by Cat Carmine
“He’s totally great,” I say firmly, or as firmly as I can as I stumble over my own shoe and fall against the window of a shawarma place.
“He’s great,” she says again.
I stop walking. “You should go over there.”
Lucy shakes her head. “No! This is Girls Night. I’m coming home. We’re going to pound water and watch an episode of The Mindy Project and pass out.”
“No,” I insist, even though that does sound appealing. “You should go see him. Tell him that he’s great. And then get some.” I try to wink, but I think my face scrunches up into a weird crease instead.
Lucy giggles. “No, Emma, that would be lame. I’m coming home with you. You shouldn’t go home by yourself.”
“I’m totally fine,” I tell her. I wave down a cab as it approaches. “You should go to Lou. I’m fine by myself. Really. I’m used to being alone.” I hold my head high, trying to sound noble.
The cab crests to a stop in front of us. Lucy is still protesting, but I shove her into the backseat and slam the door closed behind her. She looks helplessly from the window as I wave her off.
I stumble my way back onto the sidewalk and keep my eyes peeled for the next cab that turns onto the street. I’m already pulling my phone out of my purse, already scrolling through my text messages to find the one I’m looking for.
It doesn’t take long for another yellow cab to pull up in front of me. I throw myself into the backseat and give the driver the Tribeca address. The address I found in my text messages, sent to me the other day so that I could return a shirt.
Tyler’s address.
Eight
It’s two o’clock in the morning when my phone rings. I sit up in a panic, reaching blindly towards my nightstand. My first thought is my parents, that something has happened to one of them. God knows my dad’s been on the verge of a heart attack for the last ten years. My second thought is Lacy — she’s got to be seven months pregnant now, and even though I haven’t talked to her in a few months, I get a sudden pulse-pounding fear that something’s happened to her or the baby.
Instead, when I stare down at the screen on my phone, it’s the downstairs concierge’s number that I see.
“What?” I press the phone to my ear as I scrub my free hand over my eyes.
“I’m very sorry to disturb you, sir.” It’s Arnie, the night guy. He sounds deeply apologetic. “There’s a young lady here to see you. She was quite insistent.”
A young lady? Oh shit. I don’t like the sound of that. The last thing I need is a former one-night stand showing up at my apartment in the middle of the night and hoping to make it a two-fer.
“Sorry, Arnie. Can you handle it? Don’t let her up.”
“Very good, sir. Of course — Ms. Holloway! Please don’t put your feet in the fountain!”
Miss Holloway? As in Emma?
What the hell is she doing here?
“Arnie, wait.” I’m sitting up in my darkened bedroom, reaching for the jeans I’d tossed aside last night.
“Ms. Holloway!” he hisses again. “I don’t care that you’ve been wearing those high heels all night. The fountain is meant to be decorative, not therapeutic.”
I chuckle, trying to imagine Emma taking off her shoes and sticking her feet in the sculptural water feature in the building’s lobby.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Grant, sir,” Arnie is saying.
“It’s fine. You can let her up.”
“Are you sure, sir? She’s quite … intoxicated.”
I huff out a laugh. “Yes, it’s fine. Thanks, Arnie.”
I pull the jeans on and go through the loft, turning on a few of the lights. A minute later, there’s a pounding on my door.
I pull it open, and Emma nearly stumbles in, mid-knock. She rights herself, blinking at me in surprise. Then her face twists into a smile.
“Well, hello there.” She leans against the doorframe. It’s sexy, or at least it’s supposed to be, except for the fact that she misses the doorframe completely and almost lands on the floor. I reach for her in time, and she falls into my arms instead.
She looks surprised again, but she grins up at me.
“Hi,” she says again. I can smell the vodka on her breath, but even without that, it’s pretty clear that she’s completely hammered. She’s barefoot, holding a pair of stilettos in one hand, and she lets them fall onto my entryway floor.
“What’s up, Emma?” I ask, ushering her inside and closing the door behind her. “Having yourself a little party?”
