Chapter Twelve
Darcy
“Keats wanted to be Fanny’s shining star.”
Ian stood on the edge of the rooftop garden, gazing down at the city. When I’d arrived at his place, there’d been a note pinned to the door, inviting me to come upstairs for dinner. It was a chilly spring evening, and the stars shone overhead. He wore a pair of jeans and a black cashmere sweater. I wondered if it felt as soft as it looked.
“I’ve read the poem—it’s one of my favorites.”
Long ago, Keats wrote about a “steadfast” star watching over his “fair love.” To me, the poem spoke about yearning. And seeing Ian silhouetted in the moonlight, standing only a few feet for me, I understood what the poet meant.
We weren’t far apart at all, but I longed to be closer. I wanted no space between us whatsoever. So I closed the distance until I stood beside him.
“Mine too. So I thought a star theme was appropriate.” Ian took my hand in his and squeezed it.
He’d promised me a special evening, and delivered. On the linen-covered table, two candles burned. There were a few Maison Rose containers, with coq au vin inside, perhaps.
Ian had also strung up white lights, like twinkling stars, on the eves of the building. On the stereo, “Counting Stars” by OneRepublic played.
“I want you to know that we’re different.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I’ve been with many women, but you’re important to me. Tonight means something. You mean something to me.”
So Ian felt it too—the connection.
“You’re important to me, too.”
“Good.” He gestured to the table. “Hungry?”
“Yes, but not for food.”
It was time—I’d been waiting for this night my whole life.
His pupils dilated. “Then let’s go downstairs.”
“Lead the way.”
***
“Nervous?”
“Yes, but in a good way.” I was more keyed up than anything—alert, aware, ready. Every nerve ending felt super sensitive. I swore I could even feel the air on my skin.
We were in Ian’s upstairs bedroom. He’d lit a couple of white pillar candles on the nightstand and brought his stereo downstairs with us.
I sprawled across the king-sized bed, barely dressed, near the edge of the mattress. I’d chosen a pair of white boy shorts and a matching bra this time.
“Comfortable?”
I swallowed. “Yes, you have nice sheets. Egyptian cotton?”
Ugh. Why did I always sound like an idiot?
He chuckled. “Yes, one thousand thread count.”
“Wow. Nice.” I bobbed my head.
“Are you sure about this?”
“Yes.” Crossing any threshold was daunting, but it was long past time.
“And you’re not just trying to get straight A’s in my classes?” His lips curved into a teasing grin.
“No.” I giggled, grateful for the tension release.
“Good. Then we’ll take this nice and easy.”
And then he knelt on the end of the bed, still fully clothed. Ian started at my feet, kissing the tips of my toes, the slope of my arch, my ankle, and on up to my calf. Then he eased me further over on my side so he could kiss my thigh.
I relaxed, closing my eyes and letting him lead. Ian spooned me from behind, kissing my neck, thumbing my nipples through the bra, nibbling my ear. He tipped my head back and kissed me, slow and easy—tasting me, waking me up. His touch was unhurried—caressing my stomach, down the length of my thigh.
Before long, he rolled me onto my back, pushed my bra up, and gently squeezed my breasts, palming and kissing them. He tasted each nipple, then kissed his way down my body.
“Let’s see how you’re doing.”
I spread my thighs for him. Ian slipped a hand beneath my panties, rubbing me slowly at first, then with more force. I remembered exactly how good his mouth had felt. In a rush, I flooded with wet heat.
“Oh, yes, you’re getting warm for me.” With a grin, he slipped the shorts down my hips and legs, then tossed them on the floor.
And I was bared to his gaze.
Ian stood and peeled off his sweater, then his jeans. His movements were measured, deliberate. I wondered if he gave me time to back out.
Not a chance—I wanted him, wanted this too badly. Had pictured being with him many times. Hard to believe this wasn’t a fantasy.
And now I finally had my chance.
I saw him for the very first time. The scar on his chest. Van Gogh’s A Starry Night tattoo down the length of his right arm. I wanted to trace the moonlight swirls with my fingertips.
Yes, I’d barely scratched the surface of this man.
Even if we were together a hundred years, I doubt I’d ever really know him. He kept me on guard, off-kilter.
Ian knelt beside me on the bed. His cock was long, thick, and wine-dark. This was the first time I’d seen a dick in real life. I’d seen pictures, of course, and felt one pressed against my hip before.
“Can I?” I lifted a hand toward him and watched in wonder as his cock lifted toward me of its own accord, as though it longed for my touch.
“You can stroke me anywhere you like.”
I wrapped my fingers around him, marveling at how he was so firm, yet the skin felt silky smooth. After I pumped him for a bit, a pearled drop appeared at the top of his shaft.
“Taste me, pet. I need your mouth.”
I bent my head and licked it away—he tasted like salted caramel on my tongue. With his encouragement, I lapped the length of him, occasionally taking the tip into my mouth.
Ian groaned.
While my technique left a lot to be desired, Ian seemed to appreciate my enthusiasm, if his grunts were any indication. I let the sounds he made guide my movements and did my best to pleasure him.
“Fuck, I can’t wait anymore.” Ian pushed me back on the bed, placing himself between my spread legs. “Are you ready?” He kissed me, ran his hands down the length of my body, cupping my ass.
“Yes.”
“Good.” After he put on a condom, Ian eased the head of his cock into me, leisurely at first, letting me get used to the size of him. Fingers were nothing compared to his size and girth, and I gritted my teeth.
