The First Move Page 17

  He broke the kiss, even as his fingers were dipping down the curve of her stomach to entangle in her hair. His body wanted one thing and his mind...his mind wanted it, too. He stopped his hands before they traveled any further. “This isn’t what I had planned when I came over tonight.”

  She lifted up off her feet and her robe fell open. Her breasts round and full, her nipples hardened into points, and they were directly in front of his mouth. If she would just lean forward he could... It was like she was reading his mind.

  “Who,” she moaned when he took her nipple into his mouth and bit lightly with his teeth, “who said you had anything planned?”

  He thought about arguing with her, and explaining how he didn’t want Sunday morning to start with his boxers being thrown in his face, but she moved so she straddled him and his thinking days were gone.

  “I can argue tomorrow,” he murmured into the space between her breasts. He turned his attention to the crease where her breast met her ribs. If she heard him, the sound of blood rushing from his brain drowned out any response. Her cool fingers brushing against his stomach caused him to suck in his breath, and Rey reacted by arching her back. The movement pushed her breasts forward into his waiting hands. Her breasts were heavy, the skin velvety against his palms. She sucked in air in a whistle when he rubbed his thumbs over her nipples and blew on the moisture left from his mouth.

  He pulled away to look at her. Her robe hung off her body, revealing skin flushed with heat. More hair escaped from her tight bun when she raised her head up to look at him, and her hands stalled on the fly of his jeans.

  “Why did you stop?” Her eyes lacked focus, but confusion left wrinkles around the corners of her mouth.

  “You look beautiful. Wanton.” He moved his hands under her robe and around to her back so he could force her to arch again. She obliged, her head falling back and creating one long line of skin from her chin down to her sternum. He kept one hand behind her for support and ran the other down her front, paying close attention to the spots that tensed under his touch. He would get a chance to kiss every one of those spots. “Can you blame me for wanting to look?”

  “No,” she said to the ceiling. “But I can blame you for stalling.”

  He kissed the vibrations traveling down her neck as she talked. “What do you want?”

  Her hands were busy undoing the buttons of his fly as she raised her head in an elegant arc. “I want to make love to you.”

  Make love. She probably meant nothing by those words. She could easily have said have sex, but she said make love. She slipped her hands down his boxers and, after he shifted his hips to allow her better access, she cupped his balls. His hands stopped, gripping her sides, and a slow, satisfied smile spread across her face. The long fingernails that had tickled his hands created intense sensations that hinted at pain, but produced only pleasure. He could barely squeak out, “Okay.”

  “Do you have condoms somewhere?”

  “Pockets.” His head cleared enough for him to move his hands and dig out his wallet. “Here.”

  The sight of her straddling him, rolling the condom over his dick, was enough to send him over the edge. Control, he told himself. You have to have control.

  He took hold of her waist again, as much to give himself something to hold on to as to lift her onto him. She sighed and he groaned as he entered her. She was tight, and warm, and wet, and fit him perfectly. Her breasts bounced in front of his face, begging to be fondled and stroked as she moved up and down on him. He thrust deeper into her, catching her nipple in his mouth when she arched with pleasure. His balls tightened. He wanted to be deeper, as deep as she could take him. He needed to be consumed by her, as she was consuming him.

  “Harder,” she said, and he obliged. Any ability he had to be gentle had long since disappeared. He reached around to grip her butt and together they found a rhythm. Harder. Deeper. At first slowly, their speed building, his skin constricting around his body until he would explode if he so much as blinked.

  He wanted to watch her. Not them, but her. He looked up from her breasts and their gazes met. The black of her pupils had expanded and the brown of her irises had darkened until her eyes were deep pools he could lose himself in. She wasn’t seeing him. He wanted her to see him. “Look at me.”

  She blinked and he knew the moment she focused on him. Her breath caught. She was close. He could feel her clench around him, saw her stiffen, before she called out. He blinked and let himself go with something between a curse and a prayer. They went limp together.

  Oh, God.

  “I know,” she said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  THE SUN WAS struggling to break through the clouds and steam Chicago into a hot and humid August day as Renia left her building. She stopped to talk with the regular dog walkers in the neighborhood and pet their animals. The wagging tales of the dogs were a harbinger of a good day, and she lifted her face to welcome the sun.

  Saturday morning had started off rocky, but Saturday night with Miles had been glorious. Their sex had been more than two people sharing pleasure—it had been lovemaking. She’d looked into his eyes and he’d touched her soul.

  They hadn’t been able to spend Sunday together. A quickie before the shower, more touching and kissing in the shower, out for coffee and bagels, then their days had continued separately.

  Sunday was a day Miles always spent with Sarah—“watching football if it’s on, doing something else if it’s not”—and Renia had breakfast with Tilly, before going to her birth mothers’ support group.

