“Hey,” I said softly.
“Hey, how was your shower?”
“Fantastic, they’ve got one of those rain showers? You should take one before bed.”
“I might.”
Silence fell once more, and I crossed to the bed, sitting down beside him.
“Thanks for bringing me here. It’s nice, seeing the place you came from.”
“Sure,” he said, looking at me for the first time.
I laid my hand on his chest gently. “Hey.”
“Hey,” he whispered back.
I leaned down slowly, watching his eyes. I gently grazed my lips over his, light and quick. When he didn’t pull away, I kissed him again. He let me, my lips taking his for a third time. I pressed a little harder, and he let me in. I stroked his tongue with my own, feeling him respond as we tangled and twisted. His breathing deepened, his pulse quickened beneath me, and I propped myself above. Not removing my mouth from his, I let my fingers undo his buttons, exposing the skin beneath. Kissing along his jawline, I let my lips tease just below his ear, feeling the sandpaper scruff. I knew what that scruff felt like on the inside of my thighs, and how great was that?
I felt him tense as I flicked my tongue against his earlobe, eliciting a hiss. His hands came up to my waist as I crept back along his neck, kissing lower along his collarbone. Pulling at his shirt, untucking it from his waistband, I threw it wide, pressing myself along his torso. His skin was warm; it felt divine against my own. I needed to feel more of it.
Standing, I kept my hands on him at all times while I gently removed his shirt, then belt, then socks and pants, until I had him na**d and wanting. Standing in the moonlight, I dropped my towel.
“Caroline,” he breathed, and I crawled back on top of him. Straddling him low on his legs, I took him in hand. His hands came up to my breasts, needy and kneading. I stroked him, grasping the base and working upward, swirling my hand over the head and letting his h*ps tell me what he needed.
He panted, his chest rising and falling as I worked him. Up and down and swirly twirly, he was hard in my hands and the single most erotic man I’d ever seen in my life. I gently grazed one finger along the underside, and he thrust hard.
“Not going to last long if you keep that up.” He groaned, his fingers teasing at my nipples.
“That’s not what this is about,” I answered, rising above him. I positioned him, and slid him inside. Slick from just the way he was looking at me, I sank down inch by perfect inch, slowly. Exquisitely so, as he strained to stay still.
Once he was seated fully inside I gave one slow roll of my hips, gasping as I felt him grow harder and thicker. Impossible.
“What’s . . . impossible?” he grunted, every muscle taunt and lean. I didn’t know I’d spoken aloud. No matter, he should know.
“That I will ever get tired of this, of what it feels like to have you inside me,” I said, shuddering as he thrust up. I leaned backward a bit, resting my hands on his thighs for leverage as I took him in again. Rising onto his elbows, he watched in fascination at the sight of him sliding in and out of my body. One of his hands swept my hair back from my face, then dragged down my neck, between my breasts, down my tummy and dipped down below.
That hand, making those perfect circles, right at the center of my world, and my h*ps took over. I rode him hard, rising up and down, as he watched me writhe above him.
“Simon. That’s. Perfect!” I called out, feeling my orgasm approaching. He sat up underneath me, wrapping my legs around his waist, pistoning into me in an unrelenting rhythm, crushing me to him. I shook as I came, his own release chasing him down in a fury.
I held him to me, not letting go, not letting him get away, my body molded to his in a mess of sticky, sweaty skin, sliding and thrusting together, frantic and furious.
He was silent when he came, his eyes burning into mine as I held him to my breast, as he shattered. His head threw back, his strength washed over me, then he fell into me. I held him, rocking, still feeling him inside me as he softened, cradling him against my skin.
“It’s impossible for me to love you more,” I whispered, kissing his forehead.
He clutched me even tighter.
• • •
He was white-faced when we turned onto his street the next day, his lips in a tight line. And speaking of tight, with the grip he had on the steering wheel, he was close to tearing it off. When I wasn’t looking at Simon, I was gaping at the houses we were passing. This was old-ass money, moldy blue-blood money. Not a McMansion in sight, only actual estates. Tennis courts, pool houses, and miles of fencing. Still a neighborhood, though; the houses weren’t so far apart that they were isolated. Just a neighborhood lined with stately oaks and gas lamps.
