I stayed in Bailey Falls all day Sunday, and Sunday night as well. I’d planned to get back into the city and get some laundry done, see my parents, get some work done, see some friends, but man oh man, when a guy like Oscar looks at you from across the room, and wants to figure out exactly how many times he can make you come by his tongue alone . . . time tends to stand still.
So I took the early train Monday morning, raced to my apartment, threw on the first clean anything I could find in my closet, and made it to work only an hour late. Well. Ninety minutes.
I walked quickly into my office, keeping my head down to sneak in under the radar, but when my coworker Liz saw me, she shrieked, “It’s not an urban legend! Natalie has returned!”
So much for under the radar.
“Hey, Liz, how’s it going?” I replied, smiling and nodding and trying like hell to get into my office quickly. There was something stuck to my back that had been itching the entire way uptown, and I’d been scratching since Twenty-second Street. I slipped out of my jacket, tossed it across the back of my chair, and waved her in.
“You’ve been spending so much time on this account I feel like I never see you anymore,” Liz said, looking at me pointedly.
“I know, it’s been crazy! But the campaign is coming along really well. You know how it is, really want to capture the essence of the small town, blah blah blah.”
“Speaking of blah blah blah, I heard a rumor that one of the campaigns up for grabs today is Wool, that cute little shop over on Madison that sells those insanely expensive sweaters? If it happened to come to me, I wouldn’t be opposed to it, if you know what I’m saying . . .”
“Shop on Madison, shop on Madison, have I been there?” I asked, trying to picture which one she was talking about. Shops tended to open and close so quickly in Manhattan; no one could afford their rent very long if their store wasn’t performing almost immediately.
“Sure, sure, remember we went there right after it opened? You hit on the sales guy who tried to sell us woolen dickies and ended up meeting him for a drink that weekend?”
“The guy with the ears, right?” I dimly remembered riding a beautiful face with unfortunately large, floppy ears. I’d felt like I was on a ride at Disney World.
“Exactly, the guy with the ears. And his boss is the guy with the pitch, so when it comes up, if you could be looking in my direction, that’d be ever so groovy.” She blinked at me so innocently I couldn’t help but laugh.
“Ever so groovy?”
“Partridge Family marathon yesterday. I was this close to getting my hair feathered.”
“Jeez, I would have had to friend-divorce you—or at least take you to my salon. Which reminds me, I’m pretty sure I missed my last appointment with Roscoe.”
“Whoa, you missed an appointment with Roscoe? Hairstylist to the stars Roscoe?”
“That’s the one, and he gets pretty testy if you no-show on him. I’ve been avoiding my email all weekend; I just know I got one of those ‘sorry we missed you, but no one does this, so thin ice and all that’ emails,” I replied, scratching my back again. I did feel bad. Roscoe had been doing my hair for years, long before he became the stylist everyone was trying to get an appointment with. I also didn’t tell her that the appointment I’d missed had been the second in a row . . .
“I would kill for an appointment at his salon, and you’re blithely missing yours—what a life!” Liz said, shaking her head. “So, you’ll be on the lookout for that pitch today? Wool?”
“Why are you asking me? You know Dan decides that,” I said, twisting in my seat, trying to find the itch that just wouldn’t stop.
“Yeah, but you’re Dan today.”
“Pardon?” I asked, half listening to her as I grabbed a pen and tried to use that on my back.
“Dan is out sick, so you’re running the meeting today. Did you know that your dress is on inside out?”
“What are you talking about?”
“He sent an email last night saying that he’s out with the flu, and you’d be running things today and possibly tomorrow—”
The air left the room.
“He attached all the accounts for you to review—”
My entire body went rigid and cold.
“—and if you could make sure that Wool job goes to me, but don’t make it look like it was mine all along, you know, that’d be awesome . . .”
It was strange, being able to breathe with no air in the room. And I was breathing. Heavily.
“And you should fix your dress since the meeting’s in five minutes. See you in there . . . boss.” She winked and was gone.
No worries. No worries at all. I could cram a day’s worth of work reviewing these accounts into five minutes.
Actually, four. Because my dress is on inside out.
Bad week. Bad, bad, bad week.
