by Ryan Schow
If he hadn’t run with the guys in Vegas like he had, this conversation would have completely undone him. Regular guys, they don’t talk to girls like this. And girls like this, they don’t talk to guys like him. Constance was hot AF, and super sexy, and now she was trying to pin him down with her sexual interrogation. What was her end game?
“Did she like it?” Constance asked.
“Of course she liked it. I’m good at a few things, and really good at two things, oral sex being one of them.”
“And the other?” she asked, running a seductive finger up his arm.
“I’m a computer hacker.”
“Wow. So are you a better hacker or better at the oral?”
“All you need to know is I’m all about the oral. At first. After that…well, we’ll see if there’s an after that.”
Smiling, leaning sideways against the wall, her body facing his, she said, “She likes it when I do that, too. Sometimes I wish I had a dick.”
“You’d love it,” he said, grinning and giving her a suggestive wink. Constance responded and the temperature between them spiked a few degrees. Brayden understood the look in her eye. Giving her the über sexy, Cheshire cat type grin, he said, “So who goes down on you?”
“Emery. But I’m kind of tired of him. He’s…you know…he’s old news.”
“But you like him.”
“I do.”
“So why the twenty questions on my love life?” he asked thinking there was no way he was going to sleep with Constance. Whatever the outcome between him and Julie, he couldn’t hurt her like that. The elevator button went ding, then the doors opened. He made no move to get in. She made no move to leave.
“Any friend of Julie’s is a friend of mine,” she said, cocking an eyebrow. “You going down?”
She knew he was going down in the elevator. It was the not-so-subtle inference of oral sex she wanted him to acknowledge. God, she’s sexy, he thought to himself.
“Meaning?”
Constance wrapped a strand of black, curly hair around her finger, gave him the look, then said, “I’m going to ask her if I can have sex with you.”
He’d never been with a Middle Eastern woman before. So many different questions swirled in his brain he couldn’t keep track of them all. “What if I don’t want that?”
The elevator doors started to shut. He put out his hand, stopped the doors and they opened back up.
“Don’t be a moron,” she said. “You know you want it.”
“She won’t be okay with that,” Brayden said.
“You’d be surprised. She’s not adverse to sharing. Maybe a little at first, but she’ll warm up to the idea. I’ll talk to her when I get back. She’ll say no. But then when I ask again in a couple of hours, she’ll say yes, but only if you want to.”
“You’re freaking weird,” he said.
She leaned in and kissed him, slow and on the lips. He kissed her back. Her mouth tasted like bubble gum, so soft. And those lips…
When he didn’t pull back, she leaned her body into his and he really got into it with her, not caring what was happening because at this point his little brain was firmly in charge of his actions. It was always like this in Vegas, but in Vegas the girls came out to play. The social scene at school was nothing like Vegas, so that made her kiss and her advances so much hotter.
Then again, the truth was, he set out to hurt Julie and Raven wouldn’t let him be with Julie anyway, so why not sample a bit of Constance in the hallway? Her hand found its way to the more excited parts of him. Wow, talk about forward! He wrapped his hand around her body, slid his hand up under her sweater, then into her yoga pants where he cupped her bare butt cheeks. She wasn’t wearing underwear. He felt her inhale and grin, or maybe that was him. Either way, he eased his tongue inside her mouth and thought, is this really happening?
The elevator doors closed, but the elevator didn’t return to ground floor. It just closed and stayed put. When she finally pulled away, he could barely breathe. In the bright light of the hallway, he looked at her, the delight unhidden on his face.
“Mmmmm,” she said, “I can see why she likes you.”
“I was about to say the same thing.”
“She said that?”
“In so many words,” he replied, playing coy.
“Yet she won’t go full lesbo on me.”
“She’s not like that.”
