Fade In (29 page)

“I don't know. Maybe if we go out or something? Maybe in Seattle or New Orleans? I'll pack a few dresses too. It never hurts to overpack,” I say like it’s a creed of mine.

“All right.” He easily gives in to the idea of going out somewhere nice.

“Don't forget swimming trunks.” I'm looking forward to the whole trip, but I have to admit that I'm really excited for the Keys. I've never been and I can only imagine how beautiful the views will be, including a half-naked Ben all day. “Maybe a few of those. I guess we can buy things we forget or don't have room for.”

“When we get back to your apartment, we need to get a few details lined out. A rental car for the West Coast, and we should see if there are any places along the way we want to stay that require reservations. I really want to stay in a cabin in King's Canyon,” he tells me as he continues to pile undershirts and socks onto his bed.

“Where is that? I've never stayed in a cabin before. Sounds dirty.” When I agreed to this road trip, I wasn't exactly thinking camping. He must see the worry on my face. He comes to sit next to me.

“Don't think of it like that. You'll like it. I promise. Think mountains, a fire…” He nuzzles my neck and whispers, “No one around for miles.”

Enough said. I'm easy. “You win. Cabin is on the list.”

“I thought you'd see it my way.” Ben leans in and puts his mouth to mine.

We finish packing his things and call Ray since we have all of his stuff. We swing by a drug store to buy the toiletries we'll need before going back to my place to make our itinerary and getting my shit together.

Why did I wait so long for this?

We have an early flight into New Orleans. Stepping out of the airport before noon in the middle of June in the bayou is a lot like walking into a sauna. The smells and sounds of the city hit me instantly, and any ideas that I had about this being a bad idea were left somewhere miles over the East Coast as we flew south.

Ben and I made a few decisions about our adventure last night, but only the necessary ones to make sure everything worked the way we wanted. We are going to spend two days in New Orleans, fly to San Francisco, and then road-trip all the way to Seattle.

He found a cabin that was open close to Sequoia National Park and King's Canyon. We reserved it for two nights and the Four Seasons in Seattle for another two days later, giving us plenty of time to drive and stop if we want.

The Keys are a different story. I had definite plans about what I was expecting. We found a secluded bungalow on the ocean in The Moorings Village and rented it for a week. We'll fly back home from Florida.

I want the typical secluded beach vacation. Walking shorelines, watching sunsets. Of course I didn't say that shit, but I think he got the hints I was giving when we scrolled the websites. Before I fell asleep on his shoulder as we made reservations and mapped out our journey, he called me a closet romantic.

I've been called worse.

Ben checks us into our hotel as I look around. We've picked one of the older hotels in the French Quarter. The ceilings were high, the colors on the walls bright colors. I hear the music just outside of the grand doors that stay propped open.

“So what do you want to do first?” I question him, not able to keep my excitement at bay when we get to our suite. It is lovely, too, but I want to explore. This city has a wild buzz in the air, and I want to let it do its worst on us.

“I'm up for whatever. Where do you want to go?” he asks, looking out the window down the street.

“I think we should just roam. See what's happening.” I've heard that that's the best way to do New Orleans.

Roaming lands us only a few blocks away at a bar. We sit outside in the sunshine, drinking beers and eating shrimp and oysters. Laughing.

“So you just look at people and make up their stories,” Ben says with a smug grin that cries bullshit.

“Yeah. Like what they're doing, thinking. It's fun. Try it.” I'm leaning back in my chair and have commandeered another to put my feet on.

“Seriously?” He pulls the tail off of his fifty-fifth shrimp, stops everything, and makes the same face he has with every poor crustacean he's already devoured. It's a food-induced O-face, and I love it every single time. Then, like it never happened, he's back. “Just whatever?” He laughs, thinking that my game is silly.

He's right, but it's fun.

“Yep. The next person who walks past the gate. Just say what they're thinking about.”

Our first victim walks by.

He's an older person, probably late sixties. He has a cool hat on and carries only his paper and a coffee. He looks like a very practical, normal man. I look pointedly at Ben and shake my finger in the general direction of Mister Cool Hat, insisting he goes.

“Okay. Um, this coffee is too hot.” He winces.

I whisper-shout, “No! Like something personal. Make something up. Where is he going?”

He thinks for a second. Then he offers in a low, old man's voice, “I wish those two dummies over there would stop staring at me.”

“Not bad.” I laugh. At least it was original. “You'll do better next time.” I resign, figuring that maybe I’m the only one who does this.

He does do a little better on his second shot. His voices are terrible, but that's what make them so classic. I do a few more and he chokes on his beer when I make up one about an older lady who has nipple rings.

After we eat way too much and drink a little more than cool for lunch, we walk. It's pretty hot, and I'm thankful for only wearing a tank top and skirt. My flip-flops make their signature sounds in our wake all over the French Quarter.

Ben walks with his arm around my shoulder, which seems to be his preference. I can always tell when he's going in for it. He takes my right hand with his and then lifts it over my head. It feels like a choreographed dance move. I'm walking with the most romantic thing in New Orleans.

I send a picture of us in front of St. Louis Cathedral, which we asked perfect stranger to take, to Winnie and Cooper. They were a little shocked when I told them yesterday that I was leaving town with Ben on a half-a-month-long adventure, but by the end of the call, Cooper was telling Winnie places for us to go and looking up fun things along our drive for us to see.

They made me promise to have a good time, and then Winnie ruined our adult conversation with questions about Ben's anatomy. I didn't tell her anything about what happened the other night, but it wouldn't be hard to assume things since we are on a vacation together.

I told her to fuck off and feed Cooper while I'm gone.

