Dr. Strange Beard

by Penny Reid

  Simone and her hunches. The thought made me smile, and something about my smile made her eyelashes flutter, her breathing change.

  “Roscoe,” she whispered hoarsely, and then cleared her throat. “I have some questions.”

  I felt my smile deepen.

  Simone and her questions.

  “Ask me anything.” Unable to stop myself because she was so close, I trailed the back of my knuckles along the smooth skin of her arm. But I did stop short of placing a biting kiss where the strap of her dress lay against her collarbone.

  Maybe later.

  She cleared her throat and leaned an inch closer. “They’re standard first or second date questions, nothing wacky, but they’re topics we haven’t touched on yet, so . . .”

  “Okay.” My smile lingered. For the first time this evening, she seemed a little nervous. I found myself looking forward to these questions.

  Her eyes moved between mine and I could sense her hesitation. “The thing is, they’re usually brought up with a great deal of finesse. But as you know, I suck at finesse.”

  I nodded once. “Yes. You do.”

  She pressed her lips together, her nose wrinkling slightly. “Well, thanks.”

  “Hey.” I grinned. “I suck at forensics. It’s important to know your limitations.”

  Simone rolled her eyes and grinned, but even in the cozy lighting of the restaurant I perceived a slight pink hue claim her cheeks. “I will make you sorry for teasing me, Roscoe Winston.”

  Nudging her shoulder with mine, I whispered, “I’d certainly like to see you try.”

  “Fine.” She looked at me squarely, lifting her chin, no longer whispering. “How many relationships have you had?”

  My mouth dropped open, but she wasn’t finished.

  “And did you always use a condom? Even so, when was the last time you were checked for STDs? Are you clean? And are you currently seeing anyone else right now?”

  “What? No!” I shook my head vehemently. I was so shocked by her last question, it was the only one I could focus on.

  “Any children?”

  “Simone—”

  “I like children, I think they’re great. I just like to know ahead of time if there are kids, because that usually means birthday parties, which might mean clowns, and as much as I like children—”

  “You don’t like clowns,” I finished for her, looking at her sideways. “Do you really ask all these questions on the first or second date? Is that what people do?”

  “I do,” she sighed. “Or, I used to, when I dated.”

  That had me sitting up straighter. “When you dated? You don’t date anymore?”

  “Not recently, not since undergrad.”

  I did the math in my head. “That’s, what, three years?”

  “Yes. But my last ‘relationship’ was my junior year of college. So it’s been four years since my last boyfriend, but ”—now she seemed to be doing the math in her head—“six months since my last hookup.”

  At some point I’d leaned away and crossed my arms. Now I was watching her through narrowed eyes, debating whether or not I wanted to know more about this part of her history. I thought about her questions.

  How many relationships have you had?

  Did I want to know how many relationships she’d had?

  No. It didn’t matter.

  Did you always use a condom? When was the last time you were checked for STDs? Are you clean?

  Those three sounded important, but only the last one was actually important.

  So I asked, “Are you clean?”

  She nodded, seemingly unperturbed by my question. “Yes.”

  “So am I,” I mumbled, hedging, my palms suddenly itchy.

  “You’re not seeing anyone else right now,” she said. “And I’m guessing you don’t have any children.”

  “Correct on both accounts.” My response was distracted.

  “Same for me. And I’m on birth control,” she said quietly, her attention moving from my arms, which were crossed over my chest, to the posture of my shoulders. “Why do these questions bother you?” The question was gently asked.

  Because they’re irrelevant to how I feel about you, I wanted to say, and because they shouldn’t be irrelevant to how you feel about me.

  But that wasn’t the whole truth, and Simone deserved the truth.

  So I exhaled, my eyes dropping to my half-eaten dinner. I was no longer hungry.

  “There’s something you should know about me.”

  I sensed her shift in her chair, her interest piqued. “Yes?”

  “My last relationship—”

  “Yes?” She leaned forward.

