The Sexpert

by JA Huss

  “I was gonna ask if you’d like to go check out the new baloney sandwich lunch truck.”

  “Who the hell eats baloney sandwiches? I feel like this is a cartoon joke. Like Bugs Bunny talking about liverwurst.”

  “Liverwurst is delicious,” Myrtle purrs.

  “I don’t even know what liverwurst is, Myrtle. And nothing with liver in the word is delicious. I’m gonna pass on the BS.” She likes that. Because she grins. “But I’ll take a rain check and we’ll have lunch tomorrow if you want.”

  I’m crossing my fingers that she doesn’t ask to come look at my apartment. Not that I don’t want to show it off, I do. And I need to have a little party soon for that. But today I’m all kinds of flustered and I just want a moment alone to try to make sense of all the new things happening in my life.

  “Oh,” she says. “I’ll ride down with you.” And then the elevator doors open and by some fortuitous miracle, there’s no one else on board when we get in. She flashes her employee badge at the card reader near the floor buttons and presses one. “What’s that?” I ask.

  “It’s an override so the elevator goes straight down. Pierce gave it to me for Administrative Professionals Day last year.”

  “Huh,” I say, momentarily confused. Because it’s weird how you don’t know things and you never knew you didn’t know them. Like this perk she has. It’s a tiny secret superpower people never knew existed.

  “If you ever want to have elevator sex, it can stop the car without the alarm and turn the cameras off for three minutes.”

  “What?”

  She does that sly grin that makes men stop in their tracks. “You heard me. I don’t know why Pierce has that programmed in, but he does. And he told me about it.” Which makes her pause and squint her eyes.

  “Do you… fuck in the elevator?” I ask her. And then I kinda get lost in that visual. Tall, thin, serious Myrtle being pushed back against the wall by someone like tall, broad-shouldered Pierce, probably. His hand would slip up her leg and find its way under her skirt, lifting it up a little to reveal thigh-high stockings. And not the elastic kind, either. The kind with garters. And then—

  “A girl doesn’t talk,” Myrtle says. “Now back to you. Why is your shirt missing all the buttons?” She raises an eyebrow at me. A serious one too. One that says she expects an answer. And I don’t know what it is about Myrtle that makes you want to do as she tells you, but she does have that power.

  My cheeks go hot. And then I start laughing. “I bumped into him in the stairs this morning and we did this push-past-each-other dance, and I almost fell backwards, and then he tried to save me by popping off all my buttons and grabbing my ponytail, and then we kissed.”

  I don’t think I’ve ever seen Myrtle smile so big. And then she practically chuckles. “I’m going to need all these details.”

  But the trip down to the lobby is surprisingly quick when you don’t have to stop and let people on and off.

  “Later,” I say, stepping out into a waiting crowd of people. “I gotta go! Enjoy your BS sandwich!”

  It’s raining when I step outside. But not too bad, and my building is only a couple blocks away. So I walk fast and don’t run because it’s hot today and the rain is more like one of those water-mister thingies they have on non-stop in the summer at the Las Vegas hotel pools.

  I can see my building—I’m like two minutes away—when the sky opens up, washes away my gentle, refreshing mist and replaces it with spectacular sheets of falling rain. I’m talking torrential downpour.

  So now I have to run because I’m getting soaked. I make a mad dash for the lobby door, and since this place is fancy, there’s a doorman rushing towards me holding an umbrella, which slides over my head the exact moment that the rain stops.

  “Figures,” I mumble. “But thank you. That was a valiant attempt!”

  There’s people waiting at the elevator, and I’m soaked, so I take the stairs up to the second floor, more eager than ever to get out of these wet clothes.

  All my best-laid plans come to a screeching halt when I exit the stairwell to find… yes, you guessed it. Andrew, waiting by the elevator.

  He spins around when he hears the door open, blinks twice as he checks out my condition, and then loses the battle trying not to stare at my tits, because I look like I’m in a wet t-shirt contest.

