by Tara Wylde
But if I had someone to go with, someone who was into it, someone who wouldn’t judge my ignorance....
Unbelievable: I’m actually smiling. I didn’t expect Lina’s iPod to do much for my mood, but... Her choice of music was just surprising enough to jolt my train of thought onto another track.
The song ends, and I navigate to her playlists. She’s got quite the variety: a lot more opera, hits from the 60s and 70s, couple of movie soundtracks, a mercifully small folder dedicated to the dreaded 80s—even a selection of novelty rock. Apparently, she’s too sexy for her shirt... Which I guess makes sense, as The Streak’s in there too. I count tracks in at least six languages, and make a mental note to find out how many of those she speaks. I figured she was smart—she comes off as sharp, sensitive—but maybe I’ve been underestimating her.
I shoot her a text before I head back to my meeting: your iPod just unfucked my morning. <3 hope your monday’s going better than mine!
I don’t feel the vibration of her reply till much, much later, standing in my kitchen, staring into the fridge. There’s an antipasto platter from the deli there, taking up most of the top shelf, and not much else. Not much that can be eaten on its own, anyway. I don’t have the energy to tackle a couple of raw chicken breasts and a pile of veggies. Katie’s eating at a friend’s, so nothing’s been ordered in.
When’d I start depending on my nine-year-old for dinner?
I’m picking halfheartedly at the deli platter, trying to decide whether to fill up on stuffed mushrooms and capicollo or call for Chinese, when my phone goes off.
Hey! Just got home! Glad to hear my iPod unfucked your morning; sorry to hear it was fucked! What happened?
Where to start? It’s too much, too complicated—I text back work, and leave it at that.
Totally feel your pain.
Endless shift here.
Been dying to slip out of my shoes all day.
A wicked idea flashes across my mind. Slipping out of things, eh? I could pull that thread, see where it goes.... She did say she liked me taking charge. And it’s not like I’m sending a dick pic. My thumbs fly.
do it.
take them off.
you know you want to.
I think about pushing it even further, but she beats me to the punch. Mmm...feels amazing. Better than... ;-)
Oh, really? Sounds like a challenge. With the mental image of her blissful face for inspiration, I press on: anything else pinching or chafing? constricting your breathing, maybe?
I can see her typing and deleting, typing and deleting. Was that too much?
Are you sexting me?
Oops! Guess she’s not so much into it.
Because I...might not exactly mind. If you were.
And yes. There may be ONE garment more rapturous to take off than a tight pair of shoes.
It’s a little exciting, how shy she is, how she dances around what she wants to say. I wonder if I can get her to type something truly filthy, cast her inhibitions to the wind.
take that off too, I tell her.
imagine me standing behind you. taking it off for you.
close enough you could feel my breath on the back of your neck.
lips working their way down your spine.
hands massaging the red marks out of your skin, where the straps dug in all day.
Lina takes her time responding again. It only serves to stoke the fires of my anticipation. I picture her reading my texts, flushed and eager, breathing hard. Nervous, maybe, but excited; I think—
You’d keep me so warm. Wouldn’t notice the chill with your arms around me....
Press your body to mine. Skin to skin.
“Oh, very romantic....” But I think she could be bolder. Tell me what you want me to do. Where you want me to touch you.
You are a cruel master. ;-)
Now, that gives me a shiver. More than a shiver. My cock’s straining almost uncomfortably against my pants. I palm it idly, luxuriating in the delicious friction of fabric on flesh.
I’d guide your hands to where I wanted them to go.
One in my hair, pulling my head back against your shoulder.
Exposing my neck, for you to kiss and lick and nibble.
The other...
...
...on my thigh. Moving upward.
I could be merciful. I could take it from here. But the way my cock swells when she hesitates over where she wants that second hand...I’m dying to hear her say a dirty word. The sound of that sweet, low voice murmuring cunt or fuck—I think I could shoot just from that. I goad her on: oh, yeah? how far upward?
Mmm...just an inch...then another...and another...
