Losing Control (23 page)

“Don’t really know what to say,” I tell him evenly. Grabbing another water, I follow my mom down the hall and step inside the bedroom that is temporarily my home. The bed is made and Ian’s blue T-shirt that I’ve been sleeping in is folded neatly and resting on the end. The white glove service apparently includes a daily maid. The comforter is like a cloud, and I wonder if I can take it with me when we move out.

“How much does this place really cost?” I ask Ian, who has followed me in and is leaning against the wall. He’s closed the door behind him but hasn’t made a move toward me.

“Five million, give or take a few hundred thousand.”

I’m glad I’m lying down so I don’t faint.

“Is it the money that bothers you, Tiny? Because I thought you said you were all about the money.” He’s mocking me now but it’s gentle and without spite.

“I don’t know what it is,” I say slowly, staring up at the white ceiling. At least the ceiling looks normal here, if not a little higher than my old apartment. “I feel like I’m always playing catch up with you. I said I’d do the Howe project for you and now it feels like I’m getting fired. You’re spending money on me like . . .” I struggle for a comparison and use the clothing lady’s version, “like nothing is more than a latte from Starbucks, and it makes me feel like we’ll never be equals.”

“And being seen as an equal is important to you?” He’s moved away from supporting the wall and is now sitting on the edge of the bed. I move over, not sure if I’m making room for him or getting away from him.

“Wouldn’t it be for anyone?” I counter.

“I really only care what is important to you.” He settles next to me but is careful about not touching me.

“It’s so fast, Ian, and I’m not a plastics company. I’m a human and moving into this apartment, getting all those clothes, and now, having you say things that suggest you are interested in something serious when we don’t even know each other confuses me.” I figure there’s no point at subterfuge, not when I want honesty in return. “I don’t know how much is an act and what’s real.”

He shifts me closer and his implacable hand turns my head so that we are eyeball-to-eyeball. “That I want you? It’s no act,” he says harshly.

I can’t hide my misery. “This game is too hard for me. I don’t know the rules, and I’m afraid I’m going to get hurt in the process.”

Ian releases my neck and cups my cheek. “Let me tell you what you need to know about me. I'm loyal, generous, and I like to have things my own way.”

“The last one isn't really a plus,” I mutter.

“Who said I was itemizing my attributes? This is who I am. I want you, Tiny. In my bed and in my life. You aren’t being fired. We’re reassessing the situation. Let’s enjoy each other in the process.”

“For how long?”

“For however long it lasts. Tell me what you want out of life, Tiny.”

Did I know myself as well as Ian? He was able to lay out a very definitive description of himself.

“You should know that I'm loyal, too,” I say slowly. “I care a lot about my family and would like to have one of my own some day.” A wave of longing hits me as I articulate something I didn't even realize was a necessity in my life. My mother’s sickness and my relative personal isolation is part of why Ian’s intense attention is filling me with confusion. I want what he’s offering, but I realize that I want it too much and I want it to last forever. Ian is staring intently at me, as if everything I'm saying is of vital importance. I wish I could read his mind.

“I won’t deny that I was attracted to you from the first minute I saw you on the street. I love that you challenge me, but every minute I spend with you, it cements what I’ve already suspected. You, Victoria Corielli, were made for me. I’m not going to apologize for knowing what I want,” he argues. “Why can’t you take us one day at a time? Let me shoulder some of your burden?”

“Because I’m afraid.”

“Be afraid then. It’s my job to convince you that the fear is unnecessary.” He utters these words with complete confidence, as if by saying them he can will away my anxiety. The bed dips as he climbs off and saunters into the bathroom.

“Gee, thanks.” I listen as he runs water inside the bathroom. Could I go with the flow? What would be the harm? So what if my heart gets broken. Is that really something I can’t recover from? I’ve had bad breakups before.

When he comes out, he’s dressed in casual clothes, a pair of soft pants and a thin white T-shirt that clings to his hard frame.

“I’m going to work a bit.” He lifts a bag that I hadn’t noticed before. It’s so worn that it looks like it’s traveled twice around the world. The creases have creases. Noticing my stare, he pats the side with an affectionate hand. “This baby has been with me for over ten years. My first boss gave it to me. Said every man who aspired to prosperity owned one good leather bag. I couldn’t afford one. One night I was working late and fell asleep at my desk. When I woke up, the bag was sitting next to me. I’ve never used another since. Never will either.”

