Page 104 of Wallflower
Chord is quiet and determined with his eyes on the end goal, solid and certain that this is the right choice, and his strength gives me the resolve to keep going. He stands behind me at thedesk in the home office, massaging my shoulders with his clever hands as I send my acceptance email. And he’s there when I send my resignation letter to Courtney. That feels pretty darn good.
He drives me to San Francisco to help me pack the rest of my stuff. When I find my passport, he comments on the fact that I’ve had it for six years and it’s still without a single stamp.
“I got it when I graduated college,” I explain. “Just in case I received a job offer like this, but I never did.”
His face grows still as he hands it back, turns to another drawer of my belongings, and stuffs them with renewed determination into the new luggage he bought for me. I keep packing too, ignoring the way thoughts of leaving him make me feel unsteady and unwell.
Five days pass, and every minute is more precious than the last. Each touch and look and word imprints on my DNA. Our nights together, with our skin sparking, our hands roaming, and our mouths exploring in the dark…
The nights are the best and worst of my life because I don’t know if we’ll ever have this again. Are these desperate moments the last we’ll spend together? I’m too afraid of the answer to ask the question out loud.
The night before my flight, Chord surprises me with dinner at The Hill. He tells me to put on something that makes me feel great, then knocks on my bedroom door wearing a pressed white shirt and tailored navy pants, his hair immaculately styled and a heavy new Rolex on his wrist, looking like he stepped off the cover ofGQmagazine. He grins like this is a date night like any other, but the energy between us is heavy. It ticks with finality.
Chord holds my hand across the center console, and he drives us around to Dylan’s restaurant in his sports car. And when he leads me to the private dining room, everyone’s waiting for us under abon voyagebanner—Charlie, Finn, Dylan, Izzy, Daisy, and Dad—and as I walk through the door, I’m greeted with achorus of party poppers, tiny streamers flying over my head, and shouts of congratulations soaring with them through the air.
I’m warm with overwhelm and gratitude, and my eyes well up as I stammer out half a dozen barely audiblethank-yous. Chord’s arm tightens around my waist like he knows it’s the only thing keeping me upright, and as everyone takes a seat at the exquisitely set candlelit dining table, Dad comes over and kisses the top of my head.
“I’m so proud of you, Blossom.” He blinks back the tears in his warm brown eyes. “You deserve this, and you’re going to do so well.”
“Thank you, Daddy,” I reply around a sniffle.
Chord’s fingers squeeze my hip, but he doesn’t get it. This isn’t about being the center of attention. I don’t feel the weight of the spotlight with him beside me. I’m burdened by expectations. By my father’s pride, and Chord’s faith, and his family’s acceptance. By the secret that ever since I said yes to this job, all I’ve wanted is to take it back.
And though I know it’s only the fear talking, my brain’s having trouble telling that to my heart.
I try to relax over dinner. The food, as always, is beyond compare. The wine flows, and I forget my troubles for a while when Charlie pulls me aside to explain the deal she made with the San Francisco Fury.
She’s wearing a pretty blue dress that hugs her curves and simple black pumps that show off her legs, and it’s the first time I’ve seen her out of her Silver Leaf shirt. She looks happy, and I remind myself that this is what it looks like when a woman realizes her dreams.
Three hours later, the dark sky is blanketed with stars and Chord pulls the car into his garage. This is the final step in our last night before I fly to Milan and if he tells me this is it—thatit’s over between us—I won’t be able to go. Maybe that’s why we haven’t spoken a word since the restaurant.
He opens my door, takes my hand, and leads me inside. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t pause to turn on a light, because the urgency has grown too great to waste time on anything as insignificant as speech or illumination. His stride is measured and single-minded as he leads me up the stairs and down the hallway, and when he opens the door to his bedroom, I gasp.
“How did you…?”
Chord pulls me into the room. “I called in a favor with the Silver Leaf staff. They set it up while we were out.”
His bedroom is filled with candles. Dozens, maybe hundreds, of votives and tapers and pillars, each one simple and white with a tiny golden flame that burns strong and steady in the still air. It’s too warm for the fireplace, but a small blaze burns there anyway, and there’s wine on the table beside it. Chord doesn’t acknowledge any of it. He pulls me into the room and pushes my sundress off my shoulders, quicky but gently dragging the sleeves down my body until the fabric gathers around my waist. Then he unclasps my bra, peeling it off me with reverent silence, letting it drop to the floor with his eyes on my tight nipples, tweaking one then the other as his lips meet mine and his tongue slips into my mouth.
We’re beyond conversation now. No words can express the love, the hurt, the pain, the hope of tonight. And so, when Chord moves his hot mouth to my throat, I twine my fingers in his hair and drop my head back, forgetting who I am and what this is while Chord works his magic on my body.
His mouth is never far from my skin as his hands curve around my waist, his fingers dipping into the bunched-up cotton of my dress and sliding into the waist of my panties.
He drops to his knees and takes my clothes with him, dragging everything down my legs, then spreading my thighs, latching onto my ass, and yanking my pussy against his mouth.
My first orgasm hits me fast, standing and riding Chord’s face as he kneels at my feet and sucks my clit. Echoes of my climax still reverberate through me as Chord stands, sweeps my trembling legs out from under me, and lays me on the bed.
“Wait,” I say as his fingers go to the buttons of his shirt.
He drops his hands and watches me with fevered, pained eyes as I climb to my knees and perform the task of undressing him. This might be the last time I explore his body, and I want to remember every inch of it. So, in the way he did for me, I relieve him of his clothes, following every brush of my fingers over his skin with the press of my lips. The swirl of my tongue.
I unbuckle his belt and push his pants down over his hips, letting them drop to his ankles as I drag down his underwear. His incredible cock springs out, and I dip my head to take the crown into my mouth.
Arousal and satisfaction throb wetly between my legs as Chord groans and drops his head back, his hands twisting into my hair and tugging the strands as he can barely control himself. I latch onto his hips and take him deeper, noting the powerful flex of his thighs as he resists the urge to thrust into my throat.
“Damn, Wallflower,” he says between heavy breaths. “Fuck.”
No sooner does the salty flavor of him hit my tongue than he roughly pulls away from my mouth, hands cradling my jaw as he arches over me for a deep, hungry kiss. I whimper as he guides me down onto the mattress, laying down beside me with his mouth still on mine, palming one breast as his dick digs into my thigh.