Liz got the campaign she wanted, because I didn’t have a clue who else to give it to. I’d missed the email that Dan had sent the entire group, as well as missing the email that he’d sent just to me Sunday afternoon. In this age of smartphones and everywhere Wi-Fi, it simply wasn’t possible to lie to your boss about not getting an email. Unless you weren’t checking your email because you were too busy.
But when the tongue and the coming and then the fingers and the screaming and the oh my, that was unexpected but awesome, can you do that exactly the same way again . . . Things like phone chargers tend to go by the wayside.
So I refocused. I spent the week getting caught up on the work that was beginning to slip. Phone messages were falling through the cracks, my in-box was beyond full, and I might have missed a deadline on the T&T campaign.
Word got back to Dan that I’d been unprepared for the Monday meeting, and I had to sit in his office when he returned and listen to him artfully ask me questions designed to find out if anything was going on outside of the office that might be affecting what was going on inside of the office. Nothing had officially happened, except for one slightly late deadline. But I’d always delivered everything on time or early, and I was never behind on emails or phone calls. He seemed reassured—but there might’ve been a hint of What the hell is happening to my number-one account exec . . .
I buckled down, worked twelve-hour days, and by Friday I was back on top of the pile, work completed ahead of schedule. I hadn’t realized just how much I’d fallen behind, which for me was unheard of. Technically nothing was really late, because I routinely had my work done ahead of schedule. But for me, I felt very behind.
Oscar and I had been texting some throughout the week, in the few moments when I surfaced. I tried to keep my focus on work entirely, which was so hard to do when my mind kept flying up the Metro North to a town where leaves were crunchy underfoot, jack-o’-lanterns gave way to November pumpkin and squash arrangements, and my handsome farmer was sending me messages like:
I miss your mouth
I miss your taste
Get your great big comma ass back up here so I can bite it
Oscar was coming in for the whole weekend—a first! Technically he came into the city every Saturday—but this time he was spending the night.
Friday night I stayed at the office until nine thirty, then finally headed home. There was a new club opening that I’d RSVP’d to, and a birthday party being held at one of my favorite restaurants uptown. But by the time I climbed the subway steps, all I wanted to do was soak in a tub. And eat Malaysian takeout, which I did at eleven, while soaking in that tub.
The delivery boy said he’d missed me.
Saturday morning dawned clear and cold, the stiff wind making my coat swirl as I made my way down Fourteenth Street. I’d told Oscar I’d arrive early, and my feet burned to skip across the market when I caught sight of his booth.
Carefully carrying two coffees, I moved through the throngs of early marketers to cut in line at Bailey Falls Creamery, which was already about twenty deep.
As I searched for Oscar, nodding to the salesgirls I’d actually come to know by now, I felt my skin begin to tingle. I smiled even before I turned.
“Thought you were coming early,” a deep voice said.
“Oh, I came early. At home, in my bed, alone,” I purred. “You should have been there—I was magnificent.”
His eyes narrowed as he imagined exactly what I’d been up to this morning. It was true, too. I was wound so tightly in anticipation of seeing him I’d taken care of business twice before heading to the market. I needed to take the edge off, but it’d only made me more excited to see him. Even now, as he stepped closer to me, I could feel my body begin to hum at having him near.
“I believe it,” he whispered, leaning down to place his mouth next to my ear. “I came all over my hand this morning, thinking about seeing you today.”
I shivered. He quivered. And all around us, people waited to buy cheese.
The day was long, but fun. I stood behind the counter and helped him take and fill orders, listened to his regular clients sing his praises, and watched Oscar shake off the compliments as though they meant nothing. I’d come to realize that he was genuinely shy and reserved, which sometimes came across as . . . well . . . being an ass.
“You need to be nicer to your customers,” I whispered, after one particularly uncomfortable moment.
“I’m nice,” he insisted.
“You’re dismissive and rude,” I insisted back.
“I don’t want to get to know my customers. Why is that rude? They like my cheese; I like making it and taking their money,” he said, tugging on my apron string. Thank goodness he didn’t insist on the hairnets when at the market. “Where is it written that to sell cheese I also have to be best friends with everyone here?”
“It’s just good business, Oscar. Plus, you’re adorable when you smile.”
