But my heart wasn’t in it. I’d left it back in Southern Oregon. How corny was that? But it was true. Even though Caroline didn’t exactly seem to feel the same way.
From the second we’d been rescued, I’d felt her pulling away. She’d shrunk further and further away from me with each mile we’d crossed returning her home. I didn’t want all that separation. I didn’t want any separation. I wanted her right next to me, preferably naked, all of the time.
My old life was waiting for me, just as I’d left it. But to me, it felt like my favorite pair of gloves didn’t fit any more. Nothing in my life had changed. The difference was me.
I called her as I said I would, texted her, emailed her, had fresh flowers delivered to her apartment, her bakery. But I couldn’t shake the sense that she was slipping from my grasp. I had to see her.
“Come out to New York.” I invited her as we spoke one evening, about five days back into our respective lives.
“I can’t.” She had all kinds of reasons. The bakery. The fact that she’d just gotten back, that she didn’t feel that excited about hopping on a plane again. Oh, and her family needed her.
They could all kiss my ass.
“I could come to you,” I suggested. “Or you could just fly out here for a weekend.” I suggested flight times, reminding her of the convenience of using my private plane. “With a pilot and a co-pilot,” I assured her.
Finally, when I FedExed a package to her filled with New York-related enticements, she relented.
“This bagel is amazing,” she said, and I could hear her chewing. I’d had my assistant assemble a box of goodies, from playbills of hit Broadway shows, to menus from the best restaurants, to a few of the delicious delicacies you could only find in our fair city.
“I will get you fresh bagels every morning you’re with me in Manhattan,” I promised her.
We agreed, she’d fly out on a Friday and return the following Tuesday. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. We had to figure out how this was going to work. I was set on it.
I made all sorts of wild plans, double and even triple-booking us into shows and events and restaurants because I didn’t know what she’d want to do but I wanted her to have her pick. I spared no expense, setting up time with a personal shopper for her to go wild with at Saks and Bloomies, reserving a room at the Harvard Club and inviting fifty of my closest friends and associates to a small, private cocktail hour on Sunday so they could meet her. I wanted to bowl her over, make her never want to leave, make her mine.
§
“This is where you live?” She looked around my penthouse the night she arrived, eyes wide. Something in her tone wasn’t entirely admiring.
“Yes, when I’m in New York.” I surveyed my penthouse, wondering how it appeared to her through her perspective. I’d hired an interior designer to furnish and decorate, of course. I hadn’t given any of it much thought. The designer had made standard choices as I’d instructed her, going slightly over-budget but that was to be expected, too. She’d designed more than one wealthy bachelor’s Manhattan penthouse and she knew how to get “the look”—everything top-of-the-line, tricked-out and operated via “smart” automation, with heating, lighting, electronics, entertainment system, and security all controlled remotely through the screen of my phone.
“Wow.” She nodded. A non-committal statement if ever I’d heard one.
“You can redecorate it if you’d like.” I wasn’t kidding. I’d give her the budget, the people to work with. I kind of liked the idea of her putting her mark on my space, making it our own.
She gave me a confused glance, either not interested or not taking me seriously. And I remembered once again, Caroline wasn’t the type of woman I was used to dating. Redecorating was a typical milestone many couples I knew reached together, the expected result of merging his and hers. Moving in together was never as simple as shoving clothes to one side of the closet. Decorators needed to be involved at the very least, hired to put the couple’s stamp on a space. And if an entirely new home wasn’t being purchased, knocking down walls and enlarging bathrooms and kitchens seemed the only other option.
“Come here,” I tried instead.
She looked up and, thankfully, came on over. Wrapping our arms around each other, we stood together in my living room, next to a wall of windows overlooking Central Park. She relaxed in my arms, resting her head against my chest. That was better.
“What can I do to make this less awkward?” I asked. It didn’t help to pretend things weren’t weird. They were, and the only way we could move forward was to put it out in the open.
“I don’t know,” she answered honestly.
“Do you feel like French-influenced Thai for dinner?” I asked. “Or a little cozy Italian place?” She said nothing. “Should I cancel our dinner reservations?”
She nodded against my chest. “Maybe that’s a good idea. I know you had a lot planned for my visit, but I think I’d rather spend some time just hanging out with you.”
