With hands on hips, she scans me from head to toe. She’s probably thankful I’m clothed. She lingers on my hair, which has me wondering if maybe a bird has perched in it from the time I left the bathroom. It needs a cut. I self-consciously run my fingers through it and wonder what’s come over her when her cheeks turn a brighter pink. Maybe she smoked some crack before coming here. It would explain her erratic behavior.
“Follow me,” I say, pushing off the doorway.
Her soft footsteps behind me reveal she’s following, so I lead the way, not making a big deal over the fact Mary is stepping foot inside my bedroom of her own volition. If I knew she’d want to scope out my whole apartment, I’d have tidied up a bit, but too late now. She can see this untamed beast in his natural habitat.
I enter my room, the cologne still lingering in the air. At least it smells good, because it sure as shit looks like a bomb has exploded inside. I’m not neat by nature. Clean yes, thanks to Yoko, my cleaner, but I just don’t have time to iron and roll my socks into bunny ears.
I step off to the side, allowing Mary to pass me and do her thing. What I hear however, is the unmistakable sound of a rubber glove snapping into place. She smirks when I resemble Scooby-Doo. “If this is a prostate exam…don’t be afraid to use two fingers.” Mary coughs back a laugh, but soon recovers.
She studies the room, slipping on the other blue latex glove. When her gaze lands on my king size bed, she curls her lip in aversion. “Mind if I take a look around?” I’m surprised she asked.
Sweeping my hand outward, I bow gallantly. As she walks to the far wall and unsnaps her measuring tape, I can’t help but ask, “What are the gloves for?”
She scoffs. “Are you serious? I don’t know what I’ll find in here and where it’s been.” On cue, she lifts a red lacy thong from the corner of my room with the end of her tape. She flings it at me, disgusted.
I dodge the flying projectile, wondering who they belong to. “Hey, don’t judge. I look good in red.”
“Whatever happens in your private life is none of my business. If you choose to date insecure airheads with daddy issues, then kudos to you.”
I fake horror. “I’ll have you know, I don’t date. Get your facts right.” She ignores my quip and instead goes to work measuring my room.
I stand out of the way, not wanting to bother a genius at work, because that’s what she is. I’m utterly entranced by her attention to detail and how she uses her small hands as a viewfinder. I don’t know what she’s seeing through her linked fingers, but when she stands in the middle of the room, spinning from left to right, it’s like she’s looking into the future.
Sighing in thought, she walks over to my window and splits the curtains in half. The bright sunlight streams in. While I’m convinced I’m melting, Mary kicks off her sneakers and jumps onto my bed. Now I’m certain she smoked crack.
“Do you want to have a pillow fight?” I ask, hooking my thumb toward the door. “If you do, there’s a hot blonde just down the hall…” Images of Mary and my neighbor dancing around in their underwear flood my brain. Mary thrusts out her palm, warning me to stop.
“I’ll admit, you’ve surprised me.”
“Oh, I know. I’m just full of surprises.” I polish my fingernails on my t-shirt.
“You’re full of something,” she mumbles. “I wasn’t expecting well, this.” Sweeping her hand toward my room, she nods, impressed.
“What were you expecting? Lava lamps, foosball, and pictures of naked ladies taped to the walls?” When she doesn’t reply, I can’t help but laugh.
“This entire space has so much potential. The artwork in your living room, local artist?”
She’s referring to the two charcoal sketches I bought from a gallery downtown. “Yes, they caught my eye the moment I walked past the window. I backtracked because I needed them hanging on my walls.” The first is of a woman, back turned as she sits in a chair, tying up her hair. A burst of light comes in from the top corner, bringing the sketch to life. “The slope of the woman’s neck and the definition to her slender arms has mesmerized me for countless hours. I’ve sat in my La-Z-Boy, staring at the image, wondering just who this woman was. There is an underlying sadness to her which is absurd, considering I can only see her back, but I get the sense she carries the weight of the world on her shoulders. No matter how shitty my day, I always look at that picture and realize everyone has their own crosses to bear.” Mary’s mouth parts as she listens intently. “And the second one is pretty self-explanatory. The all-seeing eye. I like to call her Mom.”
