a dry huff. “What do you want to do when you grow up?”
Her eyes brightened. “I want to be like Tamara. I want to be the most beautiful model in the world, and to wear all the best designers and to marry a prince.”
“Oh.” I didn’t know what to say. Anxiety and confusion and weirdness muddled around in my belly.
Carl coughed for attention, and then nodded to the girl and started on his way. Like a dazed child, I also nodded and followed him off, Mike beside me as we headed for the elevator.
“Mlle. Bocharov!” The girl’s young voice piped down the hall. “Can I have your email?”
Carl turned and barked down the hall, “Leave the mademoiselle alone!”
She ducked her head. I swallowed, trying to decide whether to say anything, and then the elevator arrived and Carl ushered us inside.
Back on the first floor, he led us deeper into the building, and I followed, lost in my own mind’s maze, until I realized we were standing in an airy space, with mirrors and tools and sprays. It smelled like hair and product and I stopped without telling my feet.
Carl went toward one of the stations but I remained in my door. Mike ran his hand up my arm. “You okay?”
I shook my head. “Remember when I said your mom must feel like she was in a fairytale, meeting all those people and seeing places she’s only heard stories of? It’s the same for me here. I feel like I fell into one of my mother’s stories. Like I’m not in reality anymore.” I reached up my palms to frame his face. “Except for you. You are the one real, true thing here.”
Mike regarded me seriously. “I wanted you to come here because it helped me so much when you made me face my own mother. But we don’t have to stay.”
I brushed my lips feather-light across his. “Thank you. But I will.”
Carl had waited—not patiently—for Mike and my moment to be over, and as soon as it was, he gestured at one of the seats. “Please.” He didn’t sound like he was begging; it sounded more like a reprimand.
First, he brushed back my hair until it lay tight against my skull, and then wound it all up at the crown of my head. Then he tilted my head back until it touched the wall, had me close my eyes, and had at my face with brushes and sponges and who knew what else.
It didn’t feel so bad. Kind of like going to the hairdresser, where the hair washing felt almost like a massage. Here he rubbed on the moisturizer, the base, all the time keeping up a running patter about my mother. I interrupted at one point. “But was she happy here?”
He paused. “She used to dance in the halls. She was popular with the other girls. She was a hard worker.” He teased almost absently at my hair. “She laughed so much I still remember when she did not, when she talked about her family, who she sent her money to. She was so grateful she could do that.”
I’d never thought about her being grateful. When she talked to or about my grandparents, who had moved to Florida after she moved to the States, it was always with a high degree of irritation.
I’d never thought about her laughing.
Carl’s torture of my eyes was the worst. I stared up into the ceiling light as Carl poked at my lower lid so much I thought I might cry. “The light bothers you?” he asked at one point. I said yes, and he made a hmmph, and didn’t change anything.
“Fini,” he said with satisfaction some time later, and turned me towards the mirror.
I looked like her.
Some of it was just tricks—the streamlining and darkening of my brows, the highlighting of cheekbones until they looked sharper than usual, the pink gloss on my lips, when I only ever wore nude and Chapstick. But mostly it came from the way he’d done my eyes, just like he’d done my mother’s eyes, when she was even younger than me. They looked the same, heavily done up in black, the lashes sooty, the shadows silvery. My eyes were huge in a face that looked poreless: huge and strange and familiar. With so much liner surrounding them, they seemed separated from me—this all seemed separated from me.
I spun my chair to look at Mike.
He looked back steadfastly. With anyone else, I might have made a joke about looking ridiculous or how a football player was probably used to glammed up model makeup.
With Mike, I just offered a small lift of my shoulders.
And he smiled that perfect crooked smile. “You look like the goddess of wisdom and war.”
Some strange, deep emotion welled up, something I couldn’t name but that stirred in my chest and made the back of my eyes feel bright with almost-tears. Warm wind seemed to brush the back of my neck.
I reached out a hand to Mike, and he caught it. I swallowed and turned to Carl. “Thank you.”
He smiled. “She was my favorite, ta mere. Light and laughter. You must tell her to come back and visit. Tell her she is missed.”
* * *
“Hi, Mom.”
“Darling?” I could hear rustling in the background. Was she still in bed? “Good morning. Oh, no, what’s the time over there? Afternoon?”
I only ever heard my mother’s accent in the first seconds of a phone call. Never in person, and never for more than half a minute on the phone. But for those thirty seconds I could hear a faint, lilting mesh of European accents, based on Russian, smoothed over by French. Then she went back to sounding like Mom. “Yeah, it’s almost four.”
