“Truth?” I ask rhetorically. We’re wading so deep in truth I’m about to need a snorkel.
Grace nods.
“It’s too quiet here. After that bell dings signaling the stock market is closed, I wrap up my day and then I don’t know what to do next. Some nights the TV is enough company. Others…” I shake my head, at a loss for an excuse, before resigning myself to the truth. “It’s not enough.”
Her sigh comes from the depths. It’s a lot to take in, I suppose. I wouldn’t know. My dates and I rarely cross the boundary of shallow chitchat.
Rather than sharing how she relates to my loneliness, she changes the topic. “My best friend, Roxanne, is engaged. She and Mark are considering a destination wedding.” Grace shifts away from me to pull a pillow under her head. I roll to my side to face her. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“In her defense, I’m sure my situation was the exception.”
“It’s not that. It’s just…she seems to be rushing into it. He’s older than her and quieter than anyone I ever pictured her with. She’s this feisty free-spirit and he’s…I don’t know. Not right for her.”
As she describes them, my thoughts turn to us. Grace is the embodiment of feisty free-spiritedness and, while I’m not quiet, I wonder if she sees me as “not right for her.”
“Why did you hesitate when I asked you out?” I ask. “Not to brag, but I don’t hear no very often.”
She makes a choking noise to broadcast her exasperation. “Because you’re so irresistible to women?”
“I think it’s the lack of substance they’re attracted to.” Apparently once I start telling the truth, I can’t stop. I press my lips together to keep from saying more as Grace’s exasperation evaporates and concern takes its place.
“I can’t tell if you’re kidding right now.”
“Not kidding. Making an honest observation.”
“You have plenty of substance. I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.” She props herself up on her elbow again, exposing her breasts as the sheet slides away. “You know what happened is Hanna’s fault, right? Her walking out on you at the last minute without a word to anyone was cowardly. How hard is it to confess she’s having second thoughts before you were waiting for her to walk to you on your wedding day?”
A deep pleat forms on Grace’s brow.
“I can’t blame you for wanting to move on. I can even understand your banning redheads. Why revisit that pain? Why subject yourself to repeating the past? We have to protect ourselves when things go wrong—no one else is going to do it for us. No one else is going to stand in our corner when we need support. We’re all out here on our own making the best of things.”
She grows quiet and I figure it’s because she realizes she’s stopped talking about me and started talking about herself.
“Who didn’t protect you when you needed them, Gracie Lou?” I ask.
She sucks in a breath before forcing a laugh. “No one.”
“Someone.” I wait. She remains silent. I’m not going to push her. It took me six years to tell someone I’m dating about Hanna. Except Grace and I aren’t dating any longer. Not after tonight. That was the deal.
I roll her to her back, me on top, and steal a kiss and her breath away. Her hands are on my face and her breasts flatten against my chest. She feels good. Smells great. That cinnamon-y floral scent punches me in the gut.
“Hell of a way to end things, huh?” I stroke her hair away from her smooth cheek.
She gives me a sad smile. “Right. I guess this was time number three.”
“You look disappointed.” That seems right. So am I.
“No, I just…wasn’t thinking about the rules.”
I get more comfortable, pushing her legs apart and settling my hips against hers. “Rules were made to be bent.”
“Why not enjoy tonight?” she asks, but she’s not really asking. She lifts her chin to kiss me, crossing her legs around my waist at the same time.
After that, we enjoy ourselves again.
And again.
One last night.
Grace
Rare is the occasion that Rox and I have the same day off, but here we are, at an outdoor café enjoying the nip in the fall air during a day of intermittent sunshine. The sun ducks behind a huge gray cloud and we both reach for our coats.
“Ohio, man,” she grunts, zipping up.
“I know. Thirty-two degrees two days ago, sixty-two degrees today.”
“Winter is the new spring.” She lifts her cheeseburger and takes a hearty bite. Then she points at me with one of her onion rings. “What’s going on with you lately? Anything new?”
“I’m seeing someone. Or well, I saw someone. ‘Seeing’ implies present tense.” I maneuver the straw to my mouth and take a long, syrupy drink of ice-cold cola.
“When did this happen? Who is he?” She drags the onion ring through her ketchup and notices I’m practically drooling. “Here. For God’s sake, Grace, just get the damn fried food if you want it.”
I happily accept her onion ring. Rox has a point. Why do I insist on ordering a salad when I really want what she’s eating? Then again, I don’t have her natural metabolism. To keep my curves in check, I have to eat responsibly. I munch the onion ring.
Heaven.
Maybe I’ll order a side of onion rings for dessert.
After I finish chewing, I tell her what she’s missed.
“Remember me mentioning the regular at McGreevy’s who’s working his way down a sexual bucket list with blondes?” I ask.
“Yes.” Rox drags out the word, her excitement increasing.
“I dared him to ask out a nonblonde.” I gesture to myself. “And he did.”
“How was the man whore?” she asks, using my earlier description. Only now that seems shallow. I wince.
“He’s thoughtful. He’s charming. He’s sexy and successful….” And was stood up on his wedding day, which means he probably needs a few years’ therapy. “Anyway. We ended it last Thursday.”
