Man Hands

by Sarina Bowen

  “Wait,” he rasps. Then he puts his forearms on the bed (those forearms! I watched them hold a power drill!) He grabs a length of ribbon and gives a twist until we’re bound, arm to arm. Tied together. I’m completely at his mercy.

  And holy shit. Can this man use his tools or what?

  Then he begins to thrust as we’re literally tied to one another, and it’s… There aren’t words for this.

  His body is ungodly. Or maybe godly. Maybe just plain holy. Like holy hell. His chest muscles flex with each push. He moans a bit and bites his bottom lip and I can’t help but push back against him. The bed bounces beneath me with the power of his big body thrusting against mine.

  And that’s all she wrote. Everything goes golden, and I shudder. Then he groans and I can feel him pulse inside me. The sound he makes brings out something primal in me. For a brief second, I can imagine my life like this beyond the space-aged hotel room. At home in my house. His house. The various patios and porches…

  But then I force myself to stop. I’m not thinking long term with Tom. I can’t. I need to be in the now. This, after all, is just fucking.

  “Holy shit,” he says.

  He’s still inside me, softening a bit, but I love this quiet moment of still being joined.

  “I agree,” I say.

  And then after another moment, he pulls out, and collapses next to me. We’re both breathing hard and full of endorphins. No wonder people take drugs. I know exactly the high they’re chasing.

  It’s all good until we realize we’re still tied up in the ribbons.

  Let me be clearer. Tom is such a fucking master with knots, that he’s somehow tangled us together and we are, for lack of a better term, completely stuck.

  “Fuck,” he says.

  I yank on my arm and his big hand moves, as if he’s waving at me. He’s my marionette. And I’m his.

  There are two ways I could go here. I could freak the fuck out, or I could make his hand wave at me and dissolve into laughter.

  Let me tell you, dissolving is even better than being untied.

  Tom

  It takes us a while to figure how to get untangled, and it’s more than a little awkward. Somehow we manage, and I take her into the shower and rub my hands all over her.

  It takes a while.

  Eventually we’re free. And hungry. All that nakedness has our appetites worked up.

  Our? Fuck. I’m starting to talk like we’re really a couple. Like a permanent couple.

  That’s not cool.

  Still. “Can’t we just stay here forever?” I ask her as she’s getting ready for dinner. She’s got the bathroom door open, and I get a glimpse of a naked leg slipping into something, an arm being draped.

  I’m joking about staying here forever, but not really. I’d be just as happy ordering in and feasting off her for the rest of the night. Hell, the rest of the year. Brynn or Svenka, or whoever she wants to be, turns me into a teenager with a constant erection and an inability to keep my paws off her.

  I think I deserve a little of the credit here, my dick says.

  “We could stay here forever,” she says as she leans towards the bathroom mirror and smooths some lipstick over her plump mouth. I want to lick her. “But if we were here forever then that couch would definitely have to go.” She air-kisses her reflection, and I just stand there watching her with a big old smile on my face.

  Chandra never let me see her put on makeup. She never let me see her without makeup, either. She was always perfect in a way that was a little unsettling. And, as sexy as it is undressing someone, watching Brynn get dressed is actually equally exciting, maybe even a little more, because I know later tonight I’m going to be taking it all off again. Slowly. Piece by piece.

  “What are you hungry for?” I ask. “Publicist Becky made us five different reservations. There’s a list on my phone. You can choose…” I find the email and rattle off five different restaurant names.

  “Yes,” she says.

  “Yes?”

  “I want all the food. Just…all of it. You’d better choose. I have analysis paralysis. Choose anything you want as long as it will look pretty in a picture. I need shots for my blog.”

  Her blog. I’d forgotten about that. “So the gourmet porridge place is out?”

  Brynn’s pretty face appears in the doorway. “The…what?”

  “Kidding! Gullible much?”

  She sticks out her tongue and disappears into the bathroom again.

  Laughing, I scroll through the list of restaurants again. If she were Chandra, she wouldn’t actually eat the food, she’d just want it to look perfect. But Brynn…this is a woman with an appetite to match mine.

