Park Avenue Prince(45)

He cornered me as the doors closed. “You didn’t tell me it was your birthday,” he said, his fingers wrapping around my waist, his breath on my cheek.

“It’s not,” I whispered, my body suddenly weak from being so close to him.

He pulled back to look at me and shook his head. “Next week is, and you didn’t tell me.”

Is that what we did now? We hadn’t discussed how things stood between us. I was looking for him to acknowledge that things were different between us.

“It’s just going to be a few friends and family. You can come if you like.”

“I like,” he said, kissing my neck.

“It will probably be boring.”

“I don’t care.”

“Is this what we do now?” I asked. Were we a couple? I wanted him to tell me.

“Is what what we do?” He ran his nose along my jaw and I tipped my head and pushed my hips against him.

“Invite each other to things. Introduce each other to our friends. Are we doing that stuff?” My words were punctuated by pauses while I enjoyed his fingers, his lips, his warmth.

“Yeah, we’re doing that stuff,” he replied as the elevator doors pinged open at his floor. He straightened, grabbed my hand and pulled me out of the car. “We’re doing all the stuff.”

I pressed my lips together, trying hard to disguise my smile. We were doing this.





Sam





“Her mother was wearing a coat when I ran into them. Mink by the look of it,” I said to Angie as we walked through Bergdorf Goodman, looking for a birthday present for Grace. I had no idea what Grace would like so I’d enlisted Angie’s help.

“How do you know what kind of fur it was?”

“Because I do. She grew up in that building. We’re so different.” I liked Grace. To anyone else, saying that they liked a woman wouldn’t be a big deal. But for me, I never really considered whether I liked someone or not—it didn’t matter. It wasn’t just that she was good in bed or that she was so beautiful it left me breathless, I actually liked spending time with her. But because that was such an unusual reaction, it led to questions—why did I like her? Would I feel the same next Thursday?

“Why do you care?” Angie asked.

I’d observed the successful before becoming successful, learning their mannerisms, their speech patterns, so when I got there I didn’t stand out. Through trial and error and practice, I’d learned to associate with the well-heeled. I wasn’t born one of them, but Grace had been.

We were from different worlds. Could people from contrasting backgrounds really like each other?

I followed Angie as she scanned shelves and displays, picking up things and putting them down.

“What about a scarf? Those Upper East Side girls love a neckerchief.” Angie laughed, holding up a silky scarf with orange streaks in it. She wasn’t wrong. I just wasn’t sure Grace was a typical Upper East Side girl.

“Don’t scrunch up your face like it’s made of dog shit—it’s a seven-hundred-dollar scarf,” Angie said, putting it back on the shelf.

“It’s not right,” I replied.

“Is she not a neckerchief kind of gal?” she asked as we moved toward some glass cabinets holding wallets.

I’d never seen Grace in a scarf. I’d never really thought about what she was wearing beyond how it showed off her body. “I don’t think so.”

Despite our differences, I found myself wanting more of Grace. More of her time, more of her body. I craved her thoughts on everyday things. I wanted to watch the way she blinked, slower and slower, as she climbed toward orgasm. I knew that she had an unaffected belly laugh and a polite, rehearsed smile. Even now, I was thinking about her when I should be paying attention to Angie. I was following Grace deeper along a dark corridor, not knowing what lay at the end. But I couldn’t stop, couldn’t turn back.

“Who uses a passport holder?” Angie asked, peering over the glass cabinet. “So what’s she like, this girl who has you buying her gifts?”

“She doesn’t have me buying her gifts.” I wandered around the row of cabinets. There was nothing here for Grace. “She invited me to her birthday. It’s polite to bring a present.” Grace wasn’t interested in my money. If she wanted to be with someone wealthy, she wouldn’t have a history of dating penniless artists or be working in a gallery she’d financed herself. “She’s not like that.”

“Okay, Mr. Sensitive. You have to admit that this is a watershed moment. You’ve never agonized over buying a woman a gift before.”

“I’m not agonizing,” I said. “I just want to get something that will suit her.”

“Then tell me what she’s like. Maybe that will give us some ideas.”

“She’s nice.” I shrugged and a smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. “Funny. Passionate about what she does.”

“And when you say, ‘what she does’, you mean she does you passionately.” Angie wiggled her eyebrows.

It should have been amusing, but it didn’t sit right with me for some reason. “Don’t say that.”

“Jesus. Calm down. I’m making a joke. You’ve got it bad, my friend.” She turned and walked left toward some other stands full of useless crap.