17. Hailey
I brought Astor a bag I borrowed from her three years ago. Haha!
She didn’t even remember the damn thing. Took a little wind out of my sails. Then I tried my best to walk back out. The woman is thin but ballsy and not to be fucked with. She had a text typed and ready to send to my aunt as collateral. So I stayed and spilled my guts, the parts I was willing to acknowledge.
That’s why the frosty wind slaps my face, and my feet hurt. On particularly heinous sessions, I’ll leave her office on the Upper West Side and hoof it through the park to decompress before heading back to work. Admittedly, it’s been a while since I’ve dug deep. The last time, I wasn’t in fear of losing my nose to frostbite.
By the time I stop at the corner of 85 th and 5 th , I’m scanning left for a cab when I see a hint of the Guggenheim’s iconic profile through the leaf-bare trees. I haven’t made the decision to go that way, but my numb booted feet carry me closer. Wind slithers up my long skirt and seeps into my tights.
In a few minutes, I stand in front of its curved sides, staring up like a tourist.
One of his parents worked here. He said the museum was in his backyard.
My head turns to look down 88 th .
And I wonder.
I wonder and walk, away from the art and toward the row of domestic homes. I stroll like I have an internal compass guiding me. The white stone fronts are carved with shields and buttresses, scrolled designs and floral embellishments. Each one is grand, standing five stories high, plus a basement.
The first quite literally touches the famed gallery.
It also has two carved oak doors thrown open. A big truck with trees and bushes, vibrant green grasses, and a variety of plants poking out the top and sides is parked in front.
There’s no one on the street or in the truck’s cab.
I’m pulled closer and closer still.
The balconies are stunning. Of course, there are more than one. I count three, maybe four. Every one overflows with greenery in the unforgiving cold.
“Hey, uh, comin’ through.”
I jerk and spin toward the thick Jersey accent. He stands at the back of the truck with a dolly filled with a pallet of the greenest grass I’ve ever seen.
He points toward the home that I’m blocking his path to.
“Sorry.” I shuffle to the side.
The young man rolls the wheels to the curb, hefts the stack of grass onto the sidewalk, and then walks it backward toward the series of stairs. He stops at the bottom and squares me with a look. He smiles. “You, uh, need some landscaping done, doll? I can help you out.”
I can’t tell if he’s hitting on me or genuinely asking if I’m in need of a landscaper, mostly because I’m the one staring. I started this. Not that I was looking at him specifically.
“It’d be my pleasure to help you out.” His wink is the giveaway. “Yours too.”
“I doubt it.”
The words aren’t mine. They could have been, if not for the familiar airy rasp.
The landscaper’s head snaps up over his shoulder to the suited frame of Arlo Judge. His hands are in his pockets. His chest is wide. His gaze is intent on me.
“Uh…uh,” the man stutters. “Sorry to be out front. Jake’s got the dirt truck blocking the rear drive.”
Mr. Judge shifts his gaze to the guy very slowly but says nothing. The young man shuts his mouth and moves his ass, along with the heavy load up the steps and out of sight. Neither of us watches him go, stuck in the magnetic pull of our gazes.
At least, I am. I can’t say why he looks at me so closely.
“Would you like to come in?”
“I’m surprised you’re home.” We speak in tandem.
I shove my frozen hands into my pockets to keep from accepting his invitation. Inside with him is dangerous. Hell, outside in the middle of Times Square is dangerous, with him.
“Can’t trust the workers not to attempt to seduce beautiful women who walk by my house.” He doesn’t shrug, smile, or do anything to minimize the impact of his words.
“So you stay to do it instead?”
“Could I seduce you?” He takes one step forward.
I take one back. Because he already has seduced me.
He stays put and gives me a nod, a promise to stay put.
“I didn’t know you lived here,” I offer. “I’m not stalking you. I was just out walking after my appointment with Astor.” I realize he doesn't know who that is. “My therapist…and friend.”
He tips his chin.
The man is more compelling than I remember. My memories of him are so disjointed. Pleasure in the dark. Intrigue in the light. As one he would be merciless on my tattered soul.
