Perfectly Adequate

by Jewel Ann

  “Great. Tell Dorothy Mayhem to come here.”

  Her eyebrows snake together. “Um …”

  “Two words, Willa. Dorothy. Mayhem. Can you do that for me?”

  She nods slowly, pulling her phone from the pocket of her scrub top. “What do you want me to say to her?”

  “I don’t know. Request something.”

  “For who?”

  I shrug, jaw clenched with irritation. “Doesn’t matter.”

  “I think it does. You see, you order something like a scan, and she comes to transport the patient. Or equipment. Do you need an ultrasound or something?”

  “Fine. A CAT scan.”

  “For who?”

  I grumble. “It. Doesn’t. Matter.”

  “But it does. I have to enter the order into the system under a patient’s name.”

  “Jesus …” I run my hands through my hair. “No one is getting an actual scan.”

  “But you just said—”

  “Never mind.” I stomp off. “I’ll find her myself.” It’s not easy tracking her down, but eventually I catch her returning a patient to their room on the second floor.

  “What the—” She stumbles as I back her into the wall, hovering over her without actually touching her.

  “I need a word with you.”

  “I’m working.”

  “I’m not asking. A word. Now. Or I make a scene. Do I need to make a scene?”

  “I’d rather you not,” she says, eyes shifting from side to side.

  “Move.” I nod toward the empty room several feet behind her.

  Keeping her gaze on me, she backs into the room as I move toward her, a slow dance of distrust.

  I shut the door and lock it behind us. She stares up at me with unblinking eyes.

  “You have a date with Warren?”

  She dips her brow in confusion and nods once.

  “Why?” I partially yell because I don’t appreciate being blindsided like this.

  “Um …” Her eyes shift side to side. “Because he asked me and bought me a cookie bouquet. And … I thought he might be a good way for me to get over us.”

  “Over us? What does that mean?”

  “Wow …” She clears her throat and swallows hard. “When you said you didn’t want to dwell, you really meant it. Well, you kinda ended whatever it was we had like…” she checks her watch “…an hour ago. So I figured I could spend weeks journaling and obsessing over what exactly went wrong, or I could move on quickly to distract my thoughts. So I chose to move on quickly.”

  “What are you talking about? I didn’t end us.”

  “You did. You called us a bad decision. I said mistake. You said, ‘Mistakes happen.’ And you said you didn’t want to dwell on it anymore.”

  “I was talking about last night!”

  She jumps. I don’t mean to scare her, but I hate feeling so out of control. I hate the idea of losing her. But she acts like everything is already lost.

  This makes me so fucking angry with myself, with Warren, with Julie, with … the world. I’m pissed at the world for no other reason than it nearly brings me to my knees to think of Dorothy and Warren together.

  People aren’t property—things to possess. But at this exact moment, my mind says, “Fuck that.” Dorothy Mayhem belongs to me. Period. I own her awkward moments, her goofy, loud laughs, her robotic seduction, and every single inch of her body, leading straight to her G-spot, which … Yes. That belongs to me as well.

  “I was talking about last night,” I say with a little less desperation and aggression. “It was my mistake. I didn’t need a babysitter. I have a long list of eager family always ready and willing to watch Roman. I’ve never needed a babysitter. I just …” I scratch the back of my neck. “I just wanted to see you so badly. And I didn’t know if you’d say yes to me, so I took the chance that you’d say yes to Roman.”

  Her eyes narrow. “You used Roman to get to me?”

  “Uh … yes. I have no shame when it comes to you.” I brush my lips against hers.

  To my surprise, she doesn’t stiffen and take time to decide if she wants to be kissed. Instead, she grabs my lab coat and pulls me to her, opening her mouth to me. I kiss every inch of that mouth like I own it too while Dorothy makes little humming noises.

  “M-my phone?” She breaks the kiss and grabs her phone. “I have to go.”

  I nod, trying to suppress the inclination to tell her to ignore her phone, take off her clothes, and let me find all the spots that bring her pleasure. “Okay.”

  She nods, rubbing her lips that hide a tiny smile. “Okay.”

  “Tomorrow, pack an overnight bag, and come to my house after work.”

