by Shen, L. J.
“Thirty. Would that be a problem?”
“I don’t know, should it be?” She raises an eyebrow. I have no idea what we’re talking about right now, but I am thoroughly entertained and anxious to hear an absolute no from her.
I laugh. “Would you have a drink with a thirty year old?”
“Possibly, if he doesn’t forget to tip our server.”
“How about dinner with a thirty year old? Keep in mind that whatever we do, I fully expect us to go dutch,” I joke.
Reggie lets loose one of the smiles I saw earlier during her shift. The type to make the world around us evaporate. The type to bump the temperature by ten degrees.
“Will this thirty year old keep his hands to himself?”
“Scout’s honor.” I lift three fingers.
“Crying shame,” she pouts. We both laugh.
“In that case,” I offer her my hand, pulling her up, “dinner’s on me.”
“Great, I’ll be in charge of the dessert,” she chirps.
I smirk, refraining from correcting her.
You are the dessert, darling. Merry early Christmas to me.
* * *
An hour later, we’re in my apartment. Reggie meticulously removes cheese from the pizza we’ve ordered. I wanted to go fancy and show her a good time, but apparently, Reggie had other plans.
“I just want to sit around barefoot and pig out somewhere private.”
That’s how we find ourselves sitting on my marble floor, polishing off a bottle of champagne a client gave me and I figured was finally worth opening. No glasses needed. Straight from the bottle. Reggie is scanning my Rue Saint Didier duplex, tastefully furnished with velvet, cream-hued upholstery-everything, a golden chandelier and a kitchen world-class chefs would feel comfortable in.
There’s a wrought iron bannister peeking from the narrow terrace, which the living room bleeds into, and that’s where Reggie’s eyes linger. Not the furniture reeking of money, or the prestigious zip code, or the rather odd statue of a dog by the fireplace, which probably costs more than a red-market organ. No. She longs for the dazzling view. The rows of antique buildings, charming boutique stores boasting holiday accessories, and romantic holly-laden lampposts.
“What’s your father’s name?” I ask, taking a bite of my pizza.
“Ruben. Ruben LaPenus.”
Did she just say rubbing a penis? I really should sleep with this woman for both our sakes. I’m starting to hear things.
“Come again?”
I’ll make you come again and again and again.
“Ruben LaPenus. That’s my father’s name. But, see, he used to be a businessman and did some really shady things, and had to escape America before he was prosecuted. The IRS was after him. Guess he decided to leave my mom and me and go back to Paris. So I’m thinking maybe he changed his name to go under the radar. Otherwise, how would he have gotten out of America in the first place, right?”
I’m thinking the same thing. It takes an incredible amount of bravery and determination to move halfway around the world to go in search of a parent who essentially abandoned her and her family. She glances around again, suddenly looking vulnerable. Like the very young, lost woman that she is, despite the easygoing way she carries herself.
Beyond her understated and stunning beauty is a wounded, resilient woman I find myself desperate to understand. I want to know what makes her tick, what inspires her, compels her, incites her. Hell, she is so enchanting I’d listen to her talk about her shoes until the next century and GoFundHer even if she needs the money to surgically add little freaky Halloween eyes to every inch of her forehead.
“Do you like being a hedge fund manager?” She changes the subject.
I shrug. “It’s what I do.”
“No then.” She grins, taking a bite of her pizza. “Do you have any hobbies?”
“I help my elderly neighbor make ceramic vases. He sells them at the market down the road every Saturday. Keeps me busy when I’m off work.”
“How masculine,” she teases, wiggling her eyebrows.
“I’m confident enough in my manhood, thank-you-very-much.” A smirk finds my lips.
“Of course, you are.”
“You are always welcome to sample the goods.”
“Is that a part of your pimp business’ customer service?”
“Our motto is we aim to please.” I flash her a slimy, car salesman's grin. She laughs, and I feel it in my chest.
“What do you have in mind?” she quips. She is sharp-witted, smart as the devil, and just about as charming. I don’t remember the last time a woman attracted me quite so much.
