Undying Love (15 page)

“Baby, I need to get you to a hospital.”

Her body convulsed. “Please, no hospital. Please!”

The terror etched deep on her face forced me to give in. I wrapped her in a warm blanket and carried her downstairs to the car. In my haste, I knocked over the vase with flowers, and from the corner of my eye, I watched the water saturate my letter and wash my words away. Marcus leaped out of the vehicle, and quickly opened the rear passenger door. Like a stoic soldier, he helped me get her into the car.

“Where to, sir?”

“My place.” I didn’t have to tell him step on it. With a loud screech, the SUV peeled away from the curve.

I continued to hold Allee in my arms like a baby and held some bottled water to her lips. As parched as she was, it was effort for her to sip it. Her eyes blinked tears.

“Don’t cry, baby. It’s all right now.” I gently kissed her on the forehead.

“Oh, my Golden Boy, I don’t deserve you.”

“Shh.” I stroked her hair. “We’ll talk about it later.”

She closed her eyes as we got onto the Long Island Expressway and sped back into Manhattan.

I gazed at her. Even this shattered state, she was still so beautiful. So, so beautiful. My fingers traced the outline of her lush lips, moist from the water. Then gently, I pressed mine to them. I loved her more than ever.

God help fucking Sid.

SEVENTEEN

I
 immediately summoned our longtime family physician, Dr. Ned Goulding, to the loft. He was what is known as a concierge doctor—someone who, under our employ, made house calls at our disposal.

Dr. Goulding, with his medical bag, arrived within a half-hour. He was a short, scholarly-looking man with balding hair, wire-rimmed spectacles, and a warm twinkle in his forest-green eyes. He followed me upstairs to my bedroom. Allee was bundled up in my bed, under the covers, in a trance-like state. She looked so frail, so helpless. Sadness swept over me at the sight of her.

After carefully checking Allee over, he told me that she was badly bruised and in shock, but that she would be okay. There appeared to be no broken bones or head injury. The blood on her face was fortunately nothing more than a nosebleed, and the swelling of her eye would go away in a few days with the help of an icepack. He tactfully asked Allee if he could examine her privates. Allee weakly nodded. While he said there appeared to be no trauma there, he asked permission to swab her. Allee nodded again, tears brimming in her eyes. I knew why he was doing this; rage crescendoed in me at the thought of Sid violating my girl. Before leaving, he gave me a sedative to keep her calm and told me what she needed most was rest. Sensing my anxiousness, he swore he would keep everything confidential—even from my father.

After the good doctor left, Allee asked me to bathe her. Her voice was just above a whisper. I drew a hot bath and carried her to it. She wrapped her limp arms around me and leaned her head against my chest. I was worried about hurting her bruised body. I set her in the tub, supporting her with one arm. With a soapy sponge in the other, I skimmed over her bruises, hoping I was washing away her pain, and the memory of the scumbag who did this to her. Tears streamed from her eyes, even the one she could barely open, and a soft wail, like a siren, escaped her lips. Without warning, she slid under the water and stayed there. Holy fuck! She was drowning herself. Panicked, I fisted a clump of her long, thick hair to yank her out when her head torpedoed out of the sudsy water. She sucked in a large gulp of air and shook violently.

Perhaps, this was some form of cleansing for her. A washing away of the heartless fucks she wanted to leave behind.

“It’s over,” she said in hushed, monotone voice.

I hoped she meant the secret life she’d been leading, and not us. Seeing her so close to death, I knew I could never leave her, or bear to lose her. I lifted her out of the tub, swaddled her in a large fluffy towel like a baby, and carried her back to my bed, holding her close to me.

For the next few days, she never strayed from my bed. She was too weak, so I carried her everywhere, even to the bathroom. Mostly, she slept. I never left her side. I ordered in chicken soup from the Jewish deli down the street, and fed it to her in the intervals she was awake. Sometimes, nightmares woke her, and I’d be there to comfort her and hold her trembling body in my arms. I wanted to turn into a superhero and squash the demons that plagued her.

I passed the time by writing. I worked on some of the stories I had written and started a new one. My writing was improving by leaps and bounds. I was really getting into letting my senses and heart rule my words.
See and feel the scene, then write it.
Allee would be proud of me.

