The First Taste(121)

I have to give him credit for what he’s done. He’s the personification of “actions speak louder than words.” I can trust him. I knew it early on, but I wasn’t sure I could trust myself. After a few minutes have passed, and I haven’t moved, I stand up from the bed and tiptoe into the hallway, back to Andrew’s room. I knock lightly.

Andrew opens the door in only his boxer-briefs, filling it with his six-foot-plus frame. Without a word, he pulls me in and locks the door behind us. He engulfs me in a hug, consumes my mouth with his. Separating only to discard clothing, we stumble to the bed, leaving a trail of underwear. He ushers me under the covers, climbs over me, and hides us under the comforter. “Back-up plan,” he teases, “in case she breaks down the door.” I smile into his mouth. He nabs my bottom lip with his teeth. “Have I ever mentioned how it feels when I’m the reason for your smile? Like a million bucks.”

My grin fades. I touch his face. He’s so good to me. And if he keeps this up, I won’t have a chance. I’ll fall over-the-edge in love with him.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, but I think he knows I’m perfectly fine, because he kisses the tip of my nose.

“I’m happy.”

“I’m glad.” He nuzzles my neck and cups me between the legs. “I want to make you even happier.” He slips a finger into me, and I suck in a breath. “You’re ready,” he says.

I nod. After the night we’ve had, the high-highs and low-lows, the loss of what I thought was my identity, the possible gain of a family, I want to feel connected to Andrew more than anything right now.

He removes his hand to position himself against my entrance. He cups my head, keeping my eyes locked on his. Our mouths reach for each other as he pushes into me. I groan as he fills me—fully, completely, relentlessly, until he’s rooted as deep as he can get. And then, as promised, he makes love to me, his thrusts slow but firm, his mouth hot and greedy on mine. My body melts into the mattress for him, my eyes glued shut from pleasure. He overwhelms me, engaging all my senses—giving me his taste, his moans, his cock, his briny scent and, finally, he says, “Let me see you.”

I open my eyes and come first under his half-lidded gaze. He rolls me over on top of him. After an intense orgasm, I’m nothing more than a bag of bones, so I prop myself on his chest with my hands, but my arms nearly give. “I can’t stop shaking,” I tell him.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got you.” He holds me up by my waist as he takes me. When his breathing shallows and his grunts intensify, he slides a hand up to grip my breast. He bucks up into me and erupts.

He fills me for the first time.

After what we’ve been through, it binds us in an irrevocable way.





THIRTY-FOUR



When I emerge from the guest bedroom in the morning, I’m embarrassed by how late it is. I normally leave for work around seven, but thanks to the large, cloud-like bed, the complete stillness of the suburbs, and the workout Andrew gave me last night, I overslept. I barely remember waking up at dawn to sneak back to the guest room. After a shower and dressing in my party outfit, it’s ten in the morning.

I follow the only noise in the house, which comes from the kitchen. Bell and Flora are surrounded by baking ingredients, from a heavy bag of flour to a carton of eggs to a colorful array of mixing bowls.

“Morning,” I say.

Bell whirls around, and her eyes double in size. “Mila!”

My heart drops. What was I thinking, wandering in here like this without considering how it might look to Bell? I should’ve waited for Andrew to come get me. I look hurriedly at Flora for direction, but she just shrugs, so instead I address Bell. “I hope you don’t mind that I stayed in your guest room—”

“You . . . look . . . beautiful.” She covers her mouth with both hands. “You’re wearing that to my party?”

“Oh.” I look down at my dress, a colorful DVF wrap from the spring collection with enormous, budding flowers in pink, orange and red. “Yes. Do you like it?”

“I love it.” She tiptoes toward me, holding out her hands.

“Bell, honey,” Flora says. “That’s an expensive dress. Wash your hands first.”

Bell has her father’s purple-blue eyes, and they’re saucer-sized with wonder. Her giddiness reminds me of standing in my mother’s impressive, Texas-sized closet, surrounded by glamorous pieces that always smelled of Chanel No. 5. As much as I shelled out for this dress, I’d rather spoil it than this moment—a young girl’s budding love affair with fashion. “It’s okay,” I say. “You can touch it.” I hold out the fabric. “This is Diane von Furstenberg. The fabric is silk. Flora’s right—it is delicate and beautiful, so you want to treat it with respect.”

Bell wipes her hands quickly on her pajamas and then gently takes it in her small hands, stroking one of the flowers.

I glance up at Flora, who’s smiling at us. “Where’s Andrew?” I ask.

“He and Antonio ran out to pick up some last-minute things.”

“Antonio?” I ask.

“My son. Pico.”

“Oh.” I nod. “Right. Should we start the cake?”

Flora hesitates and nods at Bell. “It could get messy, especially with this one.”