“Everything.” I drop the pizza, leaning over to cup the back of her neck and pull her closer. She is tiny against me, her breath catching speed, her skin warming up. I hear the soft thud of her pizza falling on the cardboard box between us. Something shifts in the air. It becomes thick, charged, and heavy. “I have everything in mind, Regina LaPenus.”
She sucks in a breath as I pry her pretty pink mouth open with my thumb, mesmerized by her pillowy lips. They’d look so good wrapped around my…
Easy there, stud.
“I might have to jump your bones if you don’t do it. Just putting it out there in the universe,” she warns.
A low, grumbly chuckle escapes the back of my throat, and my mouth descends on hers, capturing a sweet kiss that’s already waiting for me. She opens her mouth for my tongue, and I thrust in, groaning and bracketing her cheeks, leaning forward to touch more of her.
There’s a soft sound of something being squashed between us, and we both look down to see the hem of my Prada dress shirt sitting atop the oily pizza sauce.
“Good, now I’m not the only one who looks and smells like a long day of labor.” Reggie grins, captures my lower lip with her teeth, and tugs tauntingly.
I feel a rumble in my chest, and I don’t know if it’s laughter, excitement, or both.
I pull her by the hand and lead her to the shower.
The only thing we are going to smell of tonight is my eighty-euros organic soap and sex.
3
Reggie
If I could have predicted how this day was going to end, it would not be in Ho the Not-Pimp’s upscale flat—if I was in America, I’d call it a penthouse, but I’m not—eating cheeseless pizza and making out. I don’t even care about the tomato-onion-oregano breath with hints of garlic we’re both rocking.
All I know is that we’re heading for his bathroom to rinse away the day, his previous two dates, the pervasive and horrible smell of fried food, and dog pee.
And that means we’re getting naked.
I’m definitely stoked about that part.
I’m crossing my fingers that what he’s hiding in his dress pants is going to match the rest of him.
Ho’s bathroom looks nothing like mine. Other than the towels hanging from the rack, it’s a wash of white marble, streaked with black, and flecked with gold. The shower alone is probably bigger than my entire studio apartment. A glass wall, unmarred by water spots separates me from shower heaven.
“Oh my God. This is better than a spa.” I leave Ho standing on the surprisingly warm marble floor, open the glass door, and step inside the cavernous shower. Beyond the enormous UFO-sized rain-style showerhead in the middle of the ceiling, there are also wall-mounted jets and one of those handheld numbers. Three white bottles and a single grey body poof line the recessed shelf. There are also a toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste, and a cup, which seems a little odd, but whatever.
I spread my arms wide and do a little spin, not even skimming the tile walls, the shower is so huge. “You could have a party in here.”
He tucks a thumb into his pants pocket and smirks. “That is the plan, is it not?”
He has a point. I tug my shirt over my head. I changed out of my work uniform, into street clothes when I left this afternoon, but since the outfit was in my locker, it too holds the less than pleasant Le Petit Café fragr
ance. And also, more faintly, old sneakers.
I toss it on the floor close to his feet and reach behind me to unclasp my bra, arching my back just a touch to make my girls look slightly more ample than they are. My bra is heavily padded, my boobs are solidly average, but what they lack in cup size, they totally make up for in perkiness.
Horace cocks a brow. “Would you like some music for your striptease?”
I pause, one hook still clasped at the back. “Are you sure you’re not a pimp?”
“Almost certain.” His sexy smirk turns into a full-on grin. “See? No gold tooth.”
“Maybe you have a removable grill, like a mouthguard, so you can moonlight as required. Hedge funds investor by day, pimp by night.”
“That’s quite the wild imagination you have.” Horace steps up to the edge of the shower and slips a single finger into my belt loop. “Come out of there so I can turn on the shower and help rid you of your clothes.”
That actually sounds way less daunting than a striptease, so I acquiesce and let him tug me back out onto the marble floor.
