Tori
Chapter 26
Irolled over in bed, stretching my arms languorously, lifting one eyelid to check the time on the bedside clock. With a shock of adrenaline, I realized we were supposed to be back in Chicago by now. I’d stayed up so late with Stefan last night, I’d slept until almost eleven.
“Stefan?” I called out across the suite. Had he left without me?
“You can relax,” he shushed me as he entered the bedroom. “I’ve decided we should stay in town for one more day. The others went back early this morning.”
Another day in New York! I was so excited that I immediately got up, thinking of all the things we could do. Until I realized that Stefan probably wanted to stay for another reason.
“So you have a lot of work to do, I guess?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “I thought we’d get out. See the city.”
He didn’t have to tell me twice. I got dressed in record time, wearing a pair of lace-up boots, comfortable jeans, and a blue cashmere sweater. Regardless of my laid-back style choices, I could tell Stefan appreciated my attire by the way his eyes raked down my body.
I practically skipped out of the suite, unbelievably excited to spend the entire day in New York with Stefan. It would be like our first day in Vienna, only better—because as we got into the cab, I noticed that Stefan’s phone was absent from its permanent place in his hand.
As the city passed outside the window, I asked, “Where are we going?”
“I’m gonna show you New York,” Stefan said. “You told me you always wanted to see it.”
He had been listening to me. My heart soared.
We spent the whole day sightseeing. We went to Ess-a-Bagel first, to get coffee and real New York bagels. They were fresh and hot, slightly crisp on the outside and chewy on the inside, and I finally understood what the big deal about New York bagels was. Stefan ordered his with egg and pastrami, and mine was piled high with apple cinnamon cream cheese. Then we went to see Rockefeller Center and the New York Public Library, where they had an exhibit on Jazz culture in Harlem and another one on Walt Whitman. Stefan even bought me a bag of roasted almonds after I exclaimed about the smell of honey and sugar on the street.
We got to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in the late afternoon and stayed until dark, me drooling over the American Jewelry collection and the ancient marble statues; Stefan clearly appreciating the rooms full of armor and Egyptian artifacts. Finally, he stopped and spent awhile slowly circling a gallery hung with modern paintings that were reminiscent of his mother’s.
As he stood there gazing at one particularly imposing piece, I walked up and took his hand. “They remind me of hers,” I said, pointing. “The strong lines, and the shadowy figures. There’s a lot of emotion here, don’t you think?”
He looked over at me, mildly shocked, and I worried that I shouldn’t have said anything.
“Emzee told me about the paintings at home,” I explained. “I hadn’t realized they were your mother’s. They’re really stunning. Intense. But so good.”
Stefan nodded. “I think so too. I’m glad you like them.”
And then he squeezed my hand, and I felt so warm just standing there with him.
Afterward, we had dinner in Tribeca at Atera, which I realized must have been practically impossible to get a reservation at, since every single table was full and there weren’t many tables. The décor was very much Stefan’s style—all black leather, brushed steel, and acacia wood—and the eighteen-course tasting menu allowed me to sample a little bit of everything without feeling too stuffed. Every dish looked like a work of art on par with what we’d seen at the Met. My favorites were the sweet snow crab and the dessert, which was pine syrup-drizzled ice cream cut into a spiral of thin, paper-like sheets and decorated with tiny purple flowers.
We ended the day in the most romantic way possible—taking a horse-drawn carriage ride through Central Park.
I had never been so happy.
Cuddled up under a blanket next to my husband, our breath making little clouds in the chilly New York air, I realized we’d just spent the perfect day together.
As we circled the park, Stefan’s hand found its way to my knee under the blanket. I leaned against him, warmth spreading up my legs, wanting more. His hand moved higher, stroking the inside of my thigh. I could feel myself getting wet as I shifted helplessly in the seat. Suddenly, my jeans were too much of a barrier and the carriage ride was entirely too long.
I wanted to be back at the hotel, with the Do Not Disturb sign hung on our door. Instead, I had to wait while we rode through Central Park and Stefan’s hand stroked up and down my leg, causing taut anticipation to build within me.
Finally, the ride was over, and Stefan helped me out of the carriage.
“Are you ready to go back to the hotel, kitty cat?” Stefan asked, his voice a throaty murmur in my ear.
I was so turned on I could barely say anything, so I just nodded. We got in a cab and made it back to the hotel within ten minutes and to our room in another five. Before the door was completely closed, Stefan had me pinned up against the wall, kissing me ravenously. Apparently, he hadn’t been the only one turned on during our ride through Central Park.
His hands on me were rough, but I liked it. “Fuck me,” I murmured into his mouth.
