Lost In Us Read online

  "Serena and I will be going," James announces and after hurried goodbyes, in which Christie gives me a thumbs up, and Parker makes me promise that we'll meet up before he returns to London. Natalie ignores me as fully as I ignore her, listening to Ralph go on and on about Malaysia, and we head to the Porsche.

  "You didn't have to do that," I say when we're both in the car. "I wouldn't have minded going out with them."

  "I thought you'd be more comfortable if it’s just the two of us," he says, driving out of the parking lot.

  I stare at him, unsure what to make of this. Was the animosity between Natalie and me so obvious? Or did he anticipate all the trust fund and expensive trip talk would be awkward for me to listen to? Probably the latter. He, like Natalie, must be aware that I'm not one of them.

  For a fraction of a second I think about asking him what the deal with the boarding school was, but a glance at his still rigid fingers clasping the wheel tells me it isn't the best topic for conversation.

  "So what now?" I ask playfully.

  "Are you hungry?"

  "Nope. Jess stuffed me with her famous paella earlier."

  "Pity," he says, the corner of his mouth lifting to form his trademark smile. His grasp on the wheel is less stiff. "I know a place in San Jose with the best chocolate fondue on the west coast."

  "Chocolate fondue?" I squeak. "Really?" I blush as I realize he hasn't forgotten my little fondue story. Saturday night, he noticed a dark spot the size of a half dollar on my left thigh, a souvenir from a burn I got during one of my very few attempts at cooking: chocolate fondue. I read fourteen different recipes in preparation, and all I managed to come up with was a hard, grainy mess no one could look at, let alone eat. I kept to my truce with Jess ever since: she cooks, I clean.

  Seeing what we were up to before and after this conversation, I'm amazed James remembered any of it.

  He smirks. "Should I take that as a yes?"

  "You'd better." I grin.

  We take the highway to San Jose, leaving behind the ocean and the sunset. I peek out the window, to see if I recognize anyone from the group behind the wheel of the cars we pass, but his speeding makes my task impossible. It also shortens our journey from the normal twenty minutes to twelve.

  "Speed limits aren’t your thing, huh?" I ask, clutching the edges of my seat, because he doesn't show any signs of slowing down even after we enter the city.

  "Sorry," he says and hits the brakes so ferociously I'm positive I would've flown through the windshield if not for the seatbelt, which cuts deeply into my skin.

  "Damn it, James," I cry.

  He turns to me. "Are you all right?"

  "Except for a near heart attack, yes."

  "I got lost in thoughts, I—"

  "I'm fine," I interrupt, startled by the desperation in his gaze and voice. "We should get going. There's a line behind us."

  We start again, this time at an almost embarrassingly slow speed.

  "We don't have to let the slugs overcome us," I say.

  He smirks at me, but there's something forced about it. His hands have the same rigid clasp on the wheel they had when we started from the airport. Is he still thinking of Natalie's comment? The thought of asking him about it tempts me again, but I decide against it. I focus on the surroundings instead.

  I was in San Jose once before with a group of enthusiastic, would-be entrepreneurs from my class, who wanted to attend a conference with the Valley's biggest venture capitalists—an inspiration in their entrepreneurial chase for the next big thing. I trailed along, because I rarely miss a free conference, and I must admit, between the speeches and the spectacular view from the top of the fifty-story building we were in, the positive atmosphere was catchy. But I had read too many statistics on how few entrepreneurs succeed, how few ventures survive, let alone become as successful as James's, to get too excited. Many of my classmates plan to open their own businesses, or join a new venture in the Valley. I’ve never seriously considered anything besides banking. Or, well, I have. But jobs in huge corporations that would get me the paycheck I need to keep me, and Mum and Dad, afloat. Silicon Valley is one too many notches of risky for me.

  We drive past the business district and its tall buildings, taking side street after side street, until we reach a park. James parks right next to the entrance.

  "The restaurant is inside the park? Nice," I say as he turns off the engine.

