Pressing the button once, a soft hum fills the room, and an anticipatory wetness follows. My body knows the sound of pleasure, and it sure is impatient. He stretches the chain, letting it buzz my nipples through the lace of my bra. He doesn’t take his eyes off me as he lifts the chain over my head, lowering it to the skin of my outer thighs.
“You came here to get off?” he asks, his voice a low growl.
I refuse to apologize for wanting him to service me. Holding his eyes, I say, “Yes.”
Without any hesitation, he flips me over his desk, forcing my legs to spread wide. I can feel him pressing against me, his erection begging to come out. The vibrating noise gets louder. He leans over, his warm breath rolling off my hot skin.
The cold steel slips inside. “Oh!”
“Quiet.”
My head nods frantically. “Please, please.”
“You don’t ever have to beg,” he whispers in my ear. “All you have to do is ask.”
Asking? Begging? Pleading? I’ll do it all to have this moment.
“This is nothing compared to the way I’m going to fuck you,” he says. “How good my cock is going to feel in that sweet, tight pussy.”
Three kids do not a tight pussy make. And suddenly, this little three-inch device inside me, about the size of a tampon, isn’t doing it for me. I need more. Pushing against his hand, I cry, “Mateo, please. I need to finish.”
Because the man is a sex god, he somehow knows what I need, what I’ve needed this whole time to get me over the edge. In one smooth motion, he shifts the necklace from inside to outside. I’m a clit girl. There, I’ve said it. My eyes clench and my hands grab the side of his desk as my legs tighten, and I release a mountain of sexual frustration.
I lay there a few minutes, bent over, skirt hiked up sans panties. I know I’m supposed to just walk out of here satisfied and sexually empowered, celebrating my new liberation and all, but my resolve is weakening. “Um . . . I guess . . . Should I thank you or something?”
His eyes grow huge. “You’re leaving?”
I shouldn’t smile, but I do. “Well, yeah. Got what I needed.”
Another guy may be offended, but not Mateo. He likes our little game. He glances down at the bulge in his pants, grimacing. “Number 8?” he asks.
Giving him a flirty smile, I nod and say, “Selfish sex, otherwise known as ‘how boys screw’.”
“You could’ve warned me,” he chuckles, capturing me in his arms and for the first time today, he kisses me, long and slow, our tongues gently exploring each other. We haven’t done this nearly enough. We pull apart, and he looks at me gently.
“How long did you watch me sleep?” I ask.
“Until the phone died.”
Smiling, I turn for the door, but he catches me by my hips. “Your necklace?”
“Keep it. It was a bitch to get through security,” I tease then disappear, leaving him with his mouth on the floor.
CHAPTER TEN
COUGAR DENIED
“I know, baby. I know,” I say, opening the door to my brother’s condo.
This is what I get for being selfish with Mateo. The sex gods—and perhaps the real God, too—have punished me by grounding all flights out of Atlanta due to a horrible thunderstorm. I can’t get home. I had to call my mom to pick the kids up from school, completely lying to her about why I was out of town at the office. My mom will keep the kids overnight. I wasn’t about to call Ryan to help. It’s not his week, and he asked for distance.
Gage and Layla don’t mind me crashing at their place in Atlanta since they’re at their house in Savannah with the baby. I feel bad, though—not about staying at their place. I feel bad because Connor is sad that I missed his Cub Scout troop’s pinewood car derby. He worked so hard on his car, and I’m not there to see him win.
There’s no good excuse. Mommy was horny, honey. You understand, right? That just won’t work. I feel the burden of mommy guilt. I could call Poppy to come over, but I don’t feel like explaining my presence in Atlanta on a day I’m not supposed to be here.
So instead, I call the reason for my visit. Maybe it’s time for me not to be so selfish. Unfortunately, he doesn’t answer. My message to him resembles that of a crazy person, something out of a stream of consciousness novel—making no sense at all, not even to me. I think I asked him to come over or maybe it was just to call me back, or maybe both.
