Undying Love (2 page)

About halfway through the race, I slowed down. My legs were lead; I was sweating like a pig, and my breathing was labored. I was questioning if I’d be able to finish, but I knew, by the worn-out looks of other runners, I wasn’t alone. My father had drilled into me the value of not quitting. Once an all-star quarterback at Harvard (MVP ’72), he never quit. I wasn’t allowed to either.

But, man, let me tell you, as I crossed the Queensboro Bridge heading back into Manhattan, I wanted to throw in the towel. The climb up the bridge was agonizing, so far the most difficult challenge in the race. My thighs were burning, and so were my lungs. Sweat was pouring from every crevice of my being. I didn’t think I could go on. While there were only ten or so miles left, these miles were going to be far more challenging than the sixteen I’d already run. No matter how much I had trained for this race, it was not enough. “Hang in there, Madewell,” I said to myself, my breathing now short, constant pants.

“How ya’ doin’, 1212?” came a voice from behind me a little after I exited the bridge.

There was no mistaking that sexy, raspy voice. I stole a glance over my shoulder. Sure enough, it was Allee, her dark hair gathered into a long ponytail and a wicked grin spread across her face. She was running right behind me, holding a bottle of water. She was so close I could feel her warm breath on my neck.

“Have some water.” Instead of handing me the bottle, she poured the icy cold contents over my head. Aah! It felt so good! Rubbing the water out of my eyes, I found her right beside me. I couldn’t get my eyes off her body. She was wearing a tight Metropolitan Museum of Art graphic T-shirt that exposed her pert breasts and nipples, even under her sports bra, and black running shorts that revealed her toned mile-high legs. I’d imagined she’d had great legs but nothing like these gams. They were smooth and taut, flaunting a rippled muscle that ran down the side of her thighs. What turned me on most was the substantial space between her inner thighs. Man, she was hot.

“I thought I’d go for a little jog,” she said. “Hope you don’t mind if I join you.”

Mind? Are you kidding? She was just what I needed to get through the last leg of the race. For the next ten miles, she kept pace with me. I shot her little looks that didn’t go unnoticed. She wasn’t wearing her glasses. I was awed by her profile and bouncing ponytail that made it even more electrifying.

As we passed through Harlem onto Fifth Avenue, she sprinted ahead of me. “Betchya you can’t keep up with me, Golden Boy,” she shouted with a turn of her head and a smug smile.

“Betchya I can,” I yelled back at her. What a tease! Calling upon every muscle in my body, I charged ahead. I don’t know if it was the competitive value that my father had instilled in me (“Son, Madewells are born to be winners.”) or that I wanted to catch up to her and wrap my arms around her, but nothing could stop me.

Damn, she was fast. Then again, she hadn’t run twenty-four grueling miles across the city. On the other hand, I enjoyed watching her run. She ran with the grace of a gazelle, her long, muscular legs kicking up their heels to propel her forward. From time to time, she glanced back at me, firing me a mischievous smile. A smile I wanted to wipe off her face with my lips.

Just as we edged into Central Park at Columbus Circle, I caught up to her. I clasped her hand tightly so that she couldn’t get away. And so that she would pull me over the finish line with her. As thousands of spectators cheered us on, we crossed the famed finish line together, a bundle of hot, sweaty human flesh. I clocked in at 4:40:30. Just a little under five hours. I did it! Wasted, I sunk to my knees, wrapping my arms around Allee’s long legs. She sunk down with me, wrapping her arms around me. Her hard nipples brushed against my soaking wet T-shirt. Beads of sweat clung to her like fairy dust, making her ethereal. Otherworldly. I couldn’t stop panting. She met my gaze with her espresso bean eyes, and I broke down in heaves from the pain and the emotion of it all. In the background, Lady Gaga’s “Edge of Glory” blasted. Here I was hanging onto this gorgeous, sexy girl I hardly knew—wanting her like a child wants a forbidden candy. She gently brushed sweat off my forehead with her long fingers and looked straight into my eyes, burning a hole in them. With a broad smile and her husky voice, she said, “Congratulations, 1212!” I could hear well-wishers in the crowd shouting out my name, but I saw only one beautiful person—a girl named Allee.

