Melted and Whipped (9 page)

What he just said is so poetic that I simply stare at him. For all the ways that he’s changed, Porter Loughton hasn’t changed at all, not deep down.

He slowly shakes his head. “I’m not so naive as to suggest that your life is easier than mine because you’re doing something you love and I’m getting rich.”

“There’s not much freedom in being broke,” I say.

“But you seem to have struck a good balance, right?”

“Yes.” Now I reach for the glass and take a sip. I don’t know why, but I can’t tell Porter the truth, that I’m much more afraid of the future than I let on. I joke about begging for spare change to hide my fear. That the freedom I’m enjoying in my twenties is sure to turn into some kind of corporate servitude at some point in my thirties—and that’s if I’m lucky enough to get a job.

I try to tell myself that I’m keeping quiet because I don’t want to spoil his dreams about the snow bum lifestyle, but deep down I know the truth is far more prosaic. Porter thinks I’m wise for having run away from the corporate world, and I want to believe him.

I also don’t want him to think I make bad decisions.

“You should attend gallery openings,” he says soberly, his eyes fixed on mine. “Tell me something. When you’re giving ski lessons, do people ask the name of your favorite bar? The best place to buy a sandwich? Which ski shop they should go to if they need a tune-up?”

“Yes, of course.” I can see where he’s going with this. “But no one has ever asked me where to buy a painting.”

“Do they ask you for suggestions of things to do? Where you go shopping? What you think is worth checking out?”

My cheeks begin to heat. “Fair enough, but I don’t think… Those paintings are tens of thousand of dollars…” I trail off.

“Some of them are many times that, but the price is irrelevant. I can guarantee you that if someone asks your opinion, it’s because they’re looking for insight. I know that when I travel, if a trusted local recommends something, I check it out.”

“Then maybe I should work out a special deal with one of the galleries.” I lift my eyebrows and try to look enterprising and unscrupulous, and Porter laughs. “Your coffee is getting cold,” I point out.

“There’s more coffee,” he says. But he releases my hand and settles back in his seat to study me.

“What?” I ask, fighting a smile as I take another small sip of the mimosa. It helps to pop my ears.

“Body language,” he says.

I stare at him in confusion.

“A lowering of the eyes, a blush. The way a woman pushes her hair behind her shoulders and tilts her head to expose her neck. The way she licks her lips, or parts them, or crosses her legs, or begins to fuss with her clothing. That’s how I know a woman is submissive.”

“Wow,” I say, spreading my hands out flat and pressing them on my thighs. “If you wanted to make me self-conscious, you’ve succeeded.” Even though I say it as a joke, we both know better.

“You can tell when a man is dominant,” he says. “The way he stands, how much space he takes up, when he keeps his shoulders back. Where he allows himself to look.” Porter’s gaze dips to my lips. “And for how long.” His gaze slowly rises to my eyes, and my face feels as hot as if I were standing next to an open fire.

It’s not just my face that’s on fire. My entire body wants him. Part of me feels guilty for being anything but grief-stricken right now, but a bigger part of me is grateful for the distraction Porter is providing. My worries about my sister are still there, a terrifying panic lurking under the surface, but Porter is shielding me from the worst of it.

“Am I wrong?” he asks.

Slowly, I shake my head.

“You don’t seem convinced. Let me put it like this. You’ve surely known men who cross a line when they look at you. It’s not necessarily that he’s staring where he shouldn’t, but he’s not following the rules. He’s creepy.”

I nod. “Every woman on the planet has experienced that at some point.”

“Nice men do the opposite. They look away. They give you privacy. I’m saying ‘men’ here, but really it’s a human thing. A woman could as easily do it. Sexual dominance, for me, is often a subset of social dominance. I would never stare at a woman to make her uncomfortable unless I was certain she wanted the attention, the intensity.”

“You’re saying that a dominant man is a pig who’s been invited to act like a pig.”

“When you put it like that, no. But let me confess something. I liked it when you begged for my cock. I liked making you get on your knees. When you gagged on my cock but then fought past the discomfort, I almost came right then. Dominating you is raw. It’s power. I’m male. You’re female. The fact is that I’m stronger than you are. By giving you a safe word, we’re acknowledging that truth. It gives me permission to be male, and it gives you permission to be female.”

