The Man Cave Collection: Manservant, Man Flu, Man Handler, and Man Buns

by Ryan, Shari J.

  “You need to get laid,” Brielle says as she walks into my bedroom.

  “Why are you still here?”

  “To make sure you know how to put form-fitting clothes on properly.” She shakes her head and walks up behind me, reaches around and yanks my shirt down way more than I’m comfortable with.

  “If I take one wrong step, my bra will be on display.”

  “Right.” She pulls my shirt away from my chest, looking down at my bra. I snatch the material out of her hand, but she saw enough. “No.”

  “I’m not changing my bra right now. He’s going to be here at any minute.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “I don’t have anything nicer than this unless you’d prefer nursing bras. I still have some of those lying around.”

  She stomps her foot like a child and clenches her fists by her sides. “You are impossible.”

  “No, I’m a grown woman,” I correct her. She’s conducting an odd maneuver under her shirt, and I already know where this is going. “No, thank you.” As much as I’d like to wear the bra you’ve been showing off beneath your white blouse all day, I’d rather not. She whips out a hot pink, lacy see-through piece of … tissue? That can’t be fabric. “Find that at the dollar store?”

  “Um, no, this is an eighty-dollar bra, so please keep it in one piece.”

  “It’ll probably rip when I try to clasp the thing together,” I argue.

  She holds the thin fabric out to me, waiting. If I drag this out much longer, the doorbell is going to ring, and she’ll pull another stunt like she did this afternoon.

  I shuffle around under my shirt and detach the nude, supporting bra with comfortable straps, switching it out for the lingerie Brielle wears just for the hell of it. “Mmm, super comfy,” I squeak. I look in the mirror and tilt my head to the side. “Um, I’m pretty sure I can see my nipples.”

  “Nah, you just know they’re there, so you’re imagining it,” she says.

  “I don’t think that’s how it works.”

  “It is, trust me. Adam tells me all the time.” I’m waiting for the laughter to follow her boneheaded statement, but her face remains neutral.

  “I’ll just wear a sweater.” I grab my black one from off the bed and slip it over my shoulders.

  “Why would you waste such a perfect view with a frumpy sweater?”

  “Because it’s fifty degrees out, and my nipples will tear this new shirt apart—and I’m a mom.” I glare at her through the mirror’s reflection, and she looks away, checking out more of my attire. “At least those jeans are perfect.”

  “I haven’t had purposeful holes in my jeans since the nineties,” I tell her.

  She ignores me and continues going down whatever checklist she’s made up in her head. “Did you shave?”

  “Obviously.”

  “Did you get a wax after work like I told you to?”

  “I ran out of time.”

  “Hannah, no. What is the current situation down there? You better not tell me you have hip hugging, muffin-top controlling panties on right now.”

  “No, I’m wearing a thong,” I mutter.

  “A what?”

  “A thong, Brielle. You know, the thread that tears up your ass crack all day?”

  “What’s under the thong?” she continues.

  “What do you think is under the thong?” I counter.

  “An unhappy little tree.”

  “That’s it,” I tell her. With my arms in the air, I walk past her and head downstairs.

  “No, Hannah! I’m trying to protect you. You can’t have sex tonight. Not until you remove the unhappy little tree. Logan isn’t a forest ranger.”

  “Stop it,” I shout. “Enough already.”

  “I’m serious, Hannah. No sex for you.”

  “Or what?”

  “Or … or, I’ll tell everyone in the office you slept with Logan.”

  I whip around, facing up the stairs where she’s standing, carefully keeping her distance. “You better be joking with me right now. First, you won’t know whether I do or not. Second, how could you say something like that?”

  “Because. I’m trying to spare you. Logan isn’t just some guy, Hannah. He could have any chick in this state, or in any of the bordering states for that matter. Hell, he could have anyone in this whole country, but for some reason, he’s intrigued by you and your perm-a-scowl.”

  Wow. That’s harsh. Even coming from the most honest person in the world, I wouldn’t expect her to say something like that to me. “Real nice, Brielle.”