..till you end up....
Come on—almost there! Where?
I unzip my pants and grip my cock. I can’t remember ever being so hot from mere anticipation. your cruel master demands it, I add, when almost a minute’s ticked by. tell me where.
Well, when you put it like that....
I want you to finger my slit.
Just the outside.
Tease me with the lightest of touches. Trace every contour of my inner lips.
Do it till I’m begging you to touch me where I need it the most.
I have to grip my cock at the base and hunch forward to keep this from ending too soon. The thought of Lina completely undone, begging for my touch.... Let me hear you beg.
Please, cruel master, touch my clit.
Oh, God.
A wicked idea occurs to me.
Could I, though?
I’m trembling with something between arousal and the thrill of danger. Takes me a few attempts to formulate a legible reply: no. let me HEAR you.
I tip my head back against the back of the couch, breathing hard, keeping the strokes of my right hand slow and lazy. Don’t want to come before...before....
I almost jump when my phone actually rings. Didn’t think she’d really do it. I pick up and hold it to my ear without a word. Not sure my voice can be trusted to be firm and commanding as I’d want it to be, right now.
For a long moment, there’s silence, and then a single word, whispered in my ear: “Please....”
Waves of intense pleasure surge through me, one after another, taking me right to the edge, but not over. “Say it again,” I growl, relieved when it comes out a low rumble, not the broken plea I was dreading.
She does, and I’m pleased to hear her breathing’s as shallow and ragged as mine.
“Want to make you scream with just the tips of my fingers,” I say. Feels like I’ve pushed her about as far as I can... Time to do my part. “Wouldn’t even fuck you, just—“ The words catch in my throat, as I swear I hear a muffled whimper on her end. “—just worship every contour of your naked body with my mouth, while my fingers dance around your clit. And I wouldn’t stop...wouldn’t stop at your first orgasm. I’d—“ Shit; too close. Can’t concentrate. Hang tight a little longer; don’t.... “I’d keep going till you were...till you were writhing in my arms, forgetting every word except my name—“
“Nick....”
And that’s it—one breathy whisper, and I’m catapulting over the top, barely holding back a harsh shout. I’m positive she can hear me anyway: I’m panting like a dog, choking on strangled groans.
A quiet few moments tick by. The silence is just starting to get uncomfortable when she breaks it, bless her. “So... What’s the usual post-phone-sex etiquette? I mean, do you hang up, or... Or is phone pillow talk a thing?”
Even my laugh comes out shaky. “Still catching my breath.”
“Me too.”
“I’m glad you didn’t just hang up, though. That would’ve been—I don’t know. Too...buck-ninety-nine a minute, cum and go?”
“Oh? You don’t like cheap and dirty?”
I have to think about that for a moment. “Only during. Not after. I like...something rough and hard and spontaneous, but then...cuddling? Maybe give you a bath, brush your hair...take care of you somehow.�
�
“Sounds wonderful.” I can hear her doing something on the other end of the line, rustling around. “I’d probably fall asleep if you started brushing my hair, though. Not that I’d mind drifting off in your arms, but it might be a bit boring for you.”
On the contrary. “Actually, I love the idea of you trusting me enough to doze off like that.”
“Maybe I’m just tired....” I hear the tapping of a spoon on the other end, running water, the sound of a switch clicking on. Coffee—she’s making coffee.
“I’m not keeping you from anything, am I?”
“No.” I hear a soft flump, like she’s plopped down on the couch or her bed. “I’ve got...kind of a DIY project I’m working on, but I’m not exactly in a rush to get back outside.”
“What kind of project?” Maybe I can help: I’m pretty good with repairs.
She laughs. “It’s silly...found my old bike in the back of my mama’s garage. I’m restoring it to its former glory. Or close enough.” I hear the faint bubbling of a kettle in the background. Maybe it’s tea she’s making. Tea, or—horror of horrors—instant coffee. “I’m mostly done. Just need to fix the brakes. It’s got those backpedal ones. Hate those.”