And three security cars. So far.
But it was beautiful. We pulled up to an elegant fieldstone and brick home, Tudor style with black shutters. The little bit of snow that had fallen was neatly shoveled, the path and drive neatly edged. Christmas lights twinkled from inside, hinting at a mammoth tree, and a wreath as big as my bed was on the front door. The house to the left must have been Simon’s, as it was the one he was avoiding looking at entirely. Pine trees along the property line softened the view, but it looked like a brick center style colonial, as grand as the rest of the neighborhood. There were bikes in the driveway. Kids’ bikes.
As we walked up the pathway to the house, Simon let out a chortle. “I can’t believe that’s still here.”
“What?”
“They redid the pavers when I was in elementary school, and her son and I wrote our names in the cement. Boy, did we hear about that one.” He pointed to the first step, and on the corner I could just make out his name. Simon Parker.
“You wouldn’t have made a very good vandal; you signed your full name, for pity’s sake,” I said as he rang the doorbell. I reached out and gave his buns a squeeze, and as he looked at me in surprise, the door opened.
“There you are, right on time!” Mrs. White sang out, opening the door and hurrying a blushing Simon inside. He insisted I go first and I got my own bun squeeze. “It’s so cold out, look at your cheeks, bright red! Good thing I had Arthur make a fire. Arthur, come down here!”
Exchanging hugs and kisses on the cheek, we were ushered into a formal but very comfortable sitting room, where there was in fact a fire crackling. I made small talk with Mrs. White while Simon surreptitiously took everything in: the picture window, the antique desk, the ship in a bottle on the mantel. I saw him take a deep breath, turning as Mr. White came in.
“Simon, so great to see you!” he said, walking right up and shaking Simon’s hand, then pulling him into a one-armed hug.
“Mr. White, good to see you too, sir.”
“I can’t tell you how Penny went on and on about seeing you when she came home last night. How’ve you been?”
“Good, I’ve been good. I heard Todd is married?”
“Oh yes, nice gal. But more importantly, how are you? What have you been up to all these years? Photography we heard, tell me all about that.” Mr. White clapped an arm around Simon’s shoulders and walked him into the library, which was all wood and full of books, enough to require one of those sliding ladders.
As they disappeared around the corner, I looked over at Mrs. White. She was smiling, but her eyes looked a bit damp.
“Mrs. White, your home is beautiful,” I started, and she turned her glassy gaze to mine.
“Call me Penny.”
“Not until Simon does.” I grinned.
“Mrs. White it is, then; that boy will never call me anything but. Can I get you something to drink, dear?” she asked, gesturing for me to follow her over to where there was lemonade, coffee, and—
“Is that a Bloody Mary bar?” I asked.
“Oh heavens, yes.” She nodded, sweeping under her eyes a bit with a manicured hand. “Olive or celery?”
“Both?”
“I always knew Simon would end up with a smart girl.” She winked, and poured. Lots of Mary in that Bloody . . .
We sat on the couch and chatted, keeping things light. We discussed the design of her home; she was fascinated by interiors and had helped with every room in the house. We talked a little bit about the town, and how many years her family had lived here. Many. And since the men seemed to be taking a while in the library, we eventually moved on to Simon.
“I can’t tell you how good it is to see him. Everyone here had resigned themselves to never seeing him again, after he graduated.”
“I didn’t realize he hadn’t been back since . . . Well, since.”
“No, he left that June and that was the last anyone saw him. He kept in touch with a few of his friends for a little while, but he seemed to need the break. We all understood, losing his family so suddenly.”
“I’m glad he came back; this seems like a lovely place to grow up.”
“It was, and it is. Gail and Thomas, his parents, were wonderful people. So tragic . . .” She trailed off, then turned toward the desk. “I think I have some pictures of them, out on their farm. We spent time out there with them almost every summer. Did you know the Parkers had a farm?”
