Unless he was willing to throw me over his shoulder fireman style, there wasn’t much Frank could do when I insisted on taking the Tube home that night, in spite of Dylan’s plea. I knew Dylan was worried, and there was an unfamiliar tingling of guilt knowing this would make him worry more, but I just needed to be in the midst of people, around the London buzz. Sometimes it was actually easier for me to think when I was part of the city, when I was moving, when there was a crowd.
Frank and I stood next to each other in the packed train car. He managed not to sway while holding onto nothing; meanwhile, I gripped the yellow pole for dear life as the train made a curve. Frank was protective, and while it irked me that he needed to be there, I had to admit he came in handy, and after today I felt pretty comforted by his presence. One time, a few weeks earlier, a man had “accidentally” bumped into me and then let his hand linger a little too close to my ass for a little too long. Frank hadn’t hesitated to physically remove the man’s hand and essentially shield my body from other passengers the rest of the ride. The amazing thing was that I don’t think one passenger other than the offending guy even saw it happen. Frank, despite his obvious desperation to be chopping wood somewhere, was seriously smooth.
I thought back to the conversation with Dylan about this latest email intrusion. He did make me feel safe—I didn’t doubt for a second that he was doing everything he could to catch this guy. I knew that a big part of the stress I saw in Dylan lately was the fact that it seemed to be taking him longer than he’d expected. But I also thought about the content of that email. More accurately, it was now clear to me that Dylan had huge swaths of this life—with his father, family, and apparently, business deals—that he kept to himself, that he had no intention of including me in. And maybe that was fine, expected even. We hadn’t been together that long, and I wasn’t experienced in relationships. How did people figure out this balance? Of when to push and pull? Of when to trust and let go?
This was where my mind was when I felt my phone buzz in my pocket. My body was exiting the Tube stop and walking down the street towards Dylan’s house with my umbrella in hand, my bag slung over my shoulder, and the comforting sound of Frank’s steps behind me. I looked at the bright screen and saw it was Michael, my neighbor.
I hadn’t seen Michael apart from the odd passing each other on the street or taking out the garbage, but he texted occasionally—once asking me if I needed anything from the store, once commenting about our neighbor’s odd dog, and once with a picture of some plant in his garden, asking me if I thought it was mint or a weed. This, however, was the first time he’d called.
“Hi, Michael, how are you?”
“Oh, fine. Sorry to ring—hope it’s not a bad time. I just got home and the postman’s been, and it looks as though he’s left a parcel for you. Did you want me to bring it in? I know you get in quite late often, and it’s raining, and well…” he mumbled.
“Oh, that’s so kind of you. Um, sure. Yeah.” I was rattling my brain for an alternative to Michael taking it into his house, but I couldn’t. “I’ll, um, come get it tomorrow or over the weekend, if that’s okay?”
“Of course. Maybe I can come by with some of that mint from my garden, and I could bring it or…” He trailed off.
“I’m so sorry, Michael, but I’m just swamped this week. Hey, how was the date you had last week?” He’d mentioned to me a blonde from his office.
“Oh, wasn’t a date—nothing really,” he said emphatically, like he wanted to make sure I knew.
I exhaled with slight frustration through my lips, making them flutter and catching Frank’s attention. It didn’t seem possible that Michael didn’t know about me and Dylan—everyone else, from the barista at the local Starbucks to the mailman, knew about my love life. But then why would he keep dropping hints? That night at the club when he asked me out flashed before my eyes, quickly followed by the memory of Dylan’s red-hot possessiveness. If Dylan could hear this conversation now, I had no doubt he would want to pull the phone from my hand and make it clear to Michael in no uncertain terms what my relationship status was. Thinking about how frustrated he would be when I would let him do no such thing made me laugh a little, but Michael’s voice snapped me back to the present.
“Hello? You still there?” he asked.
I coughed to stifle my chuckle. “Ah, sorry. Um, I’ll call you about the package in the next few days. And thank you so much for looking out for me and my mail.”
“Of course. Another time then,” he replied sullenly.
“Yes, definitely,” I replied. “And hey, I think you should ask Blondie out again. Persistence counts, you know,” I said cheerfully, approaching Dylan’s front door.
“So they say,” he replied quietly.
“Talk soon,” I said and let the call go. My mind was on a glass of wine and my book. Maybe TV.
Frank held open the door for me. “I can fetch your parcel for you, Lydia,” he offered, shrugging apologetically for having eavesdropped.
“Oh, you don’t have to do that. I’ll get it.”
“I suspect Mr. Hale would prefer I do it.”
* * *
That night I fell asleep reading in Dylan’s bed. I’d eaten a full serving of Molly’s cottage pie and enjoyed a healthy-sized glass of Cabernet in front of the fire. I’d nearly drowned in his bathtub and then sank into his soft sheets, planning to wait up for him. Clearly that hadn’t happened.
I heard my own moan before I was aware of anything else. I had been in a deep sleep, and as I came to semiconsciousness, the first thing I noticed was the cool, broad hand between my legs.