  The women had been divided on whether or not she should send Ashley a letter, but the two women she felt more of a connection to thought it was a good idea. And after the support group, over coffee, they discussed what Renia should say and how to express the pain and confusion only other birth mothers understood.

  She’d written the letter last night, laboring over each word, writing and rewriting sentences until she had to write the final version or give up entirely. The letter was short, an apology for hanging up on her, a wish to get to know her and an offer of a relationship—whatever kind of relationship Ashley wanted. If she just wanted to know about health problems, Renia would send her health information.

  After much mental back-and-forth, Renia also included one of the photographs from Ashley’s birth. Renia looked like a child in the picture, not old enough to hold a baby, much less have one. Her hair was matted to her face, which was streaked with sweat and makeup. In the six hours she’d been in labor, no one had thought to clean the makeup off.

  The girl Renia had been was looking at the newborn in her hands with something between love and terror. She remembered wanting the moment to last forever, while at the same time hoping one of the nurses would come take her baby away before she might change her mind.

  Never questioning that she’d made the right decision hadn’t affected the moments of regret she felt, but that photograph caught the only time she’d come close to actually changing her mind. If nothing else, Ashley would know what her birth mother looked like.

  The metal of the mailbox scraped and clanged when she dropped off the letter. The harsh noises couldn’t lower her mood. She and the sun were partners today. Facing what could be nothing but gray, they were going to fight through to brightness. She would have a second chance at a relationship with Ashley. With anticipation bursting through the summer damp, how could she not?

  Renia got in line at her fa
vorite coffee shop. When she got up to the counter, she greeted the cashier by name and said hello to the barista, who started making her café au lait before she even ordered. As she handed over a twenty, out of the corner of her eye she caught brown hair bouncing on shoulders down the street wearing a red Ohio State T-shirt. My daughter.

  She ducked past several other customers in line and raced out the door. The brown hair bobbed down the street and around the corner.

  It had to be Ashley. The hair hit at the same place on the woman’s shoulders as it had in Ashley’s Facebook photo.

  Renia walked as quickly as she could in her slick-bottomed flats, turning the same corner as the woman in the Ohio State T-shirt.

  She was catching up, and, when the woman turned her head to look in a store window, Renia caught sight of glasses.

  Be realistic. There are probably thousands of young women with brown hair, jeans and glasses in Chicago. Ashley is in Cincinnati. Don’t get your hopes up.

  Don’t be crazy.

  Just as she was close enough to call out—call out what, she didn’t know—the young woman stuck a key into a door and disappeared into an apartment building.

  Renia dashed forward and reached for the door, but it slammed shut before she could grab the handle. In her desperation, she tugged on the door several times, hoping the woman would turn back to see what nut was making all that noise.

  She never turned. Her daughter vanished.

  “Can I help you?”

  Renia turned to face a sincere-looking young man carrying a bag of bagels and tray of coffee. With his head cocked and eyebrows raised, he didn’t look just sincere, but worried. Worried about the crazed woman with a flushed face and messed hair yanking on the door to his building.

  “I think I saw my daughter go into this building.”

  “You think?”

  A lie might have served her better, but she couldn’t bring anything but the truth to mind. And the truth made her seem crazy. “I was getting a coffee and I saw her out of the corner of my eye. I was hoping...”

  What was she hoping? The brunette wasn’t her daughter. It was some woman who superficially resembled her daughter. Her daughter who was in Cincinnati, not in Chicago. The woman was not Ashley. Renia was filled with hope, and hope had created an illusion of her daughter.

  If she didn’t get a hold of her mind, she’d start seeing Ashley in every brunette in Chicago. Eventually the cops would arrest her for something. Or stick her in a mental hospital.

  “Never mind. It likely wasn’t her...she doesn’t even live in this building—” she doesn’t live in this state “—and I was probably just seeing things.” She laughed and waved her hand like this situation was no big deal, her daughter hadn’t been lost for eighteen years and her heart wasn’t suspended somewhere in the ocean being batted about by emotional waves. “My coffee is still sitting in the coffee shop—obviously I need a shot of caffeine. I’ll call her later and we’ll have a good laugh over this.”

  “Okay.” He didn’t say “lady,” but she could hear him think it.

  They stood at the door. He wouldn’t go in with her standing there and she wouldn’t leave. He smiled the smile you give your batty old aunt and Renia sighed. She had no good reason to stand outside this building and he had no reason to let her sneak in after him.

  She brightened her face and tried to look chipper instead of demented. “You know, my purse is still at the coffee shop. I should hurry back for it.”

  When she heard the door open, she looked over her shoulder. The young man had entered the building, but he continued to stand at the door and watch her walk away.

  The cashier at the coffee shop welcomed her back with her purse and café au lait. “What happened?”

  “Oh,” she said, attempting to appear casual, “I saw someone I’ve not seen for a while and raced after them.”

