Let's Talk About Sext

by Evie Claire

  Still trying to make sense of her abrupt departure, it took him ten minutes to find the highest dose of melatonin the store carried. He was halfway to the register, still replaying their conversation in his mind when he stopped cold—7:23. The numbers glowed white against his phone’s black screen.

  “Aw, fuck it,” he murmured.

  Tuesday was a mere five hours away. And if he was right about Phebe’s change of heart, she certainly didn’t need a few hours to sit around and talk herself out of what she was feeling. No, he just had to convince her she was absolutely right. Redirecting his path for the fruit leather aisle, he Googled the nearest liquor store and prayed he wouldn’t need that melatonin after all.

  Chapter 14

  Brody

  For blocks, gin sloshed against the glass walls of a brown-bagged Hendrick’s bottle he held in his hand. In the other, a bag of strawberry fruit leathers softened against the growing heat radiating from his sweaty palms.

  He felt like a damn stalker, though he hoped like hell Phebe wouldn’t see it that way. During their conversation at Whole Foods, she’d given him enough to figure out the general area where she lived. Pure dumb luck had helped him find the exact location.

  On the way up three flights of stairs, Brody admired Phebe’s building. It felt familiar. Exposed brick, steel beams oxidized to a dark brown, pristine wooden floor that could be brand new or centuries old. It was industrial chic on a grand scale, and everything his building should be. Everything he had zero cash to accomplish.

  On the top landing he slowed. A single door sat to his left. It had to be hers and didn’t look like he thought it would. Not that he had really thought about it. But there was a plant beside her door. A damn potted plant. One of those gigantic-leafed monsters that looks like an elephant’s ear, rooted in a bright red ceramic planter. Phebe didn’t seem to have time to grow stuff. Tucking the bottle under his arm, he reached for a leaf and discovered her secret. Fake, but a damn good one.

  He chuckled to himself. Mostly because he needed distracting from the weight of what he was about to do. His brain he could sidetrack. His hands were another story. Slicked by anxiety and nerves, the phone felt unstable in his hands. Like he might drop it into her red ceramic planter at any moment. Securing the fruit leather in a back pocket, he used both hands to send off a simple text. And a prayer.

  BRODY: Wanna play?

  PHEBE: I wanted to play last night.

  Her response was immediate. Like the phone was already in her hands.

  BRODY: I wanna play right now.

  After taking a breath so deep he felt it in his balls, Brody snapped a picture of her plant and fired it off. Half the bravado that had built in his stomach on the drive over disappeared with it. Was it too creepy? A bridge too far? Fuck. Seconds ticked away like hours. Then the unmistakable sound of metal scraping past metal echoed down the empty hallway.

  The door swung wide, and there she stood, filling the stale air with vanilla and roses, hair wet—from a shower this time—in an old Braves T-shirt that hung past her knees. It was so obviously not her shirt. Way too big, with old deodorant stains darkening the gray jersey fabric at the pits. Women’s deodorant was too delicate to stain. Immediately, he hated the shirt’s original owner. Hated the inescapable thoughts of what intimacies another man may have shared with Phebe. It caused small hairs on the back of his neck to rise in a primal way.

  “Is this too much?” he asked, shrugging as he looked down at his boot tips barely touching her welcome mat. When her lips pursed and her arms crossed, he tucked his head to hide the chagrin that warmed the skin beneath his beard. “It’s too much. I’ll leave.” He turned, hoping like hell she would stop him, but knowing she needed the opportunity to let tonight be at her invitation. After all, he had basically stalked her. Women didn’t usually appreciate that.

  “Brody?” Her voice, his name, the acoustics of the old building. He closed his eyes and embraced the sound. Steepling his hands in front of him, he turned back, helpless to hide his smile or the fact that he was sending up another little prayer. A thank you this time. Phebe giggled at the show. “What are you doing here?”

  “Well, you said we needed to look over plans,” he offered.

  Phebe face didn’t move. Shit. Had he waited too long?

