Good enough. I greet him at the top of the stairs. He sets down the bags, reaches into one, and conjures a dozen autumn-colored roses, which he presents with a flourish. “For you, fair lady.”
When was the last time a man came courting with flowers? Years. Decades, even. Pretty sure Raul was the last. I accept the bouquet, moving in very close. Cavin takes the hint, tilting my chin so our eyes meet, and when I part my lips in clear invitation, there is no hesitation. This kiss is downpour on fallow ground. Satisfying. Liberating. Necessary. Longing threads my body, bold in its intensity, challenges all sense of caution. And that scares me. Fear wins out for the moment and I pull away, offer a gentle smile. “Wow.”
“Understatement.”
“I’d better go put these in water. Have a look around if you’d like, and then meet me in the kitchen.” I can feel him watching my uneven gait as I turn and walk away. Appreciating the sway of my hips, or assessing the state of my knee, I’m not sure. Maybe both.
I locate a vase and dig through a utility drawer to find a sharp pair of shears. Cavin finds me trimming the ends of the stems and arranging the roses to satisfy my sense of balance. “Stunning place, Tara. Did you do the decorating yourself?”
“Just me and a high-price designer. My ideas. His execution.”
“Excellent teamwork.” Cavin sniffs the steamy air. “Is that osso bucco?”
“It is. You’re not opposed to veal, are you?”
“Only when I see pictures of it on the hoof.” He places his bags on the counter, empties them. “I know you said you’ve got a great cellar, but I wasn’t sure if it includes Cristal, so I brought a couple of bottles, just in case. I think we need to toast the fledgling year. And, as promised, I also brought dessert. Hope you like cheesecake.”
It looks to be New York–style chocolate swirl. What’s not to like? “I adore cheesecake.” I finish the flowers, put them to one side, and go back to work on the polenta. “This will just take a few. Why don’t you chill the champagne and open that bottle of cab for now?” As he works the corkscrew, a question surfaces, and it’s one I need an answer to or I’ll be uncomfortable all evening. “Did you call and leave a voice mail right before you got here?”
“I did. Why?”
“The message popped up as from an unknown number.”
“Oh, right. I apologize. I’d been getting an inordinate number of spammy calls. I’d decided to change providers, anyway, so I went ahead and got a new number, and kept it unlisted. I’ll make sure you have the new one.”
“Do you have to inform your entire address book of the change? Sounds like a lot of work.”
He laughs. “My ‘entire address book’ isn’t that extensive, at least not when it comes to my private phone number. Hey, I don’t go giving it out to everyone, you know.”
“You gave it to me.”
I turn to face him and he hands me a glass of wine. “True. And that is rare.”
“Why, then? Why me?”
“You mean, besides the fact that you’re drop-dead beautiful, not to mention smart and witty?”
“You couldn’t have known all that when you gave me your card.”
Cavin shrugs. “Something told me I wouldn’t be sorry. So far, I’m anything but.” He lifts his glass. “Here’s to that little voice inside my head.”
We seal the toast with another kiss, even sexier than the last. I think I’m in trouble tonight. My favorite kind of trouble.
Dinner turns out perfectly—the polenta is fluffy, the meat tender, the veggies finished just right. And then, there’s the cheesecake, which Cavin picked up from one of my favorite bakeries. Cristal is an excellent accompaniment, its crisp bubbles the ideal foil for the weight of the dense dessert.
The only thing better is the conversation, which segues from talk of pastry chefs to art galleries to higher education. I mention Kayla’s aspirations, my ability to help.
“You wouldn’t happen to have any pull at the Athenian, would you?”
“You talked to the headmaster.”
“I did. He’s decidedly unhappy with my son, and it’s not just because of his dismal report card, or even his lack of ambition, which is truly mind-boggling. No, apparently someone hacked the school computers and changed a lot of grades. They can’t prove it was Eli, but there are rumors to that effect.”
“But he didn’t change his own grades?”
“No.”
“Then why bother?”
“Good question.”