“I apologize for overreacting. I was afraid for my career.” It’s not a lie. It’s also not nearly the whole truth. Then again, he’s not been big on the whole truth either. He fucked me, knowing I was his therapist. Actually, technically he didn’t fuck me. The vibrator in his hand did.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.
“You should continue therapy. You were doing so well. You’d come a long way.” Panic seizes me. He’s going to think I’m inviting him back, and I can’t. I can’t have him that close. Hear him speak. And not feel like…I want him closer, deeper, harder. My swallow is thick. My body hums.
“I should have recommended you to someone. I can if you’ll let me.”
There’s a ghost of a smile on his face. I don’t understand it.
“I’ve been seeing someone.”
My brain is completely fucked. It’s mush. Those useless, ugly feelings return, making my stomach ache. I picture the woman he wants to touch, the whole reason he was in therapy to begin with. Of course, he’s seeing someone. He has a goal. He has a purpose. My little outburst won’t deter a man like Arlo Judge from his objective.
“A therapist,” he clarifies.
“That’s great. I’m really happy for you.” I pull one hand from my pocket, give an awkward wave, and set off for the park once more. I’ll grab a cab and get away.
“Don’t you want to know why I saw you that last night at Crave when I knew who you were?” he calls to my back.
I answer with a shake of my head and quickening footsteps.
The truth is, I’m terrified to know why.
I expect he used me as some kind of sexual surrogate. To gain practice with intimacy to use with his dream woman.
Without a clue, the jealousy gnaws at my insides. I can’t bear having those feelings reinforced. They don’t belong inside me. I swore on everything I ever had and ever loved that I would never, ever be jealous. I swore on everything that I’d never feel truly connected to someone who could hurt me. I will do anything to stay that way.
“At least let me drive you where you want to go.” Again, he’s snuck up on me without so much as a whisper of footsteps.
“How do you do that?” I study him, walking in step beside me. In my heels, I just reach his chin. So close and without a blindfold on, he’s not as meaty as I thought. He’s leaner, but his presence makes him larger than life.
“Do what?”
“Move all that.” I gesture toward him. “With not so much as a footstep?”
We reach the Guggenheim, and he stops. For whatever reason, I do too.
“I learned to move quietly out of necessity.” He nibbles his bottom lip. It’s a new thing. Or maybe it’s not, and I’m only seeing it now. Either way, it’s endearing as fuck. “It’s been years, but I can’t stop myself.”
“It’s common among soldiers, prisoners of war, survivors of abuse. Reading a room, constantly assessing for danger, learning what minimizes the attacks. It becomes the only lifeline.”
I take my hands out of my pockets because it feels rude to hide them when he’s opening up. “When the danger is finally gone, it takes time and strategies to rewire the brain’s way of thinking.”
“People in the office hate it.” His intelligent brow bumps, and his thick lips form a quick half smirk.
“I bet you hear all the hot gossip.” My mouth is stretched into a dumb smile.
“More than I ever wanted to know.” His grimace is cute. “I seem to scare the shit out of people.”
“Most of us are like two-legged deer. Always ready for flight, not fight.”
His dark eyes narrow. “Not you.”
“No, I’m not fight or flight.” I ball my fingers into fists to try to warm them. “I just don’t engage. Not ever.”
Usually.
“Doesn't sound healthy, either.” He turns to face the direction of his house.
“It’s not.” My smile falters. My fingers feel like they’re about to fall off.
“Let me drive you?”
“Then who will keep the workers from trying to seduce beautiful women who walk by?”
“If you’re with me, it can’t happen.” His head cants in further invitation, and then he starts to walk back the way we’d come.
And I fall in line and bite back my grin. “Smooth talker.”
“Not really.” His perfectly styled hair shakes. “Just honest. To a fault, many times.”
“Nah. Honesty is the best policy.”
“Even when it hurts people?”
“In my experience, lies hurt worse than the ugliest truth.”
And isn’t that the biggest truth of all.
He draws a deep breath. “Indeed, you’re right.”
