25. Chelsea
CHELSEA
After the embarrassing start of me crying against his shoulder, the rest of the date passes by pretty smoothly.
We talk about our childhood, our hobbies, over the most delicious lamb chops I’ve ever had in my life. I fawn over the food so much that he laughs and says, “I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”
“Thanks for bringing me here,” I say around a mouthful of meat. He answers, “You’re welcome.”
As it gets late, he asks if I want to go home with him.
“Yes.”
The word leaves my mouth before I can call it back, not that I don’t want to. For all my coyness, I do want to go home with him, especially after everything that happened.
This date just proved what I already knew: we have so much in common, in the best way. Being with him is comfortable in a way that’s rare to find with others. Our silences feel like warm cocoons of nothingness, which don’t require us to fill them with endless noise.
And when he speaks, I listen for it, knowing that I’m going to hear something that’s either going to make me laugh or touch me in unexpected ways.
The story of his childhood is moving, and though I had parents who cared about me in their own way, it feels familiar. I recall often thinking about whether I’m a bother, if they even want me.
Would it be different if I were older, like my brother? If I hadn't come at a bad time when they were about to retire? Would it be different if I were a better child?
Those things drove me to be an overachiever throughout high school, trying to make up for the trouble I caused. It’s also the same reason I don't visit home all that often and only attend on holidays.
I try to give them the peace they wanted and repay them for raising me by basically staying out of their way.
They don’t complain that I'm not home often, only when my brother isn't. It’s not like there’s any animosity there, but I’ve always known that my brother is their favorite and I’m just the spare child they never wanted, but felt obligated to take care of anyway, now that I’m here.
And when I told him that, he listened attentively. The understanding in his eyes released something from my chest. I didn’t know when I started crying, but I couldn’t control the tears that flowed down, and having him wrap his arms around me makes it so much better and worse.
Especially when he cups my cheek, leans in and says, “I’m glad you’re here.”
“I’m glad you’re here too,” I told him, and just like that, the connection was locked in, undeniable, growing even stronger though we can hardly explain where it even comes from.
As we drive to his house, his hand folds over mine, and I hold it in my lap. My heart is pounding. There’s an echo much lower as well.
I fully expect us to have sex when we get there.
It’s pointless to even lie to myself or deny the sheer power of the attraction between us, especially as he strokes his thumb over the back of my hand, while he steers one-handedly, humming the song on the radio.
I want more of last night.
I was supposed to work after they left, but I couldn't focus on anything because I just kept reliving the experience again and again.
And again.
And now we're actually going to do it. Again.
Now and then, Sam looks at me and smiles, and it makes my heart flutter.
Jesus. Am I actually falling for him?
It’s not like I want to be. Falling for him would make all this messier than it already is, but I don’t seem to have a choice. I can already feel it happening, all those foreign emotions I thought I would never feel again after Eric.
But it's even stronger than with him. Maybe he'll be my choice after all, although something about letting go of the others makes my heart twinge.
Sam doesn't take me to the same neighborhood that Adam and Jake live in. Instead, he takes me to a building in SoHo, not too far from my place, actually, but far more affluent. It’s a tall townhouse, and if he lives there alone, then that's an obscene amount of space to have in the city.
"You must pay five figures a month," I murmur as he pulls the car to a stop.
"Something like that." He grins as he opens the door for me like the gentleman he is. “Mostly I like it for the attic. It has a window that’s perfect for stargazing."
“You stargaze?"
“Sometimes.”
“Is it because you’re a romantic?” I grin.
“Mostly because I’m wondering when the aliens will finally make contact with us.” He doesn’t say anything for some time, and I blink at him, wondering if he's serious or not.
The twinkle in his eyes makes me laugh.
“You believe in aliens?” I ask.
"Kind of, but I’ve learned not to go into deep discussions or rants about it. It makes people, especially women, think I’m weird, and I don’t want to turn you off."
“I already think you’re weird," I tell him, raising an eyebrow, with a small smile. "We just had an entire conversation back there about whether or not prawn chips counted as seafood or not.”
“Oh yeah. But that’s normal conversation.”
“It really isn’t. I've had enough normal conversations to know that's not what people regularly talk about. But also, I don't care. I like the discussions we have and hearing you talk about the possibility of aliens won’t turn me off.”
He smiles, and his eyes glitter even more. “Maybe later in the evening. I have better things planned for us before then.”
At his boyish smile, my pussy flutters again. Oh yes. I’m ready for whatever it is that he’s planned.
“You hungry?” he says as we walk into his space. It’s a little sparse, but it’s clean and has a good interior design, balancing neutral color with bold splashes of blue and gold.
“We just ate,” I tell him.
