The Plan (Off-Limits Romance, #4)(43)

He shrugs, smiling crookedly, more naturally this time. “Mystery.”

“How’d you know I like a man with mystique?”

“All the ladies do.”

I laugh, because he can’t quite pull it off. His lips are curving in a smirk-smile. “We both know it’s true.”

“You jealous?”

“Pfft. C’mon.”

I’m only teasing, but I see a flash of something cross his face. It makes my throat tighten. It makes me brave enough to step back close to him again and wrap an arm around his shoulder, rub myself against his hip.

“You want to come upstairs with me?” I whisper.

His face presses against the top of my head as he says, “Can’t right now. I’ve got a phone meeting.”

“A good one, I hope.”

I feel him nod.

“Okay, then.” I trail my finger down his chest, pressing his black t-shirt against his flawless abs. “Well, maybe sometime later.”

“Once or twice a day?” he asks me, his lips on my hair.

“Hmm?”

“You smell so good,” he says, and steps back.

“Thank you. Once or twice a day, what do you mean?”

His eyes roll up and down me, and I realize he’s asking how often we need to get busy. “The more the better, in this time-frame.”

“Okay.” His eyebrows are arched in male appreciation as he nods once more at me, then starts around the house. “Give me a little while,” he says.

“I’ll be here.”

I feel naked as I climb upstairs. So very bare and fragile as I take a bath and wait for him to knock.



*

Gabe





I don’t have a phone meeting. I wish I did. Something to distract me from the thought of parting Marley’s slick and swollen lips with my tongue…tracing feather-light over her clit until she’s rubbing against my beard and tugging on my curls. Last time I feasted on her, my cock was oozing as I made her drip. Every time I’m near her, I get stiff and achy.

I stroke myself now, in my work chair, and try to tell myself she doesn’t need to be jealous. What the fuck do I care if she wants me that way? How strange would it be for her to love me? That we found this—this fucked-up, awesome opportunity—can be enough. I crave her, certainly, but what are cravings worth?

I shut my eyes and stroke my cock and tell myself that I can do this on my own. I don’t need Marley to feel lust. I don’t need anyone.

And so, when I knock on her door upstairs, in the hall that frames the staircase, I feel like I’m choosing her and not succumbing.

I find Marley in a pale slip of a gown and spread her on the couch. I fuck her with my fingers and my tongue, and then a finger up her ass because with Marley, I think I have to own her ass, not just her cunt.

After she’s come twice, I carry her into the bedroom, where I lie her on her back, pin her arms above her head, and look into her eyes as I punch into her. Her eyes pop open, and she laughs: a laugh that folds into a moan. Her back is arching and her hands are grabbing at my sides until her nails begin to cut me.

I fuck Marley like a sport, and when she comes unfurled below me, I come hard and fast. Then I turn her over on all fours and fuck her from behind, and after that, she stretches out on her belly and falls asleep. I cover her. I make her cider, then go down and grab one of the glass jugs for her fridge. I think of taking dumplings with me, but I don’t, because it feels wrong to take from her when she’s asleep.

Before I go, I scrawl my number on the notepad on her nightstand. Before I go to bed, I get a text.

‘Some kind of magic in those ordinary-looking khakis…’

‘Turn that cunt from muggle into wizard’

‘Haha. Hells yeah.’





11





Gabe





In the dream, I leave her in the woods. The scenery is never clear, and I can never see her face, although I know it’s Gen. The scene begins as I walk off. I hear her calling my name and turn around. And I can hear her panting, even though I can’t see her, because it’s dark. In a voice that doesn’t sound upset, she says, “But Daddy. It will be so real for you. Daddy…are you sure you want to leave me here? It will be so real!”

I hear her words, but they feel meaningless, unreal. I don’t want to leave her in the woods, of course, but that’s my role; I don’t consider anything different.

As I walk away, toward a faint glow that I know to be the boardwalk, I hear her start to scream. She screams, so agonized and frantic that I think she’s being eaten by some animal. I turn around, but by the time I do, the woods are silent. Geneva is gone.

The dream is ripped out of that Spielberg-Kubrick film, A.I.

When I awaken from it, at least once or twice a week, I’m usually not crying. But sometimes I’m moaning, or sweating. Sometimes I can’t get back to sleep that night. So that’s my situation when I wake up at 4:12 AM.

I write for an hour, then throw on my running clothes, leave Cora with a bone, and start the four-mile run up to the place where Dad is—Cedar Crest. It’s at the top of Rudolph Hill, so by the time I reach the double doors on the side of the long, one-story building, I’m breathing hard and sweating.