Chapter 9 Valencia
Valencia
Throughout my childhood, I went ice-skating with my parents every December, often right here at the historic Wollman Rink in Central Park. So I’d consider myself a competent skater. At the very least, I can circle a rink without falling.
Gideon, however, is disgustingly good.
As he does yet another spin, I glare at him.
“You’ve had lessons.” I say it like I’m accusing him of murder. But when I plant my hands on my hips, I stumble and have to shoot my arms out for balance.
He only shrugs and skates backward at my side, his hands clasped behind him. “My mom once dreamed of her son being an Olympic athlete. Alas, I was forced to disappoint her.”
“Just a lowly lawyer,” I joke. “How embarrassing.”
He smirks. “Precisely.”
But when I wobble again, he takes my hand and doesn’t let go until it’s time to leave.
I’d be fine taking the subway from the park to Gideon’s apartment, but after he notices me wincing when I put my boots on, he insists on hailing a taxi. While we’re in the car, he places an order at a French bistro so we won’t have to wait long for lunch to arrive.
Gideon lives in a high-rise in Chelsea overlooking the Hudson River. He nods to the uniformed doorman when we enter, and we ride the elevator to one of the topmost floors.
His apartment is lavish, with floor-to-ceiling windows, a fireplace in the living room, and expensive-looking leather and chrome furniture.
The space was clearly decorated by a professional—or, perhaps, by his mother—but the colorful rugs covering the hardwood floors prevent it from feeling cold and impersonal.
While he’s in the bathroom, I peruse his bookshelf.
There are big hardcovers about art and architecture, and a collection of titles about New York City history.
I examine the street photography lining the walls, and I’m suddenly hit with a memory of a teenage Gideon Noble with a camera slung around his neck.
His hair was blonder, his body leaner, and—I’d forgotten this—his ears were pierced, the small diamond studs softening the sharp beauty of his face.
“You were on the yearbook committee,” I say when he comes back into the living room.
“I was one of the photographers.”
“Are any of these yours?” I gesture to the walls.
He nods, coming over to join me. “These.” He points to a row of three smaller photos.
They’re in black and white, and the quality is a little grainy, but each shows a crowd of people somewhere in New York.
Most are blurred out, faces down, hurrying about their lives.
But in the center of each photo, still and crisply in focus, is a single person looking up.
Not at the camera. Not at their phones. It’s unclear what caught their attention, only that, in each of these instances, someone stopped long enough to be captured by the camera. Or, more accurately, by Gideon’s eye.
I feel strangely jealous of these three random people who stood out to him in a crowd.
Next to me, Gideon speaks, unprompted. “I like art that makes you feel something without telling you what to feel.”
I exhale, unsure how to reply. Because the truth is, I’m feeling something right now, and it’s not entirely welcome.
Swallowing it down, I cast about for something that doesn’t require any feeling at all. My eyes settle on his sleek leather couch, and I murmur, “Archie would absolutely demolish that sofa.”
Gideon winces. “I can only imagine.”
His phone buzzes, notifying us that our food is on the way up, and I’m grateful for the distraction.
We sit at his dining table, where I read aloud an article about nipple clamps for beginners. The tone of the piece is cheeky, and we joke and send flirtatious looks at each other while we eat.
I’m munching on deliciously salty pommes frites when a thought occurs to me.
“Communication,” I say.
His brows furrow in confusion as he chews, so I explain.
“Regardless of best practices, communication is going to be key with some of these prompts. Especially since I’m a Scorpio and you’re a Capricorn.”
He blinks. “Excuse me, who are you and what have you done with Valencia Torres?”
I throw a fry at him. “Shut up.”
“No, I’m serious. You’re the last person I’d expect to bring up zodiac signs. Didn’t you once say horoscopes are, and I quote, ‘New Age pseudointellectual bullshit’?”
“That was in seventh grade! And Eva Parker was being obnoxious. If I heard ‘That’s because you’re a Scorpio’ one more time, I was going to get expelled.”
“So what changed?”
My cheeks grow warm and I look away. “It turns out I was trying to make a long-term relationship work with my least compatible sign. That wasn’t enough to make me a believer, but I like to be informed, so I did a few sessions with a relationship astrologist to learn about what I should be looking for going forward. ”
He seems to digest that information, then nudges my foot with his under the table. “Is Capricorn a good match?”
A slow smile spreads over my face. “Pretty good. If there’s open communication.”
“You mean like this?” He leans his elbows on the table, pinning me with a direct look. “I adore the taste of your cunt when you come on my face.”
The air backs up in my lungs. I stare for a long moment, then burst out laughing. It’s that or leap across the table and tear his pants off. “Duly noted.”
He shrugs and chews another bite of steak. “Just communicating.”
My pulse throbs as I watch him eat. His words have done the job. I’m not hungry for food anymore.
Fuck it. I push back my chair. Round the table. Straddle his lap. And kiss him.
Our mouths are salty and I don’t care, because his hands are roaming my body, cupping, caressing, stroking.
He breaks the kiss to murmur against my mouth, “They’re in the bedroom.”
