by Tara Wylde
Lina snorts. “Everyone’s judging everyone all the time.”
“Oh? You judging me right now?”
“Guilty as charged.” She winks.
I’m still kind of up in a bunch. I blame that stupid Death card. Plus, even if it was nothing but cold reading, I feel oddly exposed. Embarrassed, even. And it’s way too soon for money to enter the conversation. Time to change the subject. “Okay, so...tell me a secret, then.”
“A secret....” The WALK sign comes on. Lina steps out into the street. “I always make a couple of mistakes when I post on Facebook, so people won’t think I’m stuck up. Like, I’ll put it-apostrophe-S, when I mean, y’know, ‘its’.”
“Oh, lame secret!”
“What? I thought it was pretty juicy! I mean, isn’t that the pinnacle of insecurity?”
“Well, when you put it that way....” I pretend to think it over. “Nope. Still lame. Gimme another.”
“No way. It’s your turn.”
“Fine—okay. Here’s how it’s done: I almost didn’t come into the restaurant today. I was standing outside, looking in, and I couldn’t shake the idea that...maybe you did stand me up. Like, on purpose.”
That seems to catch her off guard. She breaks stride for a moment, and when she starts walking again, she’s definitely put some distance between us. “I did.”
Wait...seriously? I hate this secret.
She’s not looking at me. “It’s not that I didn’t want to see you. It’s just... This is going to sound insane, but I got home last night, and realized I’d almost burned my building down.” There’s a low note of horror in her voice. “I’ve been distracted since—since... I’ve had a week you wouldn’t believe, and then that happened, and I thought...what the fuck am I doing? I don’t have time for—I don’t have room for— It’s not fair to you.“
“But you didn’t tell me no when I showed up anyway.”
“Guess I’m selfish.” A car whooshes by too fast, sending up a plume of slush. There’s barely room to dodge. We wind up squished together under a yellow awning. I can’t resist the temptation to tuck her hair behind her ear. She leans into the touch, and I feel it again, that sense of rightness, of connection.
I’ve got to get to the bottom of this. “Selfish? Selfish how?”
“’Cause I’ve got—that woman was right, about the debt, the obligations, the—the crushing weight, or whatever. I’ve got two jobs, classes; I’ve got... I’ve got no room in my life. It’s like... You’re this great dress I keep seeing in the window at Bloomingdale’s, but even if I could afford you, I’d never get the chance to wear you. I’d be fooling myself.”
“So, I’m...a backless Vera Wang?” I wish she’d smile.
She shakes her head. “You’re a luxury I can’t afford. But I....”
My confidence is kind of flagging, but hey, fake it till you make it. I grin nice and wide. “But you’re going to splurge on me anyway.”
“You’re cocksure.”
“That’s because I’m not some ballgown you’d never have anyplace to wear.” I lean in and lower my voice. “Think of me more as...a slice of chocolate cheesecake: rich, creamy, fattening... And you can gobble me down any time.”
“Gobble you—oh my God!”
“Mm, and I’m good with everything. You can have me on your lunch break, in between work and school—with your morning coffee.” I waggle my brows. Finally, finally, she laughs.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“You totally want me.”
“God help me, I do.”
Now seems like a good time to try for that hug. She melts into it. This can’t be a mistake.
I’m not letting her get away.
140
Elina
Actual cheesecake. The genuine article.
I feel like I’ve stepped into an alternate reality. Nick claimed to crave the stuff, after suggesting I think of him as dessert, and here we are. Eating actual cheesecake, ginger for me, black forest for him. In a very tiny, very red hotel café that feels like it belongs in the 1920s. This might be a terrible idea, but I can’t deny it’s a delicious one.
Nick spears a cherry with his fork. “Where’d you go?”
“Mm?”
“You had a faraway look.”
“Daydreaming, I guess. This place is so... It looks like there should be a back room somewhere, with people drinking bootleg whisky and dancing the Charleston.” I take a sip of the sweet ice wine he ordered. It goes well with the spicy cake. “How’d you even know this was here?”
