by Pippa Grant
But he did anyway.
“I’m sorry,” he says without preamble. “Nana ran a saloon for almost fifty years and she was out burning her bras in the sixties. She should know better than to imply any woman is nothing more than a baby-making machine.”
I grab a slice of cheesecake packed in a recycled, bio-degradable box and silently debate if I should get two. “It’s okay,” I say, even though I’m not entirely sure it is. It’s true that I don’t want to sacrifice my career to be a mother, but my reasons for not wanting kids go deeper. Back to my own childhood, to grade school, middle school, high school… My kids would be handicapped by the Dweeb Gene. Which would be fine, if that were my only concern. But it’s not.
I’m pushing forty and I can’t handle my own personal life. How the fuck am I supposed to help an innocent, naïve kid navigate bullies and cliques and insecurity? Words will never hurt me my ass. I don’t care if I totally fail at the dating game my entire life. But I will not fail a child.
Which means the best thing to do is to not have any at all.
“The whole purpose of life is to procreate,” I tell Knox. “All this stuff about jobs and hobbies and causes—we’re wasting our time if we’re not popping out babies too.”
Two goth women in matching metal spikes checking out the row of mix-and-measure grains slant darkly ironic glares at me. Maybe I should reconsider the goth emoji on my profile for our internal messaging system at work. Moody emo Parker was fun for a while, but I’m not feeling it anymore, and I kind of want to grab these girls and shake them and tell them to never have babies too.
Aside from being completely unable to handle my kids’ lives, I know how the corporate world works. I’ve seen it time and time again. You get pregnant, take six weeks off for maternity leave, then it’s a doctor appointment here, the baby’s sick and can’t stay at daycare there, and pretty soon, poof. You take five to seven years off to get the kids to school age, and by the time you go back, no one cares about your two master’s degrees and fifteen to twenty years of experience because the young kids fresh out of college have kept up better with the newest technological trends and hottest digital marketing tools and they’ll do your job for half the pay and none of the outside family commitments.
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just call all of womankind nothing more than baby-making machines,” Knox says.
“I’m going to pretend everything after me diving behind the couch didn’t happen.”
His voice drops to that seductive, I’m going to talk you out of your panties tone. “I was having a great time with you.”
“Me too.” I’m trying not to drop my cheesecake—or my panties, because I’m in public, at a grocery store that’s technically my job. “That was…well, honestly, wow is about the only word I can use without fully embarrassing myself again.”
“You could come back.”
“I could, but my kitchen is a mess, I’m out of groceries, I should run into the office because I have a shit ton of work piling up, and I have band practice in three hours.”
“Where?”
My thighs clench together. “You have better things to do than—”
“Oh, Knox, if you’re coming, I’ll be playing without any panties,” he dictates in a falsetto voice.
Cheesecake is totally not going to be enough to satisfy my pussy this time around. And I’m not going to Chase’s house without my panties.
But then I picture myself showing up with Knox on my arm for band practice, my panties in his pocket, which no one but the two of us would know, and yep—now I’m leaking through my underwear and getting my jeans damp too. “Were your mom and grandma in your house looking for unicorn party decorations? Did I hear that right?”
There’s a beat of silence that stretches into two beats.
Then three.
“Why do you keep unicorn decorations at your apartment?” I say stronger.
“I…probably need to tell you something.”
Oh, god. He’s into pony play. Or unicorn horns. His bedroom is probably all glitter and rainbows and strap-on unicorn horns. I knew he was too good to be true. I picked him, didn’t I? “If you’re getting ideas about putting a saddle and reins on me, you can forget it, buster. Deal’s off.
While Knox cracks up, the manager walks past, does a double-take, and—shit, I know this guy. He’s been over at headquarters for training a few times in the last couple months, and we chatted because he recognized me as a regular shopper.
I point at the phone. “My brother has issues,” I whisper. “It’s okay, we’re getting him medication. Family, you know? The Choy Joy set-up looks great in produce. Keep up the good work.”
“Did you just tell someone I’m your brother?” Knox says. “And…choy joy? Is that some kind of organic fetish? Are you with an ex-boyfriend?”
“Shut up and take your pills,” I say loudly. I lower my voice and head toward the checkout. “I’m in the Crunchy right down the street from my apartment,” I hiss. “I work with these people.”
He’s laughing at me again.
“Want me to come mention you riding me like a pony at your work?”
He sobers quickly. “I was just going to tell you that I live with Nana,” he says. “We—”
I blink. “Oh my god. You’re like the hot stud and his elderly neighbor on Facebook who moved in together, except you’re related to her and she’s not dying, she just has a sweet old lady front that makes people forgive her for asking rude questions. You could even have a real unicorn fetish that you put all over your blog and women would still swoon at your feet. Seriously, do you have any flaws at all?”
Anywhere else in New York, I could say that without getting a second glance. But now the cashier’s eyeballing me like the manager did a minute ago. I drop my Crunchy employee badge back in my purse before she can see my name—nope, I really don’t need the employee discount today if the price is my identity—and fish cash out of my wallet instead of using a credit card.
I don’t wait for my change and flee the store with my cheesecake.
