"This is crazy romantic," Will said as he took in the twinkling Manhattan skyline and held her bare body against his own. Alicia leaned her cheek against his, their faces damp from the exertion and the warmth of the September air.
She smiled, and moved her mouth to his ear.
"This is the happiest I've ever been," she said, voice dropped to a whisper, and he closed his eyes to try and hold on the words; to try and grip onto them like a fistful of water. He willed the world to stop spinning, just for an second, so that he could have the moment for a little while longer. The happiest she's ever been… he thought, and his heart raced in his chest.
"Alicia," he said, earnest and solemn. "I…"
"Don't," she said, silencing him with a kiss and a furrow of her brow.
She wouldn't let him say it. He had tried earlier, too. This was their third and final night in New York, and he had tried each and every day.
On the first night, they had walked the streets after dinner, holding hands, something they had never been able to do – would never be able to do – in Chicago. But they walked, carefree and spirited, with the sticky heat of the day burned off now into an evening so blissfully perfect that he grinned and grinned and grinned.
They walked like young lovers through the streets, glancing in store windows, and in his mind, he imagined that this was his life, that this was their life.
He watched her, and he watched people look at her – not with recognition, like in Chicago – but with admiration; he had seen how her poise and grace and beauty turned heads since she was a twenty three year old student, dynamic as all hell, with curly dark hair so alluring it was dangerous.
At the opulent window displays they stopped and pointed and commented, and he thought about how it would feel to be able to spoil her with the beautiful and special things that made her eyes widen. He wanted her to have everything, wanted to lay things at her feet like divine offerings.
At Tiffany's, she peered at the earrings, as he stood behind her, kissing her neck. Beside them, the engagement rings sparkled and he watched her push at her wedding band with her thumb, the way she did unconsciously whenever anyone talked about marriage, or divorce. He half wanted to tell her to take it off, just for their weekend together, but the other half of him was glad that she wore it and imagined that he was the one that had slid it onto her hand. She rubbed at the ring and started walking.
Behind Cartier's shining glass she liked a watch.
"Look at that," she cooed, and he wanted her to have it. "Isn't that the most elegant thing? God, look at it!" She pointed, and he looked. It was stunning, and on its face little diamonds caught the light as fiercely as had the rings at Tiffany's.
"Oh my god, are those zeros?!" she asked, her voice lilting with a laugh that made him want to pin her against the glass and kiss her. "Thirty seven thousand?" she continued. "Maybe that's what I'll buy myself when… if… I ever make partner," she said, with a smile coy and mischievous and a raised eyebrow.
"Not a bad idea," he said.
"You bought a sports car, right?" she asked.
"I did."
"Well then I'd be being frugal, by comparison."
She tugged him along and they peered in at purses and gowns and jewels and he thought about the hours he worked, and how his bonus last year had finally hit seven figures, and how he had paid off his apartment and how it was all so pointless.
Back at the hotel, they fucked, hungrily, against the wall and in the shower, before tumbling into bed, and kissing and holding one another until they couldn't keep their eyes open. He had wanted to say it then, in the dark, but he had choked on the tiny words.
The next day, Ashbaugh wore them out with his volatile moods and unpredictable decisions. Will didn't know how Alicia had the patience. Will hated him. He saw how Ashbaugh looked at her, and it made his stomach hurt.
That night, their second, they ordered room service and ate in robes, while Will just stared at her.
"Hey, I got something for you," he said, when they were done.
"You… what?"
He refilled their flutes with prosecco, and went to get the box. He handed it to her, red and heavy in her hands. It was embossed with gold, and she didn't need the word Cartier to know.
"Will, I…"
"Open it." He felt nervous, inexplicably.
She swallowed and clicked open the box. In the plush white lining was a watch, the watch, and it caught the light and glinted and she shook her head and opened her mouth.
"I… I… I can't. I can't take this Will, it… I can't."
"Well that's a shame, because they don't do returns on their vintage collection."
