I lower myself onto him. I draw a sharp intake of breath, close my eyes and let the feeling of him filling me up take over me. Then I open my eyes again and look down at him. His hands are on my h*ps and he moves slowly inside me. It’s a deliciously lazy kind of rhythm, in and out, long and leisurely strokes that reach every part of me, and intoxicate me with the most wonderful drug of him. Of Chris. Of being in love. As he moves in me, sparks fly through my whole body, racing through my blood, through my veins. I close my eyes, because reality is too intense right now to have to see it. I just want to feel right now. So I lean down to kiss him and he draws me against him, my br**sts pressing into his chest. “I have to tell you, Chris. It takes me a long time. A really long time.”
“I don’t have anyplace to be,” he whispers. “Other than with this girl I’m crazy in love with.”
So I make love to my one-time business partner, my erstwhile partner in crime. He is none of those. Right now, he’s here with me, just me, as I touch his strong chest, then as my hands fumble in his soft hair that I love like crazy. There is no hidden agenda as I linger on the feeling of him all the way inside me. There is no game as he moves me up and down on him, holding me close, holding me near.
He brushes a strand of hair away from my face, and touches my cheek, then my neck in a gesture that floods me with so many emotions that scare the hell out of me, but feel so good too. The way he holds my h*ps as he drives into me is as consuming as it is tender, making me tremble, because we are so connected, so in tune that I know now what perfect means. This is perfect with him. This is more than perfect.
He is everything I could ever want, and he’s mine.
I’ve never cried during sex, and I hope I never do. But in this moment, I am overwhelmed with the intensity of all that I feel for him. I want as much of him as I can have, and he fills me so completely as I quicken the pace, moving in synch with him, in a delicious sort of rhythm that builds as he drives me higher, and my belly tightens and I draw in a deep breath, and then he brings me there.
It’s a waterfall, crashing over me, in my body, and in my heart, and so I bury my face in his neck, as I say his name louder, and my voice nearly breaks, and I hope he knows it’s because his name is the only one I ever want tumbling forth from my lips.
I shudder, and fall onto his chest, and then he rocks into me, saying my name many times too, then kissing me softly and holding me close, as I think of music, and lyrics, and sailboats in the moonlight.
Chapter Twenty
A week later, I'm walking home from the coffee shop when I run into Amber on her way to her gymnastics class. I don’t have anything to say to her, but I don’t want to avoid her either. I won’t let her have that much power in my life.
So instead of slinging a snide remark, I suck in all my pride, and say, “Hi Amber.”
Without agenda, without anger, without that jealousy that encased me for the last year.
“Hi McKenna. I’ve been meaning to reach out to you.”
I stay strong. Whatever she has to say, whatever they will throw my way, I’ll manage. I wait for her.
“I wanted to let you know that I had no idea what Todd was up to with the business buyout bullshit. But as soon as I heard last night, I sat him down and told him it was not okay. I told him to back off and stop threatening you with legal battles.”
“You did? You said that?”
“Yes. I made it clear that he was not going to operate our family that way. We make our own money. We don’t try to take money that belongs to other people. And The Fashion Hound is yours, and yours alone. So he spoke to his lawyer this morning to let him know he won’t need his services.”
A brittle piece of my heart softens. I’m not going to be friends with Amber, we’re not about to get mani-pedis together, but I respect her for this.
“Thank you, Amber. Thank you for that.”
“I better get to class.”
“Happy cartwheeling,” I say, and I mean it.
I walk the last few blocks to my house and am surprised to find two delivery men and a large truck waiting outside my steps.
“You McKenna Bell?”
I nod. “We have a delivery for you.”
“Evidently. What is it?”
But the guy doesn’t answer. Instead, he returns to the truck, and wheels a dolly down the ramp. When he’s halfway down I see what’s on the dolly.
My very own Qbert. An arcade Qbert.
“Oh my god!” I clap my hand to my mouth and I jump in excitement.
“Built it myself.”
I turn around and there’s Chris walking around from the front of the truck.
“You did?”
“I had a feeling you might like your own.”
Fifteen minutes later, the delivery guys are gone, and there’s a gorgeous new game in my living room.
“It’s one hundred percent authentic,” Chris says, and then hands me a bag of quarters. “No freebies. You gotta pay this beast every time.”
My eyes light up and I reach for a quarter. “I want to play now.”
“There’s one thing I should let you know, though. I tested it out first. Just to make sure it worked. So you’ll have to beat my high score.”
He taps the screen and shows me his score. It’s insanely high. I pretend to punch him. “Chris! That’s too high. It’ll take me forever to beat your score.”
“We can just christen the game instead then.”
Epilogue
Two Months Later
The cabs honk, and the traffic roars, and everywhere there are people, bustling and coming and going. Chris holds my hand as we weave through streams of New Yorkers and tourists. I’m wearing a black linen dress with cartoonish dog prints smattered across the fabric, and a flouncy skirt that shows off a hot pink petticoat underneath. It’s totally retro and rockabilly, and I love it. So does Chris, who looks sharp in jeans and a button-down shirt as he guides us to the stage door.
He knocks and the stage manager opens the door shortly.
“Hi. You are?”
“Chris McCormick. Here to see my sister Jill.”
The stage manager glances at a list in her hand, taps it once to confirm, and then shows us into the theater, escorting us through narrow hallways that whisper stories of the past, of plays and productions and big, brassy musicals that this jewel of Broadway has seen over the years. Down a well-worn red carpeted hallway to a dressing room, and the stage manager knocks. We are early. Curtain is in one hour. But it’s opening night at Chris’ sister’s show, and she said she wanted to see him beforehand.