by Knight, Jodi
“Listen, we both know that you need this interview. Here’s my proposal. Let’s start again. I know a great bar near here. No games. No blindfolds. I promise I’ll return you home, unmolested, before midnight.”
She looks up at me and I smile.
“Well, what do you say Cinderella?”
***
“Seriously, that’s your favorite pick-up line?”
“Would it work on you?”
Ella shakes her head. “You’re nuts. And no it wouldn’t.”
“I'm no Fred Flintstone, but I can make your Bedrock. What’s wrong with that?”
“What’s wrong? The fact you even have to ask.”
Ella and I are continuing the ‘its-not-a-date-it’s-an-interview’ in the corner of a bar called Tipples near Chelsea market. It’s a cool, low-key venue with lots of brickwork and a shabby-looking dance floor.
We’ve been here for half an hour. Ella hasn’t absconded, and I haven’t been physically assaulted. I’d say we’re making progress, don’t you think? She managed to pull the bug out of her ass and she calmed down.
I’m pretty sure the wine helped. Don’t roll your eyes—I haven’t been plying her with alcohol until she drops her panties. Believe it or not, I do have a shred of pride. But if she imbibes too much liquor and insists I pleasure her sweet ass until sunrise?
Only an idiot would turn down a meal like that.
Ella is knocking back tequila like it’s going out of fashion. Yep, I can confidently I predict that we’ll be on my kitchen counter and I’ll be feasting on my dessert of crème de Ella in no time at all.
I rub my chin. “Do you mix concrete for a living? Because baby, you're making me hard.”
She shakes her head, trying to consign my words to oblivion. “Terrible.”
“Do you have a shovel? ‘Cause I'm sure as hell digging that ass.”
More eye-rolling.
Ella holds a pleading hand out in front of her. “No! Please stop. I’m running with the Flintstones line. Do these actually work?”
I nod. “You’d be amazed, Ella. That last one got me a blowie from a nun.”
True story.
God bless you Sister Siddaway, and that hot little mouth of yours. I’ll tell you about that another time—I can’t recall the memory of that night in the cemetery without blushing.
I continue. “Of course, you’re forgetting my unique selling point, Ella. How many bachelors in New York City can truthfully say that they have two cocks?”
She pushes her lips together. “I haven’t interviewed Blake Maloney from BinaryCom yet, but I’ve heard rumors …”
So have I, and it isn’t a topic I want to dwell on.
I raise my hand in the air and summon the bartender. “Two Pink Sladies please, Jolene—easy on the ice.” She winks obligingly and sidles back to the bar. Ella shoots me a confused look.
“You have a cocktail named after you?”
I grin proudly. “Sure. Well it’s actually named after my cunnilingus skills. I’m legendary in these parts.”
Ella grins broadly and cocks her head to the side. “Is that to compensate for your penile dysfunction?”
She’s referring to that frigging advert. I form a steeple with my hands. “Yeah, about that whole impotent thing; it was a joke. I’d be more than willing to prove it to you—just say the word.”
My beauty relaxes back against her chair. “Keep trying, Slade. It’s never going to happen. You told me you’d behave, remember?” She quickly forces the next question. “What’s the nicest thing you’ve ever done for a woman?”
I look to the ceiling and think. “I’m nice all the time, but if I had to choose only one? The time I delivered orgasms within twenty minutes. Poor Helen was walking like John Wayne for three weeks.”
Jolene returns with our drinks. I slide a glass across the table. She eyes the pink concoction with suspicion and I encourage her to take a sip.
Oh. You want my cocktail recipe?
Here you go.
Pink Sladie
1 1/2oz vodka
3/4oz applejack
1/4oz lemon juice
2 dashes of grenadine
1 egg white
A Maraschino cherry for garnish
Mix the ingredients into a cocktail shaker with ice cubes. Shake, and then strain the liquid into a chilled cocktail glass. Garnish with the cherry.
Enjoy. It’s lethal. You’ll be on your back in no time.
Tell your husband he may thank me later.
