19. Winter
NINETEEN
WINTER
W hen I close the door to the bathroom, I turn on the shower. Not to use it but to drown out the sounds of my unhinged babbling.
I pull my phone out of my pocket.
“Veronica,” I stage-whisper as soon as she answers.
“Winter? Why are you whispering?”
“I’m in my bathroom,” I rasp out urgently.
“Are you afraid the soap will hear our conversation?”
“No. Hot Daddy is here.”
“What!” she yells down the line, and I slap my hand over the phone while frantically clicking the side button to lower the volume.
“He’s in the next room. He’s taking me on a date. Well, this is, like, part two of our date today. Part three? We’ve spent the whole day together, and I’m freaking out. ”
She’s silent for so long that I say, “Hello?” and pull the phone from my ear.
She blows her nose with a loud, prolonged honk.
“Jeez, Rons,” I say, laughing.
“Winter, I am so proud of you,” she says between hiccup ing sobs.
I give her a moment. “Veronica, please pull it together. I really need your help.”
She sniffs and sighs. “Okay, sister mine. What do you need?”
I switch to FaceTime and hold up the dress. It’s a gold wrap dress with long off-the-shoulder sleeves in silky satin. The panels of the skirt bunch at the hip, clipped together with a crystal-encrusted clasp. The collar is low, a V-neck that stops in the middle of my breasts, and the slit up the side will border on obscene with the size of my hips.
I got this dress from an online boutique when an ad popped up on my social feed. I have never worn it.
“I gave him a choice, and he picked this dress.”
“That’s hot,” Veronica says.
“Veronica! Do you not see the problem? My tits and ass will fly out of this dress,” I yell-whisper.
I don’t think much about my body. After my parents died, I was so disconnected from myself that I felt completely separate from my human form. My therapists told me it was dissociation, and it took a while for me to tap into my senses.
But before my parents died, my mother tried hard to instill a good sense of body image and self-esteem. She told me once shortly before she died that her mother always counted calories and passed that along to my mom.
On top of that, my grandma had mom in pageants from a young age. Mom swore she wouldn’t have me in anything like that. Grandma died when I was very young, but she always talked about my mom’s naturally dark blonde hair, fair brown skin, and hazel eyes with a strange amount of pride.
Mom was Black, as was her mom and dad. But they always said that the “creole genes” were responsible for Mom’s random variation in coloring. More than once, I’ve heard people say that my mom could “pass,” but I didn’t unders tand what that actually meant until I was much older and she was gone.
I think that’s why Mom chose to go to an HBCU. To hear Mom tell it, Grandma didn’t want Mom to be around Black people, although she would never say anything so crass out loud. Grandma chose to surround herself with people who didn’t look like her. Mom said she didn’t want me to have that complex, so she made sure I knew and celebrated my culture. I’m a few shades darker than Mom was, and she made it a point to tell me I was beautiful every day.
“I don’t see a problem with anything! Except you probably shouldn’t wear panties,” Veronica says.
“Good thinking, no visible panty lines.” I turn to hang the dress on the hook on the back of the door.
“No, so that way if he decides to finger-bang you under the table, he has easy access,” she says with complete seriousness. I snap my head around to look over my shoulder at her face on the tiny screen.
“Veronica!” I hiss, super conscious that Hunter is on the other side of the door.
“Don’t act all innocent, Little Miss I’m-Gonna-Come-On-A-Tree.”
“ Against a tree, Rons.” I cross my eyes and stick my tongue out at her, feeling a sense of giddiness rotate in my belly.
“To-may-toe, to-mah-toe,” she says. “Listen, stop making the man wait. Get fresh, get dressed, put on a lil makeup, and stun this man so hard that he forgets his name.”
“Veronica, has anyone ever told you you’re too much?” I ask.
“Nope! But then my response would be to go find less.” She shrugs, and I blow her a kiss before ending the call.
Since the shower is running, I pull my hair into a shower cap and step under the spray. And then for a reason I don’t analyze too closely, I shave my legs and tidy up my bikini line, trimming everything super short. Veronica has been harassing me about getting laser hair removal down there, but the thought of some stranger staring at my hoo-ha for several sessions is way too much for me.
I take the quickest shower known to man and rush through an abbreviated skin-care routine. After putting subtle makeup on and twisting my hair into a high bun that I hope looks sexy rather than messy, I stare at the dress.
I’m actually, literally, really about to do this.