  Her gaze shoots up to mine. “Oh … um …”

  I smirk. “For Roman. Please …” I wink.

  “Are you using him to get me to come over?”

  “One hundred percent. And with no regrets.” I chuckle, ducking my head to kiss her neck, to smell the coconut along her skin while my hands palm her ass.

  Her breath hitches. “Oh … uh … so you’re inviting me for a sleepover?”

  “Mmm hmm …” I torture myself by taking one last taste of her skin, one last squeeze of her curvy, firm ass.

  “Okay.”

  “Yeeesss …” I slide my hands just past her ass to the back of her legs and lift her up, pressing her back to the door, positioning the head of my erection right between her spread legs.

  “I have to go.” She grabs my neck to steady herself as I maneuver her hips to … well, torture my dick some more. “If…” her voice takes on a needy, breathy intonation “…if you don’t stop right now, I’ll have to find a place to masturbate because I won’t be able to stop thinking about the orgasm you almost gave me.”

  Yeah, neurotypical people don’t say that. I sure as hell would never confess to a woman that her flirting and teasing will require me to go masturbate. God knows I did it after every fake playdate when I first met Dorothy. And after she leaves this room, I will grab that cup of coffee I said I was going to get, go back to my office, lock the door, shut the blinds, and rub one off. But never would I confess that to her or any other woman.

  My forehead drops to her shoulder. “Killing me, Dorothy. You’re killing me.”

  “I have to go. If we wait, someone will ask where I’ve been. And I won’t be able to lie.”

  Thunk.

  Thankfully, she lands on her feet when I let go of her like taking a pan from the oven without oven mitts. I don’t need her telling people about me groping her in an empty room while inviting her to spend the night with me. And that’s how she would phrase it, I have no doubt about that.

  “Get to work. Go, go, go!” I unlock the door and give her a gentle nudge.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Wonder Woman

  Dorothy

  Instead of dealing with an onslaught of questions, I text my mom after I get to work.

  Me: I won’t be home tonight. Been invited to have a sleepover with Roman. Love you.

  Come to find out, Eli isn’t working today. Just as well. I have enough issues focusing on my work while my mind keeps wandering to the sleepover. Roman will freak when he sees my pajamas. I have drawers of clothes that I convinced myself I needed at one point and time, but they’re far from practical. However, I keep them on the off chance that the right occasion will present itself, and I’ll have the perfect outfit.

  Presenting … a sleepover with Romeo.

  Perfect!

  After work, I swap clothes in my car. No one at the hospital needs to see my pajamas, although part of me wants to show them off. I’m a little surprised Eli is letting Roman have me over tonight since I get off work at eight, which means I don’t arrive at his house until almost eight-thirty. But it’s a Saturday night, so I assume Roman gets to stay up a little later.

  So many assumptions. Being an Aspie isn’t always hot chocolate and marshmallows with rainbow sprinkles. No. Oftentimes it’s showing up to a Star
Wars themed party dressed as Mr. Spock, greeting everyone with the Vulcan salute.

  “Hey!” I grin proudly when Eli opens the front door. My smile vanishes. “Is that the best you’ve got?” My gaze makes a critical inspection of his faded jeans and plain white tee. Poor Romeo needs a fun adult in his life, one who knows sleepovers involve at least a onesie with critter feet.

  “I … I’m …” Eli’s eyes widen, jaw unhinging as I step inside and slide off my jacket. His gaze sweeps along my red, knee-high socks that look like boots, my tiny blue shorts with yellow stars, my fitted, red tank top with the Wonder Woman logo, and my fancy tiara.

  “Bor … ing.” I roll my eyes at his attire, brushing past him and dropping my bag by the credenza. “Where is he?” I make my way to the kitchen, where there are two glasses and a bottle of wine—an odd choice for a sleepover. Hopefully he has apple juice for Romeo. But Eli does score big when I notice the large pizza box from my favorite pizza place.

  But pizza has to wait. I want to find Romeo.

  “Where’s my little Romeo?” I circle to the living room.

  No Roman.

  “Wonder Woman is here.” I sneak up the stairs to his room.

  No Roman.