“Not bad at all,” Ella concedes with a wry smile.
“If you think that tastes good, wait until you’re on the receiving end of a …”
Thwack.
I hold my wrist in my hand. It stings. “Finish that sentence and I’m out of here.”
***
Our conversation has drifted onto the topic of books. Ella just asked me to name my favorite author.
“Hemingway. He gets straight to the point.”
She nods. “I can see why. He reminds me of you.”
I cock an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Sure. He loved alcohol, was good with words. Allegedly even better with women.”
I can’t argue with that. I stretch. “So tell me, Ella. Who’s your favorite author?”
She stirs the straw around her glass and ponders my question. I love that she reads. I dig smart women.
“I have so many favorite authors; I don’t think I could choose. Graham Green, James Joyce, Kazuo Ishiguro … Jane Austen.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Okay, okay I like Twilight, too. No teasing.”
That’s more like it.
But here this; when a woman tells you that she loves Jane Austen you have to read between the lines. It means she hates Austen. What she really wants is to be ravaged by Mr. Darcy in the green hills of merry old England. Come on, admit it ladies—it’s all about the Darcy cock.
“Mr. Darcy was a pompous asshat,” I declare, unabashedly. I know I’m on dangerous territory, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take, even if I lose a ball in the process.
Ella’s mouth falls open. “You’ve read the book? I didn’t think of you as the Austen type.”
I smirk. “I’m not, but a guy has to check out the competition.”
She smiles coyly. “Right. You think you’d be competition for Mr. Darcy?”
Let’s get something straight here: Mr. Darcy is no competition for Alexander Slade. Though confessing that you consider Mr. Darcy to be a douche of epic proportions is among the top ten truths a man should never reveal to a woman. It’s like saying. “Yes dear, your butt does look big in that. Now, be a sweetheart and go change those pants.’
It’s unforgivable, but I’m the kind of guy that tells the truth, even if I wind up with a black eye. Just for the record—I’m not jealous of Darcy.
It’s Jane Austen that I have beef with.
That’s right Jane, I blame you—purveyor of unrealistic expectations. For the past two centuries, to the very year, women the world over have made it their life’s ambition to tie down a Mr. Darcy. They want their very own walking, talking dildo in a top hat.
Listen up, ladies—it’s never going to happen.
I continue my character assassination of Mr. Perfect, and Ella is listening intently. “If Miss Austin were still here today, I’d say, ‘Jane? Let’s talk. Now go rewrite that book. Make it a little more realistic.’”
Ella takes another sip of her cocktail. “So you’re saying that Darcy was arrogant, pompous, conceited, and disappeared when the lady needed him?”
I nod. “And he only married Elizabeth because she was his only option.”
She folds her arms defensively. Uh-oh. See what I mean? I have dissed Darcy. I better go grab my armor—this is war. I roll up my sleeves and clasp my hands together like I’m about to preach a sermon.
“Ella, listen. The hot sister hooked up with Bingley. Elizabeth’s mother and auntie were already married. Two o
f her sisters were borderline histrionic. The other one was catatonic. The others were dudes, except Charlotte, who had a lady boner for bucolic clergymen.”
Her expression turns from serious to inquisitive. “That’s pretty cynical. Was Darcy’s sexual prowess the topic of your dissertation at Harvard?”
I laugh. “My great aunt used to read Austen to me as a bedtime story. She dies a lonely old spinster, by the way. What I’m trying to say is that men are only as faithful as their options.”
She forces a smile. “I see. So that’s why Mr. Hot Shot bachelor doesn’t have a steady girlfriend? And here I was thinking it was due to your arrogance.”
***
Ella is from Ithaca. Her parents run an apple orchard near Cayuga Lake, and apparently the pace of life is pretty slow. She makes the village life sound as appealing as a love bite from a shark. She has one brother, Tobias. He’s a DJ. He escaped Dullsville and he’s living it up in Rio de Janeiro.
I’m something of a Francophile—more so when it comes to French women, and I’m happy to report that Ella speaks fluent French.