Sharing my body with another person was a strange feeling, a fullness. I suppose there’s an element of submission in lovemaking, a giving of oneself to another.
Ian arched, and I cupped his face. He kissed my fingertips, and we smiled at one another. I’d never been more connected to him.
The sensation changed, the fullness became pressure, and the pressure became resistance. My breath hitched when he thrust forward in a delicious rasping motion, making me arch my back.
My head lolled to the side, and I closed my eyes because the sensation was so intense. I floated on the verge of an orgasm, so close I could sense it, like a wave on the horizon, ready to roll me beneath the water.
And I wanted more—so much more.
“I need you to come for me.” He spoke through gritted teeth. I could tell Ian was on edge, too.
I slipped a hand between my legs, just above where Ian pumped away, and circled my clit, coaxing myself. In a second, the ripples began, and I moaned in response. With a cry, I let the release take me.
After Ian came, he collapsed beside me on the bed.
***
Later on, we lounged beneath the covers. We’d made love two more times. I couldn’t get enough of him. He trailed fingertips over the line of my collarbone, down between the swell of my breasts.
The candles had burned down quite a bit. Coldplay’s “A Sky Full of Stars” played in the background.
“Well, did it live up to the hype?”
“Absolutely.” I’d never be the same again.
“Fair warning—I’m very tactile.”
I chuckled. “So I see.”
“Tell me more about you, Darcy.”
“I don’t know…”
“Come on, open up to me.”
I frowned. “I’m not good at letting people in.” My family had high standards—insanely high. “As a kid, I learned to keep my mouth shut, or invite criticism.” And I didn’t let anyone see my insecurity.
“Try me. I won’t be critical.”
Over the past few weeks, we’d gotten closer and closer. I suppose it was time to let my guard down.
“Let’s see. Everyone in my family’s exceptional.” I gave him the rundown of their accomplishments.
“I think we found the source of your panic attacks.”
I laughed without much humor. “I can’t keep up with any of them. When I get an A, it should’ve been an A-plus. If I make it into an honor society, I should’ve applied to a couple more. Nothing I do is ever enough. They focus on ways I could improve, and never notice what I do well—it’s a lot of pressure.”
And that was probably why I imposed high standards on the people around me—my friends, for example.
He kissed my shoulder. “I never thought to ask, Darcy. Do you actually want to be a professor? Or did your parents push you into it?”
I hesitated. “It’s a complicated question.”
“No, it isn’t. At the end of the day, you’re the one who’s going to be teaching classes and grading papers for the rest of your life.”
“I suppose.” But I didn’t want to discuss my dysfunctional family.
“Seriously, though. Have you considered other options?”
“Well, I wrote a book.” I blurted it out before I thought better of telling him.
“You did? How come you didn’t tell me sooner?”
“Because I showed it to my father, and he said I have no talent.”
He snorted. “Maybe your dad’s jealous?”
“Why? He’s more accomplished.”
“And apparently insecure.”
I couldn’t argue with his logic.
“Let me read it. Please?” he asked.
Writing was an intensely personal activity— a little bit of myself on every page. Letting someone read my book is a bit like handing over a piece of my heart. In fact, many writers called their manuscripts “book babies” because so much time, effort, and love went into their design. At this point, I hadn’t even let any of the girls read it.
But I trusted Ian, felt close to him. Maybe because he was an artist, so he understood where I came from.
“Okay, I’ll email you the manuscript tonight. Word of warning—it’s a full-blown romance.”
“I’m not surprised. It’s your genre of choice.”
“And the book’s racy.” While I’d written suggestive scenes in the short stories he’d read, there’d never been more than kissing and some flirtation. There were several full-blown, highly descriptive sex scenes.
“Now I really want to read it.” His voice dipped lower.
I hit him with a pillow.
“Can I ask you something?” Ian rolled over, so we were face to face.
“Anything.”
“Would you still fancy me if I weren’t a professor?”
“What do you mean?” This conversation had taken a sudden, serious turn.
“The department chair has been hinting around about our relationship.”
“He’s going to fire you?” I sat up in bed.
“No, Walter doesn’t have any proof, just innuendo.” He enfolded me in his arms, so my head rested on his chest, and smoothed my hair. “So there’s nothing to worry about—for now, anyway.”
“And what about tenure? Your plan for the future?”
“What if I took a sabbatical? Maybe just the summer?”
“You want to paint again?”
“I’m thinking about it.”
“For the record—it’s a fantastic idea.”
“I hope so.”
“Why are you so worried about taking up art again?”
“It can be…liberating. That’s not always a good thing.”
“You equate freedom with lack of control, don’t you?”
Ian nodded. “Everything came to a head—I discovered myself as an artist, I had my first manic episode, and then my life went to pot.”
“It’s only natural you’d be wary.”
“Perhaps. And what about you?”
“What about me?”
“Darcy, you wrote a novel, and it deserves to be published.”
“You haven’t even read it yet.”
“No, but I’m familiar with your work, and I know you have talent.”
I sighed. “Maybe.”
“So you never answered my question. Would you still fancy me?”
“I don’t know. You’d be a handsome artist with a sexy accent.” I frowned, pretending to think about it.
“Don’t forget—I’d also be a wealthy man of leisure.”
I snickered. “Sounds like code for a gigolo.”
“I’ll show you a gigolo!” Ian grabbed me, and I squealed in delight.