Man Candy

by Melanie Harlow

  “Don’t worry, I’m with you,” I said, matching his rhythm with my hips. “I promise.”

  It didn’t take long for the intensity to build, especially knowing we were doing it without a condom—breaking a rule!—on purpose. Before long, Quinn had me on my back, his cock driving hard and deep, my nails digging into his ass, our bodies damp with water and sweat. Higher and higher we climbed, desperate for release, unable to stop, but unwilling to leave the other behind.

  “Now,” he said hotly, his breath in my ear. “Come for me. Let me feel you come on my cock before I—”

  I lost the rest of what he was saying, my senses abandoned, my universe reduced to the shared pulse between us. I don’t know where my orgasm stopped or his began; they ran together, fed off each other, kept us clutching at one another, trying against all odds to get deeper, get closer, get more.

  When his body collapsed on top of mine, I felt grateful for the weight of it, the way it grounded me, stopped me from floating into the sky. I held him to me with my arms and legs, pressed my lips to his neck, breathed him in deep.

  “Are you OK?” He lifted his chest off me and looked down. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to crush you.”

  “You’re not. Come back.” I pulled on his shoulders. “I wasn’t suffocating, I was sniffing you.”

  He laughed and lowered himself a little, propping himself on his elbows above my shoulders. “Is this OK?”

  “Yes.” I ran my hands up his sides, over his chest, and into his hair. “Just don’t leave yet.”

  “OK.”

  I looked up at him and realized it wasn’t that I didn’t want him to leave yet; I didn’t want him to leave at all.

  I wanted him next to me all night. I wanted to fall asleep in his arms and wake up with him beside me. I wanted to talk more about his mom and my mom and our childhoods. I wanted to whisper about the future and what it might hold. I wanted to laugh about my rules and how he’d somehow convinced me to break every one of them without even appearing to try. I wanted to let him all the way in.

  I wanted to love him.

  “Quinn,” I whispered, brushing the hair back from his face. “I don’t want you to leave me tonight.”

  He hesitated. “Does that mean you want me to stay?”

  “Yes.”

  “The night?”

  “Yes.” Please don’t tease me right now. Don’t ask me what it means. Don’t remind me of the rules. Just trust me. Let me give you more, a little at a time.

  “OK,” he said, kissing me softly. “I’ll stay.”

  I drifted off to sleep spooned in Quinn’s embrace.

  “You’re sure you’re OK?” he asked for the tenth time. “I’m not crowding you?”

  “For fuck’s sake, Quinn.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, but I know how you get.”

  “What I’m getting right now is irritated. I’m tired, go to sleep.”

  “OK, OK.”

  I’d like to say we spooned all night, but I probably only lasted about twenty minutes before I got too hot, rolled onto my stomach, and hitched up my knee between us.

  But I tried—that counts, right?

  And even though we weren’t wrapped up in each other all night, I did like knowing he was there in my bed. The couple times I woke up and remembered the night before, I smiled into my pillow, happier than I’d been in a long time.

  In the morning, I woke up first and lay on my side, facing him. He was beautiful even in his sleep, his features completely relaxed. Lying on his back, he had one arm thrown over his head, and I had the weirdest urge to sniff his armpit. (Don’t judge. As armpits go, it’s pretty much perfect.)

  I refrained from pit sniffing, but I couldn’t resist touching his chest, which was visible above the top of the sheet. Scooting a little closer, I traced a line down the center of his sternum with my fingertips, then covered one pectoral muscle with my palm.

  His eyes opened, and he smiled. “Hey.”

  I smiled too. “Hey.”

  “How’d you sleep?”

  “Great. You?”

  “Same. What time is it?”

  “I have no idea. I never brought my phone in here.”

  “Me either. I’m not even sure where my clothes are. That seems to happen a lot around you.”

  I giggled. “I think they’re in a variety of places between our two flats.”

  “It was a good night.”