I pull on my lingerie, grateful that I have the type of bra that will keep my girls lifted without showing any straps, and I take the dress off the hanger.
Here goes nothing.
I stun myself when I look in the mirror. This is a version of myself that I’ve rarely, if ever, seen. The sexy, smoky makeup and lashes. My plumped lips. The dress cascading over my breasts and hips. I look hot.
This will definitely draw attention.
I don’t know if I want that or not.
I turn to look at my ass and realize I was right about the VPL. I take the panties off and then put lotion on my arms and legs, spending a good amount of time on my heels and between my toes.
With the strappy gold heels on my feet, I breathe deeply and open the goddamn door.
Hunter is looking at his phone, a frown creasing his eyebrows. The look on his face doesn’t detract from the fact that there’s an absolute god in front of me.
Hunter in a T-shirt and jeans is drool-worthy. But this man, with his broad shoulders, muscular thighs, and goddamn his arms, clad in a bespoke suit has me literally mute.
After a few seconds, he looks up from his phone and does a double take.
“I—” he starts to say and then stops. As his silence continues, I start to worry .
“Do you think this dress will work for the restaurant? Maybe it’s too showy.”
“If you think about taking that dress off and putting anything else on your beautiful body, I will make your ass so red you won’t be able to sit down tomorrow.”
His words, his voice—so low and growly—do something to me. I should be scared. This man just threatened to hit me. So why do I feel wet between my panty-less thighs?
“Oh…” I say dumbly. “I just don’t want to stick out if it’s too much.”
He walks forward, crowding me where I stand outside the bathroom.
“There’s no way you wouldn’t stick out anywhere you go.”
A niggle of doubt weaves its way through me. He’s from a completely different world, one where he can move without thinking about whether he’ll be judged for the color of his skin or his level of education or if he speaks perfect English.
Even though my family has worked hard to establish an undeniable place in society, people who look like me have never been welcomed at the table. We’ve taken a seat, but no one lets us forget that someone else should be sitting there but isn’t.
And Hunter, with his wealth and family ties and privilege, is in a place so incredibly distanced from mine that I feel untethered.
I know how to move in white spaces. I know how to move in affluent spaces.
But what am I walking into with him?
The feeling of Hunter’s hand on mine brings me out of my thoughts. I look into his eyes and see the depth of his admiration beaming out.
“You are so beautiful,” he says. He caresses my cheek.
“So are you,” I say, and I want to smack my head .
He smiles, and I notice wrinkles around his eyes for the first time. “You think I’m beautiful, Sunbeam?”
“Yeah,” I say. All of my common sense has clearly left the building.
His hand rubs the fabric at my waist, and my brain fizzles and pops. He pulls me close to him, our chests touching.
I press my hands into the fabric of his suit.
He leans down, running his nose up the side of my neck. When he reaches my ear, he whispers, “You smell delicious, Winter.”
My legs literally shake, and I become self-conscious about making my dress dirty with my arousal. I should have worn panties, because if I leave a stain on the satin I will die on the spot.
Winter Leigh Vaughan. Cause of death: Mortification by Bodily Fluids.
“Oh, God.”
I realize too late that I just said those two simple words out loud.
“No, Sunbeam. It’s just me.” Then he kisses me.
My whole body feels sensitive—like he could blow on me, and I’d come. I’ve never, ever felt this with anyone else.
I’m in so much trouble.
I don’t care about my lip gloss or that it’s getting smudged. His hands roam over my body, and when he grips my ass with both hands, he groans in my mouth. It’s the most deliciously masculine sound, and I moan in return.
I gain a little sense when Hunter moves us toward the couch. “No, we’ll get all wrinkled,” I say. I might be slurring.
“Good thinking, Sunbeam.” The side of his mouth kicks up, and I see that the blue part of his eyes is almost gone—edged out by his blown pupils.
He turns us in the other direction, toward the kitchen. “Yes, let’s g—” I squeak when he lifts me onto the island in one sm ooth movement. My hands go to his muscular biceps and holy crap, feeling his muscles bunch under the fabric of his suit jacket is everything.
I’m dizzy.
“Winter.” I feel the way he growls my name down to my toes. “Will you let me taste you?” He runs his hand up my spine and to the base of my neck, cradling my skull. His face is so close to mine that it feels like I can hear his heartbeat.
Or maybe that’s mine that’s racing.
