by Ashley Pullo
“Dean, you have to go!” I take two steps back so that the phone is in my reach and Dean shakes his head in disgust. He puts on his shirt and glares at me with hateful spite. I grab the guitar case from the entry table and hastily open the front door. Dean rips the guitar from my hand and murmurs, “bitch” before jumping into my ocean.
“Where is Adam taking you tonight?” Natalie is making microwave popcorn in her flannel pajamas and preparing for an early evening.
“Guster, at Roseland.” I answer.
Adam and I finally have a free night in which he’s not working and I’m not on West Coast slave duty, so he’s taking me to the concert of one of my favorite bands. It’s been a week since my dip in the ocean and the only time Dean Murphy crossed my mind was when I found another 1930s Lark guitar for five-hundred dollars less . . . cockknocker.
“Chloe, you look really hot!” Nat mumbles with popcorn in her mouth.
“You don’t think it’s too slutty?” I’m wearing my Foo Fighters t-shirt from 1997, a tiny denim skirt and black cowboy boots . . . but asking Natalie if something is too slutty is like asking a mouse if it’s too cheesy.
“Hell no! Rock that short skirt, Adam will tota—. . . ” Before she can finish, Adam walks through the door looking incredibly delicious in a fitted t-shirt and jeans and carrying a dainty floral gift bag. I’ve missed every piece of him and I plan to make sure he knows it . . . more than once.
“Ladies, how are the LeGrange girls tonight? Natalie, this is for you . . . enjoy your evening.” Adam kisses Nat’s cheek and hands her a sixer of Moosehead, which she covets like a Louis Vuitton handbag.
“And babe, this is for you . . . Happy Presidents’ Day!” Adam kisses my forehead and places a Kit Kat in my hand. I grab his neck and jump on him, wrapping my legs around his waist as he scoops my ass in his perfectly contoured hands.
“Are you ready?” Adam brushes his lips against mine while carrying me effortlessly to the door.
“Adam, I’m so ready!”
Add it Up
August 15, 2003, 11:30 p.m.
Oh, my god. Breathe Chloe. We haven’t even kissed and his face is buried between my . . . my . . . thighs. We were in such a hurry that we didn’t make it completely inside his apartment and the door that opens to the first floor hallway is . . . oh god, his tongue doesn’t stop. My skirt is hiding his handsome face so I lift it to run my fingers through his dark hair and his even darker eyes stare up at me like a hungry lion. He slams the door closed with his forearm, then immediately returns his hands to my hips, rocking me toward his face. His hand sensually glides down my body to the inside of my leg to remove my panties, and then he forcefully places my leg over his shoulder and presses me up against the wall. I’ve never even been to Brooklyn . . .
He rises to meet me but my legs turn to jelly so he instinctively places his arm around my waist, prying me from the wall and pulling me closer to him. I can smell myself on his mouth but he quickly licks his lips, aware that I’ve been fantasizing about the taste of his bottom lip since the bar. He kisses my neck and licks my ear as he guides us toward what I hope, is his bedroom. I can hear the faint sound of music beckoning me to yield to my impulsive desires as we crash into a side table . . . but there’s no music, just my internal soundtrack and my erratic heartbeat pushing me forward.
He forces open the door to his bedroom while keeping his face nestled in the contour of my neck. I take this time to preview a real bachelor lair but his bedroom is an accumulation of masculine maturity, with dark plaids, crisp navy linens and a gorgeous gold floor lamp. It’s GQ perfection, except for the Pac-Man phone on the bedside table. His face meets mine as he brushes his lips over my forehead, my eyes, my cheek and then lands powerfully on my mouth, kissing me hard. I run my hands down his back and around his waist, tugging on his pants. He steps back and stares lustfully at my mouth while he unbuttons the cuffs of his dress shirt. He fingers the top few buttons of his shirt but I’m impatient and I can’t wait for his torturous undressing, so I pull at his middle and tiny white buttons fly off in panic. He smiles coyly, approving my attempt to sexually control the foreplay . . . and oh my god, his smile is perfect.
