Текст книги "Every Second With You"

Автор книги: Lauren Blakely

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

I stand up, and it’s easy, so easy, to extend a hand to shake. To thank her for her time. To say goodbye. To let the past be in the past.

“I hope you and Teddy have a great life,” I say, and I leave.

Harley trusts me. I need to start trusting myself more.

Because I can do this. I can be a husband, I can be a father, I can be the man Harley needs me to be. I’m not that guy anymore, who used to screw cougars for kicks. I’m Harley’s, and I need to be with her.

I go home and spend the night with my wife.

Chapter Thirty-One

Trey

She’s bouncing on the bed. “Look, look!!!”

I blink, rub my eyes, and then take the phone she’s thrust into my hand. The screen is open to a Web page with a news story. “Show of hands. Did you buy the salacious call girl book in the last two weeks? C’mon. You know you did. Thousands upon thousands of readers snagged a copy; that’s how the book shot to the top of the bestseller lists. Turns out the girl pulling the tricks—” I stop reading to look at Harley. “That’s kind of tacky.”

She waves a hand frantically. “Who cares? It’s a media blog. It’s not the Washington Post. Just read.”

“Turns out the girl pulling the tricks didn’t get paid for the tales. Word on the street is she was blackmailed by the book’s editor. When reached for comment, the publisher said he’s looking into the allegations.”

Then the story ends. “That’s it? That’s the big plan to take down Mr. Stewart? I don’t get it.”

“Hit refresh. The updated version should be live any second. I just got off the phone with the head of the publishing house.”

I click refresh and wait several seconds for the page to reload. I scroll to the end of the story, and, as promised, there’s now more. “After checking the editor’s email records, phone log, and royalty schedule for Anonymous, the publisher has confirmed that Anonymous was the target of a blackmail scheme by the editor. The writer of the tell-all has expressed her wish to remain anonymous and has requested that any royalties due from the first two weeks of the book’s sale go to the charity Save the Orphaned Elephants, and that further proceeds from the book be donated to the New York City Halfway House for Girls. So, get your kicks on and feel good about yourself. You can read the tawdry tales and know the money is going to a good cause.”

Harley

He grins wildly. “You are fucking brilliant. You know that?”

I raise my arms high in the victory sign. “I am a genius!”

I grab the phone from Trey to dial Cam. “What’s the story?”

“The elephant man is pleased,” he says, and I punch my fist in the air.

“We’re all good then?”

“It seems this debt has been paid,” Cam says. “You can get on that plane to California and not worry one bit about little old me, or little old him. But you better send me pictures of that baby. You hear me, now?”

Before I can answer, Tess shouts in the background. “We want gobs of baby pictures!”

I laugh. “I promise.”

Later in the day, I check my newsfeed again to find one more update to the breaking story about the call girl book. This update gives me the pleasure that only comeuppance can deliver. “Miranda Cuthbert has tendered her resignation, and repaid the funds she kept from the first two weeks of sales. Word on the street is her saga won’t end there. Sources say the state is looking into whether an extortion case can be made against Ms. Cuthbert.”

“Karma’s a bitch,” I say, after I read the latest update out loud to Kristen and Trey.

“Yes, it is,” she says. “And I am so going to base my next screenplay on you.”

“And you’re going to move to California and shoot it there, so I can see you more.”

“You better believe it. I’m next in line on that California Gold Rush you’re starting,” she says, as we spend the evening together in the living room. Jordan is here, too, and we order pizza, and the three of them drink beers, and I enjoy a Diet Coke. Well, that’s not entirely true. The baby and I enjoy a Diet Coke, because caffeine seems to make the little one wiggle in my belly, too.

After we finish the pizza, it’s time to say goodbye to my best friend.

“I’m going to seriously miss you,” I tell her.

“I’m going to majorly miss you. Especially since you’re taking the good bathroom towels with you.”

Trey clears his throat. “Actually, if you and Jordan want new towels, I might be able to chip in.”

Reaching into his wallet, he takes out a white and blue plastic card from Bed, Bath & Beyond, and slaps it down on the table. “Consider this a housewarming gift,” he says to Jordan and Kristen.