“I’m adorable?” he asked. Six foot six inches, covered in tattoos and scars, with hands as big as a boule and arms as big as tree trunks. And now with the same menacing look he used to give me when I’d approach him to buy his Brie.
“Yeah, you kind of are,” I grinned, tugging on his apron string.
Without meaning to, and most certainly without wanting to, he grinned back. Then he realized how adorable he might be, and away went the smile. He turned to the first person in line, an attractive woman in her fifties who was looking like she was shopping for more than Camembert. “What do you want?” he growled, and I had to turn away to stifle my laugh.
The woman looked head over heels. I knew the feeling.
I spent the day making change and wrapping up orders, chatting with the customers since Oscar wasn’t, asking them questions about what they liked and what they loved. Sort of informal market research. I went on a coffee run with him just before lunch, and found myself pressed against a giant bale of hay over by the free-trade sustainable green coffee roasting booth, getting felt up through my apron as he stole kisses.
When it was time for lunch, we headed down to the south end of the market to get sandwiches for everyone from the guys who owned the local salumeria. Salami, prosciutto, mortadella—they piled everything onto enormous sandwiches made with some of the best bread in town. As we waited for our Italians on French with everything, he slipped his arms around me from behind, under cover of my apron, leaned his head on my shoulder, and whispered filthy, naughty things into my ear as he slid one hand into my panties to find me wet and wanting.
I was so close I nearly let him get me off in front of a hundred hoagies.
And as the day wound down, I noticed that every time Oscar walked past me or reached around me to grab something, he made sure to grab something else. His hands rubbed my bottom every chance he got. I loved it. I may have even stuck my butt out on purpose to make sure it was in his way.
Finally the last customer paid for his cheese, the market was officially closed, and the stalls started coming down. Thank God, because the sexual tension that was pinging back and forth could have lit up an entire city block. It hadn’t gone unnoticed by his team, which could have been why they had the booth broken down and loaded onto the trucks in record time.
As we said good-bye to everyone, he took my hand, which was also lost on no one, and steered me in the direction of his truck.
“Today was fun,” I said, leaning into his arm. His hand was warm in mine, his fingers laced solidly through mine, his thumb tracing the inside of my palm. I knew these tracings. They were the same ones he drew on my back, or on my front, or on my thighs, or on my bum, before and after he loved on me. For someone who didn’t let a lot of people in, he seemed to love to touch and to be touched. I sighed contentedly, tucking my other hand into his arm, nuzzling his flannel shirt. He smelled clean and sweet, with a touch of barn and clover.
“Fun?” he asked. “You’ve been to the market before—every week, like clockwork.” He looked down, his eyes teasing.
“Damn straight. I had to get my Brie.”
He grinned, not buying it for a second. “Only the Brie, huh?”
“Certainly not for the conversation,” I replied, earning a swat on the butt.
“Thank God you did. Watching you walk away, and getting to see that sweet ass every week—mmm, woman, the thoughts you gave me.”
“Tell me,” I said, looking up at him.
“Tell you what?”
“What you thought about me, before we met.”
“You mean before you scared my cows and then attacked me in Leo’s barn?”
“Yes. Before the luckiest day of your life, what did you think of me when you saw me, stumbling and stammering each Saturday?” I stopped in the street, turning into him as throngs of people pushed past us like water breaking over a boulder.
“Well, you know I loved your ass,” he began.
I rolled my eyes. “It’s a great ass, a sweet ass, a beautifully perfect, great, big ass—this we know.” I slapped at his chest. “But did you think anything else?”
“I wondered what made you so nervous.”
“Maybe I was just the nervous type. Ever think of that?” I teased.
“No way. I watched you sail through the market each week like you fucking owned the place. You only got nervous when you got to my line.”
“Wait, what?”
“You don’t think I noticed you before you got in my line, Pinup?” he asked, sweeping a piece of hair back from my face. “Each week you’d come in from the east, buy your coffee, stop at a few other booths, and then you’d come see me. And you’d strut through the place like a peacock, tits up and out, secret smile on your face, knowing exactly what you looked like and enjoying the shit out of the attention.”
My mouth was hanging open.