“Told you—I used to walk everywhere. I did mean everywhere.” He grins. “This place is great in the summer. They crank the AC. Stepping into the lobby’s like...aaaaaahhhhh.”
“Oh, I love that. Especially when it’s humid.”
The small talk’s getting kind of...not awkward, exactly, but it feels like the other shoe’s hanging in the air. Sooner or later, one of us’ll have to—
“So, I’m not normally a one-night stand guy.”
And there it is. I barely avoid choking on my cheesecake. “Whoa! Okay...so you just dove right in.”
“Couldn’t think of a delicate way to put it.” There’s cream in the corner of his mouth. He licks it away while I’m trying to decide whether to tell him about it. “Didn’t want you thinking I was out there, like...running some kind of, uh...back seat...sex brothel.”
Back seat sex brothel? At least it wasn’t just me wondering how I must’ve looked, giving it up so easily on what wasn’t even an official first date. “And I’m not, like...some back seat ho?”
“I thought you might’ve had buyer’s remorse when I woke up alone.”
“No, not—I mean, I didn’t wanna do the whole awkward drive home thing, if—if you were regretting it, or we found out we had nothing in common halfway across Brooklyn Bridge. But mostly, I had to get back.”
“But it was—“ Nick’s dragging his fork through the chocolate sauce on his plate. “What I’m trying to say is... It was good, right? I know I didn’t imagine—it wasn’t all in my head?”
His sudden bashfulness makes me bold. “You asking me or telling me?”
Nick’s eyes narrow. “It was better than good.” He pushes his plate aside so he can lean across the table, into my space. “You looked in my eyes. You trusted me. You were tangled in your shirt, but you didn’t even want to break free. You tilted your head back just so, like you were—"
A waitress brushes by. Nick stops talking, but doesn’t break eye contact. The second she’s out of earshot, he picks up where he left off, voice low and intense. “—like you were offering yourself up for my pleasure. I wanted to burn that into my memory. Carry it around with me forever.”
I remember that moment. He was looking down at me like he wanted to eat me alive. I was ready to let him.
Nick’s gaze is boring into me. He expects me to say something; of course he does. I’m awful at this. I don’t have a sexy voice; I can never find the right words. “You just...took charge,” I manage.
That seems to have been the right thing to say. He inhales sharply, and his hands curl halfway into fists. “You abandoned yourself to me.” His gaze has me pinned. I don’t dare move. “Give me your hand.”
I reach for him.
“No—under the table.”
My face goes hot. I want to look around, make sure no one’s watching, but I feel like if I glance away, the spell will be broken. I drop one hand into my lap. Moments later, I feel his close over it. I don’t resist as he moves it to his thigh, then higher, till I feel the swell of his cock. He’s rock hard and twitching under my palm.
“Someone could see....”
“I’ve got you.” His hand tightens on mine. There’s something possessive about the way he presses it against him. “You do trust me, right?”
He has no idea what he’s asking me. I nod anyway. I don’t distrust him, and I want to see where this is going.
I’m not sure whether he starts to move my
hand, or if I’m the one who can’t resist the impulse to stroke him through his pants. His eyelids almost flutter shut as I trace the contour of the head with my thumb. I’m leaning over the table at an awkward angle; he’s half-sprawled in his chair. Anyone walking by would guess—
“We—we could get a room.” His voice has dropped an entire octave, hoarse with desire.
I rub my palm in slow, deliberate circles. “This is a hotel.”
“I’m going to need a moment....”
“Oh? Whatever for?” His cock swells in my hand. I glide my palm along the entire length, finishing with a gentle squeeze to the tip. He bites his lip and doubles forward slightly.
“Ah...don’t—“ Nick lets go of my hand. I pull it back, but not without one last caress to his inner thigh. The way he shudders tells me he might need more than a moment to compose himself. I make a show of finishing my wine as he slumps there, breathing heavily.
Maybe he’ll punish me for my insolence.