We’re both quiet as he leads me down the sidewalk, up the steps, and into a warmly decorated home. It’s filled with ornate but minimal furniture and rich colors. The bones of the home are an architect’s wet dream. A scrawled staircase curves up the grand foyer. Two sitting rooms bracket the space, whose ceiling is open and bright all the way up to a sculpted metal and glass skylight that encompasses the whole vestibule.
I scurry to catch up as he continues on through a short corridor that shows an opulent dining room to the right and flows into a kitchen someone who cooks would absolutely drool over. From there, he glides over the black and white checked tiles, weaves around the marble countertops, and opens a door pouring so much light into the space that I might need shades.
Obediently, I follow, and I’m spat out into Narnia.
My breath catches, and my feet stop. Warmth infuses my body. When I finally take a breath, fresh air filters out the muck in my lungs.
He has stopped and is turned toward me. No matter how beautiful he is, I can’t seem to tear my eyes from the magic around me. My gaze jumps from one thing to the next in absolute awe.
“It looks like the Haupt Conservatory.” The arch of the metal and glass, the curve of the domed roof, and the abundance of plant life is beyond stunning.
“Lord & Burnham, who designed the conservatory, also designed this. It was my father’s favorite place in the world. He said it was heaven on earth.”
“I don’t believe in heaven or hell, but if I did, this would be heaven.” I finally move off the two large steps onto the stone path and closer to the greenery. He motions for me to look around, and I do, wandering like a kid who’s found Santa’s workshop and didn’t even know it existed.
“How do you feel about this space?”
“As a kid, I loved it. Up until a couple of weeks ago, it was desolate, unloved, and unkept for a long time.”
“It’s too amazing of a spot to let it go to waste.” I can’t seem to wipe the smile off my face and that’s seldom a problem. “What made you decide to invest in it?” Because this was a major investment. Millions, I’m sure. Hell, he could charge admission and people would pay for a bit of time in this magical oasis.
He doesn’t answer.
I turn and find him staring at me. “Well?”
“I’m not sure you’d like the truth of it.”
I have no idea why I would care about the truth of it. “Try me.”
“Your eyes.”
The things in question go wide. “What about them?”
“They’re so green. They reminded me of this place where I used to feel comfortable, a place I used to love.” He points at the borders and paths off the main covered in vibrant green grass. “I would tuck there or sprawl out to do my homework.”
Warmth that has nothing to do with the moist heat of the greenhouse blooms in my chest. It’s the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me. If I dwell on it too much, I’ll hyperventilate and pass out on the green grass. Grass that reminds him of comfort and my eyes.
“You should meditate here.”
He gives me a small smile, a kind of thank you for not calling him out and not running away screaming. “I don’t know how.”
I walk to him and stop with just a foot between us.
It’s warmer here.
“Place one hand on your belly, and the other over your heart.” I show him by centering my hands over my belly and heart. “Press firmly enough that you can feel your heartbeat in your chest and the air moving your belly.”
He complies.
“Good, very good. You can start with your eyes open if that’s most comfortable for you. For me, usually, that’s too vulnerable, and I prefer to close mine. Everyone is different.” I pull a deep breath through my nose, hold it for a five count, and release it. “Now, like I just did, breathe deeply in through your nose for a five count, then exhale through your mouth for a five count.”
His breath filters out over my neck and chest. My nipples perk, damn them. Luckily, they’re hidden behind my jacket. “Now, wiggle your toes and shake your hips.”
His expression is skeptical.
“You don’t have to shake like a belly dancer. Just a little wiggle to make you feel the here and now. Here on the ground. Here in the moment. Nothing else matters right now, except the breath pushing at your hands or pulling them back in toward your body.” I show him with a little shake of my toes, a wiggle of my hips, and several breath cycles.
He falls in line. After my fifth breath, his shoulders sink, and the divot between his brows smooths.
“If thoughts intrude, breathe them out. If feelings rise up, acknowledge them, and then set them to the side for later. If things get dark, wiggle those toes, and remember the here and now. The light. The warmth. The green.”
He looks at me with those deep, dark eyes for a while. Then slowly, his gaze shifts over my head and away somewhere. I focus on his lapels, afraid to get stuck on his mouth, his throat, or his hands.
My heartbeat speeds, and I’m not meditating at all. I’m too caught up in the here and now. In him and his scent. The size and depth of him.
