52. Sex, Love, and Camembert
SEX, LOVE, AND CAMEMBERT
Asher
It’s. Just. Too. Bright.
The sun aims its morning death rays my way, blaring at fifty thousand watts through the bedroom window.
That’s . . . weird.
I always shut the drapes at night since, well, sleep is my second-favorite activity, after sex.
I rub my eyes, push up on my elbows.
Must be early, but I can’t find my phone to check the time. Yawning, I stretch my arms over my head as I sit up, then get out of bed to shut the curtains so I can sleep some more.
Maybe I could sleep the whole day away. What better way to spend my lonely birthday? As I trudge to the window, I glance down.
Whoa.
Property of Mark Banks is stamped on my briefs.
Oh shiiiiiit.
Last night slams into me, and I groan so loud they can hear me at Notre Dame.
I pulled a Mark Banks, didn’t I?
I got intexticated.
But what the hell did I say? Spinning around, I race to the bed, hunting for my phone. Is it between the sheets? Grabbing the covers, I haul them off. It’s not there.
A search between couch cushions, on the coffee table, and in the nightstand comes up empty.
Wait.
Maybe I showered with the phone, shot him a very sexy selfie. Yup. Sounds totally stupid and totally like me. Bet I did that instead of spilling my love guts via SMS.
But my phone’s not in the bathroom, so I march to the kitchen, where the charger lies unattached on the counter next to a bottle of scotch.
And that’s a lot less full than it would have been when I opened it.
My mouth is sandpaper, so I yank open the fridge to grab the water pitcher.
What the . . .?
My phone is perched on top of the camembert, dying at two percent.
With a groan, I jam it onto the charger for juice, where it takes one hundred years for my texts to open.
Clicking on the text string, I scroll up right away, embarrassed as I re-read every single sappy message.
This is a disaster. I told Mark that I love him.
I do, of course. But you’re not supposed to wail it at your true love when you’re wasted.
Gawd, this is ugly. Now if I repeat it, he won’t even believe me.
I feel sick as I scroll through all the crazy things I said. I’m thirty-one years old today and still incapable of adulthood. Example—the last text I sent before I passed out:
AND NOW I’M PUTTING THE PHONE IN THE FRIDGE WITH THE CAMEMBERT SO I'M NOT TEMPTED TO TEXT YOU LOVE NOTES ANYMORE TONIGHT
But there’s a reply blinking up at me. Sent nearly ten hours ago.
Mark : I’m on my way to JFK right now to catch the 10:20 p.m. flight. The details are in your email. Pick me up at CDG at 12:20 p.m. at international arrivals. I need to have eclairs with you in Paris on your birthday. Clearly, you need me, too, since Maroon 5 sucks.
Is this real?
But Mark Banks is not a prankster. And the email from Delta serves up the absolutely spectacular news that my save-the-day boyfriend is traveling coach on a flight that lands in one hour and fifteen minutes.
He’s flying coach for me.
I smell like the sewer, but feel like a rock star.
Leaving the phone to charge, I take the world’s fastest shower, brush my teeth, pull on clothes, and run a hand through my wet hair. I grab my cell and bound down the creaky staircase in my building to hail a taxi.
It’s Saturday morning, and I’m totally sober again, but buzzed in a whole new way?with joy.
“Charles de Gaulle , s'il vous pla?t ," I tell the man at the wheel.
Then I go to the airport to pick up the only gift I want?the man I love.
I feel sheepish as I stand outside of the secure area, waiting for Mark. The app on my phone shows me that his flight landed safely, right on time. But what the hell am I going to say to him?
Hey, honey, thanks for leaving your injured daughter in New York after I got drunk and lost my mind last night.
I really do love you, but you don’t have to say it back if you’re not feeling it for this man who smells like a distillery.
It’s too soon, and I’m kind of a mess, but maybe I can feed you some eclairs and change the subject to blow jobs?
After all, your name is on my underwear. What do you say?
I’m still working on this little speech when another group of passengers streams through the doors. And, like magic, my gaze goes right to Mark. He’s walking confidently through the crowd, weekend bag slung over his shoulder, hair tidy in spite of the overnight flight.
He’s wearing a blue cashmere sweater that I sent him as a gift. The color makes his eyes pop just as I knew it would.
And he’s smiling at me from behind those sexy glasses. In spite of every inconvenience I’ve caused him. In spite of my pathetic drunk texts, he’s smiling like he’s won the lottery.
He looks just how I feel.
Finally he’s here, and I’m pulling him into my arms. His bag hits the floor with a slap, and we kiss like we haven’t seen each other in a year instead of a month.
“I love you,” he says against my lips.
“I love you more,” I argue. And it’s probably true. I wasn’t looking for love when I offered to work through Mark’s spreadsheet with him.
But that’s what I found, and I’ll do whatever I can to keep it. And I’m pretty sure I know exactly what I can do for him— for us . But, first things first. “There are things I need to explain,” I say, forcing myself to break our kiss. “I’m sorry I got all broody last night.”
“I’m not,” he says, his blue eyes taking me in. “Happy birthday, hot stuff.”
“Thank you. But I’m serious. There are lots of things I need to say to you.”