  I shook my head, laughing at myself. For someone who carried every memory of his life around with him like baggage, it occurred to me in that moment that I hadn’t done a whole lot of living.

  Her hand came to my arm, a tender touch, drawing my eyes to hers.

  “Whatever it is, you can tell me. I’m not going to judge you for choices you made in your past.” Her words were solemn, sincere.

  I covered her hand with mine, plucked it from my arm and held it between my palms. “See, that’s just it.” My smile was wry, wary. “I . . . I didn’t make many choices in my past. Always the same one.”

  Her gaze moved over me. “I don’t understand.”

  I winced. I hadn’t counted on this being so difficult, or such a big deal.

  Just say it.

  Tell her.

  It shouldn’t matter.

  Leaning forward, still holding her hand in both of mine, I took a deep, bracing breath and confessed, “Simone, there’s been nobody.”

  She watched me, her gaze patient, waiting. When I didn’t continue, she blinked, her head moving back an inch, confusion clouding her brilliant eyes.

  “What are you . . .” She blinked again, a reluctant conclusion sharpening her expression. “Are you saying—are you—” she cut herself off, pulling her hand away while leaning all the way forward. Her eyes darted between mine.

  “You’re a virgin?” she whispered on a rush, just like she always did when she asked a question without truly wanting to know the answer.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Remember tonight... for it is the beginning of always.”

  Dante Alighieri

  *Simone*

  Shortly after the we left the restaurant.

  We drove back to his place in near silence.

  We entered his apartment, Roscoe holding the door for me just as he’d done each time we’d encountered a door, and he hung his keys by the hook just inside.

  I watched his back as he moved about the space, flipping on a light here, going through his mail there. I watched him, the graceful confidence of his movements. I watched him, the stoic, unperturbed expression masking his features.

  He’s a virgin.

  To say I was shocked would be an understatement, but not as much of an understatement as saying I was curious.

  Man oh man oh man, I was so fucking curious. And nervous. And therefore tongue-tied. I mean, what does one say to a smokin’ hot, gainfully employed, super smart and kind, educated, with a nice family, didn’t live with his parents, wasn’t addicted to World of Warcraft, no arrest record virgin of twenty-six?

  Excuse me, but I have a few questions. How the hell is it possible that you, Sir Roscoe the Soulful, are a virgin?

  I shook my head, my mind a mess. I was so confused. I was also ashamed, because along with the confusion and nervousness and shock and curiosity, I also wondered, what is wrong with him?

  My eyes dropped to the front of his pants, where his virginal penis resided, all locked up in its ivory tower, a fair . . .

  Wait. What was the male equivalent of a maiden?

  I wracked my brain, trying to come up with a word or phrase. An untried youth? That didn’t quite fit. Eventually, I abandoned my search and just decided to coin a phrase.

  Roscoe was a man-maiden. That’s what he was. A fair
man-maiden, with a beard so dark and eyes so blue, a tall specimen of manly greenness, innocent and untouched.

  A virgin.

  A mother-non-fucking virgin.

  How would this even work?

  So. . . what does one do with a man-maiden? I mean, I’d read historical romance novels before (Beverly Jenkins and Lisa Kleypas were my homegirls), so I had some idea about how a virgin was debauched, or deflowered, or whatever it was called. Basically, a big four-poster bed was involved, and a coverlet, a duke, stays, and a chemise that is peeled back to reveal an expanse of smooth, virginal skin.

  I didn’t know where we could find a chemise at this time of night, so his T-shirt would have to do.

  Also, the debaucher would need to take control of the situation and ensure the debauchee (that is, the deflowered) was left gratified. Usually, penetration occurred twice—the first time to get the virgin accustomed to the invasion by taking things slowly and gently, and the second time for the virgin’s pleasure, again slowly and gently—because satisfying the virgin was of utmost importance.

  Also, the deflowered virgin often felt sore and “twingy” in new, unforeseen places afterward.

