The bedroom and living area both comprise a natural pallet, with beiges and golden walls and upholstery. Luxurious, heavy golden-copper drapes in every window. The wooden frames of the units and tables are dark, cultured cherry wood.
The dining area happens to be the only room that displays darker tones that I personally, think offers a warmer quality. With plush, dove-gray carpets with white swirls and curls scattered throughout. A large, mahogany, oval dining-table with antique carved legs overlooks the center of the room, with its eight copper, high-backed, armless, padded chairs situated around it, waiting to be filled. And three perfectly positioned, chocolate and cream shades suspend above the table.
Two windows are spread out along the back wall of the living area. One located behind the white, upholstery couch with a tremendous view of the tip of the steeple of the Presbyterian Church, towards Central Park, welcoming its audience to stand witness. I’m amazed at how close to Heaven the Peninsula has taken me, not only with luxury, but the views surrounding it. There are two additional chairs to the left and right of the sofa, facing opposite each other over the length of the dark, carved, coffee table.
I stride casually to the dining area, dressed in only my complimentary gown, my hair piled up high, and twisted in one of the Egyptian cotton towels. I freeze at the threshold and rest my shoulder against the frame. I fall victim to the magnetism that radiates from my lover’s form and his mannerisms. Staring intently at Hayden, I take a moment to absorb the extent of his attractiveness.
He sits confidently in yesterday’s attire at the end of the table, flicking through the newspaper, occasionally taking either a sip of coffee, or a torn up bit of his croissant. His hair now fully dried and flopping over the left side of his forehead as usual. The sunlight sears through the window behind him, defining the multi-tonal streaks of rich, dark chocolate, blended with warm, smooth caramel. I cannot suppress my wondrous smile that follows as my observation deepens.
He peeks up from his paper, and I am overcome with shyness. I secretly chuckle and drop my head for a second before I peek up at his rich, Belgium chocolate eyes that reveals the true magnitude of his affection and love.
“You are still not dressed, Miss Kennedy.” He reaches over the paper and retrieves his coffee. Taking it to his lips he caresses the rim of the china with his mouth in a single, enticing, lewd movement. For a brief moment, if I was to be granted a single wish, it would be to become that cup.
“I was hoping, that I…” I slowly make my way over to the center of the room; my hands nestled in the overly-large pockets of my gown. “…Could tempt you into taking up my offer…” approaching his right-side, I gaze down at him with expressive eyes, “and come back to bed with me.”
Lowering the cup back to the surface of the table, he emits a feral like groan, before seizing my wrists in his hands. He tugs me down into his lap. “A negotiation?” his velvet textured iris’ are radiant and encouraging as he wraps his arms around me, his fingers locked into place and rests upon my hip.
I reach to the table and salvage a piece of the torn pastry he has been nibbling on. “I’m listening.”
“We go shopping; have some lunch, then when we come back…” With the side of his mouth uplifting into a salacious grin, he has no need to finish his sentence. His expression bares the nature of his thoughts.
I pop the croissant into my mouth and its dissolves instantly, the sweet, buttery taste stroking my taste buds as the airiness works its way down my throat.
“Considering we are…negotiating, if I agree to your proposal, do I get to take the lead?” I ask brazen as I repeat my earlier action, and recover another piece of Hayden’s breakfast. “You, after all, exercised your rights over me last night.”
Hayden stops for a brief moment, tightens his eyes and pouts his lips, mulling over my questionable offer. After what seems like an eternity, he nods his head and says, “Okay.”
My lewd contemplations are etched upon my profile as I curl my lips up in triumph. “I believe, Mr Wentworth…” I hold the pastry to his mouth, and he obliges me by parting his lips. I place the pastry on his tongue, and he closes his lips around me. His devilish gaze bores deeply, making my insides liquefy and gush down my thighs. With his lips still surrounding my finger, holding it snug, I slowly retract it from his warm, moist possession. “…We have a deal.”
Reluctantly pushing myself up and out of his lap I collect a handful of grapes, and one of the four remaining pastries. I sink my teeth into the delicate, textured food, and viciously rip a bite out of it before getting dressed.
Damn, these croissants are good.
