Drift (Lengths) Read online

  When I look up, Isaac’s eyes are popped wide. “Right. Why would we?”

  “We’re adults,” I say, yanking my t-shirt over my still-wet top.

  “We are,” he agrees, his voice husky.

  And we’re on a tightrope, balancing on that edge between flirting and something more. We’ve never pushed it further, and I’m not exactly sure where it will go if I give it a shove. But I put both hands out and shove hard anyway.

  I step into my tiny shorts and pull them up to my hips, drop my voice and tell him what I’ve held back for weeks.

  “I’m going home to take a long, hot shower. Then I’m putting on something sexy, Isaac. Something tight and low-cut. And I want you to take me somewhere with great food and sexy lighting, somewhere where we can sit across from each other and just look, as long as we want, as much as we want. I want to talk to you for hours, without worrying about who’s going to see us or when we have to be somewhere else. And then…” I tug up on my zipper and secure my button, sure he’s watching my hand.

  He isn’t.

  He’s trained on my eyes. In a quick flash he closes the distance between us and presses his hands against the roof of my car. My body bends back against the warm metal, arched so close to his body, I’m almost pressed against him from hip to chest.

  So close but not quite there.

  “I’m picking you up in forty minutes. Wear something tight and low-cut, but make sure it’s easy for me to take off,” he says, his head bent low to nuzzle my neck. He stops just before his lips meet my skin. His breath moves my hair. “Because after we eat and talk like civilized people, I’m taking you home and stripping you down, and things are going to get pretty fucking uncivilized. I want you, Lydia. All of you. No clothes, no worries. Just you. For as long as you’ll have me. Is that what you want?”

  I murmur, my face flushed, my body hot and slick.

  “Answer me,” he says, his voice low.

  “I want that. I want it.” I grope behind my back, find the car door handle, pop it open, and slide in.

  His hands are still boxed on my car roof when I shut the door. I can see the rise and fall of his naked chest through my window, and I bite my lip hard to curb that base want that tempts me to open the door to him.

  I do roll down the window. Self-denial is so not my thing.

  “Get going,” he growls, the rough edge of his voice sending tingles up and down my spine. “Forget forty minutes. You have thirty.”

  “I can’t get dressed in thirty minutes, Isaac,” I say, a smile curving on my lips.

  He shrugs, his big shoulders pumping up and down. “All you need is a dress. Don’t bother wearing anything underneath. And don’t worry about showering. I’m happy to lick the salt off every inch of your body.”

  He pushes back off my car and stalks over to his. I pull out, my body rioting, and drive to Cece’s house, my palms so sweaty, they slide on the steering wheel. I call her on the way.

  “Ce?”

  “Lyd?” My sister’s voice sounds surprised.

  “Do me a favor?”

  “Sure. What do you need?”

  “Go through Gen’s things. Find something classy but sexy. Really sexy. I only have a minute to grab it, though.”

  Her end is quiet for so long, I wonder if we got disconnected.

  “Ce?”

  “Is it Isaac?”

  “Yes.” I clear my throat. “I’m a cougar. You can say it.”

  “The hottest damn cougar who ever stalked a big, strong, young buck!” She squeals. “I’ll be waiting in the driveway. Please get some action tonight. And then do your walk of shame right to my front door in the morning so you can tell me every dirty detail!”

  ***

  He texts one simple sentence in response to my message about being at my sister’s place: Tell me where to pick you up, please.

  It’s sexy how even his demanding text is polite. I text back Cece’s address. I knew it would save a ton of time to get showered and ready at my sister’s. Plus she allows herself to splurge on heavenly, luxurious shampoo and conditioner from a pricey salon no matter how broke she is. My sister will eat Ramen for a month—or get her meals at our parents’—to afford the stuff. I’m not above using some for myself.

  “This is beyond hot.” I turn in her mirror to get a better look at the black lace dress rounded tight over my backside. The nude lining matches my surf-tanned skin perfectly. The neckline is square and the cap sleeves show off my toned arms.

  I feel sexy.