“Damn.” I’m beginning to tremble.

Porter rests his elbow on the armrest as he scrutinizes me.

As he does, I ask myself how I’d be feeling right now if he were a man I disliked. Of course, I’d hate it. But objectively speaking…

“I’m crossing a line right now,” he says. “But it’s a line you want me to cross. What turns me on is turning my boundaries into your boundaries. I find it sexy when you’re uncomfortable but you agree to what I want. Some dominant men I know wouldn’t be happy to keep that in the bedroom. Some want the relationship to extend to every area of their lives. Others don’t want a relationship at all. And still others are nothing but abusive assholes—cowards, really.” He smiles, and his face relaxes.

I relax, too.

“You should know that there are as many different theories on dominance and submission as there are dominants and submissives. What I gave you is mine. Now tell me yours.”

“Mine?” I notice that I’ve been pressing my fingertips into the area just under my collarbone. “But I’ve never had a man dominate me before last night.”

“No,” he says with a smile that might be a little self-satisfied, “but I know you’ve thought about it extensively. What did you like about last night?”

“Everything,” I say quickly.

“Think about it. Put it into words. Try to figure out where the physical feeds into the emotional.” He reaches for his coffee, takes a sip, then presses a button on the side of the armrest.

Lisa walks over, and I realize she must have her own private section somewhere. If that’s the case, it’s not a bad deal. Fly around in luxury, and all she has to do is mix some drinks and bring out the occasional bag of peanuts.

“The quiche is almost ready,” she says.

“Perfect. Could you bring me a hot chocolate with whipped cream?”

“Of course. Anything else?”

“Emily?” Porter asks.

I shake my head. Even though I’d love a hot chocolate, I don’t want to inconvenience Lisa. Porter is watching me closely, and I think about what he said. He’s right. It’s about his gaze, his attention.

“The hot chocolate is for you,” Porter says as she walks away.

“Why?” I ask, baffled.

“You ordered one almost every night that first month of college,” he says. “Don’t you remember?”

I don’t… and then I do. “I completely forgot about that.”

“Well, you were drinking them. I had to watch you lap at the whipped cream. Even once was enough to burn it into my memory, but dozens of times? It’s a wonder I didn’t flunk out.”

“Wow.” I laugh, surprised. “I remember now. I stopped drinking them because of the freshman fifteen.”

“It filled you out in all the right places,” he says, and this time I don’t feel like I should be pushing away his compliment.

He’s dominant. He’s the male. He looks and isn’t afraid to say what he thinks.

Now that he’s put it into words, I find that I can accept it. Porter is right—it’s liberating.

Lisa returns with a black mug and sets it in front of Porter. A swirl of creamy whipped cream tops it.

“I’ll let you know when we’re ready to eat,” Porter says.

She smiles her acknowledgement and disappears.

He crosses his arms. “Go ahead.”

I pick up the cup. The scents of chocolate and warm milk are like a balm. The tip of my tongue darts out to lap at the freshly whipped cream.

As I stare into Porter’s eyes, the years seem to fold in on themselves, then disappear.

“That,” Porter says as I lick cream from the corner of my lip, “is the best Christmas present a man could ask for.”

“Really?” I ask, skeptical.

“Well… I do have a special room in New York, but we shouldn’t talk about that now.”

“Why not?” I ask. His “special room” is exactly what I want to talk about.

“Because if we do,” he says, “I’ll likely end up fucking you, and that’s not what you need right now. Right now I think it’s better if we just talk while you drink hot cocoa.”

That I can do.

The hospital is enormous, imposing. I don’t want to go in.

“Are you sure I shouldn’t come with you?” Porter asks as he brings the car—a four-wheel drive sedan that I’m pretty sure costs six figures for the base model—to a stop.

His offer is sincere, but I can’t steal more of his time today. It wouldn’t be fair.

“I appreciate it, but it’s probably better if we keep it to family,” I say. “I don’t want to add to anyone’s stress.”

Porter accepts that with a nod. “If you need me, you have my number. I’ll be in the city.”

“Overlooking Central Park?” I manage a smile, but I’m exhausted. “Maybe…”

“Yes?”

