“It’s alarming truly how disarming you can be” -Lana Del Rey
T he walk to the car is different this evening. We walk close to one another, at one point his hand brushes against mine as we narrow ourselves to fit in the crowded elevator, which drops us below ground level. We emerge in the dark garage, a few flickering florescent lights illuminating us intermittently as we walk the long, echoing corridor. I don’t speak and neither does he. He opens my door and I thank him, but it is the extent of our talking. He navigates the downtown city effortlessly, holding his gaze straightforward for much of the drive. He isn’t mad, he isn’t ignoring me; I may not be experienced but I can feel in my veins that this silence is one borne of restraint. He is not allowing himself to say anything because of something specific. I can just feel it. And it gives me hope. Excitement surges through me at the realization that perhaps Owen is having to restrain himself because of me.
We arrive home and I wait for him outside the garage while he gets his things and locks the doors. I wait for him. It’s something quite simple but after the day, the moment we shared in his office, it feels substantial. I am his partner, waiting to enter the home with him, to pass the threshold with him. My inner voice is trying to clear her throat and correct me but I silence her.
The heat surging through me is almost impossible for me to ignore and tonight, I don’t plan on ignoring it.
This is the night. I’m going to take my chance. If it fails spectacularly hopefully Owen will promise his discretion and I can slink away and stay in the apartment while it’s being renovated.
Marie is in the kitchen, swaying gently to the soft music that fills the space around us. She is cooking something-I can’t be sure what, as always. But the smell that sits in the air is rich and delicious, causing a rumble to tear through my stomach.
“Oh Marie, I don’t know what’s up your sleeve tonight but it smells just incredible,” I say, sliding onto my barstool and absorbing the wonderful sight that is Marie at work.
I watch her when I can, the way she moves seamlessly from task to task, knowing exactly what part of the meal needs to be tended to next. Her experience in the kitchen makes me long to cook, to have her elegance and grace making spectacular meals for people I care about.
When I was a kid, I can remember my mom promising me a Thanksgiving meal-I’d never had one. I cringe at the thought of her promising things to a poor child-her poor child-and remember the overwhelming disappointment I felt when she never came home to cook and I sat hungry the entire night, alone in the dark trailer. Most Thanksgivings I spent in the trailer alone with a color book and a freezer meal she’d told me to cook in the microwave.
Owen sets his things down and pulls a bottle of wine from his wine fridge. He says something to Marie under his breath but I can’t make it out; she nods twice and gives him what appears to be a wink of some kind. He pulls out two glasses and fills them, sliding one across the counter to me.
“Pinot Grigio infused with peach,” he says, swirling the wine gently in his glass before taking a long pull, the relief of the alcohol settling in his face. The tension has been so thick, I think we are both craving a small release.
“How long do we have, Marie?” he asks, one hand filtering through his rich hair, the other holding the wine glass.
“Thirty-five minutes,” she says, slinging a dish cloth over her shoulder and cracking the oven. A savory aroma wafts through the air, finding my nose and making my stomach rumble again.
“Good, I am glad you’re hungry!” she giggles, turning her back to me to return to the preparation. I feel the embarrassment settle in my cheeks as I rub my stomach, wistfully.
“I didn’t know it was that loud,” I whisper, glancing up at Owen.
He’s smiling at me and his dark eyes are focused on me with a happy energy. I feel soothed, from the inside out, and I return the smile.
“I think I’ll have a shower before dinner,” he says, his black suit tightening on his bicep as he extends him arm, resting his wine glass on the marble. It’s Friday, so that means I better soak in these last few minutes of Owen in a suit-I won’t get to see this delicious sight again until Monday.
Some men look good in a suit.
Then there’s Owen.
All of his suits are slightly fitted, showing off his disciplined physique. A smattering of hair peers through the top of his white dress shirt as he loosens his silk tie and frees the top button of his shirt. His slacks hang from his tight waist, and choke down over his thighs, which are thick with strength. His tall frame and barrel chest command the attention of women and when in his dress suit, he commands the attention of everyone. He is quite possibly the sexiest man I’ve laid eyes on. Even in his casual clothes, I am so very attracted to him.