“And then you’d come see me, and the swagger was gone, and you’d roll on those gorgeous ankles a little, and it was like you’d disappear. And I always wondered why.”
“Because you’re so beautiful,” I answered, slipping under that spell I always felt with him. I wasn’t tongue-tied anymore, but there was still something kind of magical about him that would never go away.
“You’re beautiful,” he countered—and just like that, his lips were on mine. Slow and sweet, he kissed me like we were in a meadow all alone, not a care in the world. When in truth, we were surrounded by hundreds of people on a crowded city street in Manhattan. People with shopping bags banging into my shins, tourists with camera phones pointed up crashed into us as they tried to capture their New York City experience. And people from the neighborhood, just out to enjoy their Saturday, were grumbling for us to get a room, take it inside.
But it didn’t matter. Because when that man kissed me, it was magic. And I was 100 percent under his spell. When he finally pulled his mouth away from mine, I could see how hungry he was.
“If we drive your truck, we’ll spend an hour looking for a parking space.”
“If we do it your way?”
“We’ll be home in ten minutes.”
He bent down and nipped my neck. “Ten minutes, then.”
I got him there in eight.
As soon as I closed the front door he pressed me up against it, holding me there with the strength of his body as he kissed me fast and furious. He bared my breasts quickly, ripping my shirt and scattering buttons. With his mouth closing around one nipple and his left hand teasing the other, his right hand unsnapped my jeans, tugged down the zipper, and shoved inside.
I’d been turned on all day and cried out at his touch, gasping when his fingers found me, stroking and petting, his thumb rubbing my clit and working two fingers inside me, already soaked. My back arched, trying to get closer to him, my hips riding his fingers.
Panting and chanting, I came hard and fast, my legs trapped inside my jeans, unable to do anything but ride the orgasm, totally at his mercy.
Before the first one ended, he was already chasing a second. Kneeling in front of me, he slipped my heels from my feet, pausing to admire the four inches of red leather Prada I’d been prancing around in all day.
“You wore these to tease me today, didn’t you? Don’t lie,” he chided, tugging my jeans over my hips, watching my breasts bounce, having been liberated from my white lace bra only moments earlier.
“I wore these for me. I love these shoes, and I love what happens to me when I wear them.”
“And what is that?” he asked, pulling my jeans off and sliding his hands up the inside of my thighs.
“When I wear shoes like this, I get fucked,” I whispered, trailing my fingers over my breasts, the tips still sensitive from his mouth and his teeth.
“And how do you like to get fucked?” he asked, slipping his hands underneath the bands on my hips, pulling my panties down along my legs, nuzzling the outline of where they had just been.
“Hard,” I moaned, as he kissed the soft mound just above my clit—his favorite pillow, he’d once told me. “And filthy.”
His lips found mine, spearing me with his tongue, licking and sucking, burying his face as my back arched once more. Lifting his head, he circled my clit with his tongue, still so sensitive but so receptive to everything he was doing. He knew my body like his own. “Tall ceilings.”
“What?” I panted, confusion clouding through the delicious things he was doing.
“You’ve got tall ceilings,” he told my skin, his hands sliding up the backs of my legs to grab my ass, pushing me harder into his face.
“Ten feet. They don’t make them like this . . . oh Christ . . . anymore,” I managed with a groan as he lifted his face once more. “Stop doing that! Get back down there.”
“Hold on to my shoulders,” he said, and before I knew what was happening, I was airborne. Oscar lifted me straight up into the air, pushed me up against the door once more, and wrapped my legs around his shoulders. Now, eye level with his favorite pillow, he grinned.
“Hold on to something,” he instructed.
My head was practically bumping the ceiling. As I scrambled to get my fingers latched on to the thick crown molding, he held me in place and fucked me with his tongue until I was shaking.
While I was seeing stars, he gave the insides of each of my thighs a bite, then slid me down his body, took us both to the floor, setting me on top of him, legs astride.
“Get my zipper, would you?” he asked, lying back with his arms tucked behind his head, a giant grin on his face.
“As you wish, Caveman,” I replied gleefully, unzipping and bringing him forth. He groaned as I stroked him, marveling once more at how perfect he was, how perfect he felt in my hands. I still felt a little dizzy, but he was so very hard and so very ready, and I really did deserve another . . .
