by Cat Carmine
“Thank you,” I say softly, when I’m standing so close to him that I can feel his breath against my face. I look up at him. My lips are parted.
“You’re welcome.” His voice is hoarse. He leans his head down, almost in slow motion.
It seems to take forever for his lips to find mine, but when they do, everything erupts. Everything. My hands are everywhere, and so are his. His mouth covers mine hungrily, his tongue teasing mine and forcing my head back with the power of it. I slide my hands up under his undershirt, finding his abs as sculpted as I had imagined. Maybe more so. I dance my fingers over one muscle and then the next, all the way up to his pecs and back down to the waist of his pants.
There is a teeny tiny part of my brain that’s screaming at me to stop. I don’t even know this guy’s name, and yet here I am, ready to stroke my hand over his cock in the bathroom of a bar. I get it. I know how bad this looks.
And yet, for maybe the first time in my life, I just. don’t. give. a. fuck. how it looks. All I care about is how it feels.
And it feels freaking amazing.
I let my hand drop lower and run it over his bulge. And I’m not going to lie, it’s quite the bulge. Under those expensive pants, he’s hard as a rock. He groans against my lips, and I can feel his cock twitch under my fingers. It sends a thrill of desire through me.
His mouth moves on from mine, trailing kisses down over my throat, across my collarbone. He pushes the white shirt he just gave me down off my shoulders, kissing the exposed part of my breasts. My nipples are straining against my bra, almost like they’re begging for his lips to taste them. When he pushes the cups of my bra down, I moan. He runs his thumb over one stiff pink nipple and pinches it gently before swirling his tongue around it. I run my hands through his hair as he does. All I want is for him to stay right there, doing exactly that, for the rest of my life.
Except, oh God, now his hands are shoving the fabric of my skirt up, stroking my thighs while he tongues my nipples. I spread my legs, giving him better access as he runs his fingers over the lace of my underwear. He presses the heel of his hand against me, grinding against my clit and making me dizzy with lust.
“Oh God.”
“Do you want this?” he asks as he pushes aside the fabric of my panties and finds my wetness. His fingers know exactly what to do, and there’s no way I could say no to his question, even if I wanted to.
“Yes,” I pant. “I want it all.”
His thumb strokes my clit. The walls of my pussy are clenching, desperate to feel his fingers or his cock or God, anything, inside me right now.
He’s moving his fingers slowly over me, teasing me with every little stroke. But this isn’t the time for going slow. No sirree. I reach for his cock again and run my palm over it, then fumble at the button of his pants until I get it undone and can free the beast inside. When his dick is out, I can see first-hand how thick it is, how pink and veiny and perfect. It seems to pulse with life, with desire. My pussy clenches again as I wrap my fist around his cock.
He groans, and now he pushes me up against the sink.
“Turn around,” he growls. I do as he says. I watch him in the mirror as he shoves up my skirt and strokes his fingers over my channel from behind. I’m so wet that I’m practically dripping, and he spreads that wetness around before running his cock over my entrance.
“Condom,” I pant, before he can go any further. I mean, I might be crazy with lust right now, but I’m not that crazy.
“Of course.” He reaches into his pocket and fishes out the square foil. Gotta love a man who’s prepared. He rips it open with his teeth and sheaths himself.
I suck in a breath — am I really going to do this? But even before I finish asking the question, I already know the answer. And the answer is a resounding hell yes. It seems like I’ve never wanted anything more than I want him in this moment.
He runs his sheathed cock over my entrance again, coating himself in my wetness. I shimmy my ass backwards, opening for him, wanting him to hurry up and fuck me already.
He chuckles as he puts his hand on my lower back, but at least he seems to take the hint. He pushes his dick against me, easing into me, pushing the head past my entrance. Then he sinks deeper, filling me.
We move together, me pushing my hips back to meet every thrust. He’s not gentle, but he’s not overly rough either. Just the right amount of forceful, like my body is his and he knows exactly what to do with it.
