Hot Water (26 page)

 “I’m going to move, now,” I say, pulling slowly out, then before she can be deflated by the loss of me, filling her up once again. It starts slowly, but eventually, I can’t stop, I need to move more. I begin to go faster and harder. “God, baby, you’re so tight. That feels so good.”

The bed, my whole world begins to quake. I reach up to grab the headboard to steady myself as the wave begins to reach its crest.

“My God, Caden,” she screams, grabbing handfuls of my pillow. “I can’t . . . oh, My God!”

“It’s okay?” I ask her.

She nods, closing her eyes as I’m about to lose control.

“I’m going to come,” I groan, picking my hips off the bed and digging myself into her as she bucks against me. She throws her body against me as I buckle into her, quivering, filling her up.

I stare into her big eyes for a moment. She looks slightly stunned, and she bites her lip in a way that makes me wonder what the hell she could be thinking. It could be one of a million things, from regret to exultation and anything in between. Minutes later, she’s still trembling, still clutching me in a way that could become permanent. And that would be fucking fine with me. “Are you okay?” I finally ask her.

She nods. “Was it okay? I mean, for you?”

I smile. “It was . . . holy shit,” I say, falling beside her on the bed. I wonder if I’ll ever get the ability to form coherent sentences again. My whole world has shifted in a massive way, it’s hard to believe I ever had a life before this.

Cicily

With Caden’s arms around me, and full of contentment, I doze in one of the most satisfying mid-day naps I’ve ever had. I wake a short time later, alone, in the most enormous of beds in the most enormous of bedrooms. I’m on my stomach, naked, feeling so completely relaxed. The mid-day sunshine is streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

“Hello, Sleeping Beauty.”

I roll over and sit up on my elbows to witness the most beautiful sight. Caden is sitting on a stool, completely naked, behind an artist’s canvas. He has a paintbrush in his hand. “Are you . . . painting me?”

“I
was
,” he twirls his finger, commanding me back into position. “Stop moving.”

I try to remember how I’d been positioned when I woke. I press the side of my face against the pillow and try to move my arm slightly to the side.

He urges me to move forward slightly. “More nipple.”

I blush, embarrassed. “You’re painting my nipples?”

“They’re exquisite.” He smiles. “The rest of you is very conveniently hidden by the sheet. Not convenient for me, but . . . it will have to do.”

He studies me like a serious artist, a crease in his brow. I have to smile. “Do you do this with all your women?” I ask.

“Actually, I haven’t done this in years. Seeing you sleeping there, you looked like an angel. It inspired me.”

I lie there for another few minutes, watching him, thinking about making love to him, until desire begins to coil within me again. I start to get up.

He points at me with the paintbrush. “You move when I say,” he says, like a drill sergeant.

“But I want to see it!” I whine, like a naughty girl. I get up, pull the sheet around me like a cape, and pad closer to him, then peek around at the canvas. It is the beginning of me, the lines are there, the shadows, the curve of my body against the white bed. “Wow.”

“I could be the worst artist in the world and it would still be a masterpiece,” he says, putting the paintbrush down. “That’s what a good subject does.”

I stand over him, and he takes my breast in his hand, sucking the nipple into his mouth. Instantly, he’s hard again. I crawl onto his lap, slipping my legs over his thighs, straddling him on the stool. “Can we do it again? What we did before? Like, a dozen more times before I have to go home?”

He grins. “Maybe not a dozen.” He unexpectedly slides a finger into me, making me gasp. “I can’t believe I get to be here. To this perfect place. It’s unreal. Fuck, Cicily, I want to stay there forever.”

Without another word, I grab his cock and hold it upright, positioning myself over it.

He grins. “Condom.”

“Oh, right,” I say. “So much for spontaneity.” I reach behind me and grab one off the nightstand. It’s a red wrapper, this time. He tears it and rolls it one, then stares into my eyes as I slide slowly down onto it until he’s fully buried inside me. The soreness from our first time is eclipsed by the feeling of his body, inside mine. I’m panting as he watches me, rapt, biting onto his lower lip and letting me do all the work.

“It feels good this way,” I say, rocking back on my hips. I wrap my toes around the railing on the barstool and use that to push myself up.

