by Penny Wylder
The first thing I do when I wake up in the morning is go to the book store. As I’m weaving through the aisles I pass a book about the history of tattoos and think of Max. It’s a really cool book, the words embossed with gold leaf on the cover jacket. It’s full of images of tattoos around the world from traditional American to Japanese bodysuits to Polynesian. Yesterday had been such a frenzy with him that I hadn’t taken the time to really look at his ink. His arms, legs, chest and back were covered in tattoos. There was little left in the way of blank skin. I found those bits of skin just as intriguing as what was covered in ink. I want to explore it all.
I put the book back on the shelf. It’s not like I’m going to see him again, so my little fantasy of exploring his body is just that; a fantasy. I go over to the fiction. There are so many books I want to read. I’m tempted to buy a stack of them, but if it’s taken me this long to read just the one, I doubt I’ll find the time to read an entire pile of them. I buy the last copy of Pride and Prejudice on the shelf and head for the park down the street.
It’s a nice day to sit outside and read. The sun is out, but it’s not too hot. The breeze riles my hair and the edges of the pages of the book flip up. Nearby is a guy throwing a frisbee. His dog is running around off-leash, chasing it. At the far end of the park is a kiddy area that’s fenced off, far enough away as to not be distracting with the sounds of screaming and laughter. Except I am distracted. A blended coffee sounds great right about now. And my apartment is a mess; I should be cleaning it instead of reading. There’s guilt that comes along with doing something for myself, something so frivolous to bring me pleasure.
When I think about pleasure, I think about Max, and my mind wanders again. This time back to his loft. I wish I could get him out of my mind. It was just sex. But it was really good sex. It’s been a long time since I’ve had my mind blown like that. I want to ask for more, but how would I do that without looking desperate?
As I watch the dog chasing after his toy, I feel the wind shift behind me. More like a gut feeling than a physical one. Then a voice: “I guarantee what’s happening between those pages is far more interesting than what’s happening in that field right now.”
My heart jolts awake and I scramble to keep from dropping the book. Despite only spending less than an hour with him, I know that voice.
“Sorry,” Max says, coming around the bench to sit next to me. His scent is carried on the breeze, engulfing me, as soft and delectable as a cashmere scarf. I don’t know what the scent is, but I remember it from the pillow on the couch. I want to bathe in it. Capture it in a jar and take it everywhere with me, opening it when I need a fix. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
He’s dressed simply, in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, but he makes simple look so damn good. He could walk right into the pages of a magazine and women would buy whatever he’s selling for their man. No man will ever look that good in those clothes, though.
I try not to show my surprise and elation when seeing him again, and try to replace the smile on my face with something casually indifferent. “You’ve read it?” I ask.
“Of course I have. Austen is one of the greats.”
Again, I try to keep the surprise from my face. “It’s a love story …”
He looks at me with an eyebrow quirked. “And?” he says.
“I didn’t peg you as a romantic,” I admit.
“Way to put me in a box, Fiona.” I like the way he says my name, making sure every syllable is its own island, making it sound distinct and more important. “And here I was about to apologize for being such a dick when we first met,” he says.
“Oh really?”
He leans back, arms resting on the back of the bench. The tips of his fingers touch my shoulder. He nods.
“Apology accepted,” I say.
“Oh, I didn’t apologize. I said I was going to, but you blew it,” he says.
Laughter bubbles in the back of my throat, but barely makes a sound. “You’re taking it away from me?”
He looks at me with a dead-eyed serious expression. “Maybe if you’re nice I’ll give it back to you.”
“You’re going to make me earn your apology?”
“Nothing in life is free.”
This time my laughter is full-bodied and belly-shaking. His stony face cracks into a smile. “You’re such an ass,” I say. “But I’m sure that’s no secret to you.”
He shrugs. “It’s a bit unoriginal, but okay.”