And still, he’s waiting for my reply. Patient despite the fire burning in his gaze.
My head lolls back, and I tilt my chin toward him. “Yes, H. Kiss me,” I say. I beg.
When I feel him move back, I snap my eyes open. He’s removing his jacket, taking a moment to unbutton his wrists.
“Good idea,” I say breathily. “Wrinkles. Bad.” Clearly forming words are hard.
But then all sense flies out of my brain when he kneels on the floor, his face level with my legs. And my crotch.
Holy hell, I see where this is going. Embarrassment at just how incredibly wet I am and the fact that no one has gotten so closely acquainted with my lady bits in this way has me sitting up straight.
“Oh, God, you don’t have to?—”
“I told you, baby. You call me H.” Then with firm yet gentle hands, he spreads my legs apart. Wetness coats my thighs and trimmed pussy hair.
“No panties,” he murmurs. He lands a kiss on my inner thigh, near my knee. “Do you always get this wet?”
I flush, shame coursing through me. I start to close my legs.
A hand to each of my thighs gives me pause. “Do you really want to shut me out?”
He rubs my thighs up and down, and I’m so sensitive, I whimpe r. Each pass of his palm tugs on a string directly connected to my cooch.
“You’re not going to let me look at the most beautiful cunt I’ve ever seen in my life?” He runs his finger from my opening up to my clit, and I damn near collapse. “Answer the question, Sunbeam.”
“We’re going to be late for dinner,” I say breathlessly. If he applies an iota more pressure, I’m gonna?—
A slap to my thigh has me choking down a strangled shriek. The sound echoes off the walls.
“Answer the question, baby,” he says softly. His voice is a caress, followed by sucking kisses up my thighs, closer and closer to my weeping slit.
“No.Yes. I don’t know. I don’t do this,” I say.
He flattens his tongue, licking the crease between my thigh and pussy.
“Don’t do what, Sunbeam?”
“I don’t have anyone look at me like that. No one except my gynecologist.”
He growls again. His eyes are hard, locked on mine.
I’m hyperventilating. I’m going to die right here—legs spread on my kitchen island.
“No one but you, H.” I swallow, lust coating every part of my body. “But I think I want that from you.”
I feel flushed as the words leave my lips, a burning cast across every inch of my skin.
“You think or you know?” He’s leaning back now, his eyes locked on mine but his thumbs pressing into the sensitive skin where my groin meets my upper thighs, rubbing up and down.
“Yes, I want it. I want you to do that to me.”
He hums, long and low. “You really shouldn’t have told me that, baby.”
“W-why?”
“Because I’m gonna make you addicted to me eating you out mo rning, noon, and night.” And with that, he leans forward and licks me from opening to my clit.
And I’m mortified that with five strokes, I’m screaming his name, my hands involuntarily flying to his hair. When I grasp at the strands, he groans deep, and the vibration makes me shiver.
“Oh, my G-g—” I cut off with a shriek when he slaps my inner thigh again.
I look down at him with my hazy vision, and the teasing arch of his eyebrow makes me want to laugh and cry and moan and come all over him.
He pulls back from me for a moment.
“Not God, Winter,” he says with his face against my wet flesh.
I shake my head. “Hun- ter ,” I say on a broken sob.
“Good girl,” he growls, and I nearly collapse against the table at the words.
“Oh,” I groan on a long breath when he attacks my pussy by sucking my clit into his mouth. But when he presses his finger against my opening, barely breaching me, somehow knowing that I needed more, but not to push me all the way, I come.
I collapse on the island, my head hanging off the opposite end. I’m perplexed at how loud I’m moaning, how my legs are quaking around his head, the soft flesh jiggling.
“Again, Winter,” he says, his mouth following me up the island before pulling me back into position with my ass at the edge of the counter. He attacks my clit and pushes his finger in and out, still barely breaching me.
“H, you don’t have—” I scream. I fucking scream. Because when he slaps my pussy, my whole sheath contracts around his finger, and he takes the opportunity to curl his finger up.
“I said again, Winter. At least one more.” He’s whispering against me, his whole face between my legs.
When he suctions my clit in his mouth, sucking and lickin g and adding delicious pressure inside me, I do what he wants. I come again.
I come hard, tears springing to my eyes at the fact that I don’t feel shame or disgust in this moment like I often do when I orgasm. Even if the feeling has lessened over the years.
I feel powerful. Feminine.