  Two consecutive penetrations wouldn’t be a problem. If I had him lie on his back during the first round, then he wouldn’t have to think about much else other than enjoying himself. Perhaps we’d go cowgirl for the second round of plucking his petals (i.e. deflowering), and move on to doggy style for times three and five. Maybe have him stand at the edge of the bed while I lie upon it—if his bed was tall enough—for times seven and ten, to give him a sense of gradual control. I felt confident, after some instruction, we could eventually move on to sitting face-to-face if—

  “Want any coffee?” he asked, breaking me from my musings, his tone distant. “If you’re planning to leave any time soon, the drive back home feels twice as long this time of night without it.”

  My eyebrows shot up, his cool, insinuated dismissal catching me off guard, and I fought for a moment to find clarity of thought. I was disappointed by his demeanor.

  And yet, at the same time, what had I expected? A ballooning burst of shame crashed over me, sobered me from my stunted shock. I’d told him I wouldn’t judge him for the choices of his past, and here I was, doing exactly that.

  Breathing out, I glanced around the apartment, waking from my daze.

  Yes. Roscoe is a virgin.

  So what?

  He’s still Roscoe. And you’re still Simone.

  Clearing my throat, because my heart was suddenly there, beating against my larynx, I hazarded two steps toward him, deciding that my plans for his gradual debauchery would have to wait. I had feelings to consider first.

  As Jenn had said, I was trying to bake the cake without preheating the oven. Wise woman.

  “I have questions.”

  He made a scoffing sound, not looking up from his mail, and muttered something like, “Of course you do.”

  I didn’t let his salty tone deter me, because I had a hunch. And this hunch fueled my bravery in the face of his alleged aloofness.

  Therefore, gathering a breath specifically for bravery, I asked, “Do you want to be with me?”

  Stillness settled over him, his eyes staring forward. I watched his chest expand and my hunch told me that Roscoe was also breathing in bravery.

  He blinked. He looked at me, his eyes and expression stark.

  “I want to be with you. Always.” He sounded sad, resigned.

  I smiled, because I couldn’t help it, and because his answer aligned with my hunch. I never get tired of being proven right.

  The three Es returned, and they brought butterflies with them, depositing the Rhopalocera low in my belly where their wings fluttered and warmed me from the inside out.

  Closing the rest of the distance between us, I covered his hand holding the mail and took the envelopes, tossing them to the coffee table. Entwining our fingers, I gazed up at him, at my spectacular man-maiden, and my feelings warmed me, unfolded, bloomed.

  Perhaps I’d been a green bud as well until this moment, blossoming under his stern admission, because my heart swelled even as my breath was stolen.

  Everything became clear, and fuck it all, I loved him.

  I loved him.

  I loved this man.

  I wanted him, to be with him, always.

  It was him. How he touched me, looked at me, held me, knew me, accepted me. His gentleness, his ferocity, his sweetness, even his caution. I loved his reluctance, how earnestly and sincerely he approached every situation, with heart and soul over mind and matter.

  I loved him.

  “I want to be with you, too,” I said, my gaze dropping to his lips, my voice unsteady, because this was both scary and wonderful. “I want to be with you always. And, Roscoe, I—”

  That’s all I got out, because he captured the words, fusing his mouth to mine, ensnaring my body, just as he’d ensnared my reason, and feelings, and heart.

  My hands—smart, useful hands—were unbuttoning his shirt as he untucked it. He didn’t wait for me to finish before pulling it over his head, his undershirt following, leaving him bare-chested, somehow taller than before, and so fucking magnificent.

  I mean, ladies.

  Holy cow.

  Get thee a Winston, stat!

  His hands came to my waist, flexing on my sides as his mouth hungrily devoured mine. His fingers dug into my ribs, giving me the sense—now that his lack of experience had been revealed to me—he wanted more. He wanted to touch me, but he didn’t know how to take what he wanted.

  Reaching for his hand, I slid it higher to my breast, moving his fingertips to the edge of my neckline and encouraging him to push his hand inside. He did, shuddering even as he turned us both and surged forward, backing me against a wall in three large steps.