The mood instantly lightens and Mary laughs. “They are both really beautiful. I think they complement this place and I would love to continue the theme throughout your home.”
Tapping my chin, I pose, “You’re not going to turn my apartment into some weirdo abstract art cavern, are you, where my kitchen stools will be bicycle seats and I’ll have to use a kitty litter tray to go to the bathroom?”
Mary, still standing in the middle of my bed, keeps a straight face as she explains, “No, I’m going to give your home a touch of class, and the first thing that needs to go is this disease-infested bed.” She turns over her shoulder to look at the cavities in the slatted wooden headboard to cement her point. “I don’t even want to know how they got there.”
No, she doesn’t. It involved a Russian beauty, a pair of handcuffs, and a bottle of extra virgin olive oil. “Okay, point taken. So you’ll use this room?”
She bites her lip while looking around the space. “Yes. I can smell the puta ingrained in the walls.”
“You’re multi-lingual? Is there anything you can’t do?” I tease, while she smirks.
“You have no idea.”
Touché.
She examines all corners of the room, her gaze fleeting back over to an old fashioned wooden chest you’d expect to see on the set of Vikings. “That, however, can stay. What’s in the box?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” I reply, loving this cat and mouse game we’re playing.
Talking to Mary is easy. There are no pretences because we’re both straight shooters. This is the first conversation I’ve had with a woman where I know no matter what I say, or no matter how hard I turn on the charm, it won’t make a lick of difference because Mary is different. She sees through all my one liners because she’s got a comeback for every one. And if that doesn’t make me harder than a ten-foot snowman’s cock, then slap a red nose on me and call me Bozo the Clown.
She purses her lips in defiance and I know what she’s about to do even before she jumps off the edge of my bed and makes a beeline for the chest. Just as she’s two feet away, I frankly state, “I’m glad you’re wearing gloves, ’cause I’m not going to lie, it’s porn. And a lot of it.”
She freezes mid-step, her face pulling into an adorable scowl. “What is it with men and porn?”
“Do you really need me to explain?”
I’m expecting her to kick me in the nuts and tell me to go to hell, but I should know by now that Mary Mitts will always keep me guessing. “Sure, I’ve got nothing better to do.” My eyes bulge from my head when she continues her trek to my porn hub and places her perfect ass onto the chest. She crosses her legs and folds her arms ’cause it’s apparently story time with Big Ted.
I don’t even know how to give a 101 on porn because quite frankly, I think I’ll offend her. Rubbing the back of my neck, I try and think back to the speech my dad gave me when I was ten. “Son, it’s perfectly normal to masturbate. It’s all part of growing up.” God bless the son of a gun. When I told him my hand was practically glued to my dick ’cause I broke into his porn stash when I was eight, he handed over the reins to my mom, while he invested in a better lock.
Mary’s dimpled smile exposes her utter delight at seeing me squirm. “Ah, c’mon now, cat got your tongue?”
She’s baiting me and it’s totally working. Wetting my lips, I hope I can get through this without showing her exactly the reason why we
need porn. I start with the basics. “It all comes down to evolution. Our brains”—I knock on my skull—“we’re hard-wired to be walking wood. We’re very visual individuals and respond to images, especially of the naked kind, much more quickly than women do. Evolution proves that a dude’s sole purpose is to copulate and spread his little guys whenever, wherever he can.
“When the opportunity knocks, we are more than happy to lay down our arms and fuck.” Her cheeks blister a bright red, but there’s no going back now. “Porn is like being in a candy store and the flavors are; the not so innocent cheerleader jelly beans, the desperate housewife gummy bears, and the naughty, naughty schoolteacher lollipops. It wets whatever appetite, fantasy we have and it’s like ice-cream—we eat it up ’cause it’s there and we can.”
Mary’s chest begins to rise and fall, which is so not helping the inevitable predicament, which will happen in approximately two minutes. I saunter toward her, needing to witness her rosy flesh up close. “Isn’t it cheating if they’re married? Or in a relationship? Or what if they’re just some porn fiend who likes whacking off ten times a day? Doesn’t having so much variety at their disposable only feed the addiction?”
