Chapter 19
Jill
When I first saw Patrick perform in Guys and Dolls, it was exactly six months after Aaron’s final letter. Six months after his death. Six months of nothing but my own unflinching blackness, my relentless disgust over what I’d done. After he died, I made it through each day by going through the motions. By waking up and running. By going to school and running. By eating dinner and running. I’m sure my family thought they knew why I was wrecked. But they didn’t know the half of it. I mastered running when I was younger, and it was because I tried to run off all the things I could have done differently. To run away from the things I couldn’t stop.
But then I made a choice. To keep going. To keep living. To move forward. And I did it when I saw Guys and Dolls. Maybe it’s weird in some ways that a musical would jolt me out of the pain. But maybe it’s not weird, because theater was always my true heart, my unfettered joy that couldn’t be touched by anyone. That could never be tainted, never be harmed. There I was, at the Gershwin Theater in the balcony, and the overture began, and I was transported, out of my world, and into a better one. The kind that only illusion, only artifice can bring. It wasn’t so much the role that Patrick played, but it was how he’d done it. How he took over, saving the show on such short notice. From his golden boy looks, to his save-the-day talent, I imagined him to be everything I ever wanted, and when he stepped onto the stage after only forty-eight hours of rehearsal, seamlessly becoming someone else as I so longed to do, I suspended disbelief. Because I needed something desperately. I needed something that was pure joy, pure goodness in my life, something I couldn’t ruin. So I latched onto him. To the possibility of a love that wouldn’t wound me, consume me, and ruin me.
More importantly, the kind of love that wouldn’t ruin someone else.
Love without pain. Love without fear. The kind that only exists from afar.
I held onto him for the next six years. He became the brace that stabilized my foundation for all that time. Because I suspended disbelief not only for one night at the theater, but for the next six years of my life. Then when I met him, he seemed to be everything I always thought he would be—kind, nurturing, and most of all, so very happy.
Now I no longer need him. So I don’t even look at Aaron’s letter when I return from my run the next morning, get ready for rehearsal and head to the theater. I don’t look at his last note to me because I don’t need to put my finger in the flame any more. I simply march forward.
Even though my feet feel like cinder blocks when I reach the stage door. My stomach twists with nerves as I walk up the steps, because I’m ending six years of imaginary love. But it’s just the fear of letting go of my crutch. Of stepping out on my two feet again, and learning how to walk without help.
Somehow I make it down the carpeted hallway and stop in front of his dressing room. The door is ajar, and I hear music playing. The Black-Eyed Peas “I Gotta Feeling.” My lips curve into a closed-mouth grin, because this is Patrick. He’s the happy guy. He needs to be in a good mood all the time, and he’s listening to one of the poppiest numbers in recent years to get himself there.
Just do it.
I take a deep breath and knock. He leans back, taps out a few beats on the wooden arms of the chair, and waves me in. “Jill! Come in.”
I try to excise the feeling of walking the plank. But this is Patrick. Patrick won’t hurt. Patrick won’t be ruined. We only went out twice.
“Hi Patrick. I wanted to thank you for the book, and the bowling, and the mini golf invitation,” I say quickly, the words piling up. I remind myself to breathe, to slow down. “But I can’t go to mini golf or anything else.”
He tilts his head to the side, his golden-brown eyes casting me a curious look. As if my no doesn’t compute. “Bummer. I was looking forward to it. We could have had such fun.”
“I know,” I say, and my heart hurts to have to say goodbye to whatever this might have been. But this was only ever some sort of hero worship on my part. “I had a great time with you. And I know I’d still have a great time with you. But I started seeing someone, and so I probably shouldn’t hang out like we’ve been doing.”
“Oh.” He looks perturbed at first. I don’t think he’s used to being turned down. “But I hope we can still be friends,” I add quickly because that’s what you’re supposed to say.
But then he snaps his fingers, and points at me. “You know, I’m not surprised. You’ve kind of had this happy glow about you.” He reaches for me, and with a soft touch, squeezes my hand. It’s such a friendly gesture, and that’s all. “And Jill, of course we’ll be friends. Because that’s how we’ll have a great show, right?”
Right.