“Even if it was him, it sounds like a harmless prank.”
“Prank, yes, and you or I might find it vaguely amusing. But the teachers who had to go back and re-create a semester’s worth of grades for fifty-some students didn’t think it was very funny.”
Good point. “I don’t suppose Eli has admitted responsibility?”
“Uh, no. And he didn’t look the slightest bit guilty when he denied knowing a thing about it. Of course, my son is a well-practiced liar.”
I think I’ll leave that one alone.
Cavin insists on doing the dishes. “You cooked. I’ll clean up. I want you to stay off that leg so you’ll be in good shape for the postdessert dessert.”
“I think I like the sound of that.”
Cavin is quick to finish in the kitchen. By the time I visit the bathroom, making sure my feminine hygiene will support what I hope is coming very soon, return to the living room to light the fire, and settle on the big sectional, he has not only loaded the dishwasher but also opened the second bottle of champagne.
He saunters into the living room, sets an ice bucket on the coffee table, then pours two tall flutes and offers one to me. “Happy New Year, beautiful lady.”
We clink glasses and he sits very close beside me, clothes, hair, and skin steeped in Italian zest. It’s a bigger turn-on than the champagne, honestly, something I don’t mention. I mean, eau d’osso bucco? Hardly an aphrodisiac to most, I’m sure. But personally, I want to lick him, forehead to foreskin. Hmm. Does he have a foreskin? Damn, now I’m wondering.
But I’ll allow him the first move. In some weird, recessed nook of my brain, this small gesture is an invitation to intimacy, and it’s been a very long time since I’ve welcomed that. A sliver of me is terrified. All the rest keeps whispering that if things don’t work out as expected, I’ve still got an extensive collection of vibrators. Orgasm for the sake of orgasm, however, becomes less and less a goal, and so does conquering a man simply for the sake of victory.
Does that mean I’m getting old?
Forged by Fire
Tempered by age, youth’s constant fire
burns down into quiet embers,
awaiting a sudden gust of desire,
longing only the heart remembers.
For the brazen heat of skin and flesh
burns down into quiet embers
’til circumstance and need enmesh,
one kiss and two hungry bodies cry out
for the brazen heat of skin and flesh,
no second thoughts, no hint of doubt,
desperate for the exquisite rain,
one kiss and two hungry bodies cry out.
Inferno ignites within passion’s refrain,
burns itself out and smolders, cinders,
desperate for the exquisite rain,
downpour only the cresting hinders.
Tempered by age, youth’s constant fire
burns itself out and smolders, cinders,
awaiting a sudden gust of desire.
Twenty-Two
We sip champagne and watch the fire, and I am hyperaware of the growing heat of his body through silk trousers and wool cardigan. As if to verify, he asks, “Mind if I take off my sweater? I’m getting a little warm.”
“Only a little?”
He stands, slips the sweater up over his head, and I marvel at the cut of his physique—not so much “built” but sensibly athletic. He skis, of course, and probably runs. But I don’t think he spends every off-hour
working out in a gym, which pleases me. I’ve kind of lost my taste for gyms.
Cavin notices me staring. “What?”
“Nothing. Just admiring.”
“I see. May I be direct?”
“Always.”
“I never want to assume, but I’m hoping you’ll want to share that master bedroom with me tonight. Is that a possibility?”
“No. It’s a probability, although I will need some help up the stairs.”
He nods. “I think I can arrange that. But first, I have to run down to my car. I packed a toothbrush, just in case.”
“Of course. The light switch is right there by the door. Please be sure to lock up behind you when you come back in.”
I watch him go and can’t help but notice the slow, sultry creep between my legs. The idea strikes that what one-night stands are missing is the tarried bloom of desire, no need to hurry toward a pleasure-soaked moment or two, and then hurry faster away. Cavin and I have all the time in the world.
He returns with a leather overnight bag, and that makes me smile. “Must be a very big toothbrush.”
“Not so big, really. But you should see the tube of toothpaste. Let me take the bag upstairs, and then I’ll come back for you. That is, if you’re ready.”