A marathon volunteer passed by us, carrying a box full of bottled water. I grabbed two bottles, one for her and one for me. We gulped down the contents down greedily. As parched as I was, what I most thirsted for was her. Her hot sweaty body, her long legs, her lush lips. I drank it all in and could practically taste her.

Slowly, I rose to my feet, lifting her with me. “I need to go to my health club and take a cold shower and get a massage,” I said.

“Save your money,” she said. “I give an excellent massage.”

My skin prickled.

“And besides, I owe you for winning the bet.”

“So, you have a driver,” she said with that maddening roll of her eyes.

“Yeah,” I said, on the verge of embarrassment, as my black, tinted-window Escalade pulled up to us as we stood on Fifth Avenue. “You were right. I’m rich.”

“I underestimated you,” she smirked. “You must be a very prolific writer.”

“I’m just lucky.” Indeed, I was.

My uniformed driver, Marcus, opened the passenger door. An ex-marine, he had a brick shithouse build, ruddy complexion, and buzzed bone white hair that contrasted sharply with his perpetual black shades and belied his fifty-something years.

“After you,” I said to Allee. A little hesitant, she slid into the leather backseat with me following behind her. She deliberately stayed her distance, though I longed to cradle her in my arms.

I admired her long muscular legs and inhaled her delicious scent, a blend of sweetness and sweat, as the SUV headed downtown to my loft. The place I called home was located on the Lower East Side. A far cry from my parents’ stuffy Fifth Avenue residence and lifestyle, it suited my downtown sensibility and was close to my office.

We cruised down Broadway, steeped in silence until we reached my residence. Marcus jumped out of the car and let us out.

“So, you live in a warehouse,” she said, eying the three-story depression-era brick building. Her wide eyes communicated a tinge of surprise.

“Actually, it’s an old millinery factory that manufactured nurses caps during World War II,” I said, leading her inside.

“I hope those caps saved a lot of lives,” she said, taking in her surroundings.

The ground floor served as a storage area for things like my skis, bike, college papers, and textbooks. And a whole lot more, including a bunch of ancestral typewriters. I had to admit, I was somewhat of a hoarder. I was always afraid of tossing a possession—be it an old photograph or a treasured childhood toy—thinking it might be an inspiration for the prize-worthy novel I aspired to write.

“You’ve got a lot of stuff,” Allee commented as she followed me to the former freight elevator to our right. “You know, there are lots of needy kids out there.”

Oh, so now she was doing a guilt trip number on me. The number of ways this girl could get under my skin irked me. Though, I suppose she was right—I could give some things away.

After swiping a security card over the elevator call button, I pushed it and the wide, original metal door creaked open. We stepped into the massive elevator carriage together. Her intoxicating scent filled the air. I pushed the button for the second floor, and the car rose slowly. Again, more silence.

The elevator door jerked open and let us out in my loft. True to fashion, Allee bolted out. She surveyed my living quarters, taking in everything with an analytical eye. If she was awed, she didn’t show it.

“This place is like a museum,” she finally said.

Well, it wasn’t exactly a museum, but the space was vast, filled with interesting artifacts, photographs, and art, each a souvenir from my travels around the world. The exposed high ceilings, gleaming hardwood floors, industrial lighting, and floor-to-ceiling windows made the perfect backdrop for my collection. Charlotte, an interior designer, had done the decorating—sleek, high-end Italian furniture that included oversized black leather couches, a burled wood dining table and chairs, built-in shelves for all my books, plus an antique Persian rug—her gift to me. At the far end, there was a state-of-the-art kitchen and, in a corner, a winding polished-metal staircase that led to the third level where I slept and showered.

Leaving me behind, my companion freely explored the space. I trailed behind her, observing her gorgeous ass. It was firm, rounded, and shaped like a heart. The kind you want to squeeze in your hands. Or take a bite out of.