I tip my chin up and he drops his, bending until our lips meet. It’s a bit of a distance, considering he’s quite tall and I’m . . . not. His office-work-soft fingertips follow the edge of my bra until he finds the clasp and deftly flicks it open. The straps slide off my shoulders and I take a single step back, which Horace doesn’t seem to appreciate, based on the low growl rumbling up from his chest.
I pat his left pec and suck his bottom lip before disengaging our lips. It’s not easy since he keeps coming after mine. “Just trying to free the nipples.”
“Right. Yes. Free away.” He allows a few inches of space between our bodies. It’s enough that I can drop my bra on the floor. I kick it out of the way so I don’t end up tripping on the slippery satin, or getting my foot caught in the strap—yes, it’s happened before.
Horace cups the girls, somewhat covetously and sighs, thumbs brushing over my nipples. “Fucking hell, Reggie, your tits are absolute perfection.”
The right one is actually half a cup bigger than the left, but based on how enamoured he seems to be with my boobs, I don’t think he cares. “Thanks.”
He eye-fucks my nipples, circling them in a tiny wax-on-wax-off motion. Suddenly, and without any kind of preemptive warning, he bows forward and aggressively sucks the right one while pinching the left.
“Holy shit!” I yelp, grabbing a fistful of his hair, smiling as I completely screw up that perfect part of his.
He pops off to ask, “Too rough?”
“Nope, just unexpected.”
“Excellent.” He switches to the left boob, giving it the same harsh suck, bite, lick treatment.
There’s not a lot I can do to further the clothing removal situation until he’s had his one-on-one time with each boob. Eventually, he decides they’ve had enough of his love—at least for the time being. He releases my nipple from the hoover-like suction of his mouth. “I would take voice and guitar lessons, and a poetry writing class so I could compose an ode about the majesty of your tits.”
Annndd . . . he’s back to ravaging my mouth with his tongue.
I sincerely hope that post-shower I get to find out what other talents his tongue possesses. While we kiss, I get to work on the buttons on his shirt. I’m apparently not fast enough for him. He yanks roughly on his tie, breaking our kiss only long enough to get it over his head. We fight over the last button, and then we’re both gloriously naked from the waist up.
Horace goes for the button on my pants with one hand and his own with his other.
“No.” I raise a single finger, and both his hands shoot up like I’m pointing a gun at him.
He looks somewhere between feral and devastated.
I poke myself in the boob. “I do you first.”
His eyebrows pop, a slow grin turning up his kiss swollen lips. “Where are my manners? Ladies first, of course.” He motions to his crotch.
He’s wearing black trousers, so any potential hint I may have at what’s behind that fly is masked. At least for now. It sort of seems like he’s got a significant amount going on there, but it’s hard to tell. I allow my gaze to follow the trail of dark hair to his navel—it’s a nice innie—and up over his washboard abs, to the cut lines of his chest, heavy shoulders, and deliciously thick biceps. His body is just as perfect as his face, at least from the waist up. Please God, let it also be perfect from the waist down.
I take a deep breath, preparing myself for the unveiling, and shake out my hands.
“You look like you’re getting ready to go a round in the ring, darling.” Ho’s voice holds a hint of humor, and under that, a faint thread of unease.
That makes two of us. I’ll be so disappointed if he has one of those stubby half Coke can penises, or worse, a pencil dick.
I meet his amused, moderately wary gaze. “Sorry.” I bite my lip for impact and bat my lashes.
That seems to do the trick. His gaze darkens as I unclasp his belt buckle, pop the button, and drag the zipper down. He exhales sharply when I shove his pants and boxer briefs over his hips. It’s like the unveiling of a brand new exhibit at the Louvre. And honestly, even more impressive than I had hoped.
“Oh, thank fucking God.”
Horace cocks a brow, so, of course, I feel compelled to explain.
“It would be such a terrible karmic fate to look as perfect as you and have a less than impressive cock. If you think about it, the laws of nature are fully against you. No one human being should be this stunning and also get to have a fabulously gorgeous penis, too.”