Five minutes later, we’re practically undressing each other in the old-fashioned birdcage elevator. Our room’s only on the ninth floor, but even that seems too far, too long to wait. He’s got one hand knotted in my hair, tipping my head to expose my throat. The other’s under my skirt, gripping my hip hard enough to leave marks. I’ve got both of mine up his shirt, exploring the contours of his back. He’s stronger than he looks, all muscle and sinew and thrumming tension.
The door rattles open both too soon and not soon enough. Nick takes me by both hands and steps backward into the hall. I follow, finding myself once again unable to look away. He leads me to the first room on the right, and spins me around so I’m flush against the door.
“Should I let us in?”
“I—“
He cuts me off with a sharp whisper. “Or should I have you right here, where anyone could see?” He’s got a fistful of my skirt. He’s twisting it so the hem creeps up my thighs. Nothing’s exposed yet, nothing that shouldn’t be, but—
“Wonder if there’s security cameras....” He makes a show of looking around. My own panicky survey reveals a flashing light near the elevator, but I can’t tell whether it’s attached to a camera or a smoke detector.
He wouldn’t really...right here? Would he?
Taking advantage of his distraction, I dart my hand into the pocket I thought I saw him hide the keycard in. But he’s faster than me. My fingertips brush the plastic for an instant, and then... Then I’m pinned, both wrists trapped in one of his huge hands, pressed to the door above my head.
Shit—maybe he would!
Would I let him?
I never have to answer that question, because he only stares at me for a long, heated moment before I hear the beep of the electronic lock. We practically fall into the room. He kicks the door shut hard enough that we both jump at the crack. And then he’s got me on the bed, hot and breathless. I’ve lost a shoe, and my skirt’s pooled around my waist.
Nick’s still got my hands captive; he never let go of my wrists. His free hand’s jerking at his tie, like he can’t get it off fast enough. He doesn’t even undo it completely, just slips it over his head. Over his head...and over my wrists. I feel the slide of silk, and then he’s tightening the knot, pulling it flush against my skin. “Yeah?”
I nod. Yeah.
He rucks my dress up slow. Normally, I’d be uncomfortable with this kind of exposure—the way he’s taking his time, drinking in every inch of me; normally, I’d be trying to pull him closer, hide my body with his. But this is...this is....
Instead of rising self-consciousness, I feel a shameless excitement surging through my body, making my palms tingle and my breath catch in my throat. I hold myself perfectly still under his scrutiny, biting my lip to hold back a whimper when he leans down to kiss me just above the knee.
Where last time was urgent, this feels slow and languid. Nick explores me like he’s got all night. I feel myself floating, lost in the sensations, as his palms and lips follow the lines of my body. He touches me in places no one thought to before, nipping at my collarbone, breathing softly against the inside of my wrist, biting my shoulder when I try to arch against him.
The teasing rides an edge between delicious and overwhelming. Is he trying to make me beg? Doubt’s creeping in again: do I say something, or keep mum? He’s making it hard to think, hard to concentrate, one finger trailing down the midline of my torso, between my breasts, over the swell of my belly... And is he disappointed with the softness there? Was he hoping for a firmer, younger, pre-kid body?
Quit ruining it!
I risk a glance at Nick’s face. He looks rapt, utterly absorbed in what he’s doing. There’s something ravenously intent in the way he looks at me, like he’s laying claim to everything he touches.
I wish he’d say something.
Maybe I’m supposed to say something.
I try to find my way back to that blissful haze of sensation, but it’s no use: I always do this. Just when things should be kicking into high gear, all inhibitions forgotten, I—
“Everything all right?” Nick’s cupping my cheek, all gentle concern.
“Yeah.” I exhale a little laugh. It comes out too breathy, too shaky. “Just, uh...I—“ What can I say that won’t make me sound like a spaz? “You’re still wearing most of your clothes.” Ugh. Why couldn’t he have stuffed his tie in my mouth?
But Nick doesn’t look put out. “Oh—my pants getting scratchy on that soft skin of yours?” He shifts against me purposefully, so the fabric drags against my thigh. An involuntary shudder courses through me. Nick grins as I snap my mouth shut on an undignified sound. “Undress me, then.”
Undress him?
