“Wow. I think the only other time I’ve been in the papers is when I attended the Tonys with my brother a few years ago,” she said, still a bit shell-shocked to be thrust into the limelight like this.
“I’m sorry. I hate that they made some sort of insinuation,” he said, seeming contrite.
She flashed back to her conversation at her consulting group with Carla, who’d been spotted seeing It’s Raining Men, then to her own comments about having a life. “Look, it’s not as if we were caught on-camera fucking,” Michelle said in a whisper.
He laughed. “And there were plenty of chances to catch that.”
“We just need to be careful,” she added. She wanted to believe that she was allowed to have a life, to date, to even be seen out and about with a man in the public eye. She was a human being. She couldn’t live in a bubble, and it made no sense to pretend she had no life. “I’m not a nun. I’m simply a shrink. It’s fine. I’m allowed to date. Besides, we aren’t a secret. Our affair might be private, but we were never sneaking around. We’ve always gone to dinner and to bars and for walks. We’re adults, living in Manhattan. Remember the first night we had dinner?”
“Yes.”
“A picture showed up on Twitter a few days later. My friend Sutton noticed it.”
“When you said I had fans?”
“Yes. I guess the fact is there are a lot of women in this city who want to fuck you, Jack Sullivan,” she said with a wink, tugging on his tie and pulling him closer.
“But there’s only one who is. And there’s only one I want to fuck,” he said, his voice low and husky in her ear.
“Good. I like it that way.”
“That’s the only way for me,” he said, then pulled back to look her in the eyes. “Are you sure it doesn’t bother you?” he asked, serious once more.
She shrugged. “It’s not that bad a piece. We were only at dinner, and the rest is the columnist making a joke. So truly, I can’t let it get to me.” If she stopped buying cereal at Trader Joe’s, or going out to dinner, or skipping the theater, she’d be less human. And to do her job—which was her passion, her love, her soul—she needed and wanted to be fully involved in the world around her. To be a part of it. To live. To love. To feel.
He smiled and fingered a strand of her hair. “Do you have any idea how nice it is to be involved with a shrink? You don’t overreact to things.”
She laughed. “I still have emotions, Jack. Being a psychologist doesn’t mean I’m devoid of them, or that I can manage them properly all the time. Sometimes, I can misbehave horribly.”
Just then the lights flashed, and the orchestra took the stage, the virtuoso musicians settling into their chairs, ready to launch into Brahms Fourth Symphony.
“I can misbehave too,” he said, mischief skipping across his blue eyes.
She drew a sharp breath, expecting him to brandish his remote and send pleasure shooting straight into her core.
But he didn’t. Instead, he took her hand, and turned his attention to the stage to watch, and listen. She enjoyed the music too, feeling it wrap its way around her, slink into her mind and body as the sound of the flutes soared through the cavernous hall. But she was waiting, too, tense, hoping to feel that pleasure again.
As the violinists picked up their bows, her eyes widened, and she gripped the arm of her chair. He’d turned it back on, and he’d turned it to high. She held her breath as she let herself adjust to the intensity of the vibrations between her legs, but soon he lowered the pressure, letting it buzz against her at the lowest level, a faint but still-present sensation, as if he were gently rubbing his fingertip against her clit. Like they were lying on her couch, watching a movie, and he’d decided to dip a hand inside her panties and absently stroke her while staring at the screen.
That was how it felt. Enough pleasure to send her body into a heightened awareness, a craving for more. But not enough to satiate her. Not enough at all. She wanted more, and as the bassoons joined in she was about to beg for it, to tap him on the shoulder and ask him to turn it up and get her all the way off. But this man could read her perfectly. He glanced over, and she was sure he was taking in her expression as she tried valiantly to not show the world that she wanted him to make her come in her panties at Avery Fisher Hall.
He dialed it up once more, and she crossed her legs, the pressure from her thighs intensifying the feelings flooding her. He eyed her with a pleased look, nodding at her crossed legs as if to say smart thinking. The Allegro non troppo crested, more instruments joining in, playing, building, mirroring the pulsing in her body. Jack grabbed her hand, brought it to his mouth and kissed her as if he had to touch her while he was doing this.
She gasped, and her noise of pleasure made landfall at a brief pause in the score. She was sure someone had heard her, and she dropped her gaze down, embarrassed momentarily. Here she was, seated in the balcony of a concert hall, desperate for an orgasm.
He leaned in. “No one heard you. Tell me if you want me to let you come.”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure? Do you want to wait until I can fuck you in bed? So you can scream and moan like you want to?”
“I want that,” she whispered in a barren voice. “But I want to come now.”
“You’re so turned on, aren’t you?”
He sounded as if he wanted to pounce on her.
“Yes. I’m unbelievably turned on,” she whispered, her voice sounding like she might very well cry if he didn’t take care of her.
“You must be so wet.”
“I am.”
“You should hold back. Can you hold back until later?”
She clenched her teeth. She knew what he was doing now. He was playing her. He wanted her to be strong. To say she could handle it. If she used reverse psychology and told him she could wait, then he’d probably let her come. As a reward. But the game was exhausting her right now. She wanted him. Without games. For real. She told him the full truth. “No. I can’t wait.”
“But I want you to,” he whispered. “I want you to wait for me.”
He turned off the toy, and she wanted to wither. To die. She thought she might claw her way out of her own skin right now. To climb the walls of Avery Fisher Hall. Anything to release this desire from her body. She hated that she was encased in it. That she’d been reduced to nothing but this.
It was so base. So animalistic. But at the moment, she was no longer a professional, no longer an evolved being. She was a fucking animal, and she wanted to be satisfied. And the bastard wasn’t letting her. She inhaled quietly. The orchestra played, shifting to the second movement. Everyone listened. The minutes ticked by. Jack’s fingers uncurled. He no longer had a tight grip on the remote. He was focused on the stage, and he was nodding his head, keeping in time to the music. He stuffed the remote in his pocket, then returned his hands to his lap. He wasn’t even touching her. He wasn’t even thinking of her. He’d asked her to wear a goddamn butterfly to the symphony and she’d done it for him. She’d let him turn her up and turn her down wherever and however he pleased. And now he was bored with her. Interested in something else. She was nothing but a plaything, and the worst part was she was still aroused.