I shook my head. I knew nothing. He shared nothing. Not about this. She rifled through some drawers, then brought out an album. “I think this is it—yes! Yes, here it is. This is the summer Todd and Simon got caught skinny-dipping with the Wilson girls. Those two!”
She laughed, mulling over the pictures. “Take a look at this one,” she said, handing a picture to me.
I hesitated. Simon had never shown me anything about his family. Should he be the one to show me? Curiosity won out, and I took the picture.
First, we must be clear: The word farm means different things to different people. This was no vegetable patch. In this scenario it meant rolling hills, a three-story house, and a picture-perfect red barn peeking through the trees. This was a Pottery Barn farm. But it’s what was at the center of the picture that filled my eyes with tears and made me want to hug Simon for the rest of my days.
His father was tan, tall, and fantastic looking. His mother? Gorgeous. Healthy and vibrant, they stood with their son, just shy of his teenage years. He was at that age when everyone is all elbows and knees, but you could see that this guy was going to be devastating. As I scrutinized their faces, I could see that Simon got his incredible blue eyes from his father, his blinding smile from his mother.
Though I’d never meet them, I’d never have a conversation with the people who shaped Simon into the wonderfully perfect imperfect man that he was today, I knew I was looking at an extraordinary little family.
“Oh,” was all I could say.
“So tragic,” Mrs. White repeated, shaking her head and tsking in a comforting way.
I handed her back the picture, breathing deeply and making sure the tears that had sprung up were under control.
She took the picture, the album, and tucked it away. Taking a breath, she threw her shoulders back and the rest of her drink as well. “Now, what in the world are those boys up to? Arthur? Where have you taken Simon?” she called out, jumping to her feet. I asked if she would mind sending me a copy of that picture. She smiled and said she’d send me the original.
We headed into the library where we found another fireplace, with another crackling fire. Mr. White and Simon were sitting in leather chairs, with glasses next to both of them. Simon’s was empty, but Mr. White’s still had a trace of dark-colored liquor.
Simon’s face wasn’t pale anymore, but his eyes were the tiniest bit red. As were Mr. White’s. They both stood when they saw us, and Simon crossed to me. I mouthed, Okay? He nodded, and took my hand.
“I believe lunch is ready,” Mrs. White announced, and led the way to the dining room.
She disappeared for a moment while everyone settled around an enormous table, with yet another cozy fireplace behind us. As she took her place across from her husband, I asked her if there was anything I could do to help.
“Thank you, Caroline, but I’ve asked our housekeeper to assist us today,” she said.
It didn’t seem at all out of place that for lunch that day, I was served roasted sea bass with fennel and leeks on white china, by a housekeeper named Fran.
Old-ass money.
Very sweet people.
In the end, it was a really nice time. The Whites fawned over Simon and showed me pictures of him that were taken with their family growing up. They told stories, Simon told stories, and we all laughed a lot.
Simon asked about the family that lived in the house now.
“Very nice people, moved into town from Boston after they were married. They’re both physicians, had their children later in life. Two girls, eight and six. There are several new families in the neighborhood; it’s nice to have kids around again,” Mrs. White said.
“That’s good. It was a good house to be a kid in.” Simon cleared his throat and went to the window, his shoulders tight. The window faced his home.
The fire crackled and popped.
“We should get going. I wanted to drive Caroline around a bit before we get ready for the reunion tonight,” he said, his voice gruff. I started to go to him as he turned. “Thank you so much for having us here today, Mrs. White, Mr. White. I can’t tell you how much— Thank you.”
Time to go.
Mrs. White went to him and kissed him on the cheek. “You come back anytime you like, you promise?”
He nodded.
We left in a flurry of good-byes and number exchanges. I promised to send them pictures from San Francisco when we got back home, and as Arthur and Simon were saying their good-byes, Penny pulled me aside.
“You take care of him. He’s still got a ball of hurt in there that’s never come out, and when it does, it’s going to be hell.”