That was a nice thing for a woman to say. I’d had a lot of fawning and praise over the years from women I’d dated, gushing over the types of reservations and tables I could get us for dinner. I wasn’t sure I’d ever had someone truly express interest in simply hanging out. Unless that had been a polite term for “lets stay in and fuck.” Which, come to think of it, would be just fine with me if that was what Caroline wanted. I aimed to please.
“What do you have in your kitchen?” she asked, ever practical.
“I have no idea,” I answered, honestly, leading her into the spotless, state-of-the art kitchen I barely used. I’d turned on the microwave a few times to heat something up. I always kept beer and wine in the refrigerator. That was about it.
“Oh dear God,” she marveled, touching my cooktop like it was made of diamonds. “You have a six-burner Wolf range!”
“Do I?” I looked at it, noticing it for perhaps the first time. I’d of course wanted the best of everything for the entire penthouse, for resale value if nothing else. But that didn’t mean I took advantage of everything.
“Can I use it?” Her eyes shone with excitement.
“Be my guest.” I felt so grateful to see her free from the anxiety and hesitation I’d seen far too much of lately. I probably would have said yes to just about anything to get her to smile like that.
She made herself at home, rummaging around in my cabinets and drawers, shocked at my near-empty refrigerator, laughing at the sparse and random contents of my pantry.
“Crème Fraiche?” That was one of the few things I had in the fridge. “Vanilla beans? Imported anchovies from Spain?” Those were from the pantry. “What’s going on, Colt?” She held up the miscellany in amused disbelief.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “There’s not exactly a plan in place for me with food.” Sometimes I was given specialty, imported foods as gifts. Occasionally I stopped at the small, gourmet store nearby and purchased a few things on impulse. The crème fraiche was a prime example. It was good with strawberries.
“I eat out almost every meal.”
“That’s a shame.” She, again, had almost the exact opposite reaction of most people I knew. And, again, I found her delightfully refreshing. “Well,” she rubbed her hands together, surveying my kitchen. “I do enjoy a challenge.”
“And I enjoy watching you take one on.” I poured us both some wine, turned on some music and let her boss me around, peeling and dicing a couple carrots she found in a crisper, stirring a sauce she concocted on the burner.
“Keep stirring,” she’d admonish me when I got distracted. Which I did, frequently, with her right by my side. With us working together, there were plenty of casual opportunities to place a hand at her waist, the small of her back. Or brush a strand of hair behind her ear. Each touch made me want more, like a lick of a favorite ice cream you’d almost forgotten how much you’d loved. How could you have gone all this time without it?
“Does this seem too sweet to yo
u?” She had me taste something off a spoon, but all I could think of as I licked it was how much I wanted to taste her. She was the sweetest thing I’d ever tasted and I wanted more.
“It’s good.” Satisfied by my response, she turned off the burners on the stove and set to combining different things, setting up our meal. I wasn’t paying too much attention. She had her hair drawn all to one side, baring her throat. I came up behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist, bringing my mouth down to her bare neck.
Starting with a gentle kiss, I licked and loved my way up to her ear. “I’ve missed you, Caroline,” I murmured. She leaned back into me, her busy hands stilling. I traced the edge of her ear with my tongue, then sucked on her soft lobe, giving it a light bite. “Have you missed me?”
“Yes,” she confessed, her voice a low whisper.
“I think about you all the time.” Slipping my hands under her shirt, I stroked her stomach, up, slowly up until I cupped her breasts in my large hands. Brushing my thumbs across her nipples, I felt them pebble, hard under my touch.
“Mmm,” she moaned, pressing her ass back against me, arching her back, winding her hand up and around into my hair. I reached down and pulled her shirt up and over her head. No need for that. She wore a demi-cup bra, so much of her generous mounds offered up for my pleasure. I reached in and pulled her breast up and out. I wanted full, unfettered access to those nipples. I’d been thinking about them every night. Both hands wrapped tight around her tits, I pulled her against me, grinding my erection into her ass.
“It’s been too long, Caroline,” I groaned. Too much distance between us, too much time. I needed her. I need to bury myself in her, feel her come around my cock.
“Yes,” she moaned in agreement, one hand back on my hip to pull me closer. I reached a hand down to her jeans, pressing against the seam, pushing against her clit.
“I need to feel you come, baby,” I told her, unbuttoning her jeans, pushing them down her hips. “I can’t wait any longer.”