Jamie
“You’re kidding.” I nearly spit out my wine.
“I wish I wasn’t.”
Ford took a slug of his scotch and rocked back onto the rear two legs of his chair.
It was the Thursday after our golf date, and we’d fallen into a quick routine. I’d work from home all day while Ford took care of business from his hotel, and then we would go for a walk or run and then grab dinner. At least that was what we did Monday through Wednesday. Tonight, Ford had to cancel our plans to run and eat, opting to come over for a drink later. Which brought us to this moment in time where I was howling and Ford was scowling.
“I mean, who does that?” I eked the question out through a few laughs, swiping a tear from under my eye.
“I know you think this is a barrel of laughs,” he said, making a mad face, but I knew he was joking. He’d been laughing when he told me, sitting across from one another on my sofa.
“It is. You know it is. I just feel bad for the wardrobe guy.”
“You and me both.”
“Did she apologize?” I took a sip of my wine and breathed in the ease of our evening. Even with Ford canceling, he still held true on his promise to come over later, hanging with me, casually, as I had my legs tucked underneath me. It felt so domestic.
“Of course she didn’t. You think she would apologize for stripping naked and shaking her nonexistent boobs—that’s what she said, not me—in the wardrobe guy’s face. Apparently it’s my fault the scene called for a bustier and not a bodysuit. The wardrobe guy, Phil, has been with me a long time. Gay as they come, so he couldn’t care less about Bella’s boobs. What he does care about is his reputation. The director jammed him up on this and insisted on the bustier. He tried to explain how it wouldn’t sit right on Bella’s flat chest. Bella is blaming me, Phil is blaming the director, and now time is money. Production clock is running, and I need to go back.”
Despite trying to hold it still, I could feel my face falling. “You’re a long way from home, Toto,” I joked instead. “I bet Scotty never deals with someone waving theirboobs—your word, not mine—in his face in politics.”
Ford set his glass down on the end table and got up, walked toward me, and yanked me out of my chair. He grabbed my glass and set it with his and brought his lips to mine.
After a long, closed-mouth kiss, he spoke. “First off, you’d be surprised at the boobs in politics.” This had me back to laughing. “Secondly, don’t hide your feelings. I know you’re upset I’m leaving, and I wish I didn’t have to. But I need to make a living. And Bella said boobs, not me.”
Make a living was a funny expression…
“I can feel you thinking. Yes, I need to make a living. I’m not in the family business. Politics, I mean. I have to feed myself…and you.” His hand came and snaked on my belly, his index finger sneaking up my tank and tracing my belly button.
“I’m pretty sure you have enough money to eat, but I get it. Your name is at stake, and I respect that.” I did. But I also was going to miss Ford. “I have to ask, where does that leave us?” I decided transparency was best. Cuddled in his arms, I braved the unknown.
“It leaves us very much together in mind but separated by space. Plus, I’m going to spend the weekend here and head back Sunday night. I gave everyone the day off tomorrow.”
“That was nice of you, but I don’t want you to do that for me.”
“I didn’t. I did it for me. Selfishly, I want those days for me. Yeah, I’m a nice guy, but really I’m over here thinking about how I want to stick you on the kitchen counter and lap ice cream off your body.”
He snagged my hand and started walking toward the kitchen.
“That sounds more naughty than nice.” I found teasing easy when it came to Ford. Nothing felt cheap or cheesy with him.
“Does it now? Are you a fan of naughty?”
Finally, he boosted me to the counter.
“I didn’t think I was, but apparently I’m quite fond of naughty. Who knew? Took me until later in life…”
He pinched my bare thigh. “Not later in life. We are in the best part of life.”
He brought out a gallon of mint chip ice cream we had bought the night before. We’d eaten from the container, sharing a spoon, before heading to bed to make love…or whatever it was we were doing.
With an ease I never imagined anyone having in my place, Ford moved to the drawer and grabbed a single spoon. He was close to me again, and taking a spoonful of ice cream and bringing it to my lips. The varied sensations of my butt on the hard quartz, Ford wedged between my thighs, and the cool ice cream on the tip of my tongue had me on the brink. It was so sensual and commonplace at the same time.
“Like that?” Ford asked me, running the spoon along my lip, leaving a trace of the minty dessert for him to bend over and kiss off—which was what he did. He sucked on my lip, drawing a moan from me. His tongue entered my mouth and tangled with my chilled one. He only allowed me a beat or two like that before he drew back and refilled the spoon.
After feeding me a bite he went back for another refill, and traced a path from my mouth, down my chin, farther down my neck to my clavicle, my heart beating a furious pace right under where he stopped his ice cream art. Like with my lips, his mouth took up a slow pace in its due diligence, cleaning the ice cream off me, leaving my core throbbing and my belly swarming with butterflies.