  “It was.” I kept looking at him, waiting for the remorse to kick in, the urge for him to leave, the compulsion to be by myself…but I felt none of that. Not only was I happy he was there, but I didn’t want him to go.

  “We broke a rule,” he said, a sly grin on his face. “Are you mad at us?”

  I propped my head in my hand. “Actually, no. Can you believe it?”

  “No.” His eyes went wide, twinkling with mischief. “Does this mean…”

  I reached out and put two fingers over his lips. “No. It means I had fun and I’m glad you stayed the night.”

  He kissed my fingers and grabbed my wrist. “Party pooper. Get over here.” Pulling me close, he gathered me into his chest, arms wrapped around my head, chin resting on top of it. “Give me ten seconds of excessive cuddling, and then I’ll let you go.”

  I groaned for effect, but if he could have seen my face, he’d have known how happy I was.

  What on earth was happening?

  Three days later, I met Claire and Margot for our weekly GNO. It was my turn to pick the place, and I chose Standby, a relatively new bar in the Belt Alley that had great cocktails and delicious small plates.

  I got there first, ordered a Vermilion Fizz, and took a minute to text Quinn. Hey. At Standby with girls. See you tonight?

  Definitely. Have fun and knock when you get home.

  After that there was a little bumblebee emoji, which Quinn had designated the “love bug.” Shaking my head, I quickly checked his Instagram account, where he’d posted a pic from this morning. I’d probably looked at it a hundred times already today, but I couldn’t resist peeking at it again. We’d still been lying in his bed, and he’d snapped a selfie right as he kissed my cheek, which I didn’t even realize because I was laughing at something he’d said and my eyes were closed. My hair was a mess and the picture was kind of blurry, but it captured us perfectly. His caption was simply This girl. #wcw #sweetpea

  “What are you smiling about?” Claire took off her coat and hung it on the chair across the table from me.

  “Nothing.” I tucked my phone into my purse, embarrassed to be caught grinning like an idiot at a screen.

  “Does nothing stand about six foot two, have piercing blue eyes, and a great big dick?”

  I shrugged, but I couldn’t keep the blush from my cheeks. “Maybe.”

  “God, what is going on with you?” she demanded, sliding onto the seat. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were in love.”

  I coughed in protest, even as the room started to spin. “Please. I’m not in love. I’m just…enjoying myself. Isn’t that allowed?”

  “Of course it’s allowed. It’s just very unlike you to enjoy yourself with one guy for this long.”

  “I know. It does feel a bit strange,” I admitted as Margot breezed in and sat down next to Claire.

  “What does?” she asked, shrugging out of her jacket and glancing around. “Do they have a coat check here? Or a rack?”

  “I don’t know. Here, I’ll take it.” I reached out and took her heavy camel coat and set it on the bench next to me.

  “Thanks. Now what’s strange?” she asked.

  “Being in love,” Claire interjected.

  “Being with Quinn,” I said firmly, giving Claire the evil eye.

  The server came over with my drink and took their orders. When he was gone, Margot asked, “But is it good strange? Being in a couple?”

  “Yeah.” I took a sip. “Mm, that’s good.” Everything tasted good these last few days.

  “Did you break the sleepove
r rule?” Claire’s expression was smug, and I knew the color was back in my cheeks again.

  “Uh, we did, actually. On Saturday night.” I took another sip. “And then again on Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday.”

  Their jaws dropped, and then they looked at each other.

  I burst out laughing. “You guys look so funny.”

  “I can’t believe it,” Claire said, shaking her head. “You’ve spent four nights in a row together?”

  “Yes. I can hardly believe it either.” We’d spent the first two in my flat and the last two in his. Who knew where we’d end up tonight?

  “And you’re OK with it?” Margot scrutinized my face. “You don’t feel smothered?”

  “No. It’s kind of insane.” I played with the stem of my glass as I confessed. “I’m actually liking the closeness. I mean, I don’t like him right on top of me all the time, I still like my personal space, but…” I shrugged. “I like when he’s there.”

