9. Take Me Home
Take Me Home
MARY
Take me home.
It took me ages to realize that not only had she come onto me in the most direct of ways, but Betty did so in my mother tongue. The degree to which this scratched an itch couldn’t be overstated. It may have been two years since I took a woman home, but I couldn’t ignore the urge.
I pinched myself. Yes, she was fit. Yes, I wanted to fuck her.
But if I agreed and committed to it, the fantasy might not match up.
I pined for her for five years. I wrote my feelings for her into a song I just played for her.
What if our chemistry fizzled the minute we got naked? Would I feel even more alone?
“You don’t want to finish your beer?” I tried not to let on about my nerves.
“Um… if it’s finally getting you alone versus a beer, I’d need this beer to be lifechanging.”
My eyes lingered, sussing out her review. She didn’t look impressed. To me, it was nothing to write home about while she was enough for an entire album.
“It isn’t, though?” I asked.
“Absolutely not. Even to my uneducated palate. Take me home.”
“Okay,” I said. “Uh… my place isn’t far.”
I grabbed her hand, leaving our beers behind. I barely had time to pull my coat on.
“Don’t you want to say anything to the band?” Betty laughed.
“I’ll text them.”
We passed the line of people taking the stairs, up to The Bookstore, and out to the pavement.
Before I so much as texted or hailed a cab, I swept her up in a long kiss.
The need for connection overcame me. And though I worried that the kiss which lived rent-free in my mind from years before would never match this moment, the way she pulled me closer allayed those fears.
She took over, pressing me up against the building, probably annoying the women on a smoker’s break, but I wasn’t about to tell her off. Betty could do as she pleased in this moment.
She pulled back, breathless. “I’m sorry. I just… I—”
“You don’t have to say anything. I’ve wanted to do that since I got in a cab.”
She bit her lip. “Shall we get another cab, then?”
“You’re cute. There is zero chance we will get one organically here. I could call an Uber, or we could walk a few blocks. Your choice.”
“Walk. I don’t want to wait,” she said.
I brushed her cheek. “I don’t want to, either.”
I gleefully led her through the neighborhood, unbothered by the evening. After texting the group, I held her hand tight.
“So how long have you lived around here?” Betty made conversation.
“A couple years,” I said. “I bought a fixer-upper and put some time into it.”
“Cute,” Betty said. “It’s pretty cool.”
“You aren’t from around here, are you? Where do you live in Norway?”
“Uh, my family is in Oslo, but I bought a horse farm outside Trondheim. I love it, even if it’s boring in comparison. My brothers sometime sail up there and I have fond childhood memories.”
“I forgot you were a horse girl,” I sighed. “Oh well.”
“What? That’s too much?” Betty asked. “A dealbreaker?”
“I think we’re past that point, darling.”
“There’s still time,” Betty giggled.
“You just propositioned me in adorable Svenska. We’re past that point unless you’re out?”
“We’ve come this far,” Betty said. “I meant what I said.”
She was bold. I’d not been with anyone so assertive in so long that I couldn’t help but wonder what she’d be like in bed.
I tried not to get in my head and wonder why the hell someone as hot and young as Betty was willing to go home with me.
She pointed out my elevated status. It never occurred to me that someone might find me attractive only for my newfound fame late in life—especially someone so hot.
Still, the way she looked at me suggested her attraction wasn’t shallow.
And given the cost of her handbag, I gathered she wasn’t looking for free rent.
I assumed she was about to realize my life wasn’t nearly as glamorous as expected.
I stopped at my terraced house door, pulling keys from my jeans.
“It’s cute,” Betty said.
“Oh, my sweet, posh summer child,” I giggled.
“I… I mean it,” Betty said. “It’s charming.”
“Uh-huh.”
She just mentioned she owned some sort of country home.
I pictured a beautiful sea-front property with a boathouse and swimming pool.
She might compliment my place, but it was no luxury accommodation.
My family had a hytta—a little cabin—in the forest growing up.
In comparison with my friends’ families, that felt like a luxury.
I gathered Betty had never lived someplace with only one bathroom.
“What?”
I tossed my coat. “That handbag you’re toting is about three months’ mortgage. I know this isn’t your average evening in.”
“Well, I rarely go home with hot rockstars, no.” Betty hanged her handbag and jacket by the door.
“Nice save, min skatt.”
“Oh, we’re into terms of endearment, huh? If what I’m doing is working, I don’t care.”
I pulled her towards me by the hips. “It’s working.”
Betty leaned to kiss me, then bit my lip defiantly.
I cupped her face, kissing her gently. She pulled me tighter, possessively, like she knew what she was doing.
Kissing her only grew easier as we learned more about one another, but it was never awkward.
It never had been. After five years, I expected a bobble or two, but there was none.
We were alone in this serene privacy, and nothing could bother us.
At the same time, I wanted to torture her. I longed to draw the moment out. I wanted to bathe in this feeling of closeness and desire so intense I worried I might be in too deep. She was desperate in the best way. I doubted I’d ever see her again, so why not bask?