Her raspy voice diverted my attention. Focusing on a photograph of me posing with a giraffe from my trip to Kenya, she asked, “Did you use to write for a travel magazine?”

“Yeah. Before I wrote for
Arts & Smarts
, I worked for
Travel & Fun
.” Another one of those magazines she’d probably pooh-pooh. Travel aimed at the Silicon Valley nouveau riche.

Sure enough, she rolled her eyes. “Did you ever write an article on Paris?”

I shook my head. “I’ve been there several times, but I’ve never found the words to describe the City of Light.”

“Probably because you’ve never fully experienced it.”

“And you have?”

“Not yet,” she said wistfully.

Paris apparently meant something to her. I changed the subject. “What about that massage?”

“Yeah, Golden boy, what about it?” Her eyes roamed around the loft. “Where’s your bed?”

“Upstairs.” My cock twitched. The thought of having her in bed any way I could was turning me on.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Move it. There’s an expiration date on this free massage…today.” She shot me a wry smile.

With Allee right behind me, I strode to the spiral stairs and mounted the winding metal steps. My bedroom, along with the adjacent state-of-the-art bathroom, occupied the entire second floor. It was my kingdom where I wrote and dreamed.

Allee’s eyes took in the expansive, minimally furnished room and landed on the king-size mattress lying in the middle of the floor. It was covered with a plush white duvet and a mountain of fluffy pillows. “That’s your bed?”

“Yeah.”

She gave me a scornful look. “C’mon, don’t tell me you can’t afford a real one.”

I simply shrugged, feeling a little embarrassed that I had never gotten around to buying one. Truthfully, I liked sleeping so close to floor. It kept me grounded and expanded my mind when I gazed up at the skylight above.

“Take off your t-shirt,” she commanded. “I’ll deal with the rest.”

I lifted the damp cotton tee, my marathon souvenir, over my head and tossed it onto the floor.

She surveyed my torso, her eyes passing over my broad shoulders, toned pecs, and washboard abs. All 6’2” of me. A regular at my health club, I had to admit I was in great shape. Her impassive expression did not confirm that. All that came out from her mouth was a throw away “hmm.”

“Lie down, facedown,” she ordered.

I got down on the bed, following her instructions. The cool, soft cotton duvet was soothing under my aching, heated body.

“Where’s your bathroom?” she asked.

“Behind you.” With my face pressed into a pillow, my voice was muffled.

“Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

I heard her step away, and then the sound of running water filtered into my ears.

“That’s quite a bathroom, for one person,” she said with sarcasm, the sound of her footsteps getting closer. She was right—with its steam room, it was almost like a spa. It was Charlotte’s idea, but I didn’t owe her an explanation.

She dropped to her knees beside the mattress. With swiftness, she tugged off my running shoes and damp, clingy socks. My sore feet were at last freed prisoners. Around each one, she wrapped a hot, moist towel, gently squeezing them as she did. The sensation was exquisitely soothing. A loud sigh escaped my throat. She removed the towels and began to work my right foot with her soft, warm hands. I let out a moan as she dug her thumbs into the sole. She circled them around, pressing deep, releasing all the pain and tension that had gathered there from the long race. She worked every part of my foot, from my heel to my toes. Oh, God, it felt good! My whole body was letting go. Except one part. The mound of flesh between my legs. The hard circular motions were arousing my erogenous zone, sending little electrical pulses there. Balls! I was getting hard.

I jolted a little as she pulled each toe, one at a time, and then splayed her fingers between them. My other foot was screaming for equal treatment, and she did not disappoint. I was moaning and getting harder.

From my toes, she moved on to my tight calves, squeezing and kneading each one. The delicious pain was almost unbearable. I let out a deep groan.

“No pain, no gain,” she said in that deep, raspy voice.

I was craving more and got it when she moved up my thighs to my hips, pressing deeply into the sore sockets. Man, she was good. My back couldn’t wait for her skilled hands.