I’ve got no clothes, no toothbrush, no vibrator. I shouldn’t have left that with Mateo. It’s going to be a long night. Layla told me to borrow whatever I need from her closet, apologized for the little food in the fridge, and told me where I could find extra toiletries. But all of that can wait.
My brother has the best flat screen television I’ve ever seen. The thing looks like a movie screen. Layla, the bookworm that she is, hates it. So Gage has it in what’s supposed to be his office, but looks more like a man cave with its dark brown Chesterfield sofa and deep wood tones.
I decide to pop some popcorn and watch a movie. Popcorn is my weakness. I have it most every night. Is popcorn a carb? If so, that would make total sense. And I don’t like that microwave stuff, either. It has to be popped the old-fashioned way on the stove with just a touch of real melted butter and just a dash of popcorn salt. Warm popcorn is my friend.
I get the kernels poured in the oil when the phone rings. It’s the downstairs security guy. My brother and Layla live in the penthouse condo, and somebody’s trying to come up. Apparently, I have a visitor. I guess I did ask Mateo to come over. He must be good at translating Emerson into English.
The next two minutes should be a mad dash to get myself together. The younger me would run around the condo like a maniac, applying lipstick and lotion, checking my hair, adjusting my boobs, but who has the energy for that? I answer the door with my shoes off, my hair loose and wild, and a smile on my face trying to cover how nervous I am.
He gives me a little smirk. “Popcorn time?”
“How did you know?” Right about then, I smell the burning kernels. “Oh no,” I cry out, waving him to come on in before I burn the place down.
Nothing smells worse than burned popcorn. It’s rancid. And because my brother’s place is in a high rise, I really don’t want to set off the fire alarm. Grabbing the pot with an oven mitt, I yank it off the stove, holding my nose.
Mateo wrinkles up his face, clearly both hating the smell and trying not to laugh at me. He grabs the trash can while I dump the kernels inside, then he carries it through the living room out onto the balcony, where we will pollute and poison all of downtown Atlanta with our popcorn stench.
Frantically, I wave my arms around, trying to move the stink through the air. Why does Gage not have any ceiling fans? Mateo takes hold of me, tightly wrapping his arms all the way around me, and I pout my lip at him. “You hungry?” he asks.
“I was. There’s not much to eat,” I say. “But there’s a liquor cabinet.”
* * *
Lining up two shot glasses, I say, “You know, I always tell my daughter it’s a bad idea to drink, especially with a boy. Could lead to all kinds of trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?” he asks, leaning into my neck.
That should be sexy, but because I’m such a mom, I think of kid drama. “Cheating.” Mateo leans back like he’s been tasered. Releasing a deep huff, I say, “My daughter, Ava, her ex-boyfriend was playing some drinking game, and he ended up cheating on her. She’s been pretty upset.”
“I bet you’re pretty upset, too,” he says sweetly.
His fingers lightly stroke my arm. Something about the way he touches and talks to me, it makes me want to open up to him—and not just my legs. When Ryan stopped touching me, something shifted, like my heart just sealed itself off. When Mateo touches me, it’s as if he’s unlocking my heart. And he does it with such ease. I’ve found it’s easy for me to be distant and aloof when a guy isn’t close; but when he is, when he’s affectionate with me, all my defenses break down. And I d
on’t always like it, feeling vulnerable.
“Why don’t we play?” I say, filling each glass.
“What’s the game?”
“Two truths and a lie. You ever play?”
“I know the rules.”
Don’t think I didn’t notice he dodged the question. Basically, you’re supposed to tell two truths and one lie. If Mateo knows which is the lie, then I have to drink. If he’s wrong, then he drinks.
“Ladies first,” he says.
Biting my lip, I consider how far I want to go, things I’d like or not like to know about him, things I’d like or not like him to know about me, maybe things that aren’t already on my list. “One: I’m a member of the mile high club.” Since my family owns an airline, I figure he’d believe that one is pretty obviously true. “Two: I lost my virginity in a car.” It was actually outside. “Three: I’ve only had sex outside once.” I don’t recommend losing one’s virginity outside. It’s awkward and uncomfortable, and I don’t think the woodland creatures will ever be the same.
