by Vi Keeland
“There’s something I want to tell you.”
Then I tell him all the things I never said to him when I was seventeen. His eyes widen with shock when he learns of the letter I received, then he drops his head into his hands when he hears that I kept it with me for years, in its own secret little chamber by my bed. He wraps an arm around me as I share how I felt about myself for all that time. He shakes his head over and over.
“I wish I’d known, Jill. I wish you’d let me help you get through all that.”
“I know. Me too.”
“But I’m here now. For whatever you need.”
“Thank you.”
“And I want to help you. I wasn’t able to be there when you went through it, but I think there’s one more thing you need to do. To finally put everything behind you.”
“What is it?”
“Sort of like a memorial. A ceremony. A last goodbye.”
“What do you mean?”
He tosses some cash on the table and hands me my coat. “You need to get rid of that letter. You need to stop holding on to it and set yourself free from the past. Set him free too,” he says, softening his tone on the last words.
I balk at the idea initially, as I stand up and slide my arms into my jacket. The letter is like a part of me; it’s been my weight, my debt. “I don’t know, Chris.”
But he nods, resolute with this plan. “Look, I know it seems scary. But it sounds like it’s been haunting you. You carried that letter, slept with it next to you. We need to say goodbye to Aaron and to all the guilt you carried around, okay?”
Haunting me.
He’s right. It has haunted me, and I know that this is how I can finally forgive myself.
* * *
Forty-five minutes later we are in our hometown, the borough of Brooklyn, and Chris is holding my hand as we walk across the cold grass in the cemetery where Aaron was buried. As the wind snaps cold air, I wrap my scarf tighter around my neck. Gravestones stretch far across the hills, row after row of markers, of memories. We find Aaron’s headstone, and I kneel down and trace the numbers of the year he died. My chest tightens, and my throat hitches, remembering the good times. I’m glad to see a bouquet of lilies on the ground that must have been left here a few days ago. From someone who still thinks of him. Still cares for him. I add another bouquet, this time leaving forget-me-nots. Because I don’t want to forget him, and I don’t want him to be forgotten, despite everything that went wrong.
“Goodbye, Aaron,” I say, my heart heavy, but this time for the right reasons. This time because I’m not hiding how I’m feeling.
Rising, I reach into my purse, find the letter and hand it to my brother. It feels like a strange part of me that I’m giving up, but I know I need to let go of those words that I carried around for years like a chain. Just like I had to say goodbye to my ideal of Patrick.
Chris opens a matchbox we picked up at a nearby deli. He flicks a match across the strip on the front, lighting it. Then he brings the small flame to the corner of the paper, and I watch, solemnly, as the paper curls into the orange light, turning black and becoming ash in my brother’s hand. When the flame reaches the final slip of white, Chris flicks his wrist, putting out the match. Then he dusts off the tiny bit of ash in his hands.
And I say a last goodbye to all that I held onto. To all that I don’t need anymore.
* * *
Later that day, we’re in Bryant Park watching some young guys scooter around the library steps when Chris turns to me. “So I have a favor to ask you now,” he begins.
“Sure.”
“McKenna’s joining me here later this week, so we can see your show on opening night. And this might be totally crazy and you can absolutely say no, but I have this idea of how I kinda want to ask her a big question.”
He shares his plan and my eyes go wide, and I punch him. But it’s a happy punch.
“Well, I happen to have an in with the director,” I say. “Let me see what I can do for you.”
Before we part, I reach into my purse and hand him a book. “I thought you might like this.”
“Yes! The new Carl Hiassen. Awesome!”
I smile, knowing the book has found its proper home.
Chapter 23
Jill
As the industrial elevator chugs upward, I watch the numbers on the dial trudge closer to his floor. With a loud groan, the elevator settles onto the fifth floor, and I am so jumpy inside that I think my internal organs are conducting an impromptu musical chairs. I’m a mix of nerves and excitement as the doors open and I step into a brightly lit hallway with four doors. Each loft must have its own corner view.