“Thanks, man. My greatest dreams have come true. I was always hoping you’d get me something from a home store,” Jordan says.

Trey rolls his eyes. “Whatever. I got it for her.” He points to me. “But never gave it to her.”

Jordan puts his hand on his heart. “Oh, it gets better. You’re re-gifting.”

“Shut up!”

Kristen reaches for the card. “Don’t mock this. Towels aren’t cheap, and I’m going shopping tomorrow and you’re coming with me.”

I tap Trey’s shoulder. “Not that I’m upset, but why would you get it for me and never give it to me?”

“It wasn’t right for you,” he says in a low voice. “Besides, I’m working on something else for you. I promise.”

He drapes his arm around my shoulder, and pulls me in close, and I feel safe and warm. I turn my gaze to the window, and wintry Manhattan night beyond the glass. Snow is starting to fall; this will be one of my last snows in a long time. We leave in thirty-six hours, and I’ll miss so much about New York, but so little, too. I said goodbye to Joanne earlier today and she made me promise I’d go to SLAA meetings in San Diego. I told her I’d already looked up times and locations.

“I’m proud of you, and I’m also pissed, because I knitted baby booties that you won’t need,” she said.

“I definitely won’t need booties. But I’m glad you’re proud of me,” I said, swiping away a tear. “I won’t forget that you’re the one who showed me the ugly beautiful.”

“And now you can take it with you, wherever you go.”

I feel that way about my friends too, like Kristen, and Cam. Because even though they won’t be coming to California, there are pieces of them that will always stay with me.

The most important parts of my life are coming with me, though. I snuggle in closer to Trey, and he wraps me tighter in his embrace.

Somewhere out there, our new life is about to begin.

* * *

It is our last night in New York before our nine a.m. flight tomorrow. Trey got a hotel room just for fun, he said. And because we’ve never spent the night in a hotel, so why not?

Why not, indeed?

Before I meet him at The Time Hotel in the heart of midtown and we pretend we’re fancy cool people who stay at kick-ass hotels all the time, there is something I must do.

I wrap my purple scarf from Joanne around my neck, pull up the collar on my warm coat, and brace myself as I walk from the subway stop through the late afternoon crowds along Central Park West. The cold bites my cheeks, and my boots crunch against the remnants of last night’s snow. Not much is left, and what remains has become yellow and dirty. I turn onto a most familiar block.

I’ve spent nearly my whole life in this city with one person. And I may never see that person again. I’m fine with that, but there is someone else who may not be, and it’s not fair for me to make the choice for my baby. I’m not going to do to my kid what my mom did to me.

I knock on my mother’s door. When she answers, she seems surprised to see me. Then she straightens her spine, smoothes her hair, and flashes a smile. She’s not Barb Coleman for nothing. She knows how to pretend everything is fine and dandy, but the dark circles under her eyes—mostly artfully concealed by makeup, but not entirely—give her away. She’s still not sleeping well.

“Harley, I’ve been following the news. Quite an eventful few days in the publishing world. Would you like to come in?”

I shake my head. Even though I’m shivering and the warm air from inside my one-time home rushes to greet me, it won’t lure me in.

I used to think I was like her. I used to feel as if we were sisters. Now I know we are not the same. And I won’t ever be like her.

I am breaking the cycle.

“I came here to let you know I’m moving to San Diego with my husband. I’m finishing school there, and I’m living with Nan and Pop. We’re going to raise our baby there. I want you to have my address and my contact information. I won’t do to my kid what you did to me. I won’t cut you out of his or her life,” I say, then I reach into my pocket for a sheet of paper, and I hand it to her. “That’s my info on it. I’ll send you a picture when the baby’s born. And I also included the name and number of a really good shrink in the city—Michele Milo. She specializes in intimacy issues. You might want to think about getting some help for yours.”

She says nothing, but she takes the piece of paper, folds it up, and stuffs it into her pocket.

“Travel safely, my dear.”

And those are the last words she says to me. I wish she’d said, “Thank you, I’ll go start therapy.” I wish she’d said “Sorry.” I wish she’d said, “I’m proud of how you’ve changed.”

