The Brooklyn Book Boyfriends

by Kayley Loring

  He stops me from pulling down my skirt. “Whatcha got on under there?”

  “Nothing. How could you tell?”

  His fingers graze my soaking wet entrance. I tense up at the slightest touch from him. My clit is already throbbing.

  Leaning in, he whispers into my ear. “Because you’re very efficient and have excellent time management skills.” His voice is so sexy, he could read my ninth-grade chemistry textbook out loud and have me on the brink of orgasm before he finished the table of contents.

  He leads me over to the sofa that’s situated in front of the frosted glass. I have his pants and boxers down around his ankles, and in about one second, push him down and straddle him. I hold my breath as I center and slowly lower myself down onto his rock-hard erection, holding the base of his shaft. Taking him in is an exquisite ache and satisfying release, all at once, every time. I shift around a tiny bit, squeeze and release. The hiss as he draws breath through clenched teeth is a signal to continue, the following groan is my cue to settle in and begin to move my hips.

  He drags his fingernails down my back. It feels so good through my cotton shirt. What feels even better is having his hands up my shirt, squeezing my breasts and teasing my nipples while I frantically pick up the pace. I have to. I couldn’t care less about making this a quickie in case someone sees us—I just can’t seem to control myself once he starts touching me. I grab onto that man bun with both hands and I ride him like a mechanical bull. I squeeze my thighs together tight around him, keeping my upper body loose, I rock back and forth and sway as he bucks and slams up against me. I will hold onto this man and never ever let go, but I am already clenching and spasming around his cock. I know that neither of us have much longer before we’re both disappearing into waves of pleasure.

  My voice is nothing but desperate panting whispers, and I am so blissed out, I can’t even form words anymore. My body is just screaming yes, yes, yes! Surely this feeling will never end.

  He gives my ass a squeeze and then wraps his arms around my waist, forcing me down onto him hard when he comes. There is such vulnerability and strength in his stillness. I love to watch him like this. His baritone groan is a sexy ballad that vibrates all the way through me. We are both shuddering for such a long time even as we hang onto each other like limp rag dolls.

  Chase’s heart beats fast and hard against my own chest, and my ears are ringing loudly, but we both hear a door slam shut not far away.

  I duck down further, and Chase kisses my forehead.

  “Shhh. It’s okay,” he whispers.

  It’s not.

  I’ve only been here for a few weeks, but I know that the only person who’d be slamming that door right now is Keaton.

  23

  Aimee

  Keaton comes out of his office just as we’re walking out of Chase’s. I quickly grab my laptop, shove it into my bag and smooth down my hair again, making sure my clothes are where they should be. I think I’d feel less guilty and self-conscious if my parents had walked in on us. Not that he walked in on us. But he must have seen something.

  “You don’t think he watched us, do you?” I’d whispered to Chase, after we heard the door slam shut.

  “No way,” he’d snorted. “He probably just caught a glimpse and then stormed off to his office. At least he let us know he’s here.”

  “I guess.”

  Chase holds his hand out to me. I take it, and we walk towards the front door. I try to keep my chin up and a polite smile on my face. This is the first time I’m seeing Keaton today. The first time I’m seeing him since Chase had a talk with him yesterday evening. It took a lot of willpower for me to walk past a stationary store this morning and not buy him a card—but what kind of card would I give him? Thank you in advance for not being a dick about this! My condolences for not choosing you over your best friend! Have a great summer—please don’t bad-mouth me to potential clients just because I didn’t go out with you!

  “Well, well,” Keaton says. He is sneering, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “If it isn’t Brooklyn’s most discreet and professional couple.”

  “Nice to see you back at the office today,” Chase says. “You forget something?”

  “Yeah. I forgot to instill a sock-on-the-door policy,” he says, in a way that makes it very difficult for me to tell if he’s being funny or being a bitter asshole.

  Chase squeezes my hand. “We’re taking off. See you in the morning.”

