by Poppy Dunne
“My mom used to work in a corporate office in downtown San Jose. She was on the janitorial staff, after my dad left. I remember her bringing me and my sister the food she was able to sneak out of the office, you know, the kind that they left behind after the lunch meetings. Sometimes that’s all we’d get for dinner.” He cracks his knuckles, a gesture that tells me he’s nervous. Nervous to be showing this much of himself, probably. My stomach falls a little as I listen to his story. What must our family look like to him? Probably nothing good. “I don’t think anyone should have to feel like that, you know? That they have to live on someone else’s scraps?” There’s no anger in his voice, only a kind of deep emotion. It’s not exactly sadness. More determination.
“How’s your mom doing these days?” I ask.
“She’s good. Really good.” His eyes brighten at that. “And my sister’s going through law school right now, so she’s on her way up in the world.”
I wonder how it feels to him, to still be waiting tables and bringing up room service. But there doesn’t seem to be any anger or blame with him. If he’s got a lot of ideas for business—and maybe improving the lives of his customers in the process—he must be strong. I like that in a guy, what can I say?
“So you’re going to take on the corporate world, one sandwich at a time?” I ask, grinning. Ben laughs.
“They’ll never know what hit them. And everyone will get a good meal.” He winks. “That’s what’s important.”
“You’re a man of the people,” I say, holding up my glass. “I’ll drink to that.”
“To always looking for opportunity,” he says, locking his eyes with mine. He clinks glasses softly. Instantly, I’m hooked. The, er, extreme lower part of my body warms as I take a sip of my wine…and then as I spill said wine all over my damn blouse.
Great. If anyone knows how to walk up to a moment, shove a hand down its pants and pinch its dick, that anyone is I.
“Shit, sorry.” Ben acts fast, dunking the tip of his napkin in his water glass and reaching across to dab at me…right at the edge of my boob. On second thought, maybe I’m an inadvertent genius. Heat pools in between my legs once more, making my toes curl in my shoes. Ben slows down, taking his time a little bit more. Yes, that’s what I want. I’m like a female Casanova, dunking ketchup and hot sauce on herself with a come-hither look in her eye.
Man, I’d like Ben to dunk his tip in something else.
Okay, okay, too much wine.
“I’m all right,” I say, in what I hope is a sexy purr but is probably more muddled than that. I take his hand, feeling the heat of his skin, the strength in his fingers. Hot damn, this man is damn. I mean hot. Damn hot. Slowly, I trace my fingers down his palm, and our eyes lock once again. Is it my imagination, or is there a glow kindling in his gaze? My lips part, as I imagine letting his hand explore down the front of me, rough, callused fingers trailing over my buttons…undoing them…right here…
Then I put my elbow on the back of my spoon. My spoon that’s resting in my dish of pasta marinara. Like a slow motion nightmare, the spoon flies back, a soaring arc of meat sauce going up, up…and then coming down, down to splatter on my white blouse. And my chin. And the tablecloth. And the window behind me. And probably all over the floor. And on the entirety of New York while we’re at it.
“Wow.” Ben’s eyes widen. “That was impressive.”
I get up in a way that’s quick, but hopefully not desperate. Casually wiping at my chin like that’s the only mess, I say,
“I’m, uh, gonna head to the bathroom real quick. Freshen up.” I manage to sneak past Ben without going face first into anyone else’s table, and mournfully stare at a huge pile of tiramisu as I hurry to the bathroom. Friend, I am going to use you to eat all my feelings in a minute.
The bathroom continues the theme of rustic charm. There’s a map of Italy on the wall, the tiled floor is red, white, and green, and there’s a tiny little Joe Pesci from Goodfellas standing guard at the entrance, a bunch of paper towels in his outstretched hands. I grab a wad and jam them under the running faucet, taking stock of myself in the mirror.
Okay. It looks like I murdered a family of marinara and then smeared myself in their blood, but it’s nothing some cold water and fast action can’t fix.