  I make a move to exit the car, but James interrupts, "Wait." He gets out of the car and comes over to my side, opening the door for me. Instead of saying thank you, I raise my eyebrows after I get out. He smiles widely, all traces of whatever thoughts he had gotten lost in seemingly gone. "I just thought I'd make a nice impression on our first official date."

  A thousand butterflies flutter their wings simultaneously inside me, taking over my heart, leaving me breathless, unable to pronounce anything more than a surprised, "Oh."

  He offers his arm and I take it clumsily, unsure what to make of the whole thing. As we enter the park, I rack my brain, trying to recall all the things Jess repeats to herself out loud in front of the mirror before every single one of her first dates, then I remember most of the things wouldn't fit in my case anyway, given last Saturday.

  I take a few deep breaths, trying to calm the wild drumming in my chest, hoping that my nervousness isn't visible in the dimly illuminated alley lined with palm trees. The drumming reaches a new height when the restaurant comes into view, an elegant two-story cottage, with terraces on both levels, buzzing with people enjoying the warm evening.

  "Welcome to L'Etoile," a pretty blonde with a tight bun and a heavy French accent greets us at the doorway. Her eyes rest on my jeans for a few seconds, then shift over to James's casual shirt. One closer look at the guests reveals that we're one suit and a chiffon gown too underdressed for this place.

  James seems completely unperturbed by this. He unleashes the full force of his smile's charm on the poor woman a second later, when he says in a low voice, "James Cohen, I called for a reservation about two hours ago."

  The woman's look of contempt instantly melts, the most ridiculous eyelash batting taking its place as she murmurs a weak "Follow me," before swirling around in her pumps and proceeding inside. Amazing, the effect he can have on women. I exchange a quick glance with James and both of us burst into less-than-discrete laughter. The woman trips over her own feet as she starts climbing a narrow spiral staircase. We don't head, as I expected, toward the terrace once we're on the second floor. The blonde leads us in the opposite direction to another door that opens to a balcony. When I step outside, my first thought is that the balcony is completely empty. Then I see the small table with two chairs. And the red candles in the middle of the table.

  "That's our table," James says and I realize I've stopped walking.

  "James, I… this is so… you didn't have to…"

  Thankfully, he stops my incoherent babbling with a kiss. Soft and sweet in the beginning, until I feel the cold wall against my back, and James pressing himself against me, deepening the kiss with an urgency that awakes the desperate longing I've been trying to keep under control since I first saw him this evening. I can't suppress a moan when his hands find their way under my top, and James breaks off the kiss, gasping.

  "Why don't we have that dessert before I change my mind?" he says in a low, raspy voice and turns around, taking my hand and leading me to the small table.

  For once, I wouldn't mind skipping dessert. Even if it is chocolate.

  The second we sit, a waiter appears out of nowhere, wearing an elegant white uniform and a polite, serious expression. I bite my lip, hoping he hasn't caught anything from the earlier scene. My entire face catches fire when I realize that even if he didn't see us, the blonde who led us here surely did. Why else would she have disappeared?

  "What do you want to drink?" James asks me, already immersed in the menu.

  "Whatever you're having."

  The waiter bends to lig
ht up the candles, and as the small flames dance in front of my eyes, I can't help thinking of Michael and how we never had a candlelight dinner in our six years together.

  James orders a French-sounding wine, chocolate fondue, and something else I don't catch, and the waiter disappears inside. To my astonishment, he returns almost immediately, holding a bottle of wine. He pours generously in both our glasses, then bows courteously and goes inside again. He doesn't reappear this time.

  "A toast," James says, holding up his glass.

  Our glasses meet in a sweet cling. "To this evening," he says, staring at me intently above the candles and I know he's expecting me to say something, but between the candles and the wine and the kiss I don't know what I could say that would do justice to all the feelings overwhelming me, without sounding like a complete idiot. So I sink my lips into the red liquid without one word.

  I grimace a little.

  "You don't like it? We can order another one."

  "It's fine," I say quickly. "I just don't drink wine very often."

  "I see," he chuckles, "only tequila." I blush furiously.

  "No, that was a one-time thing because—"

  "You wanted to hook up with someone and didn't have the courage?"