I knock on his door and ten seconds later he opens it, and I catch my breath. The ends of his hair are wet, as if he just stepped out of the shower, and he’s wearing a gray t-shirt that shows off his strong arms, and jeans that hang so delectably on his hips. His feet are bare. I’ve never seen him dressed so casually before, and it’s yet another look I want to add to the portfolio in my mind of my beautiful man.
“Hi.”
“Hi.” It’s only one word, only one syllable from him, but it is charged. We are both combustible right now.
I quickly scan his loft with its hardwood floors, wide, open spaces, exposed brick walls and windows everywhere. I want to explore every nook and cranny of his home, see what’s on the coffee table, and inside the fridge, but that can all wait, because he is all I want right now. “I’m dying to see where you live, but I can’t get past how hot you look right now,” I say.
Like I’m operating only on instinct, my hands hone in on his midsection, and I inhale sharply when I feel the outlines of his abs beneath his tee-shirt. I slide my hands under the cotton fabric, luxuriating in the feel of his firm stomach. He cups my face in his hands, and gives me a quick kiss. Then he pulls back. “So, the master bath has two vanities,” he says, as if he’s a realtor showing me around, then trails off, shutting the door behind us. “Fuck tours. I’ll show you around later.”
“I missed you today,” I whisper.
“You did?”
I nod. “I had a great time with Chris, but I really wanted to see you.”
“What am I going to do with this new you? This you who actually says what she feels?”
I freeze up for a moment. “Don’t tell me it was all about the chase?”
He shakes his head, then corrects me. “It was all about the prize. It was all about you. I wanted you from the second you stepped onto my stage. But I should be a gentleman and offer you a drink.”
“I don’t want a drink,” I say, and I tip my forehead to the open doorway that leads to his bedroom.
“As you wish,” he says, hungrily, as he takes my hand and leads me into his bedroom.
Though I’ve barely taken a minute to notice any other surroundings, I sure as hell notice the king-size bed, white comforter and chrome frame, and the huge window that runs floor to ceiling. I wish I could say I hope no one notices us, but I honestly don’t care who sees.
An iPod plays on the nightstand and I grin when I hear the music. “Madness” by Muse.
“Did you time that song to be playing for the moment you got me in your bedroom?”
“Maybe I did,” he says with a wink, and then stands back to rake his eyes over me, taking in my jeans and black sweater. I know they won’t be on me for long. His eyes are darker as he drinks me in, and I watch him as he reacts to me, his breathing intensifying and I haven’t even taken a thing off. I don’t think I’ll ever stop enjoying the way he looks at me, the way his eyes sear into me and he memorizes me with his heated gaze.
I want that from him. I want him to know every part of me by heart, and yet still want to discover me again and again. And I know he wants that too.
“I’m kind of nervous,” I admit in a soft voice, unsure where it’s coming from.
“Don’t be. You’re with me. I’ll always take care of you.” He steps forward, threading his fingers into my hair
. I close my eyes and lean into his hands, as he laces them through my long hair. Then he gives a quick gentle tug. I open my eyes, and there’s that mischievous expression on his face.
“You’re going to have those hands in my hair all night, aren’t you?”
“I’m going to have my hands everywhere on you.”
“You already have. I think it’s my turn to get my hands on you.”
I grab the hem of his t-shirt and pull up. He raises his arms, letting me take his shirt off. Sharp, hot tingles race through me as I run my palms over his toned shoulders, cut biceps, and his fabulous forearms that are strong from the workouts he does in his boxing gym. He’s such a fascinating man to me—he works in the arts, and he works out with a punching bag. I love the incongruities in him, how he can fit seamlessly in at an elegant reception and how he can hold his own in a rough and tumble world, too.
He draws in a deep breath and sighs as I traverse his muscles with my hands, learning how they feel, uncovering the ridges and hard planes of his body. Then my fingertips reach the waistband of his jeans, dancing around the edge, tapping out a fast rhythm of desire.