The longer I stand here, the more my fingers itch to touch him. Not just touch him, either. The impulse to grab him and pull him close to my body is overwhelming. The impulse to grab him and pull him into me and bury him deep in my soul is more shocking than finding this magic portal behind his home.
“Now recenter with two meaningful breaths.” I do as I say, hoping for sanity. Then I drop my hands. “You can meditate for as long as you’d like. Before bed might be a great way to unwind, shoes off in the grass.” I shrug and head for what I believe is the exit he was headed for earlier.
He follows close, making an effort for me to hear his footfalls. The cold slaps me in the face, but I don’t feel it. I’m too worked up over this man. I give a wide berth to a truck I’m surprised fits on the city streets. Then see a four-bay garage. One door opens with the click of a button. He walks to the passenger side of a charcoal-colored sports car and opens the door.
I slide between his body and the low-slung car. The whiff of him is the best aphrodisiac. Talk about positive association.
“Thank you.” I choke as I sit with my feet still outside the car and gather my coat close.
“My pleasure.” His voice is so raw and unique.
It is my pleasure. It filters through my ears and slides into my brain, drugging me. He makes no move to step away or close the door. Instead, he leans on the open frame. His teeth grab his lip, and I’m entranced.
Looking at him and seeing this man's nuances has me yearning for things I’ve never dreamed of wanting. Things that actually terrify me, with him, seem impossibly attainable. An oxymoron if I've ever heard one.
His presence calls to my body. As if it knows what I need better than my brain. I’m making a mess of my panties.
Again, I’m thankful for my coat, but it’s as if he can see beneath it and read me like a large print coffee table book splayed wide in the midday sun.
He licks his lips.
My clit pulses, and I have to look away. Of course, the bulge in his pants probably isn’t the best place to look. But I do. His length travels across his thigh while his girth tests the tensile strength of his finely knitted trousers.
The blood whooshes in my ears.
He drops to his knees on the gravel. His chest heaves in the confines of his suit coat and almost touches my knees. The intensity of his gaze tugs me like a riptide.
“Tell me to stop,” he demands.
I should. Nothing good can come from this. My body doesn’t care.
The shake of my head is small and slow but concise.
“Open your legs.” This order is softer and more tentative. I obey without hesitation. The heels of my high boots bracket the sides of his body without touching. My skirt creates a sagging tent between my legs.
His hands hook around my stocking and skirt-covered knees. He pulls me closer, as though he’s put his hands on me a hundred times. I guess, in a way, he has touched me more than anyone before. He tugs until my ass sits on the precipice of the leather seat.
My hands shake, and my heart bucks like a wild thing trapped inside the cage of my chest. We’re face-to-face. Tits to chest. V to D. I might pass out. If I don’t, I think this will be the most death-defying thing I’ve ever done.
And that’s saying something.
He grabs the back of my neck. It propels a gasp from my lungs. He doesn’t touch. But he’s touching me, my skin. I don’t kiss. But I’d let him press his lips to mine.
“Fuck me,” he snarls.
“If…you need to stop, we can.” I can kick myself for those words. If he stops, I might actually die.
“No danger of that.” He levers me back. “Elbows on the console.”
I’m too amped to fully appreciate his progress, or mine for that matter. I do as I’m told and stare down at the mass of exquisite man between my legs. He releases his hold on my neck, grips both my ankles, lifts my boots off the ground and wedges the heels inside the frame of the door.
Slowly, he pulls my long peach skirt over my knees, along my thighs, and across my aching cunt. I’m open, fully exposed, except for the belt of my garter and the thin lace of my panties.
“Remember your safe word?”
I’m nodding before my mouth can form a sound.
“Let me hear you,” he orders.
“Yes, I remember my safe word.” I pant.
“Good. I’ve never done this before. You might not like it.” He says this as he runs his fucking gorgeous hands up my inner thighs and pushes them wider.
His fingers leave my stockings, and we are skin on skin.
A bawdy moan pours out of me.
He goes crazy, rubbing his palms over the hint of thigh and ass peeking between the material. His calluses make my skin sing. He hooks a finger into the rear straps and pops them on my flesh.