Down the hall, a door opened up and a girl Brayden knew but didn’t like walked toward them, specifically not looking at either of them. She punched the DOWN button and the door opened right away. She stepped inside. He was about to follow her into the elevator box when Constance said, “So do you want to do me or not?” Slowly he nodded, yes. The girl in the elevator, Sarah was her name, he could feel her shock, her disapproval. He didn’t care. His social proof was going through the roof right now. “So like, midnight then?”
“You can get her to say yes, you think?” he asked. The elevator door started to close; Brayden stuck his hand out, stopped it. The girl in the elevator, Sarah, she protested with a not-so-subtle groan. Brayden ignored her.
“Why ask for permission?”
He thought about it. She made a good point. “Text me later then.”
“It’s better that I ask,” she said. The elevator door started to close again and again Brayden stopped it.
“I have places to be!” Sarah with the blonde hair and the tight jeans and white cable sweater shouted. Largely Brayden ignored her. She was a trust fund baby whose family was made rich baking bread. Bread!
“Shut up,” Constance snapped. Brayden stifled a laugh.
Sarah, to her credit, said, “You can’t talk to me like that,” but Constance was a strong woman and Sarah, well…she was just a girl.
A kid.
“She doesn’t want me the way you think she wants me,” Brayden said. “I’m her crutch right now. She left all her asshole friends and so she needs me socially, not sexually.”
“But you went down on her.”
“Only because there was nothing good to watch on TV.” With a kiss, she said, “I’ll text you around eleven.”
That said, he stepped into the elevator, looked at Sarah and said, “I like the way you’ve been wearing your hair lately. It makes you look both hot and sophisticated. But without the whole, my-dad’s-a-bread-baker type of vibe.”
She hit him with disgusted eyes and said, “My dad’s not a baker, you dick.”
“Whatever.”
Cock-Blocked in the Dark
1
Orianna was on a real date with a real live man when the phone call came in. She apologized to her date for having to check the call, set her salad fork down and wiped her mouth. She fished her phone out of her purse, made sure it wasn’t Raven calling, then hit IGNORE and smiled.
It was Christian.
“When you have kids,” she said, “I’m told it’s not impolite to check your calls, even though it sometimes feels like it.”
“It’s no problem,” her blind date said. “I have two of my own.” She already knew that about him.
A new friend from the country club set them up, leading with the line: “I have this super yummy guy I want you to meet. He works with my husband, he’s divorced, and he’s got two beautiful kids. If you don’t fall in love at first sight, I’ll never set you up again, that’s how sure I am of this guy.”
Orianna saw why people hated blind dates. It was the expectations you couldn’t control that got you imagining princes and fearing goblins.
When she first saw him, he was attractive, and personable, but he was no Prince Charming. The thing about first dates was this: girls catalogue everything. Every category highlight, every misstep and especially every fumble.
He chose the restaurant (not good that he chose for her without asking what kind of food she liked, but good because she appreciated the restaurant’s atmosphere): Sundance Steakhouse in Palo. The décor was mid-century rustic. Think hardwood floors, woo
d paneled walls, wood ceiling with a bar, round tables, and a dark, dark ambiance. The undersized candlelit lamp on the table helped her see her date, but it failed to provide much detail about his face (not good when you want to see your date). He could have a rash of pimples on his face or nipple-sized warts and she’d never know it. At least the place smelled like steak and not wood polish (he got bonus points for knowing the place ahead of time). With so much wood, honestly, it could have gone either way.
Thirty-nine year old Trent Denton was the CEO of an up and coming Pharmaceuticals company in the city whose net worth exceeded one hundred million (his net worth seemed a little low, but then again, Christian was a billionaire, so everyone’s net worth was on the low side), and as much as Orianna detested the whole harmaceutical industry (one of her close acquaintances died when her doctor mixed her meds, so serious fumble in the employment category), she tried to look past it and just be with him. He wasn’t Christian (no one would ever be Christian), but he was charming (points), and he was nervous around her (extra bonus points), which she found adorable for a man of his wealth and social stature.
So far, he was doing alright.
