by Naomi Niles
“Why? Do you not want your boss to know?”
“No, I don’t want to know,” she replied.
She rose to her feet, and I followed, feeling a little disappointed. I had hoped that we might at least make out, but it seemed I wasn’t going to be as fortunate as that fat old man tonight.
Slowly and reluctantly, I followed her upstairs.
“It’s probably just as well I won’t remember any of this in the morning,” she said as we emerged into the hallway. “I think I would die of embarrassment if you told me I had just bared my soul to an MMA guy.”
“Well, I’ve got bad news,” I said, smiling.
“Yeah.” She didn’t seem amused. “The only reason I’m not feeling mortified now is because I’m TOO DRUNK TO CARE!” She threw her hands up in the air and let out a whoop that threatened to wake people all through the hallway.
“Maybe it’s best if we leave off here for the night.” By now I had reached my door.
“Yeah, probably. Night.”
“Good night.”
I unlocked the door to my room and went inside, watching the neon lights flicker against the amber curtains. I’d really hoped she might follow me in. By now I was feeling ridiculously horny and desperately needed something to take the edge off.
I lay down on the bed, trying to imagine what it would have been like to slip off that floral kimono and run my hands along the side of her body. It was rare for someone so intelligent to even want to talk to me, and I tried not to think about the fact that she’d probably never have done it if she had been sober.
I was just beginning to unzip my pants when I was startled by a knock at the door.
Confused, wondering if I was in trouble, I went to unlock it. Peering through the peephole, I saw that it was Jaimie.
I unbolted and unlocked it.
“Hey, what’s up? Did you forget your pen again?”
But Jaimie didn’t answer. Instead, she threw herself against me with the full force of her body, passionately kissing whatever part of me she could reach.
“You okay?” I asked her, smiling in spite of myself.
“No,” she said. “I’m lonely and drunk and tired and, quite frankly, hungry as hell. I’m sorry. You can tell me to leave if I’m bothering you. I’m sure you probably have to be up early tomorrow.”
Without saying a word, I pulled her inside and slammed the door.
Chapter Sixteen
Jaimie
The moment we were inside his room, Braxton seemed to have an attack of conscience.
“You sure you want this?” he asked, pushing me away slightly.
I stared blankly up at him, feeling hurt and a little offended. “Would I be here if I didn’t?”
“Okay, I just want to make sure. I want to hear you say it with your lips.”
“You’re that cautious,” I stated incredulously.
“I have to be. This is a pretty unusual situation, a woman knocking on a man’s door in the middle of the night.”
“I feel like it isn’t really that unusual. Maybe you’ve just never been to Vegas.”
“Maybe not, but I know I need to get your consent before we go any further.”
He stood silently for a moment, waiting. It was obvious he expected me to say something.
“Yes, I want to make out with you,” I said finally. “You have my permission to make out with me. Is that better?”
“Anything else?”
“I guess we’ll see.” I made an attempt at a coy smile, but given the time of night and my drunken state, I don’t think I quite pulled it off.
Either way, it was sort of a relief to have a man ask my permission before he ran his hands over me—all the more so given that he had pushed me away as I came onto him. “You know, maybe you’re not so bad,” I said aloud.
“Did you think I was?”
I shrugged. “Like I said, you can never tell with MMA guys.”
“Well, maybe I’m not like other MMA guys,” he said in a low voice, beginning to come forward.
“Maybe not.”
He slid off his boxers with ease and approached me slowly, completely naked. Maybe it was the liquor, but I felt surreal seeing him like that. We’d only known each other for a couple days, but it was still a shock to see someone go from clothed to naked in an instant. Especially when they were standing in front of you with all the comfort and familiarity of an old friend.
“There’s something about a man’s shoulders,” I said quietly. “I don’t know what it is.” I was babbling now, not really sure what I was saying, trying hard not to think about his penis.
“That’s what you noticed?” asked Braxton, laughing. Somehow his laugh made me feel better.
“I mean, penises are weird,” I said, beginning to loosen a little. “When a man whips it out in front of you, it completely changes the dynamic of the conversation.”
“Mmmm. Can’t imagine how.” He placed his thumbs under my shoulders and nuzzled my face softly with his lips. I could feel his body pressing against mine, could feel the heat of him against me.
And as yet I hadn’t even taken off my shorts or cardigan. How weird to think that they were all that separated us.
Sensing my hesitation, he paused with his lips at the top of my forehead. “You sure you’re feeling up to this?”
I knew what he was asking: not just whether I was up to making out—I had made it clear that I did when I charged into the room—but whether I was willing to go further. “I think I am.” I hadn’t been sure at first, but it helped that he had asked my permission. There was something weirdly sexy about a man who respected a woman.
Still beaming, he began to scratch my back with his broad hands. Even that was unusual. Here we were in the middle of foreplay and he had paused to run his hands along my back. A feeling of warmth and reassurance flooded through me. I almost didn’t want him to stop.
“You must have a lot of experience,” said Braxton.
I glared at him teasingly. “Are you calling me old?”
