53 Letters For My Lover (21 page)

He is by turns gentle and savage—slow, sensual grinding one moment, followed by quick, hard stabs. Each shift makes me cling to him, blood roaring in my ears, until I feel him straining against the last shreds of self-control. And still he waits.

I take his face in my hands so he can see what I’m saying. Then I rotate my hips and push against him.

“Shaydahhh.” He lets go with a primal growl.

I feel the first rush of ecstasy jerk through him. His fingers grip my hips, holding me still as he empties himself inside me. He shudders violently, dazed by the intensity of his release before burying his face in my shoulder.

We stay like that for a while, catching our breath. It’s too soon to face each other, like the first moments after a head-on collision, shaken by the raw, unexpected force of it.

“God. I love everything about you,” he says when he can speak again. “These long, dark lashes, your glowy, golden skin, the way you smell. Roses, always roses. Pink roses. Like your lips.”

He traces the line of my nose with his finger. “I love this dent over your mouth, the way your smile fills the corners.” He stops at the silver scar on my bottom lip.

If he asks me now, I’ll tell him everything. Anything.

But he kisses the spot in silent communication of all the things he can’t voice.

“What?” he asks when he catches the spasm in my throat.

“Nothing.” I play with the rosary around his neck. It helps me bite back the tears. “I have something for you.”

“You got me a birthday present?”

I nod.

“Fuck. Now I feel like shit.”

He’s given me the best gift of all and he doesn’t even know it. He’s pulled Pasha Moradi out by the roots and cast him out of my soul.

“I made you some brownies,” I say.

“Where are they, woman?”

“I don’t feel like getting up.” My arms flop to the side.

We lie in silence, listening to the drone of a boat on the lake.

“So what are you doing tonight?” he asks.

What he’s really saying is:
I want to know what it’s like. For you to go home and celebrate your special day with your family. The real people in your real world.

I’m not sure if I should tell him.

Who am I trying to protect? Him? Myself? My family?

“Nothing,” I reply. “It’s a school night. We might go out for dinner on Saturday.”

I don’t ask him what his plans are.

When I try to imagine his night, or the night after that, or the weekend ahead, I see phantoms with faceless bodies. They’re all glossy and dazzling—young, free, fun and firm.

“So how about those brownies?” I ask, glad I cut them into neat little squares so I don’t have to touch this double-edged sword that swings between us, slicing through me when I least expect it.

June 18th, 1996

“I can’t believe it’s
been a year already,” says Jayne.

I can’t believe it either. A year ago, Troy had been like a passage in a book, the kind you remember and recall. And then he was real and more powerful than any words on any page in any story could convey.

“Happy anniversary.” I give Jayne a hug.

“And happy birthday to you! A day late, but you were too busy to meet me for lunch yesterday,” she chides.

“Sorry.”
I was celebrating a mutual birthday in ways that still make me catch my breath.

“So?” she asks after the waiter takes our order. “Spill.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Oh, come now,” she says. “Something’s going on. Your hair, your skin, even your eyes are different. You look positively radiant. Did you get something done?”

“What? No.” I laugh. “Nothing like that.”

“Then what?”

“I’m just...I don’t know, happy.” I twirl my glass, hoping the tinkling ice-cubes will stop the full flush I feel coming on.

I’m happy. And sore. My skin is chafed from Troy’s stubble, and I ache when I move—the joints where his hips fit, my inner thighs, my waist where he held on.

“Well, whatever it is, it sure agrees with you,” says Jayne.

“So how’s the new place coming along?” I take a sip of my water and change the subject.

“It’s amazing!” She lights up. “We should be ready for a house-warming soon, but you have to join us at the cottage first. We’re hosting a small barbecue to celebrate our first anniversary. August long weekend.”

“I’ll check with Hafez,” I reply.

“No checking. You’re coming.”

We spend the rest of our lunch catching up. It’s nice and yet weird, like I’m wearing another skin beneath my own, another pulse that’s flowing, separate from the Shayda who’s sitting here. A Shayda I have to keep from the world.

“Heading back to the office?” asks Jayne as we pay the bill.

“No, I’m taking Maamaan to the clinic.”

“Everything okay?”

“Just a routine screening,” I reply.

Maamaan is waiting on
the porch when I arrive.

“I hate these appointments.” She plops her handbag on her lap and shuts the car door.

I smile. She wears a hat to anything she considers important. Weddings, funerals, parties. And mammograms. Today, it’s a wide-brimmed ivory hat with a pink ribbon. Her winter hat is a deep burgundy cloche with felt flowers that she embellishes with an assortment of brooches if she suspects she’s been seen in it before.

The mammogram doesn’t take long.

“That wasn’t too bad, was it?” I ask on the way back. She hmphs and stares out the window.

We stop at a bakery to pick up her favorite pastries, a reward for having her breasts squished and flattened and compressed and x-rayed. ‘Mishandled’ is the way she likes to put it.

In her kitchen, we settle down to what has become an annual tradition after one of these trips. I set the table while she makes tea—not the regular, everyday tea, but the kind on the stove, with real tea leaves and the careful simmering of milk and water. When the mixture is just the right shade, she adds a few strands of saffron and sugar.

“To Zarrin.” She clinks her cup against mine.

“To
Khaleh
,” I reply.

Only when she has sipped all her tea and finished her pastry, does she remove the hat.

“Call Hossein,” she says.

