Page 61 of Naughty Nelle

On Friday at six in the evening, the usual suspects were gathered at my parents’ dining room table. It was elegantly set with fine linens, crystal, china, and silver. My father sat at the head and my striking platinum-haired mother at the other end. I sat catty-corner, next to my father. The remaining chairs were occupied by my overweight older sister Marcy and her husband Matt, both gynecologists with a thriving joint Beverly Hills practice . . . their children, my six-year-old twin nephews from Planet Hell . . . and last but not least, my feisty eighty-five-year-old grandmother Muriel, who lived independently in the guest house on our property. Our house, located in the prestigious, gated Beverly Park area of Beverly Hills was huge—a twenty thousand square foot palace that included a screening room, full gym, and ten bathrooms. Many often mistook it for a hotel. It sat on six acres of land. In addition to the guesthouse, there was a swimming pool, tennis court, and a studio where my mother made pottery. Our A-list celebrity neighbors included Eddie Murphy and Sylvester Stallone as well as billionaire Haim Saban, the creator of the Power Rangers, a show I loved watching as a child.

There was one empty chair next to mine. It was reserved for Jennifer. She was unusually late. The Shabbat antics had already begun. The twins were whining about watching television; my sister was yelling at them, and my brother-in-law was yelling at my sister. Oblivious to it all, my grandmother was already on her second (third?) glass of wine. Technically, one was supposed to wait to drink the wine after the Shabbat candles were lit and the prayer for the wine was said. But Grandma always said in her Yiddish accent, “Vy vait? Vait shmait!” At her age, she could not be challenged.

“Vhere’s your new girlfriend?” she quipped, after another loud gulp of wine.

I jerked slightly. “She should be here soon, and she’s not my girlfriend.”

“Vhatever,” responded Grandma, going right back to her wine. “You need to get married.”

Grandma was always on my case to settle down. My mother shot her a harsh look she simply dismissed with a wave of her veined hand and a roll of her crinkly gray eyes. Fortunately, I didn’t have to respond. I was saved by the bell. Literally. The chime of our front doorbell sounded. It must be Jennifer. My guess was confirmed when a minute later, she was escorted to the dining room by our longtime housekeeper, Rosa. Our eyes immediately made contact.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” she apologized, her voice on edge. “I got a little lost coming up here.”

Indeed, it was not easy to get to our house. The gated community was very secluded, and one wrong turn off poorly lit, twisty Benedict Canyon could easily land you miles away in The Valley.

My father stood up. A warm smile beamed on his distinguished face. “Welcome to our home, Jennifer. No apologies necessary.”

My eyes soaked her in. Not wearing her glasses, she looked absolutely stunning in a knee-length, navy blue A-line dress with matching pumps that subtly showed off her curves and slender limbs. Why did she always leave so much to the imagination? It fucking drove me crazy.

Her eyes wandered around the antique-and-art-filled grand dining room. By the expression on her face, I could tell she was in awe of the grandeur of our house. I felt myself cringe, embarrassed a little by the blatant wealth of my family. It couldn’t be helped. My father, who had come from meager means, had worked hard to build Conquest Broadcasting into a global empire, and this house, along with others we owned around the world, was the prize for all his hard work. Whether I agreed with him or not over programming and business decisions, my old man was a force to be reckoned with—and to be admired.

Composing herself, Jennifer took reserved steps toward my mother. In her hand was a bouquet of pink lilies. Their intoxicating scent filled the room.

“These are for you, Mrs. Bernstein.”

“They’re beautiful,” exclaimed my mother. “Thank you so much and please call me Helen.”

Rosa immediately took the flowers from Jennifer, retreated to the pantry, and returned with them arranged in a vase. She set the arrangement on the credenza and then headed back to the kitchen.

“I guess that’s my seat,” Jennifer said nervously, eyeing the empty chair next to mine. My father escorted her to it. The heavenly cherry vanilla scent of Jennifer’s hair mixed with that of the lilies and made a heady combination.

“Hi,” I said softly in her ear.

She gazed at me and blinked her beautiful long-lashed green eyes. With a nervous little smile, she whispered “hi” back. The tension between us was palpable. And so was the electricity.

Returning to his seat, my father introduced my family to Jen. “Jennifer’s one of our rising stars at Conquest.”

Her face flushed the color of the lilies she’d brought.

“You’re too skinny,” shouted out my outspoken Grandma.

She’s fucking perfect, I thought to myself.

My father continued. “It’s customary in our household for the guest of honor to light the Shabbat candles.”

Jennifer flinched. “This is my first Shabbat. I don’t think I know how.”

Despite her protest, my father urged her to come to the head of the table to light the candles. My father was not a man who took “no” for an answer. And Jennifer smartly knew that.

“I’m not very good at lighting matches,” she stammered, taking the matchbox into one hand. Opening the box with her other, she pulled out a match and hesitantly slid it against the striker. Nada. She tried again. Nada. Strike after strike was met with failure. The twins began to crack up and count her misfires. Moving on to another match and then another, Jennifer grew flustered and flushed with embarrassment. Either Calamity Jen was going to burn down the house or burn herself to a crisp. I rose from my chair and semi-circled behind her.

Wrapping one arm around her tiny waist, I curled my fingers of the other around the dainty wrist striking the matches. Her backside pressed into me, and I could feel the rise and fall of her chest. Her long ponytail tickled the sensitive crook of my neck, and that divine cherry vanilla scent of her hair trickled up my nose. Mmmm. She smelled delicious enough to eat. I could feel the beginnings of a hard-on beneath my slacks.

“On my count of three, get ready to light the match,” I breathed into her ear, resisting the urge to suck and nuzzle it. “One . . . two . . . three.” Aiding her, she struck the match and successfully lit it. “Yay!” cried the obnoxious twins. I gently led her shaking hand to the two Shabbat candles that stood tall and erect in the Baccarat crystal holders before us. One after another, the wicks caught fire, and I felt my body heat up with hers. My cock was on fire too.

“Thanks,” she mumbled humbly, setting the matchbox and used match down on the table. It was customary for the woman who lit the candles to cover her eyes with one hand and usher in Shabbat with sweeping gestures of the other and then recite a blessing in Hebrew. Readjusting my hands, I helped her do this and said the prayer since she didn’t know it. My large splayed hands covered her small ones. I loved the way they felt in mine. She trembled against me, and I wondered if she could feel my arousal. And my heat.

Symbolically, Shabbat was the union of man and woman—a spiritual wedding. God taking his bride. That’s what I’d learned when I was studying for my Bar Mitzvah. I’d never given thought again to this concept until this very minute . . . with Jennifer McCoy almost in my arms. I had the burning urge to cover her long, graceful neck with kisses but settled for breathing hotly on the nape. After everyone said the prayers for the bread and the wine, I forced myself to break away from her. My cock stiff, we both returned to our seats. Shabbat dinner was about to be served.

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