  “Wear the blue heels,” Cece suggests, holding out a pair of electric blue heels that look like they’re tempting me to break my neck. She pushes me down in the chair in front of her mirror and rubs serum between her palms.

  As I slip my feet into the dangerously gorgeous heels, she slicks my hair and runs a straightening iron over it.

  “You’re a life saver,” I say, laying it on thick because I still feel bad about using her weird Yom Kippur performance in my bet with Cohen and Deo, especially after our art show argument. I want to be closer to Cece. I want what we have right now.

  “I’m happy to. By the way, do you know what the hell a ‘diva earthquake’ is, dance-wise? Deo has been blowing up my phone, and he’s being weirder than usual.” Cece tilts her head to the side like she’s trying to figure out any of Deo’s crazy.

  “I think he was feeling left out of Yom Kippur, so he wants in on your performance. Be careful. He thinks channeling Beyonce is an appropriate way to celebrate the day of atonement.” I give my sister a sympathetic look.

  “Please tell me you’re kidding. Wait. Never mind. This is Deo we’re talking about.” She presses a hand into her crazy curled hair, then points to the makeup vanity. “Put on more mascara,” she orders.

  “More?” I look at my eyes. They look pretty dark and smoky as they are.

  “Are you seriously going to pretend there’s such a thing as too much mascara?” Cece pulls my hair through the paddles and sighs. “You are making me think about all those young, hot guys in my classes in a whole new way. Doesn’t Isaac have any gorgeous brothers who want to minor in gender studies? I can offer lots of one-on-one tutoring.”

  I tsk my tongue. “He’s my professor, and he’s younger. It’s different for us,” I protest. “If you did it, it would be cradle robbing.”

  Cece raises her eyebrows and smirks. “Whatever you need to tell yourself to feel better about your wanton behavior.” She winks at my pale face in the mirror. “Kidding, Lyd. Do you know how many guy friends I have who date girls several decades younger than they are and no one bats an eyelash? I’m waving my women’s studies pompoms for you two right now.”

  “I’m not doing this because of some kind of belated quarter-life crisis.” I unscrew the mascara wand and apply a fresh coat. “The thing is, his age never occurs to me unless it’s the one and only thing I’m thinking about. And with Isaac, there’s just a lot more to focus on than the year he was born.”

  Cece sprays some kind of good-smelling mist on my hair and sighs. “I so get that. Does anyone look at Isaac and think about anything other than hours of hot, sweaty sex? He’s like a walking aphrodisiac.”

  I swat at her with the mascara tube. “How can you call yourself a women’s studies major when you basically have all the sensibilities of the average frat boy?”

  My sister stops suddenly and listens. A wicked smile breaks over her face. “I’m a walking contradiction. Also, your man is here.”

  I rush to the window and my heart leaps into my throat. He’s standing on the curb, flowers in his hand, wearing a suit that fits perfectly, and a smile that’s only for me.

  “He is so damn hot.” My sister giggles and squeezes my shoulder. “Go get him!”

  I turn to crush her in a hug before I fly down the stairs, not worrying enough about twisting my ankle. When I get to the bottom, he presses a hand to his chest and shakes his head, walking to me with quick, sure steps. He takes my hand and pulls me close and th
en closer, until I’m pressed tight against his chest.

  “Me encanta saber que estás conmigo.”

  It takes my faulty brain a few seconds to translate.

  And then a tremor shakes through me.

  He loves to know that I’m with him.

  “For me?” I ask, pointing to the bouquet of irises, roses, lilies…the bouquet must have cost him a small fortune.

  He wraps an arm around my waist. “The florist down the street from my apartment was very taken with my description of you. We decided you had to have a bouquet as exquisite as you are. Of course, there’s only so much you can do with flowers, so I apologize in advance. They were the best Mrs. Rosara and I could do.” He hands them to me and the paper crinkles between us.

  “Isaac.” I catch my lip between my teeth before I say something moronic. Like, I love them! Now can you throw me down in your backseat so we can hump like we’re in high school? “They’re absolutely gorgeous.” I bury my face in them and breathe deeply. When I look up he’s staring at me hard, his teeth clenched so tight, there’s a knot of muscle on the side of his face.