I lifted up, positioned him at the center of the world, and sat down, hard. We both gasped, me from feeling him stretch me inside, so big, so thick, so exactly right. I lifted my hips just a little, squeezing him from inside as he hissed and I got to watch his eyes close in bliss.
He bit down on his lip, his hands squeezing my hips, urging me to move, to do something, anything. But still, I waited.
I wanted to move. He wanted me to move. And I waited. I waited until I was almost panting, almost out of breath from sheer want and need. And then I threw my head back and began to ride.
I rode him long and hard, exactly the way I wanted to. My hair had come unpinned, and it spread out all around me, hanging down long in the back, and I could feel it tickling my backside. Could he feel it? Could he feel it as it danced along his thighs, as I gave myself over to everything I was feeling, to that moment where everything boiled down to feeling him deep inside?
His hands were everywhere. On my hips, encouraging deep thrusts. On my breasts, rolling my nipples, cupping and kneading and mmm, pinching. On my ass, slapping and squeezing and grabbing handfuls of me, pushing me faster and faster, higher and higher.
His eyes wandered over my naked skin, thrilling to the sight of my breasts bouncing and my hands running lightly over my body.
And he smiled as I rode him. He told me how beautiful I was, how gorgeous I was, how good I tasted, and he used dirty, filthy words like those fucking tits and come all over my cock and that sweet cunt.
And when his thrusts came faster and harder, he guided my hands down to where we were joined and told me to touch myself, to make myself come just I had that morning, with my fingers imagining his cock.
And when I came, he came. Just like that.
“We missed dinner.”
“How’s that?”
I bumped my hips, causing him to lift his head from my tush. “We missed dinner—I had a reservation at Mateo’s.”
He looked at his watch. “How late are they open? We could run right now.” He laid his head back down, not motivated to move anywhere anytime soon.
I smiled at the sight of him, his head on one cheek and his hand rubbing the other. He really did love my bum. “You can’t just waltz into Mateo’s; their reservation list is a mile long. I made this weeks ago.”
“Weeks ago? We didn’t know each other weeks ago.”
“True, but I still made the reservation. It’s new, incredibly popular, and everyone is dying to eat there.”
He nibbled on my thigh. “So you were going to go to this place tonight even if I didn’t come into the city?”
“As you said, I didn’t know you weeks ago. Now that I do— Ow!” He’d bitten down a little too hard.
“Sorry,” he murmured, kissing the spot softly. “Doesn’t matter, take me somewhere else.”
“Where do you want to go?”
“Somewhere that tells me something about you.”
“Something about me, hmm?” I thought for a moment. “Oooh, dumpling crawl!”
I was up and off the floor in five seconds flat, leaving him naked and repeating the words dumpling crawl while I hauled ass to my bedroom to change into something warm. “Come on, get dressed!”
Moments later we were outside on the stoop waiting for the cab, and he was still trying to figure this out.
“I’ve heard of a pub crawl—anything like that?”
“It’s exactly the same, except it’s dumplings.”
“We’re crawling for dumplings?”
“Yes.”
“As in, chicken and?”
“As in dim sum.”
“What?”
“Oh just get your ass in the cab.” I pushed him into the waiting car and told the driver, “Canal and Eldridge.”
Seated in the back of the cab, Oscar glared at me. “You’re bossy.”
“And you love it. All cavemen secretly like to be told what to do now and then. And after these dumplings, you’ll do anything I say.”
“You sure are building up these dumplings.”
“By the end of the night, you will swear you have had the tastiest thing ever in your mouth. And that’s saying something, considering where your mouth was an hour ago.”
He snorted as the cabdriver tried to make eye contact with me through the mirror, and I stared him down.
Mateo’s would have been really nice: elegant and chic, incredible food and wine, likely even romantic. But with Oscar in my city for the first time, I realized a dumpling crawl through Chinatown was exactly right. It was a nice night; not so cold that we’d freeze walking through the streets, but chilly enough that I could break out my new Burberry. Once altered for my size, the claret-colored cashmere Chesterfield coat, with the single-breasted detail, was a lovely way to handle the chilly night in style.