“I live with Nana to save money,” Knox tells me. “It’s not a selfless gesture.”
“No, it’s a chicks dig dudes who live with their grandmothers gesture.”
He chuckles, and my chacha once again reminds me that this man gives good chuckle. I honestly can’t tell you the last time a man’s chuckle left me wanting to strip him down, lick his nipples, and ride him like a wanton cowgirl in heat.
Yes, yes, I do have issues. But for once, I might actually enjoy them.
12
Parker
I’m almost to my apartment, I’ve managed to keep my panties from melting off, and I’m still on the phone with Knox. “About your blog. If it’s okay with you, I’d like access to the back end to tweak a few things.”
“I like your back end,” he tells me.
I drop my keys trying to shove them into my lock. “You might be the only one.”
“Impossible. But I’ll settle for being the best one. If you came back, I’d show you how much.”
Finally, I push into my apartment. “Maybe I’m not that easy. Maybe I want phone sex first.”
Where did that come from? I toss my cheesecake in the fridge and drop my head to my kitchen counter. It’s cool, but there are still crumbs on it from the bagel I toasted this morning, which means I now have bagel crumbs implanted in my forehead, and they’re re-toasting themselves courtesy of my skin going the temperature of the sun.
I have never asked a man for phone sex.
“Just for kicks,” he says, soft and low, “could you text me that question and see what your phone comes up with?”
He’s mocking me, yet there I go, getting all hot and bothered and throbby in my panties again. “You’re not that lucky, mister.”
“Where are you now?”
The raw sex in his voice is amping up the tension in my nether regions. “I’m in my kitchen,” I tell him. “There’s a pan of col
d chicken noodle soup from two days ago, my dishrag smells like a hooker coming off a three-day shift, and my bananas have gone brown and mushy.”
Step right up, ladies and gentlemen. The Parker Elliott Self-Sabotage Show is live.
“Maybe we should do this over text message,” I add.
“Would it make you feel better if I made a bad banana joke?”
“It might make me feel better if you told me you had a bad banana. You have to have some flaws.”
“Knox Knox,” he says.
I pause. “Um, who’s there?”
“Banana.”
I groan.
“Come on, Parker. Say it.”
“Banana who?” I grit out.
“Knox Knox.”
My brothers would be in stitches right now. I want to punch them purely on principle. “Who’s there?”
“Orange.”
Thank god. “Orange who?”
“Orange you glad I have a nice banana?”
Despite myself, I crack up. He chuckles again, and yep. More tingling, more throbbing, more wistful fantasies.
“Do me a favor?” he says.
“Does it involve a happy ending?”
“I fucking hope so.”
Shiver me tingles, I’m going to come from just the sound of his voice.
“You have a full-length mirror in your bedroom?” he asks.
“On the bathroom door.”
“Perfect. Go stand in front of it.”
“Facing it?”
He chuckles again. “Yes, Jane.”
I head into my bedroom and start shoving piles of clothes and shoes out of the way so I can stand in front of the mirror. “Is this role-playing phone sex? Do I have to call you Tarzan?”
“No, because right now, you’re studying at the school of hard Knox. The school of hard Tarzan doesn’t have the same ring.”
I’m laughing an honest laugh now. “Ohmygod, you’re a dork.”
“A sexy dork,” he counters. “And only for you.”
I shiver.
“You in front of your mirror yet?” he asks.
“Getting there.”
“Where is it?”
“My bedroom.”
“What’s it look like?”
Like the fashion fairy went on a bender and vomited up last season’s clearance rack while jungle animals watched from the walls. I just tripped over a bra hooked around one leg of my bed. I glance at my leopard-print comforter, the impressionist elephant prints I picked up at the Chelsea Flea Market, and the metal monkey table lamps on my nightstand and dresser. There’s no way in hell I’m telling Knox about any of it.
“Um, there’s my grandma’s antique ivory Victorian dresser with some little carved animals I used to collect, a few family photos, a couple social media and marketing books I’ve been reading for work… What does your bedroom look like?”
“Black silk sheets,” he says, his voice low and getting lower. “Painted brick walls, black and white prints of the spiral staircase in the Trinity College Library, and a copy of Pride and Prejudice that I’ve read so many times the spine’s creased and the pages smell like vanilla flowers and feel soft as butter under my fingers.”
He finishes the description on a seductive whisper, and now I’m picturing him burying his nose in my hair to smell my shampoo while he smears soft butter all over my nipples, which are tight and hard and needy.
“You ready?” he asks, his voice still low and husky and suggestive.
I nod. “Y-yes,” I add belatedly.
“What do you see?”
I see a horny woman with rosy cheeks, dilated pupils, and parted lips that lost their lipstick hours ago, her already difficult hair wild and unmanageable after the dash to clear space from in front of the mirror, and hoo-boy, yeah, my nipples are poking at my white blouse. Which— “Why didn’t you tell me my buttons are done up wrong?”
“Are they? Tell me more.”
“You just saw me less than an hour ago. You know all about my blouse.”
“But I want to hear you tell me. What are you wearing?”