“I was going to say that I’ll give you an update when I have one,” I say. “But only if you want me to.”

“Of course I want you to,” Porter says. “I’ll be thinking of you and your family.” He waits in front of the hospital until I’m through the first set of glass doors, and I give him a little wave goodbye.

The moment his car pulls away, I feel lonely, like the best part of myself has been ripped out. Of course that’s ridiculous. It was only one night.

A night that seemed to cut out all the intervening years and stitch seamlessly with freshman fall. That’s what runs through my mind as I take the elevator to the floor Greg indicated in his phone call. My feelings about Porter are surely heightened because of the mind-blowing, amazing sex combined with my emotional vulnerability, but damn if it doesn’t feel real, like the start of the rest of my life.

The elevator dings, the door slides open, and my night with Porter becomes a thing of the past. The sterile hospital is my present.

I check in at the desk and am given directions to the obstetric surgical ward. Even though this isn’t the hospital our mother was taken to, I feel like it is, like I’ve made this trek before. I was nine at the time, but I remember it acutely.

A bathroom door opens, and Greg steps out. He’s got a ragged piece of white paper towel in his hands.

“Hey,” I say softly, because even though he’s almost looking at me, it’s clear he doesn’t see me.

He blinks. “Stacy’s out of surgery. She’s going to be fine.” In a flash, his composure shatters. I’ve never seen a grown man sob before. Even when Mom died, Dad put on a brave face for the kids.

I wrap my arms around Greg, and I cry, too. I can’t imagine how awful the last few hours have been for him, how terrifyingly bad the waiting was and will be.

“I want to strangle her,” Greg says as I release him. He wipes his nose and eyes with the paper towel, then crumples it up. “I’m so angry, you can’t imagine.”

“This is what she wanted,” I remind him. “She knew what could happen, and she was willing to risk it.”

“But it’s not what I wanted to risk,” he says, and despite the logical way his mind is laying out the argument, I see a flash of the fire that makes him such a good match for my sister. “When she decided she had to get pregnant, she wasn’t thinking about what it would do to me. If she wants to get pregnant again, I’m divorcing her.”

He squeezes his fist around the paper towel.

“Don’t say that,” I say. “You’re just scared.”

“No. I mean, yes, I’m scared, and I’m pissed. I’m… I’m going to strangle her the second she gets out of the hospital.” He sounds serious, but I know he would never hurt her.

“There you are,” I hear Dad’s voice saying. Then, “Emily?”

I step to the side so I can see past Greg. “I got in a few minutes ago.”

Dad crushes me in a bear hug. He’s been wearing the same aftershave for as long as I can remember, and the barest traces of the spicy scent are always more than enough to whisk me right back to my childhood.

“How are you, Em?” Dad holds me at arm’s length to scrutinize my face. “You look well.”

“Really? Because I didn’t get much sleep, and I feel like crap. You’re the one who looks great.” And he does. He’s got a little less hair, and he’s gained a few pounds, but having taken an early retirement from his career as a bookkeeper suits him.

Dad squeezes me close as we walk down the hall. “Stacy’s surgery went very well, and the baby is fine. They’re going to do a C-section as soon as the surgeon arrives.”

“Who did the surgery she just had?” I ask.

Dad answers. “That was emergency only, to stop the bleeding. Actually delivering the baby requires a specialist.”

“You’d think,” Greg says, “that she’d at least have planned things so that this would all be happening in the spring or summer, when ninety percent of the hospital staff isn’t on vacation.”

“It’s going to be fine,” Dad says, slipping into his role of reassuring the anxious and spreading some optimism. “Stacy’s tough.”

“Don’t I know it,” Greg says. “You should have warned me.”

“As I recall, he did,” I say. On their first date, no less. Of course, it was useless because Greg had already known Stacy—known all of us—for years and was already head over heels for her.

Greg’s parents and one of his two brothers are gathered in the waiting area. I greet them, and for the next three hours we alternate between asking and answering questions about each other’s lives.

I’m telling a story about the Tibetan monks I gave ski lessons to when Dad’s face goes white. He rests a hand on my forearm, but I’ve already fallen silent, already turning in my seat to look at the doctor.