  “Wow,” he says, forcing himself to look me in the eyes. “What happened?” And then he puts a hand over his mouth to try to hide his laugh.

  “I got stuck in a downpour. What are you doing here?”

  “I was checking out the pool.”

  “Why?” I ask him. “It’s not like you’ll ever need to use it. You have a private one upstairs.”

  “I want to check out the gym too,” he counters.

  “Are you spying on me?”

  “What?” Andrew chuckles.

  I don’t know why I say it. I’m taken aback at his appearance here. Plus I’m still kinda ruffled about the kiss in the stairwell, not to mention the fact that Pierce has him looking for me—even though he doesn’t know he’s looking for me, he is. And it’s actually weird. Like why is he on my floor?

  “Why would I be spying on you?”

  “Never mind,” I say, pushing past him. “I just came home to change my shirt, so I’ll see ya later.”

  But as I push past him he blocks me. Which makes me want to back up. In fact, I do back up. Until I run out of backing-up space because I bump into the stairwell door.

  “Why are you so nervous?”

  He’s so close now I have to tilt my chin up to look at him. I’m breathing heavy from the run and my sprint up the stairs. And I’m wet. Like very wet.

  He places one hand on the wall next to my head, half blocking me in.

  “Ummm…” I duck under and start down the hallway. “I gotta go,” I say.

  Because I am very nervous for all those reasons already discussed. But I don’t feel like talking about the kiss in the stairwell and I’m very much not going to tell him about me being his target, so my only option is to power-walk down my hallway, key card in hand, ready to flash it at my door and get the hell away from him until I can pull all these weird coincidences together into some kind of coherent sense.

  I fight the urge to look over my shoulder to see if he’s following, but I can hear soft footsteps on the carpet behind me, so I know he is.

  I flash my card at my door and then turn the handle.

  But it doesn’t unlock and let me in.

  I flash the card again and this time I watch the red light on the door flash until…

  “No,” I say, swiping the card a third time. But no luck. “My damn key won’t work!”

  And then I lose the battle, because I do look over my shoulder at him. He’s standing just a couple feet behind me, grinning like the cutest boy in high school. I bite my lip because he’s oh-my-God handsome.

  That was a mistake. Looking at him, I mean. Because all I see is the kiss back in the stairwell. And all I’m thinking about is doing that again.

  Pull yourself together, Eden!

  And somehow I do. I slide right past him and head for the stairwell.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m gonna go get this key fixed so I can change. I’m soaked.” As I’m sure he’s noticed.

  He follows me into the stairs and then out onto the lobby floor. And by the time we’re heading towards the leasing office, we’re walking together. Like a couple or something.

  But then I notice the leasing office door is closed. “What the fuck?” I mutter under my breath as I try to turn the handle and find it locked.

  “Look,” Andrew says. He’s pointing to a sign off to the side of the door that says, Be back in thirty minutes.

  “Thirty minutes?” It’s like the universe is conspiring against me. “I can’t just sit around in wet clothes for thirty minutes!”

  “I have an idea,” Andrew says.

  “What?” I say, turning to face
him. Which is a mistake. Big mistake. He’s way too handsome to look at right now. Not with the memory of that kiss still making my body hot and tingly.

  “You can come up to my place and borrow one of my shirts.”

  “I need more than a shirt,” I say. Then regret that too. Because now he’s probably picturing me taking my pants off.

  Which I have to admit is what I’m picturing. Only… he’s taking them off me.

  “Well?” he asks, leaning against the locked door of the leasing office.

  I should say no. That is the responsible thing to do here. Just nip this little tryst in the bud because if I go up there and start taking off my clothes…

  “Come on,” Andrew says, taking my hand. “You need to change. And I want to help you. Come on.”

  I let him lead me because… because… well, I don’t know what else to do. I have no good options. And today is a little overwhelming. In fact this whole week is overwhelming. A lot of things have happened in the past two days. More than enough to ruffle me.