  “There’s a difference between dating and being married for ten years.” It’s her closing argument just in time for the doorbell to ring. It’s awesome that I can begin this night on that last note, leaving me to feel like I was just slapped across the face.

  I open the door, finding Logan in fitted jeans, a black tee, and a leather jacket. His dark caramel hair is a short mess—sexed up and perfect. If I were him, I probably would have had sex with someone before coming here so I wouldn’t feel so inclined to donate to this charity case of a washed-up mom.

  “You look hot,” he says, walking in, then past me.

  “Thank you?”

  “Is that a question?”

  “Kinda.”

  “Well, you know how they say, ‘There’s no such thing as a dumb question?’”

  “Is that how we’re starting the night?” I ask.

  “I guess so.” He circles around the foyer, looking in the mirror for a quick second.

  “Why did you want to go out with me tonight, Logan? Is this a joke? Do you feel bad for me?”

  “I do feel bad for you, but it’s not a joke.”

  “Oh, my grrr, okay, can you just go home, and we can pretend like this didn’t happen?”

  “No, I want to go out,” he argues.

  “Why? Please just save me the pity, and tell me the damn truth.”

  “Are you always like this?”

  “Like what?”

  “So … uptight?”

  “No!”

  “You have everything I want, Hannah. Is that so hard to believe?”

  “I have what you want? What is that supposed to mean?” I’m verging on infuriated, trying to figure out what the hell his agenda is. If this weren’t my house, I’d leave.

  “Okay, folks, I’m going to take this brief intermission and sneak out before things get any more heated—or iced,” Brielle says as she jogs down the steps toward us. “Oh, and one piece of advice—just bang bongos, already.” Then she stops halfway down the stairs as if she forgot something. “Oh, wait. No, bongos tonight. Wait until the next night, yeah. Those are the rules, okay?” She shakes her head around as if she heard something loose rolling around in there, then continues down the stairs. Bongos?

  Brielle is one for leaving with the last words, and those particular words are just the icing on the cake.

  She slams the door on the way out, and now it’s truly just the two of us here. That thought makes me anxious because I’m still wondering what it is he wants with me.

  I cross my arms over my chest, feeling my shirt tug against the tissue bra I’m wearing. This is so stupid.

  “You’re gorgeous. You have your life together, even though you think you don’t. You have a career and manage to care for your daughter better than most moms I see. You don’t let people get too close because you’re smart enough to protect yourself. You’re mature, but a little immature. You’re what I’ve been looking for in a woman, and if you add up all those qualities, it makes for a pretty long list. I feel like when I meet someone who gets all the check marks on my list, I shouldn’t just waste the opportunity … even if she pukes all over me.” He hesitates before that last phrase, then adds it with a smirk, and a sparkle in his eyes I can’t help finding a bit adorable.

  I want to respond, but words aren’t forming in my head. I make up some guy’s crazy checklist? This must be another delusional daydream again. “I don’t even know what to s
ay.”

  “Thank you? I find you attractive too, and you’re okay … I guess.” He speaks the words he’d like to hear me say, and maybe if I thought he was serious a moment ago, I would have said them instinctively, but I’m still hesitating. Maybe Nick and Taylor set up this practical joke to pay me back for “stealing” a promotion one of them could have had. I wouldn’t put it past either of them.

  “You know you’re attractive. Why do I need to tell you?”

  “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, darlin’.” I’m not sure what he means, but he’s making it sound like he feels the way I do when looking at my reflection.

  “I don’t understand you,” I tell him.

  “Probably because we’ve only known each other a few days now.”

  “Exactly,” I agree. “So, this is kind of quick to be going on a date, don’t you think?”

  “Considering people are in the habit of skipping dates and instead just meeting up for sex because a phone app said they’re compatible, I’d like to think it was appropriate that I at least asked you out. What else was I supposed to do? Court you first?”

