The Beau & the Belle
Page 52
He takes my breast in his mouth and his hips are pumping so fast. So powerful. The combined sensations are too much for me to stave off release any longer. I’m shaking. I’m finally, finally coming undone and he knows it. He’s relentless, rolling his hips smooth and deep and so fast that I wouldn’t be surprised if the friction tore all the way through the sheets and the mattress and the box spring. When we’re done, we’ll be lying on the floor.
“Lauren,” he says breathlessly, and he’s groaning and shaking. His head is buried against my neck as he releases inside me. I’m kissing and spurring him on. His hands grip mine so tightly above my head that my fingers groan in protest, but it’s all so delicious, I’ll happily accept the damage done. Who needs fingers when there’s a man like Beau filling you up?
We lie there for a short eternity, catching our breaths and floating back down to Earth. I don’t let him pull out of me right away. I like the feeling too much. If he could, I’d make him go again right away. We could live here. This room could be ours. He eventually heaves out a heavy groan and pushes off me, pulling out and standing up.
I stretch luxuriously like I’m a little cat waking up for the day.
He laughs and shakes his head, heading to the bathroom to dispose of the condom. I stare at his backside without a care in the world. There are glorious little dimples on his butt cheeks. I want to eat cereal out of them with a tiny spoon.
“You are the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.”
“Same goes for you.”
I laugh. “I’m the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen?”
He peeks his head back through the doorway and drags his gaze down my naked body. “Easily.”
I shiver. “Is it weird that I already want to have sex again? Did you slip me some Viagra when I wasn’t looking?”
He laughs and disappears again. “Give a man time to regroup.”
I tilt my head toward the window and am surprised to see how dark it is outside. We’ve been at it for a while. “What are we looking at? 10 minutes? 20? We should have stopped and picked up some of those energy packs runners use for marathons!”
“Boost, maybe some Ensure.”
“Sexy CamelBaks.”
The shower kicks on and I scurry out of his bed as quickly as possible so I don’t miss a second of the show. His shower is glass on all but one side, spacious enough for an NFL football team. He’s standing under the hot water as steam rises and billows over the top. His head is bent. His hand is braced against the tiled wall. His broad shoulders are relaxed. He’s a hero, off duty, Batman without the suit and mask.
I imagine him in that shower, thinking about me.
So you’ve imagined our first time?
Every day for the last few weeks.
I WAS ON a plane once, headed toward LaGuardia. The pilot announced that we were about to hit some turbulence, but I didn’t think much of it. I’d felt those subtle dips and bumps before, no big deal, but all of a sudden, our plane dropped like a tether had been cut. Everyone gasped. A brief silence followed, and then all at once the cabin filled with tears and prayers as we careened toward the ground. I gripped the hands of the two women on either side of me even though we hadn’t spoken a word to one another the entire flight. Later on—after we’d landed and medical personnel had tended to the bumps and bruises—I learned we’d flown straight into a microburst. It’s the opposite of a tornado, though the scale and suddenness make them just as dangerous.
That day, I learned what it felt like to hold on for dear life, to experience sheer panic: stomach bottoming out, heart thumping in my ears, throat raw with unshed tears.
It’s the exact way I feel when I realize I’m in love with Beau Fortier.
AFTER WE RINSE off, we head downstairs to see if our takeout is still sitting outside. Neighborhood cats are lazing on the stoop, picking apart our egg rolls. I swear one of them is using a spoon to sip hot and sour soup, and their lazy expressions seem to say, You’re late, do you want the leftovers? And next time, could you order shrimp?
We close and lock the door, settling on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in bed. I finish exactly one-fourth of mine before the excitement of the day catches up to me. I put out a fire! I had the best sex of my entire life! I fell in love!
I think I fall asleep mid-chew. I don’t know for sure, but there is jelly on my cheek when I jolt awake at 6:00 AM. When I realize where I am, adrenaline seeps into my bloodstream. My eyes are wide open in the dark. I know immediately there’s no point in trying to fall back asleep.
Beau is sleeping shirtless beside me on his stomach, the fluffy duvet bunched around his waist. I have a strange desire to roll over and cover his body with mine, to feel his skin on my skin.
“Beau,” I whisper loudly.
He groans.
“Are you awake?” I ask.
“No.”
“If you don’t wake up, I’m going to snoop around your house and look in all your drawers. Cabinets are fair game too.”
He reaches out and drags me toward him, dropping his heavy arm on top of me. I’m his captive.
He kisses my temple sleepily. “Go to sleep, weirdo.”
I poke his rib. “I can’t. It’s like I just took a shot of Red Bull.”
