I Love My Hope (Nicole's Erotic Romance) (3 page)

“Oh, that
feels so good when you do that, Zach.”

He says
huskily in my ear, “Yeah, you like how I fuck you from behind? Do you like
that?” as his hand presses and holds my pussy in measured beats of awesome.

“Like it?
I love it. Little flicks again!
Just like you were doing a
second ago.
That’s it. There you go.
Yesssss
.”

“You want
me to wait?
 
Want me to hold it?”

The way
Zach’s body moves when he
cums
is extraordinary and
it always pushes me over the edge if I let my mind go.

“No! Give
it to me with total abandon!”

 
“Whatever you want,” he says with a
grunt, his chest on my back, his arm around me with all of its muscles flexing
as he flicks my humming clit until my ass is in the air and I’m yelling out
from the electrifying sensations. When he feels me pulse and contract around his
cock with the first waves of delirium, he rises and grabs onto my hips with
both strong hands, thrusts harder and harder and faster and faster until we are
both impassioned out of our minds. He jerks and grabs me and yells out with his
entire voice and the sound is beautiful to my ears. Our orgasms attach and fuel
each other, try to top one another, until we both collapse under them; wilted,
sweating and exhausted. Euphoric.

“I’m
gonna
go throw the condom in the bathroom,” he mumbles,
kissing my shoulder blade as I sigh.

“
Mmhmm
.” My face is mashed on the cushion, collapsed over
the side of the couch. When he pulls out of me and walks off to do his
business, I push myself farther over until I’m lying down comfortably on it, my
eyes closed, hugging a pillow onto my naked chest.

This is
perfection. No problems. No stress. No attachment.

Zach
returns and pulls out a pack of smokes “You want one?” he asks.

I look
up. “No, thank you. I quit.”

“Yeah?
Good for you.” He leaves me to head to the balcony, wearing only a shirt and
his socks. He must have kicked off his pants.

I smile
and close my eyes again to doze off, thinking,
it is good for me. All of this is.

I don’t
know what time it is when Zach pokes my arm and shoves my phone in my face.
“Nicole. Wake up. I saw this on your phone.”

Groggy
and disoriented, I look at him, then at it. The preview text says from Amber
that Jess is in trouble and come now. I jolt up to a sitting position on the
couch. “Get my clothes!”

As Zach
rushes around, I text back: What’s wrong
?!

Amber: David
cheated on her. She’s at my house.

Me: Oh
fuck.
On my way.

He throws
my clothes at me and I scramble into them. “Zach, I have to go.”

“Yeah. I
get it. Go.”

He’s
holding my bag and keys by the door. And my boots, which he tosses to me now.

“You’re
an angel and I don’t deserve you,” I tell him, as I wiggle into them.

“Damn
straight,” he says, half-kidding. I give him a peck goodbye, grab my things out
of his hands, run out the door, down the stairs and out onto the street,
hailing the first cab I see.

When I
get to Amber’s, I run out of the car and yell, “Hold the door!” to a redheaded
teenager coming out of her building. He holds it, but barely.

“Are you
a model?” he asks as he heads down the front stoop.

“Not now,
kid,” I say as I pass him and grab the door before it closes. I turn around and
yell back, “Hey, wait!”

From the
sidewalk, he looks up at me. “Yeah?”

“I’ve
seen you before. Don’t you live next door?”

“Yeah.”

“So
what’re you doing in here?”

He shrugs
“I’m bored.”

“Fair
enough.” He walks away and I head to the elevator. Then it hits me that the
last time I rode this, was the night I was torn to pieces. Jess has come on her
darkest day, as well, so it turns out that Amber is the rock we both lean on.

Amber
lets me in and we rush into the living room. Seeing Jess sitting on the couch,
staring at the purple fairy, with mascara-streaked cheeks and swollen, dead
eyes – is a shock to my system that I could not have prepared myself for.
Me hitting a low like this, I am used to… but Jess? No… Jess is the happy one.
She’s the goofy one who makes you laugh and takes
away
the edges.
She doesn’t get cut by them
.

From
another world, she says, as I sit next to her, “Her name is Melanie. She was in
my bed.” She turns to me. “My bed, Nicole! How could he do that to me? How
could she do that to me… to another woman?” She looks forward and falls silent,
pained and distracted by images in her imagination of her man in bed with
another woman, images none of us should ever see.

I share a
look with Amber and reach over and pull Jess into my arms, hold her tightly to
me. When I let her go, she reaches for the wine. She puts it back down without
drinking, and deflates to a half-lying position. I pull her legs up and hold
them on my lap to help her know she’s supported. Amber sits on the chair,
silently watching guard. I hear the door open to the bedroom, suddenly aware
that Josh is here. I’ve not been here since they moved in, so it never occurred
to me there was a man present. He comes in and leans against the wall. He and
Amber share a silent conversation through their glances and I can’t help but
wonder at them. How can anyone trust anyone with their heart, like they do?

We all
stay like this for a very long time. There is nothing that will ever rip this
memory away from me. These women are my family. And Josh? The verdict is still
out.

______________________

After That Bomb Explodes

As the
summer passes, we do the usual New York things. We watch movies outdoors in
Bryant Park. We eat only at places that have outdoor seating, to enjoy the sun.
We wear loose or light clothing that doesn’t wilt in the humidity and we carry
tissues to blot our faces from the ‘glow.’ We go to Central Park only once
because, when we walk by the lake, Jess sees a turtle. She melts into tears and
tells the story of the last time she and David were here. Amber hugs her. We each
take a hand and lead her out.

“It won’t
always be this bad, Jess. It’ll get better,” I say.

Amber
agrees. “Yeah, you’ll heal over time.”

