Page 63 of Fallen Angel

“What are you waiting for?” she says, her voice so breathless she barely recognizes it.

“I don’t want this to end because when it does you’ll leave and I don’t know when I’ll see you again.”

She strokes his hair, kissing the top of his head. “I’m not leaving.”

Finally, he inches his cock inside her, very slowly, despite how wet and ready she is. Her pussy clings to him as he strokes in and out, and when his rhythm shifts to quick, hard thrusts, her body turns into a single vibrating nerve of pleasure.

Afterward, when they’re holding each other, she thinks: This is the most divine shared experience, because they’re truly experiencing it as one. Her pleasure can’t exist without his, and vice versa.

She rests her head on his chest. He kisses the top of her head.

And then she remembers last night with Gavin and feels a pang of guilt. She knows she should be honest with Alec, but before she can think of what to say, he speaks first.

“I’m sorry about everything,” Alec says. “That night at the Plaza? It was my fault. I pushed it past the limit. I take responsibility for that. And if I could change it, I would. I wish I could.”

Mallory thinks of Gavin’s judgmental response to her playfulness in the bedroom. She doesn’t want to be that person with Alec—a source of shaming. But the fact remains, she loves him too much to share him with other women. “I’m sorry for my part in that night, too. Maybe there’s such a thing as too much adventure, and we need to be more careful.”

“I agree,” he says. “The worst part is, I came to that room looking for you—not looking for anything else. That whole night was a huge mistake. I’ll never make it again.”

She hugs him. She thinks of the painted lady she ultimately scrubbed off because it was an unwanted reminder of such a low moment. She’s thankful nothing that night was indelible.

“I was with Bette the other day at this amazing tattoo place in the village. I was just keeping her company and watching her made me wonder if I could ever do something so permanent.”

“Too much commitment?” he says.

“No,” she says. “That’s not what I’m saying. Actually, I don’t know what I’m saying.”

He looks at her closely, and she can tell that he doesn’t fully believe what she said—that maybe she does fear commitment. And deep down, that’s what some of this drama has been about: Putting distance between them to avoid getting even more serious. To delay next steps. But that’s not it at all.

“I guess I feel like, if something is going to be permanent, it should be perfect.”

His expression softens. “It doesn’t have to be perfect, Mallory. It just has to be real. And honest. And true. We have that. Don’t you think?”

“I do,” she says. And she kisses him.

Chapter Thirty-One

The Baxters live in a glass luxury tower in NoHo. Their triplex apartment is the site of legendary parties filled with New York City’s beautiful people and always a few surprises. Mallory has also heard rumors about more exclusive gatherings limited to just three guests: Martha, Justin, and a gorgeous third party in their bedroom. But she doesn’t know if that’s true and really, has no intention of finding out.

The elevator opens directly into a loftlike room where light is the true art. Floor-to-ceiling steel-framed windows stretch across the walls, their black mullions cutting clean lines against the pale limestone floors. A low-slung Cassina sofa anchors the living room, flanked by a geometric coffee table. Unlike the Baxters themselves, the palette of the place is understated: bone, smoke, black, and the faint shimmer of brushed steel.

Martha is sitting in an armchair flanked by two impressive pieces of art: a massive Agnes Martin grid in muted gray and a Donald Judd wall sculpture. She beckons them toward her. In her right hand, she clutches an elegant wooden cane.

“Forgive me for not getting up,” she says.

“Martha’s having some problems with her hip,” Justin says. Mallory is happy to keep her distance; even though she showered at the hotel—if you can call it that—she’s paranoid she still smells like sex.

She and Alec sit side-by-side on one of the low, pale couches. A young, brunette woman who looks like a supermodel offers them coffee or hibiscus tea. Mallory, in dire need of caffeine, orders coffee.

They all make small talk until the coffee arrives, served on a literal silver platter. Then Justin says, “So what brings you two here today?”

“Yes, I love spontaneity,” Martha says. “I’m just not used to see you two in the daylight.”

Mallory and Alec exchange a look. She nods—he should be the one to tell them. She just has a feeling they’ll take Alec more seriously. It’s not fair, but she suspects that once someone sees her take her clothes off onstage, they automatically detract a dozen IQ points. The favor they’re about to ask for is too big not to be strategic about the messenger: Alec gets top billing in this particular show.

“Agnes is selling the Blue Angel,” he says.

Justin and Martha exchange a glance.