“Yeah.” She laughs. “A party for one. But parties for one are no fun, Tyler. You know what I mean?”
She purses her lips and bats her big, grey eyes up at me as she twines her arms around my neck.
Fuck. I’m not going to lie, having her body in my arms is nice. Really nice. She’s got on a tight little black dress, which shows off her equally tight body. Without her shoes on, she’s shorter than I remembered, and the top of her head doesn’t even reach my chin. She’s only wearing one earring for some reason, but I write that off as a casualty of whatever chaos she’s been causing tonight.
“You know what I mean?” she says again. She nuzzles her lips against my bare chest as her hands slide over my abs, down towards my waist.
It takes everything in my power, but I take a step backwards. “How about I get you some water?”
She steps forward, closing the distance between us again. This time, she grabs hold of the waist of my jeans, trying to tug me forward.
“I don’t want water,” she says, in what I think is supposed to be a throaty growl but sounds a bit like a bridge troll. “I want you to fuck me.”
Well. Fuck me. If I wasn’t hard before, I definitely am now. I force myself to take another step back from her, then guide her into the living room area.
“Emma, you’re drunk. And while I’d be more than happy to fuck you when you’re sober, I’d never forgive myself if I took advantage of you right now.”
“I’m not drunk,” she insists. “I’m bust juzzed.”
“Right.” I ease her down onto the couch. “Stay right there. I’m going to get you some water.”
In my kitchen, I get Emma a tall glass of water and down one myself, too, before I go back out there. I need to keep my cool, because there’s no way she’s going to be happy about any of this tomorrow.
I emerge back into the living room and freeze. Fuck.
“Don’t you want to fuck me again, Tyler?” Emma has taken a few steps away from the couch and faces me. She’s peeled off all her clothes and is completely naked. She bites her bottom lip as she holds my gaze.
I hadn’t gotten a good look at her body the other day in the bathroom at Veneer, but I’d pictured it many, many times since. And none of those fantasies even came close to the reality. Emma Holloway is fucking perfection. Toned muscles, smooth skin, long legs, big tits. Soft in all the right places. A literal dream woman.
And now she’s running her hands over her tits, pinching her own nipples. They pucker, pulling the skin taut, almost begging my lips to surround them.
“Come on, Tyler,” she says again. Her hands travel down over her smooth stomach and between her legs. She parts herself and fingers her clit as I watch. She’s still looking at me, her eyes burning into me. “Don’t you want to be inside me again?”
Well, in that moment, there’s honestly never been anything I’ve wanted more. My dick strains against the jeans I’d tugged on, and I picture turning her around, leaning her over the arm of the couch, and taking her from behind again. Or maybe spreading her thighs and making her come all over my tongue this time. Hell, why not both?
Instead, I do the fucking obnoxious and responsible thing. I pick her up and carry her down the hall.
She shrieks when I sling her over my shoulder. I can feel her tits crushed against my bare chest, and it doesn’t help matters when she squirms against me.
“Are you taking me to bed?” She giggles.
“No. I’
m putting you to bed.”
“That’s no fun.”
“I’m not a very fun guy.”
“Yes, you are. That’s why I like you, Tyler. You’re fun.”
“Thanks.” I chuckle as I let her fall into my bed. It’s unmade from when I climbed out of it earlier, and I try to pull the sheets up over her, but she kicks them off.
“Aren’t you going to join me?” she teases. Her hands are slipping down between her legs again, stroking her pussy.
I groan. I deserve a fucking medal for this level of restraint. “Tomorrow,” I promise her, swallowing hard. “If you still feel like this tomorrow, I’ll fuck you so hard, you’ll forget your own name.”
“I will, Tyler. I’ll always want it. Look how wet you make me.” She pulls her fingers away from her pussy, and sure enough, they’re glistening.
Look, I’m not Superman, okay? Or if I am, maybe Emma’s my Kryptonite. Because I grab her wrist and bring her hand to my mouth, sucking her fingers one by one, cleaning every last drop of her cream off her.