  “And I feel like I owe you a drink, for last night and all.” It was a horrible fucking excuse, but it was the best he had. He peeled the paper bag down the sides of the sleek bottle in his hand enough to reveal the label. If he wasn’t enough, he reasoned, maybe her favorite drink would be.

  “I’ve got plenty of gin.” Her arms stayed crossed at her chest, but the teasing grin on her lips told him she wanted him to work for it. Brody had zero problems with hard work. Especially when the reward was so sweet.

  “I’m sure you do. But you don’t have this.” He pulled the bag of fruit leathers from his back pocket. Curiosity drew her brows into a question mark.

  “Fruit leather?” she asked, scanning the label.

  “Let me make you one drink. If it isn’t the best thing you’ve ever tasted, I’ll leave.”

  Phebe leaned into the doorframe. Her arms fell from her chest and she ran her fingers through the rivulets of wet hair hanging around her gorgeous face. Brody stepped closer, leaning on the wall beside her.

  It may have been the best idea he’d ever had. Phebe needed control over a situation. Or at least the perception of it. It was like God had spoken directly to him when the idea popped into his brain an hour ago. This way, Phebe had control over whether he stayed or not. The beauty of his plan lay in its subjectivity. Because, while Brody knew her tongue—Sweet Jesus above, did he know it—her taste buds were none but her own. Which meant whether he stayed or not was completely dependent on whether she wanted him to.

  He hoped like hell her taste buds were as sweet as the rest of her.

  “Deal.” She pushed the door open and disappeared into the depths of her apartment. Brody followed like a dog at her heels. Now the real pressure was on.

  “Don’t you want to know how I found your place?”

  “Lorie already told me.” She held up her phone like Brody should know Lorie would’ve texted her the minute she had told him where to go. Running into Lorie on the sidewalk—at the exact moment he had talked himself into going home—also seemed oddly like the hand of fate.

  “I actually have a friend who bartended just down the street. So when you told me you lived off the park, I knew the area.” Excuses. Excuses. Brody was full of them. Phebe reached for the bottle of Hendrick’s and the fruit leather with a knowing look that told him he could shut the hell up now.

  “So, you are stalking me.” Her words echoed their earlier conversation. He dragged a hand through his hair, rubbing it down the length of his beard. His eyes fell to the floor, then found hers again.

  “Yeah. I guess I am.”

  Five seconds—maybe less, maybe more, who knew—passed and neither of them could pull their eyes off the other. Brody couldn’t move because he still couldn’t believe a woman like Phebe was into him. For her, well, he was pretty sure it had something to do with the appreciation that lit her gray eyes in an approving way. She was intimidating as hell, and it was entirely possible he was the only guy who’d ever followed her home uninvited.

  “Glasses are in the far cabinet. If you need bar stuff, it’s in the middle drawer.” Phebe motioned toward her kitchen. “I need to finish an email.” She paused, up-downed him, bit a smile playing at her lips, and vanished into the dim recesses of a small room off the den.

  It was weird, busting up in someone’s space for the first time. Not that he had preconceived notions about it. It was just that he already knew her sex sounds and couldn’t, for the life of him, stop himself from imagining what they might sound like in the acoustics of her bedroom. How thick were the wal
ls? Would a neighbor hear? Would his name in her moans find their way into every darkened corner of her ten-foot ceilings? God, he hoped so. And god, he had to think about something else.

  He moved into the industrial kitchen, where Phebe had left his offerings to the fuck-buddy gods. Of course, she already had gin in the place. An open-shelf mid-kitchen held five varieties of the liquor, crowned by rows of full wine racks. Damn. No point in opening a new bottle. Her half-empty one would do just fine. Tumblers were found right where she said. Heavy cut glass. Hell, probably real crystal, knowing her.

  Her bachelorette pad was intimidating. He knew she was badass. He just hadn’t known the degree to which her badassery aspired. The apartment exuded the luxuries of single life. A huge flat-screen. Pristine white couches big enough to get lost in. Enough alcohol on hand to host a raging party if the mood hit. Stereo speakers mounted into the ceiling for what he could only assume was Bluetooth. Why wouldn’t it be?