Plus, the gorgeous man on my arm made the only shivers running up and down my spine purely sexual in nature. And now that we were in Chinatown, out and about with everyone else who’d had the same idea, I was glad we did this instead of dining at some expensive restaurant.
Normally I’m a big fan of the expensive and the fancy, but I loved me a dumpling. The cheaper the better, and I knew every nook and cranny in Chinatown.
“This place looks . . . wow,” Oscar said, shaking his head as we approached the first stop, Lucky Dumpling. Most of the stores were already shuttered for the night, but the lights and the line were humming at Lucky. “I wouldn’t have picked this place. It looks like—”
“A hole in the wall?” I steered him around a display of “Chanel” umbrellas. “It literally is. And you don’t ever want to see the alley.”
“So we’re here because . . . ?”
“Because of that.” I sighed as a couple passed by us, the guy balancing four containers of dumplings while the girl shoveled them into both of their mouths.
He looked skeptical, but when we got closer and saw how long the line was, he became more intrigued. And when I finally popped that first pork dumpling into his mouth, salty and crackly on the outside from the hot wok, soft and chewy on the inside, the first thing he asked was, “Did we get enough?”
Four dumplings for one dollar. We got enough.
We spent the evening crisscrossing the streets of Chinatown, popping in and out of noodle houses and dim sum palaces, cheap and cheaper, better and best. We sat at crowded tables with other diners, traded stories about where they’d been and where we should try next. He ate piles of handmade noodles at Lam Zhou, ate mountains of shrimp-and-chive dumplings at Tasty, and had a religious experience with a pork bun at Nice Green Bo. He tried soup dumplings for the first time, biting into the hot little pocket and sucking out the hot broth, dipping the rest in vinegar and pronouncing it the best thing he’d ever tasted.
Which was followed up quickly by a searing kiss and assuring me that it was just a figure of speech and that I was still the best thing he ever tasted.
Until the firecracker shrimp showed up.
Chinatown gained another convert that night, and we finally headed back to my place at midnight, full of amazing food and cheap beer, having spent less than fifty bucks between us.
Cheapest date in Manhattan.
“I think I’m overstuffed, and not in a good way,” I whined as we went up the steps. “I’ve got a food baby.” I rubbed my belly in soothing circles. “I wonder if you can do Lamaze breathing for too many dumplings.”
Oscar was also stuffed. I’d warned him to stop after that last bowl of noodles, but he’d ordered a second. Big guy, big appetite. But everyone had a limit, and we’d both officially passed ours. “I wonder if that breathing works on guys as well,” he groaned, patting his still-perfectly-flat belly.
“It couldn’t hurt.” I turned the key in my lock. “You want coffee?”
“I can’t ingest another ounce,” he said, helping me with my coat and hanging it up, and then his. “I’m glad I’ve got the kids taking care of the cows tomorrow morning. I’m in no shape to drive back tonight.”
“Good, then I get you all night to myself.” I tucked myself into his arms and let him hold me for a moment, swaying a little back and forth just inside my door. I was suddenly struck by the hominess of it, the comfort of having someone’s arms waiting there for you when you got home, with a quiet hello and an on-demand snuggle.
I snuggled deeper as he ran his hands up and down my back, soothing and sweet. I could hear his heart beating through his clothing. Thud thud. Thud thud. Thud thud.
“I’m officially old,” I said softly.
“How’s that?”
“I’ve got this beautiful man in my apartment, and all I want to do is hug him and fall asleep. We’re officially old people.”
“Speak for yourself, Pinup. I could be up for some banging.”
I snorted, lifting my head to see his tired face grinning down at me. “Up for some banging? You must write poetry when you’re not making cheese.”
He slowly moved his hips back and forth a few times, in the most pitiful way possible. “Okay, I give. Too many dumplings. Sleep now, bang later.”
“Poetry, I tell you. Sheer poetry,” I teased as we walked toward the bedroom, scooping up his duffel bag on the way.
“I’ll give you poetry,” he said as we moved through the apartment, turning off lights as went. “Roses are red—”
“Oh man.”
