Push(27)

Then something else strikes me. “Wait,” I add, “if he didn’t give you my message about needing the shoe back this morning, then why the hell were you sleeping on my floor last night?”
“Look, I had just beat the living shit out of one of my best friends because of you. I was shit-faced, Emma, and I needed to see you.”
“And?” I ask, the pounding in my veins waning.
“And you were doing the whole rock-sleeping thing, and I knew you had to work today, and I didn’t want you to be pissed off at me for waking you up. So I just lay down on your floor, and that is that.”
“Oh,” I say awkwardly.
“But then, I spend the whole day today feeling like an ass for passing out on your floor and wanting to text you but feeling like I can’t because you are at work. And when I finally get to see you, you come out of the f*cking building wearing those heels and looking like that—but you are surrounded by four other men.” So this is what his silence and rigidity were about. “I wanted my victory parade, Emma. But instead, I got to see you with the men you spend nine hours a day with, and maybe I am a little mad. Well, not mad really, more jealous. But I hate jealousy. I don’t do jealousy. Ever. Look, I know I gave you that whole goddamned speech about it the other day, but I don’t think I can help it. I guess I’m angry at myself for feeling that way.” He’s saying the words with great conviction, yet his voice isn’t hurried or heated. It’s as if he has thought them out and practiced them very carefully.
“Jesus, David.” I want to smile at him, but I don’t want him to think that I am laughing at his words. It’s just that the thought of someone like him having those feelings because of me seems ridiculous. And unbelievable.
“I’ll try to keep it in check, Emma. Really I will.”
But that’s not what I want.
“I don’t want you to keep it in check,” I say, holding his face and lining up our noses. “I like it. No one has ever wanted to protect me before. No one. And I am happy as shit about it.”
“Oh,” he says, looking very confused. I kiss him, and he weaves his fingers through my hair to the back of my neck. He holds me there, against his mouth, for a long time. My tongue laps against his in a slippery, seductive dance. He pulls his hands out of my hair and picks me up by the ass. I wrap my legs around his waist and press myself against him. He walks with me swathed around him, our lips still together and my bags hanging from my shoulder, until he gets to what must be his car. He sits me up on the trunk and stands between my legs. My skirt has lifted to my hips and I feel exposed, but his body is blocking the view. Our lips eventually separate, but he’s still touching me, touching the tops of my thighs. Rubbing them. Making my body fill with need. I want him to f*ck me in this parking garage on top of this car. But when I tell him those words, he steps back with a smirk and tells me to get in the goddamn car. And so I do.
It is a red BMW, but not a fancy-ass new one. An old, reconditioned one. It must be twenty or thirty years old, but it looks and feels awesome. The leather seats are soft, the paint is fresh, and the engine hums far better than I expected. I’m willing to bet my right shoe that David fixed it up himself.
We drive out of the parking garage and head out of the city. The sun is starting to drop in the sky, and I wonder where he is going, but I don’t ask. Neither of us says a word. He is headed toward home, and he is driving at the speed of sound. The radio is off, and the only noise I can hear is the tires whirring against the asphalt. He said he wanted to show me something. I thought we were going somewhere. But we aren’t, and before I know it, we pull up to our apartment building. It has taken precisely twenty-nine minutes of silence for us to get here. Way faster than the bus. He pulls into the lot behind the building and parks in one of the back spaces. He puts the car in park, sets the brake and cuts the engine.
“Come on,” he says, as he opens his door and gets out of the car. I follow suit, grabbing my purse and bag from the floor behind me. We walk around to the front of the building together, and he opens the door. He starts up the steps, and for a second, I think he is going to stop at my apartment door, but he doesn’t. He keeps on going. I stop at my door, though, thinking maybe I am not supposed to follow him. Maybe he really was just giving me a ride home. Maybe he doesn’t want to show me something anymore. He must hear that I have stopped because he turns around on the landing and starts walking back down toward me. He grabs my hand and walks back up the steps, pulling me along behind him. When we get to his door, he opens it. It’s unlocked.
The moment we step into the door his hands are on me. First, they touch my neck, then they move down to my shoulders, pushing my bags to the floor. They travel down my sides and around to the small of my back. His touch isn’t soft. It isn’t a caress. It is too needful for that. This man f*cking wants me, and the mere idea of it is more arousing than any pornographic material known to man. Sweet Jesus. He kisses me across the top of my shoulder and up the front of my neck to my mouth. He begins to undress me. When he completes most of his task, he stops kissing me just long enough to take off his own shirt. I run my hands across his chest and down his arms and wrap my fingers into his. He begins to walk backwards toward his bedroom, still holding my hands at his sides and looking lustful as hell.
When we reach his bedroom, I unbutton his jeans. As I am sweeping them down over his hips, he touches my breasts, rubbing them coarsely between his thumb and forefinger. My blood rushes and my nerves jump to attention. A rough sigh claws its way out of my throat. As David’s eyes move to mine, a deep longing furrows his brow. My body responds with want of its own, pushing all semblance of self-possession out of my brain and replacing it with absolute desire. The chair we f*cked on the other night is right next to us, and in one swift motion, David swings it around and folds me over the back. I rest my hands on the seat. I am ass up. And still wearing my heels.