They both knew that wasn't true, but he tried to paste humor over the sting of rejection that he felt.
She shook her head.
"You don't like it?" he changed tactic. "Because they'd probably do an exchange…"
"I love it, Will, I, it's gorgeous, I just, I can't, it's…"
"It's what? You saw something you liked, I got it for you, that's all. It's a gift." He tried to reassure her, tried to make it light and meaningless and tried not to feel embarrassed.
"It's too much."
He changed angle again, strategy spinning in his head like he was standing in court. "Let me do this for you. Let me treat you, baby. Please."
She smiled, unsure, but he could see instantly that he'd found the chink in her armor, that this play would work. "Put it on. Let me see what it looks like on you," he encouraged, softly.
She swallowed again. Then she took off her old watch, and tentatively took it out of the box. She held it in her hand, uncertain, and so he took it from her and slid it onto her wrist. He fastened it, nodded, and kissed the back of her hand.
"It's beautiful. You're beautiful," he said, her hand still in his.
"Thank you, Will, it's, it's stunning, I love it, really, thank you. Thank you."
"Good," he said, leaning to kiss her cheek. "Get rid of that," he nodded at her old watch. "It's cursed. Do you think this one might finally bring us some good timing?" he smiled.
"I hope so," she said. "I hope so."
He felt the words forming again, but she spoke, instead. "Thank you, Will, so much, it's… it's perfect and I'll treasure it," and then she kissed him, and his words would have to wait.
Now, on their third and last night, he had to tell her.
He watched the clock as the afternoon rolled into evening, and Ashbaugh was holding things up. Will seethed.
"They're out to get me," Ashbaugh ranted.
What in the hell, Will thought, but he tried to reason with him. "Trust me Matthew, please…"
"Stop saying my name like that, I'm not twelve years old," he spat back.
Well stop acting like a fucking 12 year old, he thought.
Will fidgeted, eager to get out and have his last night in the city with Alicia. But Ashbaugh had more questions, more issues, as if he didn't want to let them - let her - leave.
"Play the fox," Ashbaugh was saying, and god knows what the man is talking about, Will thought, as he swallowed his disgust and leaned closer to the table. Hidden from view, he ran his fingers under the hem of Alicia's skirt. He touched her soft, milky thighs and made her shift in her seat. His pulse quickened.
Ashbaugh could gaze and fawn and flirt, but it was his hands that were on her, Will thought. He could touch her, he could turn her on.
And Will had had enough. At 9, long after they'd ordered in shitty Thai food and Will had bitterly canceled the dinner reservations that he'd made three weeks earlier, he excused them both.
In the taxi, he was angry, and he thought about how he would slam the hotel door shut behind them and fuck her, fast, against it. But his temper cooled as they drove down Park, her hand in his, the watch striking against her pale skin, and by the time they got out of the elevator, he had better ideas. It was warm, and they hadn't used the balcony yet…
He sat back in the chair as she sunk down onto him. As she rocked her hips over him while he cradled her in a blanket, the words were there. They were in his throat and then on his tongue.
"I thought we would never leave," she said, grinding against him and kissing his mouth. He moaned in agreement and appreciation, and because he had missed his moment, again.
"This depo though, he's got it all wrong," she said. Then, smiling, "Don't worry, I can make him change his mind…"
Will pasted a grin on his face and tried to focus on the feeling of her moving up and down him. "How?"
"He cares about me," she breathed.
"You've got him wrapped around your finger, is that it?"
"I have my ways," she joked, and it felt like a knife to the gut.
But Alicia could not have been more oblivious. Alicia, on top of this building, felt like she was on top of the whole world, completely at ease in his arms. She was away from the surveillance, away from the memories, away from the guilt, the responsibility, the hurt and the shame.
She was alone, with Will, in a city with no baggage, and everything was… perfect. She was enthralled and at peace and she felt young and absolutely free. She wished they could stay for a month.