I need a moment to catch my breath cause the word ‘whacking off’ has never sounded so innocently filthy. Focusing on her question and not the persistent pirouetting in my pants, I shake my head. “Studies on lab rats show that a male rat will only be into the same female for so long.”
Mary scoffs, her arms constricting around her. “Gee, not so different to the entire male species then.”
I arch a brow as I sense an undertone of hurt. Whoever hurt this goddess will pay dearly with his knotted balls dangling from a powerline. “No matter what Mrs. Rat does to entice him, the male just doesn’t want to play. However”—I raise my pointer when Mary is no doubt about to tell me to blow this speech up my ass—“when a new female is introduced, the male rat can’t help himself and he’s all over Mrs. Rat like a fat kid eating free cake.”
“Is that true?” she questions with a grin.
“Absolutely.” Taking a step closer so my knees almost touch hers, I relish in her accelerated breath.
She weighs over what I just said and I can suddenly see the struggle behind her delicate eyes. “But what if porn gives Mr. Rat an itch Mrs. Rat can’t scratch and he goes out and cheats with a field mouse who can suck a golf ball through a garden hose?”
I burst into laughter because that visual was quite colorful indeed. “That’s nothing to do with porn, that’s got to do with the person, or in this instance, Mr. Rat and his lack of balls and morals. He can’t blame porn for being the reason he cheated. He’s the reason. Jenna Jameson the Mouse didn’t tell him to stick his dick in some five-dollar hooker. He did.”
Mary nods slowly, gnawing on her bottom lip. The sight hurts. I suddenly want to wrap my arms around her and protect her from all the rat bastards out there.
“So you see…” I place my hands in my pockets before I do something stupid. “Porn isn’t cheating. If anything, it gives us ideas to perform on our lucky spouses. If you have one, that is.”
When her eyes flick up to meet mine, I almost hit the deck. “And if you don’t?”
I have been a fucking saint hitherto, but a man has his limits and Shortcake has just proved she’s my limit—my hard limit. Bending ever so slowly, I come to a stop when we’re face to face. Her sweet breath fans my cheeks and I’m hit with that mouth-watering strawberry and cream fragrance. This is wrong, but I can’t let her think I’ve gone soft, I’m quite the opposite in fact. “Then good luck to the woman we find and fuck senseless until she forgets her own name.”
An actual whimper slips past Mary’s lips, but I don’t mistake this for more than it is. Just ’cause we’re talking about sex in a roundabout way doesn’t mean she’ll lower her guard and let me throw her over the chest and eat her out until next week.
Jesus Christ, the image is too much.
This is the time I call it a night, but fuck me sideways, I don’t think I’ll survive this look she’s giving me. I can’t determine whether she wants to tell me to fuck off…or fuck me. Either option suits me just fine, ’cause whatever Mary wants to give, I’ll take…on my knees.
Unable to stop myself, I give in to temptation and brush a stray curl from her cheek. A strand of hair should not get me hard, but it does. Her creamy flesh beneath my finger shoots a current of a gazillion volts straight through me.
I need to talk because the need to kiss her, oh my fucking god, yes KISS her, is real. “So moral of the story is a dude’s porn stash…is basically the equivalent to your vibrator.”
Something is happening and I have no idea what. Mary’s eyes drop to my lips before she uneasily licks hers. Her flushed cheeks, dilated pupils, and heavy breathing all point to one thing—but that’s not possible. This woman hates me, all delicious, lithe five-foot-four of her wants me dead.
So why is she not slapping my cheeks and calling me a dirty manwhore when I inch closer to her lips? And why am I not slamming on the brakes because I don’t kiss—ever, but that rule seems to be obsolete when the supplest pair of lips are a hairs breadth away?
I’m fucking rolling in her perfume. Slathering it all over my body and inhaling it like a new drug. She is all goddess, and if I don’t touch her, I’m going to explode.
Placing my palm to her cheek, we both moan at the contact, and when she parts those lips, I’m as good as gone. “Hunter, wh-what are you doing?”
