She smiles, and I bet she regrets asking me for stories. These aren’t good stories, these are boring. I should have told her about the time we were free-diving off New Zealand and were surrounded by sharks. Or about Vince’s quest to climb Everest, and his insistence that the executive team join him. I could have told her about our chili cook-offs against Ralph Lauren, or the time during the blizzard when we took an entire school bus full of children into the house, and kept them there for two days until the storm passed. I could have told her any of those, and instead, I’m babbling on about what a control freak he was.
“Thank you,” she says. “I know you didn’t have to tell me that, any of that, but I appreciate it.” She smiles, and this time, the gesture is steeped in sadness. I want to draw her to me, to hug her head to my chest and wrap my arms around her. I feel like she hasn’t been hugged enough in life. My mother was a hugger. Before her fire dances and tree-induced orgasms, back when she spent days with checking accounts and withdrawal slips, she always had a hug for me, whether I wanted it or not. Those hugs are probably why, underneath my asshole exterior, a person still exists.
“You’re welcome.” She shouldn’t be thanking me. I look away, watching a disagreement start between a couple on the other side of the bar, and think about everything I’ve put her through.
The room cheers and she glances up at the television, her body tensing as she watches a Yankee round first base and head for second. “No, no, NO!” The sadness leaves her face, replaced by energy, and she pushes on the bar top, her butt leaving the seat, and groans when he makes it safely to third. “Fucking outfield,” she says to the guy next to her.
“Tell me about it.” He leans toward her and I watch his gaze drag down her sweater’s neckline. “You a Tigers fan?”
“Absolutely. Not that it seems to be helping them.”
He laughs a little too loudly and my fingers tighten on my beer, thoughts of mothers and hugs replaced with decking this jackass off his stool. I should have sat on the other side, in between her and this prick. I lean forward and slide my palm up her thigh, my fingers scraping along the tiny butterflies printed on the tights. She glances down at my hand, then up at my face. “Hey.”
“Hey.” I reach between my legs and pull my stool forward, closer to her.
“Whatcha doing?”
I lean forward and rest my hand on the back of her seat, my thumb unable to resist sliding along the bare skin, exposed just above her skirt. I lower my mouth to her ear. “This asshole’s trying to hit on you.”
“Ah, is that what he’s doing?” She smirks. “What would I do without you?”
I pull at the bottom of her stool, getting her flush to me, and give the guy a glare that has him turning back to the television. Pussy.
“You know, for a gay guy, you’ve got a big alpha male thing going for you.”
“Yeah?” I keep my voice low, my eyes on hers.
“It’s very attractive.” The alcohol has mellowed her, softening those edges, weakening her resolve, and when she leans in, I am ready. Only, she doesn’t kiss me. Instead, she just melts, her body curving into mine, and presses her head against my shoulder. “Let’s go.”
An excellent idea. I reach into my pocket for cash to pay the bill and she straightens, moving to her feet, her eyes back on the game. I count out some bills, pass the cash to the bartender, and turn to her. “Ready?”
“Yeah.” She takes a few steps, her head still turned, watching a play, and then scowls. “Damn Yankees.” She picks up my jacket and loops it over her shoulders, the oversized garment hanging off her frame, and it’s a sharp contrast of refinement and punk. I watch her step forward, her curves peeking through the jacket, and I need a pen and paper, to sketch this design, turn it commercial, and class up every rich punk girl in the city.
She walks by me, moving through the crowd and to the door, and there is a moment when I wonder how I’ve lived without her.
* * *
I picture Vince, picture those clear and well-marked paths, and know I’m taking the wrong one.
Still, I step forward, carrying her in my arms, her hands linked behind my head, her head on my shoulder, legs hanging over my forearm. Moving into the house, I head for the elevator.
“Prepare the green suite. And call the kitchen. Get her something for her head, in case she wakes up during the night.” I speak quietly, and the night attendant nods, then steps back, out of the way of the elevator doors. They close, and there is a moment of pause, just enough time for me to change my mind, to stop and step back off, get her out of my house, and to wherever she is staying.
