Cowboy Baby Daddy

by Claire Adams

  “It’s all right,” I tell her, putting a hand on her shoulder.

  “No, it’s not,” she says. “I’ve just always wanted to make someone my bitch.”

  Okay, now I really don’t know what to say. I honestly didn’t think people talked like that.

  “Really,” I say. “I’m fine with the handcuffs, but maybe we just don’t do the slapping or the name-calling.”

  “Oh, what do you know?” she asks.

  I’m at a loss.

  “I really don’t know what you mean,” I tell her.

  “You think it’s so easy for a woman to open up sexually. Well, it’s not. Everything we do either makes us a prude or a freak-slut. It’s such bullshit.”

  I actually agree with her, but am having a bit of trouble expressing that with half of my face still numb.

  “Why don’t we,” I start, standing up and discreetly looking for my pants, “just get dressed and talk it out. I bet it’ll make you feel better.”

  “Oh,” she says, her tone changing completely, “so now you don’t think I’m good enough to have sex with?”

  “I really—”

  “No, see this is what all you guys do. The handcuffs go on and your balls just shrivel up because you can’t handle letting a woman be in charge for once.”

  What’s the word I’m looking for?

  “Seriously, if I’d known you were such a pussy, I never would have picked you up—I mean seriously, how do you get out of bed in the morning?”

  Flummoxed: that's the word I’m looking for.

  “Fucking say something, will you?”

  I open my mouth, but can’t find any words to adequately describe my surprise or my terror in this moment, so I do the only thing that my body will allow.

  I laugh.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her as soon as I can catch my breath. “Really, I am. I’m not laughing at you. I just have no idea how to even begin to approach this conversation.”

  Her eyes start going wide again.

  “No, no, no,” I say. “It’s all right. We can figure this thing out. Now, there are some things you want to do, some of which make me uncomfortable, some of which I’m okay with. What would be the ideal situation for you? Let’s start there, and I’ll tell you what will work and what won’t work for me. I’m sure we can find a consensus somewhere here.”

  “I don’t know,” she says in a creepily normal tone. “I guess, when I saw your tattoos, I just kind of figured that you were into some freaky shit. Maybe I went overboard without seeing if you were cool with everything.”

  “That’s okay,” I tell her. “Now, what would be ideal for you?”

  “What I really want to do is tie you to the bed, ride you like a bull and, I don’t know…”

  “It’s okay,” I tell her. “Just tell me what you want. That’s how we’re going to find a compromise here.”

  My goal for the evening is to find some way to sleep with her and not end up with a black eye.

  “I just want to make you my bitch, you know? I want to have you do what I tell you to do and maybe smack you around a little if you don’t do it right. Is that so much to ask?”

  “Wow,” I chuckle. “You know, that’s a bit much for me,” I tell her. “Not that it’s weird or anything, it’s just not my particular cup of tea.”

  I wonder what Yoga Chick is up to.

  “Well, what do you want?”

  “Me? I don’t know, I guess I’m a bit more old-fashioned when it comes to the bedroom. I like a nice, pleasant evening where we fuck like bunnies, maybe take a few pages out of the Kama Sutra and see if we can get your neighbors to file a noise complaint.”

  “Okay,” she says, giving the situation the kind of thought one would put toward what college to attend or whether or not space-time is a fixed or mutable concept. “Well, I like what you’re saying, but I’m going to need a little more than that.”

  “I can offer you light spanking.”

  “Who’s spanking whom?” she asks, surprisingly articulately.

  “I guess that’s really up to you,” I tell her.

  “Oh, I’d definitely be spanking you,” she says.

  I’m starting to get the feeling that we may be trying a bit too hard to make this work, but I’ve already put so much into it, I don’t want to just give up.

  “I can live with some spanking—some light spanking,” I tell her. “But I’m talking with your hands. No paddles or whips. A riding crop might be acceptable, but that’s really going to come back to the force of the blow.”

  “Okay,” she says. “I think I can live with that, but that’s still not quite enough for me. I mean, you’ve really taken me out of the mood here.”

  If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that she’s enjoying this more than she was enjoying the sex.

  Actually, I don’t know any better.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “Well,” she says, “you seemed to be okay with the handcuffs, but you weren’t okay with me slapping you.”

  “Yeah,” I emphasize. “Not into the slapping. While we’re at it, I’m also not into either of us drawing blood, head-butting or any phrase that starts with donkey—just not my thing.”

  “Well, you’ve got to give me a little more than some light spanking and handcuffs,” she says, her voice most of the way back to what it was when she uttered those memorable words: “Shut up, bitch!”

  “This isn’t your first time with any of this, is it?” I ask her.

  She shrugs. “Most guys like to hear that sort of thing,” she says.

  “Isn’t it funny the things we say to each other, never really knowing if it’s what the other person wants or not?”

  “I know, right?” she smiles.

  I feel like the term emotional roller coaster is too slow a metaphor to capture this particular moment.

  “Okay,” she says. “How do you feel about adding someone else? If you’re going to veto the fun stuff, we could at least switch gears.”