The words fall like rain on my greedy heart. He’s telling me that his affections aren’t so easily displaced. I give him a small smile and then rise up on an elbow to kiss his cheek. He turns so our lips meet and he gives me slow, wet kisses that make my toes curl. Drawing back, he cups my face with a gentle hand and rubs a thumb across my wet lip. “Get some sleep, bunny.”

After Ian leaves, I tiptoe down the hall to my mom’s bedroom. She’s asleep, lying in the huge bed with her reading glasses on and a book beside her. I pull off the glasses and move the book to the nightstand. “Love you, Mommy,” I whisper.

“Love you too, baby girl,” she mumbles as I walk out.

It takes me a long time to go to sleep, but Ian remains out in the living room doing whatever it is that constitutes work for him. Even when I do fall asleep I’m restless, missing his big, warm body. Later I feel him climb in beside me. A warm arm slides over my waist and a big hand cups my sex in a comforting rather than provocative manner, and I’m finally able to sink into a deep slumber.

Sometime in the night he rouses me and makes love to me gently, moving my limbs and kissing me warmly all over. When he presses inside me, it’s with tender intent. Our bodies move together leisurely and when my orgasm hits, it’s a gentle wave instead of the pounding hurricane of our previous encounters.

He breathes out my name in a long rush of air against my ear as he jets into the condom. I fall asleep with his warm body tucked around me again.

Ian is gone by the time I wake up. The clothes that were lying in the living room last night are hung up in the closet. Some of the items are strange runway-types of clothes that I thought no real person ever wore and I can’t imagine putting on my body but others—like a wispy dress with angled pumpkin and white stripes—are so lovely that my heart skips a beat.

The shoe boxes are stacked in a corner, and the felt bags rest like little dumplings in a row. My piles of T-shirts, tennis shoes, and bike shorts look incongruous and cheap next to the newly bought finery. Just seeing the juxtaposition of my clothes next to the ones that Ian has presumably bought for me highlights the differences in our worlds. We don’t look like we belong together.

I rifle through the clothes and realize that many of the items he’s purchased look very comfortable despite their expensive fabrics. There are several pants and longer skirts. The tops are loose-fitting and made out of a knit fabric or stretchy lace. Even the dresses don’t look like something that would be tight and super revealing but rather fabrics that will skim my not-very-prominent curves. Maybe we can find common ground after all.

He returns around lunchtime with a satchel which he unpacks in the closet where my new and old clothes hang. I watch him silently and remain quiet even after he raises a challenging eyebrow. I’m still trying to figure us both out. Having him around more isn’t really a problem.

The next day he has Steve drive us to the Bronx Zoo the day before Mom’s chemo session. Chemo seems easier this time around. Hallie arrives to read another chapter and I take off to do the day route instead of the late afternoon and evening. Despite being worn out, the following day Mom is upright and sitting in a chair out on the small balcony. The city noise is loud but the cool breeze from Central Park is almost refreshing.

Mom loves Ian and he is incredibly tender and caring with her. My heart swells larger than my body can contain when I see them together but it’s a sweet pain. The days go by swiftly as I look forward to going home and seeing Ian and a cheery mom. The nights are long and passionate. I’ve never been happier.

After a week of missing Ian in the morning because he gets up before the crack of dawn to go to work, I haul myself out of bed early, wearing my beater tank and a pair of panties that he bought. He’s lathering his face with a brush, raising suds as he works his shaving soap in a circular motion. Shirtless, but wearing pants, he leans against the counter toward the mirror, pulling down on his skin and making funny O’s with his mouth as he spreads the soap around.

His actions are mesmerizing, and I stumble into the bathroom for a closer look. Ian taps his brush against the sink and turns, lifting me onto the counter in a smooth movement. “Like what you see?”

“It looks like you have whipped cream on your face.” I draw a finger down a soap-lathered cheek, watching the flesh appear underneath.

“Don’t lick your finger. It doesn’t taste like whipped cream.” He flashes me a quick grin, his teeth gleaming whitely from between lips that look fuller and pinker in contrast to the shaving cream.