“So what are you doing?” More rustling, like she was getting comfortable. “You’re not working today, are you?”
“Uh, no.” I glanced out our hotel window at the courtyard. I couldn’t see Mike, who I knew was snacking down below to give me privacy, but instead saw the pale green roof and a black cat creeping along it. It stopped to stare at me with unblinking yellow eyes, and I thought of the Art Nouveau poster of Le Chat Noir. Remembered it was a cabernet house from the nineteenth century. Wondered if my mother had gone to any of the clubs up in Montmartre. “I’m actually in Paris.”
“What?” Her voice rose, and I heard a door open and close. I imagined her moving into the dining room, settling at the kitchen counter, kept impeccably clean by the twice-a-week cleaning staff. “What are you doing there?”
“Well, uh, I told you about Mike, right? The guy who owns Kilkarten? Well, we thought we’d travel for the weekend, so we’re here.” I swallowed. “Actually, we went to your old housing. I met this guy named Carl.”
She didn’t speak for a long time, and when she did, she sounded absolutely stunned. “Wow, Carl. That brings me back.”
In the dusk, the window slowly darkened. My reflection brightened, a ghost before the alley, my strange eyes limned in the glass. “Actually—it’s sort of funny—he did my makeup.” I laughed awkwardly.
Another pause. “Oh, Natalya. You must look beautiful.”
I swallowed. “Well, you know me. It’s not really my thing.”
“I know.”
My ear hurt, so I switched hands, and tried to keep myself from nervously pressing the phone flat against my head. “I look like you. I always thought I looked more like Dad, but I guess a lot of it’s just how you’re made up.”
Her voice softened. “Do you remember when you were little? And I used to take you to Sherri’s and she would do both of our faces?”
“That was weird, Mom. I was way too young.”
She didn’t respond.
I shifted uneasily. “You know what I mean. I didn’t want to do any of that stuff. The makeup or the dresses.”
“I know. I just thought... You were so beautiful.”
“You’re my mom. You weren’t supposed to think I needed makeup to be beautiful.”
“Oh, Natalie. Oh, I don’t.”
“I know. I just... And then it’s so weird here.”
“Are you crying?”
“No.” I pressed my fingers to the corners of my eyes and tried to soak up the water. “And ruin all of Carl’s work?”
“Will you send me pictures?”
“Pictures?” I laughed shakily. “Why?”
“I don’t know. I’d like to see you. I bet you look all grown up.”
“I am grown up.”
“I know.”
“Anyways.” I cleared my throat. “How are you?”
“Good. Good. Nothing new.”
“How’s Dad?”
“He’s working.”
Dad was always working. “Are you being social? Have you got lunch with Linda or Janice lately?”
“Linda and I are meeting tomorrow, yes.”
A silence fell, and I took a deep breath, trying to suck it away, tired of all the silences that always formed. “Mom, I’m really sorry if I didn’t appreciate it when you took me out. I know it was how you bonded. I just—I didn’t know that then. I wanted to play catch.”
“I know. You always wanted to be one of the boys. I never forgave your father for not including you more.”
“Carl was talking about how happy you were here, and I guess—I don’t know, I want you to be happy. Mike’s mom has some—weird issues with her late husband’s old girlfriend, and they’re all messed up, and I don’t want us to be messed up, and I’m sorry if I was judgmental and a bad daughter.”
“Natalie. Natalie, slow down. You’re not a bad daughter.”
“Are you happy? Were you really happy here?”
She was silent for a minute, and when she spoke she sounded far away. “I remember Paris with rose-tinted glasses, so what do I know? But what I remember was wonderful. And that’s enough for me.” She cleared her throat. “Sometimes I worry you like that feeling too. But so much that you move around quickly, so that you can always be looking back at something with fondness.”
I bit my lip. “I’ve been sort of thinking about that. And I was thinking that if this works out—I really like it in Kilkarten. Of course, it’s impossible to know anything until it happens, but I think I would be happy to have that and New York. I don’t think I would need anything else. Right now, I don’t even want it.” I saw the clock. Almost dinner. “I should go. But Carl said to tell you to come visit. He said you were missed.” I paused. “I miss you, Mom.”
“I miss you too, sweetheart. I’ll see you in two months.”
* * *
I clicked off and went downstairs. Mike sat in the miniscule courtyard, eating rolls dotted with large sugar crystals like popcorn. I dropped down in the wicker chair beside him.