I get up and start dialing the number. Then I stop, put the phone on the table and sit back down.

“Call him yourself.”

Maamaan stares at me for a while before collecting her face. Then she clears her throat and picks up the receiver.

July 6th, 1996

“What is it?” I
ask, in the quiet afterglow of passion.

Troy takes my hand and entwines his fingers with mine.

“I wish I could hold your hand outside this room, go for a walk, sit on a patio, watch the world go by.”

I snuggle closer, to stop these simple, ordinary wishes from seeping between us, wishes that live and die in these four corners.

“Are you coming to Jayne’s barbecue next month?” I ask.

“I’m in New York that weekend.” He shifts so he’s lying on his side.

I feel a stab of tenderness—the tousled hair, the sleepy sensuality in his eyes, the way he looks at me with that intense, soulful gaze.

“I love your after-sex face,” I say, tracing the line of his jaw.

“Oh yeah?” He pulls me closer so I can feel him stirring. “How about my before-sex face?”

“But you just...we just...”

“Shut up and kiss me, Beetroot.”

What starts as soft and gentle, quickly becomes urgent.

“God, I love the way you taste,” he says. “You get so wet and your clit...” He licks me with slow, broad strokes before switching to a burst of rapid, stomach-clenching caresses.

“Your clit gets so swollen.” He places his tongue beneath the mass of throbbing nerves and slide it up with soft, wet strokes.

Desire explodes at the pure, uncensored delight he takes in me. I wiggle my hips, hoping to ease the tension. He cups my butt and lifts me higher, deepening the red hot attack on my senses.

My fingers claw at the bed sheets.

“Not yet.” His voice is muffled, but his eyes seek mine.

When he slips his finger inside, I throw my head back, unable to keep contact.

“Look at me.” He slides his body over mine. “Look at me as I take you.”

He sheaths himself with a condom before prying me open and settling deliciously into my core. A ragged cry leaves his mouth as he sinks into my ready wetness. My hands grip his shoulders as he eases out, almost all the way, and then back in.

“So good.” His eyes glaze over as he looks at me.

He thrusts into me, slowly, rhythmically, building me up, until I’m arching my hips, giving in to that explosive need. He grips my hipbones, his strokes coming harder and faster.

“Come with me,” he says. “Come with me, Shayda.”

“I can’t.”

“You can. Like this...” He moves behind me, drawing my back to his chest so we’re both resting on our sides. “Now.” He slides into me. “Squeeze, baby.”

I double cross my legs and start with long, slow contractions of my thighs. It’s a different sensation, having him embedded in me, fuller, thicker, but I find my rhythm and thrill to the deep, guttural sounds that escape him. I arch my back and grind back against him.

“Wait. Hold still.” He sucks in some air, fighting to pace himself. “You first.” His hands clamp down on my hips.

I abandon myself to it, riding the pleasure to its pinnacle as he wraps his arms around me. I come hard, spiraling around two worlds—the hard, magnificent length of him and the twisting, pulsing bud of need.

He takes my ear into his mouth and stifles a moan as he feels me contract around him.

“I’ve got you.” He holds me tight, as he gives in to his own passion, in short, jerky gasps.

We collapse against each other. I close my eyes, knowing I have never felt more connected to anyone and it kills me, that it’s wrong.

“Shayda?”

I refuse to look at him. He gathers me in his arms and lets me cry into his chest. There are no questions, just the softness of his fingers stroking my hair. The minutes tick by, but we stay locked together.

“I’m glad you don’t have to rush off,” he says.

“Me too,” I reply, drawing little circles on his chest.

“I’ll be right back.” He excuses himself to use the bathroom.

When he comes out, I’m wrapped in a sheet, painting my toe nails.

“What color is that?” he asks.

“This is...” I turn the bottle over and read the label. “Ablaze.”

“I love it.”

“The shade?”

“The shade is very sexy on you, but also the fact that it’s never plain ‘red’ with you women. It’s strawberry red or candy-apple red or habanero red.”

“And I love that it’s all about food with you guys. Strawberries and apples and habanero. I think this is named more for an emotion or a feeling.”

“Ah, so ablaze, aflame, aglow, astride...”

“Astride?” I laugh. “That’s not a feeling. That’s a position, Mr. One-Track-Mind."

“I can behave. Occasionally.” He stretches out on his tummy. “Give me your foot.”

“Have you done this before or am I going to get goopy nails?”

“You’ll just have to trust me.”

As it turns out, he has an incredibly steady hand. He paints thin strips of shiny color with rapt attention. Troy Heathgate, treating my toes like they’re the center of his universe.

“What?” he asks when I giggle.

“You just focus,” I reply, wanting to do nothing more than shower him with big, squishy smooches.

“There.” He sits back, admiring his handiwork.

“Not bad.” I stretch my legs, wiggling my toes before me. “You have hidden talent.”

“I have many hidden talents.” He rests the soles of my feet on his chest and blows on my toes in a way that makes me want to curl them up.

“Let’s go sit on the balcony,” I suggest.

We can watch the world go by from there.

“Not so fast.” He gets the robes from the bathroom and helps me into the one that says ‘Hers’. Then he picks me up and carries me to the over-sized patio chair. “We don’t want to ruin your toes.”

“You spoil me,” I say.

He drops a kiss on my nose and settles into the chair beside me. A dazzling view of the water stretches out before us.