Tear You Apart (19 page)

Chapter Thirty-Two

“You okay?” Naveen presses another drink into my hand.

It’s my third gin and tonic, and the first two went down like water. We had dinner at some bistro, and though I could tell Naveen was anxious for me to leave, his lovely lady friend was solicitous and generous and kind. I can see why he loves her. She is everything he always avoided in the past.

It’s been an hour and forty-five minutes.

Now we’ve moved to a club down the street. There’s an Irish pub on one side, where we are standing at the bar, with a dance floor through a set of arched doors, and a sports bar on the other side. You can move from one to the other, but Naveen’s itching to get out of here. I don’t blame him.

Another text pings through—Will, giving me the update on his travels, how close he is. How much longer it will be until he gets here. Naveen hasn’t asked me who it is or why I told him I’m not going home, but he won’t leave me here alone until he’s sure I’m okay.

Just got off the train. Cab. 15 min?

Everything inside me goes tight. I swallow the rest of my drink and put the empty glass on the bar. To Naveen I say, “You can go on. I’ll be okay.”

“Are you sure?” Francesca asks, looking around the bar. “Are you waiting for someone? Is...he...here?”

So delicate and appreciated, and we share a look that says she knows I know the truth, and appreciates my discretion, too. “Not yet.”

I hug Naveen. Kiss his cheek. Whisper in his ear, “Go, I’ll be fine. Go and have fun.”

He holds me close for a second or two longer than I intended, saying against my cheek, “Be careful, Betts.”

Funny advice, coming from him, and it makes me close my eyes and take a deep breath. I squeeze him hard before stepping back. “Go.”

Ten minutes pass. Another text from Will. He’s not quite sure where to go and the cabdriver has let him off down the street. I call him.

“Where are you?”

He names the corner of two streets a block or so away.

“Keep walking,” I tell him. “I’ll wait outside.”

South Street in Philly on a late July night is crazytown.
Throng
is a good word to describe it. I stand with my phone pressed to my ear and navigate him toward me while I search and search the crowd for the first glimpse of him. Unfamiliar faces pass me. I keep looking.

“I’m in front of a lingerie store,” Will says. “It has a gimp suit in the window.”

He’s close. “Keep coming. You’re one block away.”

I see him before he sees me. He’s looking, though. Scanning the crowd and the storefronts as he dodges and weaves through the foot traffic.

“I see you,” I say.

And then he sees me, too.

Recognition lights his face and he puts away the phone, tucking it into the pocket of his pants. Like Neo going after the Woman in Red in the
Matrix,
he battles the opposite-moving crowd, until at last, at last, Will is in front of me, and all I can do is stand there.

I want to kiss him, but there’s still a sting from this long month of nothing and waiting. I’m too proud, I guess. Or too determined not to get stung again. But still, he’s here. He came. No matter what happens after this, nothing else matters.

Will kisses me, hesitant.

“Kiss me harder,” I say against his mouth, and he does.

We pull apart.

Will opens his arms. “So. Now what?”

I look over my shoulder, then back at him. “Let’s go dancing.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

The room is lit in lines of blue and green, and though most of the rest of the club is jammed elbow to elbow, crotch to ass with strangers grinding and writhing, this room is much smaller and almost empty. At least this part is, the raised step with benches built in against the wall. I sit with a sigh, and Will sits next to me.

DJs don’t spin anymore—but I do. I spin even though I’m sitting, because Will’s thigh presses mine, the warmth of his calf rubs my bare skin, and he jiggles a little to the beat of an eighties classic. When the music changes, shifting into the familiar opening strains of Michael Jackson’s “Beat It,” he gives me a grin.

“Show me your sweet moves,” I say.

And he does.

Nobody’s ever danced for me that way before, all silly and goofy. It’s heart-stoppingly sexy because it’s not all smooth and concentrated, the way the guys in the corner are dancing, with the girls bending over to shove their asses into the guys’ crotches. Will just dances as if it doesn’t matter what he’s doing, and I watch with my smile growing wider and wider. I can’t stop smiling, and I clap my hands and bounce a little on the smooth vinyl bench.

And then, just then, in that moment with the lights that are blue and green and gold, and the music pumping, I know that I love him.

I am in love with him, and I think I’ve known that for a long time, but now I can’t stop myself from admitting it. I love the way he dances for me, trying to make me laugh, not caring if he looks a little like a fool. He is adorable and charming, and the breath leaves my lungs and my heart forgets to beat, moment after moment.

I love him.

I love him.

I love him.

You never fall in love with anyone the same way you fell in love with someone else. It’s always different, every time, if you’re lucky—or cursed—enough to have it happen more than once. But I’ve never been uncertain about love, not any of the times I found myself in it. Love is always real, even when it doesn’t last.

I love him, and I want this night to go on and on forever. I want this song to never end, but of course it has to, and he slides onto the bench beside me. He’s laughing, but I can’t find the air to laugh with him. All I can do is kiss him.

More slow kisses, feather brushes of lip on lip, the quick and furtive slip of his tongue inside my mouth.

