The What If Guy

by Lauren Blakely

  She grips me so nice and tight as I fill her, stopping when I’m all the way in. I close my eyes and just revel in the lushness of her body.

  In the heat.

  In the wetness.

  She moans.

  I groan.

  And I know this is going to be electric.

  I start to move, thrusting inside her, stroking. Pleasure roars through me, igniting my skin as I set a pace then keep it.

  But a woman like Bryn does not come again from pace alone. I slide a hand up her spine, into her hair. “You liked what I did to you in the car?”

  “Did I?” she asks coyly.

  “I don’t know, Bryn. You tell me,” I command, stroking out so I’m barely in her. Just the tip now, making her want it.

  “I did, Logan. I did,” she says, begging for more.

  I slam into her, and she moans a deliciously long ohhh.

  “Tell me to do it again, and I will,” I tease as I grip her hips, pumping into her.

  “Pull my hair,” she cries out.

  “I thought you’d never ask.” I wrap my fingers around those chestnut strands, tightening them in my fist. I tug hard, jerking her head back.

  “Oh God,” she cries out as her hand slides down her belly on a fast track to between her legs.

  Some primal, possessive part of me wants to say, No, I control your pleasure.

  But the smarter, more mature part of me understands that the woman knows her own body, her own mind, and if she needs her fingers between her legs, then she damn well ought to diddle herself.

  I cover her body, my chest to her back. With my hand in her hair, I turn her face, tugging her lips close to mine. “Play with yourself, Bryn,” I say against her mouth, and we kiss until I moan and add, “Play with yourself till you come again.”

  “I’m close, so close,” she groans, and I can feel her wrist moving, her forearm a fast blur.

  Holy shit.

  Bryn—I don’t even know her last name—is the sexiest, most sensual woman I’ve ever met. I’ve never known a woman so in charge of her own pleasure even when she’s not in charge of it.

  I slide my hands up her stomach, cupping her fantastic breasts, kneading them. Letting her know they feel fucking fantastic. “I love your tits,” I whisper.

  “Me too,” she says in a breathy pant.

  “Would love to bite them. Would love to fuck them,” I whisper as I knead them harder, testing her, pushing her with a squeeze, a pinch. “Would love to come between your gorgeous fucking tits.”

  “Oh, God, yes.”

  My head goes hazy, and lust ricochets through my body as I bring my teeth to her neck. Soon she’s panting and moaning with every nip and every damn thrust. Her cries escalate, growing louder, hungrier, until she breaks.

  It’s a long, loud, glorious O as she trembles, tensing all over, then shaking as she whispers, “Oh my God.”

  Her body clenches around my cock, sending all my senses into overdrive. The switch in me flips, and I come so damn hard with a long grunt. “Fuuuuck.”

  Then I’m slumped over her, breathing out like I’ve run a thousand races.

  “That was . . .” I can’t finish. My brain is a fried egg.

  “Yes. It was . . .”

  “So good,” I say, managing something.

  “Better than good,” she says. “Necessary.”

  I dust my lips against her hair, kissing the strands. “Necessary,” I echo. “And I think I’ll need it again.”

  “Same.”

  I ease out of her, remove the condom, then scoop her into my arms. She’s still all gorgeously drugged out. “Take a shower with me,” I say.

  She gives a soft yes, and the look in her eyes also says that’s exactly where she wants to be.

  8

  Logan

  In the bathroom, I toss the condom, turn on the shower in the claw-foot tub, and adjust the temperature.

  She steps under first, and I survey the tiny room out of curiosity. I want to know her, and bathrooms can offer a sneak peek at who someone really is.

  The space is bursting with personality, the vanity lined with cruelty-free lotions in tropical scents, the pristine walls covered with framed illustrations of fifties housewives saying things like Some people are like clouds. When they disappear, it’s a brighter day, or a cheery blonde receptionist clutching an old-fashioned phone with a cartoon bubble over her head reading My business is my business. So, unless you’re a thong, don’t be up my ass.

