Unable to deal with my friends’ eighth-grade mentality any longer, I saunter toward them, grab each friend by the ear, and drag them to the elevator.
“Kinky,” Riggs hisses, planting the heels of his Blundstones on the floor just to make things difficult. “Now talk dirty to the ear you’re about to rip out of my head. I like it rough.”
Arsène flicks my hand away but surrenders willingly, citing that he doesn’t want to be here when I decorate my new carpets with semen once my girlfriend arrives. I dump them in the elevator and brush my palms clean when the chime above my head indicates they are on their way down.
Three minutes later, Arya pops out of the second elevator. She’s wearing a smart business suit. Her crazy hair is in a haphazard bun. She stops in front of me, taking it all in, her eyes big and green and unnerving.
“Howdy, partner.” Her smile is slow, mischievous, and uniquely hers. She reminds me of the twelve-year-old girl I couldn’t look away from.
“Ms. Roth.” I tuck a flyaway behind her ear, pressing a soft kiss on her nose. I step back. “What do you think about my new crib?”
“It’s beautiful.” She lights up, giving herself a mini tour. We’ve already started operating, but next week, we’re opening the office. We’ll have two receptionists, five paralegals, and several new associates coming in. It’s going to be a lot of work, but it’s going to be worth it. “As the spokeswoman for Brand Brigade, we’re excited you chose to work with us.”
As the spokesperson for my heart, I’m hoping you’re not going to stomp on it in a second.
Arya leans against the reception desk, splaying her hands on it. “Have Cromwell and Traurig calmed down yet?”
“Not even remotely.” I make my way toward her, pushing my hands into my front pockets. “They’re still dragging my name through the mud all over town.”
“Good.” Arya smiles brightly. “I do love you a bit dirty.”
I chuckle, motioning to my corner office. “Come on. I want to show you the best part of the office.”
I take her hand in mine and lead her to the room that has taken the most time to design. To the interior designer’s credit, all she had to work with was a few frames from a movie. No more. I push the wooden door open, and Arya gasps.
“It’s not contemporary.” I lower my head to her neck from behind, feathering a kiss over it while my hands find her waist. She shivers into me, inspecting the vast room, a replica of the library from the book and the movie she loves so much.
The mahogany shelves. The ladder. The books. The Persian carpet. The books. The vintage lamp. The books.
The books.
The books.
“Christian . . .” Christian. That’s what she calls me now. Embracing the identity I’ve chosen for myself. Nicky isn’t dead. But I’m no longer the helpless boy she knew. Now, I can protect her. And myself. I intend to do both. “This is . . . breathtaking.”
“It’s yours.”
She turns around, looking at me curiously. “What do you mean?”
And this time, I show her.
I press her against the nearest bookshelf, and two decades later, at thirty-three, I do what fourteen-year-old Nicky couldn’t. I kiss her long and hard, starting from the base of her throat, working my way up, lacing my fingers through hers. She writhes against me, mumbling my name. I can feel her unknotting against me, one thread after another. We both know no one can walk in on us. No one can stop us.
“Are we . . . are we . . . ?” Arya’s pants come in short breaths as my tongue fills her mouth possessively. “Are we reenacting . . . ?”
“No.” I withdraw, pressing a finger over her lips. “We’re creating something new, sweetheart. Something that’s ours.”
With that, I tug her skirt off, then her panties, leaving her in her blouse and high heels. I drop to my knees and start by kissing the insides of her ankles, then make my way up with my lips and teeth. I stop to swirl my tongue over the side of her knee, a sensitive spot for her, and drag my teeth up her inner thigh. When I get to the insides of her thighs, I kiss them slowly, reverently, taking my time, ignoring the main event. Her fingers tug at my hair hard. She is getting desperate. That’s how I want her.
“Christian.” Her soft whimper hits my ears differently now. “Nicky.”
I pause, looking up. She hasn’t called me that in a hot minute. But I can see why the situation would confuse her. Last time we were like this . . .