I curse, struggling to breath as it subsides, sagging against the wall. That was easily the best orgasm that I’ve had in a long time, and I have no words right now. Christian slowly pulls away from me, and then quickly scoops me up and carries me to the bed. He puts me on my back so I can do the required reclining before excusing himself to clean up.
When he comes back, I’m honestly still trying to catch my breath, and my voice is hoarse. “Thank you for your service.”
He chuckles, pulling on his pants. “Anytime. Speaking of, how often did you want to meet?”
“Well,” I say, “It’s pretty common for people who have sex every two or three days to get pregnant faster.”
Christian nods. “Every other day then?”
“You’d be willing to do that much?”
His eyes travel up and down my naked body. “It’s not exactly a hardship, Audrey. I can’t do Monday, but Tuesday should work.”
I blush and look away. “Then yeah, every other day is fine with me.”
“Great.” He finishes buttoning his shirt and slips on his shoes. “See you on Tuesday.” He’s almost to the door when he turns. “Is your number the same? I think it’s probably easier than using Heartility to communicate.”
“It’s the same.”
“I’ll text you then.” He is out the door, and I’m there watching him leave, dealing with the fact that for the first time in three years, I don’t want him to go.
8
I’m almost to the subway when my cell phone rings. It’s my mother. It’s a little late for her to be calling, but not unheard of.
“Hello?”
“Hi,” she says. “How are you?”
Fucked and satisfied are the first two words that come to my mind, but I can’t say that to my mother. “I’m good,” I say. “Just on my way home from meeting up with a friend.”
“Great, I don’t want to bother you, I was just wondering what you’re doing tomorrow?”
I think for a second. “No solid plans right now.”
“Would it be possible for you to make it out to the house tomorrow? I’m throwing a surprise party for Celia at the end of next week and there are a few things I could use your opinion on. Artistically.”
My eyebrows raise nearly into my hairline. Neither of my parents were super pleased that I ever considered being an artist, and were very relieved when I went into a profitable trade like grant writing. The fact that she’s asking for my artistic opinion at all is a big deal. “Sure,” I say. “What time?”
“Anytime in the afternoon is fine.”
“Okay, I’ll be there.”
She hangs up with little fuss, and I continue on my way home. But my mind is swirling. Christian. Alexander Prince. My mother. In some weird way it feels like everything is conspiring together to get me to reconsider a career in art. My first class in the workshop is on Monday, and I only hope that it goes as well as I’ve imagined it to for the past two days.
* * *
The drive out to Long Island is not my favorite, but it’s not the worst road trip to take. My parents live pretty far out, well past the bounds of what would be considered New York City, but not quite so far that it’s considered the Hamptons.
They’re pretty well off, the beautiful house and yard — the reason they throw a lot of parties — but they would never be considered wealthy. Not by New York standards. I didn’t think to ask last night why they’re throwing Celia a party. My younger sister’s birthday isn’t for several months. Throwing a party now certainly would be a surprise, but my gut tells me something else.
I kind of zone out on the way there, my mind tracing the same thought patterns it’s had for days. I keep thinking about Christian, and his willingness to do this for me. I keep thinking about my art class tomorrow and what it’s going to be like to study in a formal setting. I keep thinking and wondering if somehow last night created a baby that I’m not aware of yet. I managed to keep myself from taking another pregnancy test, but only just.
I pull into the driveway in the early afternoon, and everything looks the same. Big white house, perfectly manicured lawn — my father’s pride and joy — and gorgeous flower beds fully coming into bloom in the late summer.
The door is unlocked as it usually is. This is one of those neighborhoods where crime is unheard of and neighbors pop by on a semi-regular basis. Having your door locked would be more of an inconvenience than anything.
“Hello?”
My mother’s voice comes from the formal dining room. “In here!”
The dining room table is covered with swatches and pieces of paper and scraps of decoration. “Holy cow, Mom.”