  “Holy shit. You’ve got a boyfriend, Jaime.” Margot looked amused.

  “What? No, I don’t.” I felt my face getting hotter, and I focused on taking a drink of my cold cocktail.

  “You do. You so do.” Grinning, she sat back as the server set their drinks down. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. You don’t need a support group.”

  “I know. I just…don’t really want a boyfriend,” I insisted. “We agreed not to put that kind of label on things, and I think it’s helping me be comfortable with what we’re doing.”

  “Which is what?”

  “Dating. Having fun. Enjoying each other’s company.” I paused. “Often naked.”

  Claire rolled her eyes. “Sounds like a boyfriend to me.”

  “Claire, please. A boyfriend is more serious. Like Tripp. Tripp’s a boyfriend.”

  “For now, anyway.” Margot sighed.

  “Did you talk to him yet?” I asked, kind of hoping to get off the subject of Quinn. The truth was, I didn’t know exactly what we were doing or what to call it or what would happen next week when he moved out. I was hoping we’d be able to keep it just like this—light and fun, strings but no labels, meaningful but not serious. Anything more than that, and I started to hyperventilate.

  “No. I didn’t want to ruin Valentine’s Day. We were having dinner with Mimi and Deuce,” she said glumly. “But I can’t put it off much longer. I’m miserable not knowing.”

  Because that is what serious relationships do to people, I reminded myself. That’s what falling in love does—jacks up their hopes and creates impossible expectations. Misery is inevitable.

  But later, as Quinn moved inside me and the stars exploded and the heavens opened up and the earth spun so wildly out of control I clung to him like a terrified child, I knew I had to be careful.

  All my rules were broken.

  All my walls were down.

  I slept alone that night.

  Twenty-Three

  QUINN

  My condo was ready. I hadn’t said anything to Jaime over Valentine’s weekend, and then it had been so intense the following weeks, sleeping together almost every night, that I hadn’t even thought about moving out. I told myself that I was paid up through the end of February and could take my time moving to the new place, but when a week went by and I still hadn’t even called the movers, I admitted to myself what was happening.

  I was in love with her, and I was scared to break the spell.

  It was like something magical had happened on Valentine’s Day, and I’m not just talking about her finger in my ass.

  I mean like real magic.

  Suddenly she was opening up to me about her feelings, inviting me to stay the night, letting me hold her closer, tighter, longer. Without words, she was telling me that I made her happy, that she trusted me, that she cared for me. Sometimes I even felt like she was on the verge of telling me she loved me—and I knew I’d almost said it to her a bunch of times. But neither of us ever went through with it.

  Just another game of chicken.

  But all day, every day, all I thought about was her—wondering what she was doing, remembering things from the night before, anticipating when I’d see her next, thinking of things I wanted to do with her, show to her, say to her. It was almost ridiculous—I felt like a twelve year old with his first crush. I couldn’t get enough of her.

  Occasionally I felt her pull back slightly, nights where she left my bed and went to sleep in her own, times when she slipped out of my arms when I would’ve kept holding her, but I understood her need to keep some personal space, maintain some distance. It made her feel safe, in control of her feelings. And those instances were the exception, not the rule.

  She wanted to be with me more often now, even if it was just sitting next to me on the couch while she worked. When an unusually warm day caused a big snowmelt, she wanted to take a walk and even held my hand part of the time. She listened to me blather on about what courses to take next term, debate whether I’d make a good teacher (she thought I would make a great one), and fret about what the smartest investments would be for my savings if I went in that direction, since it meant I’d never make the kind of money I’d made modeling.

  “Who cares?” she’d said. “You should do what you’re passionate about, not what makes the most money.”

  I knew she was right, but I was also trying to think ahead, and Jaime was a woman who focused on the present. I had to think about the reality of living, and hopefully supporting a family, on a teacher’s salary, unless I kept a hand in modeling part-time, which would mean less free time and more traveling. I had to give it some thought.