“Thank you for taking me here.” I felt light. Whole. Like I’d shed some weight, the burden of misconception and worry and anger and guilt. “I’ve never understood my mother. I always thought it was so horrible, being wrenched away from your family at such a young age and living where she didn’t even speak the language. And I know Mom always talked like she liked it, but I thought that was some weird, messed up psychological thing, because how could you? But maybe she really did. I think I have a hard time admitting other people’s points of view are okay when they’re radically opposed to my own. Maybe I never even listened to her.”
“So you made a conclusion about your parents and might have been wrong.” He gave me that crooked smile I loved so much. “Must be crazy.”
I tilted my head back and saw that same black cat still perched on the turret. “I think my mom’s a lot smarter than I give her credit for.”
He started laughing. I straightened, startled.
“Join the club,” he said, and kissed me between bursts of laughter. “Join the fucking club.”
Chapter Twenty-One
We had dinner on rue Cler, a pedestrian street made of cobblestones and tourists. We ate outside, a candle on our table, a flower shop on one side, a chocolate shop across the street. I could have sat for hours watching all the people go by: the speeding locals, the chatting shop owners, the tourists who looked from their guidebooks to one restaurant and then another.
Instead, I watched Mike.
He ordered one of every appetizer, and then talked animatedly, hands waving, eyes sparking. He told me about his friends, his teammates, the last season and his hopes for the next. They’d drafted two players that were supposed to be amazing. They’d also traded for a new linebacker.
He made me so happy.
We laughed all through dinner, and then flagged the waiter down for dessert. He looked at us with exquisite boredom. “You will take the crème caramel?”
I ventured a quick glance at Mike. Did something about us say crème caramel? “Um—I was thinking the chocolate cake.” I looked to Mike for confirmation, and he shrugged agreeably.
The waiter’s nostrils flared. “Americans always order the crème caramel.”
Then I definitely didn’t want it. “The cake.”
He raised his chin and left.
Mike was already on it. “Whoa.”
I leaned forward, trying to read his phone, and he flipped it my way. “The president had the crème caramel here.”
“What? He came here?” I spun my head after the waiter. “Maybe we should also get the flan.”
Mike grinned. “I thought you didn’t like being a tourist.”
I kissed him quick. “It’s Presidential Flan. There are exceptions for everything.”
* * *
We walked back to the hotel hand in hand. It made my heart fill, like too much had been poured into it, like it couldn’t contain all this happiness. And then we reached our street and a view of the Eiffel Tower. It started sparkling, dancing bursts of light, and I couldn’t help it, I just reached out and started kissing Mike as though I needed him more than oxygen.
“We don’t really need to go to this party,” he said.
I laughed. “But look at my war paint! And my armor should’ve been delivered by now. We have to go.”
The hotel had left the dress on the bed, but I ducked into the bathroom to put it on. Tiny spangles made the dress shine and sparkle. I spun and watched the dress flare. Good thing I’d brought spandex.
I really did look like my mother. I made her face, pursing my lips and letting a tiny sneer crinkle my nose as I widened my eyes at the mirror.
It was so spot on that my giggles carried a hint of shock.
Mike knocked a fist against the door. “If you’re in there all night, we really won’t get to this thing and Rach and Bri will kill me.”
I tugged on the hem and shouted back. “It’s shorter than I thought.”
“Good!”
I grinned and pulled the shoes out of the box. Silver pumps with a slightly narrowed point. How long had Maggie owned them? They were classic enough to fit in today, but I’d bet they’d been around at least two decades. But they fit, lifting me up to six feet. They made my legs stretch on forever and the dress danced against my thighs. At least I had damn good ones from hiking around Kilkarten.
Not quite Cinderella’s slippers, but maybe Ariel’s legs, because I sure as hell felt like a fish out of water tonight.
I pushed the door open, feeling unusually self-conscious. I started to speak for Mike’s attention, but the words dried up as I watched him fiddle with his cuffs. He looked absolutely stunning in his black formalwear. Prince Charming, if we were being thematic.
He looked up with a smile, his mouth already forming a quip, and then I watched it all fall away in surprise. His eyes lingered on my legs, and then slowly rose to my face. “You look incredible.”
I did a little shimmy. “Kinda like a disco ball, right?”
He smiled, but his eyes stayed hooded and focused as he came toward me. His voice wasn’t much more than a murmur. “Not exactly what I was thinking.” His arm slid around my waist and pulled me against him. I lifted my head. With the additional two inches, my lips brushed perfectly against his, and I almost considered staying in too.
