He pushed down my knee and rolled us to one side, and over, so he was on top, thrusting hard against me, filling me.
My body was already reacting to his, movements out of control as we danced together, my legs wrapping up around his waist to take him in deep. “I love you too, Smith Fucking Wittingham.”
He groaned and pounded into me, his hands firm on my hips.
I curled my body forward and let my cl**ax ricochet through us both as he came inside me.
We kept moving, our sweaty bodies slippery against each other, until we came to rest.
He rolled us to our sides, our legs and bodies still interlocked.
In the stillness, he said, “I'm not really the worst, am I? When you said that to me in the restaurant, you kinda hurt my feelings.”
I rested my free hand on his chest, over his heart.
“You're not the worst,” I said. “You are the best.”
He grinned. “That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me.”
Epilogue
Life got a little more complicated after I stopped being Smith's typist and started being his girlfriend. For example, he kept insisting on buying me things, and I completely ran out of closet space at my mother's house.
Eventually, I simply had to move to New York, because traveling back and forth was only exciting the first few times, and then it became more of an awkward commute with the bonus of security people patting me down.
My mother was sad to see me move out once again. I encouraged her to move over with us, since Smith certainly had the money to put her up in a place, plus he enjoyed her company, but she had too many friends she couldn't leave behind. We found a compromise, with her flying to New York about once a month, just long enough for us to catch up and her to fawn all over Smith's novels. It was hard to tell some days which one of us she was happier to see, but I didn't begrudge them their friendship, because it was sweet and felt natural.
Smith introduced her to some older friends of his, and she soon found a nice fellow (or two) to take her out when she was in town. What went on over the weekends in her little apartment next to ours, I didn't want to know.
Smith had been living in the penthouse he'd shared with his ex-wife, but he immediately sold it when we started dating, and I helped him pick out a new one. I appreciated him starting fresh with me, but it was also beneficial for him to leave the old place and the memories behind.
With permission from Smith, Claude told me a little more about life with Brynn, the ex-wife. He told me about the night she'd greeted them with a gun drawn, and about other things she'd done. It was hard to believe this was the same woman whose angelic face grinned out from photos in the high society columns. I guess we all have our demons, and Brynn's were the hard-working kind that tortured her as well as the people around her. From what I heard through friends of friends, she was doing much better those days. I made precautions to never be in the same room as her, as I couldn't be certain she didn't have a pistol in her purse, and I wanted to be neither shot with it nor struck in the back of the head. Whenever the barber cut Smith's hair too short in the back, I could see the scar from where she'd clipped him.
I could understand why Smith had some bad feelings about relationships, and the nature of love. He even told me his cockamamie idea about romance novels being revenge fantasies for women. In response, I hugged him and told him I was going to spoil him rotten every single day, and make him eat those words.
He asked how I was going to spoil him, since he was the one with all the money (he was asking honestly, not throwing it in my face, because he would never do that), so I finished that conversation by sitting on his lap, facing him, and massaging his neck while telling him how much I loved him. He agreed that maybe romance wasn't so bad after all, with the right woman.
As for my career, that was interesting. I got a call from one of those reality TV shows, to be part of a Real Housewives type of thing. They wanted a spicy redhead to throw drinks in people's faces. I considered the offer for about three seconds, then turned it down. My temper tantrums were for Smith's private enjoyment only.
When faced with all the opportunities in the world, and the funds to make any dream come true, I came up blank. Smith teased me about this, but he didn't start writing until he was over thirty, so I told him I still had a few years to figure it out, and maybe I never would. Couldn't I just be his typist? Nothing else could make me as happy.
In the meantime, I kept busy overseeing the decorating of our new apartment. I stayed in touch with my old friends from back home, but their lives were so different from mine that we had less and less in common. How my mother managed to keep everything balanced was a testament to the quality of her friends.
I made some new friends in New York, and got involved in some charities, and by the time the next Christmas came around, my life felt more real.
We'd gone to the Vermont cabin twice that year, and Smith had really worked hard to finish two Dunham novels that year. In the first, his beloved Sheri met a tragic end (of course), but he was no longer the same Detective Dunham. He'd become deeper and more layered, and I knew these novels would be the best ones yet.
In December, we returned to Mürren, as a one-year anniversary of dating.
In the elevator, I hit the button for the top floor, and he smiled and hit the button for the first floor of rooms.
He led me into the room, which was a room, not a suite. An old-fashioned typewriter sat on a round table, cramped into the corner by the window.
We'd played a number of roleplaying games recently, but this was a new one for me. I stayed quiet and waited for him to give me my cues.
“I'm Gregory Nash,” he said, shaking my hand. “The agency said they were sending someone with experience, but you seem too young.”
I gave him a coy look. “My name is… Rose. And I assure you, I'm experienced.”
“Miss Rose, stop undressing me with your eyes. I have to get my work done, so if you'll take your spot at the typewriter, we'll get started.”
I glanced over at the bed, the area between my legs already aching for him. “Yes, sir.”
He paced behind me. “Rose, put the paper in the typewriter.”
I picked up a sheet of paper, absolutely clueless about how to feed it into the typewriter. I was familiar with the device, of course, but I'd never actually used one.
He leaned over me from behind, putting his hands on my hands to get the paper fed between the black rollers. As he did this, he rubbed his groin against my shoulder, allowing me to feel his growing bulge.
“Mr. Nash! I'll thank you to not rub your filthy dick against me.”