Coming Together Page 16

  I would, except I’ve nearly forgotten how to talk. Will smiles, like he knows I’m nearly out of my mind. Like he loves it. I lean back against the seat, and give in.

  “Please. Make me come,” I whisper.

  He doesn’t even respond, because he doesn’t have to. He kisses his way up my thigh, taking his good, sweet time. Finally, finally…

  Yes. Please. His stubble is a sweet whisper against my skin, and his hot breath is on my sex. He gives one tap of his tongue against my clit, making me cry out. He holds me still, his hands on my legs, as his tongue continues to circle my clit. Sensation is pulsing through me; I’m half certain I’m about to pass out just from wanting it, wanting him to make me come. He licks me again, this time in a straight line along my cunt, before thrusting his tongue deep inside of me.

  Fuck, it feels better than I imagined.

  He thrusts in and out of me several times before finally lapping back up to tease my clit. Then he inserts a finger inside of me to pump as he continues to lick. There’s another finger, and I throw my head back. I’m teetering on the edge of an orgasm, one that’s already threatening to shatter me. My pussy clenches around his fingers as he sucks my clit into his mouth. My whole body moves, my hips wriggling in response to his attentions. God, I’ve never been so sopping wet before, and my skin seems to hum with the energy. I look down, watching as he thrusts into me with his fingers, with his tongue. The sight of it alone nearly undoes me. This keeps going, fingers and then tongue, and I could go on for hours. I feel like I could live hanging on the very edge of the orgasm for the rest of my life.

  That’d make teaching awkward, but I’d be happy as hell.

  I feel like I’m filling up, all my muscles tensed and screaming for release. That’s the instant that Will stops, gazing up at me again. Our eyes meet, his look searing and electric. He’s possessing me entirely, and it’s so good I want to scream.

  “You’re incredible,” he whispers, his breath hot against my thigh. Then he licks my clit once more, his tongue swirling in deft circles. His fingers thrust into me again, and I begin to shake violently. My body isn’t my own anymore. I’ve lost myself, and I love it.

  “Please. Make me come. Please,” I cry out.

  He thrusts faster, and sucks my clit into his mouth rhythmically. Every muscle in my body tightens; my legs go rigid. I feel myself falling, tumbling down into the orgasm. Will’s tongue is relentless, and I begin to cry out, my breath coming in short, fast pants.

  Then I come, the world rupturing all around me and taken away in a burst of white hot light. I find myself screaming his name, my hands pressed against the roof of the car just so I don’t collapse. Then Will’s sitting up, pressing me against his body. He kisses me, and I taste myself. I taste his obvious pride, and why shouldn’t he be proud? Part of me had wondered if last night was as good as it was because I’d had a little wine, but this is proof that Will Munroe is pretty much sex itself.

  That, or apple pie is a hell of an aphrodisiac.

  Can’t it be both?

  “Feeling better now?” Will whispers in my ear, pushing aside my hair as he kisses down my neck. I nearly purr as I lean against him.

  “Incredible. But I feel like I need to return the favor,” I murmur, wrapping my hand around the incredible bulge in his pants. He moans as I squeeze, thinking about all the ways I’m about to—

  There’s a tap at the window, and we both freeze. While I slide myself to the floor of the car, pretending that I’m a discarded coat—that theater training really coming in handy—Will rolls the window down a tiny bit. I’m pretty sure that’s steam wafting out into the evening air.

  “We’ll, ah, move,” Will says. Whoever’s outside gives a tiny, tight-sounding noise, and leaves. He looks down at me as I’m scrambling into my panties, and we both laugh at the same time.

  “I have a confession,” I tell him. “I think I’m lying on top of the pie box.”

  “Looks like we’ll need something else for dinner.” He helps me find my pants, and gets back in the driver’s seat. “Sushi?”

  I never thought an eel roll could taste so good. No, I am not talking in euphemisms here, we’re at a very nice sushi joint in Santa Monica. Will’s got the kind of rich person car that seems to clear traffic by magic: going west of the 405 should’ve been a nightmare this time of day. Is there anything he can’t do?