  "Precisely," I say, keeping my eyes firmly on my plate.

  His chuckle turns into full laughter. "In case you were wondering, it worked very well. You looked like you wanted nothing better than to spend the night with me… not exactly talking."

  My head shoots up. "Why didn't you ask me to leave with you?"

  "I don't usually take advantage of women." He puts his glass on the table, not taking his eyes off me.

  "I wasn't that drunk," I say.

  "No, you were angry and hurt. That's even worse."

  I stare at him stunned. Of all inappropriate things I said that night, I don't remember ever mentioning—heck, not even hinting at—Michael.

  How could he tell?

  "I didn't want you to do something you might regret later. I honestly never thought you'd show up at my parents’ house," he says, shaking his head as if the thought still surprises him. "But I'm glad you did."

  "I'm glad too," I say.

  "You are?" he asks, his expression unreadable.

  "Why would I have called you today if I wasn't?"

  "I think we already established the reason for your call," he laughs softly and I'm sure my face is as scarlet as the candles before me.

  Two waiters appear on our balcony, each carrying a large tray. I frown as they start unloading.

  A bowl of strawberries in front of me, a cup with three scoops of ice cream and a lot of whipped cream in front of James, and a small fondue burner in the middle. I can't help clapping my hands as he puts the fondue over the burner. Hot, liquid chocolate, waiting for me to devour. One strawberry at a time.

  "What do you have?" I ask.

  "Walnut, caramel and straciatella," James says, already taking a spoonful.

  I stick the small fork in a strawberry and dip into the liquid chocolate.

  "Oh my God," I say, "this is delicious. Aren't you going to eat anything?"

  He shakes his head, taking another spoonful of ice cream. "Not a big fan of chocolate."

  "So this is all for me?"

  He chuckles. "By all means. We can order more if you want."

  "No please, don't tempt me like this."

  Two glasses of wine and all the strawberries later, I truly mean it when I declare "This is the best evening ever."

  "It's not difficult to make you happy, is it?" James asks.

  "Not if there's chocolate involved," I say, scooping the last drops of chocolate with his spoon. "Is your office far from here?"

  "You can see it over there actually," he says, pointing to a spot over the trees.

  I frown. "I don't see anything." I sway a little as I get up from my chair, and James hurries to steady me.

  "Who gets wasted from two glasses of wine?" he says, amused.

  "I am not wasted," I say. "I just have balance problems."

  "Okay," he says, grabbing me by the waist with one arm, and taking my right hand with the other, pointing up. "There."

  And now I do see it. The skyscraper. The top of it, at least.

  "Which floor is your office?"

  Instead of an answer I get a kiss on my neck. And then another one. I dig my fingers in his hair and turn my head, desperately searching his lips. I find them at the same time his hands slide under my top. I don't know if it's the wine or the chocolate, or my desperate need for him finally overpowering me, but I don't make any move to stop him as his hands go higher and higher, touching my breasts, my nipples. I don't want him to stop. I want him to touch me. All of me. Right here. Right now. He bites my lip and I moan deeply in his mouth.

  It's only when one of his hands slides down and unzips my jeans that I come to my senses.

  "Not here," I whisper, and for a frozen second, neither of us moves.

  Then he grabs my hand. "Fuck, Serena. Let's go."

  I sit as far from James as possible in the cab, so the cabbie can keep his eyes only on the road. Neither of us utters one word the entire trip. I jump out as soon as the cab stops in front of the fifty-story high-rise. James pays the driver and joins me a few seconds later. He takes my hand and leads me inside the luxurious building. I wish he'd offer me his arm instead because I still don't feel like I could walk straight.

  "Good evening, Mr. Cohen," the tall, middle-aged concierge greets us.

  "Daniel." James nods, without one look in his direction.

  Our shoes clink loudly on the white marble and it vaguely occurs to me that Daniel must suspect why we're in such a hurry. But any thoughts of shame vanish from my mind when the metal doors of four elevators come into view. In just a few seconds James and I will be alone. Yet when the doors open, my stomach drops in disappointment.

