His thrusts pick up with violent intensity, his hips pistoning harder, my ankles locking around his hips, and we’re slowly inching up the bed. He slides his hand between our bodies to squeeze my breast and pinch my nipple, and he groans against my neck between nibbles and licks.
“Fuck, Ava...fuck,” he grits out as my body jerks against his, the precursor to my quickly approaching orgasm.
The climax thrashes through me, forcing my eyes shut as I bury my face against his neck and scream his name. A hoarse groan rips from his throat, like it was catapulted from the depths of his soul, and he thrusts three more times before pressing hard and deep. His shaft twitches and shudders deep inside me, and I hold him as close to me as I can. I moan one more time, long and loudly, reflexively snapping my mouth shut before the dicey words spill out.
But in my mind, I hear them loud and clear.
I love you.
It’s not what it sounds like. It couldn’t be all that after so short a time. Nevertheless, I can’t say something like that. It would just complicate everything.
Eighteen
Ava
Quarantine Day 63
They sayit takes twenty-one days to create a habit, and that happensto be how long Lucky and I have been doing this comfortable, casual, sexy, unnamed thing. I’m not sure what that means for us. I’m not sure if it means anything at all, other than the comfortable aspect slowly, but steadily becoming a neon purple elephant in the room. At least, that’s how it feels in my head.
This thing we’re doing is starting to feel like a habit I’m going to have to break at some point.
Plans for the next virtual concert are underway, but this afternoon we’re focused on Lucky’s weekly virtual “piano bar”. Rather than the big room, we host the piano bar livestream in the front room on the first floor. Mostly because the big room is where the band, dancers, and entourage spend the majority of their abundant, quarantine-induced free time, but also because the front room has so much character. The front room is elegant and stately, with rich, wood-paneled walls and matching hardwood floors, and authentic Edwardian era furniture.
Lucky is seated at the shiny, black, baby grand piano, taking requests from the viewers while dressed in his typical vintage three-piece suit. This one is dark gray, accented by baby blue tie, and I’ve come to realize that half the reason he always wears those suits is to conceal his secret scars, like a suit of armor. And knowing that makes my heart ache a little every time I watch him carefully and meticulously dress every morning.
A slim, sleek laptop is set up on top of the piano so Lucky can read the requests as they pour in and also give personal shout-outs to people who tip. As aloof as he tries to be about everything, it’s clear how much he enjoys it, even though it’s starkly different than the way he’s used to interacting with his fans.
“Now here’s a great idea,” he says, drawing one song to a close and turning to face the camera positioned on a tripod next to where Meyer and I are seated on one of the vintage couches across the room, watching the stream on a separate laptop so we can monitor everything. “Angela says to play ‘King of the Long and Winding Road,’ a mash-up of Roger Miller and The Beatles.” He flashes a bright, white smile, and a deep, rich chuckle shakes his shoulders. “I love the way you guys think. Let’s do it in a blues style. Whaddya say?”
He starts the mash-up with a dramatic scale before morphing the music into a slow, swanky staccato, and—per usual—the viewers fill the chat with exuberant comments and applause emojis. A couple of people tip, and I ring an antique hotel call bell, which alerts Lucky to look up from the piano keys to the screen.
“Thank you for that, Scott and Nico,” he says into the mic, still slamming out the sultry rhythm.
“Damn,” Meyer says under his breath, then laughs quietly. “I friggin’ love this. We might never have to go back on the road again.”
“Maybe not,” I agree, sitting back against the couch cushions while lifting a glass of merlot to my lips. I sip it and then lick my lips. “But knowing you guys—especially knowinghim—you’ll be back on the road the second you’re allowed to.”
Meyer chuckles again, swirling a glass of scotch. “Yeah. Might not be too long either. People are getting fed up with this lockdown bullshit. I think they might end it soon.”
“Maybe.” I sip my wine again, and my phone lights up on the table next to the laptop.
Zoey Campos: I love this freaking livestream, LOL
Ava Herald: It’s great, right?
Zoey Campos: Totally.
Zoey Campos: Is he going to keep doing it after the lockdown is over?
Ava Herald: Maybe?
Zoey Campos: You know the governor had a press conference today. Texas is re-opening to 50%. When are you coming back?
A subtle feeling of dread creeps into my chest, but I ignore it.
Ava Herald: I’m not sure yet. I’m waiting until I can get a car or a cab or something to drive me home.
Zoey Campos: You know, enough people are pissed off about not being able to work that I bet you could put out a feeler on Facebook or something and get someone there to drive you back.