I’m more than ready. I just hope we can accomplish the ultimate goal with a limited number of positions. It’s pretty much the missionary. “Take your time. The master is at the far end of the hall.”
“What about the Cristal?”
“No need to let it go flat.”
“Copacetic.”
Copacetic. Excellent word.
He disappears through the bedroom stairs portal. I turn off the gas to the fireplace, ascertain that the sliding glass door is locked. I’ve never had an unwanted visitor come in this way, but it isn’t impossible. And lately the neighbor’s dog, who’s usually so quiet, has been barking at night. I’m probably just feeding my suspicion, but why take a chance?
My knee throbs insistently, doubtless from this morning’s workout, followed by a lot of time standing in the kitchen. I lift the hem of my plum knit skirt. The swelling has definitely increased. I’ve avoided the pharmaceuticals for several days, but this seems like the right time to ingest something heavier than ibuprofen. I pop one from a bottle stashed in a kitchen cupboard, chase it with Cristal. Bubbly and poppy, one crazy cocktail, and it’s starting to kick in right around the time Cavin returns, dressed down in flannel pants and a snug T-shirt. His hair is wet and smells like my favorite shampoo, even from here. So much for eau d’osso bucco.
“I took a quick shower. Hope you don’t mind. Between freeway driving and headmaster stress, I was smelling a bit too . . . masculine.”
“I thought you were going to say ‘Italian,’ which is the only thing I noticed. But you are always welcome to my hot water and soap.”
“Ready to go upstairs?”
“As ready as this knee will permit.”
“Never fear, fair lady!” He crosses the room in three long strides, scoops me up into his arms. “Prepare to conquer the stairs.”
“You’re not really considering carrying me, are you?”
“I think it’s the most efficient use of our time. Hold on tight.”
I wrap my arms around his neck, lay my head against his shoulder, hope for the best. He doesn’t falter as we ascend, and I’m reminded of a scene from a movie. “Just call me Scarlett O’Hara. You are a strong man, Rhett Butler.”
“ ’Twas nothing, my dear. And here we are.”
The room is dark, except for two lit candles, one on each of the end tables flanking the fainting couch. Cavin sits me gently there, beneath the big window. Outside, the winter moon finesses her light through the thin veneer of fog, casting an interesting sheen. It filters in through the plate glass, settles around me like a halo.
Cavin gives a low whistle. “Wow. I wish you could see how incredible you look right now. I’d take a picture, but I’d be afraid someone else might see it, and I want you all to myself.” He leans down, brings his mouth an inch away from mine, and looks into my eyes. “Champagne now, or after?”
“I’m not thirsty.”
“Good. Unbutton your blouse.”
His voice is husky, sexy as hell, and I like that he has taken charge. I comply with his request, one button at a time. He watches without moving until the deed is accomplished. Now he kneels in front of me, eyes even with my breasts, which he coaxes from the lacy confines of my bra. His fingers encircle my nipples, bring them taut against his lips and the tip of his tongue, just beyond.
He takes his time.
This is not what men do.
This is not what I do.
They hurry.
I hurry.
And then it’s over.
I realize, as he pulls away, stands, and begins a slow striptease, that my usual impatience for orgasm has not always served me well. My imagination did not sculpt him nearly well enough. He is lean but strong, and even in this mellow light, I can see his muscles work as he takes off his shirt, lays it over the back of the couch.
Cavin lifts me, carries me to the bed, and the kiss we share is filled with need, but also something else. My head spins with the word—promise. He perches me on the edge of the mattress, helps me out of my blouse and bra, pushes me onto my back to take off my skirt. Suddenly, I feel anxious about my imperfect body.
“Try not to look at my knee.”
“I’ve seen worse. Anyway, looking at it isn’t the issue. Not injuring it more critically is the challenge.” I hear his trousers unzip, wait as he puts them with his shirt. The floor creaks beneath his return, and now my panties slip down, drop to the floor. “Open your legs. I want to see what’s in between them.”