  I lightly clap my hands together. “Okay,” I tell her. “That’s something we might be able to—”

  “Yeah,” she interrupts. “I have a friend who’s a dom—”

  “You know, maybe we should figure this out between the two of us before we bring a third party into the equation?”

  “Okay,” she says, and shrugs.

  About a minute goes by in awkward silence with me sitting with my pants on but undone, her still naked beside me.

  “I know!” she shouts, clapping her hands hard in triumph.

  A few minutes later, we’re on top of her roof, she’s up on the ledge, leaning back, and my arms are wrapped around her lower back, just trying to figure out a way to get through this without her falling.

  Don’t misunderstand; I’m definitely feeling the draw.

  Her hands go above her head and she leans back even farther. I have to move my grip from around her back to around her legs, but she’s quick to pull them together and rest them on my shoulder.

  She’s not quiet, but that only adds to the thrill of the moment as I enter her, the sound of our skin hyphenating every movement as she falls again and again onto my hard, throbbing cock.

  “This is fucking great!” she calls into the night, and I can’t help but agree with her.

  I tighten my grip around her thighs as her legs begin to quiver in my arms, and as she erupts into screaming orgasm, I’m checking the windows of the building across the street to see if anyone’s filming this.

  We’re in public, so it’s not really an invasion of privacy.

  Really, I’d just like a copy for myself.

  No luck, though. There are plenty of people nudging their friends and pointing, but not one of them is holding a camera.

  Lame.

  I’m not much of an exhibitionist, but it is a bit of a rush being on display like this, bringing this gorgeous woman to orgasm on the very edge of the building.

  As her contracting muscles relax again, I
reach up and put a hand on her shoulder.

  She gets the idea and grabs my arm with one hand and pulls herself up. Without a word, she hops down from the ledge and turns around, placing her stomach over the towel we set on the ledge—which, by the way, only made keeping her from slipping that much harder—her breasts hanging just over the side of the building.

  A few drapes have shut in the building across the street, but even more have opened.

  That’s one thing about New York: almost everyone’s a voyeur.

  I run one hand down her back, while with the other, I reach around her front and write the alphabet in cursive, print, and at one point, I’m pretty sure, Cyrillic over her clit with the pad of my middle finger.

  She’s using the ledge as leverage to push herself onto me so hard that I have to hold onto her hips not to lose my balance.

  “Say my name!” she shouts.

  Okay, this is awkward.

  “Come on,” she says. “I’m almost there again. I want everyone over there watching us to know who you’re fucking!”

  I’ll be the first to admit that she’s a lot more hardcore than I am.

  It’s not even a contest.

  “I don’t—”

  “I don’t know yours either!” she pants. “Just think of something!”

  It’s not dignified and it’s not romantic.

  I have no illusions there.

  It is, however, surprising that the name that I call out as I feel that rising pull in my body is Leila.

  It’s not that big a deal, I guess. She told me to call out a name and I called out a name. There’s no reason to read anything more into it than that.

  “Oh, Wrigley!” she screams.

  Wrigley? Really?

  I guess it works for her, as I can feel the tense-and-release in her body as she grinds against me hard, and that does it for me.

  I come hard with an eager audience across the street.

  I’m a little disappointed that I don’t see or hear applause, but as my body spasms in pleasure, that disappointment quickly dissipates.

  “Woo!” she interjects. “That was perfect! I’ve never done that before.”

  Once my orgasm fades away, I pull out and remove the condom, cleaning first her and then myself—for obvious reasons—with the towel from the ledge.

  I’m naked and still hard as I turn to see the security guard standing in the doorway to the roof.

  I tap my companion on the shoulder and she turns her head. She’s still leaning against the ledge, her arms fully outstretched.

  “Wrigley!” the security guard shouts. “I told you to stop coming up here. You have any idea how many complaints we get when you pull this shit?”

  I should probably feel more exposed or fearful, but I can’t help but laugh with the realization that the woman was calling out her own name from the top of a rooftop as she was having sex, basically in front of her neighbors.

  This might just be true love.

  Chapter Seven

  Just Another Day at the Office

  Leila

  Thus far, I’ve managed to avoid Mr. Kidman, so today’s a good day.

  Good might be a bit liberal a phrase, but it hasn’t been completely soul-crushing, so at least it’s a step in the right direction.

  I’m having trouble concentrating, though. Annabeth is right: I do need someone in my life.

  My last boyfriend, Chad—a jerk’s name if ever there was one—kind of did a number on me. Between his near-constant cheating and the way he would always find something wrong in anything I did, it’s been a bit difficult for me to find a measure of confidence in myself.

  That’s why they do it.

  That’s why men treat women like crap—it’s probably why women treat men like crap, too. It’s just a way to make the other person feel like less so that you can feel like more.

  Even knowing this, knowing that Chad was just a coward, it doesn’t change anything. The damage is done, and I don’t even know where to start with finding a guy to get to know, to start dating. I’ve all but given up on finding anything resembling real love, but at this point, I’d be satisfied with a reasonable knockoff.

  “Tyler!” that grating voice calls behind me.