It feels … amazing. Indescribable. I mean, I’ve had good sex before. At least, I thought I had. Sex with men who were technically proficient, who knew where a clit was and that they should at least spend a little bit of time there. Men who were polite and fucked politely.
This is something else. This is unbridled lust. This is pure electricity, something that moves between my body and his. Somehow, the fact that I don’t even know his name, that we’re in a public bathroom, that we could get caught any time, only makes it hotter.
And my body responds. It usually takes me a bit of time to come, and sometimes I don’t at all, even with those technically proficient men who supposedly know what they’re doing. But now, we’re only a couple of minutes into this, and already my legs are shaking, my abs are tightening, my pussy is clenching down around him.
I hold onto the sink as he thrusts into me. My body gets tighter and tighter, like an elastic band pulled taut before it finally snaps. I bite down on my own shoulder to keep from screaming. The orgasm rips through me, more powerful than any I’ve ever had in my life.
My mystery man groans as I clamp down on him, and then he slams his hips into me again and again, chasing his own climax. The force of it only draws mine out more, and I have to lean all my weight on the sink to keep from falling over. Finally, he grabs my hips and thrusts into me one more time, groaning and collapsing onto my back as he comes.
My muscles are still shaking, my pussy still clenching with the aftershocks, and it takes a few seconds before either of us can even think about standing up. I watch in the mirror as he pushes my hair aside — my expensive blowout’s been shot to hell, that’s for sure — and kisses the back of my neck. It’s soft, gentle. Special, somehow.
“Thank you,” he murmurs. His lips are still against my neck. “That was incredible.”
I’ll say. I can’t even form words. Instead, I smile at him in the mirror. I barely recognize myself. The look I give him is lazy, sensual, uninhibited. Distinctly un-Emma.
Too soon, he straightens up, trashing the condom and adjusting his pants. I stand up too, tugging my skirt back into place and pulling on the shirt he gave me. I’m just doing up the buttons and am thinking about how to politely wrap this up…
And that’s when the bathroom door swings open.
Four
“Emma! There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Solange, my publicist, bursts into the bathroom. Her face lights up when she sees me, but it falls as she surveys the scene in here — me buttoning my shirt, him in nothing but his white undershirt, his jacket still resting on the counter, both of us still flushed pink with the last vestiges of lust. Thank God he’d at least managed to zip up his pants.
Solange looks confused for a minute, but her face snaps into a polite smile.
“Mr. Grant,” she says. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here. Wait … what are you doing here?”
He swallows. He hesitates for only a moment before a practiced smile comes over his face.
“I thought I’d come out and support the team. I ran into … Emma … here at the bar and unfortunately spilled wine all over her, so I was helping her clean up.”
He gestures to my soggy shirt, still balled up in the sink, and the wad of wet napkins next to it.
“Oh!” Solange looks relieved. Me, on the other hand, I’m spiraling head-first into a deep vortex of panic. She called him Mr. Grant. Mr. Grant. As in Good Grant Books?
Surely, no.
I mean, no.
I wouldn’t be that
stupid, right?
Life wouldn’t be that cruel, right?
“Well, I’m sure Emma is thrilled for the support,” Solange says. “Not everyone gets to have the CEO come out for a book launch. In fact … I’m not sure I remember this ever happening before. Pretty great, right, Emma?” She grins.
I plaster a smile on my face while my stomach bottoms out. “It’s great,” I mumble. I sneak a glance back at Mr. Grant and find that he looks about as nauseated as I feel. Still, he gives me a barely perceptible smile.
“Anyway,” Solange is saying. “All good now? It’s getting pretty packed out there.”
“Great,” I say again. I frantically try to comb my fingers through my hair, but my blowout is a lost cause. I smooth it down as best as I can, then finish tying the long tails of my borrowed shirt around my waist. I’d kill for a minute alone to touch up my make-up — and maybe have another mini freakout — but Solange is looking at me expectantly.
“Ready?”
“Sure.” By which I mean, not even close.
She pushes open the door of the bathroom. It leads into a small, dim hallway, which the three of us walk down in silence. I feel like I’m on death row, and Mr. Grant seems just as somber as he trails behind me. My mind is going a thousand miles an hour, trying to figure out how to fix this or, even better, go back in time and make it so it never happened at all.
