18. Fa-La-La-La-La
Fa-La-La-La-La
HENRY
The memory of last night’s debauchery might as well have been an airborne drug because I was hopelessly under the influence of Aidan, who stood motionless inside the shop window.
God, my life couldn’t have gotten any weirder.
On the last shopping day until Christmas Eve, I rang up purchases, played holiday tunes, and spun my display for cheery, astonished onlookers, all while wondering if having sex again with Aidan would be a great idea or a massive mistake.
The previous night, I jumped Aidan’s bones, but at morning’s first light, when I swung my legs off the side of the mattress, sobering sense reached out from under the bed and grabbed my ankle like Krampus come to ferry a misbehaving child to the underworld.
“Excuse me, would you mind gift-wrapping that for me?” a woman purchasing a portable Remington typewriter complete with carrying case asked.
I disappeared into the stock room, grabbed a box from the shelf and a roll of wrapping paper I’d been using to wrap gifts for my family. It was white with shiny gold snowflakes on it.
As I cleared a space to work and cut the paper to size, the woman told me the typewriter was for her grandson who wanted to go to college in the fall to study creative writing and how he was going to write the next great American novel.
I only half listened. While I taped the sides and folded the edges of the paper to seal up the box, I pondered how Aidan felt about the whole situation. Had he liked it? Was I… bad at it?
Sure, Aidan had never had an orgasm or sex before, so he couldn’t negatively compare me to anyone else. But the guy had seen nearly every season of Sex and the City at this point. Compared to Samantha Jones’s sexual escapades, I probably seemed like a fumbling, clawing buffoon.
And in the continuum of boyfriends, I was more of a sexless best friend in the made-for-TV movie than the leading guy whom they won’t let bang it out on-screen, but you know breaks beds once the credits roll.
Xavier preferred sex with his ex. Cam wanted sex with others. I even once had a friend with benefits who made it halfway through our third hookup and said, “You know what, I think we should just stick with the friends part.”
Even if I wanted a reprise, it probably wouldn’t have been advisable. What was it my college advisor told me when I mentioned I might want to do sculpture instead of assemblage art for my final thesis? Stick to what you know.
Besides, it’s one thing to be rejected by another sucky human guy. But to be rejected by my magic-made “perfect man” would be a blow so low I’d never recover.
“Don’t you think you’ve used enough tape there?
” the woman asked. I came back to my senses enough to stop from adding to the rather impressive tape ball already forming in my hand.
I slid the wasted tape into the nearby trash bin, slapped a bow on top of the gift, and handed it back to the customer.
It was nearly time for our last switcheroo of the day. I prepared by the window. This scene saw Aidan at a gala in a tear-away suit, which should’ve made the revolution faster than the others; however, when I flipped the sign and locked the door, it took Aidan more time to return to himself.
Usually, his hands and feet bolted into motion. That day, his fingers twitched, and his feet wiggled, but seconds passed before his eyes flicked open.
Perhaps the magic wasn’t meant to be manipulated this way. Back and forth. Back and forth. Day after day.
I paid it less mind than I probably would’ve otherwise because I’d made a $200 sale with that typewriter, and Aidan made such a show of himself. Bounding eventually out of his restraints and tearing the suit away to reveal his next outfit, he threw me a cheeky smile and blew me a kiss.
My heart was verifiably aflutter.
That night, after dinner, I riffled through the hall closet for my own Christmas decorations. In all the preparations for the revolving window, I never even thought to decorate my own apartment. Aidan’s presence made me want to jolly up the place. Some of my former spiritedness returned.
Aidan cleared away the chair in the corner so we could set up Great Aunt Isla’s old three-piece artificial Christmas tree.
Once it was firmly in its stand, I searched for the boxes of plastic ornaments and the sparkly tinsel. Neither could be found. I must’ve brought it all to Isla’s place at Sunshine Meadows. I found several spools of thread, though, and one of Isla’s old sewing needles, which gave me an idea.
At the stovetop, I set out a saucepan and grabbed a container of popcorn kernels.
“Are we giving up on the tree and watching a movie instead?” Aidan asked.
I poured the tiniest bit of oil into the pan. “It’s not for eating. It’s for decorating. We’re going to make garland.”
As our popcorn cooled and dried, I grabbed a stack of computer paper from near the printer and two pairs of scissors. Over the coffee table, I instructed Aidan step-by-step on how to make paper snowflakes, which we pierced with colorful paper clips refashioned into hooks.
Next, I dug up some cardstock from back when I was going through an origami phase. I made a paper star, which I let Aidan set atop our tree when I was finished.
Later, Aidan held the ten feet of string as I strung together the popcorn and dried cranberries into a throwback decoration worthy of a Martha Stewart Living spread.
On the TV, the conclusion to a familiar movie played out. For a change, I had to admit, I was enthralled by the cheesiness.
“Mary Mistletoe,” the dashing man on the screen said while kneeling before her gathered and surprised friends and family.
“We’ve spent a spectacular holiday season together.
It’s been amazing working with you on the charity ball to help the children in need.
I’m so happy to have met you, and, even more, I’m so lucky to love you. Will you do the honor of Mary-ing me?”