My hips twitch. He tugs on the stockings, trying to feel more of my skin, more of my thigh. His eyes follow his progress, intent and alive.
“Your skin is so fucking…” He runs his hand farther up the dip of my hips.
“What?” I beg.
“Soft. Smooth. It’s fucking…witchcraft.” His thumbs glide over the edge of my panties, and I’m downright spellbound. He releases a heavy breath, the dragon, and drags his thumbs down my center.
My hips cave in on themselves, and I’m in danger of coming too incredibly soon. Sounds leave me, and I don’t recognize them. This conjuring he’s incited seems to encourage his exploration, and that’s what it is. His fingers dip and delve around every stitch of my panties, teasing me to the very brink of sanity.
When I’m about to combust, he reaches into his pocket and pulls something out. There’s a snick in the air, and then a blade appears. It’s short but sharp enough to end me with one well-placed nick.
“Trust me?”
Air whooshes out of my lungs. A stupid fucking tear slips from my eye. I have no idea where it came from.
Do I trust anyone in this untamed world? Two people.
It’s a fucking stretch, but then, he’s stretching too. He’s touching me when he doesn't touch anyone.
I nod. He tilts one brow a centimeter. “Yes!”
“That’s my siren.”
I’m confounded and my brain can’t focus between the sobriquet or the back of the knife running up my thigh, closer and closer to my?—
He flicks the knife and material screams.
I don’t. Not because I wouldn’t, but because I’m ensnared in the look of awe on his face.
Again, he flicks the knife and once more material screams. He pulls the tattered remains of my panties from my body and stows the blade back inside his pocket, along with the soft pink material.
“That was hot as hell.”
His smile is devilish as he runs his hands back up my legs and then acquaints his fingertips with my most intimate flesh. “What about this?”
“Even better.” My hands fist my jacket while I struggle to hold my hips perfectly still.
“Then why do you look pained?” He’s smug, and it’s charming on him because I know how far he’s pushing.
“I’m trying to stay still.” He thrums my clit and I gasp, so close to losing my mind. “I don’t want to scare you.”
“Hailey?”
My eyes snap open at his gruffness. I hadn’t realized I’d closed them.
“You seeking pleasure could never scare me.” He flattens his wet fingers over my clit and holds it still. “Rock your hips for me. Let me hear you come.”
Between his words and his fingers, I’m half gone already. I leverage my weight onto the console and roll my hips, circling his fingers with my clit. It’s a new sensation with someone else. It goes against my MO, and holy fucking hell, it makes me want to stuff his hand into my pants every second of every day.
His hand is steady while I rub my flesh against his. It’s just so right. My belly flutters. Those dark eyes study me, pull at me, drown me in unadulterated lust.
“Yes, oh fuck, yes.” My hips still, pressed against his magic fingers. The inner walls of my pussy pulse for several beats. Then I slump onto the seat.
“There’s nothing more exquisite than watching you come undone.”
Before I’ve begun to calm, he breaches my body with a long thick finger. His middle one. He stares as it disappears inside me. The apples of his cheeks go red and his full lips follow. Breaths jackknife in and out of his chest as he works his finger, and then another inside me.
His gaze finds me, and there’s the barest hint of moisture in his eyes. I want to hug him to my chest, and I don’t hug anyone except my cat, apparently.
“For what it’s worth, I’ve never done this before either.” I give him a small smile. He curls his fingers, pressing them against the front of my wall. My eyes roll back in my head a little. “It feels amazing.” I pant. “Your touch is…” Indescribable . “It’s a gift.”
He blinks. “Never done what, exactly?”
“Fuck.” I moan as he adds his slick thumb to my clit and massages my cunt. How am I supposed to form coherent words when he’s scrambling my brains and frying my ovaries? “Faced anyone. Looked at anyone.”
“You’re the gift, Hailey.” He tugs on my insides and torments my clit. “Now, give me another gift.”
My right elbow slips off the console. I grab the headrest for dear life and scream my orgasm, not caring who hears.
When I return to my body, I realize I’m clutching the dash with my left hand. My chest heaves, and a fine sheen of sweat forms on my upper lip, despite the winter chill on my ass.