“Number two is the lie,” he says simply, pushing my shot glass towards me.
Wow, I think. I’m in big trouble here. It was clearly a mistake to play with a man who does security for a living. He’s probably trained in the art of lying. I down the shot of whiskey like a pro. “Your turn.”
Mateo leans back, his arms outstretched on the sofa. He recites his two truths and a lie without a moment of pause. “I beat off in my office after you left me today. I wore a thong swimsuit when I lost a bet in college. And every time I’ve played this game, I’ve never had to take a shot.”
My eyes pop out of my head. The third one has to be the lie, right? Otherwise he’s not human. But the thong can’t be true? I’m kind of hoping the beat off is true. Would he do that in the office building my family owns? Fine by me after what he’s done for me. Ugh, I’m confused by this game. He’s good. “Number three is a lie.”
His head shakes slowly, his eyes on my glass. “The thong.”
“Damn.” This time the whiskey doesn’t go down so easy. Another round of play leads to another round of shots for me. I’m going down fast. If I’m going to have any chance in hell, I’m going to have to cheat. “Rim jobs are my favorite sex act. I always have multiple orgasms. And I once had sex for one hundred and seventeen straight days.”
He busts out laughing. “All lies.”
“How did you know?” I ask in the middle of slamming down my shot. I wobble a bit and feel the room start to spin. Then I giggle a few times for no apparent reason. “I think I lost this whole game.”
“You’re drunk,” he says and strokes my hair off my face.
“A little.” Smiling, I straddle his lap, my skirt rising up, barely covering my ass. He squeezes me, forcing me tighter into his body. “I think I want to find some trouble,” I say, kissing his neck.
He quickly gets to his feet, my legs around his waist, and carries me down the hallway towards the bedroom. Feeling his hardness between my legs, I swear he must live with an erection. He lays me down on the bed and stands over me. Damn, he looks so good. I can’t wait for him to have his way with me.
“Sleep,” he says.
“What?” I ask.
“You need to sleep.”
I stick out my bottom lip. “No.”
“Not like this,” he says, kneeling down beside me.
“But I just got an IUD. You don’t have to worry. You can fuck me and . . .”
He gives me a sweet kiss and says, “Get some rest.”
I suddenly feel my face getting red, my insides churning. I’m not sure if it’s just me, but alcohol always seems to heighten my emotions. “You’re turning me down. Oh my God, I’m throwing myself at you. And you’re saying no.”
True or not, this is how I’m feeling. Tears start rolling down my cheeks, his rejection bringing back all the times Ryan turned me down, all the nights I snuck into the bathroom to cry, wondering what was wrong with me, all the times when I’d flirt with him and we’d make plans to have sex that night, and then within five minutes, we’d end up fighting about something dumb and the plans were quickly shattered. Was he fighting with me on purpose? To avoid being intimate with me? Was it subconscious or was he fully aware what he was doing?
Mateo reaches out to soothe me, and I smack at him, only I just hit the air. He whispers, “Emerson.” He’s so in control at work—firm, bossy, direct. I’m not used to his gentle side. The side that makes my heart flutter with a simple whisper.
But more tears come. “You don’t want me!”
He cups my face. “I do want you. And I want you to remember it the next morning, the soreness from me burying myself deep inside, the feel of my cock slipping in and out, the orgasms I plan on giving you, the way I’m going to kiss every damn inch of your body. I don’t want you numb with alcohol. I want you tingling with need.”
I’ve got nothing to say to that. But the sting of his rejection and my embarrassment cause fresh tears to fall. Sniffling, I close my eyes, his fingers gently combing through my hair, lulling me to sleep, and a peace settles over me.
But there’s nothing peaceful about the bombs going off in my head and stomach when I wake up the next morning. I feel like death warmed over. Why can’t I drink anymore? In my college years, I wouldn’t have felt this crappy. Something happens with age. Maybe it’s the metabolism slowing down so the alcohol stays in your system longer. I don’t know, but it sucks. For all the advances in modern science, why has no one come up with a hangover cure?
