by Max Monroe
“O-kay,” he ventured. “Maybe I shouldn’t be hearing these details.”
I ignored his delicate sensibilities. “Right after she orgasmed. Like creamed all over my dick—”
“Jesus!”
“And then, boom. Out like a light. There I was with my dick in the sweetest pussy it’s ever entered, and I literally couldn’t fuck it. I mean, I could have, but even I draw the line somewhere, and that would have been creepy as fuck.”
“I don’t know what to do with this,” Kline admitted. If my savant of a friend didn’t have the answers, I didn’t know if anyone would.
“I don’t either. She used me as a goddamn sleep aid!”
The roll of what I now considered his constant chuckle clucked in my ear.
One thought bled into the next with no transition, and as all of the worsening details came back to me in waves, I just kept on blurting. “She’s still at my apartment!”
“What?”
“This morning, she wouldn’t leave.” I rubbed at the tense skin of my forehead. “I think maybe she’s moving in with me.”
“Good God. Slow down. She’s not moving in with you, for fuck’s sake. And if she is, this is completely out of my depth.”
Fuck. I knew she probably wasn’t moving in with me. I mean, that’d be fucked. But so was last night, so really, maybe that was right on point. I didn’t know. It was a miracle I even knew my left hand from my right anymore.
“I’m going to have to consult with Georgie.”
“Don’t spread this shit around!”
“If you think I’m not telling my wife this as a way to earn points, you’re cracked.”
“I hate you right now.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve hated you for years, and you’re still around. I’d imagine it works the same way in the other direction.”
No answers. No advice.
And no chance of getting over any of this until I got to the bottom of it.
Around noon, I decided to take a break from screwing with Thatch via text message and took a shower. As I brushed my wet locks with one hand, I ran the other across the granite counters of his bathroom and checked the pads of my fingers for evidence. Nothing. Not even a speck of dust. For a single dude, he did a relatively good job of keeping his place clean. Almost a little too clean.
Yeah, maybe I’d screw with Thatch just a teensy bit more. Because, let’s be honest, I was finding an awful lot of enjoyment out of bugging the hell out of him.
I grabbed my phone off the counter and typed out a text as I headed into his closet.
Me: Do you have a maid?
Thatch: Rita is a very nice lady who comes to my apartment twice a week.
Me: I knew there was no way a single guy kept his shit this clean. The shower clued me in.
Thatch: You’re in my shower?
Me: Not anymore, Numbnuts. Right now, I’m in your closet.
Thatch: My closet?
Me: Um. Yeah. That’s where the clothes are. I needed something to wear.
Thatch: Do NOT steal my favorite shirt.
I didn’t even have to ask to know he was referring to his “Single and Ready to Mingle” shirt.
Me: You can calm the fuck down because I found an even better one.
Thatch: Which one?
I walked over to his freshly made bed—see, I was a good houseguest—and laid the shirt in question out, then snapped a quick picture and sent it to him.
Thatch: What in the fuck did you do to my shirt?
Me: It was too big.
Obviously, I’d had no other option but to put my amateur seamstress skills to good use. His T-shirt could’ve easily been a dress, and I was talking more muumuu than stylish maxi. Lucky for me, I only had to cut off a few inches, utilize some needle and thread, and boom, Thatch’s old shirt was now an adorable crop top.
Thatch: Wait…why isn’t that shirt on you? Are you naked in my bedroom right now?
Me: No. As a matter of fact, I have on a pair of tighty whities. Which, I gotta say, that’s real cute, Thatch. I love that you actually wear these.
Thatch: I have to when I play rugby, smartass.
Me: Better support for your Supercock?
Thatch: Yes, and speaking of my Supercock (perfect nickname), he wants to FaceTime your tits. Put them on the phone, please.
Me: Meh. You should have texted me sooner. I already rubbed one out.
Thatch: In my shower???
Me: No way. I prefer to masturbate in a bed, Thatcher.
Thatch: So what you’re saying is you’ve just been lying around in my bed all day (during breaks from snooping through my place), rubbing your pussy all over my sheets?
Me: Is that a problem?
Thatch: Hell no, but my apartment has rules.
Me: Rules?
Thatch: If I’m not there to witness, then you have to record it for my viewing pleasure.
Me: Put your boner away, Thatcher.
Thatch: Pretty sure you started this, Crazy. I’m not the one hanging out at your apartment, swinging my dick around and jizzing all over your sheets.
Me: Okay. I’ll give you that.
Thatch: I’ll be done with this meeting at 1:30. Prep those gorgeous tits for FaceTime with my Supercock.
Me: Sorry to disappoint, but I’ve got lunch with Georgie.
Thatch: You owe me.
Me: I owe you nothing.
Thatch: Once the details of last night become clear in that pretty little head of yours, you’ll realize you actually do. Enjoy your lunch, honey.
What was that supposed to mean?
We fucked, we came, we fell asleep. Pretty sure none of those things constituted an IOU on my part. I didn’t bother trying to read between the lines, figuring it was just Thatch being Thatch more than anything else, and finished getting ready. Even though I had to borrow a pair of his underwear and alter one of his shirts, I was thankful to find a knee-length black, knit skirt inside my purse. And it was clean. Jackpot.
