Chapter 24 Lucy
Lucy
My blood is boiling. I’m quite literally shaking and feel like all eyes are on me. Without looking back, I rush outside and catch my breath. My eyes scan my surroundings to make sure that Chris is gone. When the coast is clear, I do my best to regain composure.
I’m not even mad at Chris for saying what he did. I hurt him and despite how I felt, he deserved better. Marsh deserves better. Everything Chris said is true: I don’t know what I want, I do have commitment issues…and maybe I did manipulate someone else.
Marsh appears, a large paper bag full of takeout in hand. “Are you okay?” he asks.
“I’m so sorry about that.” I look at Marsh, thoroughly embarrassed. “Chris isn’t a bad person or anything. He’s just…” I try to find the words to describe just exactly what our relationship was.
“One of the many guys in your Rolodex?” he repeats Chris’s words. It’s a statement that I would otherwise laugh at. I kind of wish I came up with it myself. But hearing it from Marsh, my stomach drops.
“Yeah, I guess so.” I look down.
“He’s an asshole, Luce.” Marsh dips his chin to get my attention. “You don’t actually believe any of that shit he said, do you?”
“No,” I force out. My eyes stick to his.
I’m not upset by what Chris said to me. Hell, I’ve heard more iterations of his sentiment through the years than I care to admit.
What upset me was that Marsh never saw me the way other people do; as someone who was crazy or has commitment issues.
Now I’m worried he does. “Do you believe any of that stuff?” I ask, afraid of the answer.
“What?” He rears back. “Of course not. Jesus, Luce. Guys like him say that shit because they can’t handle the fact that you didn’t want to be with them. Seriously, fuck that guy.”
My heart twists. Marshall Oakley really isn’t like the other men I know. My gaze stays fixed on his, and I don’t have any words.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I smile. “I’m sure.”
“Great, now let’s get out of here.” He wraps an arm around me, and we start walking back to my place.
When we get back to my apartment, Marsh and I eat our tacos and then put on Singin’ in the Rain. As Gene Kelly, Debbie Reynolds, and Donald O’Connor start laughing over their flipped couch, Marsh nods to the Cleo sitting on my coffee table.
“What is that?” he asks.
“A vibrator,” I say. I reach over and pass it to him.
He analyzes the tool, much like how I did when I first got it. “This is a vibrator?”
“Mhm. Crazy, right?”
“It’s so…not vibrator-looking.”
“They also have three other colors,” I add. “I have so many I don’t know what to do with them.”
“So, naturally you display them.”
“The whole purpose of this vibrator is to make it blend in with your other home décor.”
“So, the point is to have it displayed in your home,” Marsh says like he’s trying to understand. “Interesting.”
“I mean, I kind of respect it.” I take the beige, silicone instrument that does very much look like something you would pick up at a minimalistic home goods type store in Venice. “Vibrators don’t have to be pink and baby blue.”
“I’m not knocking it.” Marsh shrugs. “Can you give me one too so I can display it on my bookshelf?”
“You may be joking, Marshall Oakley, but now this one is yours.” I pass him the Cleo that’s in my hand. “Now you have to display it, and I will otherwise be offended if you don’t.”
He shoves the vibrator in his pocket. “So, do you have a drawer full of sex toys? Or is that a really obvious stereotype.”
“I actually do,” I say, embarrassed. “Do you want to see?”
“I would want nothing more.”
I pause the movie and then guide him to my bedroom.
When he walks inside, I suddenly feel like a teenager who has her crush over while her parents are away for the weekend.
I turn on a warm light on my nightstand, and Marsh begins to eye my space with a look of fascination.
His focus shifts from the frames on my wall to the slight mess on my desk to the light fixture above my bed.
“Here.” I open one of my dresser drawers, revealing a display of handcuffs, dildos, vibrators, lube, cock rings, and anal beads.
“Holy shit.” Marsh lets out a coarse laugh. “You weren’t kidding.”
“I told you.”
“This is crazy you have all of this.” He picks up furry handcuffs. “How often do you use these?”
“Never.” I answer honestly. “Brands just send them to me. Almost all of them are unused, but I feel bad throwing them out.”
“Secret Santa gifts?” he offers.
“It gets old,” I say.
“So, you really just leave these untouched?” he asks.
“I feel like if I rely on things like this, it would be hard for me to have an orgasm without it.”
“Are you opposed to using them?”
“No, I just don’t really have—” I look at him. “Do you want to use them?”
“I mean, you have a whole drawer of stuff here…It’s kind of a waste, right?”