I don’t move. The moment passes, the car ascends, and I shift her weight slightly, getting a better grip. Her hands unlink, and she lifts her head, looking up and into my face.
“You’re at my house. I’m taking you to one of the guest rooms now.”
“Are you going to tuck me in?”
I frown in mock disapproval. “Oh no. I have people for that. My dedicated tuck-er-in-er. Raoul. He’s excellent at it. He’s got the pillow-fluffing down to a science.”
She closes her eyes and the hint of a soft laugh sounds. “I’m too heavy for you to carry. You can put me down, I can walk.”
“Quiet. You’ll offend my masculine abilities.” I’m not putting her down. Carrying her in my arms, her breath soft against my neck, her hand curling into a soft fist against my heart … it feels like the best thing I’ve done in months. I’d carry her across the city.
The elevator doors open and I step onto the fifth floor.
There is a uniformed butler by the door to the green suite, and I recognize him, nodding as he opens the door, the room dimly lit by ambient light.
“Would you like a small fire, sir?”
I consider the idea and shake my head, wanting privacy over atmosphere, and to get her to bed as soon as possible. “No. Thank you. Please close the door behind you.”
“Your room is all ready, sir. Should I dismiss the staff for the evening?”
“Yes. I’ll call if I need anything during the night.”
“Very well, sir. Good evening.”
Good evening. I glance at the clock, doing the math, and am surprised that six hours has already passed. Tomorrow, we’ll know. We’ll know if Avery is a Horace, and if I am officially fucked.
I lower her onto the bed, and she rolls onto one side, then pushes herself upright. “Wow, I’m drunk.”
“Yeah. If you’re going to vomit, let me know now. I’ll have a housekeeper sit watch over you.”
She coughs out a laugh. “I’m not going to vomit. And I would think that you are joking … but you seem to have way too many people tripping over themselves with nothing to do.”
“Vince liked a large staff.” I kneel before her and work on the laces of her Doc Martens, sliding the first one off and setting it to the side. “I haven’t had the time or desire to think about whittling them down.”
“You know, I can take my own shoes off.” She leans forward and watches me. “Been doing it on my own for almost… gosh. Two or three years now.”
I smile, pulling up the tongue on the second and sliding it off. “Impressive.” I rest my hands on my thighs and look up at her. “Then I guess you probably won’t need me to undress you.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” She flops back on the bed. “I’m starting to feel faint. And you know I have a propensity to faint.”
“How could I forget?” I stand and swear on every rosary bead I ever grew up with, that I won’t fuck her. I won’t please her, I won’t think dirty thoughts, I’ll be the perfect gentleman that my once-conservative mother raised me to be. I step forward, looking down at her, and she flutters her eyes closed, slumping her head to one side.
“You did a better job of faking when you were in the alley.”
“I can’t hear you because I’m unconscious.” She whispers the words out of the corner of her mouth. “Now you have to undress me.”
“You pain
in the ass…” I reach forward and roll her over until she is facedown, and she squeaks a little in protest. “I should have left you in the car.”
She doesn’t respond, and I find the zipper seam at the back of her skirt and undo the hook and eye closure. Her sweater has risen up a bit, exposing a thin strip of her back, and I can’t help but swipe my fingertips over the space, a quick brush of contact that could be innocently accidental.
It’s a short zipper, and I pull it down quickly, not giving myself time to think, or to prepare for the sight of her black cotton thong, disappearing into the cheeks of her ass, her sheer tights a barrier between my hands and her skin. I grab the sides of the skirt, working it over her hips, and she lifts her pelvis in an attempt to help my cause.
It doesn’t help. It doesn’t help anything when her back arches, her ass coming off the bed and offering itself to me, the perfect position for ass-gripping, pussy-pounding, penetration. I pull the skirt over and down her legs, concentrating on a small design in the bedspread, focusing on the point, and trying to ignore the most beautiful sight known to man.
