We were back in New York.
After the night flight and the cocooning extravagance, time was loose, almost lyrical, like my life had become a particularly sweet song that I had to stop and just appreciate every now and then. Two weeks in Paris had bonded me to Alexander irrevocably. Our connection was forged, deeply and sublimely, by a mutual need that had taken over every aspect of my days, and my nights. He rarely left my side. His presence had become my compass. His touch drew me like nothing I had ever experienced. And his dedication to my every whim was a luxury I knew was dangerously addictive.
I had no need for a watch or to even be aware of the day or the hour. The schedule my former life had been ruled by seemed petty and distant. All I could comprehend now was the comfort I was still adjusting to. I opened my eyes to unshadowed late-morning light, stretching like a cat, naked under the plush quilted mounds of the duvet and the Egyptian cotton sheets whose thread count was probably in the six-digit neighborhood. I let my hands search the cool, unoccupied half of his California king-sized bed.
“Alexander?” I sat up, and the covers fell to my waist.
He was lounging in a leather chair next to the floor-to-ceiling windows, dressed only in jeans, his feet propped onto a zebra-patterned ottoman. His MacBook was perched on his lap and his black hair fell in half-curled fronds over his forehead. Something about the disheveled state of his too-long hair, the tanned hue of his muscled torso and the safari theme provided by the what-I-could-only-assume-was-authentic animal skin furniture made him look rugged and edgy. Despite his riveted concentration to the screen of his computer, his eyes swiveled to me slowly. To my face, and the mussed mane of my blond hair. To my naked breasts. Back to my face. His expression was laced with that lazy, arrogant manliness I loved about him. A stranger would have construed the look as unapproachable, almost cold. I knew better.
“You’re working?” I asked.
I was mildly peeved by this. After the uninterrupted hedonism of Paris, I was used to having him all to myself. To his undivided attention. The minute we’d cleared the Charles de Gaulle runway, he’d started stealing moments to check emails and read stock reports. I’d been happy enough to catch up on some sleep and leave him to it, but now, I was well-rested. And he looked too delicious. All those burnished muscles and shadowed stubble.
Alexander paused before giving me an oblique reply: “I’ve been away for almost two weeks.”
“I know,” I said, hearing the churlishness in my voice. He heard it too and his mouth twitched as he stared at me. Then his attention returned to his computer screen.
It had been a topic we’d avoided almost completely. I’d tried to bring it up once when we’d first arrived in Paris, then again in some romantic little bistro on the Left Bank. Both times, when he’d dismissed my question, abruptly changing the subject, I’d silently agreed: it hadn’t been the time or place to get into the nitty gritty of our work schedule, once we finally returned to reality. In those halcyon days, reality had seemed a million miles away.
But now, reality was upon us. It was shining its blue light onto the planes of Alexander’s sculpted chest, flickering its insistence across his perfect face. For some reason, this made me feel uneasy.
I gave him a minute to finish typing his sentence, or whatever it was that he was doing. Then I lay back into the pillowy nest of Alexander’s bed, rolling languidly across the expanse of it and displacing the covers in the process. I stretched again, wholly aware that Alexander was now watching me from under the fall of his thick hair. I was on my stomach and I arched my back and lifted my hips as I rose from the bed. The carpet was soft and cushioned under my feet. I stood in front of the window and its outrageous view, feeling like an Olympian goddess surveying the land of the mortals. It was indescribably empowering, this feeling: of nakedness and wealth and a pronounced degree of removal from all the worry and mundanity of hardship. Nothing felt as good and as safe as this buffer Alexander provided. Anyone who ever said money couldn’t buy happiness was deluded.
I padded over to him, closely circling his chair as I coiled a finger through the coarsely silken locks of his hair. “What day is it?”
“Saturday.”
“Your work can’t wait until Monday?”
“There are a couple of issues at Jake’s company that need attention. I’ve put it off long enough.” There was a curtness in his tone that was new. He was conflicted. Pressing concerns at his companies had been cast aside for me and me alone, for more than two weeks. I knew this was unprecedented. Alexander had never taken a day off in his life until I’d walked into it. I could have felt flattered, or empowered, and I did. Not only that, but I felt possessive. I was too used to owning his time completely; it was all I’d ever known of him and I was more than a little reluctant to give him up like this, even for a few hours.