She’s beautiful. Smart. Sexy.
I’ve decided she’d be the perfect Friday night girl.
We’ve been talking for close to two hours and now we’re playing BattleShots. Never heard of BattleShots? It’s like Battleships but with shot glasses of liquor in place of plastic boats. This is way more fun than the original game, trust me.
When we were teenagers, Karl and I spent hours during one summer vacation perfecting our strategy. Two dozen bottles of Ouzo later and we arrived at the stunning conclusion that there is no strategy—it’s all down to luck. It was especially lucky for Karl, as it turned out, for it was after a game of BattleShots that I introduced him to Pop Rocks Polly.
Anyway, back to the battle of Ella’s panties. I know you’re dying to find out if I win.
I like this girl. She’s smart as a whip, funny, unpretentious … and sinking my BattleShots like a true marine commander.
She looks up at me from under those long lashes. “F4?”
Christ, not again.
“You got me, Miss Bryant.”
She really has. I can’t stop looking at her. Her eyes. Her hair. Her tits … and now she’s waiting for me to make my move. Trust me, I’m about to. Just not on the board. I know, I know. I promised I’d behave, but she’s just too damn hot.
I throw my hands in the air, down my drink in one, and smile. She laughs and sinks one for good measure. A pink flush sprinkles over Ella’s neck. Like I said, Pink Sladies are one hell of a lubricant.
Dare I say it, she seems as though she’s enjoying herself. Of course, I knew she would, and we’re not even naked … yet.
A band strikes up on a makeshift stage. Random couples file on to the dance floor, and I see my chance. Standing up, I hold out my hand.
“C’mon, just one dance?”
She looks at me with amused suspicion. “I don’t know about that … but you have been well behaved, I guess.”
I jut out my bottom lip until she succumbs to my charm. “Okay, Slade. Show me your moves, but if you start doing the funky chicken? I’m out of here. And keep your hands at ten and two.”
I hear her, loud and clear, but apparently my cock hasn’t got that memo. Ignore the raging boner that our new-found proximity has induced, I untuck my shirt until it covers my crotch and lead Ella to the dance floor.
Keeping my hands at the agreed position, I try not to stare at her twin peaks.
So I picture Miss Gotthold, my old languages teacher, instead. She represented the German shot put team in her formative years. Imagine a bulkier, blonder version of Roseanne Barr. Now add a moustache and some downy fuzz under her chin. Whenever she got angry, her left eye seeped yellow pus like watery custard. Karl and I thought she was crying, but turns out it was some kind of recurring infection.
Gross.
“Tell me Ella, were you bluffing earlier when you said you had a date tonight?”
Ella pushes her hands against my chest, and I feel her body tense at my question. “I—I don’t want to talk about it.”
I don’t want to be a buzzkill, so I don’t probe her further. I slide my hands down to her waist and give her a tight squeeze.
And here he comes again.
Screw you, Miss Gotthold; I need a new boner repellent. My blooming erection shows no sign of abating as he presses against her waist.
But Ella doesn’t flinch.
She doesn’t pull away.
So I let my hand slip down to her butt … way, way beyond the agreed limits.
I close my eyes and wait for the inevitable slap, but it doesn’t come.
That’s a green light in my book.
Seizing the moment, I take her face in my hands and smile. She looks up at me with those hazel beauties.
They brim with want. They twinkle with desire. They tell me all I need to know.
Halle-fucking-lujeh.
Slade is getting laid. I better hurry and call a cab. After all, procrastination is like masturbation—its’ fun, until you realize the only person you’re screwing is yourself.
Chapter Seven
According to most glossy magazines, a New York City cab among the top ten places to have sex before you die. Being a man-about-town that I am, I’m proud to say that I’ve nailed my way through eight of the recommended ten locations the regularly frequent these lists.
And it looks as though I’m about to strike another one off my bucket list.
Don’t look so surprised—I saw the signs.
Besides, a date isn’t a real date until both parties are naked.