But. We were meeting his friends. I drew away. “We’re already in our fancy clothes. Let’s go.”
* * *
We took a taxi to the hotel. Mike didn’t say anything, but I saw his lips twitch as he pulled the door open. So. He remembered me making a stink about taxis that spring night in New York.
But I didn’t mind, because taking a taxi in Paris was different than in New York. It was a tour of narrowed streets and old buildings, of trees heavy with greenery and outdoor cafés. We crossed the Seine on a bridge lined with golden statues. Behind us, the Eiffel Tower rose up, bright gold against the blue dusk. “It’s like being in a movie.”
“That’s what I thought when I first moved to New York.”
I twisted around to see him. “You? A tried and true Bostonian?”
He lowered his head close enough that our lips almost brushed. “I didn’t say it was a good movie.”
On the other side of the bridge, we passed palaces dressed as museums, with huge posters of artwork hanging down their sides and lines of people curving up the steps. We turned onto the Champs-élysées, that great, grand boulevard that ran through the center of the city. I caught a glimpse of the Place de la Concorde, where Marie Antoinette and countless others died, where today an obelisk from Egypt struck up into the darkening sky.
The hotel stood just outside the city limits, built sometime in the eighties when nothing was allowed to rise over a hundred and twenty one feet. Even with the new zoning laws, buildings couldn’t rise too high; nothing could ruin the famous Parisian skyline.
“Okay,” Mike said when we were in the elevator. “Here’s my technique at these things. Smile a lot. Laugh at people who need affirmation of their own cleverness.”
“You get a lot of those?”
He looked vaguely suffering. “It’s the entire one percent.”
We got out of the elevator into a room of low lights and voices, lower couches, and a sweeping glass panorama of Paris. Glittering people circulated before the backdrop. A woman in black watched me with narrowed eyes. Did she know how out of place I was?
I ignored her and took in the view. The entire city was laid out in a stream of bright streaks, from the toy-sized tower to the star of avenues surrounding the Arc de Triomphe.
I’d just turned back to Mike when someone flung her arms around him. It took me a moment to recognize the sleek haired brunette in impeccable make-up and a fitted red dress as Rachael Hamilton. Her own eyes widened on seeing me. “Wow, you’re much...taller than I remembered.”
I lifted a foot. “It’s the heels. Also, I think having my hair coiled at the top of my head adds to the illusion.”
She studied me a minute longer, and then her eyes relaxed. “It’s good to see you, even if I have to crane my neck to do it.”
Mike gave Rachael an absent pat on the back, his eyes searching the room. “I’m going go find the guys.” He squeezed my hand. “Be right back.”
We both watched him go. I felt slightly amazed. “Wow. He was super into me before we arrived and now I’ve been abandoned in the first thirty seconds.”
Rachael laughed. “They’ve been friends a long time. I’m sure they’ll all be back in a minute. I’ll show you our table.”
She led me over to some low couches, and Briana Harris, former star of Boomerang, a pretty decent show about the boomerang generation. She drew her eyes over me and frowned. “You don’t look how I remember.”
I was surprised she’d actually remembered me at all, given that she’d met me for half a minute outside Radio City Music Hall.
“In fact,” she said, taking a sip of wine, “You look like Tamara Bocharov.”
Rach dropped down, and I also sat. She pushed a plate of cheese and grapes at me. “That’s because she’s Bocharov’s daughter.”
I swiveled her way. “Did Mike tell you that?”
“No. I just have extensive Googling skills.”
Briana sat up straight. “Why didn’t you tell me that?”
Rachael rolled her eyes. “I guess I was caught up in the ohmigod, archaeology’s awesome thing. Sorry.” She flashed me a smile. “I’m glad you came. I thought you and Mike looked good together.”
I was still processing that they knew about my mother, and that for once I was realizing it wasn’t as big a deal as I’d always blown it up to be. “Really?”
“Okay, not at first. But Mike had never been so tight lipped about anyone before—he sounded almost mad at you when he first mentioned you. But I’d really liked you in our two-second meeting, so I decided to experiment.”
Bri shook her head. “Your tact is incredible.”
“But I was right, wasn’t I? They’re here together. And when Ryan came back from minicamp, he said Mike was—” Rachael stopped and looked at me. “Well, I think I was right.”
I was having a very surreal moment where I pictured Mike and Ryan Carter wearing their uniforms and talking about me while practicing plays. And then Ryan Carter turning around and discussing me with his girlfriend. I just could not picture that.