  And like it or not, I had to move out of Jaime’s house.

  Yesterday, I’d called the movers and arranged for them to get my furniture out of storage and deliver it to my new place on Tuesday, which was two days away. I was hoping nothing would change, that we’d be able to make time to see each other almost as often as we did now. It would take more effort, since we’d be separated by more than just a staircase, but my new building wasn’t really that far from where she worked. I’d also been thinking about a little vacation. It had been such a cold winter—maybe she’d like to go sit on a beach somewhere. She’d once told me that was her kind of getaway.

  I’ll talk to her about it tonight, I thought as I made dinner for us. If she seemed upset about my leaving, maybe the idea of a little sand and sun together would soften the blow.

  My phone vibrated on the kitchen counter, and I saw her name on the screen. “Hello?”

  “Hey, it’s me.”

  “Hi. How’s it going?” I stirred the pot of tomato sauce I had on the stove.

  “It’s kinda bad here,” she said quietly, as if she didn’t want anyone to hear. It was Sunday night and we’d been planning on dinner in and watching Netflix, but about an hour earlier, she’d gotten a call from one of her friends that there was some sort of emergency, and she should go to Margot’s house right away.

  “What happened? Is everyone OK?”

  “Everyone’s fine physically, but Margot and her boyfriend broke up, and she’s a mess.”

  “Oh. Sorry to hear that.” I set the spoon on a paper towel and turned the heat off under the pasta water. If she was going to be late, I didn’t want to cook the noodles yet. “Think you’ll be a while?”

  She sighed. “Probably. I totally understand if you want to eat without me.”

  “I don’t mind waiting. Want to call me when you’re on your way?”

  “OK. I will.”

  She didn’t sound like herself, but maybe she was just worried about her friend. “Everything OK with you?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Just sad for her. And I’m never sure what to say at these times.”

  After we hung up, I occupied myself throwing clothing and linens into boxes for the move. I felt like a selfish asshole even thinking it, but I hoped Margot’s breakup wasn’t going to fuck with Jaime’s head.

  We were in a good place right now, but we’d only just gotten
here.

  Twenty-Four

  JAIME

  I’d never seen Margot like this. Not once in the thirteen years I’d known her. She’d always had a boyfriend—we joked that she was a serial monogamist—but her relationships had always ended amicably or she’d been the one to break things off.

  This was something else entirely.

  Calm, cool, cultured Margot Thurber Lewiston was having a very unbecoming ugly cry on her bedroom floor. Curled in a ball with a (probably heirloom) quilt pulled tightly around her shoulders, she sobbed and howled, her beautiful face contorted in misery and covered with tears and snot.

  “Margot, come on. It’s going to be OK.” On her knees at Margot’s side, Claire patted her back. “Want me to get you a hanky?”

  “Want a pillow?” I offered from where I sat on Margot’s bed. The expensive sheets were all untucked and twisted as if she’d thrown a violent tantrum on her bed and then rolled right off it onto the hardwood floor. She had a rug beneath her, but still—she couldn’t have been very comfortable.

  Not that she cared about comfort. She didn’t answer either one of us, just kept crying and crying, her slender body shuddering pitifully beneath the quilt. She was nearly hoarse from wailing, but nothing we said had consoled her so far.

  My own throat was tight—I’d never felt so helpless. Truth be told, I wasn’t good at this. I didn’t know what to say because I’d never been in her position. Even my shittiest breakups in college, before I’d sworn off relationships, hadn’t done this to me. I hadn’t cried like this since—

  Quinn.

  It suddenly struck me that the way Margot was carrying on reminded me of the way I’d cried the night I’d told Quinn I loved him and he’d laughed at me.

  Turning off the warning bell in my head, I got down on the floor with a little square pillow embroidered with the words Like Mother, Like Daughter. I looked at it for a second before putting it down near Margot’s face.

  “Here, Gogo. Put your head on this. You’re going to have a terrible headache as it is.”