  I point my thumb at that one. “Very clever.”

  “It was either that or a cheesy corporate image of a mountain with a saying like Determination,” she remarks as she tests the spray of water.

  “I’m glad you don’t have that in the bathroom.”

  “Or anywhere, for that matter.”

  “Indeed,” I say as I join her under the water, yanking the curtain closed. We’re in a cocoon of steam and heat.

  There, I savor this moment. The blissful after-sex moment that comes from knowing you both wanted it the same way, you both liked it the same way.

  Something I haven’t experienced in a damn long time.

  Over the years, my ex-wife and I became less compatible in the bedroom, just as we did in life. We became less connected. Maybe because in one decade we’d never communicated as explicitly as Bryn and I have in just one night.

  Or maybe because we never truly wanted the same things, the same way.

  That’s a new kind of pleasure.

  The before, the during, and the after.

  It ignites something deeper than desire. Something like a wish.

  A wish for more.

  A wish, too, to understand Bryn.

  To talk to her. To peel back some of the layers I saw tonight. I grab the body wash, squirt some into my hands, and let them roam over her skin. She hums on a long exhale. “That feels good.”

  “You feel good,” I say as I wash her arms, her belly, her breasts. “And so do your breasts. Why did you think I wouldn’t like them?”

  She shrugs. “Because most guys think they like fake breasts, then they touch them and realize it’s just the idea of them they like.”

  I slide my hands over them as the water pounds down on us, screwing up my face like I’m considering, evaluating. “Let’s see . . .” I glance down at my dick, half soft but perking up as I touch her. “Seems I like both the idea and the reality.”

  She laughs, but then her humor fades. “Are you going to ask why I have them?”

  “Do you want me to?”

  She nods.

  “Why do you have them?” I ask as she takes the gel and washes the rest of her body.

  “Because I was tiny as a teenager. My breasts were tiny. Like, nearly flat in high school. And I was fine with that. I had brains, confidence, and a mouth.”

  I run a finger across her bottom lip. “You’re very mouthy.”

  She nibbles on my finger, playfully biting it. “I am. But by the time I was twenty-five, I decided I wouldn’t mind if they were a cup size bigger. So, as a birthday present, I bought myself some Bs. I figured there was no reason not to give myself a little boost when I could.”

  “So, you did it for you.”

  “I did it for me.”

  “Seems like a damn good reason,” I say.

  The nervousness flickers again in her irises. “You really don’t mind how they feel?”

  I scoff. “I’m all good with everything,” I say, looping a hand around her waist as the hot water beats down. I don’t want to let her go. And I don’t want this to be a one-night-only thing. “So good that I’d like to see you again.”

  She shimmies her shoulders. “Because of my girls?” she asks coyly.

  I laugh, shaking my head. “Nope. Because I like talking to you and I like fucking you. Want to do this a second time?”

  She nods, ropes her arms around my neck, and kisses me in the shower. “I would love to see you again.”

  A little later, after we ord
er and devour cold sesame noodles and chicken lo mein while sitting cross-legged on the couch, a large black tabby strides out of the bedroom.

  I do a double-take. “You have a cat?”

  “I do?”

  “I don’t know, Bryn. Do you?”

  “I had no idea. Is there a cat here?”

  The black cat lifts his chin, sniffs the air, and saunters over to us. He stands on his back legs, setting his paws on Bryn’s knees. “Meow?”

  I hold up an I’ve got this hand. “My cat translator is telling me he’s asking for a bite.”

  “Did you wake up to ask for food, Bruce, you handsome devil?” She reaches out and strokes his head. He presses against her, and as he does, the light plays across his fur, revealing that he’s almost . . . striped.

  “Your cat has cool markings. It’s almost like he’s got stripes, but only in certain light.”