I shake my head and continue to watch the Labrador play fetch with its owner. Instead of bringing the toy back, he runs away and his owner chases after him. But it’s really hard to focus on a man and his dog when Max is sitting so close to me. The tips of his fingers still touch my shoulder. I wonder if he’s as aware of them as I am. It feels like hot pokers touching me. Not painful by any means, but impossible to ignore.
“So, what did the next envelope say?” he asks.
“That’s actually why I’m here,” I say and turn to watch his face. “I have to sleep with ten guys in this park before I can move onto the next envelope.”
His mouth literally falls open and his entire body turns rigid and it’s so hard for me to maintain a straight face. Eventually his smile cracks open.
“You’re a terrible liar,” he says.
“What gave me away?”
“Your face.”
“What about it?”
“Everything.”
I frown. Kia always told me I had a terrible poker face. I guess she was right.
Pulling the envelope out of my purse, I hand it to him. He reads it and looks down at the book in my hand. “The girl had good taste,” he says.
“But the weird thing is, I’m pretty sure she already read the book,” I say when he hands the envelope back. “She was always talking about how romantic Jane Austen’s books were—which is why I’ve always wanted to read Pride and Prejudice. Why would that be on her bucket list if she’s already read it?”
He shrugs. “Maybe she wanted to read it one last time.”
I look up at the clouds. They form a shape of a heart. Fitting for this conversation. “Maybe.”
“So, if you’re supposed to be reading it,” he says, taking the book from my hand and finding my bookmark. “Then why are you still on page one?”
“I keep getting distracted.”
“Then why don’t you come back to my place. I’ll read it to you in bed.”
When I look at him, I can’t help the smile spreading over my face even though I try not to be so obvious. I think about the way his hands and lips felt on my body, and I get cold chills that harden my nipples, obvious beneath my silky shirt despite my bra. His eyes flicker to them and he shows me an appreciative smile which instantly makes me wet. I squirm in my seat at it coats my underwear.
“Lead the way,” I tell him.
He’s taking my clothes off before we’re even upstairs, kissing my bare shoulders, running his fingers through my hair. He unclasps my bra with lightning speed and grasps my breasts from behind, pinching my nipples which sends a jolt between my legs.
“I’ve been fantasizing about fucking you ever since you left my place,” he says, breath warm and heavy in my ear.
I smell the tang of cologne on his skin, something spicy, expensive. It’s intoxicating. He unbuttons my jeans, loosening them enough to slip his fingers into my panties and down between my legs. He moves them expertly. Like a locksmith discovering the combination, my legs open for him. He’s rubbing, probing, dipping his fingers into me. My knees buckle and he has to balance his own weight to counter mine. Small, pleasure-filled noises rise up in my throat.
His voice is almost a growl when he says, “Damn, you get so wet.”
It’s obvious by the sounds his fingers make when he slides them in and out of me that they’re drenched. But fingers aren’t enough for me. I want him. All of him. My body aches for him.
I turn around to face him. “Fuck me,” I demand, because I’m no lon
ger playing around.
His smile nearly knocks me off my feet. He can’t possibly get sexier than he is right now. This time we make it to his bedroom. He pushes me onto his bed and yanks down my jeans and panties in one fluid motion and gets down on his knees, pulling me to the edge so the bottom half of my body is hanging off the bed. Holding my ass in one hand, he pulls me forward, his tongue snaking out, entering my folds, and he starts to lap at them as if he were thirsty. First the outer layers, teasing, playing. By the time he reaches my clit, I’m ready for it. Desperate for it.
He sheds his own clothes and finds a condom in his bedside table drawer and slips it on, then climbs on top of me. He doesn’t waste any time, and pushes into me with a grunt. My eyes close involuntarily as I marvel at the fullness I feel. I force my eyes open, though. I want to look at his body, study the art that decorates him. It tells a story, I’m just not sure what it says about him yet. On his chest is a deer head, its antlers reaching across his pecks, almost into his arm pits. On his arm, there’s a wolf. On the front of his neck is an eagle with its wings stretched out. He’s either an animal lover or they have special meanings.