  The only thing missing? Anything needed to sustain human life. Like food. In her freezer, he found nothing but a pint of salted-caramel gelato and ice cubes. In the fridge below, a half-devoured wheel of brie bemoaned its state of affairs behind salted-caramel coffee creamer. Once again confirming she was a woman who knew what she wanted.

  Her bar was ridiculously well stocked. All the tools heavy and shiny and brand new. He sliced the lime he’d carried in a front pocket. Squirted it over ice, added gin and water, and shook it hard enough to shear off ice chips.

  Phebe joined him just as he was rolling the strawberry fruit leather into long straws that would both stir and infuse the drink he hoped was worthy of at least a little quickie in the kitchen. Maybe more. God, please let it be more.

  “What’s the latest with work?” Brody asked, assuming the reason for her email.

  “I’m in a holding pattern for the next few weeks. Stewart Capital isn’t ready for me yet. Internal HR stuff.” She dismissed it, clearly not wanting to talk about work.

  “Good. That means I get your full attention,” Brody said, slicing the remainder of the lime into garnish wedges. “For my building, of course.”

  Phebe’s face wrinkled, knowing the lime hadn’t come from her kitchen. She leaned against the counter, facing him, a move that gave her time to thoughtfully appraise every inch of him.

  “Of course,” she echoed slyly, and then added, “Listen, I’m sorry about freaking out on you earlier. It’s just…” She paused, obviously searching for words. “I’ve never done this fuck-buddy thing before. I don’t really know the rules. And when you mentioned your dad…”

  “Stop.” Brody placed the drink in her hand and put her out of her misery. “Me and you? We’re just having fun. My dad died two years ago. We weren’t close. It’s not a thing.”

  Her eyes strayed across the room. She nodded nervously, taking a quick sip that obviously surprised her. “Wow. This is really good.” Phebe looked at the drink in her hand. “What’s in it?”

  “It’s your preferred drink, with a splash of childhood. Fruit leather is the acceptable adult version of your beloved fruit rollups.” He swirled the makeshift straw around in her glass. “Give it a few minutes to infuse the drink, and it’ll be even better.”

  “You’re into craft cocktails?” she asked.

  Brody nodded. “I love infusions, making my own mixers, blending new flavors. It lets me be creative. But my regulars at The Guns aren’t very adventurous, so they’re not on the menu.”

  “Not on the menu yet.” She playfully held his gaze as she corrected him. “Your clientele will change once the building establishes its own foot traffic. You’re on to something here.”

  Brody shrugged it off, turning instead to clean up his mess. He wasn’t used to praise.

  “So, what are we going to do while this infuses?” Phebe innocently raised the glass to her lips, clearly enjoying it just fine as it was. Only innocent was the last word that described the lusty undertones in her words. Brody’s heart gave a hard beat that echoed in his gut and made his balls clench.

  “I have ideas…” he said, taking the glass from her hand and pulling her into his arms.

  * * *

  —

  Even the best former Boy Scout could never be fully prepared for fucking a woman like Phebe Stark. Mainly because there weren’t words in the English language capable of describing orgasms so savage—ones that threatened to rip his balls off by sheer force alone when he came.

  But this wasn’t the first time he’d made love to Phebe. Surely, he reasoned, he could handle his shit this time. Third time’s a charm…right?

  He went back to thinking about baseball. Better that than blowing his load in his boxers before his dick even got a chance. And he was almost done recalling the Braves batting lineup when they finally stumbled into her bedroom and fell against the soft down covers on her bed. Kissing, walking backward, fumbling with clothes, navigating uncharted furniture, and recalling baseball stats—that shit should be a gold-medal sport. Especially when your hormones were doing everything they could to distract you.

  In the lull that ensued when he finally finished the lineup and allowed her bed to envelop them, Phebe decided to up the ante—a move that left him totally fucked. Their tangled bodies had barely come to a rest when she put both hands on his chest and pushed him back down onto the bed as he tried to sit up with her.