  “I considered calling him Jailbird, since he looks like he’s wearing a prison jumpsuit,” she says. “Plus, he’s kind of on house arrest here if you think about it.”

  “I suppose all cats are on house arrest, then. Life is like a jail for cats,” I say, hanging my head in mock sadness.

  She pats my shoulder. “It’s okay. His jailer is good to him. He gets three squares a day, plus an hour out of solitary for exercise. And here, I have cat exercise toys.”

  “You are an excellent cat warden. But he’s not named Jailbird?”

  “I called him that at first, but then one day I was listening to Bruce Springsteen—”

  “I thought you only liked pop?”

  “Hush. Bruce is like pizza. Everyone loves pizza. Have you ever met someone who doesn’t like pizza?”

  “No. I can’t say I have.”

  “Should I have named him Pizza, then?”

  I laugh. “Not a bad name for a cat. Or Pepperoni. Anyway, how did Jailbird become Bruce?”

  “So, I was listening to ‘I’m on Fire,’ and the cat actually sat on my chest. It was the first time he was borderline affectionate with me. I briefly wondered if he was trying to suffocate me, but then I thought maybe he just liked Bruce. So, I tested out the name—I called him Bruce, and he gave the faintest lift of his chin.”

  “Ah, a clear sign.”

  “Exactly. So I named him Bruce.”

  “My incarcerated cat is named Queen LaTofu.”

  She shoots me an appreciative look. “Excellent name. You must send me a photo.”

  “I believe that can be arranged,” I say, thinking of her Instagram account.

  We return to our late-night meal as Bruce flops at Bryn’s feet, rolling to his side and showing off his dark-striped belly.

  When we’re done eating, Bryn’s eyes light up. “I almost forgot something.”

  My brow knits. “Fortune cookies?”

  She laughs, shaking her head as she points to my phone. “We need to leave a review for the driver. From the Lyft.”

  I smile, loving that she’s a woman of her word. That she remembered a promise she made to a Lyft driver.

  I click on the app. “Want to do the honors?”

  “I do.” She gives him five stars, then talks as she types. “Friendly, considerate, and sure knows his restaurant recs.”

  Then she hits submit, and my chest warms. It’s the little things that matter.

  And I like this little thing.

  I like this woman too.

  But it’s late, and I have work in the morning, so after I clean up, I tell her I have to go. “I’ll text you tomorrow. We’ll do this again?”

  “Definitely.”

  I haul her in for a hot, hard kiss. “There is so much more to do,” I say in a low, dirty growl.

  “Can’t wait to find out what that might be.”

  I cup her cheeks, smooth out her hair. “I had a great time with you.”

  “I had doubles,” she says, a little cheeky.

  I laugh. “Yes, but I also meant before and after those doubles.”

  She smacks her forehead playfully. “Oh, yeah. The other stuff. Talking and eating and things like that. That was pretty good too, Logan.”

  “It was better than good,” I say, then give her one more kiss—a soft one this time—before I leave.

  On the way home, I’m still savoring the aftereffects of a great night.

  Taking out my phone, I google “when to text a woman you want to see again,” then click the top link.

  I smile to myself that the top hit is an article on The Dating Pool. Ironic, but no surprise, really. It’s a great site with smart advice.

  I read it, digging the last line. But if you like a woman, text her after you’ve seen her.

  As the car cruises up Park Avenue, I do just that.

  * * *

  Logan: Have I mentioned I had an amazing time tonight? Well, it bears repeating. Also, would you like to have dinner with me on Friday night?

  * * *

  Her reply is swift.

  * * *

  Bryn: I’d love to. Also, I love sushi. :)

  * * *

  Logan: Then I will take you out for sushi.

  * * *

  Bryn: Sushi and dessert?

  * * *

  Logan: If by dessert you mean more of what we had tonight, then yes, yes, yes.

  * * *

  Bryn: Then my answer is yes, yes, yes.

  * * *

  I lean my head back, replaying the evening the whole way home, then while riding the elevator, then when I’m inside my place too.

