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I settle myself into his side, enjoying the warmth and comfort and simply nod.
The evening is easy. I have a few messages I answer on my phone and for the most part, I’m able to lay into him in comfortable silence, his laptop ticking away as he occasionally asks me questions. Sometimes he asks if I need anything, like the champagne he brings me. Sometimes he asks questions like whether I prefer tea or coffee and what restaurants I like in the city.
As the night gets later, his touches become more focused on my curves and he lingers longer. Two glasses of champagne down and his laptop closes. He pushes it back on the coffee table and then murmurs something about ‘earning this’ before his lips press to mine and his body covers mine. When we fuck this time, he’s on top of me with my legs spread around his hips. The climax is higher and heavier than the last, and he groans my name into my neck just as I cry out his with the blinding pleasure.
I’m breathless and the most at ease I’ve ever been as I lie down on the sofa with my back to his front and the blanket wrapped around us. An old movie is playing on the TV; the New York skyline surrounds us.
“What do you think?” I ask after a while. “Worth the investment?” A small smile tugs at my lips.
“Every single penny,” he says, and kisses the back of my neck. The simple kiss feels like heaven.
Time passes easily. The two of us finding out little pieces of each other, and each night falling into a steady rhythm.
We don’t only have sex, which is what I imagined originally, though I’m sure that given a week without any obligations, we probably could. I can’t get enough of him and the same seems to be true of him.
Graham takes me to get coffee in the mornings. And if he isn’t there, I find a text on my phone telling me to have a good day and that there’s a coffee waiting at the front desk for me.
Although the mornings have been the same, tonight is a little different.
He texts me before I leave the office and asks me if I want to meet for dinner. I expect someplace too fancy for my work clothes, but he takes me to an Italian place I told him once that I loved. “You really haven’t been here?” I tease over our entrées.
It’s not high-end, but it’s authentic and the atmosphere is amazing. He simply shakes his head, folding the cloth napkin in his lap. With the candles lit on the table and the soft din of conversation around us, I can’t help but think how romantic it feels.
“I usually come with my family. My aunt loves pasta and we’re very close,” I tell him casually and have a sip of the cabernet he ordered. “You should bring your parents.” It’s divine, so delicious that I almost miss his reaction.
Graham glances at me, his eyes guarded. “I see…” He trails off and doesn’t say anything for a few minutes. For the first time, insecurity sweeps through me. It’s sudden, but enough that I feel it in the tips of my fingers. I set the glass down and swallow thickly.
“I’m sorry if I said something out of line.”
“You didn’t.” He twirls his fork over his plate, seeming to decide what to say. “I was close to my parents as well.”
There’s abutat the end of that sentence that Graham doesn’t say.
“My dad died young, and my mother couldn’t live without him. They’re both gone.”
“Oh, Graham.” I reach for his hand across the table and squeeze it. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
He opens his mouth like he might reassure me and say it was a long time ago, but instead he says a quietthank you.
We sit for a minute. Silverware clinks against plates at the tables around us. Faint noises from the kitchen float out to our table. I wish I could think of something to say but all I can think of is, “I’m happy to be here with you.”
He offers me a smile but doesn't say anything else. I take another sip of wine, attempting to start any conversation.
“I feel awful,” I admit to him and he tells me not to.
“According to a good friend of mine, it’s why I work as much as I do. I wanted to make sure that never happened to me,” Graham continues. “I wanted to make sure I had my life under control. Nobody would be able to run me into the ground.”
He clears his throat and then says, “He says I work too much. I tell him he’s just mad I make more than him.” He attempts to joke, and I smile back at him, letting this admission sink in.
I run my thumb over his knuckles, considering my next words. This arrangement doesn’t mean that we have the kind of relationship where I can comment on his choices. But I’ve seen how he works. I know he pushes himself beyond the regular working hours.
“Do you ever go on vacation?”
He laughs, his blue eyes crinkling. “I live in a penthouse in one of the most beautiful buildings in Manhattan. I’m always on vacation compared to the life my parents had.”
I laugh along with him, but…I understand the sentiment. I get what it’s like to struggle and not have enough money and always worry about making ends meet.
I also know that fixing it is hard work, and it’s the kind of work you can’t keep doing forever. Everybody needs a break sometimes, even if your father’s life was objectively harder.