  “No,” she whispered with a naughty smirk. The lights were on. A ceiling fan casting shadows around the room as it turned. She pressed a button and the room dimmed. And in the newfound shadows, Brody watched…his cock growing even harder…as she teased the old Braves shirt over her head to reveal black lace lingerie. The hell?

  Baseball was beyond useless. No way could a guy concentrate on a damn thing when a sex goddess like Phebe had just bared her considerable goods, wrapped in lace, no less. And so he did nothing to stop his mouth from falling open wide enough to catch flies. No, he let it fall, thinking of what else he so badly wanted to catch between his lips. Something that was coming right at him, obviously wanting to catch him, too.

  Her hair—still damp and smelling like heaven—slapped against his face when she crawled on top of him, straddling his lap, and bringing their mouths together in the kind of kiss that most experienced only vicariously on TV. Kisses weren’t supposed to be that deep, that passionate, that needy—not with a fuck buddy. And it was during that kiss, one that felt like it was solely responsible for his heart’s continued beating, that he began to hope.

  Was this more to Phebe than just casual sex?

  Her kiss said yes. The wet warmth between her legs when his hand ran over her ass and farther down said, hell yes. The fact that the panties didn’t possess a crotch…a goddamn crotch!…said, hell fucking yes. None of these things were the actions of a woman who wanted casual sex. They all smacked of a woman who wanted the best fucking sex of her life, and never wanted it to end.

  And neither did he.

  So he let Phebe take control for a while. He allowed her to pull his T-shirt over his head, run her fingers through his hair and down his beard, kissing and licking him wherever she pleased. He didn’t protest when her kisses strayed farther down, over the rippling muscles of his stomach, seemingly tracing the swirls of each tattoo inked there. He lay as still as he could while she made quick work of his belt, his boots, his pants, his boxers.

  He allowed himself to be bared to the world in all his glory—and thoroughly covered in her kisses, each one growing deeper than the one before. And when she settled into the area between his legs, pushing them wide and taking his balls in her mouth, he just lay even farther back and crossed his arms behind his head. Because, damn, she was good at this. So good, he finally had to stop her.

  Raising up onto his elbows, he looked down at what she was doing, and holy hell, the sight of his balls in her mouth had him thinking about forever. If there w
as a sight more deserving of his utter devotion, he’d never seen it.

  “I could watch you do that all day,” he uttered, his words clipped by the testosterone building in his sac. “But I’d rather do this.” He smiled wickedly, lifting her to her feet as he sat up and buried his lips in the rounded curve of her abdomen. She moaned against the sensation when his fingers traveled around her ass and between the cheeks, but allowed her legs to be parted. Wasn’t that what they both wanted, after all?

  She was petite, a tiny little thing, not very tall at all, which would require a certain finesse for going down on her while standing up. But he was desperate to taste her. Every delicious inch. And so without a second thought, he slid off the bed, sank to his knees and into her. His tongue traced around the delicate lace edge of her crotchless panties…goddamn crotchless!…before he lost his will to resist. Diving deeply into her with his tongue, he flicked his nose over her clit and felt her shiver against the blow.

  She inhaled deeply, bucking against his mouth, only to be held in place by the hand he had splayed over her ass for leverage. No way was she going anywhere. Not that she wanted to. He’d never felt a lover so wet, so ready as he was to get down to the real business of fucking.

  His hands slid over her ass again, leaving the panties right where they were, and circled around until they got a good strong grip on her thighs. In a single move, he stood, lifted her, and moved them both back to the bed. Carefully, he parted her and settled her over his lap. He wasn’t ready to go in just yet. Nope. Not while he had to focus on other things, like sucking the nipple that had just dared to graze his cheek. And suck he did, gentle and teasing at first, finishing with a hard pull and gentle nip. Phebe practically levitated. But that wasn’t at all the direction he wanted her to move in.

  Securing her knees on either side of him, he took the nape of her neck with one hand and tilted her head down so their eyes met. Holding her there with an intense glare, he guided her hips lower until the center of her met the tip of him. She started to close her eyes. He made a tsk-tsk sound and she immediately opened them.