His shirt drops to the floor and his tanned, lean muscular torso just stands there, rigidly defined and inviting me! He arrogantly puts his hands in his pockets and nods for me to make the next move. I consider my options . . . he already removed my panties and I’m wearing a haltered sundress with a strapless bra . . . I will need to improvise. I reach behind my neck to untie the little knot of my dress, never taking my eyes off his amazing stomach . . . who knew attorneys could pack a sixer? I lower the front of my dress to my waist and reach behind me to unfasten my pink bra, but hold it in its place as I turn around. I wait, testing his patience, and then I let everything drop to the floor while looking at him over my shoulder. He comes up behind me to gently place my hair over my shoulder so that my back is exposed and the breezy sensation instantly gives me goose bumps. His gorgeous bottom lip, the one I want to bite so badly, trails along my spine . . . oh, that’s very nice . . . then he kisses my shoulders, my neck . . . I can feel him swelling inside his pants and I’m not sure how much longer I can last.
He grabs my shoulders to turn me around, forcing my breasts to press against his hard chest then takes a few steps backwards to visually inspect my naked body. His face is expressionless, but his eyes are actively evaluating my every curve for his pleasure. Those dark, unyielding eyes linger on my tits as he unbuckles his belt and lets his pants drop to the floor. He sits on his bed to remove his dress shoes and socks then steps out of his pants, never releasing his fixation from my chest. I’m not the least bit uncomfortable because his tenacious manner actually makes me feel like a goddess.
He stands up, nodding for me to approach him . . . I can’t refrain from touching his stomach another moment so my hand, nope, my tongue slides down his chest, swirling around his stomach and licking above the band of his black boxer briefs. I lower to my knees, staring up at him and matching his same intense hunger. His thighs are powerful and strong, which is something I appreciate more than a ripped torso . . . thank god he’s not a narcissistic gym rat.
I lower his boxers as he strokes my hair and I’m anxiously awaiting the big reveal. This is the moment when things go well, really well or very well! Very well indeed. He’s gorgeously endowed and I want him . . . now. I kiss the muscular indention near his pelvis then lick my way toward what appears to be a dimple on his hip. Holy shit, he has a scar!
I try to appear as inconspicuous as possible {naked on my knees with a cock in my face} while I study the shape and detail of his sexy imperfection. It’s about the size of my hand and shaped like a paisley. Definitely not a gang fight . . . definitely not a motorcycle accident . . . it’s more like a dagger wound from a Roman gladiator! Definitely not a gladiator wound, but I’m sure there is some fantastic story that accompanies his mark.
He must notice me gawking at his scar so he bends slightly to pull me up to him and prepares my face for his kiss. Oh, dear god! The kiss is warm and a little salty from all the skin we’ve been licking, and the rhythm is uneven . . . fast and deep then slow and shallow. I finally get to taste his bottom lip . . . the lip that was taunting me for hours and causing all sorts of naughty thoughts to dance in my head. I bite it gently and push him toward the bed. His hands run up my sides and rest under my breasts, cupping their fullness. He sits on the edge of the bed and I can honestly say, with my very short list of lovers, I have never yearned for a man’s body part like I want his lip . . . okay, I need all of him.
I get on top of him forcing him to fall backwards but he edges us toward the middle of the bed while cradling my ass. When he’s satisfied with our placement he lifts me and places me on my back, sweetly moving my hair out of my face. His long fingers spider-walk between my breasts, pause around my nipples then continue down my stomach until he reaches my pelvis. I part my legs delicately, allowing him to enter. He slid
es two fingers inside me and . . . yes, most girls love oral, but I love this . . . my chest rises and falls to his erogenous probing, inching deeper and faster. He watches me intently as I try to appear as calm as possible while suppressing the manic moaning inside my head. Watching me conceal my pleasure is too much for him so he removes his fingers and slowly glides them across his wet lips. He rolls toward the bedside table and I catch another glimpse of his magnificent scar before he rolls back around with a condom.