I walked into Georgia’s office forty-five minutes later to find her sitting behind her desk, staring at her computer and shaking her head. “The answer is no,” she said. I ruled out any possibility of a business-related FaceTime because she was grinning like a loon. The coast seemed clear to slide in for a closer investigation.
Moving around her desk, I found Kline on the screen, smiling back at his wife.
I met Kline’s eyes over her shoulder. “Hey, Big Dick, how’s it hanging? Am I interrupting a lunchtime jerk-off sesh?”
He chuckled in response and looked up and to the side. From the vast knowledge afforded to me by TV crime drama, I took that as a yes.
“Christ,” Georgia muttered, the color of her perfect cheeks deepening to a rosy flush. “Can you stop calling my husband that?”
“When you stop being embarrassed about it, I’ll stop doing it.”
“And this isn’t a ‘jerk-off sesh,’” she corrected, air quotes accompanying her words. “This is Kline’s daily video chat where he offers me a job and I politely decline.”
“Come on, Benny. You’ll have way more fun at my office,” he chimed in, waggling his eyebrows. His blue eyes shone with innuendo.
This frequent conversation between the two of them wasn’t a surprise. Kline had been trying to get her to come back to Brooks Media ever since she had resigned and had taken a job working for Wes at the New York Mavericks. But Georgia was her own woman, and even though he teased her about working for him again, he was ultimately proud of his wife and everything she had accomplished.
Kline was so good for Georgia it wasn’t even funny. His presence in her life didn’t hold her back from anything. No, he made her flourish into an awesome woman, who also happened to be getting some fan-fucking-tastic loving on the regular.
“Gotta go, baby. It’s lunchtime, and I’m starving,” she said, and despite Kline’s best efforts to keep her on the phone with pouts and good-natured humor, she managed to end the call.
“Where to?
” she asked as she got out of her chair and grabbed her purse.
Orange-yellow gooey goodness flashed before my eyes. “Shake Shack? I’ve been jonesin’ for their cheese fries.”
“Sounds good to me.”
We headed out of her office, and after a three-block walk, we were sitting at an outside table, feasting on chocolate shakes and cheese fries, and enjoying the sweet summer air laced with the delicious aroma of burger grease. And human excrement. You never really escaped the lingering hint of every form of human foulness in New York.
I know it sounds awful, but upward of a million people put up with it daily. It’s all about priorities.
“All right, spill it. What happened between you and Thatch last night?” she asked after taking a hearty sip from her straw. Her eyebrow hooked up with intrigue, and I couldn’t help but notice she’d plucked a really nice shape for her brow bed this time around.
“How’d you know about last night?”
“Oh, come on,” she said through a laugh. “Kline, Thatch, and Wes are worse than gossiping teenage girls. My husband was way too excited to share his conversation with Thatch this morning. Normally, his video chats start with, ‘Come on, Benny. Come back to work for me,’” she imitated his deep voice. “But today, he went straight for the juicy gossip.”
“What did Thatch tell him?”
“Nope. I want to hear your side first.”
“Fine,” I said around half-chewed meat and cheese sauce, wiping the grease off my fingers with a napkin. I was obviously a delicate lady. “It was typical Thatch and Cass. We talked about his boner. You know, same old shit, different day.”
She rolled her powdery blue eyes. “You spent the whole day and night together, Cass. Tell me you talked about something else besides his boner.”
“And my tits, too. He’s a big fan.”
“Your boobs are the size of my head. Of course, he’s a big fan.”
“They’re not that big.”
She snorted. “You have double Ds. And both Ds stand for damn.”
I laughed at the inflection of her voice and the size-specific gesture she added to the front of her own chest. “True.”
“So, did you make any progress on the topics of conversation?”
“Sorta. We fucked last night. That seems to have helped. It at least channeled part of his focus to my pussy.”
“Jesus! You what? Talk about burying the goddamn lede.”
“Why are you so shocked? I figured that was the first thing Thatch would’ve told Kline.”
She shook her head.
“Yeah.” I shrugged. “I sleep-fucked him.”
“God, I hate when you call it that. Do you know how bad it sounds?”
“Okay, I didn’t exactly sleep-fuck him, but he woke me up after I fell asleep on his couch, and then next thing I knew, I was horny and trying to bang him. You know how I get when I’m tired but can’t fall asleep. I need a release or else I’ll just be staring at the ceiling all night, watching the time pass at a snail’s pace.”
“Tell me you were awake while fucking him.”
“Oh, yeah. I was fully aware of what was happening.”
“Was he?”
I flashed an annoyed look. “Of course, he was. If a man falls asleep while a chick is grinding her pussy on him and shoving her tits in his face, then he is either narcoleptic, gay, or should seek medical attention.”
What? If men can have double standards, so can we.
“True.” Georgia grinned. “So…”
“So?”
“How was it?”
I tilted my head to the side. “How was what?”
