One Night Flame

by Beverly Evans

  “Your actual pussy’s still in there, isn’t it?” he asks, with a grin that makes me huff in annoyance. “I don’t care if you have hair down there.”

  That’s also weirdly reassuring. He eases my underwear off and tosses them to the side, sliding his hands over my thighs again. He looks at me hungrily and resumes his kisses across my stomach. I suck in deep breaths as he opens my legs and looks at me where no one but my doctor has looked before. I tense up, even though I’m starting to trust that he won’t make this bad.

  “Relax,” he whispers, pulling his sheets from my grip. He gives me a smile and gives me one last kiss below my bellybutton.

  Then he puts his mouth on me, and oh my god. I react like no one’s ever touched me there in my life; it’s so good. I nudge my legs farther apart little by little, so he won’t notice that I’m doing it. He does notice eventually because he pushes my legs back to get at me more. I moan loudly and then bite my bottom lip, clutching the sheets for a whole other reason.

  “You like it?” he asks, lifting his head for a minute. I didn’t know I’d like the sight of his head between my legs, but it turns me on like nothing else has. “I knew you would.”

  “You’re so — oh.” He shuts me up by sliding a finger inside of me while his mouth continues to work my clit and all over me.

  Grant fingered me one time before he shut that hookup down, and I remember it being kind of uncomfortable. But Noah’s fingers are magic. His hands are big, and so are his fingers. They stretch me just the right amount, and when he wiggles them in just the right way, I cry out, feeling something build up inside me.

  I crest quickly and instantly. I feel torn out of my consciousness. All of my nerves seem to light up for a second, like fireworks, before I come back down.

  “Your orgasms are pretty hot,” he says, standing up. I don’t know what to say to that, even though I like that he said it.

  He peels off his t-shirt, then his shorts, and I just stare at him like a complete idiot. His body is perfect. Literally, I can’t find a flaw. His broad shoulders taper down to a small waist and flat, shredded abs. He’s in perfect proportion like his body was drawn by an artist. His penis even looks nice, and I don’t think any of them look nice. It’s semi-hard, and big, from what I can tell. Really big.

  He smirks at my open gawking, but I don’t even care. I just want him touching me again.

  He crawls back over me and takes my mouth, grinding his hardness against my now wet slit. It feels so good that I gasp and buck my hips up to meet him. He takes one of my hands and guides it south, pinning the other above my head with his hand.

  “Touch me,” he orders, and I wrap my fingers around him.

  He’s warm and so hard that I’m surprised he hasn’t exploded yet. I stroke him gently, then a little more firmly until he grunts with pleasure. I keep doing it as we kiss, our mouths going sloppy against each other as his hips wind between us.

  “Fuck, I need to be in you.” He gives me one more hard kiss before he rolls over to his nightstand.

  He unearths a condom and rolls it on, coming back over to me. My heart’s pounding now, so hard that I feel like he can hear it.

  “Is it going to hurt?” I ask as he crawls between my legs.

  “I’ll try to make it not hurt, but no guarantees.” He positions his tip against my opening. “I’ll take it easy.”

  I grip his shoulders and close my eyes. I feel him fill me slowly. It doesn’t hurt, really. It’s more of an uncomfortable stretch, a snug fit that’s unusual but pleasant. I relax a little when he’s all the way in.

  “You good?” he asks, looking down at me in amusement. I nod.

  He starts moving, pumping in and out of me slowly. It actually feels good, nothing like I thought it would. All of the stories I’d heard about women losing their virginity involved pain and bleeding and fake orgasms. I hadn’t faked the one I just had, and as far as I can tell, I’m not bleeding.

  He slides my legs around his hips and pushes deeper, making me arch off the bed. I feel that feeling again, the building up toward something, but slower. He kisses the side of my neck again, sucking hard, and slides his free hand between my legs. He presses his thumb against my clit, and my vagina clenches around him. He raises his eyebrows at me

  “I want you to come while I’m inside you. Can you do that for me?” he rasps in my ear.