Sometimes in the morning when the three of us eat breakfast together, I close my eyes and listen to the depth of his smooth voice, how words seem more powerful when he speaks them, how his accent takes normal language and turns it into erotica. There’s no denying the overwhelming lust I have for this man. And I only hope he returns it. If not, well, at least I get to see what’s under that suit when we swim after dinner.
I felt how solid his body was when I fell into him in the elevator. I don’t try to hide the fact that I am watching him move now, pulling his tie free from his neck, rolling his head gently to relieve the stresses of constraint all day. He catches me watching him and looks down to his feet as he walks past me and slips up the stairs to his room. Once his footsteps are no longer audible, I sigh loudly and lean down on the counter, pressing my face against the cool marble, letting it absorb the heat from my cheek. Marie doubles back to face me and peers cautiously up the stairwell.
“Is he still there?” she whispers, her voice raspy and low, her mouth over accentuating the words to drive home the fact that she clearly doesn’t want Owen to hear her.
I shake my head no.
She wrings her hands in the apron that is tied around her waist and leans forward, her heavy bosom dragging against the counter. She holds my hands in hers and her eyes find mine, commanding my attention.
“Mr. Owen wants you to be happy, do you know that?” I can see she is trying to impart something deeper on me but the intensity of the day, or perhaps the peach wine, is fogging my ability to cut through her veiled comment. I nod and smile.
“I appreciate his kindness. Staying here,” I clear my throat, suddenly aware that warmth is forming behind my eyes, “well, these days are the best days of my life. And you’re part of that, too,” I can’t stop them, though I want to, but the tears fall freely and I blink madly to shoo them away. Marie’s soft, thick thumb drags across each of my cheeks, one at a time, and she smiles again.
“You will be okay. Mr. Owen will take care of you. If you let him.”
I start to tell myself that she is referring to this summer stint that I’m spending with them. Yes, he will feed and house me, he will give me a job, and he will do his best to get Kyra and I back to school with a fixed-up apartment. But my inner voice, she’s there again, and maybe she’s feeling the effects of the wine, too, because she screams to me, she means forever! She’s changed her tune, hasn’t she? I smile at Marie and tell her how excited I am for dinner, wanting the attention to be off of me. I’m not good with a lot of attention.
She grabs a cookbook from the counter behind her and holds it up for me to see. It is a Julia Child cookbook featuring her most popular (and seemingly complex) recipes.
“He wants you to try all the best things before you leave,” she whispers, “and he’s never had me cook like this before.”
I can’t help but grin from ear to ear, and it’s contagious, because I find Marie grinning too. I give her a quick wink and slip upstairs to get ready for dinner.
I take a quick, cool shower to soothe my horny and aching body. I wash myself, feeling the slickness still residing in my folds, and notice that my nipples are still hard. All of this for him, something I’ve never really experienced in this way. It sends a wave of shock through me, realizing just how much I need Owen. If he rejects me tonight, I will be devastated. But I will understand. I’m just a twenty-year-old with nothing to my name. He could be fucking the tall, thin blonde woman from his office, who probably has a seven-figure income and cook of her own.
STOP.
My inner voice is suddenly my biggest cheerleader and I wonder what’s caused her change of heart.
You’re beautiful, smart, funny, kind and generous. You are a gift to anyone you meet!
I want to believe her, and I sort of do.
I stand in front of the clothes that hang sadly in the closet. My options are limited as I’ve still not gone shopping, except for work clothes. Pajamas seem wrong. I know Owen will be in sweats but his sweats are new, crisp, expensive. My clothes are used, used some more, old and tattered. I decide that my jean shorts and tank top are my best bet-not as nice as my work clothes but more casual. They’ll have to do for now. I slip them on and free my hair from the braid its been in all day, loose waves cascading down my back and around my face. I touch up my Chapstick and mascara, and head down. I take the stairs slowly, trying to steady my breath in preparation. Every time I see Owen, I swear my heart flips and the pressure building inside me increases to a nearly unbearable pain which traces my stomach and thighs, resting finally between my legs. Pounding, aching, needing. Tonight will be worse, though, because my intentions are set, so I breathe deeply to prepare myself.
“You’re fantastic,” I utter quietly, trying to give myself a last-minute shot of confidence.