*
I awoke in the middle of that night to Hayes’s mouth traveling the length of my spine. His lips, tongue, soft, descending. To my ass and between my legs before I could properly recall where we were. My screams, stifled in the pillow. And when he was done, he flipped me over and did it again.
And I wasn’t certain if it was the thinness of the mountain air, but everything felt so heightened and intensified that I could not be sure whose birthday we were celebrating. Hayes’s tongue unfolding me. His fingers, long and thick, and so very familiar. The way he explored me so completely, as if each time was the first. As if he were enjoying it. I could not get enough. My ass lifting off the bed to meet him. My hands in his hair, gripping his skull. My nails in his scalp. Jesus fuck.
I came so hard it seemed to me the entire room was spinning.
“Shit,” he said, smiling up at me. “That wasn’t very delicate, was it? My apologies.”
Hayes wiped his face with the back of one hand and grabbed both my wrists with the other, pinning them above my head.
And before I could recover, his dick was pushing up inside of me. And as always, that first thrust was everything. I marveled at it: the way he fit me. Thick. Perfect. Like no one who had come before him. As if all my life I’d been walking around with a Hayes-shaped vagina and never knew. The idea made me smile. But then, completely unexpected, I started to cry.
He stopped moving, his free hand brushing my hair from my face. “Are you all right?”
I nodded.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you crying? It’s a little disconcerting when we’re having sex and you’re crying.” The heel of his palm slid over my cheek.
“I’m sorry.”
“Why are you crying, Solène?”
“Because … I love you. Because this is perfect and I don’t want it to end.” It was the most honest I’d been with him. It was the most honest I’d been with myself.
“Are you ending it?”
I shook my head.
“Then there’s no reason to cry. I’m not going anywhere.” He started moving again. So. Fucking. Deep.
“It ends every time you leave. Every time I go back to my life and my fucking computer, it ends.”
“Well, we’ll get you a new computer, then.” He smiled. “Look at me. Look at me. It’s just us. It’s just you and me in this relationship. Fuck everything else.”
The fact that he could say that to me with my arms pinned above my head and his dick gliding in and out—the fact that he held my gaze the entire time, never wavering, never losing his tempo, the fact that I could smell myself on his face—was so unbelievably sexy. I did not want it to end.
I did not want it to end.
When he was close to coming, he leaned in and bit down on my lower lip so hard that I anticipated the taste of blood, but it never came.
“You. Are fucking everything to me,” he said. His breath coming in short spurts. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Afterwards, when I was reveling in the joy of my third orgasm and he’d passed out beside me, his body slick with sweat, I thought long and hard about what he’d said. It was just us. Fuck everything else.
*
In all the months of slipping off to various locations, Hayes and I had never flown in and out of the same terminal together. We had never departed and arrived as a couple. It was something I’d not made note of until we touched down at LAX Monday evening.
“It’s going to be crazy out there,” he said as our plane was taxiing. “Just a warning.”
“Like photographers?”
“Photographers, fans, all of it. It’s Grammy week. It’s going to be bad.”
“Okay,” I said.
But “all of it” did not quite capture the madness. We had no fewer than three airport escorts who met us at the gate and accompanied us to baggage claim, and the entire time, walking at a relatively fast clip, we were hounded by a handful of paparazzi. Hayes walked one pace ahead of me, clinging to my hand, protecting me from the brunt of it. And what struck me most was not the intrusiveness of the experience, but the running commentary spewing from the guys with the cameras. “Hey, Hayes. Happy Birthday, Hayes! How does it feel to be twenty-one? How was Aspen? Hi, Solène. Did you get a lot of skiing in? You gonna go out drinking tonight? What bars you gonna hit? You excited about the Grammys? You’re looking good, man. I love your work, dude. I love the new album. Your girlfriend is very beautiful. What do you think of Rory’s new tattoo?” Dear God. Who were these people?
And then, as we exited into the chaos of the baggage claim, the full scale of Hayes’s celebrity hit. There were over a hundred girls squealing with cell phone cameras and throwing themselves in his path attempting to take selfies and yelling his name and falling down and crying, and it was terrifying. The paparazzi’s flashes, blinding. I spotted Desmond with our driver, and even his familiar ginger head did not alleviate my panic. They were touching him and pulling at him, and he was squeezing my hand harder. And they were at turns euphoric, diplomatic, and violent. “Get the fuck out of the way.” “Make a path.” “Hi, Solène.” “You’re so pretty, Solène.” “Guys, let them through, please.” “Happy Birthday, Hayes!” “Can you sign my face?” “There’s a girl on the floor.” “OhmyGod!OhmyGod!OhmyGod!” “Can I get a picture, please?” “Let them through!” “Happy Birthday!” “HayesHayesHayesHayesHayes.” “Let him go!” “He doesn’t want to take your picture. Just let him go!” “Get off of him!” “They’re gonna think we’re animals!” “Move, bitch!” “Hayes, I’m so sorry about this.” “You guys, let him go. Jesus fucking Christ!”
By the time we got into the back of the Escalade, I was hyperventilating. And he was as cool as a fucking cucumber. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
It took me a minute to catch my breath, to gather my wits, to assess that I had not been physically harmed. “Yeah,” I said. “It’s just you and me in this relationship. Fuck everything else.”
beverly hills
The Fifty-Seventh Grammys were scheduled to take place the following Sunday evening at the Staples Center. The guys were performing “Seven Minutes,” their nominated single. Their week filled with press leading up to the awards show and the tour, including a day in Santa Barbara shooting an exclusive interview with Oprah. And by that, I was a little impressed.