  I think I manage to say yes, but all I can think about is how good all of this feels. I’ve been missing out. Would it feel this good with Grant?

  I doubt it.

  For the first time in weeks, I feel free and good and real. I come, and it’s even better than it was with just his tongue and fingers. I make so much noise that I’m surprised he doesn’t shut me up. But he’s close — I can tell, and I’ve never even seen a guy’s orgasm face before. He’s gorgeous, clearly in the thick of it, thrusting into me a little harder than before. It hurts a little, but I like the ache.

  He grunts and lets out a long breath, stopping his movements. He breathes heavily for a few moments, his head bowed, before sliding out of me.

  “Be right back.” He gets up and walks to the bathroom, presumably.

  I feel boneless and exhausted. Aren’t guys supposed to be the ones who feel tired after sex? I’m still a little tipsy, right in that zone where sleeping sounds great. I close my eyes, just for a second.

  Of course I pass out. I only stir when I feel the bed shift next to me. Even then, it takes me a second to realize that I’m in Noah Egan’s freaking bed. My eyes shoot open. Noah isn’t there, but I hear the water running in the shower. What time is it? Shoot, what if I’m late for my flight? It’s in the evening, but who knows? Maybe sex makes me sleep for twelve hours straight.

  His phone is where his body was, and I click the button to look at the time. It’s only ten, thank goodness. I can’t help but look at the alerts on his phone, and I immediately regret it.

  There are two texts from a girl, Caroline, from slightly earlier this morning.

  Yeah, we’re still on for tonight. Want me to wear panties this time? ;)

  My stomach drops so low that I feel it in my toes. He had to have asked her if they’re still on for her to answer like that. Which means he sat next to me as I slept, after taking my virginity, and asked another girl if their date is still on.

  The realization hurts so badly that I tear up. I know he just offered to have sex with me to… well, I don’t know, get laid? But the fact that he’s moving on just reminds me that I’m nothing to him or to any guy. But what did I expect last night? For him to magically not be the asshole he’s been forever? Now I hate him even more. I know that text wasn’t for my eyes, but the fact that he would send it still hurts.

  He comes back out a few moments later, a swagger in his step that makes me want to slap the smug expression off his face. I put my calm expression back on.

  “I can call you a car,” he offers, grabbing his phone again. “You can’t stick around today, unfortunately.”

  He’s just kicking me out like this? Why am I not surprised? I think he said something about going to work early last night, but I don’t know if I’m just making that up to soothe myself from the harshness of reality.

  “I’ve got it.”

  I slide out of bed and throw my clothes on, suddenly feeling self-conscious and ugly all over again.

  I call a car on my way out, and luckily, one’s nearby. I dive into the back seat and buckle in, not even looking back to see his apartment building fade into the distance.

  Chapter One

  Nadine

  Five years later

  I just want one morning where I can wake up without a billion notifications from my boss clogging up my phone.

  Today is not that morning.

  My home screen is littered with emails from Michelle, flagged as ‘important’ when they probably aren’t. It’s Monday. How are that many things urgent when the week hasn’t even started? Picking up her dry cleaning and coffee is somehow
on par with actual emergencies with her law firm, like clients needing to speak with her? Oh, okay. It’s like sounding an alarm any time something happens, no matter how small—at some point, the alarms lose their purpose.

  “Ugh, why?” I groan, pressing my face back into my pillow.

  It doesn’t help that I’m exhausted for reasons that are only my fault. I didn’t fall asleep until one last night because I was watching cute animal videos to put off the reality of the week starting. Not that I feel energized about my job when I do get enough sleep. The only thing that pulls me out of bed is the sweet paycheck that lets me live in this stupidly expensive city without a roommate pretty comfortably. If I were getting paid even a hundred dollars less per year, I’d be out in a heartbeat.