She tastes exactly how I would have expected her to taste. Better, even. Sweet, ripe, and juicy, like summer berries. Emma stares up at me with wide eyes as I taste her fingers, then squirms on the bed when I let her go. I close my eyes and take a deep, steadying breath.
“Get some sleep, Emma. We have all the time in the world tomorrow. We can have an entire lifetime if you want it.” The words fall from my mouth before I even realize what I’m saying, and I thank God that Emma is probably too drunk to read anything into it.
“Okay.” She smiles. She finally lets me pull the covers over her. Once her body is out of sight, I feel a little of my composure return.
“Goodnight, Emma.” I start to turn off the lamp, but she grabs my arm.
“Tyler, wait!”
“What?”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For the other day. When I said you were a mistake. You weren’t a mistake.”
“Oh?”
She shakes her head, her brown hair tumbling over my pillow. “It’s just… I’m not used to breaking the rules.”
I chuckle. “I got that impression.”
“Do you forgive me?”
“Of course.”
“Good.” She relaxes and pulls the blankets up to her chin, snuggling in. I reach again for the lamp, but she sits up.
“Tyler, wait!”
“What now?”
“I just had a great idea.”
“What’s that?”
“Let’s go get tacos!” Her eyes gleam excitedly, and I bark out a laugh.
“We’ll get tacos tomorrow. Now get some sleep.”
“Okay.” She sinks back onto the pillow. This time, her eyes start to drift closed, and when I turn the lamp off, she doesn’t protest. I ease myself out of the bedroom and back out into the living area.
My dick is still rock hard, and I run my hands through my hair, trying to get my breathing back to normal. I try my hardest to forget about the naked beauty in my bedroom, but I have to down a straight shot of vodka from the freezer before I shut myself off in the guest bedroom.
It’s going to be a hell of a long night.
Nine
It burns. Oh God. The sun. It burns.
I cover my eyes with my hand and try to burrow deeper under the blankets. I’m torn between needing to get up and go to the bathroom … and not wanting to move a muscle, because if I do my head might crack open and spill its entire contents all over the floor.
I reach blindly for the nightstand, trying to find my phone so I can check the time. I grope around, but nothing feels familiar. I crack one eye open and peek out, and then sit bolt right up in bed.
Oh fuck. Sitting up that fast was a bad idea. I keep my hand over my mouth, trying not to vomit, while I scan the room. Where the hell am I? I’m on a low platform bed, in a room with brick walls, huge windows, pale wood floors. Not a room I’ve ever been in before.
I’m alone, thank God. But somewhere distantly, I can hear the sound of running water, like a shower, maybe. I peek under the sheets and groan. I’m naked.
What the ever loving fuck did I do last night?
I snatch at the memories that flow thickly through my mind. Dancing at Carbon with the girls. Pushing Lucy into a cab and sending her off to Lou’s. Getting into a cab of my own and going …
Oh. Shit.
Tyler.
“No, no, no,” I whisper to myself. What had I done? Bits and pieces of it flicker back into my mind — accosting his doorman and demanding to be let upstairs. Skipping through the fountain in the lobby. Then coming up here and …
Begging him to fuck me.
Ugh. I groan out loud. What the hell was I thinking? I’ve got to get out of here.
I clutch the sheet to my body and scan the room, but I don’t see my clothes anywhere. Another memory flickers back in ...
Peeling off my clothes in his living room. Touching myself. Trying to tempt him into something he clearly didn’t want to do.
I bury my head in my hands. I’ve never been so humiliated in my life.
“Good morning, sunshine.”
I groan without looking up, and I hear Tyler chuckle. I spread my fingers just enough to peek at him and find him standing at the doorway of the bedroom, holding a glass of water and what looks like a bottle of Advil.
I want to bury myself under the covers, but I really want that water, too, so I reach one hand out and make the ‘gimme’ motion.
Tyler hands me the glass of water, and I take a long, grateful swallow as he sets the bottle of pills down on the nightstand.
