Gabe
W e don’t allow phones up on the scaffolding. Nothing that could slip out of someone’s pocket and hit a passerby on the ground; nothing to add more risk than necessary. So I’m not glued to my phone the way I want to be, texting Lenore every ten seconds, but I get to know her a little on my breaks. My thumbs cramp from texting her so much during those minutes, trying to cram time with Lenore into every possible second.
She’s a fashion student. As soon as she tells me that, all the puzzle pieces click together: those sketches, her kooky dresses, the way she’s like a vibrant peacock surrounded by gray doves. Lenore is so alive , brimming with warmth and passion, and clothes design makes perfect sense as her dream.
She likes rollerblading through the city parks in the summer, and knitting wonky hats and scarves in wintertime. Lenore’s favorite food is Thai green curry, and her comfort movie is Clueless. She says the fashion in that movie is unmatched, even after all these years.
I’ll have to coax her into watching it with me someday. Letting me draw her legs into my lap on the sofa, a bowl of popcorn wedged between us, so she can point out her favorite outfits on the screen.
Just the thought of that—of being so domestic with her—is like a roundhouse punch to my chest. Want that so goddamn badly.
Not just Lenore’s naughty side—though I’m hungry for that too, especially since she teased me to hell and back on Friday. But her sleepy moments; her rushed mornings; her lazy weekends. Want to see if she gets hangry while I cook her dinner. Whether she’ll steal bites of the ingredients while I stir.
On my lunch break, I pluck up the courage to ask why she’s here. In this boring office with these boring people, instead of working on her designs. Fair enough if she needs the money, but isn’t her family loaded?
Lenore sends back a grumpy emoji and a link to a local news article. It’s coverage of a student fashion show—the college’s summer catwalk where the students show off their best designs. I take a huge bite of cheese sandwich as I skim-read the article, searching for Lenore’s name, and I find it in the caption for a photo.
Lenore Hattworth models her own lingerie design.
A lump of bread sticks in my throat.
“Easy, tiger,” Jimmy mutters as he walks past the bench where I walked out for my lunch, thumping on my back as I cough into my fist. He’s still acting pissy with me, but the old bastard cares.
I swallow, eyes tearing, and zoom in on the photo on my phone. Jimmy’s footsteps fade as he walks away, a paper bag with his own lunch swinging by his side.
Shit. Why have I kept this ancient phone for so long? The screen is terrible, all cracked and blurry, and I never once cared about that until this minute. Lenore’s long limbs are wasted on this screen; her taut stomach and perky tits deserve nothing less than high definition.
My phone buzzes in my hands. My model dropped out at the last second so I filled in, Lenore’s text says. This is my punishment. My family acts like I starred in a porno.
Now there’s an image I don’t need right now. Swigging from the stainless steel bottle of water by my hip, I stare up at the clouds and will my body to calm the hell down.
You should warn a man before sending photos like that , I tell her. Nearly had a heart attack over here.
In a good way? :)
In a very fucking good way. Do you still have that lingerie? Would you wear it for me?
It’s too much, too soon, but I can’t help myself. Lenore sent me that article, knowing full well there’s a photo of her in nothing but three wisps of white lace. I bite down on my fist as I wait for her reply, so riled up that I could sprint twenty blocks. Could swing from the scaffolding like Tarzan.
So you like it, then? she says.
Hell yeah.
I like all her clothes. Everything she’s ever worn. As far as I’m concerned, if Lenore Hattworth touched it, it’s pure gold.
Then I’ll wear it for you. Extra points if you can take it off with your teeth. :)))
This woman will be the death of me.
* * *
Texting is one thing, but getting Lenore alone again is another. Turns out that she’s already working all hours in the day, staying up late each night sewing, just trying to keep up with her college workload. Her family must know they’ve made her life a million times harder, especially with her winter show coming up, but I guess they don’t care.
Assholes. Dangling my girl’s education over her head like that, making her dance on their strings.
Well, it’s bullshit. But I can’t fix it for her, not unless Lenore brings it to me herself.
