TWENTY-FIVE
Annie
I close and lockthe door behind us, and I think about the last time I was up here in the apartment above Virtu: Cal attending to my injured hand, discovering the goose under the quilt, using it as leverage to get him to let me show him what I can do.
So much has changed since that night. The goose’s location, for one (a few times, actually). And the way we see each other.
Even without the blackmail, I’m confident Cal now understands that I have a whole lot to offer.
We take off our coats and hang them on the hooks beside the door, and it reminds me of the other night when they were hastily cast aside on the shop’s floor. It was all so quick, so hunger-filled, instinctive. A race to a destination when we weren’t completely certain of its location. But this time we’re going on a slow, deliberate journey somewhere we’re both interested in exploring.
I wrap my arms around his neck the way they were back inthe warehouse and stretch up to press my lips to his. “I’m going to take good care of you, Cal,” I promise. It feels so natural to say in the moment that I don’t even think about it until he pulls away and looks into my eyes.
“We’re going to take good care of each other,” he corrects tenderly. It hits me like an old-timey Valentine-card Cupid coming along and shoving an arrow directly into my heart rather than risk missing from afar.
Because something I’ve only recently realized is that sex for me has always been primarily about my partner’s pleasure. My own has simply been contributory to theirs. From the very first time I slept with someone, I was so focused on being his perfect girl that there was never room for being anything else. Then here comes Callahan Leitner, emphasizing that this is something we’re doing together. A meeting of equals, in service of both ourselves and each other.
As much as I tried to convince him we’re doing this as a sort of reciprocal favor (albeit one that’s not exactly a hardship for either of us), I can’t deny now that it’s more than that. I know I told him I need practice being myself, but it’s really hitting me in earnest how much this means, this chance for us both to grow in a way that feels safer than anything else I’ve ever known.
“Yes,” I say. “We will.” I kiss him again, deeper this time. “Let’s go to your room before we wind up on the floor.”
“This way.” He takes my hand and leads me through his space, stopping once in the middle of the short hallway to press me up against the wall and kiss me again, as if he wants to make sure I’m still real. Before we move along, he reaches up by my head to straighten a picture frame we must have knocked askew, and the action is so oddly endearing that it’s impossible to contain the resulting affection that balloons inside me.
“I’m really starting to like you, you know,” I say as I move ahead into the doorway to his bedroom. I take off my blouse, slowly, sensually, watching Cal’s pupils go darker. He just saw me topless an hour ago, but the circumstances were somewhat different, considering we had an audience of Roland and about two dozen mannequins.
His eyes drift back to my face and convey an almost surprised sweetness. “I really like you too,” he says.
“Yeah? Come show me how much.”
He doesn’t need any further invitation, and before I can blink I’m in his arms, his lips on mine, and then on my jaw, my earlobe, my shoulder. His fingers investigate where my bra fastens and he murmurs, “Will you take this off for me? I don’t want to damage the lace. It’s so lovely.” Part of me can’t help but think this is an excuse so he doesn’t embarrass himself fighting with the many hooks, but then Cal’s nose sweeps against my cheek as he plants a soft kiss on my skin and he murmurs, “Youare so lovely,” and I decide I don’t really care what his motive is.
“I bet you say that to all your blackmailers,” I joke as I slide the bra straps down my arms.
“Huh. I guess I do,” he says with a chuckle that turns into a ragged exhale as his hands cup my now-bare breasts. “You like this, right?” he asks. “Being touched here?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I like it a lot.”
He nods subtly to himself. “And you’ll tell me if I do anything youdon’tlike? Or if you want to stop?”
“Of course. As long as you promise the same?”
“I promise.”
I take the condoms I thankfully had the presence of mind to grab from my purse as we journeyed upstairs and place them on the nightstand, then wrap my hand around Cal’s forearm andpull him toward the bed. I’m a bit surprised to find that it isn’t made, comforter and sheets all tangled up as if he spent the night tossing and turning. Cal is such an interesting conundrum, buttoned up in a way that feels deliberate instead of part of his personality. Like someone taught him to be that way and he sees the value of it, but it still doesn’t always come naturally despite years of practice. The same way his usual precise articulation while speaking occasionally collapses into thick Bawlmerese, frustrating him whenever he catches it.
I’m beginning to suspect that Cal has a mask of his own that he’s been wearing for so long he forgot somewhere along the way that it isn’t his own face.
But I’m distracted from the thought as he gently lays me back, takes off my boots, and slides my pants and underwear down my legs. His skillful fingers swipe through the wetness at my entrance before sliding inside, more confident in the movements than he was on Thursday evening, and his mouth returns to my nipples. It isn’t long at all until I’m writhing against the mattress and making all sorts of desperate noises.
“Why are you still clothed?” I ask impatiently, tugging at his sleeve. “Remedy this situation posthaste.”
Cal gives me one last excruciatingly delicious thrust, then slides his fingers into his mouth while maintaining eye contact and letting out a breathy little “Mm.” Good thing I’m already lying down, because I think I might faint. “Do you always start talking like a nineteenth-century society matron when you’re turned on?” he asks after completing this maddeningly erotic performance.
“Clothing. Off,” I reiterate.
“I’m working on it.” He tries to move too hastily and winds up stuck inside his sweater for a second. “Pretend that didn’thappen,” he says as he emerges from the soft wool. “Pretend I did that very suavely.”
“I’ve never seen anything suaver in my life,” I assure him.