I let the Met know that Allee was sick but would be returning soon. Within twenty-four hours, Dr. Goulding called me with good news. She hadn’t been raped by Sid. That was a giant relief. And she was “clean.” No STD’s. Given that I had foolishly never used condoms with Allee, this was welcomed news as well.

By the end of the week, she was much stronger. She was sitting up in bed and eating on her own. Her appetite was coming back with the ferocity of an avalanche.

“Read me one of your stories,” she begged.

I hemmed and hawed, but finally gave in and read the one I was working on. It was an allegory about a pedigreed Labrador who falls in love with a street mutt on his daily walk.

“It’s about us.” Allee smiled.

My sheepish eyes gave it away.

“It’s so well-written, Madewell.”

I was glowing. A compliment from Allee!

“Do they get their happily ever after?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t gotten to the end.”

“Life has no outline, does it?”

Her profound words moved me. She was right, as always.

Over the course of the next two weeks, I learned more about Allee’s secret life and came away with a newfound respect for her. She had fallen into it by way of a classmate at Parsons who, too, used it as a means to pay for her tuition and expenses. Plus, for Allee, the money enabled her to keep her dream of going to Paris alive. Servicing her wealthy clients was demeaning, and sometimes dangerous and perverted. She had thought often about giving it up, even before she’d met me. But once she was into it, there was no getting out of it. Sid threatened to expose everything if she didn’t comply. When she told him she wanted out of the life, Sid went ballistic because she was his top earner. She was determined to give it up, regardless of the life-threatening consequences. She deliberately missed a client appointment and that night Sid forced himself into her apartment and beat her up to send her a message. My poor baby! The more I learned about Sid, the more I hated the son-of-a-bitch. I was going to do him in. The only problem was that she didn’t know where he lived. He was “invisible.”

We never talked about her sexploits. Or about my father. For all intents and purposes, he was dead. In my life, and I hoped Allee’s. My final encounter with my father nonetheless haunted me. I stayed away from the Upper East Side and his watering holes so that I wouldn’t run into him.

The night before Allee was planning to go back to work, I came home with a shopping bag in my hand. Inside were several small containers and chopsticks.

“Chinese food!” exclaimed Allee, her appetite voracious.

I laid them out in a row on the dining table. Wearing my pajamas that hung sexily low on her hips, she opened the cartons one at a time, in perfect order. Chow Mein… Moo Shu Pork… white rice… and…

Her engagement ring. A sweet, turn-of-the-century diamond ring that came from an estate in France, so unlike the over-the-top Tiffany ring Charlotte had picked out. Allee gasped.

“Oh, Madewell, it’s so beautiful!”
Like her
. Tears welled up in her loving eyes.

Before one escaped, I removed the delicate ring from the carton. I needed to propose to her again. To let go of the past and do it right. Getting down on one knee, I gazed up into her eyes and asked, “Will you, Allee Adair, accept my hand in marriage?”

“Oh, Madewell! Yes! Yes! Yes!” Her breathy rasp deepened each time she said the word. She was almost orgasmic.

Enamored and aroused, I slid the ring on her finger and then lifted her hand to my lips and kissed the back of it. A tear rolled down her cheek.

I could wait no more. The tantalizing aroma of the Chinese food wafted into my nose, but what I was starving for was my Allee. Rising to my feet, I tore off my jeans and tee and then her PJ’s. Her body had healed itself. Only a few traces of the bruises remained and she was a tad thin, but other than that, it was back to its former glory.

The sex that followed was beyond. Perhaps because we hadn’t made love for almost two weeks.

I lifted her right there onto the table, laying her face up. Her glorious hair fanned across the glossy wood.

“Are you hungry, baby?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said breathily.

With the chopsticks, I fed her a heaping portion of the Chow Mein. She swallowed hard.

A bit of it had fallen into her cleavage. Leaning over the table, I dipped my head and lapped up the noodles. My hands groped her sensuous breasts, and my mouth moved to her pink, puckered nipples. I rolled my tongue around them and then sucked them, feeling them harden and elongate in my mouth. Oh, man, were they delicious! My erection pressed against the table, a tingling running up and down it.

“Can I have some more?” she rasped.

“Of the Chow Mein?”

“No, Madewell. Of you.”

My stiff cock hardened even more at her words. I stood up. What a beautiful view I had of her quivering breasts and sensual face! I was going to watch her come. Drink in the expression on her face as I brought her to climax.