  At least Michelle recognizes that anyone who’s willing to put up with her bullshit should get paid accordingly. And it doesn’t hurt that she’s actually a well-regarded lawyer. I want to go to law school eventually and having her as a recommendation will be super helpful. I majored in pre-law and history and had excellent grades in college, but I want any help I can get. Especially since I didn’t use my degree for a year after my break-up with Grant. Instead, I found a roommate in the paper, got a job as a waitress, and moved to New York as fast as I could to get out of Briggs. It was another year before I got a job with Michelle, which allowed me to get my own place, and I have no desire to get another roommate.

  I fall back asleep for five minutes before my backup alarm goes off, and I peel myself out of bed. At least my body can go on autopilot now—brush teeth, take a long shower, chug a quick cup of coffee to get my brain online. Then come my clothes: the same dark silk button-down blouse, black pants, and flats I wear most days because I don’t trust my fashion sense anymore. When I first moved here, I tried to wear the same bright, girly clothes that I used to wear back home, and it brought me all sorts of unwanted male attention. And from a practical standpoint, the city’s got all kinds of dirt and grime, so dark clothes hide it better.

  The other upside to my job is that I don’t have to take the subway every day. My first stop in the morning is the coffee shop three blocks from the office, The Toasted Bean. Walking inside is almost like walking into a friend’s house, if my friend roasted bags and bags of coffee all day and blasted classic rock. It’s a little hole in the wall that doesn’t get busy until a little later, which is why I come here. I hate standing in lines.

  “Nadine! What’s good?” My favorite barista, Paolo, shouts when he sees me over the tall pastry counter. I don’t think Paolo knows how to sound unenthusiastic. “Happy Monday.”

  “Hey, Paolo. Happy Monday to you too, I guess.” I hold in a sigh. I can’t even bring myself to say it for real.

  “You know I’m joking around with you. Fuck Mondays.” He grabs two large cups and starts on my regular order—one large almond milk latte with one pump sugar-free vanilla syrup (and not more than that, lest Michelle rip my head off), and one large coffee with whole milk. “I’ve been up since the ass-crack of dawn.”

  “I think my definition of ass-crack of dawn is different than yours.” I eye the pastries in the case. They’re really good. Not as good as the ones from Mom’s bakery, but they’re up there.

  “What’s your definition?” He turns to start making the shots of espresso.

  I wait until he stops grinding the coffee before I answer. “The time I wake up—six.”

  “That’s like, the top of the buttcrack. The surface.” He bends down to get the milk. He’s so tall that he has to stoop really far. “I was opening this place at six.”

  I grin. “So you’re deep in the canyon?”

  “You know it,” he says. “You’d think I would be used to it by now after ten years of running this place.”

  He doesn’t look much older than I do, even though he’s at least in his mid-thirties. Or maybe I just look old now; I don’t know. Isn’t stress supposed to be aging?

  He puts together the drinks and plops them on the counter. I dig out my corporate card and hand it to him, still looking at the pastry case.

  “You want a donut today? Or are you still doing that gym challenge thing?” He pauses with my card over the scanner.

  I glance back at the donuts. When I’m not at work or at home, I’m at my gym. It’s perfect since I can feel like I’m socializing without having to get too close to anyone, and I’ve gotten pretty shredded. Last month there was one of those ‘get ready for the summer’ healthy eating challenge that I joined, and honestly, it was hard. My mom is a pastry chef. I can’t let go of my carbs.

  “Sure, why not?” I say.

  “Flavor preference?”

  “Ehn, surprise me.” All of them look amazing.

  He hands me the donut, finishes ringing me up, and automatically sends the receipt to my work email.

  “Have a good one,” he nods.

  “See you tomorrow.” I tuck the donut into my bag and take the drink caddy.

  I hope Michelle isn’t early. Sometimes she is and gets in before me, which she hates. She likes to see me typing away in front of her office when she walks in. Though, in true Michelle fashion, she never tells me when she’s going to be early so I can get there before her.

  Thankfully I’m first today. Her office is on a high floor of a skyscraper in Manhattan, so we get pretty good views. My desk is L-shaped, so I can see people coming in on one side and keep an eye on Michelle’s door on the other. The other partners in the law firm are peppered across the whole floor the practice occupies, with a big open space in the middle where the kitchen and whatnot are.