Can he tell how wet I am?
Cavin slides a hand up my left thigh, and now he can have no doubt how wet I am. “Holy hell, woman.” One finger. Two. Three, inside me. He thrusts and pulls.
Slowly.
Gently.
Faster.
Harder.
A moan escapes as I start to tense. But he stops, makes me wait. “Oh, no. Not yet. I’m not letting you off that easy.”
“You mean, getting me off?”
“That, either.”
He leans up over me, kisses me hard, then his mouth travels the length of my body, stopping to kiss less usual places—along my collarbone and inside the bend of my elbows. His tongue circles my nipples, traces the curve of my breasts, draws a thin line down my torso and over my belly button. Now he lowers his face.
Licks my right leg, from knee to thigh.
Licks my left leg, from knee to thigh.
By the time he arrives at the sweet spot in between, I’m shaking.
He pauses. “Are you cold?”
“Not even close.”
His tongue begins a relaxed upward roll, exploring the landscape of my womanhood. The pace of this lovemaking is completely unfamiliar, and it’s driving me toward total lust-fueled insanity. “Lie still,” he commands. “Don’t you dare come yet.”
“I’ll try.” It’s a throaty whisper. “But I’m more than ready for the rest.”
“I know. I just don’t want to hurt you.”
I think he’s talking about my knee, especially when he slides a pillow beneath it. But now he strips off his Jockeys. On that one-to-ten scale, he’s a definite nine, and fully erect. Length times girth equals what promises to be an unparalleled ride. It makes me want to be reckless.
“Can I ask you a personal question?”
He looks down at himself, then back at me. “At this point, I don’t see why not.”
“Are you STD-free?”
“I-I brought condoms.”
“That isn’t what I asked. I’ve never had an STD, and I can’t get pregnant. If you’re clean, and I’ll take your word for it, I’d rather you not use a condom.”
“I’m clean.”
“I thought so. Come here.”
It’s a very good
thing I’m this turned on. There’s a brilliant little bolt of pain.
Cavin stretches me to the max as he pushes inside, driving all the way against my G-spot, filling me completely. This is something I’ve never experienced.
“Are you okay?” he asks, and waits for me to say yes. The rocking begins.
He takes his time.
This is not what men do.
This is not what I do.
Except tonight.
Twenty-Three
It’s been a long time since I’ve shared my bed with a man overnight. I’m buzzed on pills and champagne, exhausted by two rounds of spectacular sex. But, unlike Cavin, who dozed off immediately, I can’t get to sleep right away. I lie here, cooling semen trickling down my thigh, listening to the deep, even breathing beside me. How reckless was I?
A doctor could have an STD and lie about it. But it doesn’t seem likely, at least not this doctor. I didn’t lie about being clean. However, I’m not positive about the pregnancy thing. I quit taking the pill years ago, when marital sex became infrequent, and those rare occasions never resulted in a baby. I’ve relied on condoms for intermittent liaisons, and remained herpes- and fetus-free. Should I worry now? At my age, is what’s left of my egg stash even viable?
Oh well, if things go wrong, there’s always abortion.
I slip out of bed, tiptoe to the bathroom, and douche away whatever seminal fluid is left inside me. Then I run a hot bath, soak for a while to relieve stress and stiffness. Good thing I took the heavier meds. Despite Cavin’s careful cushioning, my knee is definitely more swollen than it was before our marathon. By the time I dry off, I’m actually sleepy.
I go back to bed, finesse my way under the covers, naked skin still hot and scented vanilla-cedar. I turn on my side, face toward the window, and am slipping toward slumber when Cavin rolls over to spoon. I’m not sure if he’s half-awake or totally dreaming when he whispers, “Mm. You smell good.” It’s comforting.
I wake to sunlight throbbing in through the window. It disorients me. What time is it? Why does my head feel split open? Why am I naked and why . . . I reach behind me and my hand hits an empty pillow. “Cavin?”
But I’m alone.