I clean my face off first, and boom! It goes very well. See, there’s a face under all that after all. Then I start blotting at my spattered shirt, which doesn’t go quite as well. Apparently, sauce bleeds and spreads when you try to attack it head on with water and hand soap. I’m muttering to myself in panic as my entire shirt front starts getting smeared with the sauce. The door swings open, and a woman with very big hair and a whole lot of eyeliner enters, looking me up and down. She snaps gum, and clacks her four-inch long pink acrylic nails together, like a Jersey lobster taking pity on me.
“Shoulda stayed away from the meat sauce.” She blows a pink bubble and takes about twenty more towels. “Man, Bernie’s gonna wonder what kept me,” she says as she turns on the faucet full blast and soaks a bunch more towels. “Ugh, he can be so pushy when he thinks I been blowin’ some jerk in the bathroom.” She sighs, like that’s an average Friday night couple’s fight that they have.
“Are you sure you don’t need to get back?” I ask as she starts soaking me down.
“Nah. Bernie’s busy killing some asshole,” she says conversationally. “Probably shouldn’t go back for a few minutes.” Note to self: this place is almost too authentic.
Ten minutes later, I walk back to the table, dripping all the way. Customers look at me, then do the very obvious ‘avert your eyes then whisper about it’ thing as I pass. Gritting my teeth, I mentally kick myself. Don’t wear the white blouse, my subconscious said. It could get dirty, my subconscious said. Plus, it’s see through. But oh no, I had to go my own way. I had to flaunt my subconscious, sticking my finger in its face and telling it that I know so much better. And that way has led me here, just a girl standing in front of a seriously hot guy, letting him see her lacy bra in a crowded restaurant.
That line would’ve worked so much better in Notting Hill.
When Ben sees me, he puts down his wine glass with a hard thunk. His mouth presses into a tight line, the kind you get when you feel a laugh billowing up inside and you’ve got to get a handle on it. I get the feeling he’s a heartbeat away from sprinting out the door, but instead he stands, slips off his jacket, and uses it to cover my shoulders. I slide my arms through the sleeves, only the tips of my fingers coming out. I look like a kid playing dress up now, but at least I’m fully clothed.
“Want me to call a cab?” he asks, his glorious, rich, caramelly voice about to crack from holding in laughter. He’s trying, at least. I sigh.
“I’ve got an Uber app.” I get out my phone and dial my way out of this date. It was too good to be true. Well, at least Ben’s got a good idea of the kind of crazy he’s masquerading as being crazy in love with. Heh. See, that was funny. You know what else is funny? My existence.
The car comes soon, and we hustle into the backseat. The snowy air bites into me as I fling myself into the Subaru and buckle my seatbelt. I’m already shivering, the wet shirt clinging to my flesh. Ben slides an arm around me and holds me close against his body. Damn, he’s like a studly furnace. My teeth slowly stop chattering as he rubs my arm. It’s just in a friendly way, of course. Besides, I’m not really in the mood for any shenanigans. I’m way too cold to even think of anything like that. Unfortunately, being cold means my nipples start peaking and showing through, and Ben definitely notices. I can tell by the way he’s purposely keeping his eyes everywhere besides my chest, except for a few furtive glances that leave him knitting his brows together.
Maybe I can duck and roll out of the car as we pass near Avenue of the Americas. It wouldn’t be the first time New York has seen a woman escape at high velocity.
“Are you okay now?” Ben whispers in my ear. Mmm, maybe it’s the wine—it’s more than maybe, actually—but his v
oice sounds deep and seductive when he whispers like that. I glance up at him, his sculpted jaw, dazzling eyes, soft, attractively formed mouth.
Mouth. Mouth looks good. No no, Alex, look away. Mouth is not for you. Talk like cave woman. Grunt.
“I’m feeling better.” I nestle against his chest, since he’s not moving that arm. And I don’t want him to. “The restaurant was great. Much better than the museum.”
“It was great,” he murmurs, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Because I got to see the actual you. Not the one running interference at your brother’s cocktail party, or the one trying to make the art date work.”
“But the one spraying sauce all over herself, that’s the actual me?” I frown. “I mean, all those others are me too. The one on the phone all the time with her boss, that’s definitely me. The one who gets Fudgesickle sticks stuck to her and doesn’t notice—happens way more often than I’d like it to. A lot of guys’d say that side of me’s a drag.”