  I nuke Michelle’s latte one more time in the microwave and put it on her desk before I sit down at my desk with my own drink and donut. It’s the only thing to keep me sane while I go through all of my emails for real instead of just looking at the subject lines and wincing.

  The donut is chocolate on chocolate. Bless Paolo for knowing exactly what I need at just the right time because Michelle must have had a bad weekend. Well, a bad night, to be technical about it. There are tons of emails about scheduling some meetings with clients who can’t seem to stick to a date, more emails about setting up meetings with her own divorce attorney (which I shouldn’t be handling in the first place, but I can’t exactly say no), and various shit jobs she has me do, like making calls to her building’s management about a broken light or contacting her child’s nanny to make sure her son has all of his stuff for soccer practice. My day is going to be light on the things I actually sort of enjoy, like helping her prepare for cases.

  Even though I don’t like Michelle as a person, I admire her desire to get shit done, and well, I’ve gotten a lot more organized and efficient in the years I’ve been working for her. Even though I moved here pretty much on a whim with my savings and a bunch of baggage (literal and metaphorical), I never thought I’d end up in a job that actually made me better.

  “Morning,” Michelle grunts when she walks past me. She’s dressed to perfection as always, in a suit and heels. She takes an Uber to the office every day, so she doesn’t have to have back-up shoes, but I still can’t believe she makes it through the day with those on.

  “Good morning. Your coffee is on your desk,” I nod as she passes.

  “Thanks.”

  I sigh. A thank you means that she’s in a neutral mood. That’s a good thing since today is going to be hectic for her. Meetings on meetings on meetings. I’m supposed to take notes in a few of them, but besides that, my day should be pretty open. And if she’s in a neutral mood, that means I can be in one too. Her moods are contagious in the worst possible way.

  I slip on my headphones and queue up my work playlist—a blend of movie scores, K-pop, and American pop. It’s upbeat enough to keep me going, and no one bugs me when I wear my headphones. I’m not the only young person who works here, but I’m the only one who keeps to herself. At first, I kept to myself because of how hard my life had just imploded, but now it’s habit. It would be too awkward for me to sudd
enly try to be buddies with everyone I’ve mostly had small talk with for the past four years.

  The rest of the morning goes by quickly, and I get immersed in drafting a document for an upcoming case so much so that I don’t even realize it’s past noon already.

  “Nadine!” Michelle shouts from her office.

  I leap to my feet and rush into her office, knowing exactly why she’s yelling for me. I need to set an alarm based on her hunger signals.

  “Hi, I’m sorry,” I say before she can get a word in otherwise.

  Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t seem too upset. “Can you get lunch, please?”

  “Of course. What do you want?” I pull out my phone.

  “Hm.” She drums her nails on her desk. “I’d like a power bowl from that place around the corner. The one with those good chips made of sweet potato or whatever.”

  My stomach clenches. “Opie’s?”

  “Yeah, that.” She goes back to her computer, dismissing me.

  I can’t put off leaving to get her food because she gets super pissy when she’s hungry, but god, why did she have to choose Opie’s? The food is good, but the staff…

  “Time to suck it up, Nadine,” I mutter to myself. One of the other paralegals looks at me in confusion. “Sorry, just… talking to myself.”

  I rush outside into the late lunch rush of people on the streets, weaving between the lines at Halal carts and pop-up food places. Opie’s is a tiny place, but it’s really new, so most people haven’t discovered it yet. Why can’t it be busy? That way, I wouldn’t have to make small talk. My neck is already hot thinking about it. I used to be so good at talking. That’s what five years of pretty much total isolation after your social life exploding will do to you. I’m one of millions and millions of people in this city, but I can hardly hold my own in a conversation anymore.

  Maybe I should get a dog or something. But would it be worse if I talked to a dog all the time?

  I walk into the restaurant, looking down at my feet. I want to stay as hidden as possible and not make myself noticed but sometimes it’s hard in these little spaces.