  “Oh I’m taking off too.” He follows us out to the elevators. God forbid he should make things less awkward and take the stairs. “Where are you two lovebirds headed?”

  “Taking her to the restaurant to meet my parents.”

  I stop in my tracks. This is news to me. I widen my eyes at him.

  “You okay with that?” he asks me.

  “Yeah, definitely.” I just wish I looked a little less freshly-fucked right now.

  “Aww, don’t worry,” Keaton says. “It’s a cute little place. You’ll like it.”

  “Yeah. It’s a cute little place that Keaton can’t seem to stay away from.”

  “What can I say, all those Michelin star restaurants can get boring after a while. A guy needs a little variety. That’s why I’m friends with Chase.”

  Keaton stands next to Chase, looking up at the illuminated floor numbers, grinning. “Sorry about this morning, buddy.” He slaps Chase on the back. “Can’t win ‘em all.”

  I have no idea what he’s referring to, but one look at Chase’s clenched jaw and I know it’s not nothing.

  Keaton leans forward to give me a very obvious once-over. “You okay there, Aimee? You seem a little worn-out.”

  Wow. Okay. So he’s a bitter and condescending asshole.

  “Sorry you don’t recognize what a woman looks like after having a real orgasm.” Chase slaps him on the back. “Can’t win ‘em all.”

  Keaton fakes a loud laugh. “Brains and a sense of humor! And all this time I thought I was the lucky one, with the looks and the money.”

  My whole body tenses up. That cocky little shit. How dare he be condescending to my boyfriend. “For your information—”

  Chase squeezes my hand again and cuts me off, just as the elevator doors open. “After you,” he says to me. “I haven’t told my parents we’re coming yet,” he says to me, completely ignoring Keaton. “So if you want to go somewhere else …”

  “No, I would love to meet them!” I touch his face. “I can’t wait to meet the people who made you.”

  “You’ll like them,” Chase says. “They’re nice. Very supportive of me.” He looks over at Keaton, who is shaking his head.

  “Sounds like a cozy evening. I’ve gotta cross the bridge to meet Quinn. We’re having dinner with a few Rockefellers tonight. Should be interesting.”

  “Sounds like fun. We’ll save you a piece of tiramisu.”

  “Naw, I’m good. The desserts at Per Se are surprisingly filling.”

  I’m afraid they’re about two seconds from whipping out their dicks and having a pissing contest right here in the elevator, but it is becoming very clear to me that Keaton is jealous of Chase and it has little to do with me. There’s a lot of repressed something flowing beneath the surface of their relationship, like hot lava, and I do not want to be around when it finally erupts.

  Mercifully, we reach the ground floor, and Keaton has pressed the button for the parking level. “You guys need a ride? Got the car. Gave my driver the day off because he was sick.”

  “We’re gonna walk. See you tomorrow, man.” Chase holds out his hand for one of those bro-shakes that men do.

  “Say ‘hi’ to Graziella and Sean for me. Have a good night, Aimee.” He is being so genuinely polite now. I honestly don’t know how to read this guy, and I truly don’t understand male friendships.

  “You too,” I say, more as a threat than I had meant for it to sound.

  As soon as the elevator doors close, I ask: “What happened this morning, Chase? What was he talkin
g about?”

  He shrugs it off. “It’s not a huge deal, but it really pissed me off.” He holds the lobby door open for me and waits until we’re outside before continuing. “At the board meeting, we voted on our next hire for the sales team. I was backing this great guy who has the best resume, the best personality, the best track record. Except he didn’t go to Harvard and he wasn’t born the son of one of the investor’s best friends. Keaton was going to vote with me, but he didn’t.”

  “What a dick.” I cover my mouth. “Sorry.”

  “Yeah, it was a dick move, but it didn’t surprise me. It’s not like the guy we are hiring is terrible, it’s just not what I wanted. Sometimes you gotta step into the punch before it has time to develop, you know? Reduce the force of the blow. Better to take that hit now than further down the line when it’s something more important.”

