I stood there for a moment, my hands pressed against the cool panes, wondering how I’d ended up here with the boy from Isabelle’s posters. And what that would mean for our relationship going forward. She would hate me, and yet still …
“You nervous?” Hayes approached me from behind, his hands running the length of my arms.
“No,” I lied.
“Don’t be nervous, Solène. It’s just me.”
Yes, that was precisely the problem.
His closeness, which had felt so reassuring on the balcony at the Four Seasons, felt reckless here. I was suddenly aware of his height, his power. The fact that maybe I was no longer in charge.
He sensed it. His fingers slipped in between mine, holding my hands while my nerves settled. And then, when enough time had passed, he wrapped his arms around me, drawing me in closer. I could feel him—all of him—pressed up against my back.
“Hiiii,” he said, and I laughed. “You good?”
I nodded, meeting his eyes in our reflection in the glass. “I’m good.”
“You sure?” He leaned forward then and kissed my bare shoulder.
“Sure.”
“Good.” He kissed me again, and again. And again. His mouth moving over my shoulder, toward my neck, to the crook just behind my ear. He breathed me in, and I could feel it in my toes. His mouth, his tongue, his teeth on my flesh. His hand moving up over the sequins of my top to stroke my throat, angling my head toward his. He smelled of soap and Scotch, and he tasted … warm. I turned to him, devouring his mouth. And oh, the feel of his hair in my hands: thick and smooth and substantial. I probably pulled on it a little too hard.
We moved to the bed.
Hayes seated himself on the edge and had me stand in front of him. “I just want to look at you,” he said. We stayed there, my hands in his hair, his hands at my hips, running to and fro over the material. “God, you are so unbelievably sexy.”
I leaned over to kiss his dimples. They had been beckoning since the Mandalay Bay. The mileage he got out of a muscle flaw … “I bet you say that to all your fans’ mums.”
He laughed, his hands sliding down over my ass, along my thighs, to the hem of my skirt. “Not so much, no.”
I could feel the coolness of his rings at the back of my knees, teasing. I had not planned how far I’d intended this evening to go. I wasn’t certain if there was a protocol for postdivorce sex. Second date? Third? I assumed the etiquette was different than it was in one’s twenties. The need to be respected in the morning seemed less dire. Maybe none of that mattered anymore. Maybe it was all about the thrill. And surely rock stars played by different rules. We were pioneers out here, Hayes and I. Forging new territory. Making up shit as we went along.
“You know,” he said, his hands rising, hot against my skin, “I find this skirt really flattering. Truly. But I think I would like it better on the floor.”
I laughed then. “Well, that would be convenient, wouldn’t it?”
He nodded, his mouth finding mine.
“But actually,” I continued, “I’m more interested in seeing what you can do with the skirt still on.”
Hayes laughed, tossing back his head. “I appreciate the challenge.”
“I knew you would.”
He undid his tie and tossed it across the bed before lying on his back. “Come here,” he ordered. I obeyed, only pausing to remove my heels with their bondage-like ankle strap. Tonight they’d earned their keep.
Hayes hoisted me atop himself with ease, and I quickly became aware of just how inconsequential my clothing was. It did not matter that I was still wearing my skirt. I could sense his solidness beneath me, the breadth of his chest, the tightness of his stomach. His thighs … Jesus fuck, was that his dick?
“Oh.”
“Oh?” he repeated, smiling. He had one hand in my hair, the other cradling my jaw, his thumb moving over my mouth.
“Oh, that’s you,” I laughed.
“I hope it’s me. I mean, I hope someone else didn’t come up here in my stead.”
“In your ‘stead’?” I licked his thumb. “I love how proper you are.”
“Do you? Because I can do this proper thing all night long. Or I can stop … What do you want, Solène?”
“I want you to show me what you’re good at.”
He nodded, his lips curling into a smile. And then, with little effort, he rolled me onto my back. For a moment he hovered above, his dominance palpable. “Just let me know when you want me to stop.”
My pulse had once again begun to rush. His fingers were tracing my jawline, my lips. “God, I love this mouth,” he said before moving on to my neck, pausing at the hollow, and then continuing down over my breastbone and across the fabric of my top. His touch was measured—light, but deliberate. And when the back of his hand grazed over my breasts, I heard myself inhale. His own breathing was shallow, his mouth near my ear enticing. His fingers skimmed the underside of my arm and I shuddered. That he could make something so innocent feel suggestive was a skill.
