SIX
Ryan
Holy Jesus! What had I just done? I kissed Willow Rosenthal. And couldn’t get enough of her. I’d forgotten what it’s like to kiss a woman you find insanely attractive in every which way. It was rough and raw, hot and addictive, and it totally turned me on.
My delicate deli girl tasted delicious. I completely lost myself in the kiss. But my ecstasy was short-lived. An ambush of guilt and remorse snuck up on me. In a panic, I fled, without thanking her or her father, leaving them both in a sea of confusion.
My cock throbbing and my emotions in turmoil, I jogged home. I felt sick to my stomach. As if someone had given me a punch to my gut.
As I slogged out the elevator that opened to my loft, a massive dose of guilt surged inside me. Fuck. There was Allee. Curled up on the couch as usual, this time wearing only one of my crisp cotton dress shirts. The top buttons were opened, exposing her eye-worthy cleavage. Once upon a time, I had placed my cock in that sexy chasm and let her rub her breasts against my shaft till I came all over them.
“I’m sorry,” I muttered, hanging my head in shame.
“About what, Golden Boy?”
I slowly raised my head and met her gaze. After the awful discovery of her sordid “other” life and later the cancer, we’d vowed not to keep secrets from each other. Even if I tried to keep a secret, she would eventually pry it out of me. Sooner than later.
“I kind of had a date with a girl.” Every word was a struggle.
Her reaction shocked me. A big smile spread across her luminous face. “It’s about time, Madewell. You know you can’t mourn me forever.”
Allee’s farewell letter flashed into my head. She had told me that she wanted me to meet someone new after she was gone. I didn’t really believe her words when I first read them, but maybe she really meant them.
“So, what’s her name?”
“Willow.”
“Pretty. And two L’s… a good sign.” Allee had a thing for double “L’s.” She believed that Superman, her childhood superhero crush, had a thing for girls with double L’s in their names. Like Lois Lane and Lana Lang. She had once called me her Superman though sadly I could not save her in the end.
“So, tell me, what does she look like?”
I described Willow in detail.
“So, a lanky redhead. That’s a surprise. What’s she like?”
I went on to tell her that she was the daughter of the deli guy we always ordered take out from. And then I explained how we met and told her about my Yom Kippur outing, not going beyond the synagogue part.
“So, she’s Jewish?”
“Yeah, from the Lower Eastside.”
“Oooh… your parents are really going to like her.” Her voice was dripping with sarcasm…so very Allee.
“They’re getting better.” Seriously, they were. With the help of Dr. Goodman, I was slowly making amends with my father. Last year’s major stroke—it happened while he was screwing one of his mistresses—had changed him. Partially paralyzed, he was now wheelchair bound, slightly more open-minded, and he was keeping his pants on. My mother, who should have left him, nursed him back to health, the good trophy wife she was. He was beholden to her though he’d never admit it and now disabled, he needed her more than ever. His dependency on her gave her power. Though the marriage was still strained by most standards, his forced newfound faithfulness had saved it. And my mother was drinking less. Okay. A little less.
Allee rolled her eyes while I dwelled on her snarky comment. What made her so sure I was going to introduce Willow to my parents? What kind of mind game was she playing with me? Before I could challenge her, she asked me another question.
“So, what exactly did you do with Willow on your date?”
“Not much.”
“You’re bullshitting me, Madewell.”
My stomach twisted; I couldn’t fool Allee. I blurted out the truth.
“Allee, I kissed her.” Suddenly, I was feeling miserable again, consumed by a horrific sense of betrayal. How could I have done that? I hardly knew her, and besides my heart belonged to another. When I thought about it more, it was my fault. I should have never touched my lips down on hers, but I couldn’t help myself. To make things worse, she gave me a hard-on. Confession: I almost asked her to give me a blowjob. Guilt mixed with remorse.
“It’s about time.” To my shock, Allee gave me a thumbs-up. Her dark eyes sparkled as she smiled brightly. “Congratulations, Madewell!”