  I mean, the man can make eating sushi look erotic. And that’s not a euphemism either.

  “I need to tell you something,” Will says, dipping a piece of sashimi in some soy sauce. Hopefully the following words will be some combination of we need to do the sex again and I have saved room for dessert. If we can get both of those going at the same time, so much the better.

  “What’s that?” I lean my cheek against my hand, feeling dreamy as I take up my chopsticks to snag a tuna roll. Life is perfect right now. Utterly peaceful. I know I should be suspicious of those emotions by now, but you never seem to learn.

  So when Will says, “I have to go to Tokyo for a couple of weeks,” well, that’s when my mind goes kind of blank. At first I think he chose the sushi as a thematic way of asking me to go with him, which I would be more on board with than I should.

  “Oh. For work?”

  Or for black market smuggling, Chelle? What do you think he’s doing there?

  “It’s an idea of expanding the company. They seem to think I’m the right guy for the job,” he says. I think he’s the right guy for the job too, if that job involves taking my pants off with his teeth. Pretty sure that’s not what his bosses were thinking, though. Which is their loss.

  Okay, back to reality. I don’t want to look needy or clingy in any way—why would I, when I just had a fabulous orgasm in the back seat of his car? I mean, like I said, casual is good. It’s clearly the thing that I want.

  That’s what I’m going to tell myself over and over.

  “Amelia will miss you,” I say, forcing myself not to add me too or my vagina too, because that might be a wee bit too forward.

  “I know she will. And I know I’ll miss her,” he says, looking me right in the eyes. With the soft overhead lighting sculpting his cheekbones to perfection, his beauty is kind of distracting, but I get the impression he means he’ll miss me. Or I’m reading into this pretty hard.

  “Yes,” I say, because that adds a lot to this conversation. Taking up my chopsticks, I concentrate on grabbing a slice of ginger as a palate cleanser.

  “I know you said you like to keep things casual.” Will pours some more sake, which I’m always in the mood for.

  “Casual, that’s me. As you can tell from the way I dress, it extends to all aspects of my life,” I say, trying not to embarrass myself too hard. As usual, it’s a fight I’m going to lose.

  Will shrugs. “Fair enough. Though I was wondering if you had any casual formal wear.”

  For a second I think this is a total non-sequitur until I remember the gala that’s coming up. Bay of Dreams is hosting a benefactor gala. They’re looking to expand the eastern wing, probably to incorporate more feng shui into the woodwork or whatever it is they want to do these days. I agreed to set up a little musical interlude with the kids, something from the coming show that we can use to sell the benefactors on how great the school is.

  Hell, if I can make the school look good, they might make my hiring a permanent sort of thing. I’ve got my best little black dress all ready for the occasion.

  Now Will is saying… Is it what I think he’s saying?

  “Are you asking me on a casual date?” I take a sip of my sake, which only slightly dribbles down my chin. Go me.

  “Casually, of course.” He smiles, that wicked light returning to his eyes. But it’s the kind of wicked that wants to get me all dolled up and at a swanky event, not just fucking in a car. Or an apartment. Or on the floor of a restaurant. That’s not a suggestion, just something I can’t help but imagine.

  There’s a part of me that’s still sending up
alarm bells about Darren and the wonderful, terrible troubles of boyfriends past. But if both Will and I know what the game is, there shouldn’t be anything to worry about.

  Except going to the gala with a parent and our hot sexcapades being exposed. I suppose that might merit some consideration.

  But if we’re lucky, all the old benefactors will be drunk off their asses and won’t notice Will and me making out on the dance floor to the sultry sounds of “Time of My Life.” And yes, that is a full on fantasy right there.

  “If we’re careful, it could be fun,” I say, giving a wink. Casual wink, of course. Will seems to enjoy that, because I feel his fingers tracing the top of my thigh. He doesn’t go any further, since we’re in public. But the lingering promise is there.

  If only I could convince myself a casual bit of fun is all I’m really looking for, I just might be the happiest I’ve been in a long time.

