by Knight, Jodi
I had that coming, didn’t I? Let’s decipher the body language. Look at the way her arms are crosses in front of her chest. Her foot is tapping impatiently. It’s quite simple: she wants to kill me.
I swallow, hard. “Ella, I know I should have told you about Tyler. I’m sorry, okay?”
She doesn’t speak.
I’ll show her how sorry I am. I grab a wooden spoon from a rack on the wall. “Ella, I know you’re angry. Let me be your punch bag.” I thrust the weapon into her hand.
She raises a quizzical eyebrow. “Really? You’re sure about this? Because I’m pretty angry, Alex.”
I nod.
She raises the spoon.
Whack.
My right bicep tingles with pain. Go to your happy place, Slade. Just pretend she’s spanking you with a riding crop. Now she’s bouncing from one foot to the other, like a boxer getting ready to deliver a knockout blow.
“I hate you!”
Whack.
“You arrogant asshole!”
Whack.
“I hate you, and I hate men!”
That’s a shame, because this is such a turn on. I’d bang her like a screen door in a hurricane. Given my current situation, I’m not going to say that out loud.
Whack.
“You’re all the same! Assholes!”
Whack.
“You know something, Alex. You’re right. This is fun.” She backs away and riffles through the nearest drawer, never taking her eyes off mine. Ella pulls out a garlic press, and snaps the handle up and down so it makes a clinking sound.
She holds it close to my crotch.
Too close.
With a benevolent smile, she holds up a meat tenderizer and taps it lightly against the palm of her hand. “What about this? It’s kind of pointy, isn’t it?”
Whipping. Handcuffs. Wax. Silk scarves.
I’m an adventurous guy—I’ve done them all. But I’ve never been spanked with a meat tenderizer before. Another first since I met her.
I flash Ella a dazzling smile. “Ella, can’t we just start with butt plugs and cock rings, and work our way up to kitchen apparatus?”
She twists the cleaver in a strangling motion.
“Okay, okay—I’ll take the meat cleaver.”
My balls are too swollen to fit in the garlic press, anyway. She edges closer, brandishing both penile-wincing implements. I lick my lips in anticipation.
“Seeing as though I missed the class on surgical precision at Cornell, I reckon I’m going to have to improvise.”
I plead with her. “If you go through with this, Ella, you’ll have a baying mob of irate females at your door in under an hour. Think about this very carefully.”
She strokes the cleaver under my chin. “You could have told me earlier. You had the chance and you said nothing!”
I flinch.
Man, this is hot.
She continues. “To be humiliated like that in front of all those people!”
I shake my head. “Ella, if it’s any consolation, I wanted to punch him out as soon as I met him. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but I had my reasons. Anyway, you’re taking this out on the wrong guy.”
I’m saved from certain castration when Carrie bounds through the door, dragging a sorry-looking Parker by his collar. Ella lowers the cleaver, but her eyes continue to dance with rage.
I don’t think she’s finished with me yet, do you?
Carrie pushes Parker against the counter. “Keep blinking, Sparky. Water is not going to shift this. You need to cry.”
She thrusts her hands under his tee-shirt.
Parker groans huskily. “What the hell are you doing?”
“You’ll see.”
“Arrrgh! You’re insane!”
Did you see that? She just tweaked his nipples.
Carrie marches over to me. I’m not going to make excuses for you, Slade. You can’t put a bunch of flowers in an asshole and call it a vase.”
Then she turns to face Ella. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You two are going to get out of the apartment. Talk. Do whatever it takes to get whatever the hell it is out of your system.”
Ella snaps. “What?”
Carrie smacks an open palm against her own forehead and they exchange another one of their intimate glares. “Remember what you told me after the evening at the museum?”
Oh, hello. This just got interesting.
I raise a hopeful eyebrow. “What exactly did she tell you?”
Ella’s scowls, her eyes brimming with horror. Carrie jabs me in the chest with her forefinger. “What she told me not to tell you is only for her to tell. Now, I wish you’d both get the hell out of my kitchen and for Christ’s sake, talk!”