I sit up in bed and try to focus my eyes. I could really use my glasses, but there’s no telling where I’ve left them. But it doesn’t matter. I can make out his handsome face anyway.
I find Mateo asleep in a chair in the corner of the room. A twinge of embarrassment hits me hard. I can’t believe I said the things I did and cried in front of him like that. But something inside tells me it’s all going to be okay. If he was an asshole, he would’ve taken advantage of me last night. But he didn’t.
Mateo’s a good man. A man I just might want to keep.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
PANTIES TO A STRANGER
It didn’t take me as long to get the appointment as I thought. I guess not every forty-something single mom is as excited as I am to get naked in front of a total stranger, but sex bucket list challenge accepted.
Number 15: Take naughty pictures of yourself.
I’m technically not taking the pictures, and I’m not sure anyone but me will ever see them, but I’m counting this. If I’m getting naked in front of a stranger, it counts. And if the whole idea isn’t strange enough, after my boudoir photo shoot, I’m going to Greer’s baptism.
With the kids at my mom’s house helping set up for the baptism, I spend the morning getting my hair and makeup done. I don’t know why I bothered. It seems like every time someone else does my makeup, it doesn’t turn out right. I told the girl I didn’t want black eyeliner, but she just ignored me and turned me into a goth clown. It took asking her three times to remove some before I didn’t look like I’d been in a fistfight. She kept trying to convince me I needed high-definition makeup, whatever that is.
By the time I get to my house, I’m not feeling very sexy, and the photographer’s arriving any minute. I line up my many outfit changes and throw on my robe, feeling myself start to panic. I’m going to be naked in front of a total stranger. That’s the only thought pounding in my head. Right as I’m about to invade my liquor cabinet, the doorbell rings. Thank God, she’s early. And thank God, she looks like a normal woman, not some supermodel type.
I spend a few minutes showing her the house and my outfits. We decide to start in my bedroom with my most conservative black and pink bra and panty set. She turns on my television and sets it to the music channel. I take a deep breath and step out of my robe. Mercifully, there’s not one ounce of judgment showing in her eyes. She poses me modestly at first and makes some small talk. An Enrique Iglesias song comes on, and she
comments how sexy he is. I agree, thinking he and Mateo could be brothers. She snaps the photo, and I start to relax.
Two hours later, I’m completely nude. If I’m going to do this, I’m going all the way. Besides, I think my new vagina is still shiny, so I’m going to show it off. Just kidding, I kept it classy. When we’re done, she lets me scan the photos on her fancy camera. I’m actually amazed it’s me. It’s like I’m looking at someone else.
“Every woman has something sexy about her,” she says. “It’s waiting to be found. For you, it’s the curve of your waist and your booty.”
This woman is a saint. I love her. And I think I look good. Don’t get me wrong, some of the pictures are horrible, but I think I actually look good in a number of them. I almost die when my ass comes up on her screen, full on, in my cute little panties. I ask her not to retouch anything. I want to know the pictures were of me, not a Photoshopped version. She promises to get me proofs soon, and I start walking her to the door then realize I’m still stark naked. That’s how comfortable I’d become in just two hours.
She leaves, and I lean against my front door, giddy as a schoolgirl. Taking these pictures has done more for my self-esteem than ten years of therapy ever could. Feeling like a new woman, I dash to my bedroom to get dressed for the baptism, wishing I didn’t have to put clothes back on. I feel so liberated. Heck, I want to do the photo shoot all over again. Maybe I missed my calling as a nudist.
* * *
“Please talk to Layla,” my brother begs Poppy and me. “She’s refusing to come out.”
We aren’t sure what the problem is. The service at the church was sweet and beautiful, and everything seemed to go well, but Layla’s been hiding in my mom’s spare bathroom since getting to the party.
“What did you do?” Poppy teases him.
“Nothing,” Gage says. “It’s something about her boobs. I don’t know.”
The Sex Bucket List Page 8