That’s all we were. Even if I thought there was something more brewing, maybe being friends simply made him happy. Maybe I was a means to an end too. Yet another cog in the machinery that makes Patrick tick at that cheerful, chipper level he so desperately needs to perform. And maybe I’ll never know if there could have been more. I’ll have to be okay with that.
Patrick was my shield. My bulletproof vest is gone now, and I need to learn to live without it.
* * *
The cream-colored box from Neiman Marcus is so stunning that I don’t want to ruin the beautifully tied bow by opening it. But I’m the kid at Christmas, and I’m dying to know what he picked out. I tug on one end of the gold-trimmed bow, undoing the knot and tossing it on my couch. Excitement races through me as I wiggle off the top, then unfold the tissue paper carefully.
I gasp, and bring my hand to my mouth.
“Oh my God,” I say out loud.
I’m home alone, and am grateful because I need to have a moment with this dress. I lift it up, reverently, because I’ve never had a dress like this, and then I stand, and hold it against me, running my hand along the sapphire fabric, savoring the hourglass shape. I’m about to go check it out in the mirror on my closet door, when I see a note in the box. Gingerly, I lay the dress down in the box, then reach for the note. It’s on stiff cardboard and I open it. Butterflies make a quick visit to my belly, but I shoo them away. I want to know what he’s written. I’ve never had so much as a text message from him, so I don’t know what to expect.
For the most beautiful and captivating woman I know. And hope to know.
Davis
My heart leaps to my throat, and all my instincts tell me to shut it down. To run. To act. A million malformed ideas invade my brain on how to pretend, avoid, hide. My heart is beating rapidly, knocking hard against my chest like it wants so desperately to escape, to stop the flood of feelings this note has unleashed.
But then I flash onto the show I’m doing in one more week. Onto the role I’ll be ready to step into at a moment’s notice. Into Ava. I picture the moments when she lets Paolo in. I see the scenes play out in my mind when she finally can move past the physical and accept all that he wants from her—for her art, for her love.
I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and remind myself that I am like her. That she is strong. That she is brave. That she is more than the damage she’s done. I open my eyes, run my fingers over his words then tuck the note safely into my purse. This note won’t be locked away. This note will stay with me.
* * *
I gather a small section of the fabric on the skirt as I walk up the red-carpeted steps of the Plaza Hotel on Friday night. I’m in shoes my size. Shoes I bought for myself—my own Louboutins. I wanted to have something I chose for me, even though I can’t fault Davis for his taste. It’s impeccable.
A man in a black jacket with gold piping stands elegantly by the roman columns, then quickly reaches for the door and opens it for us with a grand gesture.
Shelby and I walk inside the luxury hotel and I’m immediately assaulted with images of Eloise, and The Great Gatsby and the history of this icon of New York City. I imagine all the other men and women, in evening dresses and tuxes, who’ve walked through this lobby as we do, across the polished tiles on the floor, the red leaf pattern on the carpet, and through the French doors of the Palm Court to the Terrace Room just beyond.
An attendant takes our coats, and Shelby gives me another once-over, shaking her head in admiration.
“If I had your body I’d wear a Herve Leger form-fitting bandage dress too,” she says.
“Oh stop. You have a perfect body. You’re a Broadway baby, just like me. We have to look good,” I say playfully.
Naturally, Shelby begins humming Lullaby of Broadway, and I join in, but then our little rendition fades out as we head into Terrace Room. I’ve been to The Plaza. I’ve had high tea in the Palm Court. I even stayed in this hotel one night with my mom when we went on a shopping trip when I was a little girl. But I’ve never entered this room as a guest at a formal event, and the word awestruck takes on a new meaning.
Soft light from crystal chandeliers bathes the opulent room in a warm glow. The walls are lined with replicas of Italian Renaissance style paintings, while the archways that ring the main floor bring majesty to this jewel of a room. Steps on each side lead up to another level that wraps the main area so you can stand at the railing and watch the mingling, the dancing, the champagne-drinking, and all the beautiful people below.