  “Mr. Kidman,” I say, turning around, “I’m really not in the mood.”

  “Well, I think we both know that I am,” he says, and licks his lips.

  It’s not an attractive gesture.

  “But listen, I did want to tell you that you’ve been doing great work around here, and if you’d like to knock off early one of these days, I’d be happy to approve it.”

  “What’s the catch?” I ask.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that you’re a pathetic letch and you’d never say something like that unless there was some disturbing euphemism to accompany it.”

  That’s what I want to say.

  What I really say is, “You’d just approve it? No special favors or anything?”

  “Not unless you’d like to show your gratitude by coming back to my office, and—you know what? I’m not really in the mood for this today, either,” he says. “My wife’s been on my case all week, asking me when I’m going to retire, and I don’t have anything to tell her. Anyway,” he breathes, “just thought I’d let you know that. Oh,” he says, “and if you see your friend Annabeth around, would you tell her that I know she’s been skipping out and her ass is about an inch from the chopping block.”

  “I’ll let her know,” I say, smiling.

  I’m not thrilled with what he said about Annabeth, but that was the closest thing to a mutually respectful conversation I’ve had with the man.

  “One more thing…”

  My joy may have been premature.

  “I’ve been talking with the partners, and we think there might be a future for you here. I don’t know if you’ve received any other offers, but I do hope that you’ll consider staying on. We’ve really appreciated all the hard work you’ve been putting in.”

  This is too good to be true, I’m sure, but my day just got a whole lot better.

  “Thank you, sir,” I tell him. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “You know there’s always a position open under me,” he says. “Huh. Look at that, I guess I am in the mood. Anyway,” he laughs, “keep up the good work.”

  All right, he kind of marred it at the end there, but all in all, I’d say it was a pretty uplifting exchange.

  Rackham Morris, one of the partners, passes me in the hall, and right now, I’m not even bothered by the fact that he completely ignores my existence. Nothing is going to get me down today.

  “Tyler!”

  Why do I always tell myself that nothing is going to get me down? I know better than to jinx it like that.

  “Yes?” I ask, turning to face Atkinson.

  “Yeah,” he says, “I’m going to need your help with a few projects. Are you busy?”

  Come to think of it, I think I see a way out of this.

  “Actually,” I tell him, “I’m just on my way out for the day, but Annabeth should be around here somewhere.”

  That should keep him busy for a while, as I happen to know that Annabeth is at Reginald’s for a ridiculously extended lunch break.

  I pop over to Mr. Kidman’s office to ask him if he needs anything else. He tells me to go and spread my wild oats. Yeah, he also tells me to take pictures of the oats-sowing, and I’m pretty sure he’s using the wrong expression given my gender, but it’s close enough to a nice moment that I walk back out of his office with a spring in my step.

  I pull out my phone.

  “Hey,” I write, “still at Reginald’s?”

  I get to the elevator and wait in the lobby for a response before I do anything else.

  “No,” Annabeth’s return message reads, “but if you’re up for skipping out, I’m getting some drinks with some guys down at the bar.”

  With Annabeth, there is only one bar in New York. “I’ll see
you there in 20 minutes.”

  A minute or two later, I’m in a cab, telling the driver to step on it. He sighs and rolls his eyes at the cliché, but damn it, I’m having a wonderful day.

  When the cab pulls up, I spot Annabeth standing outside the door, sucking down a cigarette.

  She drops it when I step out of the cab.

  “Ho-ly shit, girl!” she says. “I never thought you’d actually blow off work to come get drinks with me.”

  I would tell her that I was actually offered an early day, but what’s the point?

  “I had to see what you were up to one of these times, didn’t I?” I ask.

  “Ooh, ooh,” she says, “you have got to meet these guys I’ve been talking with in there. I have a feeling your dry spell is about to experience unseasonable precipitation.”

  She holds her hand above her head for a high five, but I can’t reward her for that comment. “You know I love you,” I tell her, “but can we not do the double-entendre thing. We’ve talked about this and decided that neither one of us is any good at it.”

  “Oh, fine,” she says, lowering her hand. It goes back up when she announces, “Girl, you gonna get laid!”

  I laugh and do my best to give her a high five that doesn’t completely embarrass both of us, but that’s really not why I’m here.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” I tell her, “from what I remember of it, sex is pretty nice, but I’m really not looking for something like that right now.”

  She nods awkwardly. “Yeah, I guess you’re—”

  “Oh, who am I kidding? I’m an apple tree that needs to be plucked.”

  “I thought we just agreed—”

  “I know, I know. We really are terrible at that, aren’t we?”

  “You said it.”

  Annabeth finishes up her cigarette and we walk into Club Allen, the worst-named bar in New York and the only place in this world that Annabeth would rather be than Bali. Come to think of it, I’m not sure that’s she’s ever been to Bali, but I do remember her talking a lot about it.

  Huh.

  We’re 20 feet from the bar when I spot the group that Annabeth was talking about. It has to be them. They’re the only ones who look like escaped convicts.

  Annabeth bounces over to them and gives them all hugs. I’m pretty sure she said they just met, but whatever. She’s rather friendly that way.