His breath quickens, he opens his eyes, grabs my hips hard, and slams me against him. “That’s enough playing around, Jill. I need to have you now. I’ve been a very patient man and have been waiting for you long enough.”
His eyes flash feral and wild, alive with a masculine power that makes me want to be overtaken. My body aches to be under him, to be filled by him.
He swivels me around, backs me up to the bed. My knees hit the edge and I sink down. He grabs the bottom of my sweater and yanks it off, then reaches around to unhook my bra in seconds flat. He stares hungrily at my breasts and my nipples harden from how he looks at my body like he wants to taste and lick and touch every inch of me. Then his hands are on my breasts, kneading them, squeezing them. He feathers his hands down my stomach, unzipping my jeans quickly and tugging them off as I kick off my short boots.
He places one hand on my belly, and pushes me down on the bed, then shakes his head appreciatively. “You on my bed. This I have wanted since I met you.”
“Really? Did you think about this when I first sang for you?” I scoot back and he climbs up, as if he’s prowling his way toward me. I love the way he talks to me during sex, how he’s always telling me what he wants to do, and I can’t resist going fishing for more of his sexy, dirty mouth. Because it’s yet another thing I’d never expect from him. And yet another thing I crave. Those filthy words from this classy man.
“No, back when I saw you in Les Mis, I imagined you completely naked in my bed and coming for me. Let’s make that happen.”
He tugs off my panties, and we’re still in this same uneven zone where I’m undressed and he’s only halfway there, but hell if I care, as he presses his hands on the inside of my thighs, spreads my legs wide open, and brings his lips to where I’m aching for him. One kiss, one lick, and I am inside out with pleasure. I arch my back, lifting my hips to his face, desperate, terribly desperate for more of him as he caresses me with his talented tongue. His lips are so soft and his tongue draws the most delirious lines across me so that my vision goes blurry with the exquisite pleasure surging through my body. I moan and pant and grab hard at his hair, and I can hear him groaning too as he tastes me, licks me, tortures me with that tongue that I want to feel all over me.
His hands grip my ass, and he tugs me even closer to his mouth, like he can’t get enough of me, and it’s so intimate and intense the way he devours me. I don’t need fingers this time, because with one more flick of his tongue against my throbbing center I am his, as the waves of pleasure ripple through me. I call out his name many times over, and I swear I dig my nails into his skull as I come hard and fast.
He layers kisses on my belly and my hips, and my legs are still trembling from the aftershocks. He travels up my body with his mouth, leaving a trail of kisses between my breasts and the hollow of my throat. He has the most satisfied look on his face. “You’re like a drug to me. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to get enough of my fix. I’m going to need more and more hits and even so I’ll only grow more addicted to you.”
“Good. I’ll be your enabler. I want you to be hooked,” I say, because I love these words, I love the reassurance.
Then he stands, and I push up on my elbows, watching as he unbuttons his jeans. My mouth is literally watering because I want him so badly. I want to see him in all his naked glory, and I watch him strip as if I have a front row seat to the best show in the house as he takes off his jeans. He’s wearing nothing but boxer briefs, and I crawl forward to the edge of the bed, kneel, and push them down.
His erection springs free, thick and hard and totally fucking beautiful. Heat surges through me and I run my teeth over my lips as I roam my eyes over him. Strong legs, smooth stomach, all those hard lines, leading to the V that draws me back down to what I want most. I take his cock in my hands, thrilled to be touching him without any limits now. He groans and grabs my hand, gripping me tighter around him, moving my palm up and down on his hard length.
“God, it feels so good to have you touching me,” he says in a hot, hungry voice because he’s held out for so long. His breathing shallows and he closes his eyes as he rocks into my hand. I don’t want to stop touching him, but the need to have him inside of me is so intense.
“I want you,” I whisper as I let go of him in my hands so I can have him between my legs. He inches me back on the bed, lowering himself onto me. I feel him hard against my thigh, and then his hand is on the back of my leg, opening me up, making room as he settles between my legs.
