53 Letters For My Lover (25 page)

“You’re so fucking distracting.” He presses the button to the loft again and goes back to nuzzling my neck.

“Stop swearing.”

“Stop swearing, stop smoking, stop drinking. That leaves just one other option.” He cups my bottom and pulls me in suggestively. “It’ll have to make up for everything else.” He slides his hand under my thigh and wraps my knee around his waist. “I hope you’re ready because once we get up there, you’re all mine. To do with as I please.”

I give silent thanks that he’s holding me up or I’d be on the floor, a puddle of quivering anticipation.

This time we make it out of the elevator. He opens the door with one hand, reluctant to let go of me.

“Here we are.” He stands behind me.

I look around. He’s turned the empty, industrial space into a warm, cozy den.

“Here we are.” I smile and turn to him. “The place looks fantastic.”

“You like it?”

I nod. “And what a find. You must have a great realtor.”

“I did. The best. But she has this nasty habit of taking off on me.” He leads me in and shuts the door.

“Sit.” He pats the lush leather love seat before picking up the socks and newspapers strewn around the place.

Cute. I’m expecting him to drag me to the bedroom and he’s playing the gracious host.

“Have you had lunch?” he asks.

As if on cue, my stomach rumbles.

“That would be a no.” He laughs. “How about I whip something up? You like pasta?”

“Since when do you know your way around the kitchen?”

“You’d be surprised at all the things I’ve learned since...well, since I stopped going out as much. The most important of which is—always start with some good music.” He points the remote at his stereo system. The smooth, smoky voice of Lenny Kravitz fills the air.

“How about you chop, I cook?” He hands me the cutting board and a knife.

“Let’s see.” He opens the refrigerator. “Basil, avocado, garlic—” He pauses and tosses it back inside. “No. Let’s skip the garlic.” He gives me a wicked smile. “Cherry tomatoes, parmesan...I think we’re set.”

“You shouldn’t store your garlic in the fridge,” I blab, so I can pretend that being with him in such close proximity isn’t turning my insides to mush.

“No?” He steals a long, slow kiss. “You should come over and straighten me out.”

Damn, now my knees are entering the State of Eternal Jellification. I rinse the avocados and get started.

“How do you want them?”

“Like this.” He holds my hands from behind and shows me. “Peeled...halved...pitted.”

He makes each word sound ridiculously sexy.

‘I belong to you’, chants Lenny Kravitz. The beat is rhythmic and seductive. We work in silence, or at least we pretend we’re working, and not thinking about tearing each other’s clothes off. I feel the soft, smooth flesh of the avocado as I peel it. His hands stay on mine, echoing my movement, his breath caresses the back of my neck. We rinse the small, round tomatoes, feeling the water run through our fingers.

“Halve,” he whispers, guiding me as we cut through the plump, juicy centers.

I swallow. When he said he’d whip something up, I didn’t think it would be this hot, frenzied need in me.

“Basil. Chopped. Coarse.” He picks up a stalk and runs it up and down my arm as I struggle to keep the knife straight.

“See what distraction does?” He nips my ear lobe.

Cooking with him is an exercise in raw sensuality. But I know I’m not the only one this is affecting. I can feel his arousal pressing up behind me.

“I think you need to cool off, mister.” I cup my hands in ice-cold water and splash it on him.

“Ohhh!” He stares at me disbelievingly, his mouth wide open.

Both of us look down at his pants. I got him where it counts.

“You little minx!” he growls and lunges for me, but I dart to the other side of the counter.

He stalks me with deadly deliberation, his muscles flexed and ready to pounce. The perfect hunter. Except for that wet spot on his trousers. I giggle.

“Gotcha!” He grabs me by the hips. “You have
any
idea how much trouble you’re in?” He plops me on the counter. Tomatoes and avocados go rolling off the top.

“A whole lot of trouble?” I ask, barely able to breath.

“A whole, whole lot.” His hand slides under my bottom and he brings me closer to the edge of the counter so I can discern exactly what ‘a whole lot’ feels like.

“I love when you wear a dress,” he says into my neck, as he strokes me over the lace of my panties.

“You’re so wet,” he whispers. “But it’s payback time. I want you soaked right through, like what you did to my pants. You hear me, baby?” He pauses and holds me with burning blue eyes. “I’m going to take you to bed and we’re not leaving until you give me exactly what I want.”