Yet travel safely is all I get, and I suppose in the scheme of things, it’s all I truly need.

Sometimes, we want so much more, but I walk away content that I have all I need.

* * *

As I head toward the crosswalk, I spot a dark-haired girl who grew up on the same block. She’s a few years younger than me, but has always seemed worldly in her own way, as if she knew too much, saw too much for her age. Like me. She’s walking in my direction, fiddling with a sparkly charm necklace hanging at her throat, visible even with her coat on.

“Hey Harley.”

I wave. “Hey Kennedy. How’s it going?”

Her lips part, as if she’s not sure what to say. “It’s going,” she says with a sigh.

“I know what you mean. When do you graduate?”

“Not soon enough.”

I laugh. “I guess you’re ready to get out of the house and away from your mom?”

“Like you wouldn’t even believe.”

She’s a kindred spirit. I don’t know all the details, but she’s got one of those big, bold, brash moms, and I’ve always had a hunch Kennedy craved freedom from her. I’m glad I found mine. I hope Kennedy finds her escape too.

“You’ll get there,” I say, because I want to encourage her, even for one brief instant, as Joanne has done for me so many times. “Even when it seems hard, you’ll get there. And you won’t regret it.”

Her shoulders relax, and her lips curve up. “You have no idea how much I needed to hear that right now.”

I smile, glad that I was able to give her what she needed at a random moment in time.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Harley

“Do you realize I can get a complimentary overnight hand-polished shoeshine? I honestly can’t think of anything I’d rather have right now.”

“Do it. Get your flip flops shined,” I tell Trey, as he flips through the list of amenities this chichi hotel offers its very posh guests.

“But there’s also the nightly turn-down service,” he says, tapping the picture of a freshly made hotel bed, with the white sheet pulled over a dark blue comforter, exactly like the one we’re lying on.

He pretends to stare thoughtfully at the ceiling, as if he’s considering which services to partake of. “Or room service,” I suggest even though we already had dinner at Serafina, an Italian restaurant that’s part of the hotel.

“We just ate. Don’t tell me the two of you are hungry again.”

“That was two hours ago,” I point out. “I might have room for dessert.”

He tosses aside the list of amenities, and it hits the carpet with a dull thud. Then he tugs me close to him. “I’ve got dessert for you,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows playfully.

“I bet you do. You always do.”

“And I always will. But I actually have that gift I’m working on for you.” He hops up from the bed and heads over to the chair where he left his backpack, then returns with his sketchbook. Clutching it tight to his chest, he says, “It’s not done yet. But I’m working on something for you. And the baby.”

A ribbon of excitement unfurls in me, as I eagerly watch him open the sketchbook. “Here it is,” he says, showing me two pages.

He’s sketched out a gorgeous beach, with bright blue waves rolling onto the golden sand that’s spread for miles. In the middle of the image a girl—she’s maybe six, or seven—runs across the sand, looking over her shoulder. She holds her hands up to the sky, as if she’s catching snowflakes. But she’s reaching for sparkles raining down. It’s reality meets magic; it’s the world we live in with a touch of the fantastic. But, more than that, it’s the illustration of the first card my grandparents sent me, the story I told them that they echoed back to me for my birthday years ago.

And the city girl returned to the sand, and the sea, where the sun warmed her shoulders and the sky rained silver and gold sparkles . . .

I trace my finger over the drawing, as if I can ignite magic in it, as if my touch can bring it to life. But it’s already alive; it’s already breathing, in its own way. I turn to Trey, and he has a hopeful look in his eyes.

“I love it so much,” I tell him. “This is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“You really like it?”

“No,” I say, correcting him firmly. “I love it.”

“I’ll do the whole set of them. I can illustrate them all if you want.”

I shake my head in amazement at what he’s done. “How is it that I found you? Do you ever realize how lucky we are?”

“To have each other?” he scoffs. “I realize it every second of every day.”

“Do you think it’s luck?” I trail my fingers down his arm, tracing the outline of the ink on his bicep.

“I think it’s fate,” he says softly.

“You do? You believe in fate?”