I did that. I brought this powerful man to his knees for me and loved it.
“Hunter.” I pant as tears track down my face and leak into my ears. “Please,” I say. I don’t know what I want him to do. But I plead with him nonetheless.
He peppers kisses on my lower lips, then on my pubic bone, my hips. He leans over me, and through hazy tears, I lock my eyes on his. I’m lying flat on the island and my back protests at the unforgiving granite.
My shaky hands reach toward his face.
He kisses my palm, his eyes fluttering closed. His lips are shiny with my essence.
I reach my other hand toward his belt. “I could?—”
He grabs my hand. “No, Winter.”
“Why? I need to return the favor.”
“First, you don’t need to do anything. And two, if you touch my dick right now, I’m going to fuck you. I don’t think you’re ready for that. And I also don’t want to fuck you on a kitchen counter.”
I pull my hand back, putting it over my heart.
“What we just did was perfect. That’s what I want, Winter.” He kisses my other hand.
After a pause, he says, “Still worried?”
The moment is intimate, tender.
“Worried about what?” I echo his tone.
“When you came out of the bathroom, you were worried. I could see it on your face. Has anyone ever told you that you don’t have a very good poker face? ”
I blush.
“Like right now.” He leans down and gives me a chaste kiss on my cheek. “What were you thinking about?” His eyes are clear and trained on me. “Friend. Tell me,” he says with a slight smile.
We’re friends…and we’re lovers.
Lovers.
“I was thinking about how we’re planets apart when it comes to our social circles. Our cultures. I was thinking about how we can make this work. If we can make this work.”
The honesty shatters the moment. He pulls me back into a sitting position, but before I sit up fully, he tells me to wait and steps into the bathroom. A moment later, he returns with two washcloths and my panties.
He steps between my legs. “Lean back a little, baby,” he murmurs.
I comply.
He uses the warm washcloth to clean my arousal off my legs and pussy lips. He pats the area dry with the other towel.
“Do we have to go to dinner?” I whisper, not looking at him. It’s not that I don’t actually want to go. It’s that I’m feeling self-conscious and wrinkled and sensitive. I just want it to be the two of us a little bit longer. Not to sit in a room with a bunch of bougie people.
He helps me put my panties back on and helps me hop down from the island. He leads me to my bed.
“Let’s cuddle,” he says, surprising the hell out of me.
“No dinner?” I ask.
He toes off his shoes. “While you look so gorgeous, and I want everyone to see you right now, the conversation we’re about to have is important, and I want to have it while holding you. Plus, there are forty different apps we can use to order food right to your door.” He lays down on the bed and motions for me to join him.
I think about it for a few seconds .
“We’ll save Tavalia for another date.” He grins.
Do I want to go out and feel awkward, or do I want to stay inside with comfortable clothes pressed against this man?
I’ll take door number two. “Okay. Could we get dim sum?”
He smiles broadly. “Absolutely. I love dim sum.”
I gasp. “Really?”
He nods.
“It’s my favorite food,” I say.
He leans over to kiss the back of my hand. “We’re fated,” he says.
My heart quivers.
I get dressed in an oversized Howard T-shirt and boy shorts. Snagging a wipe, I do a perfunctory job of removing my makeup. I’ll do my double-cleanse routine later. After I light an oversized candle, I turn off the lights.
“We’re worlds apart, huh?” Hunter says when I’m pressed against his side in the bed. The darkness feels comforting.
“I mean, yeah,” I say with a tiny laugh. “You are the definition of the .01 percent, Hunter.”
“You wound me, Sunbeam. I support social programs, and I think I should be taxed way more than I am. I’m actually quite liberal.”
I gently hit his chest.
“I wouldn’t be with you if I thought you were bigoted, H.” I’d looked him up as part of my interview prep. He has supported several political initiatives to lower maternal mortality in childbirth, fund Head Start, and promote Universal Healthcare.
“Thank God for that,” he says.
“It’s just that you were brought up in a completely different reality than I was raised in.”
His body tenses at the mention of our childhoods.
“It’s not even just about money, even though that’s a mindfu ck in itself. Google said you have a hundred-billion-dollar net worth?”
He gives me a significant look. “Don’t believe everything you read online.” He kisses the top of my head.
“Okay, sure,” I drawl. “But it’s an issue of culture too. I’m Black?—”
“ Noooooo!” he says with a grave frown that quickly turns into a grin.