“Hush, I’m creating a masterpiece here,” he said, tucking his chin into my shoulder as we walked. His breath was warm against my ear, tickling pleasantly. “Roses are red, violets are blue. I’m too tired to bang, but that’s okay because she is, too.”
“Bra-vo.” I clapped.
“Quiet, there’s a second part. Roses are red, violets are blue . . .” We were in the bedroom by now, and with his hands on my hips he turned me around, his arms snaking around my body, pulling me snugly against him. Dropping a kiss on the tip of my nose, he continued. “. . . I made her come seven times before we went out to eat dumplings, so there’s that—and something that rhymes with blue.”
I smiled. “I can’t really argue with that.”
“You shouldn’t argue, it’s a poem.”
“It’s a great poem.”
“All great poems are based in truth.”
“Truth?”
“Seven times, Pinup.” He grinned proudly. “Seven times.”
I laughed, pushing him down onto the bed. “We’re going for eight next time.”
We undressed, brushed our teeth, climbed into bed, and fell asleep immediately.
Well, almost immediately. Twenty minutes after I fell asleep I was awakened by his grumbling about it being too loud, and how could anyone sleep in this damn city?
I rolled over, cued up the Sound of the Country app I’d downloaded in anticipation of this exact event, put in my earplugs, and let my guy fall asleep to the sound of freakin’ crickets . . . just like in the country.
Give me sirens, horns honking, and drunk people walking home any day of the week.
Dawn came early and swiftly. And so did I. Did you think he wasn’t going to go for eight? Oh my, yes he did, and before the sun was even fully up.
I could get used to getting up early on Sunday mornings if this was the wake-up call. My toes pointing and back arching, he thrust into me from behind, spreading me wide, stroking me with his fingers as he drove deep. He made me say his name over and over again, made me come over and over again, then finally collapsed against me, pulling me on top of him in a tangle of tired limbs and messy hair.
Afterward, he kept murmuring eight with a look of pure male satisfaction. Rolling my eyes, I snuggled back into his side to catch a few more z’s.
But by nine, he had to go. Football practice, he said, and with more kisses and a promise to spend the night again next weekend, he was gone. And I had a brunch to get to.
When I pushed open the door at my parents’ townhouse, Todd said, “Oh boy, are you in trouble.”
“Hello to you, too,” I replied with a frown. No Mom yet. No Dad. And . . . did I smell something burning? “How bad is it?”
“Four brunches in a fucking row?” He looked at me incredulously. “Did you suffer some kind of brain injury up there in the sticks?”
I sighed. “I’d better go ahead and get this over with.”
“One day when I have kids, I’ll tell them about their brave Aunt Natalie—the aunt they never got a chance to meet,” he said, taking my coat with all the ceremony of a general sending a soldier into a final battle.
As he walked away whistling taps, I faced the kitchen with foreboding. I’d broken the cardinal rule of this family, and not even my father was going to believe the brunch-skips were all work-related.
I took several steps forward, cocking my head and listening for signs of anything that could be taken as a good omen, that my parents were in a good mood this morning, and that other than some good-natured ribbing they’d be glad to see me, hand me a bagel and schmear and the lifestyle section of the Times, and everything would go back to normal.
Then I heard my mother tell my father that if he burned another bagel, she’d use the paring knife on something he really didn’t want unattached from his body.
Oh boy.
I stepped on a squeaky floorboard right outside the kitchen and then froze, wondering if they’d heard it.
My mother’s footsteps rang out across the kitchen floor, sounding like she was trying to crash her heel through to the cellar below. Each stride sounded familiar, and not in a good way. I knew the sound of those heels well.
She was wearing her Chanel pumps. Pumps reserved for serious moments, like when I’d been caught smoking in eighth grade and she was called to the headmaster’s office. Moments like when tenth-grade Todd and his twelfth-grade girlfriend got caught with their pants down in our attic, and my mother had the girl’s parents over to discuss why this could never happen again. Pumps reserved for board meetings, for social functions with people she didn’t like but was required to play nice with . . . and funerals.
The swinging door to the kitchen flew open, and there was my mother. Smiling. Which was the scariest part of all . . .
“Natalie, so nice of you to show up. Care to tell us all about this cheese maker you’ve been running around with?”
Here it comes . . .