  “This may be the longest dinner of my life.”

  His hand tightens at my waist. I gasp.

  “We can go to your place right now. Or mine,” I offer, heady off the perfume of the flowers mixed with the sharp scent of his cologne and the salty tang of the night air.

  He turns, leading me to the car as he talks.

  “Not yet. You’re worth the wait. It will be good for me. Plus, you need food. We both do. We’re going to need energy for later tonight.”

  He clips the seatbelt into the lock and lays the flowers in my lap, letting his lips brush along my neck and jaw. The promise of his words hangs heavy and charged between us.

  I watch him walk back to his side of the car and slide into the driver’s seat. Because looking at him might result in jumping over the console and onto his lap, I bury my face into the petals again and inhale slowly, drugging myself on the sweet smell.

  We drive in silence, both of us tense and ready for…what we really don’t know yet. Finally we pull up at Piccolo’s, a place I’ve always wanted to try, but could never convince Richard to come to. I’m glad about that. I want as many experiences as I can that have Isaac and only Isaac connected to them. I feel greedy for him.

  I watch out of the corner of my eye as he swings the car neatly in line with the curb. Who knew parallel parking could be so sexy? Or maybe it’s just that watching Isaac do anything turns me on.

  He opens my door, and I leave the bouquet on the seat, knowing the car will be full of the soft fragrance when our dinner is done and we’re ready to drive back.

  To drive somewhere we can be alone. Where it will be dark and hushed and we’ll peel each other’s clothes off, piece by piece, irritated when our lips can’t touch skin, when our hands have to fumble with cloth instead of running over each other’s bodies.

  Goosebumps prickle up and down my arms.

  “Are you cold?” he asks, his palms brushing over my arms, rubbing up and down with strong, firm strokes.

  “No.” I put my hands out, inside the lapels of his suit jacket and pressed against the solid width of his ribcage. “I’m excited.”

  He cups the side of my neck, his fingers pressing into the soft hair at my nape. “You should be.” He says it like a promise.

  I think he might kiss me right at that moment, under the coppery overhangs twined with golden twinkle lights, but a host appears and shepherds us to a small, cozy table tucked into a corner. A fireplace crackles and candles flicker on our table. “I heard it’s impossible to get reservations here.”

  “My parents have been coming here for years, so they keep standing reservations,” he explains, then leans across the table. “I’m usually hesitant about using my father’s name to get me anything. But when it comes to you, I let my morals slide.” He turns my wrist over and lets his fingers run lightly over my frantic pulse.

  “What’s good here?” I ask, glancing at the menu with a flick of my eyes. I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and, right now, everything looks amazing.

  “Do you trust me?” he asks. I glance up from the vellum menu paper and his eyes are black with desire.

  “When it comes to what I’m going to put in my mouth? I have a feeling you know me better than I know myself.” I flip the menu shut and watch the way his nostrils flare as he breathes quick and deep.

  When the waiter comes over, he orders in rapid, liquid Italian. I’m fluent enough in Spanish to catch a few things, but I have a feeling he’s trying to keep me in the dark. The waiter touches his index finger to his thumb and winks at me, then rushes off.

  The wine that comes out seconds later is delicate and perfectly dry, like a tart plum on my tongue. I drink more than I should, faster than I should, but Isaac isn’t drinking much.

  Mostly he’s watching me.

  “I was being serious when I said you didn’t have to come to Yom Kippur services,” I tell him. I try to imagine Isaac in the synagogue, and my imagination blanks. Richard never bothered to show up despite my mother’s frequent invitations, so there was never a worry about him.

  “And I was being serious when I said I was going to uphold my end of the bargain,” he says, refilling my glass with a twist of the wine bottle. “Unless it’s uncomfortable for you?”

  “Why?” I ask the question too fast. Which is pretty much my tell. For an attorney, I have a very shitty poker face.

  He cocks an eyebrow and smiles. “I just thought it might be strange to explain…us…to your family. I noticed your brother doesn’t seem to approve of me.”

