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Page 87
“Call for you, darling. It’s the hospital,” he says to Grace.
“Please start, everyone,” Mom says, passing a plate of food to Ana.
Smells good.
Ana licks her lips and the action resonates in my groin. She must be starving. Good. That’s something.
Mom has surpassed herself: chorizo, scallops, peppers. Nice. And I realize that I, too, am hungry. That can’t be helping my mood. But I brighten watching Ana eat.
Grace returns, looking worried. “Everything okay?” Dad asks, and we all look up at her.
“Another measles case.” Grace sighs heavily.
“Oh no,” Dad says.
“Yes, a child. The fourth case this month. If only people would get their kids vaccinated.” Grace shakes her head. “I’m so glad our children never went through that. They never caught anything worse than chicken pox, thank goodness. Poor Elliot.” We all look at Elliot, who stops eating, mid-chew, mouth stuffed full, bovine. He’s uncomfortable being the center of attention.
Kavanagh gives Grace a questioning look.
“Christian and Mia were lucky,” Grace explains. “They got it so mildly, only a spot to share between them.”
Oh, give it a rest, Mom.
“So, did you catch the Mariners game, Dad?” Elliot’s clearly keen to move the conversation on, as am I.
“I can’t believe they beat the Yankees,” Carrick says.
“Did you watch the game, hotshot?” Elliot asks me.
“No. But I read the sports column.”
“The M’s are going places. Nine games won out of the last eleven, gives me hope.” Dad sounds excited.
“They’re certainly having a better season than 2010,” I add.
“Gutierrez in center field was awesome. That catch! Wow.” Elliot throws up his arms. Kavanagh fawns over him like a lovesick fool.
“How are you settling into your new apartment, dear?” Grace asks Ana.
“We’ve only been there one night, and I still have to unpack, but I love that it’s so central—and a short walk to Pike Place, and near the water.”
“Oh, so you’re close to Christian, then,” Grace remarks.
Mom’s helper starts to clear the table. I still can’t remember her name. She’s Swiss, or Austrian or something, and she doesn’t stop simpering and batting eyelashes at me.
“Have you been to Paris, Ana?” Mia asks.
“No, but I’d love to go.”
“We honeymooned in Paris,” Mom says. She and Dad exchange a look across the table, which frankly I’d prefer not to see. They obviously had a good time.
“It’s a beautiful city, in spite of the Parisians. Christian, you should take Ana to Paris!” Mia exclaims.
“I think Anastasia would prefer London,” I respond to my sister’s ridiculous suggestion. Placing my hand on Ana’s knee, I explore her thigh at a leisurely pace, her dress riding up as my fingers follow. I want to touch her; stroke her where her panties should be. As my cock rouses in anticipation I suppress a groan and shuffle in my seat.
She jerks away from me as if to cross her legs, and I close my hand around her thigh.
Don’t you dare!
Ana takes a sip of wine, not taking her eyes off my mother’s housekeeper, who is serving our entrées.
“So what was wrong with the Parisians? Didn’t they take to your winsome ways?” Elliot teases Mia.
“Ugh, no, they didn’t. And Monsieur Floubert, the ogre I was working for, he was such a domineering tyrant.”
Ana chokes on her wine.
“Anastasia, are you okay?” I ask, and release her thigh.
She nods, her cheeks red, and I pat her back and gently caress her neck. Domineering tyrant? Am I? The thought amuses me. Mia shoots me a look of approval at my public display of affection.
Mom has cooked her signature dish, Beef Wellington, a recipe she picked up in London. I have to say it ranks close to yesterday’s buttermilk fried chicken. In spite of her choking episode, Ana tucks into her meal and it’s so good to see her eat. She’s probably hungry after our energetic afternoon. I take a sip of my wine as I contemplate other ways to make her hungry.
Mia and Kavanagh are discussing the relative merits of St. Bart’s vs. Barbados, where the Kavanagh family will be staying.
“Remember Elliot and the jellyfish?” Mia’s eyes shine with mirth as she looks from Elliot to me.
I chuckle. “Screaming like a girl? Yeah.”
“Hey, that could have been a Portuguese man-of-war! I hate jellyfish. They ruin everything.” Elliot is emphatic. Mia and Kate burst into giggles, nodding in agreement.
Ana is eating heartily and listening to the banter. Everyone else has calmed down, and my family is being less weird. Why am I so tense? This happens every day all across the country, families gathering to enjoy good food and each other’s company. Am I tense because I have Ana here? Am I worried they won’t like her, or that she won’t like them? Or is it because she’s fucking off to Georgia tomorrow, and I knew nothing about that?
It’s confusing.
Mia takes center stage as usual. Her tales of French life and French cooking are entertaining. “Oh, Mom, les patisseries sont tout simplement fabuleuses. La tarte aux pommes de M. Floubert est incroyable,” she says.
“Mia, chérie, tu parles fran?ais,” I interrupt her. “Nous parlons anglais ici. Eh bien, à l’exception bien s?r d’Elliot. Il parle idiote, couramment.”
Mia throws her head back with a bellowing laugh, and it’s impossible not to join her.
But by the end of dinner the tension is really wearing me down. I want to be alone with my girl. I’ve only so much tolerance for inane chatter, even if it’s with my family, and I’ve reached my limit. I peer down at Ana, then reach over and tug her chin. “Don’t bite your lip. I want to do that.”
I also have to establish a few ground rules. We need to discuss her impromptu trip to Georgia and going out for drinks with men who are infatuated with her. I put my hand on Ana’s knee again; I need to touch her. Besides, she should accept my touch, whenever I want to touch her. I gauge her reaction as my fingers travel up her thigh toward her panty-free zone, teasing her skin. Her breath catches and she squeezes her thighs together, blocking my fingers, stopping me.
