When It's Love (19 page)

“Yeah, right,” I say sarcastically. “My father the rapist is following me and leaving me cryptic notes on your car. What a merry Christmas it is.”

“Speaking of parents,” Henry says, “does your mother know what’s going on? Is she aware that your father is back in town?”

“I have no clue,” I say as I rub my hands together, trying to get some feeling in my fingers. “I don’t even know what she’s doing for Christmas.”

“Have you thought about discussing things with her?” Henry asks with concern.

I am too drained to get into the nitty-gritty with Henry. Every statement I make to him will raise another question, because nothing I have to say about my mother makes any sense. There is no rhyme or reason in the relationship between a mother and the child who was brutally forced into her womb. Whenever I’ve tried to talk to my mother about the rape, I’ve seen devastation in her eyes. Her voice crackles with pain and sadness, and all she’s ever said is, “Let’s not go there, Sydney.” So I can’t press her for any details or tell her that I’m furious at her for keeping my history a secret, even if she did it to protect me. I can’t ask if she’d known my father, dated him, or if the day he raped her was the first time she’d ever seen him. And all these years I’ve spent in Addison mourning my identity, I’ve thought about hers, too. She is a mother because she is a rape victim. The two go hand-in-hand. Because of my existence, my mother’s wound can’t close. Every time she looks at me, she must see him. I can’t blame her for the way she treats me because it makes perfect sense. If I were in her shoes, I wouldn’t want me around either. I have no idea why my mother decided to keep me. If I were to ask her I’m sure her response would be to light up a cigarette and shrug.

“Hey, Syd,” Henry says. “Are you going to answer me?”

“Sorry,” I say, “I got lost in thought.”

“So are you going to tell your mother that your father is back in town?”

“I’ve thought about it,” I say quietly.

“Then why haven’t you?” he asks.

“It’s complicated,” I say. If my father is only here for me and I can spare my mother from knowing, I’d like to.

“Don’t you think your mother deserves to know?” Henry asks.

“I don’t know,” I whisper. “My brain is so cluttered right now, I can’t think clearly. Do you realize how crazy my life has been for the last three days?”

“I’ve noted the insanity,” Henry says softly.

“And to top everything off, I made a complete ass of myself at Shelby’s today in front of Professor Sparling.”

Henry suddenly slams on the breaks as if he’s seen a deer in the road. My head and neck are thrust forward and the seatbelt sears into my chest, locking me in place. “Oh my God,” I cry, terrified as the car skids. I think we’re going to crash, but Henry swiftly regains control, and after a few seconds we’re cruising along the snowy road as if nothing happened.

“What the fuck was that?” I shriek.

“You didn’t tell me you saw Professor Sparling,” Henry says reproachfully. “How could you keep something like that from me?”

Henry’s disapproving tone irks me. “I wasn’t trying to hide it from you,” I assert.

“Then why didn’t you tell me as soon as you saw him?” Henry presses.

“I don’t know. I guess I was embarrassed by his reaction. And I didn’t want to make you jealous. I just wanted to enjoy Christmas with you.”

“What was his reaction?” Henry asks.

“He didn’t have one. Complete poker face. As if the sizzling exchange between us never took place.”

“Well, he’s a jerk. You have nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“Henry, I wrote him sexy emails, and I sent him pictures of me naked, but he looked at me with emotionless eyes, no hint of anything, no secret smile, nothing, zero. That’s plenty of reason to feel humiliated. From the way Professor Sparling was acting, I had to wonder if my whole virtual affair with him had been a dream. And then to make it all that much worse, I saw Melanie outside, just sitting in a car and waiting.”

“Do you know if she was waiting for Professor Sparling?”

“Not for sure,” I say. “But I think it’s safe to assume.”

“He’s some player, huh?” Henry says as he slows down the car and turns on the blinker. We coast through the gated entrance of Ottawa Estate, along the perfectly trimmed snow-covered hedges that look like cakes with thick layers of vanilla icing. The Christmas decorations are gorgeous. The entire mansion is wrapped in gold lights, and the circular driveway is lined with twinkling red-and-white candy cane shaped lamps. A giant wreath hangs on the heavy double-door entrance, and as I step out of the car I hear Christmas music playing through the outdoor speakers. “Don’t be mad at me about Professor Sparling,” I hiss as we approach the door.

“Don’t keep secrets from me,” Henry snaps back.