“Kiss me harder,” I’d said earlier in the night, but this is not hard. It’s slow and sweet and soft, and I can’t get enough.

“Let’s get out of here,” Will says, linking his fingers in mine. The squeeze of his hand is perhaps meant to be casual, but there’s a weight of meaning in it.

“Yes,” I say. And again. “Yes, yes, yes.”

The alcohol didn’t intoxicate me. His mouth does. His hand on the small of my back, tugging at my dress to keep me from stepping into the street. The way he hails a cab and opens the door, waiting for me to slide inside before he gets in after me. The press of his knee on mine. I am drunk on Will.

The streetlights seem elongated and wavering, the view from the pilot’s seat of the
Millennium Falcon.
Traffic lights are a rainbow. The driver’s music is low and something foreign I don’t recognize, and he barely says a word to us, not even glancing in the rearview mirror. Maybe he’s had too many drunk and horny couples in the back of his cab and he knows better. More likely, he just doesn’t give a fuck beyond getting us to where we want to go. I give him the address of a hotel close to the train station, because it will be convenient for Will in the morning.

We don’t kiss or touch except for the inconsistent press of our calves, the occasional brush of our fingertips, each of our hands on top of our knees. Everything is surreal. Nothing seems right. Am I dreaming this? And if I am, I don’t want to wake up.

“Salvador Dali,” I murmur.

Will turns his head. “What?”

“Dali,” I say. “All of this...everything is like Dali. It’s all Dali.”

Will laughs and takes my hand as the cab slows in front of the hotel. “Melting clocks?”

“No.” I can’t explain it. I wave my free hand and turn to him. “Just that nothing seems real, that’s all. Why are you here?”

He leans close and kisses me, his reply too low for anyone but me to hear. “Because you wanted me to come.”

The cabby coughs then, expectant. Will pays him. We get out of the cab. The hotel is fancier than I remembered, not the sort that rents rooms by the hour, but they do accept cash and there is a room available. The elevator is the sort that requires the key before it will go beyond the lobby, and I fumble with it, though everything has begun shifting toward clarity. Will puts his hand over mine to guide the keycard into the slot.

“You have to slide it in slow,” I say, the words a giddy mouthful, tasting of caramel. “In and out.”

The hotel is old, the elevator ornate, with lots of brass. The light is warm and yellow and makes everything prettier than it ought to be. The door closes, and Will backs me up against the mirrored wall. I can see myself in the ceiling and over his shoulder.

His mouth is greedy on my neck, that sweet spot he always manages to find. His hands roam my body, never lingering, but managing to hit all the right places in just the right order. We’re on the tenth floor, and by the time the elevator stops again, he’s already got his hand up my skirt and his fingers inside me. Thank God there’s nobody waiting to get on when the doors open.

The room, as it turns out, is immense. There’s an alarm clock on the bedside table with a connector for my iPhone, which I plug in so I can put on some music. I set it to shuffle, and the first song that comes up is one we danced to earlier tonight. It’s like a sign.

Unbuttoning, unzipping, we move together. Beneath his striped shirt he wears a formfitting black T-shirt that makes me want to bite him. My dress slips off easily over my head. His pants end up somewhere on the floor.

The desk turns out to be the perfect height for me to sit on the edge, with Will between my legs. I pull him by the front of his T-shirt to get at his mouth, every kiss punctuated with my murmured plea. “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me....”

I’d let him take me there on the desk, but Will has other ideas. He breaks the kiss and steps away. He gives the bed a significant look that makes me laugh and also sets me on fire.

“What?” I tease. “You don’t want to just fuck me right here? Phew, I guess the shine is off the penny.”

“I want,” Will says slowly, “to make love to you on that giant bed. All night.”

His words dry my throat so that I have to swallow hard to find my own. “The night’s almost over already. We’d better hurry.”

“I’m not going to hurry. I’m going to take my time.”

We look at each other without saying anything, both of us smiling like idiots. My heart is so full I can’t believe it can possibly still beat without bursting right out of me. My desire for him is so fierce I’m afraid to stand, because I know my knees will be too weak to hold me, but there’s more than that. This great and bursting thing inside me is love.

“I want to take a shower, first.” Fucking on a desk without taking off all your clothes is one thing. Making love all night in a bed requires a whole different sort of preparation, and at the very least I want to rinse my mouth. I stand. Hold out my hand. “Come on. Let’s see if the shower’s as nice as the bed.”

It’s nicer, as it turns out. Marble tiles, detachable showerhead with different settings. Even a steam option. We look at each other.

“Wow,” Will says.

“Hey, when you ride with me, you ride in style.” I turn on the water, watching the steam wreathe the room for a minute. My head’s still spinny, but the Dali feeling’s gone. In its place is a hard-edged clarity, bright as diamonds.

This is happening.

Will reaches a hand over his shoulder to pull off his T-shirt, leaving him in gray boxer briefs. I’m still in bra and panties. I want to get on my knees in front of him. I want to lick him from his perfect feet all the way to his beautiful prick. I want to get my mouth on every part of him. A fuck noise slips out of me involuntarily, something hoarse and raw, and it makes him laugh.

