The Starbucks in SoHo could have been a Starbucks in London, or anywhere. Only the distinctive yellow cabs winding their way down Spring Street gave Kyra a sense of place in Manhattan. The disorientation would go away with a good night’s rest, but jetlagged as she had been for the past three days, she still couldn’t sleep. A rattling hum vibrated beneath her feet. The sensation of the subway train passing beneath usually went unnoticed, but today it mirrored her nerves, agitating her further.
When Kyra thought back on the rest of the week in London with David her senses swirled with the scent of rain and musk, the feeling of hard thighs, flesh against flesh, and the sound of slapping bodies, his harsh breathing in her ear. The memories cut into the story as she wrote, tangling with objectivity like rumpled bed linens around lovers’ limbs.
At home, she’d transcribed their interview, picking up on every rustle, every change in intonation that she’d been too distracted to notice at the time. Yesterday, working from points she’d listed on paper, she’d used her laptop to construct the story, making changes on the screen and highlighting areas she could explore further.
Today, ensconced in the café with a cup of hazelnut coffee and a pear tartlet, she whiled away the afternoon alternately fussing with the opening slant and daydreaming about the tantalizing fullness of David’s lips. For the most part her work was finished, and all that remained was to show it to him. Just the thought sent her mind into a blind panic. What if he hated it? What if after he saw it he hated her?
She forced herself to breathe deeply and scrolled through her words once more. She had to think about this objectively. Somehow. The finished story was about two thousand words. If he didn’t cut much, it would be a hefty cover piece that would run well into the back pages. Just in case he pulled the plug after he saw the finished product, she had thrown together a shorter article on his music, merely hinting that the public would be pleasantly surprised by the new artistic direction he was taking.
The impersonal version had been fairly easy to write. As she’d worked on the real deal, however, she had stumbled over her words in a way she hadn’t done since she’d been in journalism school. Attempting to marry his present with his past had felt like flailing around in the dark. Really, what she needed was to talk to someone who knew him back then. Then she might know if she’d gotten it right.
Logging into one of the investigative databases she paid to have access to, she scrolled through information about his parents’ deaths. One tidbit had a link to a London Times article with a picture of the family taken several years before the incident.
In the picture were David’s mother, a pretty blonde with sad eyes, his father, whose round features and large nose reminded her nothing of his son, David, who even then had a guarded magnetism, and a young girl named Jennifer. His sister.
She must have been three or four in the photograph. David’s mother held her clutched to her in a way that seemed fierce or determined. Protective energy radiated from the set of her fingertips on Jenny’s arms.
Her fingers scrabbled across the keyboard, tripping over each other in her haste. He’d said she was here in New York. Two search strings later, she had Jenny’s photo in living color on the laptop’s LCD. Dark curls and brown eyes with gold flecks, a smattering of girlish freckles across her nose. Her features were pert, her eyes relaxed and filled with laughter as she posed for her graduation photo at New York University.
The whir of the latte machine was the perfect background accompaniment to Kyra’s churning thoughts. The journalist in her was dying to talk to this woman. The sensitive lover in her knew contacting Jenny was out of the question. There was no way she could invade David’s privacy in that way and still respect herself.
But what if he decides not to let us mention her in the article? Doesn’t Jenny have the right to know her brother?
She slapped the insidious, rationalizing thought away. No. She was not going to meddle where she hadn’t been invited. These were David’s decisions to make, not hers.
Her cell phone jangled on the table and she turned it over to look at the number. Her heart sank. Not David. Gil.
“Hey.”
He cut to the chase. “How’s the writing?”
She sighed into the phone.
“That good?”
“I think I have zero objectivity on this.”
“I need something for the editorial meeting tomorrow.”
“He has to sign off on whatever I write, so I put together a puff piece as backup,” she said, dragging and dropping the file into an email message as she spoke.
“Kyra, we need to fill a lot more space than that.” Gil’s tone was pleading.
“I warned you. He’s really on edge about this.”
She could almost see Gil running his hand through the bleached-blond spikes of his hair.
“I know, and I tried to postpone it until the next issue. Is there any way you can show it to him tonight so I can have it for the meeting tomorrow?”
Kyra glanced at her watch. It was 5:00 p.m. He’d only just landed at JFK around 2:00. It didn’t seem fair to shove this at him when he was so worn out. She knew she was being a horrible friend, but it was the thought of seeing David, not rescuing Gil, that compelled her.
“I’ll be seeing him tonight, but you might have to wait until morning if there are changes or if he wants more time to look at it,” she said, feeling like a mama bear protecting her cub.
“You’re right,” Gil snapped. “You have zero objectivity. This isn’t journalism, Kyra, it’s pandering.”
“You want the article?”
“Yes.”
“Then we do it his way,” she snarled, then grimaced at her tone. “Look, I’m sorry. It’s just, I promised, and once you see this you’ll know why I had to. Can you trust me for a little while longer?”
It was the closest she and Gil had ever come to having a fight, and she found she didn’t like the feeling at all. He was a good friend, as he’d proven by going to bat for her on this assignment.
“Yes, but you really only have until tomorrow morning. If I have to use this other thing…”
“I don’t think you will. I have to go if I’m going to get uptown in the rush. I’ll try to call you tonight,” she said, hoping to forestall another tongue lashing.
“Go,” he said, and she thumbed the off button on her phone.
Gathering up her things, she left to hail a taxi. They’d made it a block when it hit her that she was going to see David. Alone. Where he lived.