“Why?” Rox’s forehead crinkles. “What happened?”
“It was time. We agreed on three dates,” I say, simplifying for her sake, “and once we hit three, we walked away. You know, before things became big and complicated.”
I throw a hand as if this isn’t a big deal and hasn’t been plaguing me for days. On the bright side I have no one to get naked for, so I steal another onion ring. The waitress stops by with refills for our drinks.
“Could you bring us another side of onion rings?” Rox asks. When the waitress leaves, she tilts her head. “Grace, it always gets complicated. You don’t have to marry the guy because you continue past three dates. If he’s not interested in anyone else, and you’re not interested in anyone else, then why not keep dating?” She pauses before asking, “He’s not interested in anyone else, is he?”
“Good question. I haven’t seen him in three days, so I guess anything could’ve happened.” I shrug, trying to play down the ache in my heart when I picture him scrolling through his phone contacts in search of his next date. I’d like to think he hasn’t moved on, but how would I know?
“Text him.” Rox tosses another onion ring on top of my ignored salad. I dip it in the ketchup on her plate. “Find out if he’s still interested and let go of this self-sabotage habit you’re so fond of.”
Around my delicious, crunchy, ketchupy onion ring, I argue, “I don’t self-sabotage.”
She gives me a look of disbelief. I think back to a few of the men I’ve dated and…Okay, I do self-sabotage.
“Cutting it short before things get bad seems smart,” I defend weakly.
“Which works,” Rox says, her voice gentle. “Until it doesn’t.”
The waitress brings fresh onion rings to the table. Steam rises from the plate between Rox and me.
“I played my share of the field, Grace; you know this. But when I saw Mark, I felt different. We were different together. If I’d cast him aside, I would’ve mi
ssed out on being engaged.” Her smile is genuine—thoroughly contented. “I’m getting married. Me! Married!”
We both chuckle, because the idea of Rox married was more preposterous at one time than the idea of me getting married. She shared my belief that love was at best temporary, at worst a fantasy.
“Send him a text. Reach out,” she tells me. “If he’s already moved on, then you’ll have the smug satisfaction of being right. But if he hasn’t…”
“If he hasn’t…” I repeat, fear flooding my veins.
“It wouldn’t surprise me.” Rox grabs one of the piping hot onion rings. “You’re kind of spectacular.”
Chapter 12
Davis
I collapse on my couch with a bottle of beer. I ate a terrible microwave dinner, then changed out of my suit and pulled on a pair of drawstring gray sweats and a tee. Normally, Monday night would be a McGreevy’s night. I’ve been avoiding McGreevy’s. It’s not that I don’t want to see Grace…
It’s that I do.
She doesn’t want to date me. I’m trying to be a nice guy and respect her boundaries.
Being nice sucks.
I pull my phone out and text Vince. He’s been mostly MIA since his new relationship with Jackie, but there again, I’m trying to respect my best friend’s boundaries. I’m the one who stepped in when he stepped in it a few months back, so I like to think I’m as responsible for them being together as he is.
I send the text. A simple You and Jackie-O hanging out?
A return text reads Not tonight, she’s with her sister. Beer?
We only get beer at one establishment—save for that ill-advised foray to the sports bar For Puck’s Sake when, also, I was avoiding Grace—so the answer is no.
No. At home tonight.
Weird. You and Grace?
I stare at the screen for a few beats deciding how to answer. I go with the simple truth.
Over.
A few seconds later, Vince’s reply dings. Sorry, man.
Sorry man. That’s me.
I toss my cell on the couch cushion next to me and reach for the remote. I don’t want to watch TV. Maybe I’ll go to the gym. But I don’t feel like running into anyone at the gym. Especially of the female variety.
Fuck. This sucks.
Did I mention that already?
I’ve been scrolling through Netflix for about twenty minutes when my text tone sounds. I half expect Vince to tell me he’s in my driveway. Which wouldn’t be the worst news. I wouldn’t mind throwing back a few beers with him tonight. He could choose what to watch and end the turmoil of the bottomless browse.
The text on my phone is an eggplant emoji.
I do a double, then triple, take. It’s from Grace.
I pull my feet off the coffee table, holding my phone with both hands, my elbows resting on my knees.
She contacted me.
No. Not just contacted me. A wicked smile curves my mouth.
She sexted me.
What are you wearing? I text back. I flick off the television and lounge on the sofa. This is infinitely better than Netflix.
T-shirt, no bra. My fave pair of worn-out jeans.
My cock gives a happy jump. I love the way she looks in worn-out jeans.
I picture Grace, her red hair carelessly tussled, her bare feet poking out of her jeans, her nipples testing the confines of a loose T-shirt that has slipped off one shoulder. It’s a sexy picture.
She texts me back. You?
Baggy sweats. White tee.
No suit tonight?
Not tonight.
A bubble appears on my phone signifying that she’s responding. Then it vanishes. Then it reappears.
Vanishes again. Reappears.
Finally her text comes through.
I have no idea how to do this.
I smile, glad she has no idea how to do this. Glad I’m the first to steer her through the choppy waters of vanilla kinkery.
Right this way, Miss.