  14

  Chelle

  “Remember, chorus, you need to keep waving your protest signs,” I tell the kids as the rehearsal thunders along. My accompanist on piano is looking like she’s had enough of our shenanigans, with her glasses on askew while she chugs a second diet Red Bull. I can’t blame her, since we’ve been here for two hours and the sun’s already beginning to dip below the horizon. But we need to have this extra scene I’ve had to add to Oliver, and we need to have it perfect. The school board wanted more of a message of the evils of the chinchilla fur trade. As a result, Oliver and the Artful Dodger need to take some time off from starving in the streets to sing a song about Dodger’s very first friend, a street chinchilla named Adrian who was brutally exploited by luxury fur dealers.

  If that sounds batshit to you, I can’t even explain how it felt writing it. And trying to rhyme chinchilla with anything past vanilla.

  At least Amelia’s having a good time. She’s pulling double duty as a protestor in this scene, and made the cutest sign of all: a girl and a chinchilla holding hands, smiling with a rainbow stretching over them.

  I check my phone and find that it’s time for the kids to be getting out of rehearsal. Which means that all the parents will be pulling up to collect their little angels, which means I might run into Will. I plan on being entirely easygoing, not at all undressing him with my eyes in front of his daughter. It’s two days after our pie/sex/sushi excursion, and there’s been some friendly texting. Maybe even a little risqué, in terms of emoticons.

  Still, Will and I haven’t discussed firm plans for the gala, which is right around the corner. I’m hoping we can figure out how we’re going to go about this. Right now, my personal fantasy has us arriving in separate cars, not making eye contact over the crab puffs, having passionate sex in the teachers’ lounge, then returning like nothing has happened. I also lose my panties somewhere in the fantasy, and then we have to stage a late night break in to retrieve them. My love of espionage clouds my otherwise better judgment.

  Anyway, the rehearsal’s done and the kids leap off the stage to deposit their prop signs and stuffed chinchillas. We walk out together as the accompanist heads off with a grumble and I lock the doors behind. A gaggle of freshly tanned and showered mothers with admirably flat stomachs are waiting for the kids. I take a peek and…nope. Zero Will. Maybe he’ll show up in a second, having stopped for a quick afternoon hike. Maybe his shirt will still be damp with sweat, clinging to his pectorals and abs, drawing the eye along his chiseled physique like—

  “Mom!” Amelia stops short beside me, shifting foot to foot in an adorable, kind of awkward dance. My attention snaps to an Amazon blonde with perfectly toned arms and skin so healthy it practically glows.

  So. That’s Will’s ex wife, then. Now I know that any sane, healthy adult understands that marriages break down for all types of reasons. Having said that, I’m not particularly sane or healthy, and this woman is the kind of goddess that men go to war for. So if you’re asking me, hey Chelle, how do you feel right now being all short and grubby in sweatpants? My answer would be not great, Bob. Not great.

  I’m calling the ether Bob because I have to call it something.

  “Amelia, we need to get home at once. It might rain,” the woman says, looking skyward. Suzonne, I remember now, that’s her name. Amelia heaves a slight sigh, odd for such an enthusiastic kid, and runs to her mother.

  “We have to waterproof the yurt,” Amelia calls over her shoulder to me.

  I blink, because when I hear yurt all I get as an image are those kind of roomy tents that the Mongols used to live in. The woman in front of me is wearing baby pink cashmere yoga pants that are probably five hundred bucks, easy. I’m thinking even she can’t be that granola, if you will.

  “But not before we cover up the Zen garden,” Suzonne reminds her daughter in the same no nonsense tones you might expect from asking the kid to take out the trash.

  I was wrong. It’s granola with extra dried cranberries and probably some kind of hard to find Tibetan seed.

  “Hi. I’m Amelia’s teacher,” I say, grinning as I walk down to the woman. She’s busy typing something into her iPhone, but I figure it can’t hurt to be approachable. I mean, we’ve both slept with her ex-husband. United by a common penis, that’s us. At any rate, it helps to be on good terms with all the kids’ parents.

  “Chilly,” Suzonne says idly, frowning at her screen.

  “Oh. Yeah, it gets cold around here at night,” I say, trying not to fumble this weird conversational ball.