“It wasn’t a secret. And you have nothing to be jealous of. I even sent Professor Sparling a break-up email.”

“And what did he have to say about that?” Henry asks.

“Weirdly, he didn’t reply at all.”

Henry shrugs. “That’s not so weird. Guys don’t like to be dumped.”

Since it’s Christmas Eve, most of the Ottawa Estate staff is on vacation. Henry opens the heavy door with his own key. “Whoa,” is all I can say when I see the colossal Christmas tree in the center of the vast marbled foyer. It looks ten feet tall and each branch is tightly packed with pine needles like a fine-tooth comb. It’s twice as impressive as the tree they had last year. The same golden lights that I saw outside are wrapped around the tree from top to bottom. Red and white ornaments glimmer under an ornate chandelier, and silver velvet bows are scattered throughout the branches. I’ve never seen the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center in real life, but I bet it’s not half as nice as this one. There are piles of extravagantly wrapped boxes at the tree’s base and I have no idea if they’re decorative or if they contain real gifts. I think of the $35 dollar wine bottle in my backpack and feel inadequate. Those boxes had better be decorations.

Henry ushers me to the curved, marble stairway and on the way up, I run my hand over the smooth banister. The floor of the dark wood-paneled hallway that leads to the guest rooms is covered in a long Persian rug in deep royal reds-and-blues. Although the rug must be at least 100 years old, it doesn’t look worn. We turn right at the end of the hallway into the guest room where I’ve slept before, with a four-poster bed covered in a crisp white duvet with gold trim. The chair in the corner is upholstered in burgundy velvet, and the hand painted vanity table beside it looks too delicate to be touched.

I set my unbefitting backpack on the floor, place my new coat down on the bed, and let out a long sigh. I’m relieved to be in warm, safe place. It’s quarter to seven and I have fifteen minutes before I’m expected for cocktails with the Harts, which is plenty of time to justify kicking off my stilettos and giving my aching feet a rest. A perfect fit they may be, but that doesn’t make them comfortable.

“That’s much better,” I say as I sit down on the regal bed. Henry looks at me askance, and I’m still slightly perturbed by his anger over the Professor Sparling incident. I mean, yes, I do still think Professor Sparling is hot, handsome, and brilliant, even if he’s the biggest A-hole in the world, but that doesn’t interfere with the way I feel about Henry now. I wish he would understand that. If I were to start getting jealous every time he passed one of his disposable babes on campus, I’d never make it to a class on time. “Don’t be pissed at me, Henry,” I say.

“I’m not,” he says as he takes off his coat and runs his finger through his hair.

“Yes, you are.”

“I’m really not. I swear, baby.”

“It’s only been a day since you and I hooked up,” I remind Henry. “You can’t expect the last 24 hours, magnificent as they’ve been, to make the past evaporate in a snap.”

“Not all the past,” Henry says. “Just the time when you worshipped someone other than me.”

“You are J-E-A-L-O-U-S,” I taunt, spelling the word out letter by letter. “And you should trust me, after today, my feelings about Professor Sparling are nothing like they used to be.”

“Well, that’s good. You should forget about being with him because I want you all to myself,” Henry says. He comes over to me and puts his lips on mine. My mouth opens immediately, responding recklessly and passionately, as if I’ve been waiting forever for his lips to touch mine. As our hot tongues combine and our breathing accelerates, Henry pushes me back onto the bed and lies on top of me. He doesn’t stop grinding his tongue into mine while he runs his hand slowly from my knee to the clinging elastic top of my thigh-high stocking. He rubs my inner thigh, just above the band of the stocking, and skims the minuscule crotch of my panties with his knuckles. I moan softly at his touch. “Do you like this?” Henry whispers.

“I believe I do,” I whisper back. “But aren’t we expected for cocktails in a few minutes?”

Henry shuts me up with another my-life-depends-on-this kiss. He hikes my skirt up and pulls my hips down to the edge of the bed, throwing my stocking-covered legs over his shoulders as he slides down to kneel on the floor. Henry’s face is between my legs and he’s gently kissing all around my upper thighs. Each time his lips meet my skin I quiver. I know I’m getting wetter and wetter. Henry knows it, too, because I’m bucking my hips toward him, encouraging, pleading, imploring him to touch me
there
and help me out of this teasing, agonizing pleasure. “Yes, you do like this,” Sydney, he says somewhat mockingly. I can only groan in response as he continues to kiss me everywhere in the region but there.