In no time, his hand was between my thighs again, forcing my skirt up north of my knees. “I’m not taking it off,” he said. But at that point it didn’t matter. I would have let him.
He shifted above me, his mouth melting into mine. His hips pinning me to the bed. His fingers titillating.
“Do you want me to stop?”
“No.”
“You sure?” His voice was low, raspy. His hand had reached my crotch, and by then I was so wet it was hard to discern where my panties ended and I began.
“Yes.”
“Not taking these off either,” he reassured me, his hand stroking the thin material. “I’m not even going to push them to the side … And I’m still going to make you come.”
* * *
He kept his word.
I don’t know where I got the idea that someone his age would be overeager or inept, or that a person in his position would be used to being indulged and thus inadequate at returning the favor. But Hayes dispelled every myth. And he did so with one hand tied figuratively behind his back. The way he touched me: unhurried, focused, exact. He knew precisely what he was doing. His movements accelerating and then slowing down, repeatedly, taking me to the brink and then stopping, teasing, over and over and over again. His fingers pushing inside of me, his thumb massaging my clitoris, his pressure intense, and all this through my underwear. God bless him.
I came. And it was so unbelievably powerful, for a moment I thought I might black out. There, in Hayes Campbell’s arms, in room 1004 of the Crosby Street Hotel.
For a long time I lay there, shaking. My limbs numb from pleasure; my mind reeling, unable to digest the magnitude of what I had just let happen. What, if given the opportunity, I would let happen again. I’d been so intoxicated. By his smell and his taste and his touch. By his breath in my ear and his Scotch on my tongue and his fucking fingers. And the illicit thought that he was barely an adult and I had not let that stop me. That it had not stopped him.
And then I had the sobering realization that I could not remember the last time I had come with someone else in the room. The very idea that I had denied myself that for so long struck me. Hard.
And there, still in his arms, my mind began to race and I fought it. I did not want to think about the repercussions just then. I did not want to think about Isabelle, or Daniel, or how this would look to my clients or the other mothers at the Windwood School (dear God!). I wanted to bask in the glow for a little while longer. Savor this present from him.
But the thoughts were there, right below the surface.
“Are you happy?” he asked, once my breathing had calmed. Not “Are you good,” or “all right,” or “okay.” Are you happy?
I nodded, trying to find my voice. “Yes. Very.”
“Good.”
“I can’t wait to see how you play badminton.”
“Sorry?” He paused for a moment and then it clicked. “Yeah,” he laughed, “I might be a little better at this than I am at badminton.”
“Luckily for me…”
“Luckily for you, yes.”
We lay there for a moment, curled up in each other, taking in the quiet of the room. It felt a little like magic to me, this in-between time. This shared moment. But I could feel it rising again, the thoughts, the guilt, the panic. Mounting. And I could not stop it.
“Oh God, what have I done?” I heard myself say. “This was just supposed to be lunch. Jesus. What am I doing here with you? You could be my kid. This is so wrong. You’re twenty. And you’re like a rock star. What the fuck am I thinking?”
Hayes sat up beside me, his eyes wide. “Are you serious?”
I was as surprised as he was by the verbal diarrhea. Even as it poured out, I recognized that it was very American of me, and that my mother would have scoffed. “Kind of, yes.”
“What? Are you feeling guilty now? You were happy two seconds ago. Very happy.”
“I can’t believe I let you do that. I’m sorry. That was totally inappropriate of me.”
“Were you forcing me? Did I miss something? We both wanted this,” he said, sounding every bit the rational one. The adult in the relationship.
I glanced up at him then, all disheveled in his wrinkled Prada shirt and his hair sticking out in fifty-one directions and his eyes tired and the slightest hint of stubble shadowing his jaw, and the thought occurred to me that he was a man.
I needed a moment.
“Don’t mind me. This is just my postorgasmic freak-out.”
He laughed. “Is this going to happen every time? Because if I know that I’ll just plan ahead.”
I smiled then. “No. It won’t. It shouldn’t.”
“I’m serious, Solène. I can’t … You cannot freak out like this. I don’t do well with women who freak out. I pegged you differently.”
“You what?”