Window Shopping

To depend on someone else to know what I need even when I don’t.

The way Stella did tonight. Distracting me with that game.

I’ve been in relationships that should have been ideal. On paper, they were partnerships that fit the bill. Good careers, ambitions, similar hopes for the future. But I’ve never had this extra-sharp carve of lust for someone and also wanted to sit next to them on the couch in matching robes and slippers before. With Stella, it’s both. Hunger and affection. Which is insane—I’ve known her less than a week. Crazy talk. Yet here I am, fucking her in a frenzy on my imaginary office desk and already thinking about how good it’ll feel to cuddle her up afterward, once I’ve drained her of anything resembling energy.

I’ll be the big spoon.

She’ll tuck her tush into my lap and we’ll argue about china patterns.

A rough sound claws its way out of my throat and fuck. Fuck. Pleasure stops teasing and digs in deep, firing me to the edge of agony before releasing me to drop, drop, drop. Jesus. Thinking about picking out side plates with Stella has sent me into the throes of my best orgasm in recent memory, my knees nearly buckling from the monumental rush, the lightening of the tight weight between my legs, that hot, milky substance sliding down the tile below me.

Just before that final spurt, I grind my forehead into the tile and think of Stella knotting my tie in front of the bathroom mirror, both of us dressed for work and trying to drink coffee on the fly—and I groan loudly through clenched teeth, stroking myself furiously over the finish line, slumping forward with both of my palms flat on the tile, my ribcage expanding and contracting in quick pants.

Good lord, I’ve got it bad.

* * *

I assume I’m going to be the first to arrive, but when my town car rolls to a stop outside of Vivant, Stella is there in the near darkness, sitting on the lip of the Vivant front window in her signature boots, tights, sweater dress and puffy jacket, listening to her headphones.

Right away, I’m hit with a prickle of guilt over this morning’s activities. Not only did I fantasize about her body, I had the nerve to pick out dinnerware without her input. Double shame on me. If I wasn’t worried about her freezing to death, it might have taken me a few more minutes to tamp down on the guilt, but when I see her blow warm air into her hands, I smack my hand down on the button to lower the window.

“Stella.” She doesn’t look up, probably because her music is too loud. I call out to her again. This time she shoots to her feet and pops out the earbud. “Come wait in here with me. It’s warm and I’ve got donuts.”

“Say less.” She crosses her arms and kind of stomps toward the car with her head down against the wind. Plates and saucers with a basket weave pattern are dancing through my mind as she climbs into the car beside me, her wary blue gaze traveling between me and my driver.

“Stella, this is Keith. Keith, Stella,” I say. “We’re unveiling her window this morning.”

“Ahhh, very nice,” Keith says over the talk radio station, catching Stella’s eye in the rearview. “Those penguins are going to be a tough act to follow. I do not envy you that. No, I don’t. Who does not love a little waddling penguin, eh? No one. Everyone loves them. Now they’re making Santa’s toys? With little tools in their flippers? Forget about it.” He does a half turn. “But I’m sure yours will be amazing, Stella.”

Stella extends a hand. “Donuts, please.”

“Thank you, Keith,” I say, dryly, giving him a polite nod as I roll up the partition window, leaving me and Stella in the quiet. When I settle the box of donuts in her lap and lift the lid, she sucks in a breath and smiles, making my chest tug. “I don’t want to influence you one way or the other, but the peanut butter and jelly donut was made by God himself.”

She soundlessly repeats the words peanut butter and jelly donut. Makes a considering face. “Too risky. It might give me flashbacks to second grade and the last thing I want to think about this morning is Todd Peterson dipping his PBJs in lemon lime Gatorade.” She winces. “Too late. I’m thinking about it.”

“And here I thought I was weird for putting cool ranch Doritos in mine.”

“No, that makes you a visionary.” She points to one of the flakier, powdered ones. “What is this one?”

“S’mores.”

“Sold.” She plucks the donut from the box with two fingers and rotates it a few times, looking for the best spot to bite. When she finally sinks her teeth into the crust and moans, my Adam’s apple gets stuck behind my bow tie. Is it hot in here? I reach up and adjust the air conditioning vents, only to remember it’s the middle of December and the car is being heated, not cooled. “Aren’t you going to have one?” Stella asks me.