Scooting closer to me, he rests his hand on my hipbone, his thumb stroking a lazy rhythm there. “I do, in the sense that I believe some things are inevitable. The sun rises, the moon travels round the earth, you were meant for me, and I was meant for you,” he says.

“So you and me, we’re on the same cosmic level as the sun and moon and stars?” I raise an eyebrow.

But he is resolute. “Yes. Because here’s my reasoning. Think about the alternative. About us not being together.”

I shudder with the absolute wrongness of that image.

“See? You and me not being together is like a snowstorm in Hawaii. It’s like a glacier on the sun. It doesn’t happen. It can’t happen. Because there’s no way we aren’t meant for each other, Harley. There’s no way it can be anything but this,” he says, pointing from him to me and me to him, and his certainty is like dark chocolate melting on my tongue. It tastes amazing, and I want more of it, of him.

“Kiss me, then. Kiss me like it’s fate.”

“Gladly,” he says, curling his fingers around my neck, and bringing his lips to mine.

I moan the second he makes contact. His lips are so soft, and he kisses me so tenderly, but with so much pent-up fire that I’m soon grasping for him, tugging him close, wrapping a leg over his thigh, sliding a hand up his shirt, spreading my fingers across the hard planes of his belly.

We kiss like that for some time, all sighs and moans, and bodies pressed together, hands exploring, hearts beating wildly, until the heat between the two of us is too much. It’s like we’re in a cocoon of love and lust and want, our own little private world of desire.

We break apart, and I’m panting, and his eyes are glazed, and I know in seconds he can be inside of me thrusting, bringing me to the precipice.

My hands have a mind of their own, and I’m dying to touch him, so I unzip his jeans, and he helps me slide them off. Then I reach for the waistband of his T-shirt, lifting it over his head.

My breath catches at the sight of his naked chest. I’ve seen him naked so many times, and every time he’s beautiful. My fingertips wander over to the ink on his chest, tracing it, imprinting him yet again on me.

When he reaches for my sweater, I wag a finger, because I want something else. “Do you remember the time on the beach?”

He nods. “Of course.”

I slip my hands into his briefs and tug them off, whispering, “I want to watch you.”

“Watch me?”

The grin spreads across my face. “I want to see how you touch yourself. I want to know what it was like all those times you were thinking of me.”

He groans, pushing a hand roughly through his hair. “God, everything you say is so fucking sexy.”

“Is that a yes?”

He loops his arms around my neck. “Do you have any idea how badly I want to be inside you right now?” Before I can answer, he guides my hand to his cock, and wraps me around him. He’s so hard and hot, and he twitches against my palm as I stroke him. He closes his eyes and a ragged breath escapes him, as he lies back on the bed, his head hitting the pillow. “So fucking much.”

“So that’s a no, then?” I grip him harder, watching him squeeze his eyes shut as he rocks into me.

He shakes his head, then grasps my hand and stills me. When he opens his eyes, they are wild with lust. “I want what you want. But I would really like you to be naked while I do this,” he says.

I grin, and then clap twice. He rolls his eyes. “You just clapped because you’re going to watch me jerk off?”

“I did just clap because I’m going to watch you jerk off, and I can’t wait,” I say, as I stand and quickly strip. He arranges the pillows against the headboard, making a cushion for me.

“Lie down,” he tells me, and I do, resting my back against the pillows.

Then he kneels on the bed, reaches between his legs, and grasps his cock, his eyes on me the whole time. A rush of heat spreads through my body, sending the temperature in me soaring. The fire settles between my legs where I ache for him.

I watch as he strokes himself, mesmerized by how he handles himself more roughly than I do, tugging, gripping.

“This is how I was for six long months before I had you,” he rasps out. “Thinking of you like this. Naked in front of me.”

I lick my lips, my chest rising and falling. It’s such a private act I’m witnessing—him touching himself.

This isn’t the first time I’ve watched a man masturbate. One of my clients wanted me to praise his size as he jacked off. That did nothing for me, except feed my need for control.

But now, as I watch my husband breathing harder, gripping his steel length in his palm, up and down, fast, and now faster, control isn’t part of the equation anymore. My one-time pillars of manipulation and power have been checked out at the door.