As he slides in and out of me, it feels so good that I forget to explore the rest of his tattoos. Maybe there will be time for that later. Right now, I’m just enjoying the ride. I’m crying out for it, in fact. He pushes into me, rubbing my clit at the same time and I writhe on the bed. When he takes my legs, and puts the backs of my knees over his shoulders and folds me in half, I’m certain he has reached the furthest depth of me. He’s so deep it almost hurts, teetering on the edge of pain and pure bliss. I love it. Every pulsing inch of it.
Though he’s furiously driving into me, he kisses me on the lips, slow and sultry. “You’re so beautiful,” he says into my mouth in that lovely deep voice of his. I’ve been called beautiful in bed plenty of times before, but with the others it felt more like pillow talk. I believe Max when he says it.
I lick his lips and he sucks my tongue into his mouth.
When he lets go, I whisper to him, “It feels so good.”
He changes his rhythm, pulling almost all the way out before driving back in, making sure I feel the entire length of him.
“You like that?” he says, almost teasing.
“You feel so fucking good.”
I’m clawing at his back, loving the way he feels inside of me. Then he starts to hammer hard, staring me in the eyes while he does it. He’s so hot, and there’s something about the hungry way he looks at me that turns me on even more. Three more hard thrusts and I’m yelling his name and cursing. It’s like I’m possessed as my orgasm claws its way out of me. My legs clinch as I ride out my orgasm. He climbs off of me and kisses his way down my legs, and kisses the tips of each of my toes as I’m slowly coming back down from the incredible high.
“Holy shit,” I say, out of breath. I wipe the sweat from my forehead.
He leans forward and kisses me. “You’re not finished, are you?” he asks.
“Not a chance.”
He smiles and flips me onto my stomach. I wrap my arms around his pillow, holding it as though I were holding him as he kisses the backs of my knees, and up my legs, up to my ass cheeks. He squeezes them, pinching, kissing, biting. He’s definitely an ass man. Luckily, I have plenty back there for him to play with.
He pulls my hips up so that I’m on my hands and knees, and enters me from behind. Slowly, at first. Very slowly. He pulls my cheeks apart and his finger slides across the cleft of my ass. He’d teasing me. I know he’s looking for a reaction from me, reading my body to see how I react to his touch in that often-forbidden area. I react by reaching behind me and pulling my cheeks further apart for him to explore, to do whatever he wants. He lets out a sound of approval and uses his thumb to put pressure on the entrance. He doesn’t enter, though, just plays. It feels amazing, and as I start to slip into the first stages of another orgasm, I push harder against him. He moves faster, his pace picking up. Then he gives me a quick slap on the ass that startles me. He then soothes it with a gentle hand. I moan louder.
He responds with another slap. This time I’m prepared for it. Each time he does it, I get more and more turned on until I’m ready to burst. When he slips the tip of his wet thumb into my ass, my orgasm unleashes like a wild dog and I’m bucking against him. He growls and thrusts harder as his own orgasm takes hold. I feel him moving inside of me, his load pumping out in powerful bursts.
He collapses on top on my back. The weight of him drops me onto my stomach and we lie there, panting and trying to catch our breath. My mind is blown, my bones weak and useless and I’m out of breath. He is too. He rolls over and I get up.
He clasps his hands over his stomach. Sweat drips down my body as well as the evidence from my orgasm.
“Shit, did the condom break?” he says, looking down to inspect the condom still strapped to him.
“No,” I say.
“That’s all you?” he says, looking at me, then at the giant wet pool on the bed. He looks intrigued.
It’s kind of cute, that I caused that? look of accomplishment on his face.
I shrug. “You turn me on.”
He watches me walk around the room, gathering my clothes. I can feel his gaze on me, following, tracking my moves. I’m not used to this kind of attention. Once my bra and panties are back on, I start to put my jeans on.
“Where are you going?” he asks.
“Um, home?”
Like last time, he doesn’t seem eager for me to leave. In fact, he seems kind of disappointed when I tell him I’m going home.