As he moves between my legs, I immediately pull him toward me by wrapping my arms around his neck. Our breathing becomes more erratic as he eases into me and I instinctually arch my back to grind with him. His eyes gleam with a robust sensual appetite and his jaw tightens with determination. We move rhythmically, increasing the speed until the pummeling sensation is too much for me . . . he rolls on his back and lets me take control.
I rock back and forth on top of him at my own speed using my internal rhythm to thrust myself forward and backward. My head rolls back giving me a feeling of weightless suspension and it’s just enough to send me into orgasmic oblivion . . . moaning and maybe a tiny whimper or two. He keeps pounding passionately inside me until he finally succumbs to his own carnal pleasure and exhales in satisfaction.
I rest my head on his chest, listening to his wild, erratic heartbeat as he strokes my hair . . .
“Chloe?”
“Yes, Adam?”
“Do you always sing during sex?” Oh my god. He must be kidding . . . did I really sing out loud? I pop my head up to peek at his face, dreading the embarrassment. Adam has the most engaging smile and I realize, this is a private smile reserved just for me . . . like he’s waited his whole life, for just one smile.
I rest in Adam’s arms as he slowly runs his finger up and down my back. My eyes fade in and out of focus but I’m desperately trying to stay awake.
“Adam, why do you have a Pac-Man phone?” I whisper, wondering if he’s even awake.
“It’s actually very ergonomic. I’ve just always had it.” He answers dreamily.
“I had a Swatch phone as a teenager.” I say.
“In the shape of a watch?” Adam asks.
“No, it was see-through.”
“I never had a Swatch watch.”
“Too feminine?” I ask.
“I guess.”
“Oh . . .” I think I say before drifting . . . asleep.
I tiptoe into my apartment and quietly shut the door, but who am I kidding? It’s three o’clock on a Saturday afternoon and Natalie is attempting Tae Bo in the living room.
“Holy crap! Chloe you look like shit . . . did somebody rock the canoe?” Natalie stops her dramatic leg kicking to patronize my walk of shame. She’s aware that promiscuity is not my thing and if it was, I would never talk about it, but she never misses an opportunity to crack a joke at my expense.
I’m not sure how much I want to reveal about my amazing night with Adam but I also don’t want her to assume that he’s just a one-nighter.
“I had a very . . . impulsive evening,” I smile.
“Wait . . . the fireman?” She grimaces.
“Who? No, not him . . . thanks for that by the way.”
“C’mon, Chloe, at least give me some minor details!” Natalie walks to our tiny galley kitchen for a bottle of water and I follow behind her wondering if I should just lie . . . but she would never lie to me.
“The fireman was short. I met Adam at the bar . . . we had great conversation and then he took me to Brooklyn.”
“Brooklyn . . . like across the bridge? Chloe, haven’t we talked about this? Manhattan men only!”
“I know Nat . . . but Adam Ford is worth crossing the bridge,” I smile.
“Adam Ford, ya say?” Natalie places her bottled water on the counter then starts digging delicately through the trash can. She proudly finds what she was looking for, a small pink Post-it with her serial killer handwriting.
“So about twenty minutes ago, this guy called wanting to leave a message for you. I took it down but after he hung up I reread the message and just assumed it was some random joke.” She hands me the little pink message beaming with excitement.
“Nat, I can’t read this . . . ” She yanks it from my hand and clears her throat.
“Adam Ford, August sixteenth. Add it up.” Natalie stares blankly at me while I try to conceal my excitement. I take the note from her and head toward our tiny bathroom, thinking about the song’s lyrics and our passionate night.
“I’m going to take a shower. Nat, have you seen my Violent Femmes CD?”
Varick Lounge
August 15, 2003, 3:30 p.m.
“Chloe, please! I will do the dishes for two weeks . . . I will buy you breakfast . . . I will give you my Prada bag, wait no! I will give you my Kate Spade bag, please!” Natalie is on her hands and knees begging for me to go on her blind date tonight. When we were younger, we often switched places at school or piano lessons, but as adults it seems a little bit kooky, even for us.
