Ghosts of Manhattan: A Novel(13)
“Of course they did. And we did. At least I did. Nick, I want us to make more friends in the city, especially friends that aren’t Neanderthals.” This reference needs no clarification. We’ve had plenty of talks about my job and the sort of people it forced into our lives. “Just please call Oliver and make a plan.”
“I’m not calling Oliver. You call Sybil.” Damn it. My countermove has opened a door.
“Fine. I’ll call her.”
“Jesus Christ. I don’t want to do this.” I really don’t. Not only would dinner be painful but there’s something about Oliver that I don’t want to invite into our lives even more so than the Neanderthals.
“Look. I’ll just make one call and make the offer. If it doesn’t go anywhere from there, so be it.” She says this in a conciliatory tone as though we’ve reached a compromise, though we still seem to be entirely on her agenda as best I can tell.
“It’s already forgotten. Why mess with that?”
“Nick, we can’t be flakes. We’ll hold up our end and make an effort at follow-up.”
There is a forced and artificial casualness about her approach that is unsettling. She is pinning her determination on social etiquette. Since when has she ever cared about being a flake? She wants this dinner to happen for some reason and I know it isn’t the reason she’s given. I think of J.P. Morgan’s observation that there are two reasons why a person does something—a good reason and the real reason. She holds her stare with me, one eyebrow up, defying me to knock her from the social high ground of good manners, as if to say, “You know I’m right and we have to do this.”
I know no such thing, but it’s time to get out of bounds. Better to put this into the loss column and not fight. Maybe I can win a few points and get out of my hole from last night. “Christ, okay. Call her.”
“Thanks, Nicky.” She smiles, trying to be a gracious winner. Instead, I feel mocked.
She stands and I see her tiny workout shorts, the kind that stop right at the seam between the end of the buttocks and the very start of the hamstring. She takes two steps toward me the way a kitten will approach a ball of yarn and slides one of her long, tan legs around behind me. She wraps her arms around me, resting her elbows on top of my shoulders. I lower my hands to cup her butt over the mesh of her shorts, like grabbing two not yet ripe cantaloupes.
My blood is up and I’m angry from our sparring over this dinner with Oliver. As usual, my aggression is channeled into an almost make-believe world where every muscle and nerve can lose control in violence and conquering while still getting and giving pleasure, release, and intimacy. This is a tactic Julia often uses, and one that has always enabled us to bury the awkward moments and stay happy. I’m not complaining.
At five ten and in her very high heels, we’re almost eye to eye. I like times like this when she is in her bare feet and I can lean slightly forward over her and pronounce my height advantage. She pulls down on my neck and runs her lips from my chest to my jaw with the touch of a feather. I squeeze her ass, lifting her up and into me, and with her legs around my waist I walk us into the bedroom.
On the way, I pick up a bottle of lotion from the bathroom counter, then pulling her clothes off, I push her lying facedown on the bed and straddle her lower back. I squirt lotion on my hands and into her shoulders. Her hands over her head with palms down as though she’s under arrest, I feel the hard muscles under her soft skin. I press down on the sides of her gentle V that leads from her shoulders to her small waist and back out again over her hips. I lower myself to sit over her calves while I spend more time working on the muscles of her butt. The longer I massage her, the shorter I’ll last, so I move on to the hamstrings and calves, giving them less attention than they deserve. Sliding my hands back up her legs, over her ass, and around her waist, I lift her hips up off the bed and back to me, her ear still to the mattress as though she’s listening for a far-off herd, and her arms stretched straight ahead with her palms pressed down hard and ready to push back.
I enter her from behind. The first, slow entry always feels almost as good as the last will. I clamp my hands to her sides at the bend of her hips, controlling her motion. I’m like a captain at the helm of his ship, navigating the rolling waters onboard the envy of the fleet. She starts massaging herself with one hand.
Why the hell is she so keyed up on this dinner with Oliver Bennett? It has nothing to do with Sybil, who’s as dull as a spoon. Julia barely paid any attention to her at that wedding. I’m sure she’s interested in some new friends who have something different to offer from Jerry Cavanaugh, but she seems unusually interested here, like she’s trying hard to seem uninterested.
I’ve developed a strong inner monologue living with Julia, especially during sex. I just can’t always control the subject of conversation. I increase the pace, pulling back hard on her hips and straining my stomach muscles to throw myself forward in a thud of flesh. Each collision sends a minor tremor up her lean backside and the bounce forward of her body gives an appealing resistance to my next pull back against her hips and we build a rhythm like dribbling a basketball.
Looking down at her back and ass, I can imagine this same form in its college days, clenched and springing over the high bar. This is a visual that has sustained me, even when alone. With enough foreplay, this position can bring Julia to orgasm and sometimes we don’t adjust. In a few thrusts, I hear her moans that are our verbal cue that she has come and that I can finish. I’ve felt on the verge since the beginning and in a few more thrusts I’m done.