“Hunter, I’m being serious!”
“I’m sorry, you’re right.” He turns to look at me more fully.
I lay my head on his arm.
“Do you know what it means to be with a Black woman? It’s not the same as being with a white woman with a tan,” I say. I chew my lip.
“Winter,” he says, then he looks to the ceiling, appearing to think. After a moment, he looks at me again. “I think your Blackness is beautiful. Not in a weird, fetish, I-wanna-wear-your-skin kind of way.”
I snort.
“I think everything about you, Winter Leigh Vaughan, is beautiful. I’ve had relationships with women of all colors and nationalities.”
I can’t help but notice him trip over the word “relationships.”
“I know that I, a white man, operate under a certain set of privileges that I have not earned. And it’s unfair.”
He pulls my lip from between my teeth with his thumb. “Stop distracting me, baby.”
I purse my lips before rolling them both between my teeth.
He laughs. “I’ll never know what it feels like to be you. I haven’t been in your skin or in your family or community. But I promise that I’ll learn. I’ll try my best. I’ll listen to you. And if you tell me that I’m fucking up in any way, I’ll listen so I can fix myself.” He kisses me on my forehead, his lips lingering.
“And if anyone in my world treats you with anything less than the utmost respect, I will end them.” His eyes glitter in the dim moonlight coming through the big windows.
“Again with the mob talk.”
He doesn’t say anything. He just kicks the side of his mouth up in a smile.
“I’m not in the mob,” he says. The way he ends the sentence makes it seem like there’s more to the story.
“Is there a but in there?” I whisper.
“But since we are dating , I feel like you need to know what comes with being with a man like me.”
I sit up, turning on the bed to look at him as he reclines. He looks relaxed, unbothered, with one arm behind his head. The way his muscles bunch makes me salivate.
Focus, bitch!
“What is it like being with a man like you?” I bring my thumb to my mouth but quickly lower it.
“I’m not in the mob, baby. But my business may or may not have relationships with some nefarious people,” he says, unaffected.
I gape at him for a moment. “Nefarious people.…So you aren’t in the mob. But you’re—” I search for the right word. “Mob-adjacent?”
He smiles again, letting out a small laugh.
“That’s one way to put it.” He places his hand on my knee, drawing dizzying circles on my skin with his thumb.
“Are you going to tell me what ‘mob-adjacent’ means?” I ask, fighting the urge to scoot closer to him so that his hand could go higher on my thigh.
“As I’m sure you can imagine, industries like mine aren’t known for their integrity. To get things through and to get anywhere, honestly, it’s about who you know. And it’s not just o ther wealthy people. It’s powerful people. Sometimes it’s dangerous people.”
I think about it for a moment. Maybe it makes me a silly bitch, but Hunter telling me that he runs with some rough people causes me to clench my thighs together.
Whoopi Goldberg in Ghost pops in my head.
“Am I safe with you?” I ask.
“Very,” he replies, and his voice is low, gravely. Serious.
He stands up from the bed suddenly, and I miss his warmth.
“Where are you going?”
Is he leaving?
He starts to unbutton his shirt. When his thick abs are revealed, and he reaches for his belt buckle, he says, “Just getting comfortable for bed.”
I can’t help it. I ogle him so disrespectfully.
“Has anyone ever told you you’re built like the lead singer of Imagine Dragons?”
“Who?” he asks with a laugh.
“The lead singer from—hold on.” I grab my phone, tapping over to Google. “This guy.”
I show him a picture of a shirtless Dan Reynolds.
He flicks through the Google image results. “Why does he never have a shirt on? Regardless, we look nothing alike. And I don’t usually keep a beard,” he says.
“I wasn’t talking about shoulders up,” I say with a laugh. I repress a shiver at the thought of Hunter Brigham with a beard. His face scratching up against?—
“Keep looking at me like that, Sunbeam. See what happens,” he says. His voice is low, and his eyes are trained on my chest. My nipples poke through the shirt now that they’re unbound from their prison.
I pull the blanket up to my chest. “I won’t! Scout’s honor.”
I hold up my hand and he laughs. “That’s the Vulcan symbol, baby. ”
I suck my teeth and flop back on the bed. Still chuckling, he gets under the cover, joining me.
I feel entirely too comfortable pressed against Hunter Brigham’s body.
“Let’s get dim sum tomorrow,” I say with a yawn. Because nothing will make me remove my body from his.