I nod, feeling like a finely stretched piece of string, about to snap at the slightest tug. My legs lock around his hips as he lifts me off the counter. His mouth claims mine, driving me dizzy with desire.

We barely make it to the living room, a tangle of arms and legs and withheld passion. We claw at our clothes, ripping, shedding, discarding.

“Damn it, Shayda, I wanted to do this right,” he says as he lowers me to a soft, full rug and reaches for protection.

“You mean like candles and rose petals?”

Why are we talking when we should be kissing?

“I mean like feed you first.” He laughs as my impatient hands pull him down.

His lips close around my nipple and I let out a ragged sigh. He plays with it, tugging, pulling, teasing. He moves further down my body, blazing a trail of kisses over my tummy, his tongue dipping into my navel. My hips raise off the floor as he buries his face between my thighs. I feel the wetness trickle down my thighs.

“Mmmm. Good, Beetroot,” he says. “But I want more. Give me more.” His tongue teases me through the thin mesh of my panties, giving me a taste, but not quite enough.

“Ohhh.” I twist one way and then another, my fingers sinking into his hair.

The sound inflames him. He rips off my panties and presses his mouth into me. I buck against the white hot sensation.

I clutch his shoulders and urge him back up. There’s a hot, gnawing emptiness that only he can fill.

“Take me now,” I say.

“No.” He looks up, singularly bent on sending me over the edge with his mouth and his tongue.

“Now, Troy.” I invite him in. It’s a move I know he can’t resist.

He kneels between my legs. “Is this what you want? Tell me, baby. Say it.” He teases me with the tip of his passion.

“Yes. Yes!” I hear myself say. I have never been so tightly wound up, so naked in my need. My fingers close around the long fibers of the rug, pulling and tugging.

He turns me on my side, ready to take me like that, allowing me the freedom to move, to work myself to orgasm.

“No.” I turn back around “Like this.” I lock my legs around his waist.

He snaps, giving in to the primal need in my eyes. He lifts my hips and buries himself inside me. One deep, hard thrust. Like coming home.

Our eyes lock, mouths opening in a silent ‘ohhh’ as my walls stretch to accommodate the rock hard length of him. It’s exquisite, this connection of our bodies, this open, honest confession of all the things that remain unspoken.

He shifts, penetrating me from a higher angle, pressing against my clit with the base of his shaft and his pubic bone. I moan as he starts rocking, rubbing back and forth against that quivering bundle of nerves, until I explode in a whiplash of ecstasy. It’s different, this release. It reaches deep inside, wave after wave of breath-sucking contractions. His head snaps back as he feels my insides clutching and releasing around him.

“Yes.” He pushes me higher. Once, twice, until I’m falling, floating, collapsing in his arms. He catches my cry in his mouth as he spills into me.

We lay spent and exhausted on the rug, letting our hearts catch up. He takes me in the crook of his arm and plays with my fingers.

“What was that?” He smiles at me knowingly as I look away. “Come on, Beetroot. You got some ‘splaining to do.”

“You know exactly what it was.”

“Oh, I do.” He grins. “That’s the first orgasm you’ve had without having to syntribate when I’m inside you. Holy shit! I want to shout it out from the rooftops.”

“
You
want to shout it out?” I laugh. “I believe that’s
my
prerogative.”

“Listen to you. Cutting me out of your moment of glory. I am your Lord of Orgasms, baby! And it starts getting even better from here.”

“What are you talking about, Mr. Heathgate?”

“One step at a time,” he replies. “I don’t think your tummy is willing to wait while I educate you further. Those are some fearful growls coming out of there.”

He’s right. I’m starving.

I watch him slip into his underwear, admiring the naked lines of his body.

“You better get up before I pounce on you again.” He slips his t-shirt over my head.

“Damn. You’re sexy as hell, Beetroot. Your messed-up hair, your swollen lips...” He comes in for a taste, his fingers splayed softly on my waist.

We follow the trail of hastily discarded clothes back to the kitchen. An image of my kids’ rooms flashes before me as I pick them up.

“Don’t,” he says softly.

It’s amazing how he can read the simple turn of my face or the line of my shoulders.

