by Claire Adams
I’m not that jealous a guy. After all, jealousy is just the admission that someone would make your partner happier than you do and the selfishness not to allow it.
With that said, it really wasn’t that long ago that Mike and Leila were sucking the spit out of each other’s mouths on that exact couch.
I really don’t know what to do with myself right now.
I don’t like the feeling.
“You two had anything to eat?” I ask. “I could whip something up.”
“Yeah, Dane’s the chef at l’Iris,” Leila tells the fuckwad.
“I’m not hungry,” he says. “Ooh, look at this one.”
So, what is a man in my position to do?
What I want to do is kick Mike out the window and take Leila to the nearest soft surface and make love to her until neither of us can keep our eyes open anymore, but the relationship is less than a day old.
If I start by kicking her friend out, she’s either going to think I’m a dick and it’ll ruin the relationship, or she’s going to be strangely aroused by that, which means she’s into weirder stuff than Wrigley is, and I really don’t know if I could handle that either right now.
I don’t have too much time to think it over, though, as Leila and Mike finish what they’re doing, and with a quick hug, Mike’s on his way.
“Sorry about that,” Leila says as soon as the door is closed, “but he’s been really great, helping me find places and all.”
“It’s fine,” I tell her.
Telling her that I don’t want her to go is another one of those things that probably isn’t the best idea in the first 24 of a relationship. It’s right up there, I would imagine, with telling her friend to move to a different state.
“You seem upset,” she says. “Is something wrong?”
“Nah,” I tell her. “Everything’s fine. I’m just kind of tired.”
“Well, in that case,” she says, moving close and putting her arms around me. She looks up at me with those gentle eyes. “How about we watch a movie or something? There’s plenty of room on the couch for both of us to lie down,” she adds. “That is, unless you’d rather keep your personal space.”
“I would not like to keep my personal space,” I tell her, bending down to kiss her on the lips. “Really, I’m kind of hoping for a blanket, few, if any, clothes, and absolutely no personal space for either of us.”
“Hmm…” she says, playfully tapping her chin with her finger. “We might miss a lot of the movie if we did that.”
“Damn. I was really excited to see whatever it was we’re going to watch,” I tease. “Oh well, I think I’ll live.”
“I think you’re right,” she answers, and makes her way to the couch.
She pulls the afghan from atop the ottoman and spreads it out on the couch. While I’m getting settled in—read that as undressing—she uses my preoccupation to seize full control over our movie-watching itinerary.
I really could not care less what we watch.
That’s what I honestly think, right before she turns around with When Harry Met Sally in her hands.
She’s actually suggesting a movie which is famous for, among other things, Meg Ryan demonstrating how easy it is for a woman to fake an orgasm. There are ways a person can tell if he’s not a complete idiot, but still, I’m not a fan of the pairing.
“I know you’re probably not into chick flicks, but this is my favorite movie ever,” she tells me.
Fuck.
Now I can’t possibly protest, and she’s going to be watching to see how I react to it.
“It’s been a little while since I’ve seen it,” I tell her.
It seems like my best play. We’ll still end up watching it, but if I don’t end up with some massive, life-altering epiphany which leads me to tears, it won’t be such a big deal. I’ve already seen it before, so it couldn’t possibly strike me that deeply, right?
Then again, maybe she’s expecting me to have a stronger reaction to the movie because I’m watching it with her.
This is a fucking minefield, and I’m actually dreading watching what I’ll admit to be a classic movie that I quite enjoy when not under these horrific conditions.
Don’t tell anyone I said that.
Any of it.
Thanks.
She puts the movie in, and I lie down on the couch. I lift the blanket as she comes close, and as she stops to get down to her bra and panties, I start thinking that maybe I’m thinking about this whole situation in the wrong way.
We don’t see very much of the movie.
Chapter Seventeen
It’s Complicated
Leila
The last time I looked at the screen in any meaningful way was about five minutes into the movie.
The movie’s been over for a while, and we’re still enjoying the foreplay.
I don’t know whether it’s because he’s with me or whether I simply pigeonholed him that first day he came to the apartment, his tattoos suggesting a sense of unsavoriness about his character, but he is already the most thoughtful lover I’ve ever had.
We threw off the afghan a while ago, but there’s no lack of warmth between our bodies.
Right now, I’m straddling his wonderfully curious mouth and taking his hard cock into my own. I never liked the term “69,” but the performance, the experience, that’s something else entirely.
As he explores my folds with his lips and tongue, I feel that familiar shiver that so recently I’d all but forgotten. And as that shiver turns into a soft explosion, I take him ever deeper into my mouth, using the reverberations of my own response to encourage his.
I’m not expecting it when it happens. All I can do is hang on and move as necessary while he grasps me tightly with his arms, arching my back and supporting myself as he sits, and then holding on tight as he stands.
His grip is firm and I’m not afraid of heights, but returning to suck and play with him while suspended in his arms as he again uses his deft tongue to keep my fire stoked is a little disorienting.