He doesn’t respond. His arm gets heavier, his breathing evens out. He fell back asleep. Lesson learned: having sex with me is very tiring. I slowly peel myself out of his grasp and crawl off the bed. I’m barefoot in one of his t-shirts. On me, it’s oversized, and it’s super soft. A pair of boxer shorts is rolled up underneath. It’s not enough—I’m still cold. I pad quietly to his closet and add a pair of his socks that reach the middle of my shins. Next, I add an old LSU sweatshirt and some sweatpants that hang loose even after I cinch them up. Every article of clothing is steeped in his scent, and I contemplate continuing to layer until I look like Joey Tribbiani impersonating Chandler Bing. I’d have to walk by throwing my weight onto one leg and then teetering back and forth. His camel coat is hanging near the back, the one I love, and I bet he has some hats I could pull down over my ears. Instead, I settle on wrapping a navy cashmere scarf around my neck so I can dip my head and inhale any time I want. It’s like I have him completely wrapped around me. I tiptoe my way back through his room.
I have the entire run of the house, so I head down to the bottom floor and stall on the last stair. I’m paralyzed with possibilities: I could pilfer his library, see how he arranges his spices, judge him for the current state of his junk drawer. In the end, I settle on making a breakfast fit for a king to make up for our dinner last night. I know how much he enjoys breakfast.
His kitchen is over the top. There’s enough counter space to film a cooking show, and Wolf appliances have been custom designed for the room. Everything is gleaming, which tells me he either never cooks or he has someone come clean religiously. There’s a butler pantry and a separate space for the ovens. There are bells and whistles I don’t dare touch—I don’t want to lose a finger. Fortunately, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out the coffee maker. I make a pot and then get to work.
I’m at the mercy of his pantry and refrigerator, but fortunately there are enough ingredients for the things I want to make: scratch cinnamon rolls, scrambled eggs, and fruit salad to start. I’m searching for bacon in the fridge when Beau’s cell phone rings. I jerk and turn toward where it’s charging beside his keys on the counter. The ringing continues and I glance up to the ceiling, wondering if I should take it to him. It’s 7:10 AM; surely he’ll be awake soon.
The ringing stops. I give up on the bacon hunt and fill my coffee cup again. The cinnamon rolls just went in the oven, but I don’t want to start on the eggs or they’ll be cold by the time he gets down here.
His phone starts to ring again, and this time I look at who’s calling.
MOM
I panic. His mom is calling him this early? Is that normal? What if she really needs to talk to him? His phone rings again and again then goes to voicemail. I relax for a moment before it starts ringing once more and I imagine her frantic on the other end of the line.
I reach for it and answer on a whim.
“Lauren,” he says breathlessly, and he’s groaning and shaking. His head is buried against my neck as he releases inside me. I’m kissing and spurring him on. His hands grip mine so tightly above my head that my fingers groan in protest, but it’s all so delicious, I’ll happily accept the damage done. Who needs fingers when there’s a man like Beau filling you up?
We lie there for a short eternity, catching our breaths and floating back down to Earth. I don’t let him pull out of me right away. I like the feeling too much. If he could, I’d make him go again right away. We could live here. This room could be ours. He eventually heaves out a heavy groan and pushes off me, pulling out and standing up.
I stretch luxuriously like I’m a little cat waking up for the day.
He laughs and shakes his head, heading to the bathroom to dispose of the condom. I stare at his backside without a care in the world. There are glorious little dimples on his butt cheeks. I want to eat cereal out of them with a tiny spoon.
“You are the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.”
“Same goes for you.”
I laugh. “I’m the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen?”
He peeks his head back through the doorway and drags his gaze down my naked body. “Easily.”
I shiver. “Is it weird that I already want to have sex again? Did you slip me some Viagra when I wasn’t looking?”
He laughs and disappears again. “Give a man time to regroup.”
I tilt my head toward the window and am surprised to see how dark it is outside. We’ve been at it for a while. “What are we looking at? 10 minutes? 20? We should have stopped and picked up some of those energy packs runners use for marathons!”
“Boost, maybe some Ensure.”
“Sexy CamelBaks.”
The shower kicks on and I scurry out of his bed as quickly as possible so I don’t miss a second of the show. His shower is glass on all but one side, spacious enough for an NFL football team. He’s standing under the hot water as steam rises and billows over the top. His head is bent. His hand is braced against the tiled wall. His broad shoulders are relaxed. He’s a hero, off duty, Batman without the suit and mask.
I imagine him in that shower, thinking about me.
So you’ve imagined our first time?
Every day for the last few weeks.