I fold everything up in a neat pile and watch as he plugs the blender in.

“Avocados,” he requests.

“Basil.”

“Olive oil.”

“What?” He looks puzzled when I start laughing.

“I feel like I’m in an operating theatre. Scalpel. Gauze. Forceps. Anything else I can do for you?” I ask suggestively as my arms slide around him.

“Quit molesting the chef, devil woman. Especially if you want to be fed.” He turns on the blender and puts a pot of water to boil.

I wander into the living room and pick up a picture frame.

“My parents,” he says.

It’s so odd, filling in these pieces of his life—two happy, weathered faces, beaming back at me through a pane of glass. He has his father’s hair and his mother’s eyes.

“You get along?” I ask.

“They were worried about me for a while. Thought I was just drifting through life, that I could never commit.” He adds some linguine to the pot. “They’re relieved some of that is behind me now. My works helps. I still get to do new things, see new places, meet new people.” He drops a handful of pine nuts into the blender.

“I don’t see them as much as I’d like,” he says in-between the pulses. “They’re away most of the year, traveling, seeing the world.”

“Are you an only child?”

“Yep. The sole beneficiary of all their love and affection.”

I put the frame away and look around. “So what’s it like? To have it all?”

“Like flying. Soaring. Until you come across the one thing you’d give it all up for, and can never have.”

I suck in my breath.

“Come give this a try,” he says.

“Mmmm.” I love the rich, creamy texture of the pesto, but I’m even more enamored with how delighted he looks that I like it.

I open the fridge and take out a few cloves of garlic. “If we’re going to do this, we might as well do it right.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

Our eyes meet over the whirring of the blender and I get the distinct impression that we’re talking about something entirely different.

“Would you mind if I made a quick call?” I ask.

“Phone’s right over there,” he says.

“I have my cell.”

“You? A cell? Next, you’ll be telling me you check your email too.”

“Shhh. I’m calling my mother.”

Zain picks up. “Hey. We’re watching the ‘Star Wars’ Trilogy.”

“Are you having fun?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Have you had lunch?”

“Uh-huh.”

I smile. Clearly, ‘Star Wars’ is winning the battle for attention.

“Put Natasha on,” I say.

“She’s watching it too. She says hi.”

“Does anyone want to talk to me?” I laugh.

“Here’s grandma.” Zain hands her the phone.

“The kids are fine,” says Maamaan. “We’ll see you on Monday.”

“Call me on my cell if you need anything, okay?”

I say goodbye and call Hafez. His voice mail picks up. I struggle at the beep. Words seem fake and inadequate. I hang up without leaving a message.

“Ready to eat?” asks Troy when I return.

He looks so endearing, standing in his boxers, holding out a beautifully assembled plate of pasta, topped with a sprig of basil. All muscle and carefully hidden heart.

“That looks divine,” I say.

“Eat on the terrace?”

“Sure.” I pick up the plates and head outside.

“You know half your ass is hanging out in that t-shirt, right?”

I plop the food on the patio table and pull on the hem.

“Ha. Gotcha!” He laughs.

How can I not love him when he’s like this?

He brings out some bread and a bottle of sparkling water.

“It’s beautiful out here,” I say. An unobstructed view of the water stretches out before us.

“You’ve seen it before.”

Yes, but not like this, with no underwear and a full serving of Troy Heathgate on the side.

I lift the hair off my neck. “It’s so hot.”

“Want to eat in the pool?” He starts setting our food at the edge.

“You eat in the pool?” I ask.

“Why not? It’s my pool,” he replies. “I can eat in it. Heck, I can pee in it if I want. Don’t worry,” he laughs at the horrified expression on my face. “I don’t. I don’t pee in the pool, for heaven’s sake.”

“I don’t have a swimsuit.”

“So? We’ll go au naturel.” He starts undressing.

More of the horrified expression.

“Fine. I’ll keep the boxers on. You swim in the tee.”

I hover, undecided.

“Let’s go, Beetroot!” He picks me up and starts walking down the wide, round stairs.

My arms circle his neck. I shiver as my butt comes in contact with the water, and cling on tighter.

The next instant, he lifts me higher and dumps me unceremoniously into the pool.

“Ohhh.” I gasp as I come up for air, shocked, dazed and utterly exasperated. “What did you do that for?”