He didn’t seem to get that I was joking. “No, not at all,” he said, sounding worried. “I just imagine someone like you has been with a lot of guys.”
“You calling me a slut?”
This time, he looked utterly crestfallen.
“Braxton, I’m kidding! It’s okay,” I said, laughing. “You can’t really offend me that easily. I’ve only ever been with one boy.”
“Lucky him.” He pressed his lips close to mine, the scent of body spray wafting off of him.
I allowed him to kiss me, willing myself to forget about the memories he had just conjured. I could feel the beat of his heart against mine and a twinge of some mysterious longing, unnamable and ancient—the longing to lead him away as a mother would and hold him and shelter him and protect him from this harsh world.
Braxton’s voice interrupted the flow of my thoughts. “Weird how we’re making out and all and I don’t even know what type of music you like to listen to.”
“Is it really that important to you?”
“Sometimes it helps.” He broke away and began walking over to the nightstand, where an iPod rested. “What would you like me to play?”
“Ugh, you’ve probably never even heard of them.”
He raised one quizzical brow. “Try me.” When I hesitated, he added, “If you don’t, we’re going to end up listening to ‘Funkytown.’”
“Oh God, no.”
“It’s up to you, Jaimie Allen.”
“Fine. Have you ever heard of The National? The Hold Steady? Muse? The Gaslight Anthem?”
“Oh, I love The National.” He put on “Conversation 16” and set the iPod gently back down on the stand. “That better?”
“It’s better than ‘Funkytown,’ yeah.”
He tucked my head under his chin. “Didn’t realize you hated that song so much.”
“Every time I have to listen to it, it reminds me of the thrift store where I used to work during the summers to p
ut myself through college.”
“Sounds like torture.”
“Oh, it was. I’m almost glad to have become an accountant.”
“I don’t know why you’d think I had never heard of The National,” said Braxton. “These guys are bangin’.”
“It just didn’t seem like your type of music,” I said quietly, looking away in embarrassment.
He pressed his lips against my bangs. “Seems like there’s a lot you still don’t know about me.”
“Maybe you should show me.”
“Okay.” He lowered himself to his knees. “If you really want to.”
My high-waisted shorts were held up by a row of shiny silver buttons. He began to unbutton them one at a time, starting with the top. As he did so, he placed his mouth over my belly button and kissed it greedily, hungrily, so that I shivered.
He glanced up at me, running the back of his hand along the smooth down of my belly. “You like that?”
I nodded, lost for words.
Tugging my shorts down to my ankles, he began to run his lips along my inner thighs, nuzzling the silk lining of my pale pink underwear. I closed my eyes tight, allowing the sensation to wash over me. This was all really going to happen, wasn’t it? For only the second time in my life, and I wasn’t entirely sure I was ready for it yet.
Certainly, he was more experienced than my previous partner, who had been shy and clumsy. Braxton showed no hesitation as he reached his hands up under my shirt and over my bra, playfully caressing my boobs.
“You’ve done this before,” I managed to say.
He smiled, as though I had just given him the biggest compliment. “You can really tell?”
I nodded. “You’re like a professional.”
“Merci!”
“But I’m just warning you; I’m not nearly as experienced as you.” I gave him a doleful look. “I hope that’s okay.”
“Everyone has to start somewhere.”
“Then we’ll start with this.”
Still wearing my shirt and panties, I sank to my knees and reached for his dick with one hand. Floppy at first, it stiffened at my touch, leaping up as though being called to attention. I gave the tip a few tentative flicks with my tongue, my eyes on his face all the while.
“You like that?” I asked, a tremor of hesitation in my voice.
As though in answer, he gripped the sides of my head with both hands. His dick rose until it couldn’t get any higher. I could tell he was going to be a quick finisher; he was having trouble not cumming already.
Moistening my lips, I placed them back over the head and silence fell between us punctured only by occasional groans. I felt like I had been transported out of my body and was watching the scene from above the room.
Then, perhaps because I was feeling sadistic, when I sensed he was close to finishing, I pulled back. “Just thought I’d let the sensation build for a bit,” I explained, still running a thumb and finger along the outer edges.
“God, you’re killing me,” said Braxton.
“You want me to hurry?”
“No, I love it.”
“You want me to keep my glasses on or off?”
“I don’t even care; I’m just so pleased that you asked me.”
“Well, I live to please you.” Moving my hand down to his balls, I grabbed them and stroked them and batted them around like a kitten. Braxton let out a loud choking sound as though struggling to breathe.
“You okay?”
He nodded, though the strained look on his face suggested otherwise. “I don’t think I can go for much longer.”
“On it.” I raised his dick up to my mouth, but before I had even touched it with my lips, a spray of thick, filmy substance erupted out of it, showering my nose and cheeks and hair and glasses.
It kept coming until I was covered in it. I shut my eyes tight, not wanting them to get burned, and allowed it to hit me. It felt filthy and humiliating and, somehow, exhilarating, all at the same time.
Braxton let out a single squeak, shuddered once, and was still.
After a moment’s silence, he went over to the door and picked up his pants.
“Are we done?” I asked, feeling surprised and a little disappointed.
