Louder Than Love (11 page)

“Your mum never took you for tea at the Plaza?”

“No. She totally deprived me,” I said in mock sadness. “I don’t even know if they serve tea there anymore, do you? Hasn’t it changed hands a bunch of times?”

Adrian nodded. “I’ve heard talk about it turning into condos. That would be a shame if it were true. I took Natalie here for tea during her first trip to New York. She was three.”

“Let’s go in.”

“Really?” He let me take his hand, but he balked at the red carpet leading up to the stained glass and gilt entryway.

“Just to have a look,” I coaxed.

“Oh, all right.” We climbed the wide stairs along with a half dozen tourists and a random rich old broad, allowing ourselves to be swept into the opulence. I felt exactly the same way after finally stepping into Radio City Music Hall after years of merely hurrying by: in total awe. I took in the mosaic floor, the Italian marble of the concierge desk, and the chandeliers dripping their light, all with the wonder of a child.

Adrian, meanwhile, seemed to exude a strangely calm and familiar sort of comfort as he escorted me through. “That’s the Palm Court,” he said as we passed by the large potted palms and marble pillars. “And here is the Oak Bar.”

Like its name plainly described, the place was floor-to-ceiling wood panels and murky murals. The place was empty, other than a few men in suits seated at the bar, their martinis sweating expensively. The bartender looked up from the glass he was polishing and nodded to Adrian.

“Drink?” Adrian pulled out a heavy brown leather chair for me at a table near the windows. Central Park was still in full swing outside, but in the Oak Bar, time was standing still at a more gentile period. I half expected to see vintage cigar smoke still lingering around the sconces and Cary Grant to come gliding in.

“But we just had breakfast,” I halfheartedly protested. He sidled over to the bar and came back moments later with a screwdriver in one hand and a mimosa in the other.

“Breakfast drinks,” he explained. “Full of vitamin C.”

I laughed. “Do you always drink before noon?”

He stabbed at his drink with his stirrer. “It’s better than shooting smack, right?” He winked at me, but then fixed his attention on his stirrer once again. “Did you know at one point, women weren’t allowed in here? Certainly no unescorted women.” He watched as I sipped my fizzing beverage.

“Do you come here often?” I had to snicker because it sounded like a bad pickup line. He did, too. “You seem quite at home,” I observed.

“It was one of the last public places to smoke in Manhattan,” he offered as a way of explanation. Then he leaned across the table toward me. “You look really, really amazing, do you know that?” I blushed and he continued. “Completely beautiful. Every man in here is staring at you.”

“Probably because I am female and I don’t belong here,” I whispered.

“You belong just as much as that Pomona statue belongs in the fountain out there,” he argued. “You are like a goddess.” I didn’t know if it was the champagne bubbles or his words making my head giddy. “Thank you for meeting me today.”

“I was losing hope that you would ever call me,” I admitted.

Adrian sighed, knuckling his goatee. “I’ve been in the habit of denying myself for a while now. Retribution for my Bacchian days.” I raised an eyebrow at him to see if he would continue, but he only turned his gaze toward the gilded, coffered ceiling. I followed suit.

“What do you think people are doing up there?” I asked.

“Sleeping, fighting, shagging, dying . . . same as they are at the fleabag motel down the road.” His ice received another stab with the stirrer. “Doesn’t mean their lives are any better, just because they can afford to stay here.” His words caught and burned in his throat, like the vodka did. He cleared it. “What do you think they’re doing?”

I allowed myself a moment’s pause. “I’d like to think maybe somewhere up there, someone is putting the finishing touches on their manuscript, maybe the next great American novel . . . or taking their time making love for the first time in a golden bed.”

He dragged his stirrer along my wrist. “Your optimism is quite a turn-on,” he observed as I shivered in delight. Leaning over, he kissed the icy trail of alcohol.

“Mr. Singer-for-the-Children is not a glass-half-full kind of guy?”

“Hey, I sing about things for kids that are just as serious, as real as the heartbreaks adults feel. Whether it’s about your dog running away or your lover running off, it’s the same emotional center. It’s the same . . .
yearning
,” he pointed out, quite passionately.

Suddenly, I had grown weary of being out in public on a date. It shouldn’t have bothered me, since we were practically alone in the bar, being discreetly ignored, but I wanted to be with just Adrian. Just with him, no one else around.

