Midtown Masters

by Cara McKenna

  “Are you a virgin?” she asked.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’ve had sex precisely once. With a woman. It was brief and unsatisfactory for everyone involved.”

  “Yikes. Details?”

  “We were in college together, at Temple. In a nutshell, she decided to seduce me and I was too polite to tell her to stop.”

  “Dude, that sounds like rape.”

  “No, no, it wasn’t like that. It’s hard to explain. She was hell-bent on some passionate, furtive encounter . . . I think she mistook my crippling introversion for artistic angst and wanted to ravage me, or something. I was half-terrified, half-desperate to finally get somewhere with a girl—I was twenty-two and I’d not even been kissed. But it felt all wrong, and I couldn’t finish. We were both a little drunk—someone on my dorm floor had thrown a party—and in the end she sort of sighed and climbed off of me and got dressed and left. It was one of the more humiliating moments of my life. And I’m not short on those.”

  “Poor you. What have you done since then? Have you kissed anyone else?”

  “Yes, but it wasn’t much to write home about.”

  An urge bloomed inside Suzy, hot and nervous and mischievous. “Is it too much to say that I want to kiss you?” she whispered.

  He swallowed, gaze flitting to her lips for half a breath. “Oh.”

  “It’s just what I feel. We don’t have to do anything with it. Not tonight, not ever. I just wanted you to know.”

  “Would Meyer be okay with that?”

  She smiled, finding it sweet that he’d care. “He’d never forgive me if I didn’t.”

  “Oh. Well, I’m afraid I’m a terrible kisser. Factually.”

  “Factually?”

  He nodded, hair mussing against the pillow. “It’s been a long time since I kissed anyone. As long as it’s been since I had a date. And I was told in no uncertain terms that the reason there wouldn’t be a second date was my kissing prowess. Or lack thereof.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Yeah, it stung. I’d thought I valued honesty above all else when it came to dating, but after that . . . Well, that hurt. That’s kept me from asking anyone out since.”

  “Since when?”

  He made a thoughtful face. “Eight years?”

  “Holy shit— Sorry.”

  “No, I know. And it’s cowardly, letting it hold me back, but for all that time I’ve felt like, dating has never been a pleasant, exciting experience for me. It’s always been frightening; maybe ten percent hopeful, ninety percent frightening and disappointing. For eight years I’ve felt like, it’s not worth it, to open myself up to feeling as awful as I did, hearing that. Nothing I’ve experienced in any romantic situation has ever felt as good as that felt bad.”

  “That’s sad.”

  “I know.”

  “If it makes any difference,” she said, sitting up, “I don’t want to kiss you because I want to be wowed by how amazing you are at it. I just want to feel your mouth against mine. And taste you. And feel your breath, right here,” she said, shuffling closer on her knees, and reached down to gently touch the spot where a mustache would be, if he wore one.

  “Kissing’s a test,” he said quietly, and sat up. “A test that tells a woman everything she needs to know about her chemistry with a man.”

  “Says who?”

  “Movies, books.” He slipped his glasses off and set them on the side table, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “The culture at large.”

  He was right, in a way. A bad kiss could kill a crush quick as a snuffed candle. “But it doesn’t have to be like that. It could just be about two people. Two mouths. Not a performance, just a meeting. It’s only expectations that turn it into a test.”

  “There’s something very pure about us. About this . . . attraction, if that’s the right word. Or friendship, or crush, or relationship, even.”

  “All of those things.”

  “It’s safe the way it is. It feels delicate, like dried flowers under a bell jar.”

  She smiled. “That’s beautiful.”

  “I don’t want to wreck it.”

  “I get that. But I don’t want flowers under a bell jar,” she said. “I want something I can touch and smell. Still in the dirt, still growing.”

  He didn’t speak for long second, brow furrowing as he studied her mouth or chin or throat. “That’s beautiful,” he echoed.

  “Thanks.”

  “Can I be honest?”

  “Always.”

  “I want to kiss you, too. I want to feel that even worse than I fear it’ll ruin everything.”

  “That sounds like a yes.”

  “I suppose it does.”

  She pursed her lips, took a moment to admire his face, his hands, this perfect, ripe tension now hovering between them on this strange bed.

  Then she whispered it, something she’d never have imagined presenting to this cautious, sweet, spookable man. An order.

  “Kiss me, John.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The world slowed. Stilled. Stopped completely, then started again in time with John’s heart. The room came back into color and air returned. He breathed in, out. Teetered at the edge of the diving board, then finally stepped off the edge.

  She’d leaned in, their mouths perhaps six inches apart. She smelled wonderful, like the magnolia blossoms that had arrived to grace the tree outside his front window only two weeks earlier. It was up to him to close the distance, take the invitation. It would be magic or it would be mortifying, but to let the chance pass would be the worst regret of his life. He’d been wanting this abstractly since he’d first seen her, on-screen, and wanting it for real since he’d managed to make her smile, tonight. And so he leapt.