“Thank you, I think?” He narrows one eye, turning the statement into a question. “Feel free to touch at your leisure.”
“Right. Yes. Of course.” I run my fingertips along the silky base, following a thick vein to the head.
Like the rest of him, Horace’s penis and surrounding area are pleasantly groomed. Even his balls are nice, and generally they’re just weird, and wrinkly and dangling awkwardly. I curl my fingers around the shaft and stroke up the length, twisting at the head, thumb smoothing over the tip before I drag it back down.
Ho groans, and then his fingers slide into the hair at the nape of my neck, twisting through the strands. He tips my head back and our mouths collide in a furious kiss that feels very much like we are most certainly gearing up for a round in the ring.
His other hand skims heavily down my side and he follows the waistband of my jeans, flicking open the button. For a moment I panic, because prior to changing, I wore a pair of polyester pants for eight hours today, while rushing around a busy restaurant serving tables. Polyester is the most horrible, non-breathable fabric in the history of the world.
“Let’s get in the shower,” I mumble around his tongue.
“Mmm, yes, let’s.” Ho reaches out and hits a button on the wall beside us. And then he hits several more.
The patter of running water sounds like a musical interlude with each button he presses. It’s almost as if “Prayers for Rain” is playing in the background. And unless I’m having some kind of odd hallucination . . . “Is that The Cure?”
“It is.” Horace shoves my pants and underwear down my thighs, and I helpfully kick them off.
“You’re my music soulmate. Disintegration is my favorite album.”
“Mine too.”
“Of all time.”
“Me as well.”
Obviously, his loony tunes sister and the crackpot fortune teller were on to something. Maybe we are destined for each other.
I koala-style jump him, wrapping my arms and legs around his ridiculously fit body. And because he’s perfect, he catches me without faltering. As soon as he steps into the massive shower, we’re assaulted by water from all sides. A fine, hot spray dances along my arms and legs, the rain showerhead above soaking us.
I untangle my limbs from his, glancing around the space, trying to figure out a way to implement my plan. Which is to make sure his hands don’t go below
my navel until I’ve had a chance to wash my naughty bits.
Because I’m intelligent and resourceful, and also randy as all hell, I drag him over to the bench and force him down by his shoulders. It puts him at eye level with my chest, which is good. I need him sufficiently distracted by the girls.
While he nuzzles and sucks and groans and nibbles, I grab the removable showerhead from the wall and flick the lever. Ho’s hands are on the move, easing down my sides, one moving to cup my backside and the other clearly on a mission to get between my legs.
I circumvent him by dropping to my knees. I brace a hand on his thigh and get as comfortable as I possibly can while kneeling on a tile floor. Gripping his erection in my fist, I meet his hot, feral gaze. I smile and lick my lips as I lean in and cover the head, tonguing the crown and sucking gently.
“Fuck yes, Reggie.” Ho brushes wet strands of hair gently from my cheek, then wraps it around his fist, groaning. “Show me what that pretty mouth can do.”
And while I suck his ridiculously beautiful cock, I jam the showerhead between my thighs and wash away eight damn hours of polyester pants pussy.
It’s almost your turn, I internally promise my holy triangle, while the water washes away today’s many ordeals, including dog pee, food stains, and general work sweat. Just hang in there, sister.
4
Horace
After coming in Reggie’s mouth—she did indicate that I could. Quite enthusiastically, even, with hand gestures more fitting for an airplane marshal—I dried both of us off with a towel and cracked open another bottle of champagne.
Really, I’m waiting for my cock to recharge so it can out-perform whatever expectations she has of me. I’m not twenty-three anymore, and need a few minutes before giving her a half-an-hour lovemaking session. I pour Reggie a generous glass and carry it to the bedroom, where I find her snoring peacefully, dead to the world.
As if on cue, my traitorous cock decides to leap into action. It swells in my sweatpants to the sight of her napping, a tiny smile on her mouth. Her long, tan legs are entangled in my sheets, and she looks like such an integral part of my bedroom, I can barely remember what my bed looks like without her in it.