We walk down the steps, and I spy all sorts of Broadway star wattage, from my idol Audra McDonald to one of my favorite actors of all time, Michael Cerveris. There are producers and agents, choreographers and music directors, and of course, the money men and women who make the shows go round. I even spy Joyelle Kristy, a rising film starlet who played a leather-clad superhero in a hit film and is said to be on the hunt for a juicy theater role so she can follow in Scarlett Johansson’s footsteps.
“Fancy meeting you here.”
I turn and it’s Reeve. He told me he’d be attending when we worked out yesterday morning.
“Hey gorgeous,” I say, and give him a quick kiss on the cheek then introduce him to Shelby. Reeve is joined shortly by Sutton Brenner, the casting director and the woman who stole his heart.
“So good to see you again, Jill,” she says in her crisp, British accent, and leans in to give me cheek kisses. “How’s everything going with Crash the Moon? We’re so excited for opening night, and I know you’re going to be the best one in the whole show.”
“Well, I’m only in the chorus.”
She blows air through her lips as if to dismiss the thought. “That’s where all the stars begin, my darling. And I have no doubt yours will be the brightest on all Broadway. I can’t wait.”
“Do you ladies need a beverage?” Reeve suggests, and tips his forehead to the bar. We follow him, and I want to tease him that he’s now flanked by three women but then I see Davis talking to a woman with dark hair and a fabulous figure, and his hand is on her elbow and I’m about to get all territorial, until I realize they have the same cheekbones.
She must be his sister.
But I don’t spend much time appraising her because he’s so sexy and so sophisticated at the same time in his tux and I swear when I see him in it, I know that tuxes were made for men like him. My blood heats as I look him over, and even from across this spacious room, with all these people between us, and the piped-in show tunes playing overhead, and the twinkling lights, I can’t help but want to be all alone with him. I have to wonder if he can feel the pull through the crowd, if he can sense that I’m here wearing the dress he picked out for me. Goose bumps rise on my skin as I remember the last time I walked into a public place, and he looked me over as if he would only ever have eyes for me. I lick my lips briefly at the memory, and it’s then that he happens to look up from his sister and notice me. He raises an eyebrow ever so slightly and shoots me a quick grin, but then returns his attention to her as I make my way to the bar.
“So isn’t that great that he’ll be coming back to New York soon?”
“Hmm?” I ask, when I realize Shelby’s been chatting with me the whole time as we weave through the sea of Broadway beautiful and benefactors alike.
“My boyfriend. From Los Angeles. Hello, earth to Jill?”
I shake my head, as if I can quiet all these thoughts of Davis. I tell myself the curtains are rising and I am shedding myself and becoming a character. Tonight I’m playing the part of someone who has supreme focus on her friends, not on the man across the room who’s slowly, carefully, wonderfully hooked his way into her heart.
“That’s awesome. I’m sure you’re totally psyched,” I say.
“He’s going to concentrate on his commercial work and voiceovers for a while since pilot season didn’t pan out.”
“That’s too bad about pilot season, but it’ll be nice for you to see him,” I say, and then Reeve turns around and hands me a champagne glass. The bubbles tickle my nose, but it tastes crisp and light.
Then I can feel a tingling in my neck, and a quick ribbon of desire has been unspooled in me. For the briefest of moments, fingertips graze the exposed skin on my back from the V in the dress. But then they’re phantom fingers, and they’re no longer on me. I turn around, and Davis is at the far end of the bar, his back to me, as he chats with Michael Cerveris.
How does he do that? Just set me aflame with one touch? I down the rest of my champagne and Shelby gives me a wide-eyed look.
“I’m thirsty,” I say. “I need another.”
“You go, girl,” she says, “Besides, I see Jane Black setting up over there for her set. I worship the ground her high-heeled boots walk on, so I need to go kowtow.”
“She’s pretty rocking,” I say, referring to the singer who just won a Grammy for an absolutely epic breakup album she wrote. Reeve and Sutton are engrossed in each other’s company, so I squeeze past a gray-haired man in a double-breasted suit and snag a spot near the end of the bar so I can people watch.
“I’d love to go see your band,” Davis says to Michael in his smooth and friendly voice. “Heard great things about Loose Cattle. Great name for a band, by the way.”