“May I?” I ask, picking up the brush. He clenches his jaw once. Then nods and moves between my legs. The wooden soap dish is half-full which seems to indicate that he’s been using it for a while. I sniff the brush and it smells vaguely of lemons. Slowly I swirl the brush in the soap. “Are the bristles soft?” I ask as I smooth the soap on, trying to mimic his earlier circular motion.

His hands are on either side of my hips, and he’s leaning so close to me that I can see the palpable beat of the artery in his neck. The air is thick around us and my mouth is inexplicably dry. I lick my lips and open my mouth to ease the ache in my chest, but the tension is choking me. Still, I keep rubbing the bristles along his taut skin.

The little bristles catch on his hair-roughened cheek and jaw. I swirl the brush in small circles, watching the soap lather up with each pass. My feelings for Ian are so intense and consuming. I want to do everything with him—even this small, intimate act. I wonder how many others have seen him like this. How many have ran the brush across his jaw and traced the dip in his cheek?

“You’re it,” he says softly.

My eyes flick to his and all I can see is me. Me and sincerity. And because I’m tired of being alone, tired of battling by myself, tired of fighting, I give in. My hand creeps behind his neck and grips the nape, drawing him closer to me. From this distance I can smell the lemon and menthol. I can see the soft skin under his eyes, the hard line of his nose. His lids are at half-mast and his hands move restlessly along my outer thighs.

“Tiny,” he groans and then pulls me hard against his erection. His eyes are blazing. “You’re killing me.”

Without regard for the soap, his mouth finds mine. The suds smear across my cheeks and some even creeps between our lips, but I don’t care. It tastes like Ian.

His lips break apart from mine and trace a path from my jaw down to my neck. He breathes my name repeatedly like it’s a prayer.
Tiny, Tiny, Tiny.
I hook my legs around him, reveling in the feel of his hot, hard column of flesh rubbing up against my tender and wet parts.

My tank is pushed up and over my head, and then one breast is palmed and the other is taken into his mouth. Thank goodness for the wall that catches me as I fall backward. He sucks hard on my nipple, so hard I feel my pussy clenching with each long pull. I rub myself against him, wishing he wasn’t wearing his pants. Wishing that we were both naked.

“I need inside your pussy so badly,” he mouths against my breast.

“Yes.”

With a growl, Ian attacks my other breast. The soap on his face is nearly all rubbed off into my skin, but apparently he doesn’t mind the taste either.

My hands fumble at his waistband, but I manage to unbutton and then unzip his trousers. Delving inside his briefs, I release a moan of delight at the feel of his heavy cock in my hands. God, had it only been a few hours since I last touched him? It seems like months. As Ian lavishes attention on my breasts, I encircle his cock with both my hands. The wetness on the tip exhibits his desire. I want more of that. I want all of him.

His mouth is back on my neck, sucking hard. The suction sends a shudder throughout my body. Ian lifts me against him and walks into the bedroom, following me down. With swift kicks, he rids himself of his pants. I can’t stop touching him.

“Need to taste you,” he grunts and pushes down my body, ripping my panties down my legs. Without any preliminaries, his mouth is on me and his tongue is inside me. Bells sound in my head followed by the rasp of a heavy guitar. Wait, a guitar? I manage to roll my head toward my nightstand where my phone is ringing.

“Don’t answer it,” Ian orders. He’s on his knees now, braced over me. His mouth is slick from my wetness, and he’s replaced his tongue with two of his fingers. I turn away from the phone. Malcolm can wait. Reaching down between us, I pull out Ian’s cock. Saliva pools in my mouth. I want his thick length in my mouth, down my throat. I want his balls in my hands. Tugging on him, I sidle downward and he reluctantly lets me. I can tell he’s torn between wanting to be in my mouth and wanting to finger me, but it’s my turn.

The phone rings again. And again. And then there’s a knock on my door. “Tiny,” I hear my mother say. “Malcolm’s on the phone and he says it’s urgent.”

I drop my hands from Ian’s body and he groans in dismay. “Jesus. I hate your brother.”

“Me too,” I sigh. If it weren’t for my mom, I’d ignore the call and finish stripping Ian’s clothes off. Picking up the phone I hit the call button. Immediately Malcolm starts yelling.