Park Avenue Prince(43)

It was as if we’d been on a journey, a quest, weathered a storm—sex had brought us closer, bound us together.





“Tonight was . . .” Grace paused and looked up at me as if I held the word she was looking for. “More,” she said finally.

There was no denying she was right. “More” was exactly what tonight had been. More than I’d ever had with any woman. More than I’d ever dared to want. More than I ever felt possible.

“Thank you,” she said. “Not for the—well, yes, for the orgasm, but—”

“Orgasms. Don’t talk about the orgasm as if it’s lonely all by itself.”

She giggled and poked me in the chest. “Okay, thank you for the orgasmsssss, but also for the Frick, and for dinner. I’m not used to . . . It was all so thoughtful. It was beyond . . .”

“You’re a princess, after all. It’s what you deserve.” I hadn’t planned the date at the Frick because I’d ever considered what other men had done for her. I’d just thought she’d enjoy it.

“You think I’m some stuck-up Park Avenue princess, but—”

“Hey,” I said, pulling her into my arms. “I’m teasing. I think you’re very special and if you haven’t been treated like a princess, then shame on the men who’ve taken you out.”

“You have no idea,” she mumbled.

I wasn’t used to sharing stories with women, knowing their history. Angie knew everything but she wasn’t a woman to me in the same way. Grace, mumbling into my chest, dropping her lips to my skin in an effort to distract me, made me want to ask a thousand questions of her. But what if she didn’t want to answer? I’d shut her down when she’d asked something personal of me earlier. Would it sting if she did the same to me? I needed to learn how to open up to her—to give more of myself. It was only fair if that’s what I was expecting from her.

It was worth the risk to get to know more of her. “Can I ask you a question?”

She stilled her fingers that were tracing patterns on the back of my palms. “What kind of question?” Before Grace did it to me, I didn’t realize how answering a question with a question was a form of self-defense.

I pulled her closer and kissed her on the head. “Why do you spend time on men who don’t deserve you?”

She shrugged, brushing me off, just as I had done her.

She needed me to share something first—I was asking for her to reveal her vulnerability without being prepared to do the same.

I took a deep breath. “My mother and father were killed by a drunk driver when I was twelve.”

I swallowed, looking straight ahead and not at Grace. I didn’t often say those words anymore, there was little need, but the rush of pain I braced myself for wasn’t as brutal as I remembered the last time I did. It would always hurt, but the fear of the hurt was as much an obstacle for me as the pain itself. “I had no other family, so I went into the system.”

She shifted in my arms so she was facing me. Cupping my face in her tiny hand, she brushed her thumb across my cheek.

Her touch gave me the strength to go on, to share more. “It was tough. I was old enough to understand what I’d lost. To have experienced a different life, a better life, and have it taken away.” Telling her was almost a release and I managed to glance at her as she blinked away tears.

“It was a long time ago. Things are better now.” I didn’t want her to feel sorry for me. I wanted to be closer to her, not feel her pity. I just wanted to give her more because that’s what I needed from her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

I exhaled and threaded my fingers through hers.

“I think you’re so special, Sam Shaw,” she said, dropping a kiss on our joined hands.

I smiled. “I think you’re special too.”

“So is that why you don’t buy furniture? Or have any relationships?”

What was she getting at? I had Angie, an apartment on Park Avenue. I just didn’t attach meaning to material possessions in a way most people did.

“Because you know how painful it is to have something and then lose it?” she asked. “You don’t want to have to experience that again.”

The ever-present pain in my gut I’d gotten so used to, sliced deeper. Was she right? Did I keep my life free from things and people so I couldn’t be disappointed again?

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push. It just makes sense,” she said.

I couldn’t argue with her. It did make sense. I’d just never seen the connection before.

“Maybe,” I said. “I don’t know.”

She leaned forward and kissed my stomach. “My mother cheats on my father. Always has. He knows, but for some reason he stays married to her,” she explained, revoking her earlier shrug in the same way I had. She was confessing, letting me in, giving me more.

“And you’re your father?” I asked. “Picking people who don’t deserve your love?”

“Maybe. Maybe I just don’t want to be my mother.”

Had both of us approached life and relationships based on our past experience? Maybe everyone did. But I still didn’t understand, why was I able to be caught up with her in a way I’d never let myself before? How had she gotten me wanting more when I’d spent my whole life determined to need nothing?