He pulls his head back just far enough and just long enough to ask me if I’m okay.
I’m more than okay.
I’ve never felt anything like this before.
After a while, though, I start to wonder how I’m going to get back down.
I pull my mouth from his pulsating dick and merely whisper the word.
“Down.”
He directs one of my legs to join the other on one side of him, and he’s surprisingly gentle, though just as surprisingly quick, to guide my body right-side up and lower me until my bare feet come to a soft, slow landing on the carpet below.
I’m impressed.
I’m no virgin, not by any use of the term, but this man has made every sensation feel so new. So I pull his face down toward mine and I kiss him deeply, moving my body just enough to wrap my fingers around his shaft once more.
I push him backward onto the couch and before he’s settled in place, I’m straddling him, rubbing his penis between my legs and delighting in the jolts of warm serenity before I guide him inside of me.
He kisses my breasts softly, his mouth eager, but not desperate.
I tease him a little, putting my hands on his chest and pulling my upper body just out of the reach of his mouth just to watch that urge in his eyes grow.
I rock my hips over him and move my shoulders back and forth just to tempt him further. He leans forward, but I press my hands firmly into his chest.
That drive in his movements, his expression, it’s not a selfish one. After all, I’m already giving him my body the way he’s giving me his. That drive in his eyes is merely evidence that he wants to give me more.
He’s respectful, though, and he doesn’t try to push his luck. So long as we’re playing, this is a game, and it’s one that pays dividends for the both of us.
“So,” I say, brushing the hair out of my face and directing it to cover the upper portion of my breasts, “is this what you imagined it w
ould be?”
It’s a terrible question, I know, but that’s what these moments are for.
“Better,” he says. “I couldn’t have imagined this.”
“Good answer,” I tell him, and lean forward enough to give him temporary oral access to my nipples.
It’s his reward, and he revels in it.
After a few moments of elevated bliss, I pull back again.
“Now that’s just fucked up,” he says.
He’s smiling.
I shrug.
“Tell me your fantasy,” I mutter, slowing my pace a little.
“I don’t know,” he says.
I lean back a little farther. My upper body is already far enough away that only his hands could touch it, but the action still has the desired effect.
“The bathtub,” he says.
I stop moving a moment.
“The bathtub?” I ask.
He shrugs, and I resume my motion.
“You mean to tell me that you, Dane Paulson, chef extraordinaire, pretty much all-around male slut—”
“Hey!” he protests.
“You’ve never had sex in the bathtub?”
“No,” he says. “I’ve had sex plenty of—”
Wisely, he doesn’t finish the sentence.
“No, I’ve never had sex in the bathtub,” he says.
“I was expecting something involving anal beads. I’m glad to hear that’s not the case.”
He smirks and shakes his head.
“Well,” I say, “I wish I could help you, but all we’ve got is a shower.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Too bad.”
He doesn’t seem too broken up about it, though, as I lift myself almost to his tip and then slide all the way back down him, grinding my core against his base.
“What’s your fantasy?” he asks.
“Does it have to be something we could actually do right now, or like yours, where it currently isn’t possible?” I ask.
He thinks about it for a moment, then takes another to place his mouth over one of my nipples, as it seems, I’ve leaned forward a bit too much.
I quickly pull back and playfully pat the side of his face in a mock slap.
“I’m sorry,” he says, “what was the question?”
“Does my fantasy have to be something we could do here, now?”
“Not necessarily,” he says, “but yeah, that’d be preferable.”
I lean forward, but preempt his mouth’s return to my chest by kissing his neck.
“Hmm…” I breathe as I continue to kiss him.
“Oh, I know you’ve got something in mind,” he says.
“Yeah, but you kind of freaked me out with yours,” I chortle. “I mean, doing it in the bathtub? That’s kinky.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he says, and I’m feeling a little self-conscious about telling him my fantasies.
“Well, you’re not secretly a fireman, are you?” I ask.
He’s clearly unsure whether I’m serious or not. It’s pretty hilarious.
I bring him back to focus easily enough, though.
“No, I’m not a fireman,” he says, “but I’m sure it wouldn’t be too hard to get a costume or—”
“It’s not the uniform so much as it is the fact of being a fireman. If you’re not, you’re not. That’s okay, though,” I tell him.
The truth is that I’m just trying to avoid answering the question a little longer. My fantasy’s nothing ultra kinky or anything, it’s just not something I really talk about that often.
“Well,” I say, “if you’re sure you’re not a fireman…”
“Pretty sure,” he says, placing his hands on my hips, guiding my motion, his light push and tug suggesting a slightly quicker pace.
“Under a waterfall at sunrise,” I tell him. “But that’s not really something we can do now, is it?”
“Not really,” he says, and laughs.
“Well then,” I say, leaning forward once more.
His hot breath makes the sensitive skin tingle, and the attention of his mouth makes my toes curl.
“If you’re not a fireman, and we’re not under a waterfall at sunrise,” I say, “I guess there is one thing we could try.”