“The sex!” she exclaimed, slamming her hands down on the table. Our cups shook from the vibrations, and a few people turned in our direction.
“Slow your roll, Susie. You’re about ten seconds away from reenacting When Harry Met Sally, and I’m not so sure that couple feeding their dog ice cream is going to appreciate it.”
She giggled, grabbing a fry from the basket. “Great movie.”
Oh yeah, only murderers and puppy-mill directors didn’t recognize that showing of cinematic genius. “Fan-fucking-tastic movie.”
“All right,” she said, leaning across the table. “Tell. Me. Everything.”
“Wheorgie encouraging an overshare? Color me impressed.”
She gestured with an impatient hand for me to continue.
“Well, it was good sex. Great sex, actually. His dick and mouth are talented, that’s for damn sure. I would have come twice had my pussy not demanded to be penetrated.”
“Da-yum, that’s a good session of sleep-fucking, then.”
I laughed, and I couldn’t stop myself from replaying the night’s events in my head. I really had enjoyed last night. Thatch had a body made for fucking. That was pretty much all there was to it.
“So I’m assuming Thatch enjoyed himself too?”
I rolled my eyes. “His cock was inside me, and my tits were in his hands… Of course, he enjoyed it.”
“Are you sure about that?” she pushed, even though I’d spoken perfect fucking English.
I tilted my head, scrutinizing her secretive expression. “What do you know that I don’t know?”
“Nothing,” she said, but her shifty eyes said otherwise.
“Spill it.”
“I don’t know anything,” she tried to convince me, but the grin she was fighting made it quite obvious she was full of shit. God, she was about the worst liar in the history of liars.
“Georgia.” I stared at her, unleashing the crazy eyes. It was my biggest weapon when trying to get her to fess up to something. She called it the creepy stare, and it generally only took about ten seconds of half-assed effort to get her to spill her secrets.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
“Fine!” She gave in, raising both hands in the air. “Cool it on the creepy staring. You know it freaks me out.”
Works like a charm. Every time.
“Okay, so maybe I already knew you guys had sex,” she confessed.
“Wheorgie!” I admonished, equal parts shocked and impressed she was able to convince me otherwise for even the short window she had.
“Sorry.” She shrugged, her button nose scrunching up in a textbook gesture of sorry, not sorry. “I just wanted to hear it from you first before I told you what I actually knew.”
“That was way too persuasive.” She had almost convinced me. “I think you’ve been practicing the fake tears on Kline too much.”
She laughed. “I know, right?”
“All right, what did Thatcher tell Kline?”
“Well…he called my husband this morning all freaked out that you were actually moving in with him.”
That had me smiling big. I loved that my plan to mess with him this morning actually worked. I didn’t usually set a precedent of making myself at home at someone else’s place. I just had a feeling Thatch wouldn’t know what the fuck to do if I made myself comfortable in his bed while he was getting ready to leave for work.
She pointed at my face. “So, you were screwing with him this morning!”
“Oh, yeah,” I said, nodding in confirmation. “I was most definitely screwing with him. You should have seen his face when I got back in his bed, turned on the TV, and started asking him what channels he got.”
But really, I’d had a blast lounging all over his apartment this morning. If I didn’t love Georgie so much, I’d probably still be there, drowning hours in bacon and DVR and anything else I could get my hands on.
Georgia laughed, loud and boisterous. “Holy shit, that’s awesome! I love that you did that. He’s the ultimate prankster. It’s about time he got a taste of his own medicine.”
I smirked. “I know. I wish I would’ve recorded it.”
“The only other thing he told Kline was that…well…” She paused, eyeing me with an amused look. “The sleep-fucking worked. Like i
t really worked.”
I thought over her words for a good thirty seconds until I finally caught what she was putting down. “Oh, fuck,” I said through a laugh. “Definitely not Sleepless in Seattle.”
“Nope. More like Comatose in New York,” she agreed.
I replayed the sex in my head and realized I had actually passed out—on his cock—and I did this before he finished. “Man, talk about a bitch move.”
“Yep. It was like something out of How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days,” she agreed again.
I cringed before asking, “Are we speaking only in movie-isms now?”
She shrugged, but she didn’t look like she thought it was the worst idea in the world.
My usual devil-may-care attitude had up and gone hiking. “In my defense, I was running on two hours of sleep from the night before. But still, I kind of feel like an asshole.” Doing the ole dine and dash on someone’s dick was almost never called for.
Georgia let out a quiet laugh. “Yeah, you probably should.”
The ogre was right; I did owe him. Because, let’s face it, if Thatch had done that to me, I would’ve been fucking pissed. I honestly had to give the guy props for handling it so well, seeing as I was still alive and everything.
I had always lived my life by one motto: I couldn’t please everyone, I didn’t care to please everyone, but I could motherfucking please myself. Which I did, often.
But for some odd reason, I found myself actually caring about what Thatch thought and trying to find a way to make it right. And the more I thought about it, the worse I felt. It was a foreign concept to me, but even I couldn’t deny I had pulled a big-time bitch move last night.