He tips his head to the side. “What things?”
Things like . . . let me show you how fucking happy I am that you’re here. And get naked right now and fuck my mouth .
And now, this . . .
“God. Yes. Get there,” I pant, letting him fall from my lips for a second.
“Babe,” Mark groans, his tongue on my cock.
Our heart-to-heart took a sudden turn with Mark pushing me down on my bed the moment we arrived back at the flat.
Now we’re communicating mostly in moans as he draws me back into his throat, and I give his cock the same mind-bending treatment.
He thrusts faster, pushes deeper, signs he’s close.
His hums around my shaft intensify, but so does his sloppiness, and that flips the switch in me?him losing control.
My whole body flashes with heat, and the world blurs deliciously out of focus as we hit the end together. Happy birthday to me, indeed.
Neither one of us moves for several, long, lust-drenched seconds.
“Two down, twenty-nine to go,” I say when I pop off his dick.
“We’ll hit your birthday requirement, especially if we go hard on the sixty-nines,” Mark says.
I roll onto my back. “Holy hell, I’ve missed you.”
He snickers from somewhere near my feet. “I can tell.”
“No, honey. I really miss you. Not just your impressive technique.” I prop myself up on an elbow and run a hand along his strong leg.
“I miss you too. Every day. In case that wasn’t clear from the last-minute, overnight flight.”
Yup. Time to tell him. I may not be a planner, but I have a plan for us. Since I do have a lot of things to say to Mark. Things well beyond get on my dick .
“We’re going to eat eclairs, and then I have a surprise.”
“I hate surprises,” he grumbles, but he doesn’t sound annoyed. Maybe he’s come around to my kind of surprises.
“This is a good surprise, and I don’t just mean the gold in the eclair,” I say, since I think he’ll like my idea. At least, I hope so. But he flew across an ocean to tell me he loved me, and that’s all I need to know to skydive once again.
We’re at the bakery, sitting inside at a tiny table, sharing a plate of two of the most amazing eclairs, and it’s almost time to tell him my plan.
“So, eating gold is kind of weird,” he says. “Because I suppose you poop gold afterward.”
“The French are so decadent,” I say, then take a sip of strong espresso and gather my courage. My plan crystallized during the hungover cab ride to the airport. Then, when I saw him, I knew for certain that I was about to do something big. I’m the only one of the two of us who can take this step.
He can’t make this leap for us, but I can.
“Babe,” I begin, “I want to talk about the next six months. I want to move back to New York. Right away.”
Mark freezes with the eclair in hand, a serious expression on his face. “Seriously? But what about your job here?”
I shrug. “It’s just a job. It was a passion project. But lately, all the passion in my life is reserved for you .” I reach across the table and squeeze his arm. “Unless I’m terrifying you right now and you don’t want a mess of a boyfriend parachuting back into your life.”
“Hey.” Mark grabs my hand and holds it. “Don’t say that. You’re not a mess. Except for that hair.” He winks. “But I like it floofy, and I like it swoopy. And if I ever meet this asshole Garrett, I’m going to tell him he’s nuts.”
Warmth blooms in the center of my chest. Does it make me an asshole that I totally want to see him do it?
“No—wait.” Mark sets down his eclair. “I actually don’t want him to know he passed on the best guy in New York.
” He raises his cool blue eyes to mine. “You are always there when I need you, Asher. I’m dead serious.
You’re the best guy I know. I love you, and Rosie and I will be lucky to have you close by. This is a very good surprise.”
Everything inside me finally relaxes. This decision feels so right, it isn’t even funny.
I let out a whoop of joyful laughter. “Then I can’t wait to get started on the logistics.
It’s a shame I sublet my apartment. I’ll have to find a short-term rental.
Or?wait. I could find a different place altogether.
Maybe I don’t want to live in Brooklyn if you guys are in Manhattan.
I should start researching neighborhoods. ”
Mark frowns. “Look, don’t let real estate rule your life either way. Figure out when you’re ready to come home. And then get on a plane. You can stay with me and Rosie while you decide where you want to live.”
“Really?” I breathe.
“Really.” He covers his hand with mine. “I’ll move some polo shirts to make space for you. We’re doing this, Asher St. James. I’m not scared. I don’t do things half-assed.”
My inner superhot wingman wants to make a joke about asses right now, but I rein it in. “That’s an incredible offer, Banks. Will Rosie be okay with it?”
He threads his fingers through mine. “I think so. I spent the last year worrying about Rosie all the time, and never worrying about myself. But you helped me get past that . . .”
My heart thumps with happiness. I don’t think I realized until this very minute that I was as good for Mark as he is for me.
“. . . And the truth is simple: Rosie is a happy kid who’ll be lucky to have you in her life. I would do anything for her. But setting aside my own needs doesn’t seem like the right call anymore.”
I might actually burst now. “Continuing to make you happy in New York would be an honor, Mark. I don’t even know what else to say.” He’s the only person who’s ever made me speechless.
“Good. Then I’ll say something else. You’re mine, wingman. So let’s go home and make this work. I love you, and I’m ready when you are.”
That’s when I run out of words completely. I lean over and kiss him on the lips instead.