  After staring at his perfectly made bed inside his dark room, I turn in the doorway. Eli stands at the top of the stairs, nose wrinkled and teeth wedged into his bottom lip.

  “He’s playing hide and seek, huh?” I whisper.

  Eli eases his head side to side, his gaze making a hungry inspection of me.

  My posture slumps. “Then where is he?”

  “Um …” He clears his throat. “Julie has him this week.”

  “What? But you invited me here tonight! I have it on my calendar. I can show you.”

  “No … I …” He rubs his mouth, and I swear he does it to mask his grin.

  That makes me livid.

  “I asked you to stay the night with me.”

  “A sleepover.” I hold out my arms.

  Hello!

  Seriously, did he miss my pajamas? Pajamas equal sleepover.

  “You called it that.” He shakes his head.

  “You said for Roman!”

  “It was a joke. I had just told you how I’d shamelessly used him to spend time with you. And I smirked and winked when I said it because it was a joke. I thought you knew it was a joke and that Julie had him this week.”

  My mind explodes. I can’t formulate a single coherent thought.

  Anger.

  Confusion.

  Embarrassment.

  Stupidity.

  So many emotions. I don’t know how to deal with them. What to say. Or what to do next.

  “I …” I shake my head, jaw slack. “I missed that joke then. I miss a lot of humor.”

  “I’m really sorry. Can we just let it go? I have pizza and wine. And I want you to stay tonight.”

  Oh god … sex. He invited me over for sex!

  Suddenly, his sexy jeans and crisp white tee make sense.

  “I have to run home.” I make a straight line to the stairs, but he blocks me from going down them.

  “What? No. Why? Did you forget something? I have an extra toothbrush. Just stay.”

  I look up, giving him a huge duh look. Clearly, I’m the only one who can see the obvious. “This is not the outfit I would wear to spend the night with you. I have one that will work better. I’ll drive home and get it. But right now, I am not dressed for sex and seduction.”

  “Oh, Dorothy …” He chuckles, stepping toward me. “I believe you are.”

  I step back.

  He steps forward with a look in his eyes. I’ve seen it before. And I’m not wearing the proper clothes for what that look means.

  Our little dance ends in his bedroom with his bed hitting the back of my legs, preventing me from taking another step.

  I gulp, like the big twenty-ounce gulp.

  Run!

  Yes, I want to run, fast like Wonder Woman or even leap out the window. But part of me wants to stay because Eli smells like those familiar herbs, one of the rare scents that I like. And he looks sexy, not like he can save the world or anything spectacular like that, but definitely like he can bring his A game in bed.

  “I look … um …” My eyes close when he ghosts his lips along my cheek to my mouth.

  “Fucking spectacular.” He kisses my top lip before teasing his tongue along the seam of my mouth.

  I have no bra on under my tank top. My nipples are usually well-behaved. Eli manages to bring out their wild side, and this is a little embarrassing to me. And I don’t like the way my shirt rubs against them in their erect state. Too itchy.

  Then there’s the underwear situation. Yes, it’s a situation. Wonder Woman underwear that looks like boys briefs, but they’re not for boys. Really. I bought them online, and it specifically said youth girls’. (Petite peeps like me can wear some youth-sized clothing.)

  If he sees them, he might be offended. Wondering if I’d planned on showing Romeo my undies.

  I had no such plans. But it could look that way.

  I only wore them because I have them. And for my own personal feeling of awesomeness, I wanted to feel as much like Wonder Woman as I could.

  Turning my head, I break the kiss. “This shirt is scratching my nipples.”

  He studies me for a few seconds and grins, grabbing the hem to my shirt.

  “No.” I hug myself to keep him from removing my top. “I need to change my underwear first.”

  His eyebrows shoot up his forehead. “Did you have an accident?”

  “No.” I jerk my head back.

  “Well, no underwear is required for what I have planned.”

  I roll my eyes. “I just don’t want you to see mine.”

  “Streaks?”

  “What? No!”

  “Holes?”

  “Ugh … no!”

  “Now you have to show me.” He slides his thumbs under the waistband of my shorts. I bat them away.