  “Well—”

  “Plus, you’re sort of my boss, so before I steal your job from you, I want to say I slept with my boss.” A smirk plays over his lips. He’s kidding, but he’s not kidding. He’d fit way better in the office than I have or ever will, even though it’s a company running a mom magazine. “Plus, behind every product for a mom, is a great guy.”

  “Funny,” I chide.

  “You’re smiling,” he says. “So, I’m obviously a little funny.”

  “Okay, but you aren’t stealing my job, so don’t bother trying. I have the law on my side—the whole equality in the workplace thing.”

  “This has obviously crossed your mind already then, huh?” He’s toying with me. He’s trying to get under my skin … or clothing. He’s doing a fine job at both.

  “If jerking cars around until your junk is grabbed isn’t how you pick women up, is this your game? Antagonizing them until they fall to their knees?”

  “No, but I like the way you think.”

  He’s taking steps toward me, and I bet he expects me to take some steps backward in response, just to give him the power of control. I’m not moving, however.

  The closer he comes, the more his cologne penetrates the air around me, and it’s like a delicious-smelling salt, awakening every part of me. “Where are you taking me tonight?” I ask him, proving a sense of confidence I think he’s doubting in me.

  “I was going to leave it up to you since you seem to have an opinion about everything.”

  “I do have an opinion about everything. Is that a problem for you?”

  He’s in my bubble and staring down at me as if I were his meek prey. “I told you, I like that.”

  “Do you like standing in my space and staring down at me, too?”

  “Tell me to move if you don’t want me standing here … this close to you.” His voice has lowered to a whispering growl, and the vibrations echoing between the foyer’s walls are triggering my nerves into a frenzied state of panic.

  The words from Ryan Gosling in “The Notebook” ring through my head, “What do you want? What do you want? WHAT do you want?” I want to make out with a hot guy. I want that. I do. But he works for me, and it’s wrong, which makes it so damn right. I could tell him, “It’s not that simple,” or “I have to go.” For as long as I’ve been hearing Ryan Gosling’s voice in my head and replaying that old-fashioned Southern scene in my mind, Logan’s face is less than an inch from mine. Why am I thinking about Ryan Gosling when I have this man standing here? He’s on the same level on the ovary-explode-o-meter as Gosling, and I’m being ballsy.

  “I’m worried,” I whisper.

  He smirks as his faint breath envelops my lips. “That it won’t be what you want?” he purrs into my mouth.

  “No.” I’m having trouble catching my breath, even though I haven’t moved in minutes. “That it might be exactly what I want—precisely what I’ve needed—and ultimately, what I’ve never had.”

  “Well, in that case …” His lips yield to mine in a seamless alliance of warmth and fervor as his fingertips press into my back, holding me hostage within his embrace. My heart drums against the inside of my chest, as shooting sparks of adrenaline fire down the center of my core.

  A pause for air breaks the space between our mouths, leaving my lips tingling and a little numb. “I knew it,” he says.

  “What?” I croak.

  “There’s something between us—with us.”

  “Hot,” is all I can mumble. Hot? Hot makes no sense. The kiss was hot, yes. Am I hot? Yes. Does he know any of this? I have no idea.

  “Yeah,” he groans. He gets it, I guess. His lips are back on mine, but this time we’re moving backwards—my heels are nearly gliding until my back reaches the wall. His hips are pressed against mine, and he cups his hands firmly on my cheeks, inhaling sharply as he bites down on my bottom lip. Shit, I need more of this. I need him. I don’t give a crap if I’m his boss or if he’s my boss. I need to get screwed—now.

  This is not a dream. This is real. Real. Real.

  “Hannah?” The voice, the ear piercing, nails-on-a-chalkboard voice that I cannot stand, echoes through the cathedral ceiling within the foyer. “Oh, Hannah, I’m so sorry. I needed to get Cora’s blankie. She can’t sleep without it. Carry on with who you were doing—by all means. Just pretend like I’m not here.” She literally walks by us as if we are no more than a piece of entryway decor that she admired for a brief moment. There was no knock on the door, no ringing the bell like we’ve talked about four million times. She just walked in, like I’ve asked her to stop doing.