Marsh is full of surprises. Not only am I so deeply fascinated by him on a cognitive level, but whenever the topic of sex comes up, he keeps me on my toes. It’s like we’re both discovering more of what we like and don’t like, together.
“What one do you want to try?” I look up at him.
“You know, I am curious about the Cleo.”
I smile. “The Cleo it is.”
Marsh places a hand on my cheek. We kiss and it’s deep and I feel a release.
What happened with Chris earlier was still in the back of my mind and I was worried.
I didn’t know how Marsh would react, how he would see me, but this kiss confirms that we’re okay and that whatever happened doesn’t matter.
That I don’t have to be ashamed of my history.
I surrender to the kiss and press my body against his. He wraps his arms around me, and I move mine around his waist, pulling him in. He gently bites my lip, and I’m embarrassed by how easily he can make me whimper.
“Take off your clothes,” he whispers in my ear.
I do as he says, of course. I think he’s the only person who can get me fully naked after eating three carne asada tacos. When I’m undressed, Marsh looks at my body as if I were a waterfall and he’s been left out in the desert for days.
“Lie down,” he says.
I position myself on my bed, placing my head on the pillows. Slowly, Marsh hovers over the lower part of my body and pulls out the Cleo from his back pocket. I soon hear the faint buzzing, letting me know that it’s on, and my body tenses.
“Can I trust that you’ll stay in place?” He looks at me. “Or do we need to use those handcuffs?”
“I’ll behave,” I promise.
“Good girl.” Marsh takes the Cleo and at first rubs it along the inside of my thigh.
The vibration feels nice and I close my eyes, enjoying the sensation. Marsh’s lips leave a trail of kisses along my chest, down to my stomach, and then my hip bone.
Slowly, he moves the Cleo closer to my most sensitive areas. Grazing it along everything but my clit. He’s savoring this and I’m going to let him. He then gently bites the inside of my thigh, making me whimper, and then he gives the same spot a kiss.
I’m blushing about how wet I already am, and Marsh, still fully clothed, takes his index finger and pushes it through my opening.
I moan in approval, and then he takes another finger and starts fingering.
At first he takes his time, but then he continues pumping until the sound of it echoes within the walls of my bedroom.
“Marsh, I’m going to come,” I cry.
“Keep it together,” he says, and I shut my eyes trying to focus on anything else. Then I feel the sensation of the Cleo against my clit and my body jolts in response.
“Marsh,” I moan. “I can’t—”
“Just give me ten seconds, baby,” he says and I try to do what he says. “Ten,” he begins counting down. “Nine,” he says, and then I feel the intensity setting change a notch.
“Fuck,” I whimper.
“Eight,” he says. The intensity setting changes again, and then I remember there are eleven settings.
“I-I can’t.”
“You can do it,” Marsh says gently. “Seven…six…”
He starts moving the Cleo in a circle around my clit and I swear I see stars. I see a whole other galaxy.
“Marsh—”
“Five.” He starts fingering me even harder. “Four.”
“Marsh—”
“Three.” The intensity setting increases to an eleven, and I let out an obscene moan, my hips lifting completely off the bed.
“Two.” Marsh pumps his fingers. “One. Okay, come, baby. Come.”
“Fuuuck.” I finally release and nearly black out. My body becomes limp and my breathing becomes shallow.
Marsh rubs my thigh. “You okay?”
“I hate you,” I breathe out but then fist his shirt and bring him in for a kiss.
Over the course of the week, Marsh and I spend just about every day together.
We keep our distance during work hours, but once six p.m. hits, we’re glued at the hip.
On Wednesday I go to his house, and we make his favorite veggie bowls.
On Thursday he comes with me to my boxing class.
Friday we go out for a date night with Jonah and his husband.
But in between everything is the best part.
Marsh holds me in ways I haven’t been held.
When we’re cooking dinner, when we’re in the shower, or when we’re watching a movie on the couch.
I want to analyze every part of his body—from wrinkles on his knuckles to testing just how bad his eyesight is.
He makes me talk about my childhood—a part of my life I don’t instinctively remember—and I ask him about his first crushes.
Everything almost feels like a dreamy haze, but at the same time…normal. It’s like all of this could so easily be real if we weren’t faking it.
As I’m working on a story about whether the bush is back or not, Eman pops by my cubicle. “Hey, Lucy! I just wanted to let you know that I’m going into our monthly leadership meeting this morning. I’m presenting your column as one of the wins for the month.”
“Really?” My heart skips a beat. Those meetings include all the senior editors for not just The Rue but also The Journal.
“Yes! Your stories alone really boosted our CTRs and direct subscribers.”