“Nat, I can’t go on a blind date that your mom set up. Aunt Judy will find out and kill me. And I’m not comfortable pretending to be you.” I try to avoid her but she follows me to the bedroom on her knees.
“Nat, what is so important that you can’t at least have a few drinks with the guy?” She’s ferociously hanging on my leg like a pit bull. She knows I will eventually cave.
“Because I promised Mom like two weeks ago I would meet this guy and then, that really hot engineer I met at work asked me out. Civil engineer or firefighter?” She motions her arms like she’s weighing her options but I seriously doubt she even knows the job description of a civil engineer.
“And why would I want to go out with a firefighter? I’ve only been in New York for a couple of months and it’s not like I need your Manhattan leftovers.” Natalie gets up from her knees and looks me straight in the face.
“You don’t have to pretend to be me, Chloe! Just meet him and fall hopelessly in love or tell him I couldn’t make it and leave. Mom assured me he’s a really nice guy . . . what’s the worst that could happen?” She’s pouting and making it very difficult for me to stand my ground.
“Fine, which bar and what time?” I roll my eyes at her while she jumps up and down, satisfied by her charming manipulation.
“Oh, okay it’s in the kitchen . . . let me get it.” I follow her to the kitchen, convincing myself to at least welcome the opportunity to meet someone new.
“What does he look like, Nat?” I ask.
“Typical NYFD, brawny and handsome. He’s twenty-five and I think Mom said brown hair, possibly Italian . . . oh Chloe, he’s good-looking, I promise.” Funny how she can make a promise based on Aunt Judy’s selection. She digs out a napkin from the drawer with her horrible handwriting scribbled all over it and I honestly wonder how she made it through college.
“Yes, here it is! Eight o’clock at the Varick Lounge on Varick Street. His name is Timothy O’Keefe . . . okay maybe he’s not Italian.” Natalie squeezes me into one of her hearty embraces and I start mentally listing all the ways she will owe me . . . starting with breakfast tomorrow.
“Alright, let go of me so I can find something to wear with my new Prada bag!” I say smugly.
Adam
August 15, 2003, 8:45 p.m.
“To Adam . . . nice win on that fucking nightmare case.” Some guy named Steve initiates a toast as a few partners raise their shot glasses to drink to my win on the Delgado case. Honestly, I don’t see what the big deal is . . . isn’t it my job to win cases for the firm? Most of these pricks don’t even give a shit about who I am or what I’ve accomplished in a very short amount of time, but will happily jump at any excuse to enjoy an evening of ten-dollar shots and single Manhattan women.
I lay low, I do my job and I adapt. “Cheers, to the son of a bitch prosecutor that made my job so easy.” I gulp the Scotch whiskey, never letting it show how much I detest Johnny Walker and dull conversation. Like Steve Whatever,
he’s a Senior attorney like me, but it’s a known fact that no one takes him seriously and he always gets the easy caseload. Steve is talking to Burt Pervertson about contract liability and there’s something about Burt’s porn mustache that makes everything he says seem vulgar. Then there are the two White Sharks . . . asshole white-collar defense attorneys with big toothy, shark smiles giddily drinking their cranberry martinis.
I order a beer from the bartender as an attractive blonde sits on the stool next to me. I rest against the bar and turn to face her as I motion for the bartender to come back over. She’s wearing a very short pink dress and I’m 100% certain, no bra. I check to make sure there isn’t a boyfriend or a pimp on her other side and the only other person at the bar is three seats away. She plays the game well, and I know she deliberately sat next to me.
“How many Cosmos will it take to get you to come home with me?” I lean into the blonde not wanting the entire bar to hear my pathetic line, and she responds exactly how I thought she would.
“I love Cosmos!” She blushes as she leans toward me. “But I can’t really drink much.” Her big, brown eyes blink slowly and she’s clearly mastered the doe-eyed flirtation. When the bartender approaches us, I place my hand on her back, because she’s the type that wants to feel protected while maintaining her sense of fragile femininity.
