When he walks into the bedroom, I’m seated in the bathroom, getting my hair done. The woman has been talking ad nauseum about a famous client she had who she can’t name because of nondisclosures, but who definitely shaved her head once. I try to look interested in what she’s talking about, but she never gives me a chance to get a word in edgewise so it doesn’t matter. She blatantly ignores the book in my hands that I’m so close to finishing but can’t focus on because of her talking.
“You dyed your hair,” he says, taking off his tie and tossing it aside. I meet his eyes in the mirror.
“Yeah, a few days ago. It’s my natural color.”
His lips twitch into a smile as I wince, the hair stylist pulling my hair back. The chestnut color makes me feel more like myself. I had gotten used to the blonde but this feels right. Both hair stylists told me to avoid bleaching my hair again because my hair will just get more brittle and break. It’s taken extreme conditioning to get it back to a manageable state.
“I’ll get dressed in the guest room. You look beautiful,” he says before disappearing.
“He’s quite the catch,” the hair stylist says, wrapping another curl around the wand. She leaves me with enough time to slip into my red dress and put on my jewelry before leaving.
We both emerge, ready to go, with only fifteen minutes until the start of the event.
“We’re going to be late,'' I point out, stepping into the living room while putting on my earrings.
“No, no one is on time for these things anyway. Who are you wearing, by the way? The photographers are going to ask.” He isn’t looking at me as he focuses on his cufflinks. When he does, I feel like my entire body is on fire, his eyes licking up my body. My whole being burns and I want to forget the party and jump him in his trim cut tuxedo. The suit jacket is open, revealing the tight white shirt underneath.
I’m in a floor length, a-line red dress. It conforms to my every curve, including the draping along my cleavage. My movements have to be slow and controlled because one wrong move and I’m afraid a seam will split. It feels like one already split since there is a slit on one leg that ends at the crease on my hip. This is, of course, the leg with my scar. My friends insisted that they didn’t notice and no one would be looking at the scar anyway. I yearn for the days when Charlie would massage the wound for no reason other than to have an excuse to touch me.
“I think we’re going to be a little later than planned.” Charlie walks over to me and kisses me on the mouth. He doesn’t know where to put his hands, skimming along the outside of my body, from my shoulders down. His hands settle on my hips, moving up my back where he finds that the dress is backless.
“You undo me,” his voice is breathless. He steps forward, forcing me back one step at a time until I’m pressed against the wall, my head knocking into a picture. He plants his hands on either side of me, grinning like a fool. I can see the things he wants to do to me playing in his eyes like a movie. I bite my lower lip, wishing we could play them out.
“I refuse to go to this event looking like a trollop because you couldn’t keep it in your pants for a few hours.” I gently push him off me.
He groans, dropping his head to my shoulder, pressing a kiss to my neck. If he pushed, even just a little, I would let him take me. I would let him take me on every surface of the apartment. My laugh comes out a little breathless.
“I did want to ask. Do you think I should let the makeup artist cover this up?” I don’t have to point to my scar because we both know what I’m referring to. It’s not as bad as it once was but it is still pink and noticeable. He shakes his head, stepping away from me so he can pay the hair and make-up people, who have cleaned up and are waiting near the front door.
“No, you don’t need it.” He waits until they’re out the door before he drops to his knees before me. I wonder for a second what he has in mind. His lips graze my scar with a sweet kiss before he moves his head between my legs. I gasp as he lifts one of my legs and rests it on his shoulder. My breaths are coming rapidly, his face moving my skirt to the side. His hot breath against my middle makes my knees weak and I’m glad he’s there to support me.
“When we get back here, I am going to taste you. To remind you of every reason that I think you’re beautiful and that this stupid scar doesn’t matter.”
I know that I’m already wet. “Why don’t you just show me now?”
“Greedy girl. I thought you didn’t want to show up looking like a trollop.” His hands slide up my legs to my hips before pulling down my underwear. He hooks my other leg over his shoulder, balancing me there. It’s precarious but the moment his mouth touches my wet folds, thoughts evacuate my head.
I moan, fingers threading through his hair, my hips swinging up to meet his lips as he sucks my clit. One finger, then a second, pump into me greedily, guiding my body to the edge.
“Oh God, Charlie, oh.”
He quickens his pace until I come to the precipice of oblivion, and I don’t just fall into it, I dive. My body clenches around his fingers and my ears ring from the power of my orgasm. If this was supposed to convince me to go to the party, it has the opposite effect.
Gently, he sets me down, one foot and then the other, making sure I can stand on my own. His eyes search mine greedily, watching my face as I come down from the high. He drags the back of his hand over his lips.
“It’s been too long since I’ve tasted you. Too long since I heard those noises.” He kisses my lips. The taste of me on his mouth is surprisingly heady.
“You have been,” I let out a steadying breath, “busy.” I follow Charlie to the bathroom, quickly scooping up Bonsai because she was clawing at the edge of my skirt. Charlie vigorously brushes his teeth and I press a kiss to Bonsai’s head before setting her down.
“I promise, this project is ending soon. I think I’m going to need a few days after to put some things in order. After that, maybe we can find a cabin with no internet that we can escape to and then I can screw you on every possible surface.”
“I like the sound of that.” I thread my fingers in with his, leaning into his side. “Besides, we have a lot to talk about once you’re around for more than just fifteen minutes at the start of every day.”
“Well, that sounds ominous.”
It's a testament to his faith in us that he’s not worried about our relationship when I say that.
I’m blinded by flashing lights when we get to the Met. Charlie’s hand on the small of my back helps to keep me in the moment and from getting too overwhelmed. He holds me close to him as we pose for pictures, even though I don’t understand why we’re being photographed. I hope I don’t seem too oblivious to what I’m supposed to be doing. I place my hand on my hip, Charlie’s chest, turning this way and that.