I drag my lips away from hers and stroke a loose weave of hair from her face. Resting my forehead against hers, I growl, “Your place or mine?”
She pulls back. “Alex, I don’t think this is a good idea …”
Farmville. The subprime mortgage. The mullet.
All bad ideas.
But this? This is an awesome idea. Perhaps even my best yet.
I bury my face in the nook of her neck and suck her tender flesh. She smells sweet, like vanilla. I tear my face away and mold my hungry mouth around hers. Her knees buckle. “Your place or mine?”
She lets out a soft moan. “Yours …”
That’s more like it.
Good job I had my maid change the bed sheets, right? I flag down a cab and we both tumble inside, our hands clasping at one another’s clothes. Once inside, Ella climbs onto my lap. Her dress bunches around her waist as she locks her legs around my hips. Now she’s attacking the buttons of my shirt.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
Our lips clash; we kiss, our tongues dancing furiously until she pulls her head back and pushes her weight against my wood. I bark directions at the driver and slip a finger inside her hot, wet mouth. Those perfect cupid-bow lips eagerly engulf it as a simulation of the pleasures to come.
Christ, I’m dying here.
I bring the flat of my palms up to her breasts and tease light circles around the edge of her nipples. Through the material of her dress, I feel her perky peaks. Yum.
I wiggle my eyebrows. “The girls are trapped, Ella. I must release them.”
I slide my hands around the small of her back and let my fingers climb up to her zipper, savoring each and every curve on their ascent. Ella makes a grab for my hand and guides it southwards.
Her voice is soft and rasping as she hitches the front of her dress. “Try here.”
Holy hell.
White. Lace. Panties.
The front panel is sheer, and I catch a glimpse of her well-trimmed bush. A low moan of anticipation escapes from the back of my throat when I gently stroke the crotch of her panties with two fingers.
She’s juicy. She’s wet. She’s ready for Slade.
I sneak two fingers around the edge of her panties and plunge them deep inside. Her body convulses as I explore the warm, ribbed cavern at the apex of her thighs. Pulling my fingers toward the front of her snat
ch, I push long, firm strokes. It feels incredible to be able to feel every pulsation of her beautiful body from the inside out.
A proud smile spreads across my face as Ella Bryant writhes around my lap in ecstasy.
“Oh, God … that’s so good … don’t stop …”
I don’t intend to, sweetheart.
You didn’t think that I knew how to find the G-spot, did you? Think again. I got my scouts badge for mapping that sucker out a long time ago.
The cab pulls up outside my apartment and I throw bills at the driver as we tumble outside.
I slide an arm around her waist and lead my beauty through the lobby. The concierge gives me a conspiratorial wink as we pass by. He knows the drill—he’s seen it a hundred times before.
I hit the button of the elevator. Seconds later, the doors fly open and we step inside. Look at her—she’s already fucking me with those big, beautiful eyes.
Three … two … one …
As soon as the door closes, we lunge at each another like ravenous animals. Her hands roam over my chest, past my stomach, and down to my groin. She rubs my junk through my trousers, and he stiffens like he’s been hit with a frigging lightning bolt.
We’re both panting, now. Her words punctuated, as she tells me. “I just want you to know that I’m disgusted with myself about what we’re doing right now ...”
I dip my face to meet hers and take both of her wrists in my hands. “Abso-fucking-lutely. And so you should be, Miss Bryant.”
She breathes into my left ear. “You’re filthy.”
“You too, gorgeous.”
I scoop her left leg up off the floor and she locks it tightly around my waist.
Kissing furiously, we stumble from the elevator and crash against my front door.
She’s still moaning into my ear as I stab my key inside the lock. “I hope you’re going to show me why they named a cocktail after you …”
I kick open the door like a cowboy entering a saloon, and we both crash to the floor in a heap of passion, still pulling and caressing each other. Ella reaches down and tries to remove her shoes.
“Don’t even think about it!” I warn her. “You keep those babies on.”
My eyes rove over her glorious body. I’m overwhelmed. Like a spoiled kid on Christmas morning.