Then the warm lips against my cheek, then against my neck. I was so warm—I could feel Dylan’s fingers stroking, coaxing. I moaned again and rolled, partly frustrated at being woken from my heavenly sleep, still in my dreamworld, and now partly from the oncoming desperation between my legs.
“Shh, baby,” he calmed me, gliding on top of me and stretching my arms above my head, attempting to subdue my desperation but also fueling it. Somehow I’d gotten naked. Had I fallen asleep that way?
He played tormentor and rescuer in the same moment, and made the tension thicker, sweeter. He pinched my clit lightly, and my back arched off the sheet, exposing my breasts to the night air.
“Let me make you feel good,” he whispered.
I moaned again, louder, and was met with another hushing from Dylan. My legs fell open for him, and I rolled my head from side to side, trying to relieve the tension somehow, somewhere, if not where it mattered most. I was still half in a dream state and half awake, which made the sensations pulsing through my body feel surreal, exquisite.
Dylan had me pinned now, his hips firmly above my own, one of his arms holding my hands down above my head, and the warmth of his breath hot against my cheek. He continued to work me with his fingers, splitting me, finding me, fucking me perfectly. By reaching into my slick opening and strumming the front of me from the inside, he demonstrated his terrifyingly perfect knowledge of the female body. Was it only me he could play this way, or was it every woman? I turned my head into the pillow, eyes still in sleep, and moaned louder, in frustration.
“No, no, baby, not yet,” he chided, withdrawing his fingers at the precise moment I started to contract around him. I growled at him, eyes still closed, still groggy, and he chuckled against my neck. “So impatient. So greedy.”
I raised my own lips to his neck and bit him, hard. I was lost to him, to feeling him.
He hissed and sucked in a breath. “You little devil. For that, you may not come at all.” I bit again. Harder. I wriggled my arms and pushed my hips up into him, driving his fingers farther into me and searching for the real friction I needed. I could feel him smile against me. “Tsk, tsk.”
We continued like that—me begging with my body and him almost giving in. Dylan was always bossy, always possessive of my pleasure, liking to dole it out in his measure, but this was beyond intense. He was taking it further, retreating more, bringing me closer, even more than usual, and yet always pulling back.
With each stroke, the pinpricks assaulting my core got sharper. The anticipation was a serrated blade carving me up. But I let him go on, trusting him, waiting for him to deliver. But he didn’t. And it was torture. Had he been serious about not letting me come?
“Dylan!” I finally pleaded in a pathetic, shrieking tone, my eyes flying open in frustration, the room so dark I could barely make out his form above me. I was shocked by how desperate I sounded. “Please! Fuck me!”
He stilled, and I took in the dark room in the middle of the night, took in his lost face. He looked into me; for all I knew it was the first time he’d even looked at my face since he’d begun his assault. He looked like he had been somewhere else and, despite using my body like an orgasmic punching bag, was just now arriving.
He looked sorry.
I wriggled my hands free and reached between my legs—I needed to come. He had brought me to an agonizing place of need. “No, baby,” he said more sweetly this time, “let me. I did this—let me make it right.” He moved down the bed, pulling my legs over his shoulders as he went. I could see only his dark head and broad shoulders when I had the strength to lift my head and take a look.
He slid his hands, palms up, under my bottom and tilted me towards his mouth. He kissed me. He kissed me like he’d kiss my mouth, devouring me. His soft, wet strokes spoke right to the intense heat that he’d built, and with a flick of his tongue over my raw, hard clit I spiraled out into my orgasm. My legs clamped around his head as I tried to cope with the searing contractions. I could feel my arousal pouring over his tongue, my muscles clamping down on themselves, hungry to be clamping down on him. And then again. He’d created so much tension, and it was being released in waves.
I was panting, heaving, damp with sweat, when he returned to me. “That better?” Dylan asked.
I smiled up at him—well, as much of a smile as I could muster in my haze—and I could see something in him I’d never seen before: need. Not just lust or possessiveness, but a deep desire to know that I was okay, for me to make him okay too.
“Now let me,” I said. He needed to work something out, and he was working it out with me, on me.
I held his face in my hands for a moment, looking right into his eyes, and kissed him. I could have urged him onto his back and rode him, or given him a blow job. I could have gifted him orgasms that were all about me giving and him receiving. But I realized in that moment that was not what he needed. He needed to lose himself in me, to take me of his own accord. I could see it, written all over him—he needed to own me that night. I returned my hands to their position above my head and spread my legs just a little wider for him, inviting him. He saw my invitation for what it was, and he took it.
* * *
Dylan’s head now rested on my belly, his arm wrapped around my waist, his legs gripping my own between them.
“Hey,” I said softly, running my fingers through his hair. This time it was me trying to coax him.
He didn’t look up at me but kissed my belly instead.
“Hey,” I said more insistently. “Everything okay down there? I don’t usually get wake-up calls quite that…determined.”
He released himself from his viselike grip on my body and took up a position on the pillow next to me. “I’m…sorry about that. Not sure what came over me.” Except I was pretty sure that he did know.