  So I know just the place.

  31 Poppin’ Some Balls

  Brynn

  The restaurant Tom chose is amazing. Although I’m distracted by the waiter’s silky black shirt. It’s unbuttoned halfway to his navel. That seems to be the style at this restaurant. My sexual appetite has clearly spun into overdrive, because all that coppery skin makes it challenging to focus on the man’s words. But I buckle down and concentrate, because he’s explaining something important.

  “…you flip the coaster to the green side when you’re ready to be served. And don’t flip it back to the red side until you can’t eat another thing.”

  I have to swallow because my mouth is already watering from the scent of Brazilian barbecue in the air. “What’s your favorite meat?” I ask, and then stifle a giggle. Because it’s clear that the waiters serving the beefsteak are all beefcake.

  “Well, the sirloin rocks,” our young, unbuttoned waiter assures us. “But you also don’t want to miss the pork tenderloin. It’s marinated in lime, garlic, and soy sauce. So save room for that.”

  “Good tip,” I say, getting hungrier by the second.

  “I’ll get those caipirinhas right out to you. In the meantime, help yourself to the appetizer bar.” He points to a ridiculously long buffet in the middle of the room. “And enjoy!”

  Tom lets out a happy sigh. “You heard the man. Let’s do this.”

  I follow him toward the appetizers, and he hands me a plate. “Brynn—this is very important — these right here are the key to life.” He uses tongs to transfer four little golden balls to my plate.

  “I love balls,” I say, and I draw out the word balls. Because I am a teenager.

  We load up our plates, then gallop back to the table, where I try the little ball-shaped fritters right away. “Oh. My. God.” I’m having a cheese orgasm. A cheesegasm. “What was that?”

  “I know, right? They call it a pão de queijo.”

  I eat another one immediately. Each one is a savory puff of pastry, filled with salty cheese. “Where have these been all my life? I’m going to make some when we get home.” I just have to. It’s hard to take a minute and snap some pictures for reference, but I force myself to, because I feel like I’ve stumbled onto a eureka moment here. Baaaaallllllls.

  “My kitchen is available,” Tom says with a wink. “I’ll be your taste tester.”

  I give him a big smile, and it takes me a long beat to remember that cooking to please men isn’t something I want to do anymore. But Tom makes it easy to forget. He looks at me with hungry eyes—but not for food.

  That would probably change if we were a real couple. He’d get sick of me just like Steve did. When he looked at me a year from now, he’d only see the dinner plate in my hands.

  Nope. Not going there again. I am a new woman, or at least a slightly improved, more focused woman.

  We mow down our appetizers in companionable silence. It’s comfortable, this quiet. Not like when you’re on a first date and you feel like you’re about to be prepped for a pap smear. This is the kind of quiet where there’s no spike and anxiety and the only clenching of thighs is because I’m excited, not panicked. Then Tom taps my red coaster. “Ready?”

  “Bring it on.”

  He smiles at me and then flips the coaster to the gr
een side. Ten seconds later two glorious things happen: our unbuttoned waiter sets two minty, frothy drinks on the table. And another half-clad waiter pauses beside me, hoisting a two-foot metal barbecue spit over my plate. I swear to god there’s a fan pointed at him because his hair is blowing like he’s an old-school romance cover model. It makes me want to spritz him. With something. Lost my focus. Oh! Food. There are several pounds of luscious, browned pork impaled on the metal spike. “Ham?” the young man asks.

  “Don’t mind if we do!” Tom says.

  The man uses a scary-looking knife to shave a healthy slice of meat off the spit, then deftly angles it to fall right on my plate. Then he does the same for Tom.

  “Wow.” I cut off a corner of the meat and tuck it into my mouth. “This is amazing. Let’s just move in here and call it good.”

  “You are seriously fun,” Tom says, popping another cheese ball into his mouth. “My ex would only eat protein shakes and kale juice.”

  “Sounds like a party.” Then I grimace, and it’s only partly because of kale juice. Do not ask about his ex, I coach myself. You do not want to know. Tonight is not for reality. Tonight is for dining on Brazilian barbecue in a big restaurant full of half-dressed waiters who parade ten different kinds of meat around the room.