She lets me come over to her apartment on Wednesday night, on the strict instruction that she needs to work. No distractions allowed.
Fine by me. I bring take-out bags stuffed full of her favorite Thai food, snoop through her bookshelves after we’ve eaten, then keep her hydrated with glasses of water and mugs of blackberry tea as she works on her designs.
Lenore keeps smiling over at me sadly; keeps apologizing every time I get up to make her a new drink, but that’s because she doesn’t get it yet.
I don’t need her to entertain me. Don’t need her always on.
Hanging out in her presence is enough. It’s a balm to my world-weary soul.
Besides, I like just being here, flipping through the paperbacks from her shelf. Like seeing where she lives, grinning up at the embroidered Turkish carpet she’s got mounted above her bed. As she sews away, muttering under her breath, I run my fingertips over the retro bead curtain that separates her kitchen area from the rest of the living space, breathing in her spiced vanilla scent.
It’s comfortable. Sure, my body’s aching with how badly I want her, but I can tamp that down. And when I do, I get something even better—that warm, calm feeling that we belong. That I’m exactly where I need to be.
When Lenore starts to flag around 10pm, I get up and bake her chewy ginger cookies. Maybe a little sugar rush will help, and hey, these hands are good for more than laying roof tile.
“I’m sorry,” she moans for the millionth time when I emerge from the kitchen, falling on the plate of warm cookies like a starving hyena. “You must be so bored, . I’m not always like this, I swear.”
Can’t help grinning as Lenore stuffs a whole cookie in her cheek like a hamster. She blinks up at me, bug-eyed, like she’s just remembered I can see her. “Shit,” Lenore says quietly, then tries to chew like a fancy lady with fancy manners. Too late for that.
I collapse onto the sofa next to her, biting into my own cookie. “I’m not bored. I like being around you, gorgeous, whatever you’re doing.”
Her cheeks turn pink, still stuffed full of ginger cookie, and I mentally pat myself on the back. It’s all true, obviously, but god, I love making Lenore blush. She reddens for me so easily.
“I’m basically done with this skirt,” she says, covering her mouth with one hand. “We could take a break together.”
“Oh yeah?” I’m already sliding to the floor, shuffling my knees across the rug. Elbowing her legs apart and settling in front of her, palms on her thighs.
Lenore stares at me, wide-eyed and trembling, and swallows down the last of her cookie with a gulp. Each breath stirs her chest beneath the green silk shirt she’s wearing, the buttons pulling across her perfect tits. Her sewing is gripped in her lap, forgotten.
“Want me to make you feel good, Lenore?”
She nods slowly. I nudge her knees wider with a grin.
And fuck, I love how she melts for me, sighing back into the sofa cushions. Love how her legs flop apart, flashing me a shameless peek at the triangle of white lace between her thighs, and how that blush climbs up her throat, her lips already red and bitten.
Lenore tosses the bundled sewing aside. She grips my wrists, stroking both hands up my arms, all the way to the hard muscle of my shoulders. Her brown eyes are clear, hungry. Determined. Like she’s relishing this as much as I am.
“Are these what I think they are?” I jerk my chin at that sliver of white lace beneath her skirt. She’s wearing a black cord skirt that rumples up her thighs, and white ankle socks. This whole outfit is killing me.
“Uh-huh.” Lenore presses her lips against a smile, lifting her hips so I can push her skirt all the way up. It bunches around her waist, thick and ungainly, and somehow that sight gets me hotter than if she’d stripped bare right away.
A full body shiver rolls through Lenore as I stroke my palms up her thighs.
My thumb flirts with the edge of those white lace panties, the ones from that photo. The ones from that fashion show where she walked the catwalk, looking like a sultry angel; the panties that she promised to wear for me, with extra points if I took them off with my teeth.
Well, Dempsey never backs down from a challenge.
I lean forward, floorboards creaking beneath my weight. Lenore whimpers as I gust out a hot breath against the wet patch already forming there, and Christ, I can smell her. Sweet and salty, with her own special musk. The air is warmer here, humid between her thighs, and I never want to leave.
