“That’s who you are, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but that’s more like the idea of me than … Never mind,” he trailed off. “Look, we don’t have to have sex, we can just cuddle.” He’d said this with his right hand wholly between my thighs. That he wasn’t touching my underwear was a calculated tease. Cuddle, my ass.
“Okay,” I said, my breathing labored. “Here’s the plan. We’re going to go upstairs. We’re going to fool around. We’re not going to have sex. And you’re not going to spend the night. Deal?”
“Deal.”
*
The rooms at the Crosby Street Hotel were finely done: individual, warm, eclectic. Unexpected patterns juxtaposed in soothing colors. Dressmaker mannequins as art. The light was low when we entered, the mood inviting. Fitting for a tryst.
“I like this,” Hayes said, laying his jacket neatly over the arm of the sofa and stooping to remove his boots.
“You’re getting awfully comfortable.”
“Am I not allowed to be? Is that not part of the deal?”
I laughed at his inquiry. He was clearly more used to this than I. Being physically and emotionally naked before someone whose middle name you did not know. I did not want to calculate how often he did this.
“Last bit.” He smiled, emptying his pants pockets onto the coffee table. An iPhone, a wallet, lip balm, and a pack of gum. Noticeably absent: a condom. Or perhaps it was in his wallet. Or his jacket pocket. I was overthinking this.
“I want to see the view. Do you want to see the view?” I stalled, making my way across the room and opening the curtains, unveiling the floor-to-ceiling industrial windows. There was something extraordinary about Manhattan at night: twinkling lights and indigo sky.
I stood there for a moment, my hands pressed against the cool panes, wondering how I’d ended up here with the boy from Isabelle’s posters. And what that would mean for our relationship going forward. She would hate me, and yet still …
“You nervous?” Hayes approached me from behind, his hands running the length of my arms.
“No,” I lied.
“Don’t be nervous, Solène. It’s just me.”
Yes, that was precisely the problem.
His closeness, which had felt so reassuring on the balcony at the Four Seasons, felt reckless here. I was suddenly aware of his height, his power. The fact that maybe I was no longer in charge.
He sensed it. His fingers slipped in between mine, holding my hands while my nerves settled. And then, when enough time had passed, he wrapped his arms around me, drawing me in closer. I could feel him—all of him—pressed up against my back.
“Hiiii,” he said, and I laughed. “You good?”
I nodded, meeting his eyes in our reflection in the glass. “I’m good.”
“You sure?” He leaned forward then and kissed my bare shoulder.
“Sure.”
“Good.” He kissed me again, and again. And again. His mouth moving over my shoulder, toward my neck, to the crook just behind my ear. He breathed me in, and I could feel it in my toes. His mouth, his tongue, his teeth on my flesh. His hand moving up over the sequins of my top to stroke my throat, angling my head toward his. He smelled of soap and Scotch, and he tasted … warm. I turned to him, devouring his mouth. And oh, the feel of his hair in my hands: thick and smooth and substantial. I probably pulled on it a little too hard.
We moved to the bed.
Hayes seated himself on the edge and had me stand in front of him. “I just want to look at you,” he said. We stayed there, my hands in his hair, his hands at my hips, running to and fro over the material. “God, you are so unbelievably sexy.”
I leaned over to kiss his dimples. They had been beckoning since the Mandalay Bay. The mileage he got out of a muscle flaw … “I bet you say that to all your fans’ mums.”
He laughed, his hands sliding down over my ass, along my thighs, to the hem of my skirt. “Not so much, no.”
I could feel the coolness of his rings at the back of my knees, teasing. I had not planned how far I’d intended this evening to go. I wasn’t certain if there was a protocol for postdivorce sex. Second date? Third? I assumed the etiquette was different than it was in one’s twenties. The need to be respected in the morning seemed less dire. Maybe none of that mattered anymore. Maybe it was all about the thrill. And surely rock stars played by different rules. We were pioneers out here, Hayes and I. Forging new territory. Making up shit as we went along.
“You know,” he said, his hands rising, hot against my skin, “I find this skirt really flattering. Truly. But I think I would like it better on the floor.”
I laughed then. “Well, that would be convenient, wouldn’t it?”
He nodded, his mouth finding mine.
“But actually,” I continued, “I’m more interested in seeing what you can do with the skirt still on.”
Hayes laughed, tossing back his head. “I appreciate the challenge.”
“I knew you would.”
He undid his tie and tossed it across the bed before lying on his back. “Come here,” he ordered. I obeyed, only pausing to remove my heels with their bondage-like ankle strap. Tonight they’d earned their keep.
Hayes hoisted me atop himself with ease, and I quickly became aware of just how inconsequential my clothing was. It did not matter that I was still wearing my skirt. I could sense his solidness beneath me, the breadth of his chest, the tightness of his stomach. His thighs … Jesus fuck, was that his dick?
“Oh.”
“Oh?” he repeated, smiling. He had one hand in my hair, the other cradling my jaw, his thumb moving over my mouth.
“Oh, that’s you,” I laughed.
“I hope it’s me. I mean, I hope someone else didn’t come up here in my stead.”
“In your ‘stead’?” I licked his thumb. “I love how proper you are.”
“Do you? Because I can do this proper thing all night long. Or I can stop … What do you want, Solène?”
“I want you to show me what you’re good at.”
He nodded, his lips curling into a smile. And then, with little effort, he rolled me onto my back. For a moment he hovered above, his dominance palpable. “Just let me know when you want me to stop.”
My pulse had once again begun to rush. His fingers were tracing my jawline, my lips. “God, I love this mouth,” he said before moving on to my neck, pausing at the hollow, and then continuing down over my breastbone and across the fabric of my top. His touch was measured—light, but deliberate. And when the back of his hand grazed over my breasts, I heard myself inhale. His own breathing was shallow, his mouth near my ear enticing. His fingers skimmed the underside of my arm and I shuddered. That he could make something so innocent feel suggestive was a skill.
In no time, his hand was between my thighs again, forcing my skirt up north of my knees. “I’m not taking it off,” he said. But at that point it didn’t matter. I would have let him.
He shifted above me, his mouth melting into mine. His hips pinning me to the bed. His fingers titillating.
“Do you want me to stop?”