Carrie’s eyes fall to my milky crotch. “Keep it zipped, Slade. Just because she’s rebounding, doesn’t mean your trousers should. I have boobs. I make the rules, alright?”
***
I once read that shock, denial, and isolation are the first three stages of a break-up. Judging by the way Ella is furiously defacing posters of Jockass, I’m betting we’ve arrived at the fourth.
Anger.
Men and women handle this stage differently. When Karl was a teenager, he dated a girl called Jenny Alderson for two years. She was hot—I’m talking model quality here. He dumped her after he realized she was never going to swallow. My point is this; do you think he sat around crying into my beer?
Hell, no. Later that evening we hit the city and got him laid.
By twins.
Two weeks after Splitsville, Jenny Alderson wound up on my doorstep wearing the teeniest skirt I’d ever seen. She wanted to know what she could do to win Karl back.
I didn’t have the heart to tell her that she needed to improve her technique with the skin flute. Jenny was vulnerable. She needed reassurance. She needed to be held, and told that she was beautiful.
I did just that during an al fresco tête-à-tête on the beach. Then we drank eight bottles of cider and humped like a couple of rabbits.
I’m telling you this because Ella is displaying that same vulnerability as Jenny Alderson. At times she may seem unaffected and in control, but her puffy eyes and demeanor tell me differently.
I decided that I don’t want her to do a Jenny Alderson and accept a pity fuck. I refuse to pounce on her in her time of need.
I want Ella to beg me to pound her.
It’s a male ego thing.
“Carrie was right. Going out with you is way more fun than slouching around in the apartment. Hand me the other pen.”
I oblige and watch in smug amusement as she sabotages another poster of Tyler Strickland.
It was all my idea. I figured she needed to diffuse some anger. To show her just how sorry I am, I suggested she deface posters of our own ad campaign. We’ve hit every bus shelter on the avenue, but she’s showing no sign of abating.
It’s immature, but I’m willing to do anything, even hack my legs off at the knee caps, if it helps to expedite the process to stage five
Acceptance. Because it’s only then that we can move on to stage six.
I don’t need to tell you what that is, do I?
Ella assesses her artwork. “How many is that now?”
I look back over my shoulder and count the damage. “Ten. Come on, Picasso, let’s go grab a drink.”
She stares at me for a moment, like she’s trying to figure out if she should forgive me and accept, or gauge my eyes out with the marker pen. “Alright.”
We grab a table outside a small bar and I order two Pink Sladies. Then I tell her all about my Pemberley suite.
She knits her brows. “Why are you staying there?”
I don’t want to tell her about my daddy issues, so I’m saved when our drinks arrive. She takes a sip. “God, this is just what I needed.”
I smile and flicker my eyes to her. “Am I forgiven?”
She leans back in her chair and takes a deep breath. “It’s too early to say.” She mindless
ly stirs the straw around her glass. “I can’t believe I almost married him.”
“Have you seen him since the party?”
I know, I know—I can’t help myself. I’m a masochist, remember?
She nods warily. “He came over. We argued.”
I lean forward and my face breaks into a concerned smile. “You’re not going to forgive him, are you?”
Say no, no, no.
Giving a ball licker like that another chance is like giving your biggest enemy an extra bullet for their gun because they missed you the first time.
“Nope. It’s over.”
Thank God.
Slade 2-1 Strickland. Jockass is toast.
“I just don’t get it. All those wasted years. He said it was my fault for being too jealous.”
You have got to be kidding me? Sounds like Jockass is playing the victim so well I wouldn’t be surprised if he carries his own body chalk. Ladies, what is with this whole beating-yourself-up-over-a-failed-relationship thing that you do?
Seriously—quit it.
Men blame women, and women blame women. It’s the same shit in business. Men blame the system; women blame themselves. Rat boy is a needle dick, and if Ella is even halfway honest with herself, she knows it too.
