It was the one-week anniversary of their New York piece hitting stands, and Jenna and Eric had celebrated by drinking his dad’s specialty, rum-spiked Caucasian Shakes, and having lazy, rainy day sex. Now, it was 2am, and they were lying in bed with their limbs intertwined, snacking on a jumbo bag of Skittles. Jenna was naked except for a pair of purple bikini panties. All Eric had on were the USC basketball shorts he kept at Jenna’s. Turner Movie Classics was on in the background, playing Hitchcock’s Psycho, but they were barely watching it. For different reasons, they’d both been on the quiet side all day.
Eric kept trying to make himself go to sleep, but every time he tried to relax, Brian’s Forbes.com quote screamed in his head. Whenever his eyes closed, he pictured an ecstatic Jenna riding the Central Park carousel with two flawlessly styled kids. Kids that weren’t his. Because, as his evil elf of a mother pointed out, he was just a kid, himself—and he’d never be able to give her what she wanted.
A part of him hoped Darcy had made that up. It was possible. She was so spiteful. His mother was a person who’d spent most of her life obsessing over imagined blows to the rep she’d fought for. Plotting payback.
And Eric wasn’t immune to her spite. When he was eleven and got detention for cursing at prep school, Darcy had her fearsome thug of a husband drive over Eric’s videocamera—back and forth, until it was dust—demolishing two years of footage. Eric was gutted, just like she intended him to be.
He actually prayed that this was one of those times.
“You know what I wish?” she asked, popping three yellow Skittles in her mouth.
“No, what?”
“I wish I could cut off your penis and carry it around with me in my purse.”
“You don’t even need the rest of me attached to it?” Eric knocked her foot with his. “Would you love me less if I had a really small one?”
“Sort of,” she said. “I read something awful in British Cosmo once, about a woman whose boyfriend had micro-penis syndrome? It was the size of a mushroom. He’d only have sex with her in the dark. Turns out, he’d been using a dildo on her for seven years and she had no idea.”
“But how could she not know?”
“There are some very real-feeling dildos.”
Then, they were silent for awhile, both lost in contemplative horror over micro-penis syndrome, the creeping suspense of Psycho—and in their own anxious thoughts.
“Eric, can I ask you something?”
He propped his head on his hand, looking down at her. “I don’t think dildos have any place in two-person sex. I’d feel so inadequate.”
“Do you ever think about our future?” She faced him.
“Oh. This conversation.” He poured the rest of the Skittles into his mouth, steeling himself for wherever this was going.
“We can’t sneak around like this forever,” she said. “As thrilled as I am about our New York article, it scared me, too. I mean, two more quotes declaring our appreciation for each other’s talent, and we might as well have posed naked. And speaking of that picture…”
“I know,” he groaned. “So obvious. But only to us. I doubt anyone else would think twice about it.”
“We should’ve been more careful,” said Jenna. “What if Darcy picked up on something? Getting away with this lie for seven months has made us lazy. And I hate that we even have to deal with this. The secrecy used to be exciting; now it’s just exhausting.”
“Agreed. So I’ll marry you and end it all.”
“You shouldn’t even be thinking about marriage. These are your hustle years.”
“You caught that, huh? Yes, I said that to the reporter, but I didn’t mean…”
“I know what you meant. And it makes sense for you.”
“You wouldn’t wait for me?”
“Would you want a forty-eight-year-old bride? And what if we wanted…”
A baby, thought Eric. Just say it. A baby.
“Wanted what?”
“Nothing.” Jenna said. “I just get scared sometimes. I love you in a really big way, and when I imagine our future, I don’t see how our paths match up.”
“I don’t know how it works, either. I just know I want you.” He traced the outside of her ear with his finger. “Lustily, repeatedly, and aggressively.”
She smiled.
“Yeah, we have epic issues,” he said. “But name a couple with a perfect relationship. Besides the Carters.”
“Jay and Bey? You think so?”
“They’re, like, the dream!”
“I adore them. But they’re in show business. It’s the Jay/Bey perfection machine. Their jobs are to project aspiration, sex, fairy tale domesticity. In real life, no couple is that flawless.”
“Damn. That’s black-sphemy, kid.”
Jenna laughed a little, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
“Please don’t stress about us,” said Eric.
“But what are we gonna do?” she whispered.
“Whatever we’re doing now is good enough for me,” he said. “It’s everything to me.”
“Me too. I live all week for this specific moment. You, with those abs, making bad puns. But when I think about our situation, I get anxious. It’s bizarre being a grown woman with a secret boyfriend.” She pushed her hair out of her face. “And in the back of my mind is this worry that I have you on borrowed time. Like, I should savor every moment because, given our ages, I don’t know how we’ll make it.”
