by Penny Reid
“Yes.”
“You’re proposing? To Shannon?”
“No, to Marie. Thought I’d kidnap her and run off into the sunset.”
“You have a thing for fifty-something buxom blondes with sex fetishes?”
“Can we stop talking about ‘sex’ and ‘Marie’ in the same sentence?” I snap. At least this conversation has taken care of my hard on. It’s long gone, like Mitt Romney’s chances of becoming president.
“Marriage, huh? You feel ready for that? One woman for the rest of your life?”
“Why does everyone keep bringing up the one woman thing?”
“Because your reputation precedes you.”
“What reputation?” I know what he means and brace myself.
“Remember what Jessica said once? How you managed through sheer force of will to make ‘Declan’ rhyme with ‘man whore’?” He frowns and stands up, reaching for a hand towel. As he wipes his neck he asks, “Does Shannon know?”
“You mean, have we shared our numbers?”
“Yes.”
I nod.
“And did you have to bring out the quantum computer to calculate yours, while she used one hand for hers?”
“She uses one hand very well.”
Andrew leers and I regret the comment instantly.
“If we’re going to talk about sex and numbers, how was your ‘business meeting’ last night? Let me guess. She agreed to one, two, three! contract negotiations.”
Andrew clears his throat but says nothing.
“What’s her name?”
“Huh?”
“Her name. The woman you conducted...business with last night.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
I stand, tired and ready to go home to my one woman. A quick stop at the jeweler’s is in order, too. As I walk out of the hidden gym and into the expansive, bright room of Andrew’s office, I call back.
“Enjoy your programmed life, little bro. When you’re ready to join the rest of us, we’ll be right here. Keeping it real. And now I’m going home to be real with Shannon.”
“You mean you’re going home to fuck her.”
“Same thing.”
Chapter 4
8:01 p.m. Damn. I’m the one who’s late, so there’s no need for a search party. My homing beacon is beeping like a fire alarm and as I fidget in the elevator, wondering why the hell I ever thought living on the top floor was a good idea, I hope she’s home.
Goddamn New Zealand. The deal should be smooth sailing, and implementing this new line a breeze, but somewhere in the code, I know those sneaky developers added a cockblocking spell designed to keep me in a state of perpetual frustration because the name of the product we launched in twenty-three hotels and spas down under?
Blue Bell.
Which is so close to blue balls, which I have a raging case of, that I think all the sperm has backed up through my system and is poisoning my brain, turning me into a tinfoil hat conspiracy theorist. The developers in New Zealand are trying to drive me insane by preventing me from having sex.
There it is. I’ve completely lost it.
Shannon has a key to my place, and as I walk in the door I see candlelight. Flickering flame is to a man what Ben & Jerry’s is to a woman.
A sign of a sure thing.
“Shannon?” I call out, following the disorganized scatter of lit candles in the living room. Shadows dance on the wall in my hallway, and I round the corner to my bedroom to find her, spread out on my bed, wearing garters, stockings, the red corset, and—
She’s asleep.
That’s okay. I can work with asleep.
I can’t work with absent.
You’d be surprised how fast a man can undress when under the complete control of testicles so full they look like a case of mumps. I’m out of my clothes in seventeen seconds or so (who’s counting?) and on the bed, my hands taking in her prone body. I’m allowed to touch. We have an unwritten rule. It goes something like this:
Touch Shannon.
It’s a simple rule.
Her skin is so soft, my fingers scraping against the rolling contour of her inner thigh, from knee to heaven. The whorls of ridges on my fingertips feel like raw sandpaper against her porcelain flesh. My breathing slows, eyes adjusting to the dim light, taking in her body. How did I ever get so lucky?
From Toilet Girl to Mrs. McCormick in eighteen months.
Huh. I guess I count months sometimes, too.
The candlelight makes Shannon look ethereal, like an erotic painting, the red silk of her lingerie highlighting her pale skin. Her shapely hips, wide with the swell of abundance, are like magnets for my touch. The curve of her breasts beckons, begging for my palm. Climbing onto the bed, I prowl over her, enjoying the peace and beauty of this moment, suspended between the time we’ll connect and these seconds before, when she’s all mine to just watch. Observe.
Treasure.
Her feet slide up as she moves in slumber, her toenails painted the same color as her corset, her garters, her lips. For some reason, that attention to detail makes every shred of self-control wash off me like someone aimed a fire hose at me.
My mouth starts where it needs to be, with a taste between her thighs. My hands slip up between those legs and she sits up, gasping my name.
“Dec! You’re home,” she murmurs, her hand sinking into my hair, palm moving down to caress my cheek as I move up to kiss her. She awakens a little more and blinks hard. “And you’re naked.”