“Babe, I’m tired,” said Braxton. “If you want, you can totally come back tomorrow and try again. My door is always open.”
So this was what real humiliation felt like. “Aren’t you even going to help me clean up?” I asked, struggling to suppress the hurt in my voice.
As though in answer, he threw me a roll of toilet paper.
Choking back tears, I ran to the bathroom and turned on the faucet, staring down into the porcelain sink. I had promised myself I would never let this happen again. Shame bubbled up in my throat and spilled out of my eyes as I scrubbed my face and hands, knowing that no matter how hard I scrubbed them they would never be clean.
By now, Braxton was lying down in the bed with a come-hither stare, apparently hoping I would curl up next to him. Instead, I groped for my shorts and began to run for the door.
“You okay, babe?” he asked. “Where you going?”
“Gotta go wash my hair,” I said, averting my eyes. “You got your jizz all in it.”
“Yeah, sorry about that,” he said with a smile on his face. He actually thought it was funny. “See you around.”
Not knowing how to respond, I slammed the door behind me and ran all the way down the hall to my room. Fumbling with the keys, my hands shaking, I finally managed to unlock the door. Once inside, I threw myself down onto my bed and cried until I fell asleep.
Chapter Seventeen
Braxton
“You mean to tell me you can’t even remember where you went after the fight last night?” asked Nick. “Must’ve been a hell of a night.”
We had both slept late and missed our flight home, and now we were seated at a window booth in the dining hall, hungover and hungrily eating breakfast tacos with salsa. My head felt like it had been cracked open, and even the slightest noises were magnified. The sound of a chair scraping against the wood floor had nearly driven me out of my seat.
“I can remember some things.” I could still feel the warmth of Jaimie’s body against mine, though I wasn’t entirely sure it hadn’t all been a dream. “I think I may have slept with somebody.”
“Slept-slept?” asked Nick with a look of surprise. “Who?”
“The president’s assistant, the redhead—Jaimie, I think is her name.”
“But you’re not sure? That seems like the sort of thing it would be good to remember.”
“Yeah. I kind of wish I could go ask her, but I don’t want to make things awkward. She probably spent the entire night in her room and won’t even know what the hell I’m talking about.”
But there were certain images I couldn’t shake: the two of us sitting out by the pool with our feet in the water… Jaimie slipping off her kimono as I ran my hands through her hair…
“Sometimes it can be hard to piece together what happened,” said Nick, who was methodically breaking up his last taco into squares with a fork. “My last year of high school, I slept over at a friend’s house. We weren’t dating or anything, although we had messed around. We split a bottle of rum and then I crashed on her couch. I don’t think we did anything, but by the middle of the next week, she was telling everybody we had slept together.”
“Yikes.”
“And she was so insistent about it that I started to wonder if maybe we really had slept together and I just couldn’t remember it. A couple months later she called me in tears saying she was pregnant, and would I be willing to take care of her and the baby and of course I freaked out. I was seventeen; I was nowhere near ready to be a dad.”
“So what did you do? Did you encourage her to get an abortion?”
“No, of course not.” Nick looked offended at the suggestion. “Everybody believed her at first. But the weird thing was, as the months wore on, she never got any bigger. And I’
m pretty sure she didn’t miscarry, and she never had a baby. What I think happened is this: she invited me to her house that night and got me drunk because she wanted to gaslight me into thinking we had slept together.”
“Oh. Tricky!”
“It was, it was a very clever trap. She knew if I thought she was pregnant and I was the daddy I would feel obligated to marry her. That’s all she was after: a ring on her finger.”
“Seems like an awfully convoluted way to go about it. Why didn’t she just ask you out?”
Nick shrugged wildly. “I don’t know, don’t ask me to explain how this woman’s brain worked. She grew up in a family where it was considered socially unacceptable for the girl to ask the guy out.”
“But she didn’t see anything wrong with using a fake pregnancy to trick you into marriage?” This story got more and more bizarre the more I thought about it.
“Apparently not.” Nick reached for his iced tea. “I had to cut off all contact with the girl after that. I hated to do it, but my family insisted on it. When you’re seventeen, you kind of think, maybe you can keep them around, but sometimes it’s best just to sever all ties.”
I was silent for a minute staring out onto the sun-drenched patio. A crow descended from overhead with a flutter of wings and began pecking at some loose crumbs at the base of an umbrella-shaded table.
“Everything is so quiet this morning.”
“Afternoon,” said Nick. “It was well past noon when I finally managed to drag you out of bed.”
“I’d probably still be lying there if it wasn’t for you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Did I dream that we were up onstage and women were throwing their shirts at us?” I opened a package of butter and spread it over a plain tortilla. “Were we really on TV?”
“Unless we both had the same dream,” Nick replied.
“Somehow it doesn’t seem quite real. It feels like something out of someone else’s life. Do you ever feel like that when good things happen—that maybe you don’t deserve them, that you’re robbing someone else of the joy that should be theirs by right?”
Nick rubbed his eyes, looking tired. “I think sometimes you get caught in your own head too much. I almost hope you went down on that girl last night. Might do you some good.”