“Oh, right. I forgot.” An adorable redness spreads over the bottom of his cheek, letting me know how nervous he is. So cute.
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “I’m nervous too.
” I shouldn’t be. We’ve slept together twice now, not counting the time I sat on his face and he made me come.
The sex was mind-blowing for me each time, and he hasn’t complained, so there’s no reason for me to be nervous.
Maybe it’s because I know him so much better now, or maybe it’s that this is the first time I’ve ever been to his home.
“I have some sparkling water," he says.
I shake my head. “I’m good.” I had had enough of that at the restaurant.
“There’s something I want to propose,” he says after hedging. “And I really want to do it, but I’ll understand if you say no."
I raise my eyebrow. Rather than being bothered, I'm intrigued. What sexual thing could he possibly want to do that we haven’t tried yet? BDSM? Shibari?
I'm ready for anything.
“Okay,” I say as my mind runs through the possibilities. He takes me by the hand, leading me down the stairs, and my heart pounds out of my chest.
Each footstep is pronounced in the hollow silence.
A stray thought hits me that this would likely be a great horror movie plot.
The woman goes on a wonderful date with a mysterious man, where she feels an unmistakable, inexplicable connection.
He takes her home to his basement, then he hits her over the head with a book and keeps her in a cage for strange human experimentation or something of that sort.
I probably should be scared right now, but I'm not.
I trust him.
Which is dangerous. I barely know the man, and for all I know, he could be just as bad as the guy in the horror movies.
Yet, I walk with him anyway, only to appear within...
A veritable mess.
Seriously.
Sculptures and paintings line every surface, world carvings and clay molds scattered with no rhyme or reason other than the fact that they've chosen to populate that space.
It’s a studio.
An art studio where every space is covered in art or art-making equipment. I stare at it, trailing my hands over the woodwork, without speaking. One of them is the face of a child smiling and laughing.
Then I see the boy standing next to an older woman. I see one for Jake and another for Adam. And then there were random sculptures. An old man. An old woman. A sparrow. A ball.
He's silent as I complete my perusal, but I feel him start to get more and more nervous as I get to the corner shelf where all the sculptures are covered.
"What's over here?" I ask with a teasing smile.
"See for yourself," he says.
I reach out and lift the sheet.
Then, I gasp.
It's me.
Dozens of sculptures of me, in clay and wood. My face is smiling. My face clearly squeezed in orgasm with my eyes rolling back.
I blush seeing it, instantly shy. But I have to admit that there's something erotic about it too. About seeing it like this
I glance at him, where he's standing nervously to the side watching me, almost like he's expecting me to either curse him out or call him a creep. And maybe I should. Maybe this is creepy.
In that case, I must be a creep apologist because all I can think of is how sweet it is that he got every detail of my face correct, the pointy tips of my ears, the crease in my cheek, even the fact that one eye is slightly smaller than the other.
He must have studied my face extensively in order to do that, and I did catch him watching me a few times while we were having sex, his regard an intense study of my reactions.
Now I know why. Even the things I'm insecure about, he's managed to render them in a way that they almost look beautiful.
He clears his throat. "What do you think?"
"I think...." There are no words to describe how I truly feel, but I settle on, "I think this is one of the most beautiful things anyone has ever done for me."
He exhales a breath of relief. "Beautiful? Not crazy?"
"A little crazy," I smile to soften the barb. "But maybe I'm a little crazy."
He beams.
"That brings me to my request then," he says. "I want you to pose for me. I want to carve you, exactly as you look right now."
"Really?" I brush my hair back. I don't look all that great. My hair wind-swept from the ride, my cheeks red, and my makeup, probably splotchy.
But his eyes heat up like I'm wearing lingerie.
"Yes," he says. "Just like this."
I bite my lip. "Okay. Where do you want me?"
His eyes flare at my accidental double entendre and he responds. "I want you everywhere."
Desire flares to the forefront of my brain, but before I can act on it, he frantically moves, clearing a spot for me to sit.
Once I do, he caresses my cheeks then appears to yank himself away and to his wood carving tools.
He begins to work, his eyes tracing me every now and then as his hand shuffles the wood and his other hard expertly slices it.
The heated gleam in them rouses me, the sheer lust mixed with the crazed need to create.
I see how he needs this.
I love it.
I love his intensity, the fact that when I shift and touch my leg he jerks as though I flashed him How he's so aware of me.
He's hard. Dangerously so.
He carves so hastily that I think he’s gonna cut himself, going faster and faster, the harder he gets.
I’m so turned on too, so I shift my legs pressing them tighter, I moan escaping my lips.
That has him jerking up to his feet.
Without warning, he storms to me and fuses our lips together in a wet, ferocious kiss.
And he shudders in an obvious orgasm.