Will didn't want to think or talk about anything other than Alicia, and so he slipped a hand between them and smiled up at her when her thighs tensed in response. He watched her respond to him, captivated by her whimpers and by the feel of her wrapped around him, and nobody had ever turned him on like she had, and when her breath caught and he knew that she was about to fall apart, he rocked up into her and he came too, staring at her as she cried out and panted through her climax.
Neither moved. Neither could bear the thought of leaving. She readjusted herself on his lap, getting settled and comfortable, and they sat still, silent and calm, for a long while, with little sighs and kisses coming every now and then.
They almost fell asleep, but Will broke the silence. "This is crazy romantic."
And then she said her words, but she wouldn't let him say his.
She would tell him that she had never been happier, in her life, not in the thrill of getting engaged, not as an optimistic newlywed… The happiest she's ever been. How could she tell him this, but not let him tell her how he felt?
"Alicia… I…"
"Don't."
"Why not?" he broke the kiss and looked searchingly up into her face.
"Because I… because this is hard for me," she sighed.
This is hard for you? he thought. He knew it was hard for him, he knew how agonizing it was to know that he would never, ever, be the most important person in her life, but that for him, she kind of already was.
"Look, I don't want anything from you," he said. "I just want to say it. I just want you to know."
She bit the inside of her mouth.
"I could get hit by a bus tomorrow, Alicia…" She frowned and grabbed tightly onto his hair, as if holding him back from that fate. "I'm just saying, anything could happen. And if it did – if I got hit by a bus - I would want to have said it. I would want you to know."
She sighed and her eyes burned as she fought the prickle of tears. She wanted to let him. But it would be too much. It was already too much.
He looked at her wet eyes and then looked down. "Alicia, I, alright… I won't say it. But you know that I do." He looked back up at her expectantly, though unsure exactly of what.
"Right?" he asked, after a moment.
"I do… I do know," she said quietly. She paused, "And I… I do, too," she said, and her eyes filled and he knew he would cry too if he didn't do something and so he kissed her.
He kissed her and then he stood, lifting her, and carried her to the bed. He laid her down, and moved over her, slipping himself into her like she was as fragile as fiberglass. The past two nights had been hard, fast, and needy, mostly, and they had been all over– and outside- the suite, but now, in this bed like at an altar, he put his body inside her body and he made love to her.
He made aching, gentle love to her; love so slow that she could feel each ridge and curve of his length. Her moans were low and long as he moved inside her, luxuriating, unhurried.
His hands held hers tight, and under the full weight of him she couldn't move an inch, but it was hot as hell and as intimate as she could take.
She was his, he felt, and some kind of primal possessiveness that he had never before known coursed through his veins. It wasn't jealousy. He had felt that enough times to know it well – god knows, he had been jealous of Peter, even through his disgrace, even when he was in prison. He'd also felt jealous of Ashbaugh - "Are you married or aren't you?" he had dared ask - and Will had wanted to smash his fist onto the table, wanted to list all the ways that he, nobody else, not Matthew and not Peter, had made her come yesterday, wanted to tell him how good she tasted as she pulled his face closer into her core. But it wasn't jealousy now, it was ownership. He wanted her to be his, always and unconditionally his.
As he moved between her open thighs, their breath fell into step. He pressed his mouth all the way over hers and stroked her tongue with his, as slow and as indulgent as were his thrusts. They rocked together, each feeling the other so deep, so raw, so visceral, that together they got close, and together they moved faster, and together they shattered and moaned and shook with splintering, desperate, ecstasy.
In the end it was their bodies that said what their mouths couldn't manage, and they lay there, tangled and breathless and hopelessly, terrifyingly, in love.
"Me too," Will murmured as she curled back into his big spoon.
"What?"
"You make me the happiest I've ever been," he said.
She smiled, and pushed her thumb against her wedding band, but then she moved her hand to adjust the watch on her wrist. It shone under the lamplight.
She wriggled back even more closely against him, pulling his arms even more tightly around her. "I think I like this good timing," she smiled.
"Me too, Leesh." He kissed her head and breathed her in. "Me too, baby."