I snorted yet swooned at the same time. Aidan’s eyebrow shot up. “Why do you react like that?” he asked.
“Like what?”
“As if you’re pretending not to enjoy this,” he said.
“Who says I’m enjoying it?” I focused hard on threading the piece of popcorn only to end up crushing it from the suddenness of his inquisition.
“I think you’d be a lot happier if you let yourself love what you love,” he said matter-of-factly.
My mind recast the statement as love who you love. I sputtered for a second, taken aback by his Mr. Miyagi moment. “How am I supposed to respond to that?”
He shrugged. “I noticed you shy away from expressing any kind of joy when we watch these, but I see it in you. Your breath catches in moments, or your eyes grow big.”
“Are you watching the movies or watching me?” I asked.
His unwavering gaze pierced through my defensiveness. “What are you afraid of?”
Social interactions. Failure. Rejection. Judgment. The world at large!
“To most, this is corny and sappy and unrealistic, but…” I said shakily, threading the last of the popcorn, “I don’t know. That”—I pointed at the screen—“that’s always been romance to me, and I’m afraid by acknowledging that then I’m setting myself up to be let down.”
Aidan leaned in and kissed me on the cheek, and my fears stultified.
By the time another movie was a third of the way through, we’d placed all our homemade creations on the flimsy boughs. The tree looked jolly and overcrowded and maybe a little ridiculous, but so was the fact that I was falling for Aidan, so, also, appropriate .
Feeling snacky, I grabbed a handful of leftover popcorn from the bowl and shoved it in my mouth right as Aidan asked, “Can we have sex again now?”
Popcorn spewed across the room, which caught Topher’s attention. His latent hunting instincts kicked into high gear. He sailed off the top of his cat tree to the carpet. “Quick! Grab them before he gets them. He could choke.”
Topher swatted at us for thwarting his post-dinner treat.
Crisis averted, I stood and steadied myself by the trash can.
“Well?” Aidan asked, leaning against the wall in the hallway with his hands in his pockets. Halfway to the bedroom. Halfway to ecstasy.
It made it hotter that he knew not what he was doing to me by posing like that. Preening. Like an actor on a poster in the centerfold of the Tiger Beat magazines I’d buy with my allowance money from the 7-Eleven down the road when I was a teenager.
Aidan leaned into the wall a little more, crossing his arms over his chest this time so his biceps flexed, and my insides turned to goo.
No, I thought. This could end badly.
Things could get awkward.
This was risky.
This was stupid.
This was…
A hint of Aidan’s pink tongue zipped out of his mouth and roved over his plush top lip.
This was going to happen no matter what my brain said because my brain was no longer in control of my disobedient corporeal form.
Aidan beckoned me to follow him. By the time I reached the bedroom, a mere minute later, he was stark naked, clothes folded and put away. He stood there in perfect human glory. Skin luminous. Eyes shiny. Cock at attention. My salivary glands kicked into overdrive.
I reached for the light switch. “No,” he said. “Leave it on. I’d like to see you.”
Even with a room’s worth of space in here, the walls sandwiched me.
It was one thing to be touched by Aidan.
I didn’t want to be seen by him, too. The unflattering overhead light attached to the fan would do the contours of my body no favors.
Especially not next to him—a slab of moving chiseled marble.
I almost said I couldn’t do that until he added, “Please.”
His politeness would literally be my undoing.
“May I?” he asked before he undid my belt.
“May I?” Before he pulled up my shirt.
“May I?” Before he tugged off my jeans.
He almost asked again while toying with the waistband of my underwear, but I cut him off. “Be quiet and take me to bed already.”
With ease, he lifted me off the ground. My legs wrapped around his hulking torso. The heat and weight of him overtop me sent shock waves up my spine.
There was nothing guileless about the Aidan who met me there on the bed. Lorded over me like a tiger pinning down his prey. The previous night had awoken a beast inside him that thrilled me to no end.
“You look so sexy,” he growled before leading on instinct.
I expected to have to call the shots, but Aidan kissed me like a professional and touched me like he’d studied hard and arrived prepared.
If I was an anatomy exam, he was setting the curve, and he earned extra credit with his supremely talented mouth.
He didn’t know how to play bingo, but he sure knew how to play my body, pushing and grabbing every spot that lit me up. This was first-rate service delivered right to my door. I sent silent messages of thanks to the universe, to magic hour.
I didn’t care that the lights were still on, because half the time my eyes were closed in extreme pleasure. Half the time I imagined anything and everything to stop myself from finishing too soon. Even though I foresaw a spectacular, breathless conclusion.
“Slow down,” I told him, hand notched on his shoulder. “It’s not a race.”
He nodded, so compliant, hand disappearing into the gap between my thighs where he leisurely toyed with me.
I writhed. Wordlessly egged him on.
And on.
And on.
And on…
His fingers conducted ecstatic signals through my body as he pressed my spot. My back arched off the mattress, hands balling the duvet. My muscles cried out for more of him. More.
“Lie down,” I told him, and he did. Good with his mouth. Good with his hands. Good with directions.
Boy was he trouble, because he surpassed perfection ten times over.
He lay there across my bed in wait for my next move, but I stole a second to catch my breath and capture the moment.