  My head tilted back as he massaged me, a ragged breath torn from his lungs, the rock-hard length of his erection pressing against my belly.

  Yes. Yes. Yes.

  Prior to now, I’d taken male arousal for granted. A given. A necessity to get where I needed to go. But not with Roscoe. Watching him now, his mindlessness and loss of control, his confusion and uncertainty, it was a beautiful, pure thing. I felt a pang at the rawness of him and at my own envy.

  I wished, so badly, that he’d been my first. That this sweet, sexy man and I could have taken this journey together, fumbling, failing and falling, rising and learning from each other. But I couldn’t change the past, and nor would I want to, because everything that came before had brought me—had brought us—to right now.

  I love him.

  His hips rocked, grinding in a thoughtless movement, one of pure instinct and need, somehow both innocent and carnal.

  Scratching my nails down the lean muscles of his chest and stomach, I cupped him over his pants, stroked, and watched, captivated as he stilled, seemed to hold his breath. His eyes scrunched shut, restless energy pouring from him in tsunami-sized waves. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was in pain.

  Maybe he was.

  “Roscoe.”

  He made an unintelligible sound and my chest expanded, a tight, aching flare. I stroked him again and his hands came to either side of me, caging me in as he leaned heavily on the wall.

  “Don’t,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m so close.”

  I rolled my lips between my teeth, because he didn’t need me laughing right now, and removed my hand from his pants, instead arching my back and unhooking my bra. His eyes opened, collided with mine as I peeled one strap from my shoulder, and then the other, tugging my dress downward. His eyes lowered, as though mesmerized, wide and focused on my chest and I let my dress drop, my bra falling next to it.

  He sucked in a shaky breath, his eyes wavering but not blinking.

  “Kiss me,” I said, not recognizing my own voice.

  A thrill, a shock passed through me as he lowered to my breast. I felt his hot breath before his hotter mouth closed over th
e peak, kissing me there as he’d kissed me so expertly on my lips.

  I moaned, threading my fingers into his dark locks and anchoring my nails into the short hairs at the back of his neck. My sound of pleasure must’ve unleashed something within him, because his movements grew more certain, demanding. He cupped my other breast, twisting the center between his thumb and index finger, tugging it sharply.

  I gasped.

  He stilled.

  “Don’t stop,” I breathed, holding him more firmly in place. “Just . . . just keeping doing everything you’re doing.”

  So he did. He feasted on my skin as I watched him, until I grew restless, tightness coiling in my belly. Until I needed him to touch me lower, deeper.

  “Roscoe,” I panted, grabbing his wrist and directing it downward. “Use—use your middle finger to—to—oh God.”

  His hand was in my underwear, his warm palm against my abdomen, his middle finger separating me, tracing the swell of my clitoris. This time we gasped in unison.

  “You’re so hot . . . and soft,” he groaned, trailing wet, biting kisses from my breast to my neck, swirling his tongue against the sensitive skin.

  God.

  If he did that elsewhere, just like that, I’d lose it.

  A shudder claimed me at the thought. I moaned again as he discovered me with his fingers, gently probing, caressing, stroking. He explored lower, finding my entrance, his other hand smoothing from my shoulder, down my back to dip into my panties, grabbing a handful of my backside.

  “I want to bite you,” he whispered roughly against my neck, sucking my earlobe between his lips. “Taste every part of you. I want you everywhere.”

  His words inebriated me, pulling me under the surface of reason, cutting the air supply to sanity and filling my lungs with reckless desire.

  This was not how I’d imagined things between us would progress.

  I was losing control. I couldn’t remember what to do next, how to ensure his first time was gratifying. A chemise, and then skin, and something about double penetration . . .

  No.

  I made a face.

  That’s not right.

  But I couldn’t think. His exploring fingers where stroking and teasing me perfectly; and his mouth was at my neck sending jolts and spikes of ticklish sensation radiating along my nerves in all directions; and his long, lean body was pressing me against the wall. He was everywhere.