“Shit, shit, shit, fucking shit.” The bitterness of the fall air literally knocks all breath from my lungs, and with deliberate ease, begins to freeze my body. I hop up and down on the balls of my toes, alternating my weight, and quickly zip and button up my faux fur, collared jacket; severely wishing that I had at least brought my trench coat.
“’
We can get a flight tonight’
, he says.
‘Don’t bother packing anything’
, he says. That is the last time I ever listen to you, Hayden Wentworth.”
“You’re the one who decided wearing a skirt was a good idea. Trust me; I have learned not to pick a fight with women over their choice of clothing,” he counters while proffering his hand.
Slipping my hand into his grasp is enough to stir feelings in me, which make me oblivious to the bitterness of the New York City weather, as we stroll down the entry steps of the hotel, and along Fifth.
The sidewalk is bustling. People wearing suits, people wrapped up in their trench coats, some even carrying their big, black umbrellas. I guess you can never be quite certain of how the day will turn out in some places. Seeing them prepared and clothed sensibly causes me to feel rather…self-conscious.
Feeling the looks of disapproval firing like torpedoes towards me, and my––coming to think about it––inappropriate, short skirt, I sense a familiar mass growing, manifesting in my stomach and mind––the feeling of being labeled as a whore. With every passing citizen, I sink deeper and deeper out of my depth.
Gripping his hand with increasing force, I snuggle into Hayden’s side in a feeble attempt to stray away from both, the cold and the disapproving eyes of passing New Yorkers.
“I feel very exposed, Hayden,” I murmur.
He comes to an abrupt halt and the people walking behind us nearly collide into our frozen forms as we stand in the center of the busy block. He looks down at me with a speculating grin. “Why? What’s the matter?”
I glance around at the bystanders as the round us, some clicking their tongues in censure, and shaking their heads. I inhale, followed by an exaggerated sigh. Fidgeting, I mutter, “I feel as though I’m being labeled.”
Feeling my anxiety escalating, I sink my teeth into my lip and sense the flush working over my face.
Hayden peruses around us for a few seconds, then turns to face me. “They’re probably thinking what an amazing set of legs you’ve got, beautiful.”
I snigger at his level of optimism, and then hang my head. But my chin is instantly met with his finger, and he coaxes my head up, holding my gaze.
“Stop worrying about what other people think…they have their own problems. We, on the other hand…” he snakes his arms around my waist, and pulls me flush against him. I can feel his muscles tense and work as I slip my arms between his shirt and his jacket. “Have a few days of much needed, undisturbed, quality time. So cheer up, and let me treat you.”
He’s right. I shouldn’t let my self-conscious dictate my list of insecurities, especially when I should be completely absorbed in Hayden, in our time to…reconnect. He is trying to make this a perfect mini-getaway…I am not going to spoil it with my self-doubting bullshit.
“Okay,” I acquiesce. We grin at each other in measured contentment and resume walking. On my next breath, I blurt absentminded, “I feel as though I have stepped into Vivian’s shoes.” I pout for a fraction of a second, my brow furrows as I contemplate our current situation.
He stops in his tracks again. I fear that these emergency breaking motions will have me reacquainted with my breakfast before, too long. Pulling his eyebrows together so the delicate, wrinkled ‘V’ appears in the center of his brow, he says, “Vivian?” The perplexity not only behind his expression, but also his tone has me wide-eyed in a nanosecond.
“Pretty Woman?” I grimace. He shakes his head, and his mouth downturns, like something revolting has wafted up his nostrils. “You have got to be kidding me,” my mouth drops open. Amazed that I have found myself the only man in the world that has no idea of what I am rambling on about, I smile and shake my head dumbfounded. “It is only one of my favorite movies of all time. You haven’t lived. That is it; we have to find that movie.”
I turn to continue walking down the avenue, when Hayden tugs my hand back behind me. With my arm outstretched, I gaze up at his animated features. The confusion that was only just marring his face now mars my own.
“Come on,” I admonish.
He puckers his lips and shakes his head slowly, silently tormenting me. I feel like I am the proud owner of a very disobedient canine and fight the urge to pat my thighs and tease with piercing, shrieks of ‘
come on, here boy’.