I lick her once, dragging the flat of my tongue across damp lace. Already, she tastes better than any cookie.
Lenore hiccups, squirming on the sofa cushions, her fingernails digging into my shoulders.
I focus on those ten points of mild pain as I lick her again. And I don’t mind that she’s clawing me like that, no way—I like it. It’s cold, hard proof that Lenore’s as messed up by this crazy connection between us as I am.
“Good girl,” I say, voice muffled by her panties. “That’s it. Let me have a taste.” When I suck her through the fabric, she wails , legs kicking up to rest over my shoulders. And those heels dig into my back, urging me on, as I bite down gingerly on the lace.
Don’t want to rip her work. Don’t want to hurt her either, so I’m extra careful as I tug with my teeth, sliding my hands under Lenore’s ass to lift her from the sofa cushions. The panties come down her thighs easily enough, sticking to the wetness at her entrance for one long moment before finally peeling away.
I don’t tug them down far. Don’t have that kind of patience in me. As soon as they’re midway down her thighs, lace stretched between her limbs, I dive back in for another taste of Lenore.
She’s slicker than sin, so swollen and needy. Her tight little body begs for me as I growl, rubbing my whole damn face between her legs, nose nudging her clit as I lick inside her. Plunging my tongue in and out, showing what I want to do to her with other parts of my body.
It’s so good. So much. I eat my girl like I’m a man on death row and she’s my last meal. I ravage her, and Lenore clings to my shoulders the whole time, bucking and moaning, grinding against my face with abandon. The backs of her knees are sweating into my shirt.
So goddamn perfect.
So goddamn sweet.
Need to taste her like this every day of my life. Any morning I don’t leave the house with Lenore’s tang on my tongue is a waste of time. An abject failure.
Her phone rings, jammed somewhere deep in the sofa cushions. We both ignore it, too busy wrestling, my head crammed between soft thighs. Those ten pin pricks in my shoulders make my gut clench, and I shove one hand down to my lap, pressing down on my bulge hard.
“Leave it,” Lenore gasps when her phone stops, then starts to ring again. “Oh my god, leave it.”
No fear. I wouldn’t stop now if a meteor struck. Wouldn’t pause for breath even if I was bleeding out on the floor.
When she comes, her belly tenses, her whole body locking up. And it’s just like she showed me last Friday night—eyelids fluttering down, breath coming in short gasps, her hips rolling against my mouth, demanding every last scrap of sensation.
Lenore is a goddess. I’d live on my knees for her if I could, bringing her off like this every damn day.
She’s flushed tomato-red when she finally nudges me away, groaning deep in her throat. I rock back on my heels, legs going numb beneath me, and grin at my girl.
She smiles back, oddly shy after what we just shared.
And when her phone starts up again, she rolls her eyes and digs between the sofa cushions, a frown creasing her forehead.
“One second,” she whispers, before picking up and standing on wobbly feet. “Hello? Dad?” Lenore ducks into the kitchen, murmuring into the phone.
The Hattworths, then. Bitterness tastes sour in my mouth, and I press down harder on the rock-solid bulge under my jeans, willing it to go away. And you know, I feel like kind of an idiot, kneeling here for my girl on numb legs while she hides from me in the kitchen. While she tries not to let her dad hear me down the phone. Should shake these feelings off, but the longer she stays away, the more they settle in my gut.
My bones creak as I push to stand with a sigh.
And what would her family say if they knew about this? Their little Lenore dating a man with brick dust on his shirts. They’d be horrified, no doubt about it. Their snooty noses would all go straight in the air.
Does Lenore care about that? Care what her family thinks of me?
She’s been in that kitchen a long time.
I wait five more minutes, but the phone call drags on. With each passing second, my heart sinks. She’s not coming back out to me—not anytime soon.
Maybe I’m kidding myself here. Maybe she’s still not sure.
I let myself back out into the frosty night air.