  Tonight is pretty damn good.

  “Does my favorite foodie want a glass of red wine to go with her dinner?” Tom asks. “Or should we stick with the caipirinhas?”

  “That is a seriously tough choice.” I give it some thought. “Let’s stick with the caipirinhas, because we can have red wine anytime.” Although—hang on—the taste of my drink makes me wonder if my blog should branch out to exotic cocktails too. But the ingredients might be a challenge. “They must buy mint by the bushel here.”

  Tom shrugs. “Mint is the easiest thing in the world to grow—it’ll take over the garden if you let it. So will oregano. That whole family of herbs are bullies in the garden. You can’t kill ’em even if you try.”

  “Really?” I want that—wonderful herbs outside my back door. “I think I need an herb garden, then. I want to waltz right outside and pluck mint and oregano for my recipes. And sprigs of herbs would look great in my blog photographs.”

  “You know what’s funny?” Tom asks, waving down a waiter who’s carrying a giant skewer of steak. “You and I are in the same line of work almost. I make houses pretty, and you make pretty food.”

  I snort. “The difference is that you’re successful at it.”

  “We’ll see.” His face darkens.

  “Wait. Didn’t it go well today?” Now I feel like a heel for not asking sooner. I’d leapt on him the second he came home. There had been no time to ask.

  Tom fiddles with his fork. “The network is being difficult about…”

  “Our video?”

  “Yeah. They’re waiting to see how their conservative viewers will react, which pisses me off. Like—just decide for yourself, you cowards. If they fired me, I could get mad and move on. But now I’m in the awkward place of trying to prove that I’m worthy.” He rolls his eyes. “I hate it.”

  “Oh, honey!” I cover his hand with mine. “I’m so sorry. Those turds. They’d be crazy to fire you. I mean, I’m no expert, but you have a really fine way of holding your, ehm, hammer.”

  He gives me a soft smile. “That is very nice of you to say, especially since you’d never heard of my show until we met.”

  Whoops. I was not about to confess that I’d gotten all turned on binge-watching it today. “I’m a very loyal fake fiancé.”

  “You are.” His smile warms, and he strokes my hand with his big Man Thumb. And that Man Thumb makes me all quivery. Throbby. That’s not a pretty word, but by god, it’s the truth.

  From my handbag comes a ring tone loud enough to be heard over the crowded restaurant. Classy. I grab the phone and silence it.

  “Anything important?” Tom asks.

  “That’s just my mother calling.” I roll my eyes. “Definitely not a good reason to interrupt this feast we’re having.”

  “Shit.” Tom sits back in his chair. “Is your mother having a hard time with…”

  “Her daughter’s porn career?” I shrug. “Honestly, I think she can’t decide whether she’s embarrassed, or whether she’s enjoying the extra attention the other retirees are giving her.”

  My mother had chewed me out for showing the world my sex face. But in her next breath she’d admitted that she’d been invited to four extra bridge parties and that every speck of her tuna casserole had been eaten at the Sunday potluck.

  She stopped short of thanking me, though.

  I grab my phone out of my bag and show him the text.

  Mom: I’ve been thinking since seeing that video, you might want to try a body buff to take care of dead skin. These things matter more as you get older.

  “See?” I say. “Clearly not a big deal. She’s not too traumatized to remind me that I’m getting older. Let’s just hope the universities feel the same way. That they’re more concerned about exfoliation than the morality of their potential writing professor.”

  Tom puts a big hand over his face. “I’m so sorry. The job thing is bad enough, but it never occurred to me that I’d embarrassed you to your family.”

  It hits me that he’s said something a little odd. “Don’t you have a family to embarrass?”

  “Nope.” He stabs his fork into the barbecued beef that’s just landed on our plates.

  This is puzzling. “Everybody has some family, right?”

  “Not everybody.” His face shuts down, and it’s obvious that he doesn’t want to talk about it.

  I don’t even know why I push. “Are you estranged? Or are they gone?”