“What about me reading to you in bed?”
I laugh, but when I look over at him, he’s holding my copy of Pride and Prejudice in my hand. “You were serious about that?”
“You thought that was a pick-up line?”
I shrug. “Kind of.”
“And it worked?” he says, sounding surprised.
Truth is, he didn’t need a pick-up line to get me back into his bed. My mind was already halfway there before he said a word, but instead of telling him that, and inflating his already giant ego, I say, “It was better than any line anyone has used on me before.”
He chuckles. “You really need to step up your expectations and find a better caliber of men.”
I gesture to him. “Obviously.”
He laughs and leans forward, grabbing my arm and playfully yanking me back into his bed. I curl up beside him, nuzzling into the crook of his arm to get comfortable, breathing in the scent that is so uniquely him. A scent I’m becoming addicted to.
He starts reading. “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife …”
For the next two hours, he reads to me. When he’s done, he says, “Well, what did you think?”
“All the women sound like stone-cold gold-diggers to me.”
His smile sends a warm quiver through me. Like his scent, his smile is also addictive. I wish I were funnier, more clever, like Elizabeth Bennet so I could make him laugh and smile all the time.
“Yeah, I guess they were, but I promise you, it’s one of the best love stories ever told,” he says.
I prop myself up on my elbows, tempted to kiss his arm. But even though he’s reading a love story to me, and we just had sex, a gesture that small feels too romantic, as though I’m asking for more than he might be willing to give. I don’t want to frighten him off. Even if this is just a hook-up, I wouldn’t mind it becoming a regular thing.
He looks at the clock. “I have a client in an hour. Want to grab lunch with me really quick?”
After that work out I could really use something to eat. “That sounds good.”
We go to a bistro next to the tattoo shop. It’s a cute Asian/American fusion place. Everyone who works there knows his name and his regular order. I order the Korean soup.
Once we get our food he says, “We should do that more often—read, I mean.”
/> The way he says it, all hooded eyes and husky voice, makes me think he’s not talking about reading.
“We should,” I agree.
“I hear it’s fundamental—reading, I mean.”
I laugh and shake my head. He smiles and the flutter in my heart is back. Go away. I’m not supposed to fall for him.
“I’ve heard that too,” I say.
There’s an awkward silence. He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it. He does this a couple times before asking, “How’s the soup?” I’m fairly certain that isn’t the question he wanted to ask, but for some reason, he’s holding back.
“Spicy.”
Picking up his phone, he stares at the black screen. “We should probably exchange numbers so you can text me when you want to do that again,” he says.
“Reading, you mean,” I say.
He erupts into a smile. I caused that. Look people, look what I did. I made that happen. You’re welcome.
We exchange numbers then share a strawberry tart for desert. He picks up the bill, refusing to even let me see it. Paying for my meal feels a lot like a date.
I walk him to work. As we walk, our fingers graze. I don’t know if it was done accidentally or if he meant to do that. My mind and heart are tangled up, and whatever is happening between us gives me the same feelings as a first crush. I’m giddy and afraid all at the same time.
We go through the alleyway to get to his building and stand at the back door. He pushes my back against the wall and kisses me, his lips tasting like strawberries. It’s a sweet, tender kiss that makes me feel exposed and vulnerable. Can he tell I’m falling for him?
When we part, he gifts me with another one of his perfect smiles. “Don’t be a stranger,” he says before disappearing inside. I know I have a ridiculous grin on my face and I don’t care. There’s no one around to see it.
4
Once I’m home, I can’t stop thinking about him. Did I thank him for lunch? I’m pretty sure I did, but I should text him just in case. It’s an excuse to talk to him, I know, but when you want something bad enough it’s easy to talk yourself into doing it—like cheating on a diet or buying shoes you know you can’t afford. He’s becoming that thing that I want even though I know I shouldn’t. I have the worst willpower. Actually, I have no willpower, especially when it comes to Max.