  “Cohen?” I scoff. “Please, before Maren, my brother invested years of time and energy in a girl whose single life goal was to be on reality TV. If Maren hadn’t showed up and shook the stupid off of him, he probably would have married that idiot. So, trust me, you don’t need to feel like you have to get Cohen’s approval.”

  He runs his fingers along the crisp white tablecloth, toward my fingers. I wait, breath held, for his skin to touch mine. “You’re very close to your family. It must matter to you. What they think?”

  I settle back in my chair and watch the way the candlelight flickers over his face. “I love my family. Part of the reason I went ahead and finished my law degree was because my father was so proud of me he was always bragging, and it was humiliating to think of him having to tell everyone on earth that I didn’t finish after all. But other than that, I’ve tried really hard to do what I need to for myself. I try to make sure I’m happy first. Maybe because of that.”

  Isaac leans forward and catches my hand before I can take another sip of wine. I let him brush his fingers over mine because I’m well on my way past buzzed to drunk, and I don’t want that kind of distraction. I want pure feeling. I want to be aware. Of him, of us.

  I want him so badly it’s a tensing ache that holds me captive.

  He’s nineteen. What am I doing?

  I want to clutch onto him and this tenuous pull of pure need.

  Nineteen. How can he be nineteen?

  I want to be completely present for every single thing we’re about to do.

  I don’t care about his age. I want him.

  A flash forward to our post-dinner activities gives me another shock of goose bumps. This time, when he sees them, he doesn’t ask if they’re from the cold.

  Instead he throws me a smile that’s hungry.

  Knowing.

  “You had a time when you weren’t sure if you wanted to pursue law?” he asks.

  “I did,” I admit, finding it difficult to readjust to normal conversation after the explosion of images that just ran through my brain. “It was just before I finished my final year. I felt like everything—classes, family, life—was racing past me. Just going so damn fast. And then I had this crotchety professor who told my class that if we thought being law students was unforgiving, we’d better quit, because it was nothing compared to trying to make
partner at a firm.”

  I can still clearly see Professor Stiveson’s sneer when he delivered that tidbit. Two students, exhausted and beaten down, sobbed in class. One of the criers and three others didn’t come back again after the weekend.

  I know I wasn’t the only one who looked at their empty chairs with a prick of envy on Monday morning.

  “Was he right?” Isaac asks, his eyes trained on my face.

  “He was.” I laugh, but it’s less the sound of me chuckling over how naive I was and more a sudden, desperate realization. I’d been so busy proving Stiveson wrong for the last couple of years, I’d never really considered that he didn’t necessarily care about being proven wrong; he cared about telling us the truth, harsh as it might be.

  “But you learned to love it?” He’s giving me a wary look. I love that he doesn’t like seeing me upset.

  Even though I know very well that the only one who can make me happy or not is myself. And if I ever doubted that’s the truth, I just had to think back to my crash and burn a few weeks ago, then connect the dots to Richard’s betrayal.

  “I can get pretty stubborn. It felt like my professor was daring me.” I blush and take a quick gulp of wine. “I guess you know how I get around a dare.”

  “Fierce. Strong. Amazing,” he lists.

  I press my hands to my cheeks, not sure if they’re on fire from his words or the wine. Before we can say anything else, the food begins to arrive.

  Plate after plate of divine food that melts on my tongue and has me biting back moans of pleasure. Coniglio, agnello, veal in black truffles…there are things I can’t identify, and when I ask Isaac what they are, he shakes his head and holds a forkful out to me. Every time I close my lips over a bite, there’s a new taste: honey glaze, lemon-thyme pesto, pear. We drink more wine.

  Or I drink more wine. I feel like I’m doing all the drinking and eating, and Isaac is sitting back, watching.

  There’s something wholly erotic about having a beautiful man watch my every move so intently, like he can’t bear to tear his eyes away.

  “What’s your favorite?” he finally asks.

  I wave my fork over the rabbit. Then slice off another tiny sliver of ravioli. I whimper over a scallop and finally set my fork on the table and hang my head. “No idea. Don’t force me to choose. Did you order the entire restaurant?”