  Logan rests his forehead against mine. “Is this bad?”

  I snicker. “Are you kidding? This is freaking fantastic,” I tell him.

  13

  This Thursday-Friday can keep on going …

  “Am I taking advantage?” Logan asks as he tears my low-cut-for-nothing shirt up and over my head.

  “No, you’re solving a problem,” I mumble between kissing and nibbling on his neck, wishing cologne tasted like it smelled.

  “A problem?” He’s breathless from carrying me up the stairs and fighting with a tight shirt, and tighter pants.

  “It’s been over a year,” I admit, softly enough that I don’t need to hear the words thunder in my head.

  “A year is a long time,” he says, freeing my pants from around my ass. His hands are warm, yet cool to the touch as they palm each cheek as if they’re meant for gripping. He lifts me up, forcing my legs around his waist, and carries me to the bed.

  He’s a storm made of heated sensuality—soft and hard, and excited but reserved sensations, if that makes any sense. His movements are like a panther—slow, planned, and acutely accurate to achieve the imploring moans and whimpers emerging from my throat. I realize I’m the only one who’s naked, and I need more of him.

  I tug at Logan’s shirt, peeling it slowly up his chest, admiring the ripples and ridges of his athletically toned and chiseled body. It’s as perfect as I imagined. It’s like I’m unwrapping the most awaited for gift on Christmas morning as I run my fingertips up and down the uneven surface, grazing the muscles with the tips of my fingers while admiring his bewitching craft.

  With an ache between my legs continuing to grow, I reach for the button on his fitted jeans, unclasping, unzipping, and freeing his substantial boner from its constraints.

  He presses my arms above my head, mounting me before lowering himself down. “Wait,” I tell him.

  “I don’t want to,” he says. His lips fall to my neck as his cock feathers against my thigh. My chest heaves with anticipation, but the coarse texture of his jeans are rough against my legs, enough to steal pleasure from the moment. I reach forward to tug his pants down more, needing him to be as naked as I am. “Stop.”

  “What’s the matter?” I ask, concern filling my breathy voice.
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  He’s holding himself above me with a look of intent, yet hesitation at the same time. Logan lowers himself and rests his head on my chest, bringing this encounter to an intimate moment rather than the heated passion we were sharing just seconds ago.

  “Can’t I just keep my pants on?” he asks.

  Totally blindsided by his bizarre question, I can’t help the snort exploding from within my nose. “You want to keep your pants on?” Laughter is still rolling in of its own accord, but seriously, what is this man talking about?

  “Yes.” He is as serious as a caged lion.

  “Well, your jeans are a little rough to maneuver around—hey, so, why do you want to keep your pants on during sex?” Never have I ever just had a casual conversation about sex, right before sex, with a hot man who wants to have sex without removing his pants.

  Logan sighs and rolls onto his back, placing his hand on his chest. “I told you I was injured and that’s why I don’t play anymore.”

  “Yes, you told me.”

  “I can’t—” he continues.

  “You can’t …”

  “I just can’t.”

  Okay, that’s why he’s interested in me. I’m the type of person who doesn’t need a pretty penis to get off … I’ve got nothing else.

  “You can’t keep it up?” Just taking a stab. Probably best not to say that out loud, however.

  “Oh, no, I can—” he laughs, coyly, “I can keep it up, sweetheart.” While mentally going through a dozen or so possibilities of what he can’t do, he calls me sweetheart, and I melt a little, feeling the need to “aww” out loud. Although, I should note the fact that he was referring to me endearingly while assuring me he can keep his dick hard. What the hell is wrong with me?

  “Okay, so you can keep it up, but you …” I’m fishing here.

  “It’s just—,” He grabs one of my pillows and smothers his face. After a long four-seconds, he tosses the pillow off the bed. “It’s not pretty down there.” Don’t laugh, Hannah. Be an adult. Do not giggle. I exhale slowly to suppress the rumble working up the back of my throat.