I smile privately as Davis talks to actors in his professional demeanor, and I feel like I have a delicious secret because I know all the other things he says. I know how sexy his voice is when he tells me how to touch myself, I know how it goes low and husky when he’s taking my clothes off, I know how he can be sweet and tender when he’s tucking a strand of hair behind my ear and asking to see me again.
I know how he sounds when he’s not the director.
When he’s not the man in the tux.
When he’s not this incredibly powerful presence in the world of New York City performing arts.
I know how rough and hungry he gets when he’s desperate for me to want him as much as he wants me.
“Absolutely. Next Thursday, I’ll be there,” he says, then he shakes Michael’s hand, and turns to me. “Oh, by the way, Michael. Do you know Jill McCormick? She’s the understudy for Alexis in Crash the Moon.”
Michael takes my hand and gives me a quick peck. “Alexis?” he raises an eyebrow. “My condolences,” he teases. “But it’s a pleasure to meet you, and may she give you no trouble at all.”
“Good to meet you as well,” I say, avoiding my least favorite topic—Alexis.
“And on that note, I should go prepare for my song with Ms. Black.”
“A duet with Ms. Black? How lucky can we possibly be?” Davis says to Michael, as if they know something I don’t.
Then Michael says a quick goodbye, and it’s just us at the bar. Well, us and five hundred other people. But he’s the only one I notice.
“I knew you’d look stunning in this dress,” he says casually as he surveys the room, standing side to side with me, so he’s not looking at me. He’s playing by my rules, acting as if we’re two colleagues who happen to be checking out the human scenery at this gala. He speaks as if he’s saying something as mundane as nice weather, but that’s why it’s such a turn-on, because it’s our secret. “And the slit up the side could come in handy.”
I bite my lip, so I don’t start breathing loudly from all these excruciatingly delicious feelings racing through my bloodstream and turning me all the way up. I try to gather myself, to play it as cleverly as he is.
“Yes. You never know when you might have to run,” I fire back, as if the quip can help me regain the equilibrium, but then I’m face to face with him and it’s as if all the air has been sucked out of the room and everything stopped, and no one is moving, and it’s just us. I want to run my hand across his face, and play with the collar on his shirt, then smooth out the lapel. I want to slide my hand inside the jacket, touch his back. I want to mark him, so everyone knows this man is taken. This man is mine.
For a second I can’t breathe when the realization hits me. How much I want him to be mine.
“Don’t run on me,” he says in a casual voice, but I know there’s real meaning beneath it.
“I won’t.”
He takes a step closer. “I f*cking want you so much,” he whispers in a rough scrape, and heat surges through me, centering between my legs. I’m sure my cheeks are turning that rosy pink that lets him know I feel completely the same, and I’m about to inch closer to feel more of this heat, when I see another blonde approaching him. It takes me a few seconds to place her, but when I do my veins turn to ice, and I’m sure my mouth is hanging open.
She’s so gorgeous, and she’s so poised. With perfect cheekbones, deep brown eyes that could melt any man’s cold heart, and the body of a Victoria’s Secret angel she stops at Davis, and flashes a classy smile.
“What a delight to see you again, Davis.” Then before he can even respond, she leans in and gives him a kiss on the cheek. I’d love to peel her off of him, but I’m too shocked to say anything, too embarrassed to even move.
“Madeline,” he says coolly, as if he’s completely unsurprised to see her.
“I just arrived in town two days ago to start rehearsals for the Steve Martin play.”
He nods. I seem to recall her being cast, but I didn’t pay much attention to it. Then he introduces me, and it’s as if I’m having an out-of-body experience, because everything about this moment is completely surreal. Davis, introducing me to the woman he was once in love with. The actress he fell hard for. The one person who singlehandedly broke his heart. I’m split between the desire to throttle her for hurting him, and the bizarre wish to thank her for leaving him so that I could have him now, three years later.
Instead, I simply go along with the pleasantries, shaking her hand. It’s a lovely hand, a soft hand, but I still feel as if I’m touching an eel, because it’s her hand. She shoots me a gorgeous smile and it’s almost enough to seem real, but I can tell it’s her red-carpet smile, her professional smile. That’s all. Nothing more. She doesn’t even say nice to meet you. Her focus is only on Davis, yet she’s not looking at him as a former lover. Instead, she seems all business.