  “Oh for fuck’s sake, Eli! They’re Wonder Woman briefs. I was not going to show them to Roman. I’m not a child molester. I wore them because I had them, and they go with the rest of my outfit.”

  Eli’s smile swells to his ears. “Jesus … I am one lucky guy tonight. We’ll get to those special undies in a sec. I’m more concerned about your nipples.” His hands return to the hem of my shirt.

  I reach for my tiara.

  “Is that itchy too?” He focuses on my head.

  “No.”

  “Then leave it on.” His mouth twists into a wicked grin as he slides my shirt up, easing it over my head without disturbing the tiara. “Sit.”

  I sit on the edge of the bed, feeling quite agreeable at this point because my nipples are so happy to be freed from the itchy cotton shirt. He palms one of my tiny (yes, tiny) breasts and strokes my nipple with the pad of his thumb as he kisses along my neck to my mouth.

  Fact: If done properly, a woman can have an orgasm just from nipple stimulation. Our nipples are a minefield of nerves that send sensations to the same parts of our brains as the clitoris and uterus. Years ago, I read a study about it published in the Journal of Sexual Medicine. I immediately conducted my own experiment and confirmed the accuracy of the published results.

  As Eli moves his mouth to my chest, giving Tiny Breasts some expert attention with his tongue, I feel confident that he, too, has read that same article because before long … I have my first orgasm of the night, sitting on the edge of his bed.

  He looks quite pleased with himself. I’m pleased with myself too, but not for the orgasm. I manage to not ruin the moment by informing him that I’m very responsive like that, which means it doesn’t take much to pleasure me, and it also doesn’t take much to over stimulate me to the point where I want to crawl out of my skin.

  Let’s hope that doesn’t happen.

  “Niiice …” I say with a labored breath and heat trapped in my cheeks while we grin at each other. “Enough with my ni
pples. Now move along to something else.”

  Eli chuckles while standing. He shrugs off his shirt and unfastens his jeans. That’s when it hits me … we are seconds and mere inches from his exposed cock hanging or probably bouncing at eye level (mouth level) with me. I jump to my feet which makes his eyes widen with surprise.

  Is it hypocritical or maybe just really unfair of me to want him—ask him—to go down on me, when I have no desire or intention of ever reciprocating? Probably.

  It’s not that I haven’t studied blowjobs. I have. And if I can turn off my brain, my taste buds, my sense of smell, and numb my gag reflex, I know I can give as good a blowjob as the next person. But that switch doesn’t exist yet—maybe with future medical and pharmaceutical advancements. So Eli is stuck with the woman who has a hypersensitivity to everything. And while I have no actual data to back it up, I feel certain that a lot of Aspies probably get an F in oral sex.

  Before Eli can question my quick move to my feet, I kiss him. That I can do. That I actually really like doing.

  And to ease the sting of the blowjob ban, I slide my hand down the front of his briefs and wrap it around his cock. My hand can’t smell it, taste it, or gag on it. So I know I can and will stroke it all night if that’s what it takes to keep that thing out of my mouth.

  “Goddamn …” he seethes, breaking our kiss and resting his forehead on mine just below my tiara, watching me stroke him. I don’t mind watching either. I’m pretty good at it.

  Eli grabs the back of my head and smashes his mouth to mine, moaning into our kiss, rocking his pelvis into my hand. “Take off my pants,” he mumbles against my lips.

  Shit!

  That’s classic code for getting a woman to squat to pull said pants down, only to stab her in the throat with a cock.

  I tear my mouth from his and remove my hand from his pants. He watches me with hooded eyes while wetting his lips. Eli looks drugged. And hot. He looks really hot. But not even the sun is hot enough for me to fall for the take-my-pants-off trap. And the tight-lipped smile I give him should clue him in about that. He has to know I’m on to him and his amateur tactics.

  I kiss his chest and his arm, slowly moving to his back where I kiss between his shoulder blades while wrapping my arms around him, scraping my nubbins for nails along his chest. And then … I squat into the safe zone. My hands curl round the waistband of his jeans and briefs, pulling both down in one moderately smooth motion. As I kiss the backside of his legs and over his firm ass, he steps out of his jeans and turns toward me.