But Jess
just says quietly, “I don’t know how.” Then she looks at us. “I’m sorry I’m
such a downer, guys.”

“Don’t
apologize!”

“You take
as long as you need!”

We don’t
push anything. She’s taking the breakup hard and her personality is a shell of its
normal self. We do everything we can to keep subjects light, the activities fun
and easy. Amber helps her find an apartment in the East Village, and we both
hang her pictures and unpack her clothes when she moves in. She even laughs
when we goof around, pretending to want the silverware in her bedroom and the
couch in the bathroom, yelling as we push on it, “It won’t fit!!!” and making
ridiculous noises like we’re fighting a massive attack of constipation or
something. It’s so good to hear her laugh, that we’ll do anything.

Poor
thing. It doesn’t help that her boss is already hyper-sadistic and freaking out
about the impending craziness of Fashion Week that’s coming first week in
September. From the stories Jess tells, The Bitch has been acting extra-bitchy.
She is that special kind of person who needs a cage instead of an office. If I
ever
get the opportunity – when it
wouldn’t hurt my girl Jess or come back to bite her in the ass, of course
– I plan on telling The Bitch off in no uncertain terms, in such a manner
as she will never forget.

Things
aren’t good with Amber, either. She and Josh are drifting apart, a fact that
has cemented in my mind what I’ve always suspected: relationships don’t last
and you should keep your heart safe, for only you to enjoy.

And me?
I’m beginning to forget what Michael looks like. His face has become a fuzzy
blur… over a very clear image of his sinewy, sweating chest, adorned with a single
sexy leather necklace. But at least his face has faded; it’s a beginning.
Neither of us has reached out to each other in any way, for months. I’ve done
things to tear him from my mind and build up my Immune-To-Michael system. I
wear my hair straight now, not wild like he liked it. I don’t get Chinese
take-out anymore. Other kinds are fine, just not Chinese. I don’t go to the
Meatpacking District, even when there is a great sale or an amazing party.
Under no circumstances do I drink Syrah. I’ve even told myself he no longer
lives in America. This is an untruth of immense proportions, but I have told
myself
he’s moved back to Spain
, so
often and so vehemently, that I now believe it.

Almost.

The
candles, I’ve kept. I’ve reclaimed them to light the way when I work. I use
them without thought of him, because everyone owns The Light.

I protect
my heart now. I have no intention of falling in love again. I will keep my
light, sexual liaisons and have fun. I will paint and go out with my friends,
and that is it. Who needs love? I sleep better without it.

Life is
simply… easier.

But you
know how it is. Just when you get comfortable, things go tits up.

The Day I Witness Jess’s Groove Is Back

When That
Spanish Bastard told me I’d smashed through the wall, he was right. I’ve got
twenty-five pieces of evidence. These canvases, covered to completion, are
stacked unframed in a corner of my ‘studio.’ I woke up at dawn with an urge to
look at them. Something about the creation of these has been making me wake up
early and go to bed late. Thumbing through them, it dawns on me that I might
want to show these soon… to the public. My heart rate increases at the idea,
and a smile spreads over my whole body. It is at this moment – I shit you
not – that my phone rings.

I’m
expecting a telemarketer to start their spiel, so I am neither patient nor
friendly when I answer. “Hello?”

“Nicole
Henry?” a male voice asks.

I sigh.
Loudly. “Oh God. If you’re trying to sell me something, you have two choices:
save your breath, or get a verbal beating. You pick.”

He
laughs. “I’m not a telemarketer.”

I’m not
amused, nor convinced. “Prove it, because who the hell calls at 7:30 in the
freaking morning?”

“I
appreciate you curbing your impulse to use the more vulgar term. I’m up early
because I wake at 4:30 a.m. every morning for my jog. It helps me think. I’m
calling
because I’m Jack Fleming of
JF Gallery in Greenwich and I’ve been told I need to meet you… that you’re
quite the painter. You certainly have quite the temper, so that bodes well.” He
chuckles.

I drop
the phone. It hits the hardwood floor and bounces, with me in hot pursuit. Why
didn’t I keep at least ONE rug???

“Sorry!
Sorry. Mr. Fleming? Are you there?”

“Did you
throw the phone?”

“No… my
cat scared me and I dropped it. Like in those horror films… where the cat jumps
out during a silent moment?”

He says
earnestly, “I hate it when they do that.”

“Me too!”
And I yell to my imaginary cat, “Bad kitty! Don’t scare mommy like that.” I hit
my palm to my forehead and mutter, “He ran into the bedroom. We’re safe now.”

“What
kind of cat do you have?”

“Let’s
not talk about my cat. What can I do for you, Mr. Fleming?”

“I got a
call from a friend about you. Are you free to come by this morning?”

 
“Who called?” My first guess is Jessica.
She knows a lot of people because of the magazine.

“Ms.
Henry? Ms. Henry, can you hear me?”

“I’m
here!”

“Shit. I
lost the signal. I’ve got full bars, too. I hate these things.”

I hear
rustling.

“Mr.
Fleming?”
 

The phone
goes dead.

I set it
down on the table and because my legs feel like they’re going to give out, I
use a wall to prop myself. Vibrating rattles yank my attention back to the
phone. I stare at it like it’s not real, because it can’t be. This can’t be
happening. A reputable art dealer is calling?
For me?

My heart
pounding, I grab it just before it goes to voicemail. “Mr. Fleming?”

“There
you are. I lost the signal somehow. Are you in a bad zone?”

“No. I
don’t know what happened.”

He
mumbles under his breath, “Stupid technology,” then says in a normal volume, “I
have a very tight schedule, but I can fit you in if you can come here before
nine o’clock. Work for you?”

Silently
(thanks to fuzzy socks) I jump up and down twice. “Sure… yeah. I think I can do
that. Sure.”