Except I don’t have time to think about it anymore, because as soon as we emerge into the main part of the bar, I’m swarmed with people.
There’s my sister Rori, her boyfriend Wes, my other sister Blake, my parents, my roommate Lucy and her boyfriend Lou — they all descend on me, wrapping me in hugs and wishing me congratulations and just generally being lovely and completely overwhelming. My parents thrust a bouquet of flowers into my arms … and I burst into tears.
Everyone stops, frozen. I frantically wipe at my face, making an even further mess of my make-up, and try to smile.
“I’m sorry, I’m just so overwhelmed. You’re all so sweet to come out to support me.”
It’s Rori who pushes through everyone else and wraps her arm protectively around my shoulder.
“Let’s all give her a minute, okay? I’m sure Emma’s just a bit nervous.” She pulls me back into the narrow hallway, away from the worst of the hubbub.
Our friends and family stare, but Blake takes over and ushers all of them back over into the main bar area. Even from here, I can see how crowded it is in there, which makes my stomach roll again. In that moment, I love my two sisters more than I ever have in my life.
“What’s going on?” Rori hisses when no one else is around. Mr. Grant and Solange have disappeared into the crowd along with my family. “Is everything okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say. I wipe my eyes again. “I just need to clean up a bit. It’s all kind of overwhelming.”
Rori nods and walks with me into the bathroom again. My soggy shirt is still sitting on the counter, but I can’t even bear to look at it. Instead, I focus on my reflection and on trying to finger-comb my frizzed mane into something resembling presentable.
Meanwhile, I try to figure out who the hell that guy was. Solange had referred to him as the CEO, but I’ve seen Malcom Grant in news articles and on television, and he’s portly and grey-haired. And this guy most definitely isn’t either of those things. But the Grant name can’t be a coincidence, right?
Rori wordlessly hands me a brush from her purse, as well as a tube of lip gloss and a stick of cover-up. I smile gratefully and touch my face up as well as I can. My cheeks are still cherry red, but hey, at least I don’t need blush?
Rori leans against the counter until I’m done. “Good?” she finally asks.
I take a deep breath. “I think so. Thanks, Rori.”
“Of course. I have to admit, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you so out of sorts. Kinda freaked me out a little.”
I grin. “Me too. But I’m good now.”
“Good. Because you’re going to do great tonight. You know that, right?”
I take another deep breath. “I hope so.”
“I know so.” She throws her brush and make-up back into her bag. “Now on to more cheerful topics, I see you finally met Tyler. He’s a sweetie, right?”
“Tyler?”
“Yeah — you know, Wes’s friend. I told you about him.”
“Tyler … Grant.” The words fall out of my mouth slowly. Everything suddenly clicks into place.
“Yes. Tyler Grant. Emma, I’ve told you about him half a dozen times. How many glasses of wine did you drink, exactly?” Rori’s peering into my eyes, trying to gauge if I’m loaded.
I want to tell her that I only wish I had that as an excuse. Of course I remember her talking about Tyler Grant. Tyler was her boyfriend Wes’s best friend from college. He also happened to be the son of Malcom Grant, media mogul and owner of Good Grant Books. Ever since Rori had found out they were publishing my book, she’d been trying to organize a lunch or a round of drinks with her, Wes, Tyler, and I, but thanks to our mutual schedules, nothing had materialized yet.
“Yes, I met him,” I say slowly. Met him. Kissed him. Fucked him against the sink. You know … the usual. “You didn’t tell me he was running Good Grant Books now. I thought you said he wasn’t involved in the family business?”
Rori looks surprised. “He wasn’t. At least as far as I knew. Must be a new thing. I’ll ask Wes about it.”
“Right.” I don’t say anything else. I force myself to smile at my sister. “We should get back out there. Solange is probably ready to pop a blood vessel.”
“You sure you’re doing okay?” Rori asks again. Her brow is furrowed in concern. “You look a bit … flushed.”