Actually, I was more than shocked. Her reaction hurt me. I mean, here was the woman I had loved—and still loved—with my body, heart, and soul. My wife, my lover, my light…the person for whom I would have given up my life…and she wasn’t even jealous. In fact, she looked like she might do a happy dance. Christ. Allee was feisty. A fighter. And she wasn’t fighting for me. Not one bit.
Miffed, I muttered, “I’m going upstairs. Are you ready?” On most nights, I mentally swept her off her feet and carried her up to my bedroom.
“Not tonight, Madewell.”
“Fine.”
Hey, Madewell, you gotta remember…” Her voice grew softer, the expression on her face more wistful. “I can’t do those kinda things with you any more.” She paused. “Give Willow a chance.”
She had a point. It was no different from what Dr. Goodman or Duffy had told me. I was having difficulty letting go.
By the time I hit the sack, the throbbing between my legs had died down. I was exhausted but restless. I rubbed my eyes, tossed and turned, and kicked off the covers several times. Each time I managed to doze off, I would awaken, searching frantically for Allee by my side, her lovely limbs draped over mine. True to her vow, she never came upstairs.
Finally, God knows when, I drifted off. A dream claimed me.
I was in Paris wandering aimlessly through the Musée D’Orsay. Behind me, I heard footsteps. Those of a woman wearing heels.
“Can I help you?”
I recognized the husky, New York-accented voice immediately. Allee!
Spinning around, I gasped. “Allee, what are you doing here?”
She looked as stunning as ever. In fact, more stunning, wearing the little black dress I’d bought her.
“I work here now.”
“No, you can’t! You belong in New York with me.”
“No, Madewell, I don’t. I belong here now.” She smiled. “I want to show you a wonderful new painting.”
Reluctant and confused, I followed her to an adjacent wing. The paintings were more contemporary. Like they could have been painted only yesterday.
“Look at this masterpiece,” she said, leading me to an exquisite, large erotic canvas of a man and woman making love.
My heart leaped into my throat. I recognized the setting. My bedroom. But the bed was different as was the woman who had her legs wrapped around me. Only her backside exposed, her long red hair cascaded down to her waist.
“Observe the impassioned expression on his face,” said my analytic Allee. “The energy in his body.”
I stared at the painting, my cock hardening as I did.
“Now, step into the painting. Experience it. Feel what the subject is feeling.”
“What?” I murmured, mesmerized by the painting and the erotic high it was giving me.
Allee folded her arms across her chest. Her bossy stance. “Do it, Madewell. Do it for me. I’ll be watching.”
Mentally, as if in a trance, I did as she asked. Jesus. This lithe redheaded girl, sitting on my lap, felt incredible, her lightness of being contrasting with the strength of her thighs straddling mine. My cock fit perfectly into her sweet, tight pussy, and as I pumped her, she took me to the hilt, bucking me in perfect harmony, meeting every thrust. I clenched her slender hips while she gripped my shoulders and rode me with a skillful blend of grace and precision. Arching her back, the rosebud nipples of her pert tits brushed against my chest while the tips of her flaming hair skimmed my thighs. Ecstasy washed over her exquisite face as little moans, like musical notes, spilled from her lips. As I picked up my pace, the moans crescendoed as we came apart.
“Ryan, say my name!” she begged, her muscles shuddering around my cock.
“Willow!” I cried out, so ready to come. Then, like a gunshot, I exploded. My release met hers as Allee looked on, a contented smile spread across her face.
Suddenly, with Willow’s name still on my lips, an alarm rung in my ears. I recognized it. My cell phone. My eyes snapped open, and in a cold sweat, I bolted upright to a sitting position. Grabbing the phone off my nightstand, I speed-dialed Dr. Goodman’s emergency number. The one that was reserved for suicides, overdoses, and murder attempts. In my book, this was an emergency. I couldn’t breathe, think, or function. Or get rid of my morning wood.