He leans back on the stool, putting his hands around my hips. “Go ahead, baby. Ride me with that tight cunt of yours. Up and down.”

I start very slowly, afraid I’ll go too far and he’ll pop out. Slowly I get into a rhythm, until he slides easily in out of me and I’m bouncing on his cock, smacking hard against his thighs. The friction it’s creating on my clit is so immense I have to grab his shoulders to steady myself from all the shuddering I’m doing.

“Oh, my God, Caden,” I shriek, throwing myself against him and then arching my back.. He holds me on him, keeping me on rhythm, making me quiver right down to my toes. Without warning, I feel his ass cheeks clench, and he lifts us both off the stool as he releases into me.

“One down, eleven more to go,” I mumble, sucking on his earlobe.

He envelops me in his arms, pulling me to him and kissing my breast. “You are one dirty girl,” he says.

I smile. Then I reach over and grab the paintbrush, making a fine stroke of black across the center of his hard abdomen. I dab two dots on each of his nipples, creating a smiley face. “And you are one dirty boy,” I say, leaning back toward his knees and inspecting him. “Look. I’m an artiste!”

He gets that look in his eye. That competitive, wolfish look, and I know I’m trouble. “Oh yeah?” He asks, reaching over and pulling open a drawer. There are dozens of paintbrushes there, of all sizes, and wouldn’t you know it, he grabs the biggest one. He dips it on the palette and before I can slide out of him, he’s painted an orange line across my breast.

“Oh, I don’t think so.” I stand up by the bed and wave my paintbrush like a sword.

He puts his hand on his hip, looking very much like a swashbuckler. “
En garde
.” Then he grins. “You sure you want to mess with this? Twelve years of fencing.”

“Fuck, really?” I sigh. Who the hell takes up fencing? I drop the brush to my side, making like I’m surrendering, but the second he gets close enough to pull me into his arms, I pick it up and plant a big splotch on his nose.

“You. Are. Dead.” He points at me, giving one of those famous Angry Guy frowns, his voice commanding and menacing. Then he lunges for me, picking me up and throwing me on the bed. He holds my two hands over my head with his one, straddles me, and begins stroking the paintbrush over my nipples.

It’s more funny than erotic. I can’t stop laughing. The tears are flowing down my face, it’s making me laugh so hard. “Stop!” I shriek between giggles. Then I subdue the giggles enough to squeak out, “No. Seriously. You’re hurting me. Stop.”

He immediately lets go and eyes me with concern.

“You’re so gullible,” I say, racing out of the bed and grabbing a tube of paint. I unscrew the cap and point it at him. “Your move, sir.”

He eyes me for a moment, assessing his next move. The moment he takes a step forward, I jam my hand on the tube, flattening it as gobs of bright red fly across the space between us, landing squarely on his chest. He stands there, motionless for a moment, then puts his finger up, motioning to me to come close.

“What are you going to do, spank me?” I tease.

He shakes his head. “I want to call a truce. I need to kiss you again.”

I know that need. I step forward, and when I’m close enough to touch him, I reach over, smearing the paint against his chest. He leans over, taking me in his arms, and kisses me, devouring my lips as his hands trail across my back, down to my ass. I’m so lost in the kiss that at first I don’t realize that something is different. But suddenly I realize there’s something slick and liquid about the way his hands are massaging my backside. I pull away, glaring at him warily.

He smiles and holds out his hands. They’re coated in blue paint. I notice the flattened tube behind his feet. Slowly, I look behind me, afraid of what he’s done to me. Yep, all blue.

 “Truce?” he asks innocently, but I’m already out for murder. I chase him into the next room, where we fall on the floor, giggling like two children, without so much as a care in the world.

So much for spontaneity.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Caden

I don’t think of Andrea, don’t think of my father.

For once, I’m happy with myself. She makes me feel okay. All I can do is think about her. Nothing else matters.

We spend ten hours together, in the Jacuzzi tub, in bed. We get take-out and spend a late lunch eating Chinese and teasing each other with the chopsticks the way we had with the paintbrushes. It’s not enough time. Soon, the sun begins to fade and I know it’s time for her to go home. She has school on Tuesday, and she hasn’t packed at all. But before she pulls on her dress, I’m already thinking about when I can see her again.