“Fine, fine. Really. Just nerves.”
“I don’t blame you.” Rori laughs. “I’d be a mess right now. Public speaking. Ugh.”
She pretends to shudder, and I fake a smile. Public speaking is the least of my worries. I sneak one more glance at my sodden shirt on the sink counter. I never want to see it again.
We walk back into the bar together, and this time I force myself to greet my family and friends like a normal human being. I thank my parents for the flowers and peek inside the stiff paper wrapping at the arrangement inside. It’s a gorgeous hand-tied assortment of roses and calla lilies. My parents run a small flower shop in Connecticut called Bloomers, and the rich floral perfume immediately takes me back to my childhood. I breathe them in and let the scent calm me.
It works, too — for a whole five seconds. Then I’m right back where I started. I nervously scan the bar, trying to find Tyler in the crowd, hoping against hope that maybe he’s decided to duck out early. I spot him back at the bar, in the same seats we’d been sitting in earlier. He’s got a beer in front of him now, and he sips it, gazing around the room.
When his eyes light on me, I look away.
Then peek back.
He’s still looking at me.
There’s an amused twinkle in his eye that I don’t appreciate. I try to tell him with my gaze that he’s welcome to leave any time, but he just sits there, grinning that smug grin.
He mouths something at me, and I squint, trying to understand what he’s saying. He mouths it again.
“Nice shirt.”
My hands go to the knotted tie at my waist. I glare at him, but that only seems to amuse him more.
“Emma! Earth to Emma!”
Solange is trying to get my attention, and I rip my eyes away from Tyler and smile at her.
“Sorry. Lost in thought there.”
“No problem. We’re almost ready to get started. Are you ready?”
I almost snort. Hell no, I’m not ready. But instead, I do what I always do — I smile and give her the answer she wants to hear.
“Of course.”
She leads me to the front of the room. The bar immediately starts to quiet as people detect us making our way to the stage. My heart kicks up a notch with every step I take, an
d by the time I’m standing at the front, watching Solange climb onto the stage and walk to the podium, it’s hammering almost right out of my chest.
I try to concentrate while Solange gives her little introduction. She says all kinds of nice things about me — about my column, about my book, about how much she likes working with me. But when she says she wishes she could be as together as I am, I actually snort out loud. So much for that. Thankfully, no one hears me.
My sisters have made their way to the front to stand next to me, and when Solange finally calls me to the stage, Rori gives my arm a squeeze. Blake pats my ass playfully and hisses, “Go get ‘em, tiger.”
I love them again in that moment, but it’s still not enough to calm my quaking legs. I climb the short step onto the stage and give Solange a robotic hug before she descends back into the crowd. I stare down at the podium.
There’s a copy of my book up there already, bookmarked to the spot Solange or her team had picked out for me to read. My hands shake as I open it. I can feel everyone in the bar staring at me expectantly. Their eyes are like a thousand little bed bugs, making my skin itch. I wonder if it’s too late to call this whole thing off?
No. I have to suck it up and be a grown-up here. Isn’t that what I always tell people in my advice column? Time for me to do the same.
I lean forward into the microphone.
“Hi. I’m Emma Holloway. Thank you, Solange, and thank you everyone, for coming out tonight. I’m going to be reading from my new book, Miss Emma’s Rules for Dating: A Guide to Modern Relationships.”
There. That wasn’t so bad. My voice shook a little, but not terribly. I can do this.
I flip open the book and press down against the spine, flattening the pages — okay, and trying to buy myself another minute to breathe. I scan the page to see what chapter they decided on for the reading, and when I read the words, I almost cry.
‘Casual Sex: Just Say No.’
“No,” I whisper. “No.” Except of course, the microphone picks up my words and broadcasts them across the bar. I look into the crowd, finding Solange’s face. She looks encouragingly up at me, nodding. But my eyes don’t stop there. They travel straight to the bar. To him. Tyler is sitting there, holding onto his beer. His earlier grin is gone, and now he actually looks … like he’s worried about me. Wonderful.