He pulls from my body and lifts his finger. His eyes spark with mischief, and he presses his finger between his lips and sucks it clean of my arousal.
“Jesus,” I whisper.
“Arlo,” he corrects.
His big hands splay on my lower thighs. “Give me another?”
“Oh my God.” I gasp.
“Oh my Arlo.” He licks his lips and awaits my answer.
I don’t know what I wouldn’t give him at this moment. Just thirty minutes ago, there were so many things I wouldn’t give. Right this second, I can’t remember one of them.
“Yes.”
“Perfect.” He leans over me. “I want to try one more thing.”
His mouth lowers toward my cunt, but his eyes are on me, analyzing my every reaction.
“Yes, Arlo. Please.” My lips are parted, and I’m breathing through them like an asthmatic in the middle of an attack.
His tongue sweeps back to front. I swear I levitate. If my face was pressed against the roof of the car, I wouldn’t be shocked in the least.
“Jesus, fuck, yes. Arlo, oh my God.” The sensation is otherworldly. Sure, I’ve been eaten out from the back, but the front is next level.
He gives a signature, “Mmm.”
It vibrates against my pussy. My toes curl. He explores my folds, tentatively dipping in, mapping out every contour.
His eyes find me, and they’re molten. “Tell me you like it.”
“Can’t.” I gasp. “Too weak a description.”
“Then describe how you feel about it. Quickly,” he adds with a narrowed gaze.
“Your tongue is my heroin.”
He nips my pubic bone. I shriek and giggle all at the same time. “Heroin is destructive,” he snarls.
“I stand by my analogy.”
“Looks like you lie by it to me.” His mouth descends on my cunt, laying waste to everything I thought I knew about what I liked.
“In a puddle,” I agree. A destroyed puddle.
He slips a finger inside me, spreads my lips wide, and laps at my clit. My fingers itch to grab his hair and pull him closer.
Who the fuck am I?
I don’t touch when I’m fucking. I certainly don’t grab.
Still, they yearn for the feel of his hair. Then I remember his words. You seeking pleasure could never scare me.
I’m so close to coming, but I don’t want to yet. I release the car and slip my fingers into his hair.
One second, he’s there, between my legs.
The next, he’s sprawled on his ass with his back against the fancy car next to us. His eyes are wide and wild. His hands are fists.
My hand covers my gasp. I sit up with a jerk, but I hold myself back. I still. My heart wedges itself in my throat, muffling my words along with my hand. “I am so sorry.”
A breath shudders through him, shaking his big frame. He blinks several times, then his gaze finds me. He blinks again and looks around as though just realizing where he is. Not on the floor, but in the garage, not being attacked. At least, not by anything other than a memory.
Oftentimes, those are much harder to defend against.
“I shouldn’t have touched you. I’m sorry.”
“No.” He holds a hand up.
I scoot back farther onto the seat to give him room. I’m soaked, and my cunt clenches at the errant contact. I ignore it as best I can and think about my next move.
“I can grab a cab,” I whisper. “It’s fine. I overstepped.”
“No.” His other hand comes up.
My heart skitters. I want to maim the person who hurt this beautiful man. And I’ve never wanted to harm anyone.
He pushes onto his knees and holds his outstretched hands palm up to me. “Please.” He nods to his hands, and I stare at them for several seconds before lowering my shaking hands from my lips and hovering them over his.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” He raises his hands a little more.
I press my palms to his, and he holds mine close.
“Please, don’t apologize. You did nothing wrong.” He turns my hands over in his and lifts them to the sides of his face, so my fingertips splay into the silk of his hair and my palms cup his severe cheeks.
Tears make him blurry. “Neither did you.”
A heavy breath trembles his stout shoulders. He pushes in closer. I shift to accommodate him. He rests his forehead against my dragon. Against my fucking heart. Suddenly, I’m the one quaking.
This man burrowed himself inside me without even trying, without me even noticing.
I slowly slip my left hand toward the back of his head. He nuzzles his temple between my breasts. I hold him to me. I breathe him in. I marvel at the closeness and at how well and truly fucked I am.