“I asked them for a Louboutin one that women would recognize, from magazine ads or whatever,” Harlan had said. “This one’s called the Paloma Mini Tote. The saleslady thought I was shallow, I could tell. Nouveau riche, I think that’s the word. New money. Crass.”
“The saleslady did not,” she’d answered, laughing and pulling his face down for a kiss. “She gave you her card and told you to call her anytime.”
“Well, yeah,” he’d said. “But I figured that was just my good looks.” And she’d laughed some more and thought, Oh, yeah. Suck on that, Wild Horse. About the rudest thing she’d ever expressed, even in her mind. She was embarrassed, honestly.
But she was still wearing the shoes. And carrying the bag. And walking into that auditorium holding Harlan’s hand.
The Viking. That was his media nickname. His first commercial for that company, for cologne or whatever it was, had been teased on one of the entertainment shows just the other day. The one with him coming out of the waves with his surfboard, his blond hair wet and his trunks riding low over the best-defined abs a woman could dream of touching.
And he was hers.
The day he’d shown up with the shoes and the bag had been the day after the sonogram. After the day when he’d brought her home, and they’d sneaked up to her apartment so the girls wouldn’t know, laughing and giddy, like they were in high school. A high school she’d never experienced.
Whatever he’d said, he hadn’t done anything crazy, not that day. He’d taken her dress off at the door, cupped her belly in his hands, and said, “You’re beautiful.” After that, he’d taken her into the bedroom, laid her across the bed, taken the rest of her clothes off so slowly that time seemed to stop, and set in to please her.
The summer sun had shone outside on the darkness of cedars, on the undulating swell of hills, on the dramatic cone of Mt. Hood. And on the bed, in this little world they’d made for themselves, Harlan’s hands and mouth were all over her. Taking it slow. Taking it easy. Bringing her to one long, rolling orgasm after another, and finally, pulling her on top of him and letting her take her own pleasure.
He hadn’t closed his eyes. He’d watched. His hands now on her breasts, now on her belly, then going back to cup her bottom while she found the best way, the way that ground the ring into her as she ground into him. The way that made her gasp. Pulling her down to kiss her, his tongue in her mouth as hard and insistent as he felt inside her, his fingers twined in her hair. And when she got tired, asking her, “Want me to take over now?”
“Yes,” she’d said, her chest heaving with her breath.
He’d smiled, slow and sweet and sure. And then he’d done it.
No fancy positions. No acrobatics. Just Harlan lifting her off him, then moving on top of her. Holding himself up on his palms as he entered her, then shifting position somehow so the friction got even more intense, and her eyes opened wide.
He said, “Yeah. That’s it. That’s what we’re doing.” And she lost her breath.
Her hands on his chest, his arms, exploring him, greedy for him, until it got better and all she could do was slide her hands down his back and hold his hips to try to pull him harder into him. Hearing his breath catch, feeling the strain in his body, and starting to go up again herself. The way he groaned when she did, the sounds she’d pulled out of him when, finally, he was spilling into her, and the way he held her afterwards. Brushing her hair back from her face. Kissing her cheek, her forehead.
Telling her that today had been beautiful. That seeing their son for the first time had been the most intense moment of his life. And that he loved her.
And the next day, a deliveryman had brought flowers to the office.
Twenty stems of delicate, deep-blue orchids, tinged with purple. A rare color, like sapphires. The most fragile blooms imaginable, every blossom paper-thin, tiny, and perfect. And a little white envelope stuck into the midst of them. She’d opened it with trembling fingers to find a white card.
Blue for our son. Thank you. I’m going to try hard.
He just took her heart and twisted it. Her hands were shaking so badly, she had a hard time putting the card back in the envelope. She had to go to the ladies’ room, read it again, and cry.
Good thing Blake hadn’t seen that. How did you explain that you were crying from happiness? From tenderness so strong, it hurt? From love so deep, it could only come out in tears?
She was going to cry again if she kept on like this. Dyma’s graduation. The baby. Harlan. It was all welling up inside her. She was going to think about this morning instead. About dessert. That was the only way she’d make it to Idaho without becoming a soggy mess.
No. Wait. She needed to have this conversation with Harlan first. She’d meant to have it this morning, but she’d been distracted. She was out of time. She needed to have it now.
Jennifer looked so soft and pretty in that dress, all he wanted to do was cuddle her. Which was alarming, maybe. He was never going to win the tough-guy sweepstakes like this.
On the other hand, shallow was no way to go through life. The deep end of the pool might be scary, but it sure did make you feel.
Jennifer looked away from the window, which she’d been staring out of like there was something to see out there, and said, “Could you come talk to me a minute in the back?”
“Sure,” he said, and got a twist of anxiety low in his gut, because that expression was serious.
Then you need to know, he told himself. If it was about this morning … he needed to know.
He’d checked. He’d asked. She’d sure seemed like she’d been enjoying it. But was she still thinking she had to go along with something she didn’t want? He needed to have a talk with her about that. An explicit talk about boundaries and limits and consent, no matter how embarrassed that made her.
Because … yeah. This morning. Her birthday.
She’d woken up in his bed, the same place she’d been waking up all week. She had a toothbrush in his bathroom now, but her clothes were still at the other place, which was driving him crazy. Possibly why he’d bought her some new clothes this morning.
She woke up slowly, the way she always did, but without an alarm clock. Jennifer waking up was at once disciplined and anything but. Exactly the same time every morning, even on a day like this when she didn’t have to go to work, but like the woman she was underneath, all stretching, sighing, and sensual pleasure.
She saw the flowers first, because he’d stolen out early to put them on the dresser. The prettiest arrangement the florist had been able to come up with, when he’d asked for something soft and romantic and just as extravagant as possible. It turned out to be a whole bunch of roses and other … rose-looking flowers in ivory and the palest pink, along with lavender and eucalyptus and some other deep purple and green items stuck in there to make it look nice. He’d wanted to do thirty-five stems, but the florist had said no, so he’d settled for two dozen. It was still a pretty good display.
Jennifer thought so, anyway, because she said, “Oh,” on a breath, and then got out of bed to smell them and exclaim over them like he’d done some huge thing, not just call a florist. Then she said, “Sorry. I want to kiss you, but I have to go to the bathroom,” like you could have predicted, because whatever else Jennifer was, she was always real. Which gave him a chance to grab things out of the closet, so when she came back, there were a few boxes on her pillow.