  “That’s your name, isn’t it?” Suzonne finally looks up, running her sunglasses down to the tip of her nose to get a better look at me. Those Warby Parker babies probably cost a week’s salary for me.

  “Er, close. Chelle.” I put out my hand to shake and she gives a slightly shocked look. I know, touching people who make under 50k a year is a shock to the system around here. Flustered, I retract it.

  “Sorry, it’s just that shaking hands is a patriarchal construct. I’m teaching Amelia to blend her aura with other people’s. That’s a better way of saying hello, isn’t it?” Suzonne smiles at her daughter, and I’ll admit there seems to be genuine warmth there.

  Amelia hugs her mom around the waist. Aw. Well, we all have weird quirks or customs. I soften toward Suzonne.

  “Sure, I get it! I just wanted to tell you how amazing Amelia is.” I wink at the kid, who gives a radiant smile. I mean, everything about Amelia is pretty much radiant. It surprises me when Suzonne frowns.

  “I appreciate that she’s trying. We just want her to try things that she’s extra special at, right?” Suzonne hugs Amelia close, and the light goes out of the kid’s eyes a bit. Okay, I know the traditional game here is placate wealthy parents, especially when you’re sexually inveigled with their exes, but some things can’t be dismissed.

  “I think Amelia’s got real raw potential. She’s one of the hardest workers I’ve ever seen.” There. Enjoy that with your soy matriarchal smoothie, or whatever you drink.

  Suzonne blinks. I don’t think she knows how to respond. Shit, I overplayed myself.

  “Let me guess.” Suzonne tilts her head with a sympathetic expression. “You eat red meat, don’t you?”

  Guilty as deliciously charged. “There’s an In N Out two blocks from my apartment. It’d be a cardinal sin not to.”

  The woman sighs, rummages through an enormous purse that seems to be woven out of many different varieties of regional grasses, and pulls out a glass bottle filled with some brownish-greenish mulch. She hands it over to me, while I watch the contents bubble and clump together. It looks kind of like seaweed, actually.

  “It’s a turmeric, with seawood, green algae, ginger root, pineapple, and Indonesian mushrooms.” Suzonne looks pretty proud of this. “It’s my own special blend,” she says, like it’s a secret at a Tupperware party.

  “Fancy that. You’re in business?”

  She waves that away. “No, I think that markets are such a joke. I believe in giving without expecting anything in return.”

  That’
d be a nice thought if we weren’t standing in the parking lot of her daughter’s insanely expensive school, paid for by her husband’s hard-earned alimony. Still, I take it to be polite.

  Amelia wrinkles her nose at the bottle and mouths, “Gross!” to me. I feel you, kid.

  Suzonne runs a hand through her daughter’s hair, a loving gesture that makes me smile.

  Then she says, “You might consider a turmeric cleanse for two weeks. It would do wonders for your skin, and help distend your stomach. I can tell you bloat.”

  My emotions are like a yoyo, and this woman is like the psychotic schoolyard bully who keeps walking the dog too many times. That made sense in my own head. Pursing my lips, I say, “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind when I’m not working twelve hour days, six days a week.”

  “Of course. Work makes women really harried. It disrupts the goddess mechanism.” She says it all while looking at her phone.

  I have to stop myself from getting an obscenely large Looney Tunes style mallet and whacking her one. And yes, I have one in the trunk of my car. I have many things in there, many dark secrets.

  “See you later, Amelia. Great work today.” I grin at the kid as she strolls away with her mother, throwing me a last, mournful look. My hands are shaking as I get out my phone and quickly write a text to Will. Not to worry, it’s restrained and dignified.

  YOUR EX WIFE IS A MONSTER

  Okay, let’s try that again without caps.

  Your ex wife is a monster

  Hmm, maybe still too antagonistic. I try making a joke out of it.

  Met your ex. I’d say she’s like Cruella de Vil, but I think she’s anti fur.

  Flushing, I delete the whole thing. After all, what right do I have to get Will involved in this? It’s not his fault he was married to a narcissistic vegan with homemade turmeric. Maybe just have a conversation about it. That’s a good idea, Chelle.