She knows me. She gets me. That’s the reason I fell in love with her in the first place. And I know her. I get her too. We get each other.
“I wanted some time alone with you,” I confess. “Both of you, really. Just the three of us. But I’m not afraid to say, I’m kinda happy Ads is sleeping.” I stop hugging her, take her hand and lead her towards the bedroom. “Because I’d be lying if I said I don’t want you all to myself. I don’t want to share you, Rochelle.” I look over my shoulder as we enter the bedroom, then, once she’s inside, I slide the doors closed.
“You don’t want to share?” she asks. Hesitantly.
And I’m not sure if that means she’s hesitant for what that means for Bric. Or if she’s happy I have finally been able to admit this to her. To myself.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I don’t feel like sharing anymore.” She’s wearing a thick cable-knit sweater, which I begin to unbutton.
She blushes like a girl as I do this. And when I slip the sweater down her arms and let it fall to the floor, she lowers her head, like she’s embarrassed. She stands there like that. Her bra is pink and made of cotton and not black and made of lace. Something sweet. Something a girl would wear. It feels so much like a beginning, I want to die.
“Undress me,” I whisper. “Slowly. So I can enjoy it.” So it feels like it used to, I don’t add. But that’s what I mean. We used to have all these moments together. No one else to think about. No one else to interfere.
We wasted our beginning on doubts and fear. We pretended our way through a two-night-a-week relationship. But it’s just not enough. None of what we’ve been doing will ever be enough for me.
She takes off my tie. Tugs my shirt up out of my pants and starts unbuttoning from the top down. When she gets to the last button, her hands slip inside my shirt and she presses her palms against my skin as she slides them around my back. She leans in. Sighs into my bare chest.
“I’ve been waiting for this for a very long time, Quin Foster.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, reaching down to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear so I can see part of her face. “I have loved you for so fucking long, Rochelle Bastille. None of that has changed. My feelings for you have not changed. It’s how I feel about myself that’s changed.”
She pulls back and takes off my cufflinks. Sets them on the dresser. Makes my shirt slide down my arms. Unbuckles my belt. Looks up and gives me a shy smile.
Yes, I decide. This is definitely a beginning.
She unbuttons me. Unzips me. I do the same to her. And then we take off the rest of our clothes and face each other.
Naked. Stripped bare. Nothing to hide.
“We’re gonna make it,” I say.
“I know, Quin.”
I lead her over to the bed and sit down. She climbs onto my lap and holds me tight.
We sit there for a little bit. Just enjoying each other. We’re not in a rush. There is no hurry. So we take our time. We kiss. We touch. And when we’ve had enough of that, I lie back on the bed and she straddles my hips. Puts me inside her.
My cock slides in and fills her up. She closes her eyes and moans as she begins to move. Rocking her hips. Pressing into me and leaning forward so she can rub her clit across my lower stomach.
I place her hands on my chest. Flat. One of them over my heart so she knows how much I like this.
I make love to her. Slowly. I burn each moment into my brain. This is us. This is what’s real. There’s no game. There’s no rules. There’s no doubts.
We’re in love.
Chapter Twenty-Six - Rochelle
Chella’s Tea Room is a contradiction in style. On the one hand, it’s very opulent and luxurious. Just like the Club next door. But on the other hand, it’s old-fashioned and comfortable. The floors are made of perfectly polished rustic wood. Maybe even reclaimed wood. They are distressed and beautiful. Most of the tables are small and square, with four comfy, over-stuffed chairs placed around them. Some tables are rectangles and have couches along the long ends. The fabrics are all different, but all are some variation of yellow and white. There are more than a dozen crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceilings, and each of them is different. They are antiques, I realize. One wall is lined with distressed china cabinets that all hold eclectic sets of white china.
It says lazy, summer afternoons—not dirty, dark nights. If I were to design a tea room in my head, it would look just like this.
The place is packed. I recognize some of the ladies. They are Club wives and Club mistresses whom I’ve seen over the years. I’m not friends with any of them, and this is very clear when we come in because everyone—I do mean everyone—stops talking to gawk at me.
I take a deep breath and kiss Adley’s head. We’re dressed up like spring today. She’s wearing a tiered pink chiffon dress with long, cream-colored lace sleeves, off-white leggings, and furry pink booties. I’m in a long dress as well. Vintage-looking, just like Adley’s. My old style, updated, I realize.
I haven’t lost myself. It makes me feel good.
The sun is shining through the tall windows that face the street, making the room the perfect illusion of a lighter season.
Chella comes up to us with her hands outstretched, looking sophisticated and fabulous, as usual. But also approachable and casual. Her wide-legged winter-white trousers are paired with a matching double-breasted jacket with rhinestone buttons that reflect the light from the chandeliers above. It’s got a little flare at her waist, making her look powerful and feminine at the same time.
“You made it,” she says, kissing my cheek and running her fingers through Adley’s silky blonde wavy hair. “And you two look gorgeous.”
“Thanks,” I say, still looking around with uneasiness. “Everyone is staring at me.” And whispering, I don’t add. Because that makes me sound paranoid.
“Just jealous, sweetness. That’s all. You own the hearts and minds of the two most eligible bachelors in this town.”
Yes. I guess I do.
“Come on, I have a special table set up in back for you and the little princess.”
I follow Chella through the maze of tables and people. Some are sitting down, but many of them are standing and they make no attempt to hide the fact that they are staring at me as we pass.
We are led to a table near the revolving door that leads to Turning Point. There are already four people sitting at the table, none of whom I recognize.
“Rochelle,” Chella says, stopping at the head of the table to smile. “These are my friends from the gallery. Michell and Kathryn.”
“Hi,” I say, hitching Adley up on my hip. They greet me with pleasant hellos, which makes me feel better. At least I’m not stuck at some table with a bunch of Club women.
“And this is an old friend of mine, Darrel. He used to be my security detail when I was younger.”