A rush of sensation radiated from her solar plexus, giving her a giddy feeling of pleasure she had been missing for over seventy-two hours. Showing him the story could wait until after she gave him a proper homecoming.
* * * * *
David rolled over and slapped his palm on the alarm. When it didn’t stop screaming at him he tried again. On the third stroke he realized it was his phone and clutched the offending device to his ear.
“What?” he snarled, and wondered if his head could feel any worse.
“Mr. Tallis? You have a guest.”
He pushed himself up on one elbow to look at the clock. 6:00 pm. He’d been asleep since 4:00. Two hours. Shit. He’d only intended to rest his eyes while he waited for Kyra. Now he’d be sleep-drugged when he saw her.
“Is it Ms. Martin?” he asked, and rubbed a hand over his eyes.
“Yes sir,” the co-op’s desk attendant said.
He smiled through the haze. “Send her up.”
The lights of the city to the south twinkled in the dusky light as he padded into the bathroom to rinse his face and brush his teeth.
He couldn’t wait to kiss her, taste her, and he was hard already. Thinking he knew where their greeting was headed, he rolled on a condom under his pajama bottoms before making his way into the living room.
It had only been a few days since they’d made love, yet each hour without her had grated. When they’d spoken last night the sound of her voice had made him ache for tonight when he could see her, touch her. Feel her beneath him.
The door chimed and his heartbeat kicked up a notch. He scarcely cared that the sensation made him feel like a seventeen-year-old with a crush.
Flinging open the door, he gathered her into his embrace before either of them had a chance to speak. The jeans and navy blue hoodie she wore were the most casual attire he’d seen on her, and he could only be grateful for the ease with which they came off.
Her lips tasted like spiced fruit, and the darting exploration of her tongue into his mouth told him she’d been having coffee, but underneath it all was her honeyed sweetness, and he drank it in.
The lace of her bra rubbed against his bare chest, making him acutely aware of the sensitive points of his nipples, and he tore off what remained of her clothing as she cupped him with her hand.
“Kyra,” he rasped and lifted her into his arms, intending to take her to the bedroom.
They didn’t make it any farther than the dining room table before she wrapped her legs around him, her heated core teasing against the pajama bottoms that separated them. Despite the fabric barrier, she managed to nestle the tip of him inside her with her insistent writhing.
The double constriction of his cock within her pussy and his garment had him flinging her back on the table with more force than a sane man would have used on a lady, but the act only seemed to drive her arousal higher. Lifting her legs, she rested her feet on his shoulders and worked him farther inside with a wriggle of her hips.
With her hair fanned about her, features pale yet brushed with a flush of color that set off her green eyes, she looked up at him. Her expression was one of open passion that made him loath to leave her for the time it took to tear off his pants.
Inch by exquisite inch he slid into her, gripping her hips to steady his sudden shaking and to guide his strokes. Whatever it was she did to him, it felt an awful lot like love, and the idea scared him to death.
As he pushed his cock into her, he watched the pink-tipped crests of her breasts shimmy from the movement, the flat plane of her stomach clenching with her need when he bumped his root against her swollen lips.
“So sweet,” he murmured and gasped when she tightened her muscles to milk him during his measured withdrawal.
Holding his gaze, she swirled her fingers around her nipples, giving them a pinch that had her back arching and his cock jerking in response. Sliding her palm down the milky landscape of her belly, she found her clit. He watched as she rubbed the proud nub and felt a flutter of sensation grip him in the velvet glove of her flesh as she cried out her hurried orgasm.
“Fuck me, David,” she gasped.
In response to her plea, he harnessed her hips in earnest and rode her at a bone-jarring pace. In fascination he watched her breasts dance in time to his movements, her head tossing back and forth on the glorious bed of her hair.
The angle of her hips facilitated his entry, allowing her to clench him fully with each short, deep stroke. He couldn’t remember when a woman had fit him so well. He wanted to come with her. Feel her pulsing around him when he spilled. He drove her hard with a bump and grind that had her hands flailing up to her hair and fluttering to the table over her head.
He was so close.
One more bump and a series of slick strokes before he slid his hand around her hip to mold the heel of his palm to her clit. As he fucked her, the motion jostled his hand against her, and her keening response was enough to send him over the edge.
He fought against closing his eyes, and a halo of light splintered his vision, surrounding her as he watched. She was so damn beautiful. He shuddered and pulled her legs around his waist, leaning over to help her up. She clung to him and he kissed her repeatedly.
“I need you,” he heard himself say over and over again.
She sobbed into his mouth in response, and he clutched her to him as if he could somehow meld them into one being.
Carrying her into the bedroom, he withdrew from her to lay her down on the bed before discarding the condom. At her whimper of protest he smoothed her hair back from her forehead and smiled down at her.
“Shh. Sleep.”
“I have to show you the article. Editorial meeting tomorrow,” she protested without much conviction.
Apparently she was as exhausted as he was. The dark circles under her eyes told him it was unlikely she’d slept much since they’d been apart.
He smiled and climbed into bed behind her. “I don’t need to see it. I trust you. Sleep now.”
When she tried to shift to face him, he spooned her against him more firmly and captured her legs with one of his own.
“Shh, now,” he repeated, his eyes closing as if they were lined with lead weights.
Drifting off, he smiled at the thought they had the whole day tomorrow to talk and make love. No obligations, no interviews, nothing but the opportunity to be two normal people doing normal things. It would be heaven on earth. Absolute bliss.