I wonder how many times he’s had phone sex. I swallow. My tongue is a desert, my pussy a rainforest—yes, yes, I know it’s a terrible analogy, I just can’t help myself—and Knox is still waiting for an answer.
“Jeans,” I say.
“What color?”
“Black.”
“Are they tight?”
“I’m not muffin-topping it, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I’m asking if I can see every last inch of the sexy curves in your hips and legs, or if there’s anything left for my imagination.”
I close my eyes and order myself to play along. “Do you want there to be anything left to your imagination?”
“You tell me.”
Do I want him to see me? “I can’t hide this ass, but you’re going to have to use your imagination on my legs.”
“Wouldn’t want you to hide that ass,” he murmurs. “Or your legs.”
Heat streaks through my face. You have such an athletic figure, my mom used to say. All that muscle. Here, honey. Those are too small. Try these bigger pants on.
I know she didn’t mean to make me self-conscious, but that athletic figure was one more checkmark in the Parker Elliott is a dweeb column in high school.
“Are you wearing shoes?” Knox asks.
I wiggle my toes and blow out a slow breath. “No. I kicked them off.”
“What color are your toenails?”
“Pink.”
“I love pink toenails. Tell me about your shirt.”
I rub my neck self-consciously. “I’m wearing a white button-up blouse.”
“With the buttons that say you were driving a man wild just an hour ago?” he prompts.
“I’m ripping them off,” I say, and even though I’m not, I do start unbuttoning my shirt. “And the bra’s going too.”
He groans softly. “Parker Parker Elliott, you’re killing me here.”
“This was your idea.” I wince. He’s telling me I’m turning him on, and what do I do? And the winner of the Bad Phone Sex Award goes to…the Size Twelve in the Jungle Room!
“Is your hair still down?” he asks, apparently not fazed at all.
The simple question makes that low, achy heat coil tighter between my legs. “Yes.”
“Is it soft?”
“My hair?”
He chuckles softly. “Yes, your hair. Touch it. Stroke it. Is it soft? Thick? Warm? What would it feel like in my fingers?”
I pet my wavy hair, give in to the daydream that my fingers are his. “It’s silky. Thick.” I swallow hard and press ahead. “The tips are brushing the skin at the top of my breasts.”
“That’s it, kitten. How does your skin feel?”
“Hot. Tight. Ticklish in a good way.”
“If I was there, I’d tease your skin with your hair. And then I’d lick your skin, and blow on it, and brush your hair over it again.”
Holy hot flashes in my chacha. “Is—is that all you’d do?”
“What else would you want me to do?”
Ohmygod, does he want a list? The flashes are coming fast and furious—him biting my nipples. Peeling my clothes off. Sucking on my toes. Curling his fingers in my hair. Licking my pink taco. Gripping my ass in his big hands.
“Touch my breasts,” I whisper.
I can issue orders at work like I’m a fucking general, but when it comes to telling a man what to do to my body, I’m awkward as a sheltered teenager.
Which, for the record, I totally was.
“Touch your breasts, Parker,” he whispers back. “Touch yourself for me.”
My breath hitches, and I lift my free hand to rub my breast. “Okay.”
“Rub your nipple. Don’t close your eyes. Watch yourself.”
I do as he asks, watching while a woman who looks like me and is panting like me rubs a circle around her areola.
“Are you touching yourself
?”
“Yes.”
“What color are your nipples?”
Is that my imagination, or is his breathing getting heavier too?
“Sort of peachy,” I confess. Not pink and cute. Not rosy and seductive. Somewhere between, like the dark skin on an August peach.
“Beautiful,” he breathes.
It’s awkward, watching myself play with my breasts. My lemons with the oversize nipples. But listening to Knox whisper encouragement and compliments—even though he can’t see me—is making the sight of my hands playing with my nipples and breasts arousing too.
“Are you turned on?” he whispers.
“Yes.”
“God, Parker, I’m hard as steel. There’s a picture of my grandmother staring at me, and I’m about to lose it.”
“You—you’re turned on?”
“At the picture of you touching yourself? Fuck, yes. I don’t think I can walk right now.”
“Do you…need to touch yourself?”
“Since you’re not here to do it for me…”
That ache in my honeypot is getting harder and tighter. “I could do with having you here to touch me too,” I whisper.
“You’re gonna have to do it for me, kitten.”
“Are you touching yourself?”
“Oh, yeah. Can’t help it. You’re so fucking sexy.”
I lick my parched lips.
“Unsnap those jeans,” he says. “Put your hand down your pants and stroke your pussy for me.”
I drop the phone as I’m trying to strip out of my pants one-handed. “Dammit!”
My breasts are heavy and desperate, the ache in my vajayjay making it hard for me to walk, and I’m fumbling for the phone with fingers that can’t remember how to work.
“You’re going on speaker,” I tell Knox.
“We alone?”
“Yes.”
“Get those hands back on yourself, Parker. Pinch your nipple. Stroke your pussy. Watch yourself.”
I don’t want to watch myself, but I do as he says. I sit at the edge of my bed, the phone beside me, pinch my nipple with my left hand and stroke a finger inside my lacy white boy shorts.
