“Oh yes.” She squirmed against my hand, her breath coming in short little pants. “I want to do it again.”
“I’m going to make you go down on me all the time.”
“Yes, make me,” she begged. “I want you to make me take you down my throat.”
“Oh, you naughty girl.” I caressed her with my voice, working her clit.
“Yes,” she whined.
“Show me how much sucking my cock turned you on,” I commanded. She came at my words, arching back, pushing her clit into my fingers, coming and shuddering in waves.
“I love your cock,” she cried out, surrendering to her orgasm.
I held her in my arms, this amazing sexual woman I’d somehow gotten lucky enough to stumble across in my life. Twice.
“You’re amazing.” I caressed her hair, her face, her back.
“I can’t believe you’re back in my life,” she murmured against my chest. “I missed you so much. It hurt so much being away from you.”
Wow. I hadn’t realized she’d felt that way, too. All that time I’d been hurting like I had a hole in my chest, she’d been hurting, too? I’d honestly had no idea. In fact, to speed up getting over her, I’d told myself she must not care at all. I let myself mope and sulk at first, but after a while I’d forced myself to picture her out on the town with another man. Or worse, back in an apartment with another man, a man who could offer her much more than I could, making her cum again and again all night. That usually got me out of the house.
“I missed you, too.” Understatement of the year.
“I’m so sorry I told you not to move to New York with me. That was a huge mistake.”
I’d thought about hearing those words lots of times. Now that I’d actually heard them, it almost sounded surreal. And, damn it, almost too much. I wasn’t sure I was ready to have that talk. The one where I admitted I’d never stopped loving her. The time apart had only made me love her more. I’d always love her.
That was a big conversation to have. It would change things forever. It would bind her to me. And as much as I wanted that, craved it, never wanted her apart from me ever again, I needed more time. As much as our connection felt other-worldly it was so intense, I still wasn’t sure we had a future together. I still wasn’t sure she wouldn’t be better off with another man.
I stuck around another hour or two. We watched something stupid on TV, cuddling on the couch. Sophie dozed off and I carried her to bed, tucking her in.
“Stay.” She pulled at me when I kissed her good night.
“I’ve got to be at the station tomorrow morning early,” I explained. “You get some sleep.”
And I left, hating myself for doing it. But that guard I’d worked hard to get up wasn’t coming all the way down yet. And it might be for her own good.
15
Sophie
Early the next morning I met with a paint crew and, of course, advisors from the historical society, to discuss the next step in the renovation process. We were making great progress on the studio. Thanks to Liam’s help, with all his friends so good at what they did and so willing to prioritize my project, we were moving along at practically a reality show clip. For a project a lot of people said I’d been crazy to take on, I felt amazed to look around and see all the electrical and plumbing finished. Liam and his helper Rob had gotten the rough carpentry close to where it needed to be. Then all that was left was plaster patching and painting.
I could do a lot more to improve the back room and make it a better changing area, or to the bathroom to make it pretty, but for now I was going to get everything functional and clean and then open up shop. First of all, I didn’t want to push my luck with the historical society. Every move I made required hours of my time to work with them to get them to agree to changes, and that was talking about replacing corroded pipes. I was overjoyed they’d let me go with a light cream-colored paint instead of a dark beige for the walls. It would be bright and clean and neutral—and not historically accurate for the time of the building. But Julia had worked her magic and I got cream.
Second, I was too eager to open up the studio and start giving dance lessons. I’d already talked to a woman I knew through the New York Ballet Company who seemed interested in possibly coming on as another teacher on staff. Of course, I’d be teaching round the clock. I couldn’t wait. After months of inactivity, my body was itching like a racehorse kept in the stable too long. I craved movement.
What an amazing feeling, to want to dance again. After all those years of pushing myself too hard, it had become a chore, a task I dreaded and associated with pain and ultimately failure. No matter how many lead roles I landed, it never felt like enough. Everything I did garnered criticism from choreographers, sniping from other dancers who wanted to be in my place, or harsh words from dance critics who earned their living by pointing out flaws.
In a few weeks I’d get to open my doors and welcome in people who loved to dance! People of all shapes and sizes and ages, coming to my studio to listen to music and move to it. What could be more joyful than that? I couldn’t wait to celebrate and cultivate that innate love in people. Deep down, I was convinced we were all born with it, the instinct to move our bodies and express ourselves through rhythm and beat.
From a tactical point of view, I also bet the historical society would be more open to my remodeling the bathroom and changing room once they saw the studio in action. I already planned to make Julia my chief advisor for senior programming. The woman knew everyone on the island and I could already see her itching to dance again. We could get a couple of senior classes going in whatever she and her friends wanted, ballet, tap, jazz, maybe a modern dance mélange. Or, who knew, maybe they wanted to get jiggy with their grandkids and learn hip hop? I’d be all over that.
After ushering the paint crew and assorted advisors out, I got myself a coffee at Cuppa Joe and returned to my studio to survey the project nearing completion. I felt pride, excitement, and a crazy pang of melancholy. I’d liked having the connection with Liam. Ultimately, it had been my project. I owned the place and it was my vision I was executing on, but he’d been my partner in crime, my biggest supporter. Without him, not only would it not be nearly completed in record time, it might not have gotten off the ground at all.
