Page 55 of Finders Keepers
I’m going to start with the worst case, because it does seem important: Quentin finds the situation extremely uncomfortable and asks me to please cover myself. Or, no, an even worse outcome would definitely be that he’s not alone and I expose myself to him and like, Mr. Farina, whom he’s invited over for a late-night chat. Most likely: It’s less sexy and more awkward than I’m imagining, and we wind up having a perfunctory conversation about the weather or something, with me in nothing but my underwear, before saying good night again. Best-case outcome, though? I guess best-case would be that he’s into it and I orgasm so intensely that I discover another dimension.
My therapist once told me that sometimes big rewards involve big risks, and while I’m sure this is not the particular circumstance to which she was referring, I am still just drunk enough to decide it can apply here.
I turn back toward the window and slowly rise up in front of it, cupping my breasts in my hands so that I’m not immediately inflicting them upon the unwilling or, god forbid, our elderly across-the-street neighbor. There’s barely enough light to see Quentin lowering himself into an Adirondack chair, a whiskey tumbler in his hand. He glances up at me and freezes for a moment before dropping the rest of the way into his seat like the wind’s been knocked out of him.
“Hi,” I say. It’s the complete opposite of the uninterestedversion I practiced in the mirror a few weeks ago. In fact, it’s probably the most interested “hi” I’ve delivered in my whole life.
“Hello again.” His voice is deep and rough like it was when he said my name earlier, before he completely came back to his senses.
There’s a long silence. Quentin brings his glass to his lips and takes a sip from it, eyes never leaving mine.
“Nice night,” I say conversationally, regret blooming in my chest. Guess it’s calledmost likelyfor a reason.
“Seems to be getting nicer by the second,” he answers with a small smile. He takes another long drink. Quentin stares into his glass for a moment, looks back up at me. Then he says with a casualness I can tell he doesn’t feel, “If your hands get tired…Don’t feel the need to keep them there on my account.”
Oh my god. Are we veering toward best-case outcome? There’s so much heat running through my bloodstream. At first I think it’s embarrassment, and I am a little embarrassed. Which feels reasonable considering I am about to basically flash Quentin from my upstairs window. But it has more in common with the hot thrill I get whenever he touches me. It’s as if I can feel him near me, against me, all the way up here. My anxiety is still working under its usual impression that everything is about to go horribly wrong, but my body’s excited thrum is enough to drown it out, leaving only an easily ignored murmur.
“Turn on a light first,” I order. “I want to see you too.”
If I’m going to do this, I don’t want the dark obscuring anything. I want to see every minute change in his expression. I want to look into his eyes and know they’re on me. There’s a vulnerability in this, and I need to know he’s there too, as exposed as I am.
Silently, he moves his glass to the chair’s wide armrest and stands. He makes his way toward his house, out of my sight for a moment as the light beside his back door flicks on, illuminating the small patio.
Quentin returns and stands with his arms outstretched. He changed into those gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt after getting home, and said sweatpants are undeniably already tented. His posture is somehow both playful and daring. An unspokenLight enough for you now?as he sits again, downs the rest of his drink in one go, sets the glass on the ground, and brings his hands to the armrests, waiting for something.
Waiting for me.
I take a deep breath, then slide my hands from my breasts. My nipples harden immediately against the night air even though it’s still in the low eighties, and every part of me resonates with even stronger need. The only reassurance is that Quentin doesn’t seem to be faring much better down there. His eyes are so hungry, it feels like they’re trying to swallow me whole.
“Nina,” he breathes. “What exactly were you doing before I came out here?”
“What do you think I was doing?” I respond, trying to imbue that with the sensuality it deserves, but I’m unsure if I succeed. I’m so out of my element here. Maybe even out of my right mind. But my body continues cheering me on.Keep going, you’re doing just fine!“I was touching myself. Obviously.”
His laugh hits my ears, a new one that I’m going to file underCan’t believe his luck. “Obviously,” he repeats. There’s a long, charged silence. “Want me to go back inside and leave you to it? Or…?”
“I wouldn’t mind some company,” I say. Who is this woman?She’s brazen and sexy. She’s no version of myself I’ve ever met before. I like her a lot. “If that’s…amenable to you,” I add, not wanting to leave any room for doubt.
There’s probably fifteen feet of height elevation between us, but thanks to the light I can see how that hungry look in his eyes shifts into something else as my words float down to him. I recognize what it is right away. It’s possible I even know what he’s about to say before he says it, but that doesn’t lessen the impact as he quietly calls up, “Not only am I amenable, but I bet…that I’ll finish first.”
A laugh spills out of me at the absurdity of turning this into another one of our competitions (and one where the goal is to be fastest, no less). But at the same time the part of me that loves a challenge—especially a Quentin-issued one—comes roaring to life, joining the lust coursing through me and creating something new and even more enticing.
“Bet not,” I say, my voice unintentionally breathy.
“I guess,” he says, “we’ll just have to see.” The way his voice teeters between self-assured and nervous is so human and so sensual I am pretty sure I would come right now if my fingers were still in the proper location.
“I guess so.”
Quentin’s resulting smile is somewhere between amused and wolfish. It suits him much better than the practiced charming one, in my opinion. Much more dangerous too, because this is a smile that would probably convince me to do anything he asked.
We make eye contact for a second before either of us moves, and the challenge momentarily eases from his stare—Are we really doing this? Are you sure?it seems to ask. I recognize it, because it’s the same look he gave me when we agreed to trespass onto Fountain’s estate seventeen years ago.
But no, I don’t want to think about that. About things that happened before. Only now. Onlyrightnow. This very instant. Not yesterday, not earlier tonight, not even tomorrow.
I am fully committed to seeing this through as far as it will go. I feel like exactly the version of myself I’m supposed to be in this moment in time—the one who can smile down at Quentin in response, lips tilted upward in flirty confirmation. Someone who knows what and who she wants and doesn’t hesitate when it’s in reach. I slip my fingers back beneath the waistband of my underwear and find the same place that made me moan before. Except now it feels even better, because I don’t need to imagine what it would be like to do this with Quentin listening or watching from next door. Because he is. He’s watching with one hand in his sweatpants, stroking slowly, as if he has all the time in the world.
And maybe he does. Maybe he truly doesn’t care about winning this little challenge. I mean, I’m not sure I do. Which is good, because when I bring my other fingers to my left nipple to pinch it, then run my thumb over it in circles, mimicking what my other hand is doing lower, it gets me closer but it also seems to bring him there with me. His pace increases in response, his eyes wide and dark, and he lets out a muffled sound that might be “Fuck.”
Then Quentin takes the hem of his T-shirt in his fist and raises it up his stomach, giving me a view of that trail of hair that’s been taunting me for days. My entire focus zooms in on his movements, every thought turning to anticipation. How much seeing Quentin lose himself to pleasure will increase mine. It’s going to happen soon, I can tell. Even from this distance, I can see his chest rising and falling more quickly, his arm pumping faster, his eyes still glued to me.