  The elevator is not empty. An elderly couple, probably coming from the garage, chat lively over the opera brochure the husband is holding. They fall silent when we enter, and smile politely. James presses the button to the top floor and the elevator swooshes up with nauseating speed. I lean on the back mirror to steady myself, keeping my eyes firmly away from James. He doesn't grant me the same mercy. I feel his gaze over me. Piercing me. Torturing me. Undressing me. I barely acknowledge when the elevator stops and the couple gets out, wishing us a pleasant evening.

  The following minutes pass by as if in a dream. Our journey lasts for three more floors, then we step out and James takes a painfully long time to unlock his door.

  Finally there's only passion: his lips on my neck, his hands on my bare thighs, and my unskilled attempts at getting rid of his shirt, his jeans, and everything else that stands between his skin and me. We're both completely naked when he lifts me in his arms.

  "The bedroom's not that far away," he teases in response to my surprised yelp. I rest my head on his shoulder as he carries me through the darkness, moving my fingers playfully over his chest. He doesn't put me down on the bed, but in front of it, standing with my back to him. I make a move to turn around, but his hands on my hips keep me firmly in place. "I want you like this," he orders.

  "It's not fair, I can't touch you," I whisper, my hands desperately seeking his skin.

  He bends me down, and I put my palms on the bed. He runs a finger down my spine, sending waves of cold shivers through me. And then he slams against me. Hard. One desperate moan after another escapes my lips as he thrusts again and again, harder and harder until my whole body succumbs to incontrollable shudders and I'm afraid my knees will give in.

  "James, wait," I gasp, and he lifts me with one arm, propping my knees on the bed without me having to ask for it. I straighten up, flattening my back against him, seeking his lips.

  "Do you want me to touch you?" he demands in a raspy, low tone as his thrusts become more brutal, his breaths more convulsive.

  "Yes," I beg him. "Yes, please."

  "Show me how much
you want it," he commands. I take his hand from my hip and place it on my damp sex, more aware of my body than ever. And then he starts moving his blessed fingers around in little circles, my nails digging deep in his thigh as my orgasm starts building, making me shake and shudder until relief comes in an explosion that shatters my entire body when he calls my name.

  A burst of laughter awakes me from my near unconscious state. I open my eyes, immediately regretting it. Light. Not a lot of it, but enough to hurt my eyes. The source must be somewhere on the bedside table on the other side of the bed, where James lies, visibly less disheveled than me. And amused.

  "What's so funny?" I ask weakly, wondering if I did something wrong earlier.

  "This is absolutely the last time I'm going out in public with you when all I want is to make love to you. I've never lost my head like this in public, except at some frat parties, but they don't count."

  There are several things about his sentence that make my stomach flip. First, the lovemaking thing. Surely only two people in a relationship talk about lovemaking. It's sex for the rest of us, isn't it? Then there's the never before thing. Of all the hotties he's been with, can there really be a never before for him?

  He kisses my forehead and gets up, announcing, "I need a shower. If you want something to wear, take anything from the closet. But I wouldn't mind seeing you run around naked." He winks and slips into the bathroom.

  I sit up on an elbow and, for the first time, take in the room. Everything from the white leather bed to the satin sheets covering me and the sleek, gray carpet on the floor reminds me of those storefronts for home decor where the price isn't even listed because it would give passersby without a limitless credit card a heart attack.

  The masterpiece, though, is the glass wall directly opposite the bed, through which the entire city is visible. I get up and walk to the window, admiring the dazzling lights of this never-sleeping city.

  It's only when I get goose bumps all over my body that I realize I really do need something to wear. His closet is three times the size of mine, and I begin to randomly open doors, until I find the one I want, with towels and bathrobes. I start taking one of the bathrobes off the hanger, when I notice the shelf above has five folded velvet robes, similar to what Dani was wearing when I first met her, only more masculine. I rise on my toes and reach for the black velvet, but the shelf is so high I can barely touch the soft fabric. I pull at it as best as I can and next thing I know, all five robes land on my head and then drop to the floor with a thump.