Bri sighed forlornly. “Malcolm didn’t say anything. He doesn’t believe in gossip.”
“Malcolm is obviously a better person then the rest of us. I’ve learned to live with that.”
The two smirked at each other, their long-term friendship obvious, and I felt left out for half a heartbeat before they turned back to me. They were funny and inclusive and I relaxed, even as I noticed—or maybe imagined—people glancing my way several more times.
“So you guys do this a lot?” I asked. “The fancy dress thing?”
“Kinda weird, right?” Rachael popped a tartin smeared with brie and jam into her mouth.
Bri scoffed. “Rachael.”
Rachael chewed and made questioningly large eyes.
Bri turned to me. “This is my Rachael impression. ‘Oh! I have to go to a party and wear beautiful clothes! How peculiar! Excuse me while I look through my closet of sundresses and try to decide what to wear!’”
Rachael finished chewing. “Shut up.”
Bri waved her hands above her chest. “I have fallen down the rabbit’s hole!”
I let out a snort of laughter.
Rach smeared more brie across another slice of bread. “You stink.”
Bri narrowed her eyes. “No. No bad puns. That’s why you’re dating Ryan, so I don’t have to put up with them.”
“I don’t know why you think they’re bad. They’re clearly brilliant.” Rachael appealed to me. “Don’t you think they’re brilliant?”
I held up my own hands, unable to stop grinning. “I just make bad analogies.”
Rachael grinned. “I can work with that.” Then her face closed down a little, to a simple polite smile, and I looked over my shoulder.
A woman with a press badge smiled winningly, a man with a camera beside her. “Pardon... Vous n’êtes pas lié à Tamara Bocharov, êtes-vous?”
I had forgotten how much the eyes were done up.
I had forgotten my mother had thrived in this city.
Because she had thrived here. And I should be proud of that. I smiled up at the woman. “C’est ma mere.”
“You’re an American.” The woman passed a surprised glance to her friend. “I forgot Tamara married an American.”
He smiled winningly at us. “How about a photo?”
He arranged us in a trio, and I watched with interest as Rachael and Briana angled themselves like this was second nature. The photographer snapped away, thanked us, then they were on their way.
I watched them go. “That was weird.”
Bri shook her head. “It wasn’t weird. She writes for a women’s magazine, and you’re a supermodel’s daughter. It’s weird that no one shares gossip with me.”
I liked them. I liked it even better when Mike came back, and the six of us sat in our own circle. I was super awkward at first, because each time my gaze caught on the elegant planes of Malcolm Lindsey’s face or the shocking beauty of Ryan Carter, I felt like I had, as Briana’d said, fallen down the rabbit hole. If Ireland was emerald as Oz, this was strange as Wonderland, but wherever I was, I didn’t want to leave.
We returned to the hotel after three in the morning. They’d turned the Eiffel Tower off, which I didn’t know was possible, but it was black metal as our taxi wound back through the streets. We slipped into our room and then he was tugging my dress up over my arms, and I was pulling his shirt out of his pants and pushing at the buttons with more enthusiasm then helpfulness. These nice shirts of his were the bane of my existence.
His mouth descended on mine, his eyes dark and wanting, and I shuddered against him, gasping into his mouth and allowing his kiss even deeper. “Did I tell you,” he asked, as I pushed the shirt down his arms and started to blaze kisses across his sternum, “how beautiful you are today?”
I laughed up at him as my hands traced the defined planes and ridges of his stomach. “Because of my eyes?”
His hands gripped my shoulders, his thumbs playing against the tops of my breasts. His hands slid to my bra and undid it, and then he pulled me up and flush against him. “Because you are beautiful.” I reacted with a small moan. “You are strong, and smart, and stunning. You are absolutely everything—” He broke off and kissed me, a burning, intoxicating kiss. Fire spread through every part of me, and then I was boneless, thoughtless, running my hands over every part of him I could touch.
“Oh, God, Natalie,” he groaned, and he ripped my hand away and his dress pants off, and backed me against the wall. I needed him now. I needed to love him the way we were supposed to. His hands cupped my bottom and lifted my hips as I wrapped my legs around him. I could feel him trembling, his entire body shaking with the same need I felt. I flattened my breasts against him and pressed my lips to his. I poured myself into the kiss, all the emotions I didn’t know how to say, all the desire and joy and beauty he made me feel, and he lost control. I let out a shout and we rocked together, losing ourselves in fire and heat and each other.