I reach down with both hands and curl my fingers around the edge of my lacy thong, tugging at it, desperate for some friction against my clit. Without lifting his lips from my thighs, Henry reaches up to my pelvis, clasps both of my fists in one of his hands, and stops me from trying to bring myself relief. “Not yet,” he says.

I bite my lower lip, and tip my head back, panting, “I can’t wait.” My panties are still bunched in my hand and I’ve yanked the crotch up so the only thing between Henry’s mouth and me is the thread of the thong. And just as I become aware of this, I sense the slightest hint of pressure, and it sends a shockwave of heat through my veins. I realize Henry is trailing his tongue along the length of the thread. The light, warm sensation sails me into another realm where anything but this moment is forgotten.

“Henry,” I moan.

Continuing to tease me intricately with his tongue, Henry lets go of my fists and runs his palms from my navel downward until they part at my fiery, expectant fork in the road. I feel a hand on each of my upper thighs, and then Henry’s thumbs slide onto either side of my deliciously wet lips. He runs his thumbs up and down in synch with his tongue that’s still coursing along the string of my thong. Now that my hands are free I grasp the duvet beneath me, gripping it forcefully. My stomach muscles tense, my thighs are taut, and my breath quickens as Henry’s tongue and thumbs continue their steady, delicate dance. My climax is building quickly, and just as I think I’m going burst, Henry stops. I gasp in frustration. “Oh, please don’t do this to me,” I beg.

Henry drops my legs onto the bed and I stay there with my knees up and my hips writhing. “Don’t stop,” I moan. Henry tugs the thong off of me, unzips his pants, and I hear the rip of a foil package opening. Then without any warning he slams into me furiously. I cry out jumbled words, overtaken with the rich, full sensation of Henry inside of me.

“Oh, Sydney, you feel so good,” Henry pants. He grabs my raised knees and slides himself almost all the way out of me before thrusting back in. I throw my hands into my hair and tilt my hips up. My mouth has gone too dry to speak. My reason is gone. The only thing I can focus on is the building sensation inside of me. From a trot to a gallop, this pounding, swelling accrual of passion takes me to the edge of insanity. Henry leans forward and circles a finger around my clit.

“Surrender,” he says. And I do, crying out as I explode around him. My throbbing muscles set him off and he thrusts deeply into me several times before he roars out my name as his body powerfully quakes. Henry shudders intensely once more before he collapses on top of me, resting his face next to mine as we both of gasp our way to recovery.

“Hey beautiful,” Henry says in a hush. “I think we’d better wash up and get downstairs.”

I nod, still unable to utter a word. The only thing my body wants to do is curl up in Henry’s arms and fall asleep. How I’m going to get through cocktails with his parents and dinner with the mayor and his wife is beyond me, but I’m so grateful to be here in a guarded place, far from my father’s reach, that I don’t care how tired I am. I’m going to celebrate Christmas, and my newfound relationship with Henry.

“C’mon,” Henry says. He takes my hand and pulls me off the bed. He goes to the bathroom to clean up and ushers me to follow him. I slip back into my thong, pull my stockings higher, straighten my skirt and sweater, and slide my feet reluctantly into the stiletto Mary Janes. In the bathroom, I splash cool water onto my flushed face and pat it dry with one of the luxurious linen towels hanging beside the sink. I smooth my hair and Henry reaches over to tuck a strand behind my ear. “You look great,” he says. “Let’s go.”

Dr. and Mrs. Hart are waiting for us in Ottawa Estate’s gargantuan living room. It’s adorned with three long, deep chocolate brown leather sofas surrounding a coffee table the size of my apartment. A crackling fire burns in the vast fireplace. Mrs. Hart smiles grandly as we enter the room. “We were starting to wonder about you two,” she says as she walks towards us. Her thick blond hair is pulled back tightly into a perfect bun, accentuating her high cheekbones and full lips. She’s wearing satin silver dress with long sleeves that’s belted at her small waist.

“Sydney, thank you so much for joining us,” she says politely and air kisses me delicately on each check.

Dr. Hart is wearing charcoal gray trousers and a navy blazer over a white shirt. He follows Mrs. Hart with an identical greeting. “You look lovely, Sydney, but so flushed,” he says. “Is everything all right?” he asks.