“What do you think?” he says, as he sits on the edge of the bed, near my feet. “Still want tacos?”
Ugh. My stomach churns, and I have to put my hand over my mouth.
“I don’t even think I can say the T-word. I might throw-up.”
He laughs again, and I glare at him. How dare he get so much amusement out of my misery?
“I thought so. Think you can stomach pancakes?”
The word doesn’t make me hurl, so I try to contemplate eating them and find that my stomach doesn’t revolt.
“I think so. Maybe.”
“Then you hang tight. I’ll make some.”
“You can make pancakes?”
“Of course. I’m an excellent cook. As long as you want pancakes, French toast, or scrambled eggs.”
“So you only do breakfast foods.”
“Pretty much, yeah.” He grins, and even though my head aches and it hurts to blink, I can’t help but like that smile. It’s warm. Kind. It’s a smile that says he’s the kind of person who won’t judge you for drunkenly throwing yourself at him.
He’s about to get up off the bed, but I nudge him with my foot. “Can you bring me my clothes?” I try to sound nonchalant like it’s NBD that I’m lying here, still naked.
He grins again, but this time it’s not quite so kind. This time, it’s downright evil.
“I don’t know,” he teases. “You didn’t seem interested in wearing them last night.”
I pull the pillow over my head. “Don’t remind me.”
He tugs the pillow back off. “I happened to like your little show. A lot.”
My skin is burning red hot, and I can barely look at him. Despite my raging hangover, there’s a small lustful part of me that wants to pull Tyler under the covers with me and do everything I wanted to do last night. If it wasn’t for the fact that there’s a very real risk I might throw up on him, I’d do just that.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him, instead. “That’s so not like me.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” he says. “I think the real Emma Holloway might have made another appearance last night.”
I shake my head. “No way. That was my evil twin. She was the one you met at the book launch, too.”
“If you say so.” He chuckles, then disappears out of the room and, a minute later, returns to deposit my clothes
from last night on the foot of the bed. “Take your time getting dressed. In fact, feel free to not bother getting dressed at all. I quite enjoy having you naked in my apartment.”
After he leaves, I stare down at the scraps of fabric. A tiny dress and even tinier underwear. So not what I feel like putting on right now, but it’ll have to do. I tug the dress on, but the thong looks so uncomfortable that I can’t bear the thought of putting it back on. When I’m ready, I pad barefoot down the hall, trying to find a bathroom.
I clean myself up as well as I can, running my fingers through my tangled hair, squeezing some of Tyler’s toothpaste onto my finger and scrubbing away last night’s booze breath. By the time I emerge, I feel at least semi-human.
I find Tyler coming out of the kitchen, holding a spatula. He’s only wearing a pair of perfectly worn jeans, no shirt, his hair still wet from the shower. Even though I’m so hungover I could cry, I still take a moment to admire his sculpted chest, his washboard abs. The man was carved with a fine knife, that’s for sure.
“Perfect timing,” he announces. “One pancake or two?”
“Just one, for now. Testing the waters.”
He grins and disappears back into the kitchen for a minute. I look around the apartment while I wait. It’s a loft style place, with high ceilings and exposed brick and big windows that overlook Washington Market Park. It suits him, I think, though I’m not quite sure how I think I know him well enough to even know that. It just does, though — it’s stylish in an effortless sort of way, warm and cool at the same time, lux without being stuffy, comfortable and classic both.
I tug at the hem of my dress as I look out the window. I don’t even hear Tyler come back in, but I feel his presence behind me. It sends a chill up my spine, and I turn to face him.
“Nice view,” I say, feeling suddenly tongue-tied.
“Yeah, it is.” He doesn’t look out the window, just takes in my bare legs, my tiny dress, my chest spilling out the top of it.
My pussy pulses at his nearness, and I suddenly regret not pulling on my underwear when I had the chance. The last thing I want to do is leave a wet spot on his chair. That would bring my humiliation to an all new high. Or is it low?