“What kind of bike is it?”
“Your basic Schwinn three-speed, cherry red. Took me forever to find the exact shade of paint.”
Sounds like a kid’s bike. Wonder if she’s fixing it up for a little boy or girl—that would explain why she doesn’t stay out late. I could ask her, but... Probably best to let her tell me in her own time. I’ve pushed enough these last few days. “Always wanted one of those,” I say, instead.
“Don’t tell me you never had a bike, growing up?”
“Never had one till college.”
“Feels like I spent my entire childhood on mine.” I can hear the smile in her voice. “Didn’t even care it was a boy’s bike—it was my cousin Yuri’s, before mine.”
“I had a skateboard for a while. But I—“ I don’t want to tell her how I saved for it for months, pocketing my lunch money, picking up change off the street, only to lose it somewhere between foster homes. “But I... Y’know, I’m not sure what happened to that.” It’s not exactly a lie.
We debate the relative merits of boards and bikes for a while. Just when rollerskates edge their way into the conversation, I hear her kettle start to whistle. Moments later, there’s the trickle of water being poured.
“So, I have to know—coffee or tea?”
“What?”
“I heard your kettle. So, you a coffee person or a tea person?”
She chuckles. “Both. But right now it’s coffee. Thin, bitter Folger’s instant.”
“Sacrilege.”
“I know. But I can’t go to sleep.” Lina stirs her coffee. I can hear the spoon clinking on her mug. “Got the bike to deal with, and then I’ve got ironing piled to the ceiling. Sort of been putting it off.”
“And here I am wasting your time, pulling mine off.”
A snort, from her end. “Oh, I wouldn’t call that time ill-spent. You were very...stern.”
“You liked that?”
“You have to ask?”
Guess I don’t.
I hear a distant ding: my private elevator. Got to be Katie. My face goes hot—I’m smack bang in the middle of the living room couch, fly wide open, probably smelling of sex. Not appropriate. “So, I... I’d better let you get to that coffee while it’s hot.” I’m still doing up my pants, peering into the kitchen cabinet—where the fuck’s the Febreze?
“Yeah. If I don’t get going soon, I’m never going to get through all this. Thanks for the... Thanks for tonight, though.” Her voice drops almost to a whisper—I can practically see the bashful way she dips her head. “I enjoyed it.”
I finally locate the Febreze, hiding behind a stack of Swiffer pads. We say our goodbyes while I spray the kitchen and living room. I don’t stop till the place looks like a misty morning and smells like a car freshener.
Turns out I needn’t have bothered. Katie shows up with a bag of Thai food, fragrant enough to obscure anything less savory. “Knew you’d forget to eat,” she says, thrusting it into my arms. I think about protesting that I had a sandwich from the deli, but that was hours ago, and I can’t deny I’m starving.
I need to get someone in to cook, or learn to do it myself. Teaching my kid to live on takeout seems like a failure in parenting.
If I did walk away from the firm, I’d have more time for that sort of thing.
Something to think about....
135
Elina
Nick’s got his music organized by mood—and very specifically, at that. Got to laugh at some of his playlist titles: thrash metal for getting out of bed; creepy dungeon shit; warm-blanket nostalgia; goddammit tension; fuck it all. It’s kind of jarring when Whiskey in the Jar blares on right after Memories of You, on the nostalgia list, but it makes a weird kind of sense. They are basically two different takes on regret.
I went in planning to listen according to how my day happened to be going, but it soon became clear I’d be yo-yoing between goddammit tension and need to sleep forever, if I did that. So I’m listening to how I wish I was feeling, which right now would be....
I scroll through the menu.
Which right now would be...anticipation. I can’t help but smile as Buddy Holly comes on, singing Everyday. A little on the nose, but... Can’t say it doesn’t fit.
