I slip her underwear in my pocket, then I wrap my arms around her thighs, and I dive between her legs.
I tease her with a soft brush of my lips.
Then another. Another.
I want to stay here forever. I want to torture her for hours.
But we're in public.
And neither of us can afford to be caught here.
So I tease her one more time, then I flick my tongue against her. I lick her with the steady strokes she needs.
Her hand knots in my hair.
Her hips arch against me.
I rake my nails over her thighs. Not enough to hurt. Only enough she knows I have her.
"Fuck, Simon." She presses her hand to her mouth to stifle a groan.
I take one moment to savor her. I nip at the inside of her thigh. I inhale the scent and sight and sound of her.
Then I give her exactly what she needs.
Fast, steady strokes.
Again and again.
Until she's there, groaning into her palm, rocking against me, coming on my lips.
She gets sweeter, wetter, softer.
Infinitely more irresistible.
I work her through her orgasm, then I pull back, right her dress, rise.
She looks up at me with hazy eyes.
And she kisses me hard and fast.
"Your place." She tugs at my shirt. "Now."
The walk to my apartment is sweet torture.
The doorman, the security guard, the elevator.
I don't make it to the bed.
I barely make it past the door.
I pin Vanessa to the wall.
She pulls my shirt over my head, undoes my belt, pushes my jeans from my hips.
I push her dress to her waist.
When I lift her, she wraps her legs around me.
Then her arms.
I kiss her as I drive into her.
She kisses back with the same mix of need and desire.
And we melt together, there, against the living room wall.
Breathing together, groaning together, moving together.
Until she's there, rubbing herself as she comes on my cock, pulling me over the edge with her.
I hold her there for a moment, soaking in the sound of her groan, the feel of her skin, the sweetness of her body against mine.
The world is ours.
At least for today.
Then I let her down, lead her to the bathroom, clean and dry and dress with her.
In terry cloth robes straight out of a movie.
She smiles as she drapes the fabric over her shoulders.
And when she says, "Spoiled rich boy," she says it like it's her favorite phrase.
Like she's saying, "I love you."
Chapter Thirty-Four
SIMON
My apartment looks different in the afternoon light. Brighter and bolder and a billion times more beautiful.
Already, I want to have Vanessa again.
All day, I want to have Vanessa again.
But I want to be here too. Enjoying a quiet afternoon.
Addressing the things neither of us wants to say.
"Are you hungry?" I ask. It's a normal question, especially given the time and our recent activities, but it feels impossibly loaded.
She nods. "Was Opal right? Are you helpless in the kitchen?"
"Not helpless."
"But not good?"
"Competent."
"But not good?"
My lips curl into a smile. "Not good."
"Do you have anything?" She studies my expression. The expectation on my face. "Anything easy?"
Easy first.
We start first.
Then we talk.
Or is this like discussing birth control?
Is it a bad idea to talk about food while we're cooking?
I don't know.
I know enough about eating disorders to see signs of them. I do live with a teenage girl.
And Opal has her issues with food and anxiety—her allergy causes plenty, even if she won't admit it—but nothing like this.
She has a healthy relationship to control.
She doesn't try to hold on to it for dear life.
Or let go and savor the free fall.
She's not normal in many ways, but she's normal in this one.
"Eggs," I say. "Steak."
Vanessa laughs. "Is it fifty-dollar-a-pound steak?"
"Probably."
She pulls open the fridge. Checks the rows of plant milk, fruit, condiments, prepackaged meals.
She pulls out the eggs. Surveys the other options.
Settles on a stack of tomatoes and a package of dairy-free pesto. "A friend was talking about pesto. She put me in the mood." She turns to me. "Do you normally use something instead of cheese?"
"Avocado."
"How Californian of you." She checks the fruit drawer, comes up empty for avocado but finds a zucchini. "I should have guessed. Simon Pierce only stocks phallic vegetables."
"Fruits."
"Right. Fruits." She holds the long green fruit-vegetable up. "Can I ask you to cut this? Or is it too painful?"
"I can manage."
"Are you sure?"
I nod.
She places it on the counter.
I find the knife and cutting board.
She warms a pan on the stove. "Oil?"
"Cabinet on the right."
She checks our array of flavored olive oils. "Are these good?"
"They're oil."
"Olive oil expires." She smells a canister. Deems it appropriate. "It only takes a few months."
"Opal drowns her salads in oil."
"The salads with the service?"
"Weekend lunch."
"How often do you cook?" She pours Italian herb oil on the pan.
"Once or twice a week."
"The other days?"
"Takeout on Tuesdays and Thursdays. After her class."
"When school starts?" she asks.
"Then we'll change our routine."