With a deep breath, I strip out of my underwear and get under the water, which is so hot it stings, but feels so good at the same time. There’s plenty of room for both of us, especially when we move at the same time to pull each other close. Water makes us slippery, the shower gel I squeeze from the bottle even slicker. Suds tickle, the water cascades over us, and we’re kissing, kissing, kissing. His touch tickles. I could stay in here forever, but I keep thinking of that big bed and his promise to take his time.

The towels are thick and fluffy, as lovely as everything else in this room. One for him, two for me so I can rub my hair dry. It’s dripping and heavy over my shoulders, and I’m sure it looks like a wreck, but then he’s pulling down the comforter to expose the vast expanse of crisp white sheets, and laying me down on the bed. I no longer give one tiny fuck about my hair.

We tangle ourselves. Arms and legs. He kisses me with a hand rubbing just right between my legs, and I’m already so close I come like a strike of lightning.

Will groans at the pulse of my body around his fingers. He looks down at me, mouth wet, and smiles. I thread my fingers through his hair at the back of his neck and force myself to look at him even though the pleasure is so great it’s all I can do to keep my eyes open.

“I love watching you get turned on,” he says.

All the other times have been frantic and fast. But now he kisses me some more. Mouth, chin, jaw, throat. He moves his mouth over my breasts, taking his time with each one, all while his fingers keep their steady, circling pace on my clit. Over my ribs and my belly, and though I want to cringe, I refuse to do so. Back to my mouth for one more kiss, but then he pulls away.

“I want to watch you again.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” I say, a little breathless.

It’s hard, though. Letting go while he watches and I do nothing but let him build this pleasure inside me. The first orgasm was hard and sharp, and I’m not even sure I can come again. And of course, the more I think about it the more likely it is that I won’t.

But Will is patient, Will is kind, he’s generous. He nuzzles my neck while his fingers work their magic, and the feeling builds and grows until finally, at last, his name slips out of me on a sigh. When, blinking, I can focus on his face again, he looks serious.

“Elisabeth—”

All at once, I’m not ready to hear what he might say. Not if it’s anything like what I want to tell him, and not if it’s something else. I stop his words with a kiss, silencing the rush of the ocean even as the smell of salt and sand still lingers.

Fuck me, fuck me.
I’ve said it a hundred times to him if I’ve said it once, but that’s not what I say now, here on this great big bed with the clean white sheets. It’s not what I say when I’m finally naked with him.

“Make love to me.”

There are a whole bunch of positions in the Kama Sutra, but there’s a reason the missionary position is one of the most popular. He covers me with his body, fitting as if he was made for me. He shivers a little on that first thrust, the way he always does, and as always, I am charmed and thrilled and moved at how my body can make him feel so good.

It’s the longest we’ve ever taken. Slow motion. I wrap my arms and legs around him. We move together as the sun comes up and paints the room in another layer of light. Will buries his face against my neck and shudders against me, and all I can do is hold him as close as I can. I don’t ever want to let him go.

The music’s still playing through the alarm clock speakers, and I know I should roll over and turn it off, but I can’t rouse myself enough to do more than reach to turn the volume down. I haven’t been paying attention to what was playing, but now the simple sounds of a guitar and a man’s voice begin. I know the song, of course; I’m the one who downloaded it. But I haven’t listened to it in a while. He’s singing about letting the world fade away, about how only heartaches have given him sight, and I totally, completely and utterly understand exactly what he means.

“Will,” I murmur.

Will makes a sleepy mumble and turns to face me, pulling me close. “Hmm?”

I tell him everything. About the smell and taste and sound of his voice. The colors I see when he says my name. I’ve told him little things before, small details here and there, but this is the first time I’ve ever described this to him so honestly.

“You are my ocean,” I tell him, wishing for darkness that could make this easier to confess, but grateful the light allows me to see his face as I watch him understand what I’m trying to say.

He kisses my mouth. Pushes the hair from my face. “Not the mountains.”

He remembers.

We sleep, and I realize it only when the bed shifts and I startle awake. Will’s sitting on the edge of it, forearms on his knees, shoulders hunched as he scrubs at his face. When he pads naked into the bathroom, I take the time to finger-comb my hair. It’s still so early my brain refuses to admit I’m not asleep. I hear the toilet flush, then the rush of water in the sink. I need to pee.

We cross paths without saying anything, him back into the bedroom and me into the bathroom, where I close the door and take care of everything that needs taking care of. I find my bra and panties and put them on. I rinse my mouth at the sink, wishing for toothpaste. In the mirror, I check for raccoon eyes, but thanks to the miracle of modern cosmetics my waterproof mascara is still intact. There are circles under my eyes, though, from lack of sleep, and I splash my face carefully with water even though it won’t do any good.

Back in the bedroom, Will’s almost fully dressed. My heart pangs. I want to crawl back into bed with him and make the world fade away, but that’s not the way reality works.

“Hey,” he says. “I have to get going. I have some stuff I need to do today.”

“Of course. Sure. I should get home, too.” I pull on my dress and find a hair band in my purse to make some sort of order of my hair. He’s still standing there when I’m finished.