  “Gone,” he murmurs, and doesn’t look me in the eye.

  “Oh.” I’m stunned. There’s something so warm and easygoing about Tom, and I would have bet cash money that he’d grown up in a big, loud family. I don’t know what to say. So I cover one of his hands with my free one.

  My other hand is busy shoveling food into my mouth. The marinated pork tenderloin shows up, and it’s amazing. As are the grilled prawns. And the grilled salmon. And more steak. We eat until I’m sure were going to burst. I don’t press on the family thing. I can tell it’s a sensitive spot, and I’m not sure we’re ready yet for those tender places.

  An hour later we stumble out onto the sidewalk. My wrap dress is tight. So naturally someone shoves a camera in our faces. The flash blinds me.

  “Hey! It’s Mr. Fixit Quick! Can I have a selfie?”

  “Um, sure,” he says. “But just quick, because my fiancée is waiting for me.”

  There’s a shrill, female squeal. And when my eyes start working again, I spot two tourists posing with Tom, who looks annoyed even through his I’m-posing-for-a-photo smile.

  “When’s the wedding?” the woman asks.

  Tom’s gaze meets mine, and we realize at once that we haven’t worked out that part of our story yet.

  “It’s top secret!” I say quickly. “We don’t want wedding crashers. But we’re going with an exotic cocktails theme,” I babble. “Mai tais and caipirinhas. Drinks with lime! And, uh, citrus-colored bridesmaids dresses.”

  “I thought you said seafoam,” Tom argues. Then he winks at me.

  “Honey,” I protest, one hand on my hip. “Seafoam is so 2012. That’s why I picked lime and tangelo.”

  “Oh, right. Tangelo.” His eyes crinkle in the corners, and I can’t wait to get him into bed again.

  32 A Kiss. A Squeeze. A Burp.

  Brynn

  The very next day there’s a story on BuzzPop proclaiming citrus colors—including tangelo—as the new big thing in bridal wear.

  Also, Tom surprises me with tickets to Hamilton. I think I pee myself a little with excitement. “How did you DO that?” I squeal, clinging to him.

  “I made a call, and my agent scared up a couple seats to the matinee. And the show is a couple years old now. Not quite as h
ot as the color tangelo.”

  We giggle all the way there, and then we both pretend not to cry at the sad ending.

  It’s the perfect trip. Perfect. But then it’s over, and I find myself blinking up at the sign for LaGuardia airport and wondering how my trip—and my escape from real life—could reach such a sudden end. As I take my seat in first class on the jet, it hits me that I haven’t planned beyond this point.

  The stewardess asks for Tom’s autograph and coos over my fake-engagement ring—the one that I’ve gotten used to seeing on my hand. “When’s the wedding?” she asks.

  “Top secret,” we both reply. But it isn’t as funny today for some reason.

  It’s not even three hours later when he drops me off at home. “Your bag is heavy, I can…” He starts to get out of the truck.

  “I’ve got it! I need the exercise!” I don’t want him to come inside with me, because I’ve just spent a lot of quality time pretending that he’s mine. And it’s begun to confuse me.

  But he catches my hand in his before I can leap out of the truck. “Hey.” His voice is low and growly, and I shiver, because I now know exactly how that voice sounds against my ear while he’s inside me. “I have to kiss my fiancée goodbye.”

  Oh. “Someone might be watching.”

  Slowly, he nods. But his eyes are on mine, and I’m not sure either one of us really believes that other people exist. Not right this moment. He leans in, and his lips are softer and gentler than they’ve been before. I sigh into his kiss, and his Man Hands run down my back one last time.

  Wow.

  “That looks wobbly,” he says, and I assume he’s talking about my knees after that kiss.

  “I’ll pull myself together.” Then I notice he’s pointing at the railing on my little porch stoop. “Oh, it’s been like that since I moved in. I’m careful.”

  “Hmm. That’s going to bug me. It’s not safe.” He chews his lip. “You know, your fiancé wouldn’t just let that go. He’d probably fix that crack in your kitchen floor too.”