Chapter 8 #3
“I assumed. Your architecture is conventional.”
I laugh against her skin.
We reach the bedroom with less dignity than I would prefer and more clothing than Nora seems willing to tolerate.
She pushes my shirt the rest of the way off.
I tug the hem of her sweater upward, then stop.
“Okay?”
“Yes.”
I pull it over her head.
She is wearing a black bra that makes coherent speech temporarily unavailable.
Nora looks down at herself.
Then at me.
“Do billionaires stop functioning around underwire?”
“This one has.”
“Useful market research.”
I kiss her before she can continue.
Her hands move over my shoulders, my back, my chest.
Mine follow the shape of her waist.
I give her time to move first every time the contact changes.
She notices.
Of course she does.
“Grant.”
“Yes?”
“You can touch me.”
“I am touching you.”
“More.”
The word is almost my undoing.
I slide my hand beneath the edge of her bra.
She inhales sharply.
“Still yes?”
“Very much yes.”
After that, communication becomes less elegant.
Still clear.
Less elegant.
Clothes reach the floor in stages.
Nora laughs when one of my socks catches halfway off and tells me this is devastating to the billionaire fantasy.
I tell her there are limits to wealth.
She tells me to prove it.
I find a condom in the nightstand.
Her eyebrows rise.
“Prepared.”
“I am thirty-seven.”
“Responsible answer.”
“I bought them months ago.”
“Less flattering.”
“I can lie.”
“Don’t.”
“I don’t.”
That quiets us for a second.
Then she pulls me down to her.
The first moment inside her is so good I have to stop moving.
Nora’s fingers press into my shoulders.
Her eyes open.
“Okay?”
I nod because speech is briefly theoretical.
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
I make myself breathe.
“Very.”
Her smile is slow.
“Good.”
Then she moves beneath me and destroys the remaining benefit of patience.
Sex with Nora is not polished.
Thank God.
She laughs once when our rhythm goes wrong, bites my shoulder when I tease her about it, tells me harder without embarrassment, and says my name in a way that makes every other use of it sound administrative.
I pay attention.
To her breathing.
Her hands.
The way her body changes when I touch her.
The small sounds she makes before she gets louder.
When she comes, she pulls me close enough that I lose whatever control I had left.
I follow a few moments later with my face against her neck and the startling thought that I have never felt less interested in protecting myself from a consequence.
For a while, neither of us moves.
Then Nora says, “Well.”
I laugh into the pillow.
“Strong review.”
“I need time for analysis.”
“Of course.”
She turns her head toward me.
Her hair is everywhere.
Her mouth is swollen from kissing.
There is a mark beginning near my shoulder that I strongly suspect is her fault.
I have never seen anything better.
“What?” she asks.
I realize I am staring.
“Nothing.”
“That is increasingly unconvincing.”
I brush hair away from her face.
“You are beautiful.”
No joke this time.
Her expression softens.
“So are you.”
“I think you’re still experiencing blood-flow problems.”
“Possible.”
She laughs and curls closer.
Five minutes later, she is wearing my T-shirt and standing in front of the bedroom window looking out at the wet field.
The sight does something to me sex did not fix.
Possibly made worse.
I come up behind her but do not touch her until she leans back into me.
Then I wrap my arms around her waist.
The night outside is clear now.
Rainwater shines on the grass.
Farther toward Bellweather, a low orange glow sits beneath the clouds where the town and orchard are hidden beyond the ridge.
Nora says, “This place is pretty.”
“It is.”
“You should live in it.”
“I’m here.”
“You know what I mean.”
I do.
I rest my chin lightly against her hair.
“Stay tonight.”
She is quiet.
“I have to leave before six thirty.”
“I know.”
“You will regret this when my alarm goes off.”
“I wake up before six.”
She turns in my arms.
“Of course you do.”
“I like mornings.”
“Disturbing.”
“Stay anyway.”
She looks at me for a long second.
Then nods.
“Okay.”
One word.
No contract.
No expiration date.
Just okay.
Later, Nora falls asleep beside me with one hand resting on my ribs.
I should sleep.
Instead I stare into the dark and listen to her breathe.
The fake relationship still has an end date.
Harvest Lights.
Six weeks became five weeks and change before I noticed.
The campaign will finish.
The orchard will close for the season.
Celeste will leave Vermont.
Landon will go wherever his next event takes him.
Nora may win the Lydia project. Bell & Weather may become real enough to need its own bank account, insurance policy, clients, and all the ordinary machinery of a future she is building without me.
None of those things scare me as much as one simple fact.
I am already planning around the possibility that Nora will still be in my life when the leaves are gone.
Not arranging it.
Not buying it.
Not controlling the outcome.
Wanting it.
There is a difference.
For the first time, I think I understand how large that difference can become.