I’ve written five hundred sex scenes, Nolan, but I couldn’t have plotted the specific, heavy way you moved your thumb against my hip.
12 min read·2,353 words·3 views
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[IG DM Thread: Oct 14, 8:12 PM]
@Tess_Writes: You’ve been staring at that installation for twelve minutes. Is it the artistic merit of the rusted rebar, or are you just trying to figure out how to get a drink without talking to the woman in the fascinator?
@Nolan_Cross: I’m actually trying to figure out if the artist is making a statement about urban decay or if he just found a pile of scrap metal behind a Home Depot. And for the record, the woman in the fascinator is my aunt. She’s delightful until she mentions her parakeets.
@Tess_Writes: Oh, Lord. My apologies to your aunt. I’m the one in the corner by the charcuterie board, currently trying to look like I’m pondering the 'weight of existence' while actually wondering if these grapes are organic.
@Nolan_Cross: I saw you. The navy silk wrap dress. You’re the only person in here who doesn’t look like they’re holding their breath to appear more intellectual. You look like you’re ready to bolt for the nearest Waffle House.
@Tess_Writes: You have a keen eye, Mr. Cross. This gallery is about three degrees too hot and five degrees too pretentious for a Thursday. Also, my spanx are staging a military coup on my internal organs.
***
[Email: Oct 15, 9:30 AM]
To: Nolan Cross <ncross@crossarchitects.com>
From: Tess Calhoun <tess@tesscalhounbooks.com>
Subject: The Post-Mortem
Nolan,
I’m sitting on my porch in Savannah, watching a squirrel try to commit suicide via bird feeder, and I have a deadline looming. I should be writing Chapter Fourteen of a book about a duke with a dark secret. Instead, I am thinking about the fact that I don’t even know your middle name, but I know exactly what you sound like when you’re trying to keep quiet.
In my line of work, we call it 'the inciting incident.' Usually, it’s a spilled coffee or a flat tire. It’s never an Instagram DM from a man across a crowded room who looks like he’d be more comfortable on a construction site than at an opening for minimalist sculpture.
I’m writing this because if I don’t get it out of my head and onto the screen, I won’t get a lick of work done today. Consider this a professional courtesy—a transcript of how a romance novelist remembers the night she actually forgot she was supposed to be the one in control of the narrative.
You looked so out of place, Nolan. That suit was expensive, but you wore it like a chore. You have these hands—broad, calloused, with those clean-cut nails—that looked like they belonged on a steering wheel or a waist, not holding a tiny glass of lukewarm Chardonnay. When you looked over at me after that third DM, your eyes weren’t 'smoldering' (that’s a word my editor hates). They were focused. You looked at me like I was a problem you were very interested in solving.
***
[IG DM Thread: Oct 14, 8:45 PM]
@Nolan_Cross: If you leave now, you’ll miss the artist’s speech. He’s going to explain why the rebar represents his relationship with his father.
@Tess_Writes: I would rather have a root canal without anesthesia. I’m moving toward the back hall. There’s a door that looks like it leads to either a bathroom or a very quiet storage closet.
@Nolan_Cross: It leads to the archives. My firm did the renovation on this building. There’s a keypad. The code is 0412. My birthday.
@Tess_Writes: That is a very dangerous piece of information to give a woman who has had two glasses of wine and is currently irritated by her own hosiery.
@Nolan_Cross: I’m thirty seconds behind you. Don’t get lost in the dark.
***
[Email: Oct 15, 9:45 AM]
To: Nolan Cross
From: Tess Calhoun
Subject: Re: The Post-Mortem
The air in that back room smelled like sawdust and expensive floor wax. It was a relief after the perfume-heavy humidity of the main gallery. When the door clicked shut behind me, the silence felt heavy, like a quilt. I didn't think you’d actually follow. Men usually talk a big game in the DMs and then get shy when the lighting gets dim.
But you didn’t. You walked in and didn't say a word. You just leaned against that heavy oak table—the one with the architectural blueprints spread out—and watched me struggle with my heels.