She wipes a tear away from her eye, so I lean forward and draw circles on the back of her hand with my thumb. “Ella, you’re a beautiful, smart woman. He doesn’t deserve you. He never did.”
She can’t make eye contact. “Right. It’s just that we were together so long. Things weren’t always like this. We were great together, but as soon as he became a public figure, well …”
“Then he became an octopus,” I tell her.
She blinks, like she doesn’t understand. I explain. “You know—arms and hands everywhere?”
Now she breaks into a laugh. “I guess so.”
I nod. “Now each time you want a hug from Tyler, you’ll picture an eight-legged, slimy, subaquatic predator instead.”
She smiles weakly. “To be honest Alex, I’m mad at myself. After I dropped out of school we moved to Washington so Tyler could train. Then we moved from state to state, and I took temp work. He said it would be worth it, that when he ‘made it’ we could settle in one place and he’d put me through college. A couple of years back we moved to New York so he could join the Stars. And then he became the Super Bowl superhero. I should have put myself first. I’m an idiot.”
Did you hear that? She’s an idiot? He’s the goddamn idiot.
I twist a napkin, and pretend its Tyler Strickland’s neck. That won’t work; it’s like a tree trunk. I’ll have Parker hold him down, instead, while I foot-massage his colon. That’ll teach the fucker.
My torture fantasy is broken by the sound of Ella’s cell phone.
My eyes scan the screen.
Guess who?
Sensing danger, I wrap my hand over hers. “Don’t answer it, Ella. Don’t play his games.”
Too little, too late. She picks up with her free hand.
I listen intently, and try to piece together the conversation. “No, you can go to hell! I’m not playing hard to get, I’m playing not interested! ... I’m keeping it … let’s just hope you have an easier time finding your next whore than you did my clitoris … I’m just sorry that there isn’t a clear history button in my vagina …”
Ella hangs up and throws her hands in the air as a signal of surrender. “Okay, I’ve had enough.”
Tell me about it.
I reach out and stroke the back of her hand again. “Ella, you thought he was a Darcy and he turned out to be a Wickham.”
She nods. And then I have a light bulb moment. “Finish your drink. I know just the thing that will cheer you up.”
She cocks an eyebrow at me. “Remember what Carrie said. Behave yourself.”
I chuckle. “Besties before testes, right?” I stand up and pull on my jacket. “Trust me; this is the most fun you can have with your panties on. Even Carrie would approve.”
Chapter Fourteen
Men love cars.
For many guys, their wheels are their pride and joy. Almost every guy has a car story. It could be the time he accidentally backed over his neighbor’s dog, or the time he lost his v-plates on the bonnet.
There is a reason for this obsession. Market research proves what men have known for centuries; beautiful women are ten times more likely to screw a guy who drives an expensive car than a clapped-out rust bucket.
Road head is the real reason why we’d rather own a Porsche than an SUV.
It’s the reason teenagers blow their monthly allowance to upgrade their four-banger. It’s the reason car manufacturers pay advertising agencies big bucks to produce commercials targeting sex-starved, middle-aged men.
The message is simple: you may be bald, missing several teeth, and in desperate need of a gastric bypass, but if you buy this supercar you’ll get laid by every bikini model in a ten-thousand mile radius.
History tells the same story. You think Elizabeth Bennett would cream-up at the sight of Mr. Darcy arriving at a ball driving a hack chaise?
Hell no! His coach may have been missing a V8 engine, but he relied on a different kind of horsepower to get the chicks.
I’m not boring you, am I? There is a reason for this history lesson. I’ve treated Ella to a self-guided horse and carriage ride in Central Park. I picked the most elaborate set of wheels I could find and slipped the coachman an extra fifty bucks for the loan of his top hat and tailcoat. The whip was a bonus—I’m stealing it for my collection.
Calm down, I know Ella is vulnerable. Of course I’m not expecting road head, but if she really wanted too, I’m not going to beat her away.