I WAS ON a plane once, headed toward LaGuardia. The pilot announced that we were about to hit some turbulence, but I didn’t think much of it. I’d felt those subtle dips and bumps before, no big deal, but all of a sudden, our plane dropped like a tether had been cut. Everyone gasped. A brief silence followed, and then all at once the cabin filled with tears and prayers as we careened toward the ground. I gripped the hands of the two women on either side of me even though we hadn’t spoken a word to one another the entire flight. Later on—after we’d landed and medical personnel had tended to the bumps and bruises—I learned we’d flown straight into a microburst. It’s the opposite of a tornado, though the scale and suddenness make them just as dangerous.
That day, I learned what it felt like to hold on for dear life, to experience sheer panic: stomach bottoming out, heart thumping in my ears, throat raw with unshed tears.
It’s the exact way I feel when I realize I’m in love with Beau Fortier.
AFTER WE RINSE off, we head downstairs to see if our takeout is still sitting outside. Neighborhood cats are lazing on the stoop, picking apart our egg rolls. I swear one of them is using a spoon to sip hot and sour soup, and their lazy expressions seem to say, You’re late, do you want the leftovers? And next time, could you order shrimp?
We close and lock the door, settling on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in bed. I finish exactly one-fourth of mine before the excitement of the day catches up to me. I put out a fire! I had the best sex of my entire life! I fell in love!
I think I fall asleep mid-chew. I don’t know for sure, but there is jelly on my cheek when I jolt awake at 6:00 AM. When I realize where I am, adrenaline seeps into my bloodstream. My eyes are wide open in the dark. I know immediately there’s no point in trying to fall back asleep.
Beau is sleeping shirtless beside me on his stomach, the fluffy duvet bunched around his waist. I have a strange desire to roll over and cover his body with mine, to feel his skin on my skin.
“Beau,” I whisper loudly.
He groans.
“Are you awake?” I ask.
“No.”
“If you don’t wake up, I’m going to snoop around your house and look in all your drawers. Cabinets are fair game too.”
He reaches out and drags me toward him, dropping his heavy arm on top of me. I’m his captive.
He kisses my temple sleepily. “Go to sleep, weirdo.”
I poke his rib. “I can’t. It’s like I just took a shot of Red Bull.”
He doesn’t respond. His arm gets heavier, his breathing evens out. He fell back asleep. Lesson learned: having sex with me is very tiring. I slowly peel myself out of his grasp and crawl off the bed. I’m barefoot in one of his t-shirts. On me, it’s oversized, and it’s super soft. A pair of boxer shorts is rolled up underneath. It’s not enough—I’m still cold. I pad quietly to his closet and add a pair of his socks that reach the middle of my shins. Next, I add an old LSU sweatshirt and some sweatpants that hang loose even after I cinch them up. Every article of clothing is steeped in his scent, and I contemplate continuing to layer until I look like Joey Tribbiani impersonating Chandler Bing. I’d have to walk by throwing my weight onto one leg and then teetering back and forth. His camel coat is hanging near the back, the one I love, and I bet he has some hats I could pull down over my ears. Instead, I settle on wrapping a navy cashmere scarf around my neck so I can dip my head and inhale any time I want. It’s like I have him completely wrapped around me. I tiptoe my way back through his room.
I have the entire run of the house, so I head down to the bottom floor and stall on the last stair. I’m paralyzed with possibilities: I could pilfer his library, see how he arranges his spices, judge him for the current state of his junk drawer. In the end, I settle on making a breakfast fit for a king to make up for our dinner last night. I know how much he enjoys breakfast.
His kitchen is over the top. There’s enough counter space to film a cooking show, and Wolf appliances have been custom designed for the room. Everything is gleaming, which tells me he either never cooks or he has someone come clean religiously. There’s a butler pantry and a separate space for the ovens. There are bells and whistles I don’t dare touch—I don’t want to lose a finger. Fortunately, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out the coffee maker. I make a pot and then get to work.
I’m at the mercy of his pantry and refrigerator, but fortunately there are enough ingredients for the things I want to make: scratch cinnamon rolls, scrambled eggs, and fruit salad to start. I’m searching for bacon in the fridge when Beau’s cell phone rings. I jerk and turn toward where it’s charging beside his keys on the counter. The ringing continues and I glance up to the ceiling, wondering if I should take it to him. It’s 7:10 AM; surely he’ll be awake soon.
The ringing stops. I give up on the bacon hunt and fill my coffee cup again. The cinnamon rolls just went in the oven, but I don’t want to start on the eggs or they’ll be cold by the time he gets down here.
His phone starts to ring again, and this time I look at who’s calling.
MOM
I panic. His mom is calling him this early? Is that normal? What if she really needs to talk to him? His phone rings again and again then goes to voicemail. I relax for a moment before it starts ringing once more and I imagine her frantic on the other end of the line.
I reach for it and answer on a whim.