“I want to be alone with you . . . to get away from all these businessmen ogling you,” he whispered, and the look on his face mirrored mine; our brainwaves didn’t need us to speak the rest. “I’ll be right back.”

I concentrated on draining my drink both for something to do and for courage. The bartender was preparing a bloody Mary and smiled at me as he garnished it with a plump pink shrimp. It made me think of Adrian, unresponsive in my car. My heart tripped in my chest, and I glanced at my watch. Twelve thirty. We had spent two solid hours in each other’s company. I still felt I had no clue who he was at all, but was so incredibly drawn to him. I wanted him back at my side; I wanted to know what our next adventure would be.

More minutes ticked by before he rushed in and grabbed my hand.

“Where are we going?”

“To jump in the fountain.”

We scurried out past the lobby. The emptiness of the corridors seemed surreal, like Times Square emptied out in preparation for a movie scene. I wondered if he had paid off the bellhop, the elevator operator, the concierge. No one was in sight as we hopped into the wood-paneled elevator, and with a satisfying sweep of the doors, we were finally alone.

“Adrian Graves, what have you done?” I giggled, pulling him toward me as we traveled upwards.

“I done rented us a room, darlin’.” He grinned, kissing me long and fierce. A strange thought suddenly occurred to me: Pete had been twenty-nine at our last kiss . . . I had skipped a whole decade and was now kissing a man in his forties. It was different, yet I refused to get sucked into fruitless comparisons. Adrian had worked his way down my neck and, as the elevator climbed, he dropped to his knees and put his mouth on the skirt of my dress. I felt his hot breath on me; it was wildly sexy. I frantically pulled him back up, literally popping the snaps on his shirt in the process, and we necked like a couple of teenagers until the door slid open with a sophisticated ding.

We half stumbled, half dragged each other down the corridor to our door, Adrian doing a stellar job of still being able to work the key as I kissed his neck and ran my hands over his firm backside. He lifted me up with one forearm under my bottom and the other arm supporting my neck, fingers tangled in my hair as he kissed me and slowly brought me into the room. I helped the best I could, kicking off my shoes, wrapping my legs around him, and leaning my heaving chest to his. His hand moved under me, grazing my panties, and he murmured, “Oh my, you are ready, aren’t you?”

“It’s been so long.” I sighed, letting him lay me down on what was, indeed, a golden bed. Stripes of teal and gold ran up the duvet, folded down midway to display a crisp plump white featherbed and a dozen decadent pillows waiting for us to crush.

“I have condoms,” I blurted. “In my purse.” Adrian’s face, just centimeters from mine, looked amused. “I got into town early. Killed time in Duane Reade. You know . . . gotta be a Girl Scout. Always prepared.”

“I thought Girl Scouts brought cookies,” he teased, lightly biting my left earlobe as I turned my head to locate my shoulder bag. Marissa always likened it to a clown car, impossibly tiny and yet stocked with an unlikely quantity of goods: juice boxes, baby wipes, animal crackers, book, umbrella. And now birth control.

“Ha ha,” I intoned, pouting in order to kiss the tip of his nose. “Not to spoil the moment, but perhaps we should discuss . . .”

He entwined his fingers through mine, pulling them up to his chest. “I’ve been tested regularly. Not recently, but I haven’t been with anyone in the last year. I’ve learned to be a good boy. Clean bill of health.” He kissed my knuckles and smiled. “Now then, luv . . . I’m happy you arrived prepared, but I’m in no hurry . . . I plan on enjoying you at a leisurely pace.”

The way he said that, all the while running his fingers still entwined through mine down the side of my face and over my lips, made me want to strip him down and have him right then and there. Instead, I breathed deeply, allowing myself to relish the feeling of his solid body straddling mine. We were still fully clothed, exploring with our eyes, our hands, our mouths. Drinking in and marveling at each other’s presence.

Adrian began to peel off my panties, never taking his eyes, or his lips, off my face. “I have to taste you” was all he whispered, and in a flash, I felt hands gently push my dress over my thighs, the softness of his hair as he ducked down, and then one amazing, rough stroke of his soul patch before he zeroed in on the spot deeply with his tongue. He lingered, he teased, and steadily began to increase the speed of his pleasuring. Gasping, I tried to go for longevity, but it was hopeless. My toes with their pretty paint job were curling against his shoulders, and the climax hit me sharply before rolling slowly up me in waves that left not only my lips but my fingertips buzzing and numb as well.