“What?” I husk and he pulls me into his rock-hard body, the body that was above me, in me and behind me last night. I shudder in deep satisfaction of the memories that tantalize my mind. He looks up at the enormous building in front of us and then peeks back down at my immobilized form. “No way, Hayden,” I shake my head unwavering; this is, too much, this is not me by any means. “I am more than ecstatic with a little boutique or maybe a denim store.”
“No. We’re in New York, Samantha. I said I was going to treat you.” He practically drags me behind him as he takes long strides towards the building. “So where else better to indulge you than at, Saks?”
If someone had told me that it was possible to spend near enough five hours in a store, I would have told them that the realms of fantasy had better start charging them rent; that is, until today.
Hayden left me with the friendliest person I have encountered in our very short stay here, as he went to kit himself out with new apparel. The woman who couldn’t have been any older than her mid-thirties donned a sharp black, fitted pant-suit which complimented the golden shine of her shoulder-length, straight locks. Her blue and green speckled eyes teemed with delight as she flashed every designer they carried. Pressing hangers adorned with breathtakingly beautiful evening gowns, to suits and leather pants against my frame, while deciding if it was worthwhile trying the items or returning them to the rail.
When Hayden had told her that ‘money was of no object’, she really did look like the cat that had caught the canary.
By the time Hayden and I depart the ten-floor behemoth, we have everything: boxes, square boxes, rectangle boxes, thin, narrow boxes. Black bags with cord handles highlighted with designer names. Hangers with fabric coverings draped over suits and evening gowns. The thought of having or even seeing another bag makes me feel physically exhausted, and a part of me is overcome with dread. Another part of me feels increasingly guilty that Hayden has spent so Goddamn much on me. I am not used to this show of affection; I have never focused on money and designers.
I’m just a complicated girl that enjoys, that prefers simplicity in my life. My subconscious halts her progression through her catalogue and glares at me in bewilderment.
Exiting the building, Hayden adjusts a box under his left arm, some hangers over his right shoulder and seizes a few of my cord, handled bags. “Do you want to get something to eat, beautiful?” he asks when we step further onto the sidewalk.
Fumbling with the masses of our shopping spree, I raise my arm to peek at my watch, “Oh, my life.”
With an amused grin, he queries, “What?”
“Do you realize we have spent most of the day in there?” I gesture to the building behind me as accurately as possible, and Hayden showcases his perfect, pantie-dropping, ovary-combusting, carefree, all American, pearly white smile.
I can’t disguise my amusement as he sways from side to side, like a little boy, finding joy and pleasure in holding a secret close to his chest. He stands gaping at me, totally unperturbed by my outpouring astonishment.
“It’s nearly 5:00 p.m. I am shattered. Can we please just go back to the hotel?”
“If that is what you want to do, beautiful.” I follow him as he steps to the edge of the sidewalk and hold his arm in the air, effectively flagging down the next passing, yellow cab. Considering the hotel is not particularly a great distance away, I would usually find a cab somewhat unnecessary. But I can barely muster the energy to keep my eyes open, let alone walk with the entire load that swaddles me.
Gallantly, Hayden holds the passenger door open.
“Thank you,” I mouth, stepping off the sidewalk and approach the vehicle.
“You’re welcome,” he mouths back, and my body erupts into goose bumps as I absorb the way in which his mouth forms those two little words. I’m left baffling as I release my feet from their burden and sink into the lumpy, back seat, why miming four simple words, can fill me wholly with a craving that is erotic, suggestive and foretelling.
We decide to eat our evening meal at one of the three restaurants situated in our hotel. The Lounge is as exclusive as the rest of the building, with a high-rise celling and three beautiful, scenic oil paintings framing each of the three white marble, square archway entrances. The dark wooden bar is set at the front of the lounge and a majestic mirror stands behind it, reflecting the rest of the grand room.
With beige, low tub chairs surrounding low, round, glass-surfaced tables to the left of the hall, and generously spaced, mahogany square dinning-tables enclosed with elegant beige satin, detailed chairs to the right, the hall offers best of both, fashionable yet discreet.
“You look amazing,” Hayden speaks softly, placing his hands over mine in the center of the table.