My name has never sounded sweeter. “Shortcake, I don’t know…you tell me.” The ball is in her court. I’m liquefying and my brain turned to mush about fifteen minutes ago, so I’m in no state to be the one calling the shots.
“I…I…” she fumbles, never breaking eye contact.
“You what?” I ask, tugging at the lobe of her ear, before tracing my pointer down her throat. Her pulse is hammering, a sure sign she’s about to either surrender, or flee.
“I…oh god,” she whimpers, biting her lip when I work my finger back up and paint over her jawline in a slow sweep.
“You have three seconds…three seconds to stop me before I part those fucking lips with my tongue, and I won’t be gentle about it.”
Holy fucking shit. When I hear the distinctive sound of her rubbing her legs together, a tell-tale that she’s as worked up as I am, I can deal with the consequences later. And besides, her three seconds are up. I dive forward, so ready to be a eunuch by morning, but all I connect with is air.
“I have to go. I’m sorry.” Mary ducks under my arm and makes a mad dash for the door. I sway unsteadily because she not only threw me off center physically, every part of my body is kicking and screaming, throwing a full-blown tantrum. “Don’t go. I’m the one who’s sorry. I just got caught up in…” In your eyes, your smell, the need to throw you over my shoulder caveman style and fuck you eternally, I silently add. “In Mr. and Mrs. Rat’s happily ever after,” I settle on.
But she doesn’t stop. She’s a blur as she runs down the hallway and straight into the…
“That’s the kitchen!” I shout out, hot on her tail.
“Fuck!” she curses, running back out and taking a left toward the living room and front door.
“Shortcake, please stop.”
“Hunter, no, just leave me alone.” She bumps into the corner of the couch and yelps, but continues hobbling toward the door.
“Okay, I’ll leave you alone,” I plead, afraid she’ll take out her eye otherwise. “Just stop running and let me drive you home.” Just when I think she’s seen reason ’cause she’s stopped and turned around, I realize she’s grabbing her bag and hitting the road faster than a marshmallow roasts in hell.
I know if I corner her, she’s likely to rip off my head and use it as a bowling ball, so I stop chasing her, even though every part of me is screaming that I move. “Please talk to me.”
She yanks open the door, her hand braced on the handle. Her shoulders rise and fall stea
dily, her breaths leaving her in winded pants. “Okay fine, I’ll talk to you…” With back turned, she wraps up something that could have flourished into something epic. “This was a big mistake. I’ll see you in three months.” She slams the door shut while I groan, fisting at my hair and leaving my hands atop my head as I stare at the door.
Three months is Dixon and Madison’s wedding. She’s made clear she has no intention in seeing me before then. How could this happen? So fucking stupid to make a move. Story of my life. Sighing, I make my way to the kitchen, needing to drown my sorrow in scotch.
D2 decides now is a good time to remind me…I should have just asked her if she fucking likes schnauzers.
Two Cups Of Coffee
I’m fucking crazy.
Throw away the key to my padded cell because this insanity appears to be incurable. I have no idea why I’m here, but the thought of being anywhere else leaves me with a throbbing ache in my chest.
Anyone would think that after last night, I’d have learned my lesson, but no, here I am, ready to make a fool of myself once again. I left Hunter’s apartment, promising myself that this was the last time…the last time I wanted to throw good sense to the wind and climb him faster than a rocket filled with spider monkeys.
I’m sick, that’s the only explanation.
I don’t even like him, well, I don’t think I do. Yes, he’s ridiculously hot with his sea green eyes, a jaw line that goes on for days, and a body that rivals Captain America, but he’s also obnoxious, foul mouthed, and not to mention the list of women he’s been with could fill Noah’s Ark…twice. But I can’t stop thinking about him, and when I’m near him, I can’t stop thinking about him touching me…everywhere.
I can’t believe I’ve fallen for his bullshit. I’m no better than all the other hoochies who are lining up, waiting for a turn. I hate him, I remind myself, but a small, bothersome voice whispers I hate him for making me want him because this wasn’t supposed to happen…I was never meant to fall for Hunter O’Shea.
The Hunt - Monica James Page 10