  And I’m actually cold now. The AC is on high in the building and I’m soaking wet, and my teeth are beginning to chatter, and then Andrew pulls me into the elevator—thankfully, it’s empty except for us—and then we’re ascending up to the penthouse.

  When the doors open we get out and he’s got his key card ready. Flashing it at the little panel. And of course, his key works. It flashes green, and then he’s got the massive double doors open and he’s waving me in.

  “Come in,” he says. “My bedroom’s this way.”

  And he’s got a hold of my hand again, so I follow and don’t even put up a fight. I’m shaking now. Mostly because of the wet and the cold, but also because I’m super nervous. Like… I’m alone in this guy’s apartment and there’s this magical sexual chemistry between us. And we’ve kissed twice now and so this trip to his apartment is like the third date. And the third date is when you’re supposed to, you know, fuck the guy. And then I’m thinking about that. Kinda dreaming about it as he leads me into his bedroom and straight past the bed until we’re inside his closet. Which is all neat, and unpacked, and… “Holy shit,” I say, taking in the room. Because it’s almost as big as my entire apartment down on two. There’s lots of custom built-in shelves, and drawers, and… yeah. “You have a delicious closet.”

  Which makes him chuckle.

  And stare at me.

  Like he’s gonna lick all the frosting off my cupcakes.

  “What should we do?” Andrew asks. “Hmm? Get you out of those wet clothes and put you into something dry?”

  “What’s my other option?” I whisper back, unable to take my eyes off his.

  He shrugs, grips my hip with his other hand, and says, “Get you out of those wet clothes and not put any back on?” His eyebrows shoot up and do a little wiggle. Which makes me smile and let out the breath I was holding.

  “Will you eat me like dessert?” I say. “Swirl your tongue around in my frosting and hit my cherry button?”

  He laughs. “What?”

  “Oh, my God! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to say that. I was working on an article for the magazine earlier and that just popped into my head! I’m so—”

  But the rest of my words get cut off. Because his mouth covers mine in a kiss.

  I kiss him back. We’re just gonna jump right in, I guess. And I’m glad. No awkward small talk for us. His hands are on my cheeks, holding my face close to his as we tangle our tongues together. His mouth demanding and hard, but only in all the best ways.

  My mouth is soft and pliant. Willing to give in and let him lead.

  And then his hands are on my button-down shirt. Pulling it over my shoulders and down my arms. Peeling it off until he gets it free and tosses it across the room.

  I stop kissing him. Look up into his half-mast eyes as he stares down at me.

  And then he says, “Fuck, yes. I am more than happy to lick your frosting.”

  He pulls my wet t-shirt down, my bra going with it, so my tits bounce up and out as he sets them free.

  I feel ridiculous. And I want to say, Hold up a second. Let me take my shirt off so we can do this right.

  But I’ve done enough Sexpert research to know that contorting clothing—especially bras—to make a girl’s tits pop up like this is considered HAF.

  Hot. As. Fuck.

  So I let it ride. In fact, I do something I would never have dreamed of last year. I flaunt it. I grab his hands and place them on my breasts. He squeezes automatically. And I say, “My cupcakes are waiting.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN - ANDREW

  The erection I had back in my office was nothing compared to what I’m rocking now. Holy shit. It’s not like I’ve never felt breasts before. And it’s not like I’ve never felt nice breasts before. But these... these are something else. Other. They’re like the Sistine Chapel of tits. Michelangelo’s The Creation of Adam if instead of creating Adam to be placed in Eden, God had created these breasts to be placed on Eden.

  “How does this happen?” I whisper out, involuntarily, as I squeeze her wet, tender skin.

  She swallows and whispers back, “How does what happen?”

  I didn’t realize I said it aloud. And it’s kind of embarrassing. So I opt for obfuscation. In this case, the distraction comes in the form of my mouth on the delicate flesh around her nipple.