“Have the Pinkertons got in touch with you about…” She pauses and shifts her eyes to me as if she doesn’t want to say what it’s about, and I get the message. She doesn’t want me around for their work conversation. “Because I think it sounds like a brilliant idea.”
“Yes, they have.”
“Well?”
I’m so agitated right now that I need to make an exit. “Oh, look. I see my friend Reeve. I need to catch up with him about where we’re running tomorrow.”
And I walk away, pushing past other people. A tiny bead of sweat slides down my spine, and I doubt it’s because I’m hot. It’s more because I’m embarrassed. She’s the woman who wrecked him. She’s the reason he didn’t want to date me. She’s here, and she has something private to discuss with him.
I bump into Alexis.
She rolls her eyes. “You’re here?”
“Honestly. Now is not the time, Alexis. So don’t even start with me.”
I continue on, looking for Reeve or Shelby, but I don’t see either of my friends. So I figure a bit of fresh air would do me good. I eye the doorway and count down the seconds till I reach it, like I’m finishing a marathon, when Davis’ sister cuts me off. It’s like I’m being cornered everywhere I go.
“Hi. I’m Michele Milo,” she says and extends a hand. First Madeline. Now Michele. Women connected to Davis everywhere I turn. It’s like whiplash. I don’t know why I thought it would be a good idea to attend this event.
“Hi Michele. I’m Jill. I’m in the show.”
“I know who you are,” she says, and then she rests her palm against my arm and it’s a strange gesture. But she tips her forehead to the stairs, suggesting we’re to head up to the second level. I go along with her.
“Listen, I know how my brother feels about you.”
“What?” I don’t have to act confused, because I am. I’m surprised he’d talk to anyone.
“You have to know that he’s the most important person in the world to me. The last thing I want is for him to be hurt again. So if you’re not serious about him, if this is some kind of career move, if you’re going to use him, then please, I’m asking you woman to woman, to leave him now.”
I feel like she just dropped from the sky, like she's some sort of benevolent superhero, because there’s something kind in her voice. Kind, but determined.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“If you care about my brother at all, please think seriously about what you’re doing,” she implores me. “I don’t want him to go through that again. He doesn’t do anything halfway, Jill. He doesn’t do his job halfway, and he doesn’t do relationships halfway. He’s nothing or he’s all in. So unless you’re there with him, unless you’re all in, please get out before you hurt him.”
I glance over at Davis and he’s still with Madeline. We’re too far away for me to guess at what they’re saying, but he’s not trying to get away from her, and he’s not looking for me.
“I don’t want to hurt him. I care about him. But he’s with her right now.”
Michele narrows her eyes. She looks like she’s about to bum rush Madeline and tackle her from behind.
Then a loud voice fills the room. “What an honor to be here tonight.”
Michele and I turn to the small stage to see Jane Black with a microphone in hand. “I’m still waiting for my chance to star in a Broadway musical, so any of you big name producers, just call me up. Nah, I’m just kidding. I’m all about the singing, and tonight we have a very special song for tonight’s event. Have you all heard of this musical called Once?”
The crowd cheers its answer, and Michele claps half-heartedly too as she scans the room for her brother. But he’s no longer with Madeline, and my heart goes cold with the possibility that they could be alone together.
“I thought you might have,” Jane continues. “Would anyone want to hear Tony Award winning Broadway star Michael Cerveris, who originated the role of Tommy, sing a bit of "Falling Slowly" with me?”
The room erupts into a chorus of yeses.
“Well, you should all grab a girl, grab a guy, grab a friend, and dance.”
Then Michael joins Jane on stage. He has a guitar slung around his chest, and begins plucking the first notes from the romantic song first made famous in the movie before it became a musical. The notes pierce me, even in the midst of all this strangeness, of Michele’s protective warnings, and Madeline’s appearance out of nowhere and now two gorgeous voices stamp out all the confusion and I feel the music doing what it does. Touching me, even though I don’t want to be affected by anything right now. As Jane’s gorgeous voice fills the room, Michael’s beautiful baritone layering into hers, I see Davis walking toward me. Purposefully, deliberately, with a sly little grin on his fabulous face. He walks up the steps and finds me with Michele.