The waiter came in a timely manner and took their order: Cobb Salad for her and Clam Chowder for him, no appetizers because she wasn’t about to get fat dating and he admitted to eating a late lunch (misstep, but not completely rude; points for honesty).
Contrary to Trent, Christian never got nervous around her. He was delightful to be around when he wanted to be, but not because he was trying to impress her. She assumed he was practicing on her to use on other women. Women he wanted to be with. Women he wanted to date because they never knew him as the super nerdy Atticus Van Duyn. Or maybe she was just short changing herself.
“How old are your kids?” she was asking when her cell phone rang again. “Oh, my God,” she said, flustered, “excuse me for a minute.” She dug the phone out of her purse again, finding it again by the glowing, backlit screen.
“No problem,” he said, his voice completely patient (serious bonus points for not being a douche about her being a douche and interrupting dinner twice for the phone). “I’ll just run to the men’s room real quick while you take it.” He stood and excused himself, then gracefully made his way through the darkness, somewhere amongst the wood everything towards the men’s restroom.
She answered the phone. “What do you want?” she said in a harsh whisper into the phone.
“Wow,” he said, completely derailed by her tone.
“I’m on a date, Christian,” she said. “A real date.”
“Like last time?”
She rolled her eyes in the darkness. “No, last time was a fake date because I wanted you to come over. This one isn’t just me pining for you.”
“You were pining for me?” he asked, surprised.
“God. Did anyone ever tell you that you suck at reading a woman’s cues?”
“You, sometimes. You’re really on a date?”
“He’s in the bathroom,” she said. “What do you want?”
“I’m going to see Raven and I want you to come with me.”
“No.”
“Yes. I’m not asking. I mean, I was, but that’s only so you had the chance to say you would.”
“What part about ‘I’m on a date’ don’t you get?”
“I don’t care about him,” Christian had the audacity to say. “He’s probably a CEO of something, a bank maybe, or a start-up. Or perhaps he’s a hedge fund manager.”
“No.”
“Pharmaceuticals?” he asked, though she caught the buoyant sound in his voice. He knew she was on a date with Trent, but how?
She looked around and there he was, standing near the steakhouse’s bar area looking so stunning, so incredibly gorgeous she felt every bone in her body shiver with weakness at once.
“You’re stalking me now?”
“No. Well sort of. But just tonight because it’s time we talk to our daughter. Besides, that guy, Trent Denton, his company is about to come under fire for falsifying test results, so it would be best not to get too attached.”
“Really?”
“Maybe, I don’t know.”
Her entire body reacted by going incredibly tense with anger. She was trying here! Trying to make a life for herself while he was sticking it to Rebecca’s tutor. Trying to move on.
“You asshole,” she seethed.
“He’s done taking a dump, love. Don’t be so crass.”
Looking up, she saw her date coming back to the table and hung up the phone. Trent meandered through the tables and sat down about the same time she saw Christian heading their way. Trent smiled and said, “Everything okay?”
“Um, in about ten seconds, no. Everything’s not going to be okay.”
2
Trent furrowed his brow, then looked at Orianna earnestly and said, “Why won’t everything be okay in ten seconds?” He was just sitting down, folding his napkin over his thigh and scooting his chair in.
She was looking back and forth between him and Christian, who was definitely on his way over. Her mouth, it wouldn’t make words. All she was thinking was OMFG!! but not in a good way. This restaurant wasn’t big enough for the three of them, of that she was positive. Christian sauntered up to their table and it suddenly got awkward for everyone.
Trent looked up and made the face. The one where a man is so instantly defeated that some sort of hyper-insecurity, or something, consumes him, searing his cheeks with the prickle of disappointment, or the kind of heat only annoyance could produce.
Christian extended a hand and said, “Christian Swann. Orianna is my wife.”
“Trent Denton,” he said, confused. Looking at her, he said, “I wasn’t aware she was married.”
“We’re separated,” Orianna explained.