We’re enjoying a pleasurable ride around the park, and then I yank the reigns until we slowly grind to a halt by Bethesda Fountain. A look of concern washes over her face. “Why are we stopping?”
I wrap my arm around her shoulder and point across the lake. “See that building over there? Last weekend, in that very building, you nearly made the biggest mistake of your life by agreeing to marry that douchebag.”
She starts to cry. Not ugly cry, it’s more of a sob.
Shit. This is not the reaction I was going for. I expected her to feel relieved. There’s nothing worse than woman’s tears. It makes a guy feel helpless. It’s the pits.
I tuck a stray strand of golden hair behind her ear, and wipe away a tear with my thumb. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
She bites her lower lip and rubs my arm. “You haven’t. You’re right. I’ve had a lucky escape. In a weird way, I guess you could say you’re a hero.”
Did you hear that? I’m a fucking hero. She twists a wisp of her hair around her finger and smiles. I attempt a sneaky, composed side-glance in her direction, but she catches me. “You know, Slade. When you look at me like that, I can’t help but think that you’re at war with yourself.”
I raise an eyebrow suggestively. “I am?”
“Sure.”
Excitement fizzes bright in my stomach. I lean in and lightly graze my lips against her forehead. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think I’m the only one …”
I trail my lips over her forehead and gently press my nose against hers. Closing my eyes, I wait for the inevitable slap.
It doesn’t come.
Heart pounding and unable to believe my luck, I kiss her softly on the lips. She slides a hand around the back of my head and strokes the nape of my neck. I brush her cheek with my finger, pull her toward me, and kiss her again—this time with more intensity. Our wet tongues join in unison, flicking and exploring each other without inhibition.
There’s no guilt this time.
She edges closer and presses her breasts against my chest. Christ. Cancel the paramedic; I must already be dead because I’m in fucking heaven.
My hands roam over Ella’s thigh, grasping and clawing at her flesh. I dive at her neck, kissing her, pulling at her skin with my teeth. My fingers crawl p
ast the hem of her dress and snake around the edge of her panties.
“Oh, God …”
Her back arches. I pump two fingers in and out of her, alternating the rhythm as she writhes around the seat in pleasure.
Her voice is desperate, almost pleading. Breathy. “Take me …” I summon enough willpower to drag myself away from her neck and glance over my shoulder to check the area for inquisitive park wardens.
I’m panting. “What? Here?”
She pushes her palms flat against my chest and whispers softly. “No …take me to Pemberley.”
I yank the reigns of the coach again and we set off again. Driving a horse and carriage with a boner the size of the Empire State Building is no easy feat. What’s the maximum speed these things can travel, anyway?
Ella pulls herself onto my lap. Finding a gap between my shirt and my torso, she snakes her hand across the bare flesh of my chest and … rip.
Buttons are way overrated, right?
I think so, too.
Next, she loosens my belt next, and thrusts her hands inside my pants. She takes my erection in hand and slowly pumps up and down my shaft. Holy God.
Think unsexy thoughts, Slade.
Boils. Cigarette butts. Frogspawn. Hilary Clinton.
She comes up to give me a playful kiss on the cheek, and then sinks down to her knees. And now she takes my throbbing tip in the warm wetness of her mouth. “Jesus …” I flinch in delicious agony and look down to see the full length of my cock disappear inside her insistent mouth. Impressive.
Ella Bryant has quite the receptive gullet.
She quickens the pace, sucking harder and faster, again and again.
And I’m ruined.
I’ll never be able to go back to road head after getting coach head.
“Sweet Jesus …”
I look down and marvel at her technique. It’s magical. If a great blow job requires the successful collaboration of hand, tongue, lips, and saliva, then Ella Bryant is playing my skin flute with the skills of a Grammy award-winning musician.
And now she’s sucking my balls with a feverish enthusiasm I haven’t experienced since my dalliance with Sister Siddaway. She looks up at me with pleading, innocent eyes, and I struggle to keep hold of the reigns.
