Page 32 of Fifth Avenue Devil

I intensify my movements, sucking her clit between my lips and flicking my tongue over her most sensitive spot. Her moans grow louder and more urgent. Her inner muscles spasm around my fingers. She reaches her climax, shattering with a wordless shout. I feel her juices cover my fingers and drip down onto my hand. I taste every drop of her like she's the most delicious thing in the world.

Slowly and gently, I withdraw my fingers, leaving one last lingering kiss on her folds. I’m as shaken as she is, and I haven’t even taken my clothes off. I can already predict the nuclear fission of our first time fucking.

One thing has become clear: I need to hear many more of Annalise Gellar’s breathy moans.

Twelve

Annalise

Isit, gazing at a Matisse still life, in the upstairs hallway of my parents' mansion. The painting is mostly dull red and shadowy gray, with the exception of an apple and a bunch of red-purple grapes.

I lean my head to the side as I consider the fruit.

Namely, I wonder if the fruit in the studio was fresh.

Oil paintings take quite some time to paint. So, were there several apples before this one? Or are they rotting and Matisse just left that detail out?

You can never tell how things really are just by glimpsing an image. This is the only 20thcentury artist in my parents’ otherwise stodgy collection of dour portraits. I love the modern, fresh take, the way he forces us to see things as he wants us to see them, not as they might appear to our own eyes. It didn’t matter that the fruit might really be rotting.

My phone buzzes in my hand. A text from Nate.

I'll be there in 15.

Of course he picked today to get stuck in traffic. He's only supposed to be meeting my mother after I tell her the news of the merger.

I let out an exaggerated sigh just as the door to my father's bedroom swings open. My mom looks me up and down.

"Annalise Rebecca Gellar, what on earth are you wearing?"

The high-pitched sound of her voice grates on me as I stand up. "Hi, Mother."

She puts her hands on her hips, looking with horror at the gold velveteen dress that hugs my body. "Did you get robbed on the way over here? Or are you making some kind of horrid joke?"

My mouth pinches. "It's a Givenchy dress, Mother. I know it's not what you would pick out for yourself, but it's very much en vogue."

"It looks terrible. And your makeup! God, it's like a clown slapped it on."

The urge to touch my face is strong. But I ball my hands into fists and force a smile on to my face. "You made a huge deal about me flying out all the way out here to Newport this morning. How about we just go in to see Dad?"

Mom sniffs. "I'm glad that your father won't be awake to see you dressed like that."

I throw my hands up. "Maybe I should come back when you're feeling up to hosting people."

My mom shoots me a glare and then starts to walk back into the bedroom. "Come on. Look alive, then."

Rolling my eyes at her retreating figure, I hurry to follow her.

When I enter the room, the drapes are drawn tight. The only light comes from a small lamp on the bedside table. My father lies in the bed, hooked up to several monitors. I approach and see his salt and pepper hair and papery, pasty skin. He appears asleep, his blue-and-white striped pajamas sticking out of a dark blue comforter.

"Hi Dad," I say. I sit down beside him and take his hand. It's clammy to the touch. "It's Annalise. Just coming to check on you. See how you're doing. It seems like your color is a little better than the last time I saw you."

That might be a lie. I can barely make out his features because it's so dark in here.

"Can we open the drapes and let the light in for a little while?" I ask no one in particular. "It's a bit stale-smelling in here."

I smooth the back of my dad's wrinkly hand with my fingers. Someone opens one set of drapes, casting enough light on Dad's face to make him seem alive, at least.

Our relationship was contentious, at best, before he fell into this coma. But he's still my dad. I might want the company, but I don't want him to die.

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