I hold up my hands, assuming he’s going to set me free, but he’s got that wicked look in his eyes again, the same one he got just before he put my hand on his cock under the table. “Uh-uh. No hands.”
He holds me steady as I wobble to my knees. Where I’d expected awkwardness, clumsiness, humiliation, I feel...calm. He’s given me a task. I don’t have to guess any more. I can just...concentrate on him.
His hand on the back of my head, guiding me to his fly, is strong—comforting, even. When I take the fabric between my lips and tug, the button pops free easier than I thought. I hear him murmur “good,” and I keep going, pulling his zipper down in a series of quick jerks. He pushes his pants down himself, and his underwear with them. His cock bounces free and slaps me in the face. A sharp, unexpected spur of excitement lances through me.
“Oh!”
“Sorry!” Nick reins in his dick with one hand, caressing my cheek with the other, wiping away precum. “Kind of sprang up on me, there.”
“No, no...I kinda—“
Liked it—I was about to say I liked it, and what would he think of me then?
I feel my head being lifted, two fingers under my chin. My eyes close: I can’t look.
“Hey. Look at me.”
I can’t refuse, either. I open my eyes.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Really. I’m just....” He’s looking at me with such concern, I can’t bring myself to tell him anything but the truth. “It’s embarrassing. I...kinda liked it, and... I didn’t want you think I was...think I was....”
“Think you were what?”
“The kind of person who likes getting slapped in the face with a cock.” Shit—this is mortifying; this is—my face must be as red as my hair, and now he’s worried about me, and I’m blowing it, and how do you fuck up sex? When you have instructions, no less? Seriously, all I had to do was open my mouth and—
“What kind of person is that?”
I don’t know how to answer that either. I feel like I’ve waded out into deep water, forgotten how to swim. “I...I don’t know. Someone who...someone weird?”
Next thing I know, my hands are free, and Nick’s rubbing my wrists, where his tie’s left the faintest of red marks. “I’m—hey, listen—this is my fault.” He’s kissing my forehead, gatherin
g me into his arms. “We should’ve talked first. I just assumed, after the other night....”
In spite of my embarrassment, I feel myself relaxing into his embrace. He’s running his fingertips up and down my spine in an idle and familiar motion, like this is all somehow fine, like the next words out of his mouth aren’t going to be “Guess that’s that,” or “What’s your problem?” or “Mind if I jerk off before I go?
What he really says is “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
“No, it’s not you. I embarrassed myself.”
“I’d disagree with that—for what it’s worth, I think you’re great. Really hot. Open-minded. I like that.” He bumps our noses together. “Definitely not weird. If anything, I’m the weird one. I love to get weird with it.”
Why can’t I be like that, embracing my weirdness? “Thing is, I... I can be kind of a perfectionist.”
I feel the puff of Nick’s laughter against my neck. “You don’t say.”
“So I...during sex—during pretty much anything, actually—but especially sex, because it’s so personal, so exposed... I have this endless internal commentary running through my head, like, should I turn off the light? Is my cellulite showing? Do my boobs look flat from this angle? Are my knees too knobby?”
“Your...knees?” He reaches down and pinches one of them. “Think mine are knobbier. Aren’t they supposed to be knobby?”
“Hey, I’ll pick on anything. It doesn’t have to make sense.” I retrieve his hand from my knee and twine our fingers together. It’s easier talking like this, spooned in his arms, back to his chest. Like if I can’t see the judgment in his eyes, it’s not there. I keep going: might as well get it all out there. “And then when I have to think of something to say...ugh. Like, my worst nightmare would be if I’d say I liked something, or wanted something, and you’d look at me like a slug in your bathtub, like ew....”
“I’d never look at you like that.”
“Never?”
I feel him shaking his head. “Even if you were into something, and I didn’t swing that way, the worst I’d say would be no.” He pulls me closer. “And for the record, all that stuff about cellulite and—what was it, bad boob angles?” He does the tiniest of snorts. “When a man has a beautiful woman in his bed, his brain’s more like ‘Yippee!’ or ‘Where do I start?’ than ‘Let’s hunt for imaginary flaws’.”