I drop the skirt on the floor and she keeps her ass up, her chest still flat to the bed, and thank God for her butterfly-print stockings because I need every bit of help in keeping my cock under control.
Only now, I need to take off those stockings, leaving her in that thong. I look at the door, then the closet, and wonder if I should find her pajamas first. Something that I can immediately cover her with, the moment I take these off.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbles. “I should have worn that kind with the garters.”
“Trust me,” I exhale. “I’m very glad you didn’t.”
She turns her head, peeking out at me through a mess of hair and bedding. “This isn’t…affecting you, Mr. Lent. Is it?”
She bobs her ass in the air, and I reach out, stopping the movement, my hand gripping her ass and holding it in place. “Stop that,” I snap.
She giggles, and I want to shut her up with my cock, her giggle vibrating along the shaft of my dick.
Instead, I reach up, working with quick, clinical motions, my fingers dipping under the top of the control hose, yanking it over that sweet delicious ass, and rolling it down her thighs. I have to push her flat on the bed to do it, my hand almost rough on her ass, and she yips in protest as she falls forward. She’s lucky she’s not my girlfriend. If she was, I’d give up on the stockings as soon as her ass was revealed. Right now, I’d have a hand on her back, another on my dick, and I’d be pushing inside, feeling her squeeze, putting my knees on the mattress, my hands all over her, and she’d be speaking in tongues within minutes. Butterfly stockings and schoolgirl Doc Martens deserve a hard, fast, fucking—the sort that shakes tits, swings balls, and causes a woman’s pussy to explode around my cock.
Instead, I yank the thin nylon tights down, over her knees and skim the material past her calves, her feet lifting, ankles, heels, then toes, exposed. I drop the stocking, fix my gaze on the ceiling to avoid looking at her ass and find her body with my hands, rolling her onto her back.
She props herself up on her elbows. The sweater, fuck me to hell, is a cardigan-type, which buttons up the front, the cream knit stretched tight over her breasts, the expanse interrupted by a row of closures, and I can’t tell from here if they are button-holes or snaps. Snaps would be my preference. In one hard yank, she could be exposed, and I could be one minute closer to being in my room, my cock in my hand, jerking off like a teenage boy in heat. I pull my gaze from the sweater and to her face, which is impossible to read. It’s confident yet coy, the Siamese cat of seduction, and I feel like a catnip toy, batting between her paws, helpless to move away.
“Mind if I ask you a personal question?”
My eyes have somehow fallen to her panties, the high cut of them around her hip. I lift them back to her face before answering. “Sure.”
“How many women have you been with?”
I should be unbuttoning her shirt. Lift hands, step forward, undo buttons. An idiot could do it, yet I can’t. Right now, I can’t seem to move. She pushes from her elbows and sits upright, sliding forward on the bed until her bare legs hang off its side, her feet bumping against my shins. I repeat the question in an attempt to buy more time. “How many women have I been with?”
“Yeah. I just didn’t know if I was a one-time thing, or if you’ve been bisexual your whole life.” I can see, in the break of eye contact, the quick downward glance during the comment, what the right answer is. She wants me to tell her that she’s the only one. She wants to think that, out of every woman I’ve ever come in contact with, she was the only one I’d ever been sexually attracted to.
I know what she wants me to say, but I don’t. I don’t want to lie to her. At least, not any more than I have to. “I’ve always been attracted to women.”
“Really?” She moves her hands to her sweater’s top button and my dick pulses with the first twist of her fingers.
“Really.”
“So…… then how many?” She moves her hands down and undoes the second button. More skin.
“How many have I had sex with?” I swallow in an attempt to clear my throat.
“Yes.”
“A lot. Ten? Twenty? Something like that.”
“How many men?”
She moves farther down the line of buttons, and the dip between her breasts, the curve of each, is exposed. She’s not wearing a bra, and I notice, for the first time, the cling of the sweater, the fuzz of it hiding the shape of her nipples. I don’t answer. Maybe I’ll have to fuck her. Maybe I’ll have to forgo my gentlemanly aspirations, forget the fact that she’s had six or seven beers, and fuck her just to avoid answering this question.