  Her lips were soft, her breath sweet with wine. As their mouths met she put her fingertips to his throat, and he read her next instruction in the touch—stop. Hold here, right here, at the very edge of first contact. He felt her exhalation steam against his upper lip, giving him permission to breathe, himself. She drew her lips along his, back and forth, then she spoke against his mouth in a warm whisper.

  “Touch my neck.”

  He cupped her there, feeling the smooth murmur of her hair on his knuckles.

  “Whatever you feel, show me with your hand.”

  He had to think about that, turn it around until he understood. What did he feel for her? A hundred things. Gratitude and disbelief and affection and desire. Desire in its most desperate, aching, innocent guise. He grazed his thumb along her throat to find her pulse, hoping she felt his awe, his wonder, his fear and fascination. He fanned his fingers to take in her heat, and to offer a tiny taste of the possession blooming cautiously in his belly and chest.

  Fuck, but he’d never felt this, touching a woman. There was intimidation, no doubt, but not fear, not quite. A sweet, scary intensity, though it was undeniably exciting, something he’d never known before from physical, sexual contact.

  “Show me more,” she whispered.

  How? He wanted to ask it, but didn’t. The answer was hiding inside him somewhere. Suzy trusted that, and he wanted to as well.

  He showed her with his nose, of all things, letting it bump hers softly as he brushed his lips along hers. Their chins touched, their cheeks, and he let his hand inch higher and his fingers slip deeper into her hair. His thumb sought the hollow behind her ear, such a vulnerable little spot, like a secret.

  She responded in kind, her own fingers sliding through his hair, nails grazing his scalp. He shivered, the sensation cool, then blazing hot. That heat telegraphed, settling like a restless animal between his legs.

  “I want to taste you.” The words were his, spoken without thought. They roused him as deeply as they might have coming from Suzy.

  “Take what you w
ant.”

  He wasn’t one to take, but he did as he desired, as eager as he was unsure.

  His lips parted and hers did the same. It was like learning to dance with a partner who’d mastered every step, every nuance, one who could lead even as she followed. She roused more than lust in him. She roused something rare, something nearly impossible.

  Confidence.

  “Tell me how,” he whispered.

  “How?”

  “How to kiss.”

  “I can only tell you how to kiss me,” she said, and rubbed the tip of her nose against his.

  How daunting, he thought. It wasn’t enough to simply know how to kiss women, generally? You had to know how to kiss each and every one differently? Well, presently there was only one woman on earth he cared about impressing. Good a place to start as any. “Tell me, then.”

  “You said you want to taste me. Show me that, and if there’s anything I want you to do different, I’ll say.”

  “Okay.”

  He shut his eyes, and did as he sometimes did when he was pleasuring himself, before bed, after a Tuesday night date with Mr. and Mrs. Parks. He imagined he was Meyer, tried to channel that fearlessness, tried to imagine what a man like that would do.

  He angled his jaw and she did the same. Their lips came together, at first a soft brush of skin, then a warm press. He let his part and again, she did the same. Mr. Parks would do . . . what? Tease, he imagined. Give a little, not go barging in like a drunk Viking, plundering her mouth. But the mechanics were so unclear. He didn’t want to lick her teeth by mistake; that didn’t seem erotic. What if— Ah, fuck it.

  “Kiss me first,” he said. “I’ve never known what to do with my tongue.”

  She angled her jaw a little more and he did the same. Her tongue sought his, and for only a moment, only a quick, warm sweep, then she used her lips, catching his lower one between hers. Another flirting glance of her tongue, then more lips. Repeat.

  “Try,” she whispered.

  It wasn’t so much a move, he discovered—not so much any particular, skillful trick—but more of an advance. An exploratory sweep of his tongue, and however it might encounter hers was how it went. Huh. He’d always imagined there was something he was supposed to be doing with his tongue, apart from simply tasting her mouth, but it seemed this was all about brief, glancing contact. Flirting. He eased into it, body coming loose as muscles might steadily acclimate to a chilly pool, until it felt natural, if not effortless.

  She kissed him back, and he learned how to take turns, to receive as well as give. After several minutes, he pulled back to meet her eyes.

  “How am I doing?”

  “How do you think you’re doing?” she asked with a little smile. It dimpled her cheek and made his heart beat more quickly.

  “It feels nice. And kissing’s never felt nice to me, before. More than nice, too. Exciting. I think I’m doing a passable job, which for me would be a massive improvement.”

  “Well, from my side of things, you’re doing great. I like how you kiss. No one’s kissed me and had it feel so . . . romantic, I think is the right word. It hasn’t felt quite like this in a long time.”

  “Any notes? My ego can take it.”

  “Maybe just linger a little longer. With your tongue. You can take your time, when you . . . Jeez, what are the verbs for this, even? ‘Probe’ sounds ridiculous.”

  “I think I know what you mean. Did you want me to try now, or . . . ?”

  She nodded, smiled again, leaned in.

  They kissed forever, it felt like. For long, thrilling minutes, until the mechanics fell aside and it was just the two of them, two bodies, two sets of hands stroking necks and hair, two noses glancing sweetly, and ultimately two pairs of legs beginning to tangle as they moved to lie on their sides. Suzy slid her knee between John’s. Not far, but enough to send excitement coursing through him. She liked what he was doing, it seemed. Enough that she wanted to get even closer. Impossible, surely, that the most fascinating woman in the world was enjoying what was happening, that she wanted this with him. And wonder of most far-fetched wonders, that he didn’t seem to be messing it up.

