The Saint

That night Eleanor and Wyatt had a quick dinner of cheap and unhealthy Chinese food in Chinatown and then went for a walk through SoHo. Eleanor had a feeling Wyatt suggested the walk because a new February snow had begun to fall and the city looked unbearably romantic. She hated—and there was no better word for it than hated—how much fun she and Wyatt were having. She laughed so hard her stomach ached. Wyatt adored everything about her. She’d worn knee-high boots over her jeans and he told her she looked ferocious in them. He loved the way she wore her hair in a messy bun at the nape of her neck. He said she looked like a sexy Virginia Woolf minus the suicidal ideations. Conversation proved difficult only when Wyatt asked her about her past and her stealth-bomber boyfriend. She’d rather not talk about her dead father and her brush with the law. And she couldn’t talk about the priest she’d been in love with since age fifteen.

“Nothing? I get nothing about Stealth Bomber? Not even a name?”

“I don’t want you stalking and killing him.”

“That’s fair. I can see me doing that. How old is he? If he’s getting his Ph.D. he has to be at least, what? Twenty-six? Twenty-seven?”

“He’s thirtysomething.”

“I knew I hated that TV show for a reason. Call the hotline right now.” Wyatt collapsed dramatically against a light pole and stared up at the lamp. “I’m going to hang myself from this thing.”

“You’re so full of shit.” She grabbed him by the front of his coat, put his arm in her arm and force marched him down the street. “Let’s talk about something else.”

“Can we talk about your lips?”

“They’re lips.”

“I bet they taste like strawberries and poetry.”

“What does poetry taste like?”

“I don’t know. But I’d love to find out.”

Wyatt stopped walking and stood in the light under a streetlamp. The snow whirled like a dervish around him.

“I walked right into that line,” she said. “I’m smarter than that. I don’t fall for lines.”

“You want to fall for it. Fall for it, Elle.”

She stood outside the circle of light. Wyatt pulled his hand out of his pocket and crooked a finger at her.

Søren was across the ocean and Wyatt stood there right in front of her surrounded by light and snow. And he had a smile on his face and tattoos on his hands of German fairy tales. He loved writing so much he’d inked words into his very skin. That alone deserved a kiss. But only one.

She stepped into the light.

The kiss started soft and careful, as if he feared shattering the moment by touching too much of it at once. She gripped the front of his distressed leather jacket and pulled him closer. The kiss deepened and Wyatt slipped his tongue between her lips and wound his fingers through her hair. The kiss went on a long time, longer than she should have let it go on. It went on long enough she almost forgot who she belonged to, almost forgot about the white collar with the lock in the back and the man who gave it to her. Wyatt kissed nothing like Søren did. Wyatt explored with his kisses. Søren conquered with his.

The snow fell all around them and yet she didn’t smell winter.

She broke away and took a step back.

Wyatt took a deep breath and the air turned white around him.

“Damn,” he said. “I was wrong.”

“About what?”

“You don’t taste like poetry. Poetry tastes like you.”

And at that Eleanor knew he had her.

So it began. Since she’d told Wyatt sex was off the table, he didn’t even ask. He didn’t do anything but kiss her every chance he had their first five days together. She made sure to give him a lot of chances. He met her after class and they did homework together. They ate breakfast, lunch and dinner together. They went to a party together. They hung out in his dorm room with a couple of his friends and watched TV together. They fought over the popcorn so vociferously Wyatt’s two friends got up and left, saying they couldn’t watch TV with so much sexual tension in the room as it interfered with the reception. With the room to themselves they made out for two hours on Wyatt’s bed. He lay on top of her and she slipped her hands under the back of his T-shirt. She loved the way his skin felt, so soft and smooth. He didn’t have Søren’s lean muscle mass or his height. She and Wyatt were far more evenly matched than she and Søren. He felt like an equal, a friend. But then he started to lift her shirt and all feelings of friendliness jumped out the fourth-floor window to their deaths.

“Wyatt …”

“Please?”

One please and she gave up the fight.

“Okay.”

Wyatt pulled off her shirt. He unhooked her bra and slowly slid it off her arms.

He stared at her naked br**sts, and she lay there letting him look at her. She waited for him to say something, expected him to say something. Instead he put his mouth to better use. He brought his lips down onto her right nipple and gently sucked. As he kissed her ni**les, licked and teased them, she watched him and grew more and more aroused. She dug her fingers into his hair as she felt this overwhelming feeling of tenderness for him. He seemed so young to her, so innocent. She wanted to hold him to her br**sts, keep him safe, protect him. He should be naked and underneath her while she teased his body the way he teased hers. With him on top of her, she couldn’t help but push her hips into his. He pushed back and soon Eleanor felt her climax building. She shuddered in his arms as a wave of pleasure crashed over her and through her.