“Michele. I’m going to need to take Jill away from you right now.”
He turns to me and offers his hand. “Dance with me.” He holds my gaze with his deep blue eyes and says it with such tenderness that I simply nod a yes. He takes my hand, and pulls me away from his sister, and soon my hands are on his shoulders and his are on my waist.
“Are you enjoying yourself?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Why do you think? Because of her.”
“It was about work. The Pinkertons are considering doing a movie of World Enough and Time and they approached me about directing, and they’re talking to Madeline about reprising her role.”
“Do you want to do it?”
“I’m not sure. That’s what Madeline was asking about with me. She was trying to convince me, but I’m not entirely sure I want to go back to something I’ve already worked on.”
“Was she convincing?” I ask and I can’t hide the jealousy.
“Are you jealous?”
“Yes,” I say, letting my irritation show. I want him to know that I don’t like her being around. He’s mine.
“Why?”
“Why do you think?”
“Say it, Jill.”
I sigh heavily, then manage to get the words out. “Because I don’t want anyone else to have you. Just like how you feel about me.”
He lowers his voice more, his words only for me. “Nobody else has me. Nobody else will. Nobody else can.”
I close my eyes for a moment. There are too many warring emotions in me, battling with each other. “Your sister told me to stay away from you,” I tell him, because I know he loves his sister, but I want to know too that he disagrees with her directive.
“Did she?”
I nod as we sway in a small circle.
“Are you going to stay away?”
“It doesn’t seem that way, does it?”
“Don’t stay away,” he says, his strong hand on my waist bringing me a bit closer to him.
“I should ignore your sister?” I ask, as if I’m challenging him, because I am. I don’t like all these women who have their hooks into him in different ways.
“Ignore her.”
“What about Madeline?”
“It’s just work. I don’t feel anything for her anymore. How could I?” he says with such certainty, such confidence. “Everything I feel is for you.”
A heady feeling swoops through me, and I don’t know what it is. It’s so different from how I felt about Patrick for so long. It feels like I’m flying, and like I’m being cut open at the same time. As if I can feel all the good things and all the awful things at once. I don’t know what’s going on, especially since he moves his hand from my waist to the open V on my back. He doesn’t say anything, and my mouth is too dry to speak. He strokes my back with his finger, sending shivers radiating across my skin.
“You’re touching me,” I say in a low voice, as Jane and Michael sing about falling so deeply you can’t go back. The song might as well have been written for me right now. I can’t go back to who I was. I can’t go back to my carefully constructed self. But more than that, I don’t want to return to the Jill I was before. I have to be this new person who doesn’t have a mask or a costume to hide behind. If I want to have the things on the other side, I have to start anew. “Do you think everyone knows?” I ask.
“Knows what?”
“How we feel.”
“How do you feel?”
“I think you know,” I say, and we haven’t once looked away from each other. The connection between us is so intense it’s like nothing else exists but us and this tiny little patch of the Terrace Room where we barely move our feet, and dancing is just a euphemism for being able to touch each other in public, even if it’s only a hand on a shoulder. But that bit of contact with him makes me tipsy.
“I think I’d rather hear it from you.”
“Davis,” I say, but that’s all. I can’t get any more words out.
“This song,” he says and now there’s a touch of nerves in his voice. But he pushes through them. “This song is for you. I asked them to sing it for you.”
And that’s when I know. That’s when I feel it all through my body and my heart and my mind. I feel everything. Like all the pieces that encased my pretending heart shear off and splinter to the ground, leaving me with only the real thing, because these words, this song about two people falling in love is all too true, and all too real, and there’s nothing fake about it, and nothing happening from afar. It’s happening right here, to me, and I can barely even comprehend how I might feel when there are no more walls. But I need him. I need to be close to him. I need to touch him.
“I can’t be on this dance floor with you right now.” I can hardly get air. I’m overcome with all these feelings crashing through my body.
“Are you okay?”
“I need to be alone with you for a minute.”
He places a hand on my lower back and guides me out of the Terrace Room, down the hall and to a nearby bathroom. He opens the door, shuts it and locks it. He looks me over like he wants to kiss me senseless from head to toe. Everything is electric between us as I wait in that sliver of a moment for him.
