“And then I’m going to devote the rest of the night to making sure you know exactly how much I love you.” He kissed my temple. “How much I need you.” My cheek. “How much I want you.” My lips. “And if you don’t have at least three orgasms in the process, I’ll have to start all over again tomorrow.” He paused. “Actually that’s my plan for tomorrow as well.”
Goddamn it. “That sounds perfect too.”
Totally f**king perfect.
How would I ever find the strength to walk away?
Chapter Seven
5 Things That Are Amazing
Even When You’re Sad
1) Room Service—especially juicy bacon cheeseburgers served next to a mound of thick, crispy French fries.
2) A bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape drunk with a gorgeous French man in a luxury hotel room. Or any kind of room. Or any kind of wine, really.
3) A foot massage from said French man while you’re waiting for room service to arrive, one during which he kisses the soles of your feet and swears even your toes turn him on.
4) Getting to choose the movie and discovering that Crazy Stupid Love is on.
5) Sex with Lucas. (And yes, there were three.)
I’d like to say that I thought twice about having sex, but the truth is, after a bottle of wine, a foot massage, and a dose of Ryan Gosling without a shirt on, to say I was in the mood would be an understatement. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I recognized that a night of fantastic sex was not on the list of things that would help me find the wherewithal to end things with Lucas if I had to, but when he offered to give me a full body massage with his tongue, whatever f**k I might have given about wherewithal went au revoir.
(Bonjour, orgasm number one.)
After the massage, we ended up over by the windows, and I found myself looking out over Midtown Manhattan at two AM, bent forward at the waist, my hot hands on the cold glass as Lucas whispered delightfully dirty things in my ear about the possibility of being watched while he f**ked me.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, to be seen like this,” he said between slow thrusts of his hips. “With my c**k pushing into you. With your legs spread and your mouth open and your ni**les hard. You want everyone to see how f**king beautiful you are when I make you come.”
My mouth was open. I was shocked at how it thrilled and scandalized me—both his words and the idea. Part of me wanted to back away from the window rather than put my body on display in its most heightened and vulnerable state. But another part liked being framed anonymously in that darkened eighth story window, revealing everything about myself that was shameless and impulsive and passionate, allowing other eyes to see me the way Lucas did.
How many pairs of eyes watched orgasm number two? I have no idea.
But I liked it.
Eventually we fell into bed, slid naked beneath the covers and curled up together. Lucas’s left hand captured mine, and he placed them between my br**sts, fingers laced. His back and torso and legs cocooned mine, his face was buried in my hair, and I should have felt safe and warm and content.
But I didn’t. I couldn’t stop thinking about everything—the failure to convince him we should make a more lasting commitment, the entire debacle with Jessica, the fear that I couldn’t handle going on like this… Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry. My stomach muscles tightened up in a conscious effort to trap all the regret and frustration threatening to escape. I imagined my ribs as an actual cage trying to confine my sad, swollen heart. But just as quickly, I pictured love and sorrow oozing between the bars, overcoming any resistance my body attempted.
Because I adored this man, and he adored me.
I knew it, I saw it, I felt it.
Maybe we weren’t supposed to meet, or maybe we were—I got lightheaded wondering about the orchestrations of fate and the role of chance. But the truth was, we found each other in a city of millions, and our chemistry was irrefutable. We were different, sure, but so far those differences had complemented each other. I’d eased up on planning every detail of my life, I’d stopped torturing myself over being married by age thirty, and Lucas had learned the value in making the occasional dinner reservation. Buying tickets in advance. Grocery lists.
And the sex. The SEX.
Never in a million years had I imagined myself the kind of girl who’d like being spanked, tied up, or f**ked in front of a hotel room window. Lucas had shown me the dizzying joy in being sexually uninhibited and allowing him to indulge his fantasies with me. I might be a good girl—most of the time—but I had a naughty side where Lucas was concerned, and it made me feel alive and sexy and beautiful. I was the fullest, the most vibrant version of myself with him, and I didn’t want to give that up. Not ever.
Not even for a family?
I gulped back tears again. What did I want more—Lucas or a family? What if he said anything was possible but never changed his mind? What if I threw away my chance to have what I’d always wanted?
If I wanted to be with him, that was the risk.
But if this isn’t worth fighting for, what is?
The sadness pushing up inside me retreated, reforming itself into determination. I clasped his hand tighter to my chest. If I failed to make Lucas see that what we had was the real thing and deserved a stronger commitment, then so be it. But I wasn’t going back to Detroit without telling him I was willing to do whatever it took to make us both happy, whether it was my moving to New York, asking him to move to Detroit, or suggesting we both move somewhere new. I didn’t even care if we maintained separate apartments there. I just wanted more of him, more of us.