Holding his cock in one hand, he teases me with the head, rubbing himself against me, and I’m going to lose my mind if he doesn’t slide inside of me now.
“Please. I want you now,” I pant.
“Oh, you’re going to have me. You’re going to have all of me.”
And then he sinks into me. I inhale sharply as he fills me, and he stills. “Does it hurt?” he asks gently.
I nod against him, my hands around his strong, solid shoulders. “I’m just not used to this,” I admit.
“I know. I’ll be gentle.”
“You don’t like to be gentle.”
“I do with you. I’ll be gentle, or I’ll be rough. I’ll do it however you want or need.”
“I just need you.”
Then I breathe again, and he brings a hand down to my leg, hitching up my thigh and holding me in place like that, opening me up as he pulls back, then strokes into me again. Slow, gentle, gliding strokes. Filling me up, stretching me, and when he’s so far inside me he stops for a beat, brings his hand to my face and cups my chin, so I’m looking at him, so I have to look deep into his beautiful blue eyes because that’s what he wants. He wants to see all of me. To connect with me. To know me.
In all my fantasies, all my imaginary nights of pretending, I never really knew what I was missing. I never understood how out-of-sync my make believe life was from this real life, this possibility, from this phenomenally real moment with this man who makes me feel everything, who wants me to feel loved, and cherished, and desired.
“I know what you need right now,” he says, and the moment is no longer suspended as he buries himself in me again, and my back bows, inviting him to take me further, to guide my body to wherever he wants it, because he alone has the keys.
“What do I need right now?”
“Wrap your legs around my back as tight as you can. I want to go deeper into you, and I’m going to kiss your neck the way you want me to. Hard.”
I do as he says, opening myself even further for him as he thrusts into me. I hook my ankles around him, surrendering to him in that position, to however he wants to fuck me, to make love to me, to bring me to the far edge of pleasure and back again. He bends his head to my neck, kissing me there as he drives inside me again and again, and the feeling of completeness is so astonishing, that I’m both here and I’m lost in the waves of
sensation that flood through my veins, as pleasure spins wildly inside me.
“I have wanted you for so long. For so fucking long, and now I have you, and you are completely and absolutely mine,” he says with a low growl that somehow makes me hotter, and I didn’t think it was possible to feel any more desire than I do right now. But then he thrusts into me again as he reaches his hands into my hair, fisting a handful and tugging, like he’s always wanted to.
I arch into him, letting him know I want more.
He kisses me hard and hungry, his teeth nearly piercing the flesh on my neck, and I cry out from the sensation. It’s pleasure and just a touch of pain, but it’s a good pain. It’s a pain that surges through me, and reminds me that I’m alive, that I’m here, that I’m living every moment. Maybe that’s why he’s the one to bring me back to me. Because he never wanted a part of me. He wouldn’t take the half of me I was willing to give. He wanted all of me, only all of me, and now he has it.
“You have me. You have all of me. You’re the only one I want,” I say as I thread my hands into his soft hair. I know he knows this. I know he feels it. But I have to voice it. I have to say all these things out loud that I feel for him, because I don’t want to keep anything hidden anymore. I want the man I love to know that he’s the only one.
His body slides against mine, damp with perspiration, and I grab his shoulders, bringing him deeper, wanting all of him.
“Harder,” I whisper.
He groans loudly in answer then pumps faster, rougher, and I wish there were a mirror so I could watch us as he moves inside of me, my legs spread and clasped around him, his beautiful body surging into me, touching me deeper than I’ve ever felt. The world around us dissolves, and this is all there is, this closeness, this far edge of ecstasy. We are lost in each other, and there’s nowhere we’d rather be.
“You feel so good. So warm and tight around me. I love how hot you are for me. And I fucking love how there’s no one else but you and me, and I want to feel you coming while I’m inside you,” he says, and his words come out in a hot ragged rush, his breaths erratic, and the sounds thrill me. The sounds I’ve longed to hear. His grunts and thrusts that tell me he’s getting close. That he’s nearing the same place he’s brought me to so many times over.