Instead, I reach forward and push her hands out of the way. I undo the next button, my knuckles brushing across her cleavage. I keep going, my eyes strictly on the task, and I think about old lady saggy breasts to keep myself from getting hard. I twist open the last button and let out a hard breath. “There. Stay there. I’ll get you something to wear.”
I go to the closet, which is fully stocked in the latest Vince Horace collections. I move to the feminine side of the closet, flip through the undergarments, and select a red silk pajama set—the most modest thing I see. I walk back to the room and lay the hanger set beside her on the bed.
“So?” she asks, and she doesn’t sound drunk anymore. She sounds interested. Maybe I piqued her interest by avoiding the question. Fuck. I should have just lied, quickly, and then told her I was ready for bed. “How many men?”
“That’s a personal question, one I don’t feel comfortable sharing.” I step back and edge toward the door, in a manner that I hope looks casual.
“Oh my God.” She covers her face with one hand and flops back on the bed, the motion causing one side of her sweater to fly open and a single, perfect, breast to be exposed. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”
It’s beautiful. She’s beautiful. The length of her legs. Her thighs. Her hips. The feminine curves. That pink nipple. Her delicate throat.
“Tell me it’s not hundreds. Is it hundreds?” She moves her fingers and peeks through with one eye. “Please tell me it’s not. We didn’t use a condom, Marco.”
“I know.” I clear my throat. “I remember.” Oh, I remember. It was my first time bare, my first time feeling how hot and silky it could feel, how the inner muscles grip and flex around my shaft and the sensitive head of my dick. I will never forget that.
“So… is it more than hundreds? Thousands?!” She drops her hands from her face and glares at me from her spot in the middle of the bed.
“It’s not…” I speak when I shouldn’t, move to reassure her when I should run. “You don’t have to worry. I didn’t—I haven’t had sex with any men.”
“What do you mean?” She hasn’t covered up her breast, and I can’t pull my eyes from it, can’t stop myself from picturing it in my mouth.
“Nothing.” I point to the pajamas. “Wear those
. I’m going to bed.”
“Stop.” She sits up and pulls her sweater into place. “Wait. What do you mean you haven’t had sex with any men? I don’t understand.”
BECAUSE I’M NOT GAY. I want to scream the words at the top of my lungs. Open the windows and scream them again, so that the entire city can hear. Less than a week since he’s passed, and this lie is sitting on my chest like a boulder.
“You’re drunk.” I take another step toward the door and she’s on her feet, standing in between me and the door, her sweater still hanging open, but the piece back in place, covering up all the parts I want to see.
“I’m not.”
“Go to bed.” I pick her up by her arms and move her to the side. The moment I release her, she’s back in my way, as slippery as an escargot shell.
“You didn’t have sex with Vince?”
“Though I think the chances of him being your father is ridiculously thin, I still don’t think it’s appropriate for me to discuss our sex life.” I make it almost to the door.
Her foot hooks out, her toes curled up, and she trips me, my hand whipping out to catch the dresser, a crystal lamp getting in the way and skidding across the surface. I swear, attempting to hop over her foot, and her hand clamps around my forearm. For such a tiny thing, she is strong, and we scuffle for a moment, glimpses of bare breasts swinging, and I stop before this entire thing turns into a Laurel and Hardy slapstick routine.
I feel as if my heart is beating at an unnatural pace. She’s almost naked, her sweater hanging open, one of her legs still tangled in mine, in a stance that indicates martial arts training at some point in her life. I am on the defense, both physically and emotionally, my dick hard as a brick, my head confused, and my tongue loose.
“Talk to me,” she demands, and it’s the worst thing she can ask for. I can’t talk to her. I can’t talk to anyone. I have the rest of my life to look forward to this continuation of a lie. “Explain to me how you dated Vince for ten years and didn’t have sex with him, yet you’re trying to fuck me at every available opportunity.”