“No.”
“You sure?” His voice was low, raspy. His hand had reached my crotch, and by then I was so wet it was hard to discern where my panties ended and I began.
“Yes.”
“Not taking these off either,” he reassured me, his hand stroking the thin material. “I’m not even going to push them to the side … And I’m still going to make you come.”
*
He kept his word.
I don’t know where I got the idea that someone his age would be overeager or inept, or that a person in his position would be used to being indulged and thus inadequate at returning the favor. But Hayes dispelled every myth. And he did so with one hand tied figuratively behind his back. The way he touched me: unhurried, focused, exact. He knew precisely what he was doing. His movements accelerating and then slowing down, repeatedly, taking me to the brink and then stopping, teasing, over and over and over again. His fingers pushing inside of me, his thumb massaging my clitoris, his pressure intense, and all this through my underwear. God bless him.
I came. And it was so unbelievably powerful, for a moment I thought I might black out. There, in Hayes Campbell’s arms, in room 1004 of the Crosby Street Hotel.
For a long time I lay there, shaking. My limbs numb from pleasure; my mind reeling, unable to digest the magnitude of what I had just let happen. What, if given the opportunity, I would let happen again. I’d been so intoxicated. By his smell and his taste and his touch. By his breath in my ear and his Scotch on my tongue and his fucking fingers. And the illicit thought that he was barely an adult and I had not let that stop me. That it had not stopped him.
And then I had the sobering realization that I could not remember the last time I had come with someone else in the room. The very idea that I had denied myself that for so long struck me. Hard.
And there, still in his arms, my mind began to race and I fought it. I did not want to think about the repercussions just then. I did not want to think about Isabelle, or Daniel, or how this would look to my clients or the other mothers at the Windwood School (dear God!). I wanted to bask in the glow for a little while longer. Savor this present from him.
But the thoughts were there, right below the surface.
“Are you happy?” he asked, once my breathing had calmed. Not “Are you good,” or “all right,” or “okay.” Are you happy?
I nodded, trying to find my voice. “Yes. Very.”
“Good.”
“I can’t wait to see how you play badminton.”
“Sorry?” He paused for a moment and then it clicked. “Yeah,” he laughed, “I might be a little better at this than I am at badminton.”
“Luckily for me…”
“Luckily for you, yes.”
We lay there for a moment, curled up in each other, taking in the quiet of the room. It felt a little like magic to me, this in-between time. This shared moment. But I could feel it rising again, the thoughts, the guilt, the panic. Mounting. And I could not stop it.
“Oh God, what have I done?” I heard myself say. “This was just supposed to be lunch. Jesus. What am I doing here with you? You could be my kid. This is so wrong. You’re twenty. And you’re like a rock star. What the fuck am I thinking?”
Hayes sat up beside me, his eyes wide. “Are you serious?”
I was as surprised as he was by the verbal diarrhea. Even as it poured out, I recognized that it was very American of me, and that my mother would have scoffed. “Kind of, yes.”
“What? Are you feeling guilty now? You were happy two seconds ago. Very happy.”
“I can’t believe I let you do that. I’m sorry. That was totally inappropriate of me.”
“Were you forcing me? Did I miss something? We both wanted this,” he said, sounding every bit the rational one. The adult in the relationship.
I glanced up at him then, all disheveled in his wrinkled Prada shirt and his hair sticking out in fifty-one directions and his eyes tired and the slightest hint of stubble shadowing his jaw, and the thought occurred to me that he was a man.
I needed a moment.
“Don’t mind me. This is just my postorgasmic freak-out.”
He laughed. “Is this going to happen every time? Because if I know that I’ll just plan ahead.”
I smiled then. “No. It won’t. It shouldn’t.”
“I’m serious, Solène. I can’t … You cannot freak out like this. I don’t do well with women who freak out. I pegged you differently.”
“You what?”
“Fuck. I’m sorry. I just…”
“Come here.” I reached for him.
“Fuck,” he repeated, lying back beside me.
He was quiet for a moment. And then: “Once, when we were in Tokyo, there was this girl who … Never mind. I don’t want to talk about it. Just promise me you’re not going to go crazy.”
“Okay.” I smiled. “Promise.”
He jumped up again. “And I checked in with you, right? I asked if you were okay. Several times. Right?” He sounded uncertain.
“Yes, you did.”
“I just want to make sure I’m not losing my mind.”
It was fascinating to see his anxiety. The things that tormented him. I couldn’t begin to imagine what life for him and the other guys in the group must have been like. Not knowing whom to trust, and worried that at any time something could be used against them. I assumed there was probably much at stake.
“And don’t let the rock star rubbish get to you,” he said, lying down again. “Because it’s not real, it’s crap. It’s like this idea and it’s not who I am and … I’m always going to be real with you, okay?
“Fuck, it’s late,” he said, glancing at his watch. “I have a six a.m. wake-up call. Which is in three and a half hours. And I’ve been up since four. God, I just want a bloody break.”
“Is that the watch?”
“Yeah. What do you think?”
“Nice.”
“It’s kind of sleek, isn’t it? This one is the Carrera … Carrera Calib-something … I don’t remember. It’s late.”
“It’s a good-looking watch.”
“I think it’s too sleek for me,” he said, slipping it off his wrist. “It’s fancier than I usually am. Here, you try it.”
I let him put the watch on me. It was stainless steel: clean, masculine, elegant.
“Wow, that looks good on you. Keep it.”
“No, thank you.”
“I’m serious. It looks good on you and I’m probably never going to wear this one. They gave me two others. Just keep it.”
“I’m not keeping your watch,” I said, handing it over.
“Okay, just borrow it, then.”
“Hayes, I’m not the woman who’s going to accept gifts like this from you. Thank you, but no.”
“Don’t think of it as a gift. I’m lending it to you. If you borrow it, it kind of ensures that you’ll have to see me again.”
“You still want to see me again? Even after I freaked out on you?”
He nodded, a lazy smile spreading across his wide mouth. “Yeah. Because you have to return the favor. And I’m too exhausted to let that happen now.”