  “Is that a boxing metaphor?”

  “Did you not learn that in business school?”

  “I certainly didn’t learn it in friendship school.”

  “He just needs time to have his little hissy fit. Guys like him just want what they can’t have. I’m not saying he’s like all the other born-rich guys around here—if he were, I wouldn’t be friends with him.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Don’t let him ruin our night.” He leans over to kiss my cheek.

  “I won’t. I’m excited to see your parents’ restaurant.”

  “They’ll be really excited to meet you, so get ready.”

  I stop in my tracks again. Shit. I didn’t have time to put my undies back on. I cannot meet Chase’s parents for the first time while I’m going commando.

  “Um. I need to grab a water at Starbucks real quick.”

  “Really? We’re almost there.”

  “I’m just really thirsty.”

  “Okay. We’re almost at the restaurant. Where they serve beverages.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut and wrinkle my nose. “I have to put my underwear back on.”

  He lowers his head, smiling. “Right this way.” He holds the Starbucks door open for me. “Efficient, excellent time management skills, and she knows how to make a good first impression with the parents. You’re the best.”

  “You are,” I say. And he is.

  I’m not in the habit of ranking hugs, but I am about ten seconds into one of the best hugs of my life. Maybe the best. Perhaps it’s because she’s a chef, but Chase’s mom makes a meal out of her hugs. I feel like crying.

  “So nice to meet you, bella.”

  “I’m so happy to meet you!”

  She finally pulls back to look at me and touch my face. “These eyes! Look at those eyes!”

  “I can’t stop looking at them,” Chase says.

  His mother is beautiful, all soft curves and warm smiles. “Aww, he’s so in love, listen to him.” She turns to Chase and smacks him on the arm. “Why you not tell us you’re coming, huh?! I coulda fixed something special.”

  “I’m gonna fix something special for her tonight. Looks like you’re busy.”

  The restaurant is at least three-quarters full, inside and out.

  “Ohh, you gonna cook for her?” She nudges me. “Lucky girl. He only cooks for the special people.”

  “Who’s this?!” The booming voice comes from a handsome man who looks exactly like I hope Chase will look in about thirty years, but with different hair. He punches Chase’s arm. “Don’t tell me. Don’t tell me this is ‘girl trouble?’”

  “Aimee, this is my dad, Sean McKay.”

  “So nice to meet you, sir.”

  Sean McKay’s handshake is the equivalent of Graziella’s hug—warm and robust. “Don’t you ‘sir’ me, woman. What’s a fine thing like you doing with a manky gobshite like this?” He musses up his son’s hair, clearly a fan of his. “What can I get for ya to drink? Lemme guess. Moscow Mule.”

  Chase’s eyes meet mine and we laugh. “I’ll have whatever Chase is having.”

  “Whiskey it is, then. She’s a keeper.”

  “Tell me about it,” Chase replies. He leads me to the kitchen.

  “I see you back there in a minute,” his mother says, patting me on the back as she stops to chat with customers.

  Chase is greeted by everyone in the kitchen like a beloved king who’s returned from battle. He’s really in his element here, although he seems to be in his element everywhere.

  “Everyone, this is Aimee Gilpin, my girlfriend. Aimee, this is everyone.”

  I wave to everyone.

  “Hope you like spaghetti alla bolognese. It’s off-menu but I prefer it to the fettucine.”

  “Hey!” says one of the line cooks. “Cover your hair in here, you animal!”

  Chase grabs a hairnet from a dispenser and puts it on while filling up a pot with water. “Have a seat over there, bella,” he says, winking at me.

  Dio mio! It’s a good thing I’m wearing panties, because that wink would have caused me to leave a wet spot on this stool.

  Not many people on this earth can make a hairnet look hot, but Chase McKay is doing it.

  In every way, he just does it for me.

  From the people who made him, to the spaghetti alla bolognese he’s making for me—for the first time since I moved to New York, I feel like I’m at home.