“Why?” He seems genuinely puzzled. “It shows you’re passionate about something.” The way he says passionate shoots straight to the heart of me and then makes a beeline for my crotch. I take a deep breath as he tucks his arm around my waist, pushing my coat aside to touch an inch of exposed, damp skin where the hem of my shirt has ridden up. His fingers are warm as he strokes them against my side for a moment. I turn to look at him and swallow hard as I meet his intense gaze.
In the muted afternoon light, his eyes darken. Holy shit, this can’t just be the wine.
“Well, a certain someone used to say that too much work turns women into frustrated bitches.” Great, blurted that out. It kills the mood somewhat, because Ben’s got that hard-edged angry look back on his face, but it’s not directed at me.
“Todd told you that?” He sort of growls Todd’s name.
“Among other things,” I say flatly.
It’s not like that’s the only thing Todd ever said to me about work. He’s not a complete Neanderthal. And it’s not that I want the jackass back, although part of me does sometimes miss him. I just want him to look deep into my eyes and take back the one thing he said that’s been burrowed into my brain since we broke up:
“You try to compensate so hard for what’s not there, Alex. You try to be what everyone needs all the time,” he said. “But I need someone strong enough to be my equal.” This was in the lobby of his office, when I went to see him one more time after he left me crying in the restaurant. When I tried to get real closure and understand what the hell happened to make him wreck my life the way he had. Then, after his explanation, I high-kicked him directly in the balls, and strode out of the building listening to the sounds of him trying to catch his breath on the chic marble floor. So that was something.
I want him to tell me that he was wrong, that I’m enough as I am, that everyone needs me, or at least wants me around. That I’m strong. Just so I can have the satisfaction. But I don’t tell Ben any of this. It’s too personal.
Ben catches my chin, tilting my face back up toward him. A smoldering light’s rekindled in his eyes. Instinctively, my hand slides onto his thigh, grazing the edge of a rather nice protrusion that tells me that right now, I’m enough. Hell, I’m plenty.
My breath hitches as Ben pulls me closer against him. Was I cold before? Because I don’t feel it now. I’m shivering for a whole different reason.
“Maybe we could get Todd to shut the fuck up for once,” he whispers, his mouth hovering over mine before he finally closes the distance. If I thought the kiss at the cocktail party was good, this one’s ready for the makeout Olympics. His mouth is demanding and hot on mine, and I gasp as he slides his other hand up my body, my waist, passing over the swell of my breasts. I moan a little as his tongue flicks into my mouth, thrusting in a way that makes me imagine him using it on other parts of me. I grind up against him, swinging my leg around his. Jesus, he’s got me melting with one damn kiss. I pull away, looking into his eyes. He wants, and he wants a lot, and he wants it now.
I like a man who goes after what he wants.
Holy shit, this is madness. We’re in the backseat of an Uber, listening to some guy in a parka play his iPod’s worth of Gloria Estefan’s greatest hits, which is turning me on way more than it ought to. But the best moment is when Ben drags his teeth lightly over my earlobe, making my thighs—and everything between them—clench in anticipation. I pull back and gasp for breath, my chest rising and falling rapidly.
“Relax,” he breathes, the warmth of the Chianti on his lips as he kisses me again, and I’m melting. Almost subconsciously, I slide my hand down and stroke the ever-hardening bulge between his legs, delighting when I get that soft groan of pleasure. How is this happening? How am I touching a man this gorgeous as we ride through the snowy New York streets? Sometimes, just sometimes, it’s good to be me.
Growling, Ben unbuttons my pants with one deft movement, then very slowly unzips them. I bite my lip as he slides one, then two fingers under the lace band of my panties, heading south with surety and purpose. I tilt my head back, his mouth hot on mine again as he makes one gentle circle around my clit.
I tense, responding to him immediately. I unclip the seatbelt so he can get fuller access, my tongue darting into his mouth as he gets into the rhythm, stroking me, one finger sliding into my pussy. One, then two, pumping as he palms my clit, dipping his head down to suck my nipple through the damp fabric of my shirt. With a shuddering gasp, I open my eyes, staring right into his. Then he kisses up the center of my chest, up my neck, leaving a trail of heat in his wake as he continues fingering me hard and slow.