  He was getting warm—sweaty, if he was honest, like someone had snuck in and fiddled with the thermostat. He felt it where his palm held her jaw, and felt the heat in his chest and under his arms, and, yes, between his legs.

  He pulled back. “Sorry, hang on a second. I’m burning up.” He got to his knees on the bed and peeled his top away. He had an undershirt on beneath it, so he hoped it wasn’t too bold a move. Though as he tossed the layer aside he found she was doing the same, slipping her cardigan off. Under it she wore a green camisole, with lace trim at the bodice and tiny little straps, over a cream-colored bra. You could see far more of a woman’s body on just about any cable channel, any time of the day or night, and yet it thrilled him all the same. Silly, when he’d seen her naked so many times, but this was different. This was real, and it was him and her, no false husbands to live vicariously through, no screens, and no camera lenses between them.

  They came back together, kissing, bodies growing eager and clumsy, still sweltering despite the shed layers. John braced himself on one elbow, a taste of how it might feel to be above her.

  “Okay if we do a little more?” Suzy asked, her mouth hot on his.

  “Yes.” Whatever “more” might be, John couldn’t guess, but the lust had him desperate enough to leap, no need to know where he might land.

  She took his hand and pressed it to her breast. Heat chased through him, a mix of excitement and shock. Her hand squeezed his, then again, showing him the gentle kneading touch she wanted. She felt soft, so soft. He hadn’t touched a breast in seventeen years, and he’d forgotten what it was even like. She finessed his hand’s placement, showed him how to sweep his thumb in to meet his hand in time with the squeezes, drawing her nipple to a hard peak through her shirt. He felt his lips part, his mouth grow dry. Her lips were parted as well and she was breathing more heavily, like the softest moans.

  I’m making her feel good. I’m turning her on. The most exciting and sensual and sexually masterful woman on the planet, and he was exciting her. He thought his heart might explode from the pleasure of it.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever done anything as perfect as making you feel good,” he murmured.

  She laughed softly, sounding half-lost. “You want to learn more?”

  “Everything.” Shit, was that too far? Everything sounded like he wanted, well, everything. And don’t I? Yes and no. He wanted to in his mind, in his fantasy life, but he was nowhere near ready for it in reality.

  Suzy, however, didn’t choose to overthink it. She wrestled her camisole up and away, and told him, “Take my bra off. The hook’s in the back.”

  She wriggled to help him get his arm underneath her, and he found the clasp with both hands. It took some fumbling, but he managed it in due time. She slid the straps from her shoulders and the cups dropped away. John shed his undershirt, overheated.

  He’d seen her topless on-screen before, but this was entirely different. He could see every detail, every tiny bump on her small, dark nipples, a freckle or mole on the smooth curve of her breast. He couldn’t recall much of anything about his one lover’s body anymore, but he bet he’d remember every millimeter of Suzy’s, crisp as a photograph.

  “Would you use your mouth?” she asked.

  “Yes. If you’ll tell me how.”

  “This, here,” she said, putting his hand back over the breast he’d been palming. “And your mouth on the other. Like a soft sucking, to start. I’ll let you know if I want it more intense, or if it’s too much.”

  How simple. If only everyone was like this in bed, John thought, happy to tell you precisely what to do. Then again, he doubted he’d be able to talk so frankly with anyone in this position, so it was clearly easier said t
han done. Though Suzy made it look effortless. Natural.

  He edged his way down alongside her, until his mouth was at her breast. Nearly forty and he’d never done this, but again he leapt. Closed his lips around her nipple. Sucked softly, wetting her skin. He felt her fingers in his hair, her nails rasping his scalp and making him shiver.

  “That’s good. Good pressure. Keep going.”

  He did, until the next directive arrived on the heels of a heavy sigh.

  “Let your teeth graze me—really gently.”

  He drew his lower teeth softly up and over the taut nub, shocked at her reaction—her entire body jerked, fingers tensing in his hair.

  “Good. Really good.”

  He relaxed. Did it again, and was rewarded with two hungry, warm palms sliding over his upper back, kneading the muscle there.

  “Keep squeezing with the other hand.”

  Oh right, the other hand. He spent two or three minutes at it, kneading, sucking, grazing, until the motions felt right, going from stilted to something approaching smooth.

  “Fuck, that’s perfect. Do the other side. Please.”

  He did, and the awkwardness of coordinating melted away inside a dozen breaths.

  Suzy shifted—fidgeted, more like. “Slide your leg between mine,” she told him. There was an intoxicating lilt to her voice, nearly as though she were begging him.

  He eased his thigh between her calves, feeling her knees squeeze in reply. His cock was in no danger of brushing her, yet it roused all the same, yearning for the chance.

  A tug on his shoulder broke John’s concentration, and he looked up, eyes met by something truly miraculous—the pointed and sultry gaze of an excited woman.

  “That was perfect,” she said.