While walking the streets, most of our buzz now gone, we stop and watch street performers. Together, we stroll through shops and parks until the sun is just about to go down over the Mississippi.

Turns out that New Orleans is pretty liberal with it comes to libations. I know. I was shocked too. We buy the biggest Hurricanes I've ever seen poured and take them with us to an overlook where the river heads to the ocean.

Here I sit with a man I'm coming to care for more than I realized even before today. I'm in a beautiful place that, if it weren't for him, I probably would have never seen. I drink from the long straw and soak up everything.

It might be the orange and red painted sunset fading away that makes me eager for the darkness tonight. Or maybe it's the brazen hand that writes words on my thigh that I quit trying to read hours ago. I wouldn't know.

But I am ready. I want him. I have no doubt that he wants me. Even if I did have a moment of doubt, Ben would be quick to erase it. It's a foreign feeling to have. For the first time in my life, I don't wonder if the other person wants me as much as I do them. I'm certain. He's certain. It's a powerful thing to feel.

There has been a shift on our bench. Watching him, listening him talk about his life, the fun, and trouble he and his friend Keith used to get into. He doesn't say anything more about Keith's suicide, only talking about good memories. I don't push, only accepting what he tells me about it, though I know I has to be painful.

Instead of walking back to our hotel, we cab it. Proving my theory about Ben and cabs, his mouth is on me when the meter begins.

Before today, our relationship was like a blank coloring page with only the thick black borders. Carefully, we fill each empty space with pigment. We're learning where the boundaries are, only brave enough to wander out when worth it.

Who didn't draw in their own white puffy clouds in coloring books or color the grass green all the way to the bottom of the page as a child? There are no lines defining them, open for us to decide when to stop.

Tonight, I want the custom puffy clouds in the cyan sky. Tonight, I want the hand-drawn yellow sun, with spiky-armed outlaw rays breaking the rules on my page. Tonight, I'm searching for the boundaries with Ben and hoping to make some as we go.

On the elevator, I follow one of his rules. “I want you tonight,” I confess without shame. It's liberating. He wants me to tell him what I am thinking. So I do.

He squeezes the hand he has on my hips as we rise up to our floor, not saying a word. He only presses me forward when the doors open for us to exit. His silence makes my heart pound harder and faster. Anticipation sits low in my stomach.

I stand still, my back to him, as he unlocks our door around me. We walk through the threshold and I'm suddenly in the air. My legs swept out from under me, flip-flops falling off, and I'm carried to the bed and placed directly in the center.

He motions for me to stay put with an open hand in the air and I obey. Still silent.

Ben stands at the end of the bed and takes off one shoe at a time. I hear one thud then the second. Off goes his shirt. The shorts follow, and in less than a minute’s time, he's standing there in his boxer briefs, looking at me.

“Say it again,” he commands.

I can't take my eyes off of him. He ignores his modesty—if he has any—pulls off his underwear, and leans a knee onto the bed. He grabs one of my legs and slides my body down to where he is, my skirt sliding up and exposing what's underneath.

My voice is much smaller than the first time I said it, but I repeat, “I want you tonight.” This time, it sounds more like a plea. I lie there, one leg on either side of him, as he climbs all the way up onto the four poster bed between my legs.

He strips off my shirt and pulls the skirt over my head too. He gathers me up into his arms, my greedy hands buying brief purchase of his skin. My bra comes off, he diligently tosses it to the floor, and he returns me to the bed, laying me on my back. Wide, firm hands rove down and over my breasts, skimming their way to the elastic of my thong and pulling one side down a bit, then the other, until they stop around my spread thighs.

Ben guides my legs, and removing the panties, he kisses each before wrapping them back around him. I watch desire intensify in his covetous eyes. He bends to kiss my stomach, moving up my body, my gratified skin heating under his lips. Holding his weight with his hands, he finally brings his mouth to mine.

“One more time.”

Amid the exquisite sensation of him against my hip, I'd gladly recite the Declaration of Independence if it would charm him inside me.

One adroit hand slips between is as he leans to the opposite side. He cups me and runs a finger through the wetness gathered between my legs. A moan rumbles through his chest at his find.

“I want you right fucking now.” But this time, I add, “Benny,” and he slips two fingers in me as his lips crash to mine.

“I love it when you call me that,” he pants.

“I love it when you touch me there. Ah.” The palm of his hand rubs my clit as his fingers work me over. “I need you.”

I, too, reach between us to find him, desperate to explore. He's long and hot. The ridge of his head swollen is sensitive to my touch. His breaths are timed now with every knead my hand provides. When I firmly tighten my grip as far as my finger can reach around him , he lunges into my grasp and exhales a swear.

His working me and my working him only stand to heighten my desire, as opposed to pacifying it.

Leaving my body rocking to the motion that was just about to make me come, he sways, freeing himself from my hand, and moves to my core. As he readies us, he looks at me. My breaths are short and fast, my breasts falling slightly to the sides.

Ben lingers, catching his own breath. Slipping his erection through my begging flesh, he watches me with tender eyes as he presses into me for the first time. Like a key in a lock, my body welcomes him home.

With measures strokes, he runs through me at an almost teasing pace, his eyes never leaving my face. His hips roll every so often, emitting friction at a frustrating level, reducing my head to sink into the bed.

He steadily accelerates us, pushing deeper. His body melding with mine compels my arms to his back, and I hold tight to him as everything gets lost. My fingers bear down hungrily into him with my body wrapping in every way possible.

“You're so close, baby,” he says, returning his motions to a torturous grind, burying himself to the hilt within me. “Just go. Come for me. I want to feel you.” Ben's sex-filled voice rings in my ears as my body gives in to itself and him. I cry his name until I hear mine pour from his lips.