'Need help?' you asked.
You have a voice like good bourbon, Nolan. Smooth, but with a bit of a burn at the back of the throat.
I remember saying something witty, or trying to, but you just stepped into my space. You didn't do the slow, tentative lean. You moved like you knew exactly where you were going. When your hands landed on my hips, it wasn’t a suggestion. It was an arrival. You pulled me toward you, and the friction of my silk dress against your suit trousers made a sound that I can still hear if I close my eyes. It was a soft, sharp hiss, like a secret being whispered.
I’m fifty-one years old, Nolan. I’ve been divorced for six years. I’ve been on dates that felt like job interviews and dates that felt like charity work. But I haven’t felt that sudden, sharp ache in my lower belly—the one that feels like a physical pull—in a very long time. It made me feel like I was twenty-two again, but with the added benefit of actually knowing what to do with the feeling.
***
[IG DM Thread: Oct 14, 9:05 PM]
@Nolan_Cross: You’re shaking.
@Tess_Writes: I’m not shaking. I’m vibrating. There’s a difference.
@Nolan_Cross: Turn around. Put your hands on the table.
@Tess_Writes: Is this the part where you tell me you’re actually the bossy type? Because I’ve written that trope. I know how it ends.
@Nolan_Cross: I don’t care how it ends in your books, Tess. I want to see how it feels in the dark. Hands on the table. Now.
***
[Email: Oct 15, 10:15 AM]
To: Nolan Cross
From: Tess Calhoun
Subject: Re: The Post-Mortem
I did exactly what you said. I turned around and pressed my palms flat against the cold wood of the table. I could feel the edges of the blueprints underneath my fingers. You stepped up behind me, so close I could feel the heat radiating off your chest. You didn't touch me at first. You just stood there, breathing against the back of my neck, right where my hair was pinned up.
Then you reached around and found the zipper of my dress.
You were so slow about it. You didn't yank it down. You moved it inch by inch, the metal teeth clicking softly. I felt the cool air hit my skin, and then I felt your mouth. You kissed that spot right between my shoulder blades, your stubble scratching just enough to make me catch my breath.
'I’ve been thinking about this since the moment you looked at the rebar and rolled your eyes,' you whispered.
When you reached around to cup my breasts, your hands were so much larger than I expected. You worked your fingers under the lace of my bra, finding my nipples already hard and peaking. You didn't tease me. You squeezed, just enough to make me moan, a sound that bounced off the stacks of crates and made my face flush.
I reached back, trying to find you, but you grabbed my wrists and pinned them to the table.
'Stay still,' you said. It wasn't a shout. It was a command given in a growl.
You let go of one wrist only to reach down and hike my skirt up. I was wearing those sheer black stockings—the ones with the lace tops that stay up by sheer willpower. I heard you catch your breath when you felt them. Your hand moved up my inner thigh, your skin feeling like fire against mine. When you hit the dampness of my silk panties, you didn't hesitate. You pushed two fingers past the fabric, sliding deep inside me with a confidence that made my knees buckle.
You were so slick, so fast. You found the rhythm immediately, your thumb hovering over my clit, circling it with a pressure that was almost too much. I was staring at a blue-line drawing of a floor plan, and all I could think was that I wanted to be on the floor, under you, with no plans at all.
'You're so wet, Tess,' you groaned into my ear. 'Like you've been waiting for this all night.'
'I have,' I admitted, and I didn't care if it sounded desperate. In Georgia, we call that 'the truth and the light.' I was desperate. I wanted the weight of you.
***
[IG DM Thread: Oct 14, 9:20 PM]
@Tess_Writes: Nolan. Please.
@Nolan_Cross: Use your words, Tess. You’re the writer.
@Tess_Writes: I want you inside me. I want to feel how big you are. I want to forget I’m at a godforsaken art gallery in the middle of Atlanta. Please. Now.