In truth, I’m a little nervous. Nick told me to meet him here, but... If the hostess hadn’t directed me straight to a table, when I said I was meeting Nick Carter, I’d have sworn I had the wrong address. This place is to McDonald’s as the Hope Diamond is to a rhinestone. Hope he subscribes to the “whoever asks, pays” rule, because I don’t think I can afford a breadstick in this place, let alone an entire dinner.
I must stick out like a sore thumb. A quick survey of the dining room tells me no one’s looking my way, but I still feel ridiculously underdressed in my cable knit sweater and plain black skirt. If I’d known we were coming to a place like this, I’d at least have dug out that one Nicole Miller I hung onto from my previous life.
I sip at my water. Dancing Queen fades in over Everyday. I can’t help but smile. I would so not have pegged him for an ABBA fan. But it’s setting the right mood. I feel a swell of excitement starting to overtake my nerves. Nick’s a good guy. Joe might’ve brought me to a place like this to humiliate me, to make me feel dowdy, out of my element—but Nick doesn’t seem the type. Maybe he doesn’t even know it’s this fancy. All his text said was that he’d been wanting to try it for a while.
It’s hard to tell what he’s thinking when he walks in: he’s dressed pretty much the same as always—shirt and tie, jacket, all slightly rumpled. He spots me, and his face lights up. I feel my anxiety draining away.
Moments later, he’s plopping down across from me. “Sorry I’m late. Lost a cufflink.” He holds up his arm. One of his cuffs is, indeed, hanging open.
“You’re a disaster.”
“Oh? I think I’m pretty adorable. Y’know, in a bad-boy kind of way.”
“More like an absent-minded boy.” I tug his sleeve down over his cuff. “Where’d you lose it, anyway?”
“In my back seat. Thought I had a spare pair of shoes back there, but...maybe not.”
I’ve seen the state of his back seat. He’s never getting that cufflink back. Still, I definitely feel better about my own downmarket outfit.
He leans in conspiratorially when the menus come out. “I’d never be so gauche as to order for you, but might I make a recommendation?”
“Sure.”
“Don’t start with a salad. I have it on good authority the salads are the most boring thing here.”
It’s too cold for salad, anyway. I’ve been craving soup since I sat down. But the only soup on the menu’s some kind of pheasant and thyme concoction for twenty-three dollars a cup. The only cheaper option’s the eighteen-buck house sal
ad. I peek over the top of my menu, and catch Nick fixing me with an unexpectedly intense stare.
He shifts in his seat. “Listen, I didn’t just bring you here to eat. That is, we are going to eat, but first, I was hoping to boot another elephant out of the room.”
Shit. What now? Maybe he knows about Joey, somehow. So help me, if he’s referring to my son as an elephant in the room, he’s getting such a kick under the table. “And what elephant would that be?”
“Money.”
Oh. That elephant. “I’m sure you’re aware I don’t have any.”
“And I’m sure you’re just as aware I do.”
I open my mouth to say something. He holds up his hand: not yet.
“Truth is, I’ve amassed enough wealth that I’ll never have to think about it again. Money hasn’t meant much to me since I realized there was nothing left that I needed. But I’m not arrogant or oblivious enough to think it doesn’t mean anything to anyone else, doesn’t make things awkward.” He takes a deep breath. “And if you’re uncomfortable with this kind of place, we don’t have to do it again. I mean that. We can make every date a day-at-the-park followed by fast food sort of affair. I’d be content with that. But....” He smiles—somewhat hesitantly, to my eye. “There were a few things I was hoping we could do together. Things that are better with company.”
I can’t help but be intrigued. The whole “help me spend my money; you’ll be doing me a favor” line is eyeroll-worthy, but I don’t think that’s where he’s going. “What did you have in mind?”
“Well, next week—I know your carriage usually turns back to a pumpkin around seven o’clock, but if you could stay out late one night....” He slides a printout across the table. It’s a Metropolitan Opera schedule. I feel my heart leap. It’s been forever since I’ve seen a live performance, and never at the Met.
“Given you’ve spent the better part of a week with my iPod, you know I’d have a hard time saying no to this.”