His hand is a fist as he holds himself tighter. I’m honestly not sure who’s more turned on because I’m growing damper by the second as he tells me how he pictured me. “I’d do this and wish I was licking your breasts,” he says in between hard pants. “Making your nipples hard in my mouth.” I draw a quick breath as he narrates his solo flight. “Then your stomach. Down to your belly button, and then you’d spread your legs wide for me.”

Reflexively, I part my legs, my knees falling open. His eyes widen, and he stares between my legs. The heat of his gaze makes me hotter, wetter.

“Licking your pussy,” he says and I gasp when he says that word for the first time. But it doesn’t bother me, the crudeness, because this is him. This is how he talks. This is how he thinks of me. “Tasting how fucking wet you are.” His hand is moving faster, from the base to the head, over and over, his eyes locked on me. I can’t look away, nor do I want to, because I am privy to this intensely erotic act, to my husband pleasuring himself as he watches me, and all I’m doing is being. I’m lying naked in front of him, and that’s it; that’s enough for him.

But it’s not enough for me, because I’m ready to claw my way out of this desire inside me, this molten heat that ripples through my body as his grip on his cock tightens. And because I can’t help it, because I am comprised of nothing but lust and heat and wetness, I start to lift my hips, my body taking over, then I lower my hand between my legs, and I slide my fingers across myself.

“Oh, fuck,” he says as I open wider, rubbing myself where I am swollen and needy for touch. “You touching yourself is the fucking hottest thing I have ever seen.”

Then he shudders and comes in his hand. I bite my lip as I watch him finish, but I don’t stop moving, I don’t stop touching because I am so turned on, I think I may actually slide into another realm of pleasure, where touch and sensation and feelings is all there is. He heads to the bathroom, and I hear the water running, then him washing his hands. In seconds, he is back on the bed, crawling up to me. He presses his hands on the inside of my thighs and spreads me further, then buries his face between my legs, and I scream.

It feels so fucking good.

My head falls back, my shoulders sink, and my grip on reality loosens and falls to dust. He devours me with his mouth, those soft lips kissing me hard and greedily, his tongue lapping me up. He breaks apart for one brief second. “Come on me,” he says hungrily. “Come on my face, now.”

He returns to me, and licks and kisses until my hips shoot off the bed, and I am writhing and shouting his name, screaming out with pleasure that is consuming my whole fucking world. I shatter in a million beautiful pieces and ride this orgasm to the far end of the earth and back.

Then he’s hovering over me, his arms pinning me, his hard length between my legs. “I need to be inside you,” he says, his voice bordering on a growl. His green eyes are so dark, so intense. I’ve never seen him look like this before, like he’s going to take me.

“I want you inside me,” I say, and I’m still floating on my orgasm, as he enters me in one swift move, filling me completely.

“You are so hot and wet.”

“You got me this way,” I say, as I reach for his shoulders and pull him closer. I wrap my legs around his ass, opening myself up further to him, to take him in as far as he can go. He bends his head to my neck, burning a trail of kisses on my skin, making his way to my ear. “You’ve never been wetter. I could taste you all over me. I felt like I was fucking drinking you,” he whispers harshly, and his words send a fresh rush of heat through me. “I can feel it again. I can feel how hot you are around me. Like just now.”

“You can?”

He nods against my neck, pumping into me. “I love it so much. I love how turned on you get. You touching yourself was so fucking sexy.”

Grabbing his firm ass, I pull him deeper into me, his hard length rubbing against me where I want him the most. “Because I was watching you. That’s why I got so turned on,” I say.

“I told you, that’s why we’re perfect for each other. Because of this. Because of how we are together. Because of everything.”

I grapple at his back, his hips, clutching him, wanting to be closer than we’ve ever been before as he drives into me, so far, so deep, that neither one of us can speak anymore. Words don’t matter. All we can do is feel. I feel him so completely, so wholly that I’m not even sure when my climax begins because it feels like it’s been happening the entire time, as if I’ve been coming since he started touching himself, and now I’m coming again with him again, as we ride the intensity of our togetherness.