The Build Up (25)

Porter smiled, biting his bottom lip with those perfect teeth, and leaned in, pressing his lips firmly against mine. With a loud thud, I dropped my tote bag, still holding on to my keys. I wrapped my arms around his neck and fully caught up in the rapture of his kiss. His tongue found mine and after a few awkward starts, we found our rhythm. He gently bit the bottom of my lip and I moaned into his mouth. I felt his hands in my hair, gently pulling me deeper into his kiss.

“Ari,” he moaned. The way he said my name was like a song he wrote just for me.

My hands moved down and gripped his muscular back. God, he felt so incredible. Better than any daydream I’d had about him over these past weeks. This was no longer fantasy. This was very real. And very good. So good. And it had to stop. I pulled away, trying to catch my breath and regain my composure.

“I... I should go in, Porter. Choir practice and... I... Good night.” I turned to open the door.

“Ari, wait...”

Without looking at him, I quickly closed the door in Porter’s face. My legs were like jelly as I slid down the length of the door, collapsing like a pile of wet towels on the floor. I heard him whisper my name again in that sexy, melodious way of his. He softly tapped a few times as he waited for a response. Frozen, I couldn’t speak. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to tune it all out. When I heard the purr of his car engine, I finally rose from the floor and turned on my living room lights.

Oh God. OhGodOhGodOhGod.

Shit. Shit.

I threw my tote bag and kicked off my heels. With my buzz long gone, I went into the kitchen and poured a glass of Shiraz. I downed the first glass, followed by another. I left the glass on the counter, opting to bring the entire bottle into the bedroom. I put the bottle on the nightstand, opening the bottom drawer of the nightstand, frantically searching for my main man, Big Papi. Yes, my vibrator named is after a big, Afro-Dominican, major league heavy hitter. One look at it and you’d realize why it was the most appropriate name.

I turned him on. C’mon and give me grand slam.

I needed something, anything, to stop me from picking up the phone, telling Porter to turn around and come finish what he started.



Chapter Ten


Ari


The thud of the wine bottle crashing to my floor jolted me out of the bed. I had hit the alarm on my phone several times and slept half the day away. Between the wine and a few rounds with Big Papi, there was no way that I could be singing about the Lord this morning. I sat on the edge of the bed, and I looked at my cell phone. I had a half-dozen missed calls, most of them from my mom and Bella. And there was one missed call from Porter.

Oh God...last night.

I rubbed my throbbing temples as thoughts of last night replayed in my mind. What on earth was I thinking? What were we thinking? I rubbed the pad of my thumb against my lips, remembering the feel of Porter’s lips on my own. Once we caught our groove, our tongues and lips met, touching, moving, and teasing as if they’d known each other’s landscapes for years. Decades even. A kiss like that, where two people melt into each other, isn’t just happenstance. I’m not one to believe in soul mates, destiny, and all that nonsense. Well, not anymore. History has proven that a kiss that good, that amazing, could only bring me heartache in the end.

I threw myself back onto the bed and felt something poking me in my back. Remembering, I threw Big Papi on the floor. I sat up, my head now ringing like a cathedral bell. You’re no longer twenty-one, Ari. I needed coffee. An IV of it preferably.

As I staggered around the kitchen, the chime of the doorbell startled me, nearly sending my coffee cup flying. Who on earth could it be this time of...? I looked at the time on the coffeemaker. It was nearing early afternoon. I was so hungover from liquor and orgasms that my agenda was escaping me. I wasn’t expecting anyone, was I? What if it was Porter? What if he wanted to finish what he started? My heart began to pound as loudly as my head, both sounds melding into a syncopated thump.

I walked to the front door and looked out the peephole. It was Mr. George, my lovely contractor, holding some blueprints and what looked like wood. Thank God! I looked at myself in the mirror next to the door. I tightened my fluffy robe around my waist, brushed my hair back and flicked the crusty boogers out of the corners of my eyes.

“Hey, Mr. George...did we have a meeting today?” I asked as I opened the door.

Mr. George walked in and politely put on his boot covers. “Yes, Ms. Ari. We did. Remember? I wanted to show you some more ideas for the master bath and some wood samples. Just got in some nice ones for the laundry room cabinets.”

I slapped my hand to my head, signaling my forgetfulness. I was supposed to meet him after choir practice. I ushered Mr. George into the kitchen and offered him a seat at the island. Mr. George was a short, graying-at-the-temples, man from Ecuador who had come to this country with five dollars and a dream, eventually building a multimillion-dollar renovation business alongside his wife. He was so well-known that the popular home improvement television networks had offered him a show. But, as he always recalled when telling the story, he turned them down because he’s about the work, not the fame. Network show or not, Flores Construction and Renovation was still famous in the city for their beautiful restoration work of craftsman style homes like mine. Now that he was a widower, Mr. George put all his energy into work. Sometimes, I would catch him looking at a photo of his wife on his cell phone and my heart would ache. Maybe someday someone would look at an old photo of me that way.