I could barely breathe as he kissed his way down one leg and up the other, taking a moment to unbutton the front of my dress and lightly tongue from my stomach up over my cleavage, bra still intact, and back to my neck as I rasped, “That. Was. Amazing.” Reaching down, I frantically unbuttoned his shorts and helped free him, all while kissing, nibbling, licking his ringed earlobe, his chin, his neck. His approval was apparent and rock-hard against me as I slowly began to make my way down.

“No, no, I won’t last a second, come ’ere,” he mumbled, and flipped me on top of him. My brain was starting to come back to earth as I leaned to kiss him, feeling him suck a breath of air as the heat of my skin burned through the thin cotton T he wore under his unsnapped shirt. I went to remove both, but again, he stopped me. “I have . . .” He reached up to touch my face, and I kissed each of his fingers. “Burns . . . some scars . . . I don’t want to scare you . . .”

“Do they hurt?” I whispered, lightly running my fingers down his biceps. I traced the inked outline of his Celtic cross with my nail.

“Nah. They’re just ugly. I want to keep this moment beautiful.” He smiled up at me, those eyes a gentle yet tormented rocking sea of blue, dark with desire. Without another word, I slowly pivoted my hips and began to gyrate against him in small circles, not taking my eyes off of his. He groaned, arching his back and aching to meet me. “Quick,” he breathed, “do me the honor . . .” He reached, grabbed, and tossed my purse onto the bed in one deft move. “Before I soil your dress, luv.”

Our ragged sighs echoed one another as our bodies finally locked. The pinnacle he had brought me to earlier allowed each thrust to induce multiple aftershocks deep within me, and I could tell he felt and enjoyed each one. “Oh, Kat,” he moaned, biting and twisting his bottom lip as he reached to pull me closer, deeper. Our breath and movements flowed evenly, measured, in unison. He brought his torso up to meet mine as he heaved, hands grasping at my bra straps, my curls, anything tangible to keep him from floating into the ether. I witnessed his face speak a thousand words as his lips just uttered one: my name again. He was all at once demonic, blissful, tortured, humble, and at peace.

“Why are you crying?” I whispered as we both collapsed into the ballooning channels of the featherbed.

“Only because you are,” he whispered back, wiping my cheek with his thumb and kissing the moisture left behind. I hadn’t even realized I was. “You all right?”

I nodded, letting myself be gathered into his arms for a moment. We were both spent and silent. My back was against him, and his wrists were clasped under my breasts. I studied them, marveling at their sinewy detail, their delicate veins. His hands leisurely rubbed my ribs as if strumming his guitar. “I should get rid of the rain gear.”

He was up swiftly, walking bare-assed to the bathroom and whistling a dead accurate intro to the Violent Femmes’ “Blister in the Sun.” He grabbed his underwear in a smooth move along the way. I wrapped my arms around the area that his had just vacated, a smile breaking through on my lips. Now where the heck had my panties gone? I popped up and peeked around, finally locating them under his cargo shorts on the floor. I pulled them on, entertaining the notion that I could retain a modicum of mystery after he had been all over me. Then I paused to take stock of the room for the first time. Decent size for Manhattan, tastefully decorated. A bit too stuffy beaux-arts style for me. I had been in a few luxury hotels, none as famous as the Plaza, but ones that certainly had rooms that compared. The big showstoppers here were the windows, each as large as a pool table and faced out over the northeast view of Central Park. Not too shabby at all.

Adrian returned, now wearing his black boxer-briefs and fishing in his shirt pocket again for his cigarettes. “Will you look at that!” He leaned over the bed so I could inspect the pack. All had broken during our frolicking, save one.

“I’m sorry,” I managed, reddening.

“Don’t be.” He kissed my shoulder. “I’ve been meaning to cut down.” I wanted to pull him back into bed, but respected his need for nicotine. Besides, I didn’t have the energy.

“How’s the view?” I asked, sinking into the crisp sheets and plush down. He struggled with the window and positioned himself so he could lean and flick ashes between the bars of the Juliet balcony.

“Meh. About sixty blocks of trees, lakes. You know. Not bad,” he wisecracked, looking back at me over his shoulder. “But pale compared to the view I see right now.”