“What are?” I’m too busy trying to suck on his bottom lip. He groans and grasps my waist, grinding me down on his erection through the layers of our clothes.
His answer comes out as a scratchy hiss. “The nipple clamps.”
“Oh. Right.” Shit, I’d completely forgotten. Lightheaded, I climb off his lap and pull him to his feet. He leads me to his bedroom, which is stylishly decorated in slate blue and dove gray, before showing me the array of clamps spread out on his dresser.
I gulp, both at the thought of wearing them, and from the anticipation of seeing them on Gideon.
“Well.” I pick up a clamp that looks like a silicone-tipped tweezer. “Shall we put those best practices to use?”
With a wolfish smile, he pulls me into another kiss.
It turns out I am not the biggest fan of nipple clamps. Gideon’s gentle, and we keep up open communication, but I much prefer his mouth on my tits.
That said, the sight of Gideon with nipple adornments is a turn-on, especially since he picks ones that have a thin chain connecting them.
We try to time our orgasms with the moment we’re supposed to remove the clamps, but it doesn’t work, and having a phone timer ticking away the seconds stresses us out. By the time we’re done, we both admit our nipples are sore.
“Two stars for wearing the clamps,” Gideon says, lying flat on his back. Then he glances over at my reddened areolas, now decorated with his spend. “Five stars for the visual, though.”
“Ditto. That little chain looked incredible on you.” I lean over him and soothe his tender nips with my tongue. “Have you ever thought of piercing them?”
“No. Have you ?”
“Once or twice.”
He gets a speculative gleam in his eye, clearly imagining it.
And because it’s on my mind, I add, “I forgot you pierced your ears senior year.”
He seems surprised by the comment, and then his expression turns rueful as he runs his fingers through my hair. “A short-lived act of teenage rebellion. And maybe a desperate need to hint at my burgeoning queerness.”
I raise my head from his chest to better look him in the eye. “How did that go over?”
He lets out a tired sigh. “Oh, the usual. My father threatened to disinherit me.”
“For piercing your ears?” I stroke Gideon’s lobes, noting the slight indentation in the center.
The look on his face is grim. “For daring to veer even slightly from the straight-and-narrow path of heteronormative masculinity he’d set forth for me.”
My insides twist with compassion. I wish I could go back and hug the version of Gideon who’d wanted to express himself and been punished for it.
I wish I could go back even further and be his friend.
Sure, he’d been annoying, but I’d either ignored him or snapped back, unleashing my own inner bitch.
It had never occurred to me that there might be more to him than met the eye.
But I can’t go back. All we have is this moment, and what we choose to do with it.
So I kiss him. No tongue, no seduction, just a press of lips that I hope conveys some of what I’m feeling.
Not all of it. Shit, I don’t even fully understand all of it. But I appreciate what he told me. And I appreciate that we’re on this journey together.
I ease back before the kiss can deepen. His eyes are soft, his mouth pink.
Instead of kissing him again like I want to, I say, “Are you ready for the thing you’ve waited years to do?”
He gives me a heated look. “I’ve already fucked you, Valencia.”
The words and the implication behind them, that he’s wanted me for years , makes my toes curl, but I shake my head. “Not that. It’s time for you to finally decorate your own Christmas tree, exactly the way you want.”
“I think I’d rather fuck you again,” he mutters, but he shifts to get off the bed. From there, we move companionably around his room and the adjoining bathroom while we clean up and get dressed.
It worries me that this man reentered my life just three days ago and I already feel so comfortable around him, but I put it out of my mind as I help him decorate.
The tree he bought is eight or nine feet tall, and I praise his skill in standing it up in the tree holder.
He throws a cold french fry at me, and that sets the tone for the rest of the day.
We joke about his “sturdy tree trunk” and hold ornaments in front of our nipples, as if we’re considering piercing them.
At some point over the past two days, Gideon picked up boxes of ornaments and decor from his mom’s apartment, and as he opens them, I find years’ worth of Andrea Noble’s design trends.
“This is from the year everything was blood red,” Gideon says, pulling out yards of thick ribbon. “And this was the year everything had gold stars.”
“I do love getting a gold star,” I tease, and he snickers.
By the time we’re done and Gideon is stacking the bins of unused decorations, it’s full dark out.
“I should get home,” I say.
“Do you want to stay for dinner?”
I shake my head. “I have an early meeting in the morning, and my feet are pretty sore.”
He walks me to the door, then holds my coat to help me into it. I slip my feet into my boots, which feel tighter than usual, thanks to the ice skates. I hold on to Gideon’s arm while I zip them up.
“Soak them tonight,” he murmurs. “With Epsom salts.”
And even though there’s nothing sexy about what he just said, a curl of desire unwinds in my belly. With both feet on the floor, I use his arm for leverage and press a quick kiss to his cheek. “Have a good day at work. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
Then I yank open the door and hurry to the elevator before I can give in to the temptation to suggest we get a head start on tomorrow’s activity.
Because tomorrow? Tomorrow we’re playing with vibrators.