“Is it about the email?” I asked.
Dylan gritted his teeth and rolled to lie flat on his back, eyes now glued to the ceiling, and I curved onto my side so I could see him. “Baby, I can’t stand that my crazy life is creeping into yours,” he added, driving his fingers through his hair. “I hate that I can’t confirm who the bastard is that’s doing this.”
“You can’t control everything, Dylan.”
“Apparently not,” he said, eyebrows raised. “The Tube?”
I shrugged. I wasn’t going to apologize for that.
“I just want you…I just want you safe. You know that, right?”
“I know, but like I said—”
“I can’t control everything. I know,” he said, sighing. “This isn’t about the Tube,” he added, wrapping an arm around me and pulling me against him. “Not that I don’t want to spank you silly for that.” He rubbed my ass with his hand, as though he was actually thinking about it, but then he exhaled again. “I might actually be able to catch the asshole, if only my fucking father would lay off me and actually help me.”
“Your father?”
“He could help me do something to investigate one possibility for who’s been sending these emails, but he’s so caught up in his own tiny self-serving world that he won’t. He’s apparently determined for me not to press him. He just wants me to roll over like a puppy.” Dylan was getting worked up, I could feel it in the rapid rising and falling of his chest. “He’s a complete arse. A complete. Fucking. Arse. Worse than that—he’s a greedy bastard with no regard for social progress, for running a company with any morality whatsoever. And being a father? Fucking forget it. The man belongs in the clink with Satan for a cellmate.”
“Okay,” I said, taken a little aback by his vehemence and the turn in the conversation. “Care to elaborate? Did he say something awful?”
“Oh yes. He can be counted on for that at least.” He rolled onto his back again and threw his forearm over his eyes. “I don’t want to talk about it, Lydia.” I lay on my side looking at him, and I reached over and ran my fingers through his hair again, pulling gently at the short strands. “I refuse to be him, no matter how he tries to make me in his mold.”
“He wants you to be like him?”
“If he had his way,” he replied, “I’d sell the firm, forget architecture ever existed, take control of Hale Shipping, get married—preferably to a friend’s daughter—and devote my life to producing heirs, having others do my bidding, and living a quiet family life riding horses, extolling the virtues of the peerage, and reminding everyone of their proper station in life. He’s doing his absolute best to straight-out demand it.” He was practically spitting as he spoke. “None of that is ever going to happen.”
I curled myself into his side, letting him wrap his enormous arms around me and pull me in closer. “None of that is you. You’ll never be so cold or heartless,” I said before realizing that I had just called his father cold and heartless. “I mean, I shouldn’t say that. I’ve barely even met him—”
“No, you’re absolutely right. He’s awful,” he confirmed and rubbed his face with his free hand. “Do you know he’s been cheating on my mum since I was a teenager?”
I looked up at him, dropped my jaw. “Really? With who?”
“His secretary,” he said, huffing incredulously. “Can you believe that clichéd shite?”
“Have you met her?”
“You mean them? There have been seven of them.”
I laughed, not because it was funny, but because it was outrageous. “Seriously? And they’re always his secretary?”
“Every. Single. Time. You’d think he could at least be original.”
“Yeah. Is it just me or is it somehow more disrespectful to your mom to have predictable clichéd affairs? Like, sure, maybe a little extramarital action is accepted in the aristocracy, but have some imagination for crying out loud. Like, maybe his proctologist? Or a member of Parliament? Oooh, or like one of those mimes in Covent Garden.” I felt Dylan smile into my hair, and then chuckle, and then really chuckle.
“I can see the headline now,” he said, his chuckle growing into a full-on belly laugh as he rolled onto his back. “‘Your place or mime? Sixteenth Duke of Abingdon beds silent street performer.’”
His laughter was contagious.
“‘Geoffrey Hale snogging outside the box,’” I said, laughing through my words and doing the classic mime box move with my hands.
“‘While his mistress performs in one!’” Dylan was gripping his sides from laughter, and he could barely get the joke out.
“‘“The Duke of Abingdon is all mime” mistress is thought to have said,’” I said, giggling and trying to act like a mime, making exaggerated expressions that no one would ever be able to interpret.
We were literally rolling over from dumb puns and slowly letting the silliness lie between us. Somehow we’d just ended up in a fit of laughter over his father’s infidelity.
“By the way,” I said, “I don’t care if you are aristocracy. If you ever cheat on me, I’ll put your balls in some kind of medieval torture device—I’m sure there are lots of options in the Tower of London, and I have connections.”
“I’d never dream of it, baby. Why would I need to? The perfect girl is already mine.”
I ignored the perfect girl part of what he said and just affirmed the important thing. “Yours.”
“Don’t forget it,” he said, looking firmly into my eyes. He leaned in and kissed me sweetly on the lips. We stayed like that for a moment, the tension uncoiling, Dylan relaxing into our comfortable, safe world. Into us.
“Thank you,” he whispered as we settled back to sleep. “Thank you for making me laugh. Thank you for letting me…” He didn’t finished the thought. He didn’t need to.