  “Did you get to talk to them?”

  “No. I lost her.” After a little small talk, Renia left for work with her purse and coffee.

  And no daughter.

  * * *

  AT THE STUDIO, she opened the images of Harrison, Ebony’s baby, sleeping on his daddy’s jersey. She had put off working on the baby boy’s pictures as long as she could. Neither Ebony nor Harrison was responsible for the emotional upheaval of the past couple weeks. Renia had a contract—and her reputation—to uphold. She could ignore the coincidence of Harrison and Ashley sharing a birthday and do the good work that Ebony was paying her a lot of money to do.

  She selected the best images and began the process of layering Harrison, surrounded by beanbags and adult hands, onto an empty jersey such that it would look like he’d been on the rocker, floating in empty space, the entire time. Even at three days old, Harrison was a big baby. He had the scrunched-up, wrinkly old-man face of a newborn, but he didn’t look tiny—as parents usually wanted in their newborn photography.

  Ashley had been a tiny baby. Four pounds, even after a full-term pregnancy. While Renia had held her baby in her arms and marveled at the smallness of her fingernails, she’d been too young, too ignorant, or too unwilling to question her tiny baby. Now Renia was none of those things. She’d seen enough newborns to know Ashley hadn’t just been small because all newborns were small, but that Ashley had been small, even for a newborn. And she knew she could’ve caused her baby to be underweight. Even though Renia had stopped drinking and using drugs once she’d found out she was pregnant, there had still been enough time to cause damage.

  With his fist up by his mouth and his eyes scrunched closed, Harrison was a robust baby. Ashley hadn’t looked robust.

  Did my choices hurt Ashley? Renia’s mind finally forced the question into the open and her body’s answer was to spasm in pain.

  The girl on the phone, the girl in the Facebook picture, looked healthy enough, but that was hardly enough information to know anything. Renia could forgive herself for relinquishing her daughter—it had been the best choice for both of them. She could eventually forgive herself for hanging up on her daughter—time healed self-inflected wounds, too. But if drug and alcohol use...

  Her mind tried to shy away from that thought, but Renia forced herself back to it. She was pouring salt on her own wounds, but she needed to face them. She couldn’t pretend they weren’t there. If her drug and alcohol use had damaged Ashley, Renia would never forgive herself.

  The phone rang, interrupting her emotional self-mutilation. She forced a smile before answering. “Milek Photography.”

  “Renuśka.”

  “Mom.” Her smile tensed, but she didn’t let it go away completely. “What a surprise.”

  “I’ve not heard from you in over a week. It shouldn’t be that much of a surprise.”

  Had it really been that long? “I’ve been busy.”

  “You said we’d talk.”

  Now Renia’s smile fell. Why couldn’t her mother leave well enough alone? “I said we’d talk after August. I’ve got at least another week.” Another week to think of a reason to push the conversation off even further.

  “Tilly said you were dating someone.”

  Tilly should learn to keep her mouth shut. “His name is Miles. I was looking for his yearbook page a couple weeks ago. I went to high school with him in Chicago.”

  “Oh.” Renia could hear the unasked questions. Does he know about Ashley? Does he know why you left Chicago? “It’s nice to reconnect with important people from your past.”

&
nbsp; “I don’t remember anything about him. It’s why I was looking for the yearbook.”

  “Of course.” Her mom didn’t have anything to say, but apparently wanted to stay on the phone. She was likely hoping for more information, and Renia admittedly had no good reason to keep it from her.

  Renia wanted a relationship with her daughter. Her mother wanted a better relationship with her. Clasping onto silence and refusing to let it go served no purpose, especially if some higher power was keeping records. “Miles is divorced and has a daughter. Sarah, his daughter, is sixteen.”

  “Do you like Sarah?” Her mom couldn’t keep the hope out of her voice. She’d wanted grandchildren for a long time. Tilly and Dan would probably wait a few years before they had kids, and Renia had produced one, but then gave her away.

  “Sarah seems like a nice girl.” She should offer her mother something more. “She lives with her mother.” She grimaced. That was hardly any extra information at all. “She and Miles watch football together.”

  “She has a good relationship with her father. Good, good.” Her mother gave no indication of noticing the paltry amount of information Renia had offered. “Have you...have you heard from your daughter again?”

  Renia closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “No. I talked to her parents.” She didn’t want to tell her mother how much she’d screwed up. Her mother would lecture, or offer pity, and Renia couldn’t deal with either right now. “I’m still waiting to hear from her. I, uh, know her name. Ashley. Her name is Ashley.”

  “Ashley. How lovely.” Her mom’s voice went dreamy and Renia was glad she hadn’t told her they may never meet Ashley. Let her mom remain in the happy state for a while longer.

  “Mom, I have a client coming in five minutes I need to get ready for,” she lied. “I have to go.” Definitely the truth.