She paused, folding and re-folding the Skittles bag into a tiny square.
“Gimme that, you’re making me nervous.” He took it and tossed it into the trash. “Of course we’ll make it. I’m yours. Where am I going?”
“I just want the full picture with you,” she said, distraught.
Eric knew what she was saying—and what she wasn’t saying. But he didn’t know how to assuage her fears when he didn’t have the answers, himself.
“Jenna,” he started, “my life is so up in the air. I have nowhere to live, no money. I don’t know what, or when, or how. But I do know who. With the utmost certainty, I know who.”
Jenna curled herself into him, squeezing him tight. “Me too. Nothing else makes sense.”
Eric could feel the tension in her body, the worry. And he was trying to stave off his own panic. There were too many elements out of his control. If that Suit couldn’t keep her, what made Eric think he could? Until that moment in Darcy’s office, Eric had been so confident in his place in Jenna’s life. All he’d felt was a visceral understanding that they belonged together. But now, he wondered why Jenna even bothered with him. And he felt ridiculous for being so sure of himself.
Eric had to fix this. And since he couldn’t change his age, or not be Darcy’s son, or be in a place to settle down—and since the idea of Jenna feeling one ounce of anxiety over him was agonizing—he did what he knew he was good at.
Eric held Jenna’s face in both hands and kissed her sweetly—shallowly at first, until she started to soften. He caressed her back and stroked her hair; kissing her more deeply until her skin flushed hot. Wanting him, Jenna reached for his waistband, but he caught her hand and held it beside her face on the pillow.
“You’re not allowed to do anything.”
“I just want you to feel.”
“But…”
“Shhh,” he whispered. “And don’t come until I’m inside you.” He traced the planes of her neck with his mouth and tongue, bringing his thigh up between her legs. Languidly, she ran her hands down his strong, beautiful back, loving the feeling of being crushed by him, practically purring under his kisses.
He licked his index finger and thumb, and then softly ran each nipple between them until they were puckered and tender. She squirmed beneath him, even the lightest touch flooding her with tingles. Then, cupping each of her handful-sized breasts, he sucked one leisurely, one then the other—like he had all time in the world, disregarding her soft whimpers.
Gripping his shoulders, Jenna arched her breast into his mouth and rubbed against his leg. Her breath was coming in short gasps, her cheeks were flushed bright crimson. She wanted him desperately, urgently, but Eric said no. From the first time they’d slept together, they established that whoever set the rules first, was boss.
Kissing her neck softly, he flattened his hand under her breast and caressed down along her stomach—passing over her panties, barely allowing the tips of his fingers to graze her—and then stroking down along her inner thigh and then back up again. He stroked her until she trembled in his arms, tormented.
“I can’t wait,” she breathed. “Please, I can’t.”
Eric slid two fingers inside of her and she arched her back, moaning. He plunged them into her three more times and then stopped, leaving her aching, throbbing. On the verge.
Then, with deliberate laziness, he left a trail of closed-mouth kisses down her stomach, stopping at the waistband of her panties. Slipping them off, he pushed her thighs back, opened her wide—and closed his mouth over her, sucking thoroughly, deliciously. Jenna gasped, balling the sheets into her fists. The sensation was so vivid that she instinctively tried to inch away.
“Who?”
“Too intense,” she panted. “Too intense…”
“Good,” he said, gripping her thighs firmly, making her take it. He buried his tongue inside her, massaging her clit with his thumb—and that’s when Jenna began to fall apart, shuddering uncontrollably, moaning his name. Only then did he cover her with his strong body, kiss her devouringly, and sink inside her. Eric knew she wanted it fast, but he fucked her slow—as slow and deep as he was kissing her—and his measured intensity knocked Jenna into a thundering, white-hot orgasm that seemed to emanate from everywhere at once. In that moment, the only sensation she felt, the only thought in her brain, the source of all the pleasure in the world, was Eric.
And when they both came back down, when Jenna was lying under him, quivering, her cheek pressed against his—Eric whispered, “Nothing else matters does it?”
Still inside of her, he thrust deeper one last time until their bodies were flush together, as if to punctuate the thought. And her nerve endings were so raw, so sensitive, that this sent another wave of electricity tearing through her. She cried out, clawing her fingernails into his back. Finally, she answered his question by shaking her head.
No. Nothing else matters.
When the tears came—inexplicable, frustrating, beyond her control—Eric kissed them away, and Jenna wrapped her arms and legs around him, anchoring his body to hers.
Like if she let go, he’d disappear.