I began by fingering her clit, turning it into a hard nub. A long, pleasurable moan escaped her lush lips. Intermittently, I stroked her folds. She was wet with want. So, so deliciously wet. I sucked my fingers, glistening with her delicious juices, and, went back for more. Closing her eyes, she arched her head and moaned again.

“Open your eyes baby. Look at me.”

She fluttered her eyes open and met my gaze.

“You’re mine,” I said, looking straight into her eyes.

“Only yours,” she rasped back.

Yes, only mine
. No other man could touch her. Ever. Not even a dead one. Anchoring my hands onto the smooth wood of the table, I buried my head into that warm space between her inner thighs. My eager tongue devoured her, flicking and licking the sweet, moist folds. She was mine. All mine. I was never going to let any other man have her again.

I could wait no more. In a swift smooth move, I grabbed her by the ankles, slid her down to the edge of the table, and threw her legs over my shoulders. I reached for my erection and slid it into her pussy inch by thick inch. A bit of pre-cum and her slickness enabled it to glide inside with ease. Man, it felt good to be back inside her. She was so warm, wet, and tight. I started off slowly, with light, controlled strokes. I needed to know how much she could handle. The last thing I wanted was to hurt my baby.

“Go harder, Madewell,” she said in that throaty voice. “Harder and faster. I’m not going to break.”

A diabolical smile crossed my face. My girl was ready! I rammed my cock back into her drenched sex, amazed how deep I could penetrate her in this standing position. I picked up my pace and pumped harder. Intense, delectable pressure was building up along my shaft.

“Oh, oh, oh, oh!” she shrieked, meeting my every thrust.

“Am I hurting you, baby?” I asked, suddenly alarmed.

“You’re killing me.” But I could tell by her hooded eyes and parted lips that she was enjoying every minute as much as I was. I was hitting her magic spot, giving her extreme erogenous pleasure. My proud cock was screaming out, “Bull’s-eye” each time, getting ready to climax in her hot juices. I watched her face contort with pleasure as she let me pummel her. All the while, my middle finger never stopped working her clit. Adding to her erotic pleasure, my other hand tweaked her perfect nipples. Her moans grew louder. She was on the edge.

I began to feel her waves of ecstasy spread around my hard thickness, bringing me to the place I wanted—no, needed—to be. I screamed out her name as my cock blasted a hot rush of my release. My juices joined hers as she cried out with pure joy. I brushed away the strands of hair that had fallen into her face so that I could see it. So beautiful! So sexy! So mine! Our eyes met.

“I love you, Ryan Madewell IV.”

“I love you more.”

“You’re full of shit.”

As I fingered her one more time and made her cry out with yet another burst of pleasure, I thought to myself: No, I’m not.

EIGHTEEN

W
e got back into a routine, but it was slightly different than the one we had before the incident. I insisted that Marcus shadow Allee, just in case she ever ran into Sid again; he was lurking somewhere out there. Who knew what the lowlife was capable of? After insisting that she could take care of herself, Allee finally gave in. She was slowly learning that she couldn’t win every battle with me.

On weekdays, I walked Allee to the subway station with Marcus trailing close behind us. He traveled with her on the train to the Met every morning and back home in the evening. She still refused to take the Escalade to and from work.

After I would drop Allee off at the subway station, knowing that she would be safe under Marcus’s watchful eye (she didn’t know he carried a concealed weapon), I would go back to the loft to write. Allee couldn’t be more thrilled that I’d quit my
Arts & Smarts
job. She was proud of me. “That took balls, Madewell,” she had said.

I let Allee read everything I wrote. Most of the time, she loved what she read, but occasionally she told me it was crap. I could always count on her for brutal honesty, whether I liked it or not. She encouraged me to send my short stories to a couple of literary magazines. “You’re never going to be a professional writer if you don’t get published.” Allee, as usual, was right, but I was reluctant. I’ll admit it—I was afraid of rejection. I had never gotten rejected in my life, if you didn’t count my father’s dismissal or Charlotte’s breakup with me. I heard from my mother, who still called me regularly, that Charlotte had moved on to my old Andover classmate, Max Wentright III. His family had even more money than ours. I told my mother that he was perfect marriage material for Charlotte but not to bring up her name again. Fortunately, she knew better than to talk about my father. It was taboo.