As we’re going down the elevator, I kiss her. “This was the best day of my life. I swear it.”

She grins. “And that’s a lot of days, old man.”

“Tomorrow’s your last day before school, right?” When she nods, I say, “I can play hooky. Let’s do something. A picnic?”

She grins. “Playing hooky, keeping your phone off all day? What is the world coming to?”

I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone, turning it on.
Time to get back to hell
. “Yeah. I’ve never done that. I probably have a thousand messages.”

“I guess you’re not very easy to live without.”

I laugh. “The only person I want to think that is you.” Then I notice the display. It’s fucking blown up. Can that be right? Forty-three messages? “That’s odd.”

“What?” she asks, craning her neck to see the display as she climbs inside.

“Nothing. Safe travels,” I say, reaching down and giving her another kiss, tugging on her lip gently as we separate. I close the door, then bang the top of the limo before it glides away.

Then I stare at my phone, trying to make some sense of it. The messages are from Toni. And Rhys. And some other board members. It must be some big blow-up. But it’s a Sunday, for fuck’s sake. The markets are closed. What the hell couldn’t wait until tomorrow morning?

I turn back to the apartment and the Phil, the doorman, says, “I was very sorry to hear, sir.”

I look back at my phone as I walk inside. The rest of the staff behind the front desk bow to me, sympathetic. It’s slowly dawning on me, the only thing it could be . . . but it can’t be. Not my father. Not the invincible man who thundered from his hospital bed and managed to make his full-grown son cower like a little boy.

Bernard Williams, my father, is dead.

And I’m the last person in the whole fucking city to know.

Cicily

When I get home, I’m practically flying. I hum as I make my way from the train station to our apartment on Main Street. I walk inside, expecting my mother to be at the stove, making dinner or packing her turkey sandwich lunch for work tomorrow, but it’s very quiet and dark. I start to walk to my room when I see her, sitting at the table. In the dark.

Something is wrong.

“Mom?” I ask.

“Where have you been?” she asks, her voice even. Even though she does not sound concerned, I am. Because she’s always been good at letting me have my own life.

“I was at the shore. At dad’s. You know—“

“
Where have you been
?” she demands, louder.

Oh, no. She never talks to my father. Why would she pick today to call him and find out that I left early this morning? Quickly, I try to think of an explanation for where I’ve been these past few hours. I decide to play nonchalant. “You could have called me if you were worried. I met some friends. It’s the last day before they go off to college, so we decided to hang out.”

“Really,” she says. I can still tell something is wrong. She’s never had a leash on me before.

“Why, mom? Is everything okay?”

 “Bernard Williams died today,” she says shortly.

I gasp. “He did? How?”

“Cardiac arrest, earlier this morning.”

I can’t even . . . poor Caden. He has his phone glued to his side at all times, and isn’t it just his luck that the day he doesn’t, his father passes away? I think of what he’d said before I left. He’d called this the best day of his life. And now . . .

“Williams had an emergency board meeting this afternoon, to determine his successor.”

“His son, right?”

She stares at the table. “It turns out that there are some reservations about having Caden Williams run the company. They say his behavior has been rather erratic lately. That he’s been missing meetings and that he recently broke off his engagement. They couldn’t even get in touch with him to come to the board meeting and state his case. And so there were concerns.”

I bring my hand to my mouth. “Mom. What are you saying? They chose a new CEO?” My voice is only a whisper.

“I’m saying,” her eyes flash to mine. “That there are rumors all over that he’s fucking an nineteen year old.”

My breath catches in my throat. Oh, my God. “Mom . . .”

“Is he?”

I swallow.

She slams her hands on the table. “
Is he
?”

“I’m in love with him,” I whisper.

She rolls her eyes to the ceiling. “You think he loves you? You’re out of your mind! Cicily, you’re a child. Just like your father, you’ve never known the meaning of the word “mature.” Men like Caden Williams do not fall in love with
girls
. He’s using you. He’s disgraceful. And you’re a silly girl.”