  She moans, and her hands grab for the sides of my head, taking me by the ears and holding me there. And I’ll be goddamned if she doesn’t, in fact, taste like a cupcake. Not the sticky sweetness that comes from the adornment of the frosting, but the buttery richness that’s baked in and radiates from every delicious morsel. And, like a cupcake, there’s something delicate and playful about her. She is decadent and sinful, but at the same time she is joyful and giddy.

  Her breasts have, if such a thing is possible, personality.

  Wait. I feel like—

  A clap of thunder outside causes her to jolt.

  I laugh a small breath of air out of my nostrils as my lips draw back from her body. She is wet, and shy, and anxious-looking, for which I cannot blame her. Thirty-seven hours ago, we didn’t know each other. We still don’t know each other, but it looks like we’re about to discover a lot in the next couple of minutes.

  “You OK?”

  “Uh-huh.” She nods her head. “That’s incredible.”

  For a second I think she’s talking about the feeling of my mouth on her, but then I notice that she’s staring just past my shoulder at the white sheets of rain teeming down outside my windows, the mountains in the background, out beyond the concrete and steel of the TDH. She’s correct. It’s something to see. Some sort of messy Ansel Adams photograph in real life. In real time.

  “Come here,” I say, and draw her topless and shivering body over to the windows. I pull the handle and they open and fold in on themselves just like they did yesterday when Eden and I saw my place together for the first time. The rain splatters against the terrace and ricochets up and into the apartment.

  “What are you doing?” she asks.

  “I wanna show you something.”

  “What?”

  “That.” I point.

  “What? The rain?”

  “No. That”—I point again—“is Pikes Peak. Did you know that?”

  “What are you—?”

  “And I don’t know if you knew this or not, but while many people think that Pikes Peak is the tallest peak in Colorado, it’s not. Common misconception.”

  She rolls her eyes.

  “Don’t roll your eyes at me! It’s not! Hell, it’s not even the second tallest. It’s like... the twentieth! The tallest is Mount Elmo.”

  “Elbert,” she corrects.

  “My God, you know everything,” I say, and pull her toward me, hard. We stumble out onto the terrace, the rain pounding our bodies. Perhaps it’s the rain, the force of the natural world painting us with its brush, but I’m overcome with the same feeling of blood rushing through my veins that
I get when I’m climbing or making art. The sensation of life happening in a very conscious way. It’s my favorite feeling in the world, and I haven’t felt it enough lately.

  I rip my shirt off and fall to my knees, pulling down her t-shirt that’s bunched around her waist, and dragging her pants partially down her hips as well. She starts a bit, and I lean back to look up at her. The rain is hammering, and I blink the water out of my eyes. Her hair is stuck to her shoulders and the sides of her face. The slick wetness on her chest along with the competing elements of the sticky humidity outside and cool air from the air conditioning blasting out from within is making her nipples hard.

  Or maybe that’s not why they’re hard at all.

  “Still good?”

  She nods.

  My mouth lands on her stomach, kissing and licking, as I grab her exposed ass—her pants just below the edge of her ass cheeks in the back and hanging on to barely cover her pussy in the front—and I gulp in rainwater as I tickle and kiss in the space below her belly button, causing her to tense up. Down on my knees, the rain battering my shoulders, it feels like the pressure in my jeans is going to make my balls explode, so I spring to my feet with a force like I’m leaping to grab a crag in a wall on a pitch, and I strip myself bare, tossing my own pants over the edge of the railing by accident.

  “Oh, shit,” I say as we both grab the rail and lean over to watch my jeans and underwear go cascading to the ground below along with the rain. They land on top of someone scurrying by to get into the building. Someone who I’m pretty sure is Cheryl, the leasing agent. It looks like she may have gotten caught unaware by the sudden storm. She’s holding a newspaper over her head. When my pants hit her, she looks up with a “what-the-fuck-was-that?” expression. Eden and I duck our heads back, quickly. Laughing.

  And then the laughter subsides. She gulps in wet breaths. Breaths flecked with rainwater. She looks down at my erection and she shivers again. Then she shimmies her clothes the rest of the way down her legs and stands in front of me, perfect and wet.