That’s it.
“Please start, everyone,” Mom says, passing a plate of food to Ana.
Smells good.
Ana licks her lips and the action resonates in my groin. She must be starving. Good. That’s something.
Mom has surpassed herself: chorizo, scallops, peppers. Nice. And I realize that I, too, am hungry. That can’t be helping my mood. But I brighten watching Ana eat.
Grace returns, looking worried. “Everything okay?” Dad asks, and we all look up at her.
“Another measles case.” Grace sighs heavily.
“Oh no,” Dad says.
“Yes, a child. The fourth case this month. If only people would get their kids vaccinated.” Grace shakes her head. “I’m so glad our children never went through that. They never caught anything worse than chicken pox, thank goodness. Poor Elliot.” We all look at Elliot, who stops eating, mid-chew, mouth stuffed full, bovine. He’s uncomfortable being the center of attention.
Kavanagh gives Grace a questioning look.
“Christian and Mia were lucky,” Grace explains. “They got it so mildly, only a spot to share between them.”
Oh, give it a rest, Mom.
“So, did you catch the Mariners game, Dad?” Elliot’s clearly keen to move the conversation on, as am I.
“I can’t believe they beat the Yankees,” Carrick says.
“Did you watch the game, hotshot?” Elliot asks me.
“No. But I read the sports column.”
“The M’s are going places. Nine games won out of the last eleven, gives me hope.” Dad sounds excited.
“They’re certainly having a better season than 2010,” I add.
“Gutierrez in center field was awesome. That catch! Wow.” Elliot throws up his arms. Kavanagh fawns over him like a lovesick fool.
“How are you settling into your new apartment, dear?” Grace asks Ana.
“We’ve only been there one night, and I still have to unpack, but I love that it’s so central—and a short walk to Pike Place, and near the water.”
“Oh, so you’re close to Christian, then,” Grace remarks.
Mom’s helper starts to clear the table. I still can’t remember her name. She’s Swiss, or Austrian or something, and she doesn’t stop simpering and batting eyelashes at me.
“Have you been to Paris, Ana?” Mia asks.
“No, but I’d love to go.”
“We honeymooned in Paris,” Mom says. She and Dad exchange a look across the table, which frankly I’d prefer not to see. They obviously had a good time.
“It’s a beautiful city, in spite of the Parisians. Christian, you should take Ana to Paris!” Mia exclaims.
“I think Anastasia would prefer London,” I respond to my sister’s ridiculous suggestion. Placing my hand on Ana’s knee, I explore her thigh at a leisurely pace, her dress riding up as my fingers follow. I want to touch her; stroke her where her panties should be. As my cock rouses in anticipation I suppress a groan and shuffle in my seat.
She jerks away from me as if to cross her legs, and I close my hand around her thigh.
Don’t you dare!
Ana takes a sip of wine, not taking her eyes off my mother’s housekeeper, who is serving our entrées.
“So what was wrong with the Parisians? Didn’t they take to your winsome ways?” Elliot teases Mia.
“Ugh, no, they didn’t. And Monsieur Floubert, the ogre I was working for, he was such a domineering tyrant.”
Ana chokes on her wine.
“Anastasia, are you okay?” I ask, and release her thigh.
She nods, her cheeks red, and I pat her back and gently caress her neck. Domineering tyrant? Am I? The thought amuses me. Mia shoots me a look of approval at my public display of affection.
Mom has cooked her signature dish, Beef Wellington, a recipe she picked up in London. I have to say it ranks close to yesterday’s buttermilk fried chicken. In spite of her choking episode, Ana tucks into her meal and it’s so good to see her eat. She’s probably hungry after our energetic afternoon. I take a sip of my wine as I contemplate other ways to make her hungry.
Mia and Kavanagh are discussing the relative merits of St. Bart’s vs. Barbados, where the Kavanagh family will be staying.
“Remember Elliot and the jellyfish?” Mia’s eyes shine with mirth as she looks from Elliot to me.
I chuckle. “Screaming like a girl? Yeah.”
“Hey, that could have been a Portuguese man-of-war! I hate jellyfish. They ruin everything.” Elliot is emphatic. Mia and Kate burst into giggles, nodding in agreement.
Ana is eating heartily and listening to the banter. Everyone else has calmed down, and my family is being less weird. Why am I so tense? This happens every day all across the country, families gathering to enjoy good food and each other’s company. Am I tense because I have Ana here? Am I worried they won’t like her, or that she won’t like them? Or is it because she’s fucking off to Georgia tomorrow, and I knew nothing about that?
It’s confusing.
Mia takes center stage as usual. Her tales of French life and French cooking are entertaining. “Oh, Mom, les patisseries sont tout simplement fabuleuses. La tarte aux pommes de M. Floubert est incroyable,” she says.
“Mia, chérie, tu parles fran?ais,” I interrupt her. “Nous parlons anglais ici. Eh bien, à l’exception bien s?r d’Elliot. Il parle idiote, couramment.”
Mia throws her head back with a bellowing laugh, and it’s impossible not to join her.
But by the end of dinner the tension is really wearing me down. I want to be alone with my girl. I’ve only so much tolerance for inane chatter, even if it’s with my family, and I’ve reached my limit. I peer down at Ana, then reach over and tug her chin. “Don’t bite your lip. I want to do that.”
I also have to establish a few ground rules. We need to discuss her impromptu trip to Georgia and going out for drinks with men who are infatuated with her. I put my hand on Ana’s knee again; I need to touch her. Besides, she should accept my touch, whenever I want to touch her. I gauge her reaction as my fingers travel up her thigh toward her panty-free zone, teasing her skin. Her breath catches and she squeezes her thighs together, blocking my fingers, stopping me.
That’s it.