Christian smiled, didn’t take his eyes off Trent. Then he said, “Not really,” as if Orianna was mistaken.
“Is that what you’re telling Rebecca’s tutor?” she heard herself ask.
“I thought your daughter’s name was Raven,” Trent said, clearly perplexed and looking sheepish against Christian’s incredibly delicious looks. In a contest of physical attraction, Trent was a bush pig at a beauty contest.
“It is.”
“So then who’s Rebecca?” Trent asked.
“None of your business,” Christian said. Now he looked at her, his eyes restless, like he was itching to go already. “Serious, Orianna, it’s time to go.”
“I’m on a date,” she said, holding firm. “And this is highly inappropriate.”
“I’ve already paid the bill,” Christian said. “So you and Trent can try another time, just not now. Now isn’t about us as much as it’s about Raven. Seriously, love, we’ve got to go.” To Trent, he turned and said, “Sorry to cock-block you bro, but I’m sure you understand.”
Trent and Orianna’s eyes flashed at Christian’s frat boy lingo. She wondered, what the hell is wrong with him? Then again, this side of him was deeply interesting. And new. He was half hipster and half…Jesus, he was half what? Playboy couture?
“He’s right,” Trent said, gracefully bowing out. “If it were my kids needing my attention—”
Monstrous bonus points, she thought. Perhaps a second date might be in order. Unless Christian wasn’t joking about his company coming under fire.
“That’s very noble of you,” Christian said. “By the way, sweetheart, you look incredible tonight. It’s a shame you two can’t finish what might’ve been a lovely evening.”
She folded her napkin, stood up and said, “Shut up, Christian.”
“Trent, it’s been a pleasure meeting you,” he said. “I promise if this could have been helped, I would never have intruded.”
Trent nodded his head, clearly embarrassed. Clearly the lesser man. Other people were looking now, watching the three of them. What they were seeing was Christian whisking her away while Trent just sat there by himself with his resting douche face looking
like the biggest wiener ever.
She felt horrible for him.
“I’m so sorry, Trent,” she said, regret and embarrassment all over her face.
In Christian’s fire-engine red Audi, an RS7 so new the temporary registration was still stuck in the windshield, she said, “You have some nerve pulling that shit in there—”
“That guy was all wrong for you,” he said, starting the car. The Audi sounded like a lion at low growl, its testosterone-laced purr sending an erotic throttle-charge right up through the center of her.
“You don’t know that,” she argued, wiggling her hips a little. “Did you get rid of the R8?”
“No,” he said. “Just adding to the fleet.”
In truth, what Christian just did in there, it left her feeling both sexually frustrated and turned on in a big way, more needy than ever. Basically he stole her from Trent like Trent didn’t matter. Like she was still his wife. Still his woman. It took her a long time to learn how to assert herself, and she needed to be heard and respected, especially when it came to her boundaries, but for Christian to so effortlessly man-handle someone of Trent’s social caliber…wow, she seriously wanted him more than ever!
She looked at him with new eyes; he looked straight ahead, pretended not to notice.
Studying the GQ lines of his face, the way his black hair was styled so perfectly, the smell of his cologne, the set of his mouth…oh dear God…that breathless desire she now felt around him rose up fast inside her, surprising her, leaving her vulnerable. Hers was an unrelenting craving, twisting and tugging at the more intimate parts of her, those parts she fought to control, to keep in check.
Breathe, she told herself. But she couldn’t. Not now. Not around him.
Finally he looked at her and said, “I’m your type, Orianna, and you know it. And I don’t say that out of arrogance as much as I say it because it’s true.”
“I’m not talking to you about us,” she said, but she didn’t sound so resolute. Orianna found that she was thinking of all the times other men stole her attention from the Atticus Van Duyn version of her husband. The change in this new version of him was so sexy, so alpha male stimulating. He used to be a giver. Now he was a taker, too. Orianna cracked the RS7’s window, drank in the cool, fresh air.