And I’d loved spending time with him while we worked. We had such an easy companionship that emerged when we were just spending time together on a mutual project. Without the pressure of trying to sort through what was or wasn’t between us, always with the looming presence of The Past casting a pall over our present-day interactions, we really got along. He didn’t have the sparking or snarky wit of some of my New York friends, or the sophisticated and worldly observations of my ex George, and I had to say I felt relieved by it. We could just hang out, listening to music, talking about a silly video we’d seen on YouTube or a crazy tourist we’d overheard at Cuppa Joes. Around Liam, I relaxed and felt like I could be myself. It was as simple as that.
But now here I was nearing the end of the project and even with everything that had gone down between us, past and present, I still felt like with the renovation finished it might also mean seeing much less of him. Our physical connection was off the charts, but he’d never spent the night. He’d never had me over to his place. As intense as it was between us—and I knew that was mutual—he was holding back. It made me feel insecure, and more than that, it made me angry.
The kind of connection we had between us didn’t happen every day. I was only 25 and I knew I had a lot of living still ahead of me, but I also had enough behind me to know that what we felt between us was a rare and unusual gift. Everything that happened during my day, I wanted to tell him about, share with him, see what he thought about it or even just see him laugh over something funny. I wanted to hear about all the little things that went on for him, how his run was, what he ate for breakfast, what minor annoyances and aggravations had pockmarked his morning that I could smooth over by listening and commiserating.
We had that kind of click, when you knew you’d found someone you’d never grow tired of.
But he wasn’t stepping up to the plate, not completely. He seemed to have retreated from some of the claims he’d made about not being the right guy for me, or how he was too extreme. But maybe he still felt that way deep down. Sometimes it seemed as if he felt like if I really knew him, all of him, I wouldn’t like him anymore. Or at the very least, I’d be happier with someone less complicated who inspired less emotional highs and lows, a solid and steady five on the scale from zero to 10. A Theo Bartright, for example.
I could see a life with Theo, rolling out before me so much like my parents’ lives. He’d revolve around his axis of finance and business. I’d manage the society piece of the equation with our club memberships and charities we funded. We’d both look fabulous in photographs the few days a month we’d see each other to make an appearance at functions. We’d pay others to raise our children and send them to the best schools with only the best children from the best families.
He’d never hurt me because there’d be nothing there to hurt. I wouldn’t be vulnerable with him. I could always stay a bit detached, keeping my heart whole, separate and safe. It would be a life of ease and privilege, a life many would aspire to. Maybe there was something wrong with me that it didn’t hold appeal? Maybe if I’d never met Liam I would have stepped willingly, even happily into that role because I wouldn’t have known there was any alternative. But now that I knew otherwise, it seemed like sleepwalking through life.
I had a couple of hours before Liam was going to come back to finish the flooring, so I headed to my mother’s house to see if I could spend some time with Eloise. When I arrived, I found my sister sitting out on the patio with my mother.
“Hello stranger.” My mother rose to give me an air kiss. “How’s the shop?”
“Hey!” Margot swooped in for an exuberant hug, full of energy. In a manic swing, I could instantly tell. “I’ve missed you so much!”
“How are you feeling?” I asked, wary. I hadn’t been keeping exact count of her days in rehab, but I didn’t think she’d hit her full 60 days.
“Amazing! Better than ever!” Everything she said was punctuated by exclamation points.
“Did you…?” Margot gave me a sharp look of warning, guessing what I was about to ask her. But I still had to ask. “Has it been 60 days?”
“I didn’t need to stay there for 60 days, Sophie,” she answered with a bright edge to her voice.
“Would you like a Bloody Mary?” Mom offered, heading off to the kitchen. “You know Roger makes the best Bloody Marys on the island.” Roger, our butler, had earned his first-name status over decades of service. And the killer Bloody Marys didn’t hurt.
“No, thanks,” I answered, in deference to my sister whom I assumed would be abstaining.
“Yes, thanks!” she called out at the same time. Noting my look of astonishment, she winked at me. “Virgin, of course. Oh my God, I’m so excited about your shop!”
“Um, thank you.” I sat in the chair next to her. “It’s a studio, actually—”
“Don’t let anyone tell you you can’t do it!” Passion burned bright in her eyes. She leaned forward, touching my leg. “You can do anything you set your mind to. That’s what I’m planning on doing from now on.”
“Good for you.”
“I’m going to make a fresh start, Sophie.” She nodded to herself with absolute conviction.
“OK.” I wished rather than believed it to be true. I’d try to help her, regardless. But for Eloise’s sake, I hoped her fresh start involved more stability. “Are you thinking of staying here? Or moving somewhere else?”
“I haven’t figured out all the details.” She waved away my pesky questions. “Tell me about your love life!” She looked at me expectantly, eagerly, clearly wanting to discuss more fun topics.
“Well, I’ve kind of been seeing some of Liam again.”
“Liam?”