***
[Email: Oct 15, 11:00 AM]
To: Nolan Cross
From: Tess Calhoun
Subject: Re: The Post-Mortem
This is the part where the words usually get flowery in a novel. I’d talk about 'surrendering to the storm' or some other nonsense. But there wasn't anything flowery about the way you unzipped your fly. It was the sound of leather and denim, and then the heavy, solid reality of you pressing against my backside.
You didn't use a condom at first—you stopped, fumbling with your wallet, and I almost screamed with the frustration of the delay. When you finally had it on, you didn't wait. You grabbed my hips, your fingers digging into the flesh, and you drove into me in one long, devastating surge.
I haven't been filled like that in years, Nolan. You were so thick, stretching me open, hitting my cervix with a blunt force that made me see stars. I cried out, and you muffled the sound by biting my shoulder, your teeth grazing the skin.
We fell into this frantic, messy rhythm. The table was creaking, the blueprints were sliding onto the floor, and I didn't give a damn. Every time you thrust, my heels skidded on the hardwood. You reached down and pulled one of my legs up, hooking my knee over your hip so you could get deeper.
'Look at me,' you said, pulling me around just enough so I could see your face.
You looked wrecked. Your hair was a mess, your tie was undone, and your eyes were blown out, all pupil. You looked like you were starving and I was the first meal you’d seen in a month.
'You feel so good,' you gasped, your pace quickening. 'So tight. Jesus, Tess.'
I reached back and found your balls, cupping them, feeling the tension there. You groaned, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through my whole body. I started to come then—it was a rolling, heavy heat that started in my toes and crashed over me. I clamped down on you, my internal muscles pulsing against your dick, and that was it for you. You let out a choked sound and buried your face in my neck, your whole body shaking as you came, thrusting one last time, hard enough to knock a stack of catalogs off a nearby shelf.
We stood there for a long time afterward, just breathing. The silence was different then. It wasn't heavy; it was satisfied. You helped me zip my dress back up. You even found my earring that had fallen off. You were a gentleman, right up until you leaned in and whispered that I had a smudge of mascara under my eye that made me look like I’d been thoroughly ruined.
You said it like a compliment. I took it as one.
***
[IG DM Thread: Oct 14, 9:50 PM]
@Nolan_Cross: I’m back in the main room. My aunt is asking where I went. I told her I was inspecting the HVAC system.
@Tess_Writes: You’re a terrible liar. I’m in the bathroom trying to fix my hair. I look like I’ve been through a car wash without the car.
@Nolan_Cross: You look beautiful. And you left your coaster on the table. The one with your phone number scrawled on the back in eyeliner.
@Tess_Writes: A girl has to be prepared.
@Nolan_Cross: I’m calling you tomorrow. Don’t start any new chapters until then.
***
[Email: Oct 15, 11:30 AM]
To: Nolan Cross
From: Tess Calhoun
Subject: Final thoughts
So, that’s the transcript. That’s the 'inciting incident' as recorded by the woman in the navy silk dress.
I’m usually the one who knows how the story ends, Nolan. I know the rhythm of the falling action and the resolution. But sitting here on my porch, I realize I have no idea what the next chapter looks like. And for the first time in a decade, I’m not in a hurry to write it. I’d rather wait and see what you do.
Also, you should know—I didn’t actually go to Waffle House last night. I went home, poured a glass of the good bourbon, and sat in the dark for an hour just feeling the soreness between my legs. It was the best night I’ve had since the Bush administration.
Call me when you’re off work. And Nolan? Wear that suit again. I want to see how fast I can get you out of it when there isn't a gallery full of people on the other side of the door.
Yours,
Tess
***
[Text Message: Oct 15, 11:45 AM]
Nolan: Just read the email.
Nolan: I’m currently in a board meeting. I had to stand up and walk to the window because I’m wearing those same suit trousers and the memory of you hooked over my hip just gave me an erection that would have been very hard to explain to the zoning committee.
Nolan: I’m leaving early. I’ll be in Savannah by 6:00.
Nolan: Keep the porch light on. And Tess?
Tess: Yes?
Nolan: Throw the duke with the dark secret out the window. We’re writing something else tonight.