  Queen LaTofu greets me, rubbing her fluffy body against my leg.

  “Hey, pretty lady.” I scoop her up, stroking her head between the ears. “Did you have a good evening, my queen?”

  When she stares back at me with a satisfied grin, I interpret that as yes. What’s the fun of pets if you can’t anthropomorphize them?

  I slide into my Queen LaTofu impersonation. “Why, yes, Logan. Tell me every dirty detail. And don’t spare my ears.”

  “If you insist,” I answer.

  I proceed to tell her all about my night. She’s my cat, my priest, my confidante.

  And as I end my confession, I whisper one last secret to her. “And I can’t wait for it to happen again.”

  9

  Queen LaTofu

  Queen LaTofu strutted to the door, grateful her person was home at last, since his return signified two important things.

  One, food. Preferably tuna, because no cat wanted the same damn kibble every single day and night.

  And two, amusement.

  He was always so chatty, and his voice entertained her. Such a funny voice, almost like he was trying to be sexy to female humans or something. All that gravel and roughness. Maybe it worked on two-legged ladies, but it was hard to say, since Queen LaTofu hadn’t seen any of those around these parts in a long time.

  Perhaps he was losing his touch?

  Did he need lessons in seduction?

  She could help with that to some degree. As a cat, she was naturally seductive, with a stunning coat she kept in tip-top shape and a tail that was the envy of all the city.

  When he opened the door, she glided her silky body against his legs. Perhaps some of her sultriness would rub off on him and he might learn a thing or two.

  If he didn’t, he was still a lucky human to be on the receiving end of her full-body grind, as she liked to refer to it. It was generous—she even wove between his legs to get all sides. And it was efficient—it meant both “Good to see you” and “Feed me right the hell now.”

  His big hands came down around her midsection, and he picked her up. That had to be a good sign that food was coming.

  “Did you have a good evening, my queen?”

  She pushed her head against his hand, kicking her purr box into high gear.

  As he spoke, he carried her to the kitchen and opened a cupboard.

  Eureka!

  A can of tuna.

  He brought his finger to his lips. “Shh. I’ve been saving this for a sp
ecial occasion.”

  He set her down on the tiled floor, and she danced the dinner dance. Or really, the late-night snack dance, since it was after midnight, but she was nocturnal, so she wasn’t sleepy.

  He cracked open the can, and the smell, dear God, the smell. It was so delightful. The best perfume ever.

  “You want to know the special occasion? Fine. I’ll tell you. Especially since Amelia isn’t here and we can talk openly.”

  Tuna, tuna, tuna, tuna, tuna.

  Queen LaTofu sashayed back and forth, flicking her tail against the cupboards in excitement. He could talk, he could sing, he could do anything if only she could have tuna filling her belly.

  “I had a great night. This woman, she is . . .” The man stopped speaking and sort of drifted off, some kind of moony look in his eyes.

  The cat flicked her ear. She’d seen that look before. He got it when he read books that kept him awake well past midnight, ones he’d recite parts of aloud to her, disturbing her rest with tales of good men chasing bad men across cities she’d never heard of.

  Or when he cued up music he seemed to like, picking her up and singing to her like she was his furry dance partner.

  He did that with the little person who lived here too. The small girl who smelled like apples and happened to have excellent taste, since she liked to photograph cats. There was no better use of a camera and no better model than Queen LaTofu.

  Honestly, all photos ought to be photos of cats. Not everyone had access to her fluffy majesty, though, so Queen LaTofu allowed that they didn’t all need to be of her.

  Finally, the man set down the tuna, and Queen LaTofu nearly cried with happiness.

  She dug into the feast as the man leaned against the counter, talking, talking, talking. “She’s funny and bright. And she’s this alluring mix of sexy and sensual, but when we made it to the bedroom, metaphorically speaking since it was the couch, she didn’t want to take charge at all.”