“That’s right,” he whispers in my ear, throaty and domineering. “God, I’ve wanted to do this since you accidentally flashed me in your room that one time.”
I ride his fingers now, grinding my hips, throwing my head back, trying not to be too loud as I imagine I’m riding his cock instead. Please sing, Gloria. Sing and let this poor bastard driver not know what’s going on in the dark backseat right behind him. Struggling not to kick the driver’s seat, I whisper back,
“If I’d known you were this good, I’d have come out of the shower naked that time.”
“That’s the idea,” he murmurs, then claims my mouth again, forceful, masterful. Two can play at this game, gorgeous. While he strokes my clit just enough to get me ready, never enough to make me come—what a tease—I reach over and unzip his pants, freeing his cock. God, it’s huge in my hand, and I pump him with a firm grip. His eyes snap open, pupils dilated with need and surprise.
Ben presses my clit with his thumb, curling his fingers inside me at the same time, hitting me in exactly the right spot, the sweet friction building a fire in me that I’m powerless to stop.
“Come for me, Alex. Come for me right now, in the back of this car,” he whispers. And that’s the magic moment. The orgasm slams into me hard, and I bite down on my knuckle as the climax spirals through my body, bucking against his hand, his fingers still thrusting inside. Ben presses his lips to my neck, growling in pleasure as I pant helplessly. God, I haven’t come like this since…ever. He kisses me once more, this time almost polite and chaste. It’s like we didn’t just fingerbang on public transportation.
The Uber slows, pulls over, and puts on its flashers. We’re back at the hotel, and the driver turns around.
“So that’s nine for the ride to your hotel,” he says, “already prepaid on the card. However, I’m gonna need, like, ten more for the orgasm in my backseat.”
Ben pays in cash. Like a gentleman.
6
Ben HOT: What are you wearing?
Overalls and construction boots.
Ben HOT: Stop it. Turning me on.
:)
Ben HOT: Srsly what are you up to?
Hanging out on a ladder with 10k strands of lights.
Funny thing is, that’s not a lie. I wouldn’t stand on a rickety ladder, coils of pink and white Christmas lights wound over my shoulder, for just anybody on earth
. But Katie Beauman, my soon-to-be fabulous sister in law, gets all of my special exceptions. I slide my phone back into my pocket and return to stringing the lights. We’re in Katie’s bridal suite, three spacious rooms of plush white carpeting and gold trim, plus a Jacuzzi tub, decking out the place for surprise cosmopolitans later on when she walks in.
Well, two things. First, it’s not going to be a surprise, since Katie knows all about it and is walking around setting up her own damn party because her lovely maid of honor went AWOL right before the wedding. Said she had to find herself in Sri Lanka or something—funny how people never seem to find themselves in Jefferson City, Missouri.
Second, it shows how little the maid of honor really knew Katie that we’re even drinking cosmos at all. Katie would be way more comfortable with some Guinness and karaoke. She’s sort of the soon-to-be black sheep of my family. Which is why I love the hell out of her. We can be the two resident weirdo screw-ups in the Harrington family.
“Okay, someone tell me why we can’t at least have a fuckin’ disco ball,” she says conversationally, clomping into the room in her Doc Martens. Katie refuses to leave the grunge aspect of the 90s, and I say go down with that ship. She’s got her platinum blond hair spiked, too much eyeliner, a stud in her nose, and a kickass plaid shirt. Somehow, she fell head over heels for Rollie, who, fun though he may be, really loved putting on polos and khakis to go to school. He was the type of kid that looked forward to Covington Prep photo day. Rollie and Katie just prove that love crosses all boundaries.
Katie slaps my ass as I shimmy down from the ladder. “Are the automatons treating you well?” she asks, eyeing me thoughtfully. Her fun name for my parents: ‘fun’ was Mom’s word to describe it. Before she took another swallow of martini, of course.
“Don’t worry about me. Haven’t I made your hotel room a fantasy worthy of a princess?” I wave my hand around at all the lights and pink rose bouquets.