He leans his head back into the sofa cushion.
“Yeah?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I answer. “It may sound kind of weird,” I tell him. Now I’m really nervous.
“That’s okay,” he says.
“I’ve always wanted to go out to a bar or some other public place,” I start again.
“Yeah?”
“Pretend we don’t know each other,” I continue.
His hands move to the small of my back.
“Yeah?” he asks, pressing himself into me sweetly.
“Have an ‘impromptu’ date,” I continue.
Yes, I make the little bunny ears with my fingers.
“Then go back to your place and make passionate love, knowing that this is the start of something beyond our wildest imagination.”
All right, my fantasy’s out there.
Weird, maybe, but not kinky.
“One quick question,” he says.
“What’s that?” I breathe, running my fingers through my hair as I slowly ride him.
“As your place is kind of my place, too, would that still work?”
I scoff and lift myself off of him.
“You have no imagination,” I tell him. “You’d bring me back here, unlock the door, and we’d obviously end up in your room.”
I kiss him deeply and pat him on the chest.
“Right now, though,” I tell him. “I really have to pee.”
* * *
After my less-than-dignified departure from our lovemaking, I can’t help but feel self-conscious again. It’s a stupid and ridiculous expectation that women can never be assumed to be creatures that use the bathroom, but there it is.
That said, I came back out to the living room to find Dane missing from the couch.
I called out to him and he answered from his room.
Still naked, I asked him what he was doing, and he answered, simply, by saying, “I have a feeling I’m going to meet a beautiful woman in a bar tonight. My psychic senses—which, I certainly have—tell me that her name will be Leila, and that we’re going to have one of those once-in-a-lifetime meetings. I want to make sure I’m prepared.”
He was laying out a black button-down shirt, black pants, and a red tie.
Now, I’m sitting at Locus, ordering a tequila sunrise.
“I’ll buy that drink,” a dashing, if somewhat overdressed, man with a red tie tells the bartender.
“Thanks,” I say, then quickly turn my attention away from him.
“Mind if I sit?” he asks.
I shrug. “Just keep your hands to yourself,” I tell him.
“That might be a problem,” he says.
I turn and, mouth agape, ask, “What did you just say?”
“I said that won’t be a problem,” he rejoins, smiling. “So, where are you from? Are you a born New Yorker?”
“Not at all,” I tell him. “I’m from a dreary little town where the movie theater only shows movies that came out 10 years ago.” It’s a lie, but tonight is about improvisation.
“Sounds terrible,” he says.
“Actually, I really miss it,” I tell him.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I wondered if you could help me with something.”
It’s a bit forward, but I’ll allow it. “With what do you need my help?”
“Fancy,” he teases.
I roll my eyes.
At no point did I tell him my fantasy involved me making it easy for him.
“I’m a chef at l’Iris,” he says, “and I find myself with the night off and nobody to enjoy a nice dinner with me.”
“l’Iris,” I say. “That’s pretty impressive. I love their confit de canard.”
“You know, we actually just call it candied duck in the kitchen.
The whole overuse of French thing is kind of played, don’t you think?”
He’s apparently not going to make this easy for me, either.
Well-played, sir.
“Losing my lady boner,” I tell him. “Yeah, I really can’t get away with saying that, can I?”
He laughs.
“Well, it’s about the last phrase I expected, but it put a smile on my face.”
“Okay,” I start again, “so you’re a chef at l’Iris with nobody to join you for dinner. Is there anything else, or were you just lamenting?”
“I was wondering if you might know anyone who’d be interested in a free, very high class dinner.”
“I might,” I elude, “but I hardly know you, and I haven’t even finished my drink yet.”
I may have forgotten to mention that torturing him a little was part of the game.
He takes it in stride, though.
“Well,” he says, “I can certainly understand that. These days, you can never be too careful. For all you know, I might be one of those corporate types who works for one of those evil investment firms.”
The statement probably wouldn’t have been near as amusing if I hadn’t just taken a sip of my drink. I cover my mouth and do my best to control my laughter long enough to swallow the liquid.
“Oh,” he says skeptically, “don’t tell me…”
“I’ve been an intern at a brokerage in town for a while now, and I just got hired on full-time at Claypool and Lee in Jersey.”
“Oh, God,” he says. “Not only do you work for those greed mongers, you’re actually moving to New Jersey? The humanity!”
“Sad to say we can’t all cook for a living,” I rejoin.
“I know, but can you imagine what a wonderful world that would be? Everyone makes a living making delicious food?”
“That would be insanely boring,” I tease.
I’m about to relent and agree to dinner, but he just keeps going.
“Oh well, I guess you all know what the pinch was like during the recession—oh wait, you’re the only people in the country that profited from it. Isn’t it weird how big businesses tell us that any kind of government aid is socialism, but those same companies are so quick to snatch any bailout money or tax breaks that come their way?”
“Yeah, we should probably stay away from politics,” I tell him.