Then he leans into me, pushes one strap off my shoulder and kisses my bare skin. I am light-headed and woozy. I want so much more, but even the slightest touch sends me into another world. He rains hot shivery kisses all along my shoulder and to my neck, blazing a trail up to my ear.
“Are you finally going to put me out of my misery?” I might be begging, but I don’t care. I’m beyond ready for him. The question is—is he ready for me?
His lips brush my earlobe, and I think he’s about to whisper a yes in my ear. Instead, he breaks the contact and pulls back to look at me, his dark eyes seeing me as I truly am. As the woman who wants only him, and he finally knows it, and finally believes it. He is as stripped bare as I am right now with this need we have for each other that’s become so consuming. I am on edge, holding my breath for an answer.
“Yes. Tonight.”
Tonight.
It’s finally going to happen. The possibility of being with him is terrifying and thrilling at the same time. Then we smash into each other and we kiss in a frenzy, as if we are claiming each other, marking this moment when everything is so completely clear between us. His hands are on my face instantly, and his tongue is searching my lips, my mouth, and I can’t get enough of him. I want to crawl up him, and wrap my legs around him, and slam him into me. Instead, he pushes me against the wall, trapping me with his body, the way I like it.
“I like it when you do that,” I whisper.
“I know.”
He presses against me, and the feel of him is extraordinary. Even while standing, I love the pressure and weight of him. He runs his hands from my neck down to my breasts, then he turns me around and I’m looking at the mirror. He kneels behind me, so I can’t see him. I tremble with anticipation, then I feel his breath along my calf, and he’s kissing his way up my leg, stopping to trace his tongue along the back of my knee in such a delicious way that sparks of heat shoot across my body. Now, he’s bunching up the fabric of my dress at my waist and he kisses my thigh. He reaches my ass, and I cry out because everything he does feels so incredible, especially as he runs the tip of his tongue along one cheek, then flicks his tongue against my lace panties. I bow my back, giving him better access for anything and everything.
“Whatever you’re doing feels amazing,” I say in between broken breaths.
“Good. That’s how it should feel.” Then he stands, moves his hands to my hips, and yanks me against him. I start to circle my hips without even being aware of it. I want him so badly, and he knows it. He knows what he does to me, and he enjoys it as he hooks his arm between my legs, his fingers touching me through my panties. I shudder, and desire spreads through my whole body, as if every cell is comprised solely of the dark craving to be touched by him.
“Look at yourself,” he says, grabbing my wrists and pinning them above my head. I look at my reflection. My face is flush, and my hair is wild, and my lips have that just-been-kissed look.
“I look like I’ve just been f*cked,” I say.
“No. That’s how you’ll look later tonight when this damn event is over, and I can take you out of here and finally have you the way I want,” he says, and an image of later, of him inside me flashes by, making me hotter. Then he lowers his voice, “and the way you want too.”
“I do. I do want that,” I say, breathless with my need for him.
“Now press your hands against the mirror because I want us both to watch you as you come,” he tells me, and I do. Then, I hear him unzip his pants, and soon I can feel him press his erection against my backside. God, he feels amazing, and reflexively I push back, trying desperately to lure him in for more contact. “Please,” I whimper.
“Jill,” he says, tsk, tsking me. “I promise you, there will be plenty of time for that. But I’ll give you an idea.”
Then, maybe just to tease me, he slides his cock between my legs, and I nearly scream. It feels so good to have him against me, even for one brief moment, and I am absolutely aching to filled up by him. But all he gives me is that—a taste, before he returns to that tantalizing way of holding me tight, his hard length against me, taunting me with what I want.
“Oh, Jill. The things I’m going to do to you,” he says, as if he’s simply musing on the topic.
“What are you going to do to me?”
Holding my wrists firmly in place, he dips his other hand inside my panties, and rubs his finger in dizzying circles against me.
“I’m going to spread you out on my bed and trail my tongue between your legs, and just when you reach down to grab my hair, I’ll flip you over on your front, and then bring your ass up in the air, and I’m going to go down on you in that position.”
