Page 106 of Plus One

“Hold on,” she said, sliding her hands down his body, brushing the bulge in his pants. She pecked him on the lips again. “Order us some food and let me go freshen up.”

He let her go and fell back on the bed, his head spinning and his penis throbbing.

Their room service order was substantial but forgettable and would arrive in forty minutes to an hour. His hands trembled as he set the phone down. The paper-thin walls allowed him to hear Monique moving around in the bathroom, water splashing, fabric rustling, muted cussing.

Hewas wanted. He paced the short length of the room, peered out the window at the fabulous highway and flight-pattern view, then the peephole, then back to the window. He paused at the foot of the bed and sat down and ran his damp palms over his thighs.

CHAPTER 29Monique

Monique heard him walk the length of the room at least four times before he sat down. She laughed to herself and scrubbed her face clean of makeup and tears, leaving behind puffy eyes and kiss-swollen lips.

The woman in the mirror looked wrecked and wired. The color in her face had nothing to do with any makeup. It came from somewhere within her. She brushed her fingers along the apples of her cheeks. The red-brown there was pretty. It had been missed.

Her body pulsed in a way that she thought she’d lost and had stopped waiting for. Somewhere between surgeries and treatments and the years of just getting by, she’d made peace with that part of her not being there anymore. She didn’t know when she’d stopped grieving it—this loss of sexuality—and flowed with the quiet.

The first knock in Puerto Rico got her curious, but Maurice was why she opened the door.

With a grunt, she reached behind her and pulled her dress zipper down a few measly inches. She wanted it off. All of it. The remnants of other people’s perfumes, of candle wax, of solemnity. It needed to go. Now.

When she showed him her lingerie in Puerto Rico, he’d been speechless. Although she had on a full slip and granny panties, she was sure he’d have the same reaction if only she could get out of this damn dress.

The simple black dress was appropriate for the day, but her wardrobe now felt like it belonged to another person, another life.

Her mind tried to tell her that being here with Maurice in this way was wrong. Her friend had just died. They’d said their last goodbyes at the mausoleum hours before. Yet, she had never felt more alive, arousal thrumming through her body. She was wrung out by the tears and confusion.

We’ve only got one life,Chickie had told her mere days ago. The girl who had smiled through a lifetime of pain would be pissed that she was locked in the bathroom, denying herself something good because of her. That damn group had rewired her brain.

“Stop it,” she said to her reflection and tugged the zipper down a little bit more. Doctors and therapists had told her that extreme feelings, including desire, were common post-surgery and treatments. Tedrow would tell her having feelings meant she was alive and that she should explore them.

“Ugh.” The zipper wouldn’t budge any farther. She worked herself out of the sleeves, fabric straining, and managed to turn the dress around and unzip it all the way.

When she opened the bathroom door, Maurice was standing at the window, looking out at the airport. He turned at the sound, his face a mix of reverence and open desire as his eyes roved over her in her simple slip and bare feet. The afternoon sun silhouetted him, nearly stealing her breath. She fought the urge to run across the thin carpet and into his arms.

“You’re so beautiful.” The words sounded like a prayer to her ears, but he didn’t move.

“Then why are you all the way over there?”

He took a few steps and was standing in front of her. Her hands went to his shirt to finish working the buttons free. His firm chest undulated under her touch. “Monique—”

That thrill she had talked about missing was ratcheting up the track. She shook her head. “Don’t.” She walked them backward until his legs bumped into the bed. She pushed him down. She joined him on the bed, straddling him.

Maurice let out a strained groan, eyes wrenched shut.

“Touch me, please.” She’d spent days—years—being supportive and in control, holding it all together. A tear slid down her cheek, and Maurice reached up to cradle her face.

“Why are you crying?” He sat up and drew her to him, this position trapping an inferno between them.

“I don’t know. I’m in my head and outside of my body one minute, then I’m inside my body and not in my head the next. I don’t wanna think. I just wanna feel for once.” She pressed her hips down on his, her body remembering the delicious euphoria that grinding on him had brought.

Her hips explored, seeking. “I’m so tired, Mo.”

His arms were around her, but his hands, calloused but tender, were somewhere else.

“Baby, please, I need more—something other than what has been. I need you.”

His breath trembled against her neck, raising gooseflesh along her spine. His lips stayed there, pressed against her pulse. He kissed her there. “I love you, Monique. I don’t want to disappoint you.” His mouth moved down her shoulder, pulling her straps down on one side. His other hand dragged the other strap down, pressing her now bare breasts against his chest. He squeezed her tighter, still kissing along her neck. His hips rocked under her.

“Oh God, I need…”