Without giving it too much thought, I press the phone icon and call her instead. On the third ring, I wonder if she’s at work and can’t talk, but on ring number four, she answers.
“Hi.”
“Hey, Gracie.”
“I was almost too embarrassed to answer.”
“I’m glad you did.” I’m grinning. God, I miss her. “I was sitting here picturing how sexy you look in worn jeans.”
“Your sweats-tee combo is doing it for me, I admit.” Her voice is a purr and I’m immensely glad I shifted our sexting to real live phone sex.
“Are you on your couch or on your bed?”
“On the bed. I was thumbing through Netflix but nothing good is on.”
“Tell me about it. I considered the zombie one, but I couldn’t commit.”
“I almost watched that too!” she exclaims. I hear her smile. A comfortable silence lingers.
“Jeans don’t make sense if you’re in bed, Gracie.” I dip my voice low and add, “Take them off.”
Silence stretches for a beat, then two, before she responds. “Okay.”
“Put me on speaker,” I instruct.
I hear the slide of fabric, the sound of a metallic clink on her wood floor—belt buckle, I’ll bet.
“Off,” she breathes.
“Describe your panties to me.”
“Um. Black.”
“Lace? Silk?”
“Cotton with white bows on each side.”
I groan. “I haven’t seen those yet.”
She chuckles. “Nope, not yet.”
I like the word “yet.” It implies I’ll have another chance to see her panties in the future. Future me punches the air in celebration. That’s a hell of a lot better situation than I thought we were in when I heated my subpar dinner this evening.
“Gracie, I want you to take your shirt off.”
Her voice is breathless when she says, “Okay.” A moment later, “Now what?”
“Lie back. Leave your panties on unless I instruct you otherwise.” Once she’s settled, she tells me she’s ready. My cock stiffens at the vision of her spread out over her quilt, almost naked, pert breasts standing at attention. “If I were there I’d slide my hands between your legs. I’m betting you’re wet for me, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Can you touch yourself for me, Gracie?”
“Yes.” Her affirmation is followed by a long moan. “Oh, that feels good.”
I grip my dick and give it a squeeze, picturing Grace, head back, fingers in her cotton black panties with white bows on each side. This phone call might kill me.
“Keep stroking yourself,” I instruct, because death by phone sex would be a great way to go.
A few tight moans whisper through the phone and trickle into my ear.
“Give your nipple a light pinch with your other hand,” I tell her.
Her moans deepen and she hisses one word. “Yes.”
I give my dick another squeeze and close my eyes.
“Keep going.” My throat is tight. She has no idea how badly I want her. How I’ve thought of her every day we’ve been apart. “You can’t come until I say. When you do, it’s going to be long, and easy, and incredible. But you’ll still want more. Do you understand?”
“I understand.” Her words are strained.
“Move to the other nipple,” I instruct. “Keep working your clit. Are you very wet, Gracie?”
“Very.”
For everything good and holy…
“I’m going to count down from five, and when I tell you to come”—I swallow past a boulder-sized lump of lust—“you’re going to do it. Do you understand?”
“Yeah.”
What I wouldn’t give to be there right now, kissing her sweet mouth and working her into a lather with my fingers instead of my words. Why did she leave? Why did I let her?
Why was I such a fucking idiot?
“Five,” I say. “It’s building, isn’t it, sweetheart?”
“Uh
-huh,” she pants.
“Four. Remember, when you come it’s going to be long and easy and satisfying, but you’re going to want more.”
“I want more already.”
That makes me grin.
“Three,” I count through my incurable smile. “I’m the only one who can give you more, Grace.”
I release my cock despite the incessant throbbing. I’m not getting myself off. This is about her.
“Two. Long and easy, Gracie. Are you ready?” An unintelligible sound comes from her, but that’s not enough for me. I want it all. “I need to hear the words, gorgeous.”
“I’m ready, Davis.” Her voice is a frustrated, strained whimper. “So ready.”
Fuck me, I love when she says my name. She sounds like she’s ready to explode. I can’t wait to hear it.
“One,” I growl into the phone. “Come for me, Grace.”
Her orgasm washes over her on a rogue wave paired with hoarse cries of “Davis, oh, God. Oh, Davis.”
I ball my hand into a fist and press it into a couch cushion. I won’t jack off. I won’t jack off.
Her ecstasy fades into a series of long hums as I grind my molars into dust.
“That was amazing,” she purrs, her voice dripping like honey. “But you’re right. I want more.”
“Tell me about it.” I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“How soon can you be here?”
I stand up so fast my head spins. “What did you just say?”
“Come over, Davis. Now.”
She doesn’t have to tell me again.
Grace
I pull on my jeans and T-shirt and check my reflection. Other than my very pink cheeks and eyes bright from my self-inflicted orgasm, I look good.
Really good.
I let loose a lazy smile, jog downstairs, and peek through the curtains for Davis. He’s not here, but I didn’t expect him for another ten minutes. He can’t get here instantly.
Dammit.
I’ve never done anything like that in my life. I didn’t even know I was into anything like that. I’m proud of myself for taking Roxanne’s advice about texting Davis. I didn’t take her advice and find out where he and I stand, though.
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