  24

  Chase

  **TWO MONTHS LATER**

  When the chauffeur double-parks outside Aimee’s apartment building, I let him know that I can open the door to let myself out. I’ve been riding up front with him since he picked me up a few minutes ago. I made the decision to hire a BMW car service instead of Uber to take us to Greg Lee’s wedding at The Plaza, since this is our first formal date, but I would rather take the bus in my tux than sit alone in the backseat. No matter how rich I get. And I will get very rich.

  I texted Aimee a minute ago, to let her know we were almost there. I had every intention of going up to her apartment to fetch her, but she steps out onto the sidewalk before I’m even at the door. Ever the efficient and timely professional, she is a fucking knockout in a deep blue floor length gown that matches her eyes and makes me want to drop to my knees. The neckline is pretty respectable, but it will have other men drooling, nonetheless. She kisses my cheek then gives me a little twirl. That exposed back will have my hand on it all night.

  “You’re stunning.”

  She steps back, slides the dark sunglasses down the bridge of her nose and whistles as she checks me out in my tuxedo. “You are not so bad yourself, Sexy McSexypants.” She scrunches up her face. “Forget I just said that or pretend I said something really cool instead.”

  “Done.”

  She runs her fingers through my hair. “I’m glad you left your hair down.”

  The driver holds the back door open for Aimee, and I hurry around to the street side to get in next to her. As soon as we’re both settled into the backseat, we’re holding hands and kissing like we’re on our way to prom. It’s been like this for two months. I can’t remember the last time she wore lipstick when I was around. And I’m around her almost every night.

  “Keaton’s going to be there with Quinn, right?” she asks.

  “Far as I know.”

  She nods and looks out the darkened window.

  Things with Keaton have been mostly back to normal as far as I’m concerned, but this will be the first time the three of us have been together for almost two months. The last time she saw him, he left the office early on her last day at SnapLegal when we were having a little party for her. He wasn’t being an asshole exactly, but he wasn’t being a prince either. It helps that our revenue’s already up ten percent since we transitioned to subscription. Since he respects revenue and he associates Aimee with the transition, he’s only had good things to say about her.

  But I can tell she’s nervous about seeing him socially, so it’s my job to take her mind off of it. As we merge onto the Brooklyn Bridge to head over the East River to Manhattan, I ask her if she knows about the history of
it. She laughs and shakes her head.

  “Tell me,” she says. “I love your history lessons.”

  “This was the first suspension bridge to use steel for its cable wires. It took fourteen years to build, around the end of the 19th Century. John Augustus Roebling initially designed it—he was from Germany. He was injured when he was surveying the East River, and eventually he died from a tetanus infection, and that left his son Washington Roebling in charge of construction.

  Not long after construction began, Washington got the bends—you know, compression sickness. It left him incapacitated, so his wife Emily took over. Washington had to stay inside their apartment in Brooklyn and he’d watch through field glasses and then send written messages down to the site through her, but she studied mathematics and figured out all of the engineering intricacies involved. Nearly thirty people died in the construction of this bridge.”

  “This is impressive, but not quite as touching as the Wonder Wheel story.”

  I’m realizing now that all of the historical anecdotes I tell her involve husbands and wives, for some reason …

  “Anyway. Emily Warren Roebling was the first person to cross the Brooklyn Bridge. She carried a rooster. As a symbol of victory. A week later, people were concerned that the bridge would collapse, so they let PT Barnum parade twenty-one elephants across it. Nobody had any doubts after that.”

  I pull her hand onto my lap.

  “That day that Keaton told me about you turning him down when he went to your place at lunch, I had to get out of the office. I just started walking, and I walked across this bridge, both ways. Trying to keep moving, trying to decide what to do.”

  “Oh God, you weren’t thinking of jumping, were you?!”

  “Naw. I wouldn’t do that to my parents. But I almost hurled my phone into the river to keep from calling you.”

  She smiles and kisses me. “I’m so glad I found you at the bar. I love you.”