No one has ever gone down on me like that. No one has ever talked to me this way. Hell, no one has touched me this way. But I want so badly to do all these things with him. Only with him. I want to feel his talented tongue swirling against me. I want to take him in my mouth and taste him when he comes. I want to wrap my hands around him again and feel how hard he is. My mind is racing with images of all we will do, and when he rubs his finger against me, it’s sweet agony. I am burning all over him, my entire body a delicious ache.
“And you’re going to squirm and raise your ass for me, as I run my tongue across all this f*cking fantastic wetness,” he says and takes his time tracing lazy circles across my *, until all of a sudden, he slides his finger hard inside me, crooking it, and reaching that spot where he starts to send me over the edge. “And you’ll grab the pillows hard in your hands, and push yourself back into me.”
“Oh God. I can’t wait much longer.”
“It won’t be much longer,” he says. “Now open your eyes, and watch in the mirror as I make you come.”
I do as he says and my hair is a wanton tumble, my shoulders are rising and falling, and Davis looks like he wants to consume me.
“Do you know what else I want to do to you?”
“What else do you want to do?” I ask him in the mirror, his reflection wild as he stares at me.
“I want to be underneath you and pull you on top of me so I can taste you that way. Would you like that? Would you like to be on top of me, f*cking my face?”
I can’t form words any more. All I can manage is a loud moan. He strokes me harder, pushing me closer to the release, and all the while, he keeps whispering, a low, dirty growl that sends new shivers pulsating through me, as I race to the edge. “The next time you come, I’m going to be inside you,” he breathes, his strong arm locking me in place, his steel length pressed hard against my back. “Filling you up, over and over, until you can’t take any more. I’m going to f*ck you so deep and slow, that all of New York City will hear you call my name when you come undone.”
That’s all it takes. Those words. Those dirty, sexy words he whispers to me, for me, about me, and I am lost in this haze of desire he’s unleashed in my body, as an orgasm careens through me, and I shudder violently against his hand. I’m about to scream, when he clasps his hand over my mouth to muffle my sounds.
“You feel that?” He demands as the waves of pleasure slowly start to fade away. I manage a weak nod, because I am awash in the fog.
“This is only the beginning, Jill.”
Then he lets go of my wrists and I fall into his arms. He catches me, spins me so I’m facing him, then kisses me softly on the forehead. “Do you have any idea how much I love making you come?”
“I think I have a clue,” I say, with a happy, woozy smile.
“It is my favorite thing in the world. I love how fearless you are. I love how much you want it. I love the way you let go when I touch you,” he says, returning to a tender voice, his lover’s voice that melts me even more for him.
“You should know by now I love everything about the way you touch me,” I say, as I loop my arms around him.
“I love the sounds you make, how you smell, the way your body responds to me, and, most of all, how you give yourself over to me. But the reason I love all that is because I’m so f*cking crazy about you.” Then he stops, takes a beat, and becomes more serious. “Jill, what am I going to do with you?”
“I thought you just told me what you were going to do with me,” I tease as I lay my head against his strong chest, and adjust my dress.
He cups my chin, so I have to look up at him.
“No. Not that. What am I going to do about the fact that I’m not just falling for you,” he says and his eyes never stray from mine. They hold me tight, and I can’t look away, nor do I want to. “I am so completely in love with you that I can’t imagine ever being without you.”
Time stops in a second, and then it unwinds in a flash. Six years unspool behind me, and my blood goes cold. It’s as if the floor is falling out from under me, and I’m tumbling into the past, the past I’ve tried to break free of. Those same words Aaron said to me. His last words. I’m barely even here anymore. I’ve been kicked back in time to the moment when I stopped feeling.
Davis presses a finger to my lips. “I have to go back out there. Wait for me. I’ll have the car meet us at the front in ten minutes and you’ll come home with me, okay?”
I nod, mutely, unable to speak, to move.
Because I don’t want to be loved like that. I don’t want to be loved madly, deeply, and most of all, I don’t want to be loved without reason.
Because I know the outcome.
I know the end, and I’m starting to shut down already.
He presses another kiss against my forehead but I’m numb, blindsided by his words. The exact same things Aaron said before he killed himself.
Over me.