“You’re observant.”
“It’s hard to miss that, even in the dim light.” Thankfully, she doesn’t just point. She grasps.
And that’s it. She’s under me and my mouth takes her, hard and hot, needing to sink into her and touch her depths so fully that we turn inside out. The taste of her mouth makes parts of me groan without sound, the sweet embrace of her thighs around my hips an invitation to enter at my own risk. And the risk?
Losing myself in her.
I’m an adventurous guy. I’ll take the plunge.
The second I’m in her it’s like coming home. A cliché, but true. Her fingers dance along my back, tight when she’s clenching, loose and skimming my skin with her palms in between. I can read her body with my eyes closed. She’s like sexual Braille. When her thighs start to quiver I know she’s close. When her back arches, she wants my mouth on her nipple. That little hitched sigh? It means she’s coming again. My name moaned when I’m between her legs?
That just urges me on. Makes me want to give her more.
“Declan,” she whispers, the sound like a verbal orgasm. Our rhythm quickens and our kisses dissipate, the connection now focused on a different kind of energy, a sensual build that’s nearing the summit. I love how her face changes when I’m in her, how she relaxes and turns inward, even as she’s connected to me, infused by our mingled slickness. There’s a scent we create when we’re together that is singular, and it drives me crazy to find a hint of it on the sheets, on a pillow, to catch a whiff on a breeze through my bedroom in times when she’s not here.
There won’t be any more times when she’s not here, though.
Not after I propose.
Her eyes are closed and she is the most ravishing, lovely creature I’ve ever touched, ever been with, ever loved. A man gets so few chances in life to find himself. We all live alone in these bodies, comforted by our own soul, driven by the mind to find meaning in the outside world. The heart drives us, too (and, of course, other muscles in the body with a single mission...).
She’s fragile and strong, determined and insecure, gentle and iron-willed, and as my body fills with a groundswell of urgency, of pleasure at the feel of being in her, of watching her own release pour out of her because of me. I join her, raw and real, our mutual vulnerability the only thing that matters.
(And coming inside her, too. That matters. A lot.)
The room is so quiet. There’s no wind today, and the windows are all closed in the bedroom
, the candles generating a sandalwood scent and a hazy heat that charges the air with a kind of private grace. I’m worshipping at the altar of Shannon. My mouth has just taken my version of communion. And once I propose, I shall have no other goddesses before her.
She’s my religion now.
“Mmmm,” she says, pulling me to her for a kiss, that ripe mouth mine to pluck. “I needed that.”
“You needed that? I was about to float off into the air like a weather balloon if I didn’t—”
She curls into a ball, giggling, her pushed-up breasts jiggling like an unseen juggler’s hands toss them into the air. Her nipples rub against the edge of the bustier and I’m entranced. Hypnotized. I could watch this for hours.
Who needs a fish tank for stress reduction? A red corset and a joke book for Shannon to read work just fine.
“All you ever think about is sex.”
My stomach rumbles. My mouth stays shut, though, because she has a point.
“And food,” she adds. “And work.”
“And you.”
“I think I’m filed under sex. Shannon is a subcategory under ‘Places I like to stick things in.’”
“That would be Golf Courses.”
“I’m your sexual golf course.” She doesn’t ask it as a question, but it hangs there, judgmental. I’m in the danger zone here. One wrong answer and it’s into the penalty box for Declan.
“You don’t have eighteen holes.”
“No, I don’t. I only have two.”
“That you’ll let me in,” I mumble. That earns me a smack. I love it when she gets rough. My turn. I grab her and spin her on her belly, gleaming white ass so round and abundant. I’m about to give her a hot spank when—
Bzzzz.
“Whose phone is that?” we ask each other in unison.
My pants are buzzing. Damn it. I jump up and rifle through the pockets.
“Bet that’s New Zealand,” she sighs, turning over and sitting up, elbows on her knees.
Ah, the view. The view....
“McCormick,” I snap into the phone.
“Hey, Declan!” says a voice so cheery it needs to be featured in a Pixar movie. “Greg here. Amanda told me you called and had a business issue to talk about? How’s it going?”
I look at Shannon. She’s making gestures that ask who it is. The problem is, I can’t tell her. Greg is part of my whole proposal plan, and if she finds out, my perfect set-up goes down the drain.
I grab my wallet and toss it to her.
“I get paid for sex?” she asks with a twitchy smile.
“You should,” I whisper. “Especially dressed like that.”
She giggles and everything jiggles and I can’t stop staring.
“But no. That’s to order takeout. Thai?” She nods and scampers out of the room, that ass—oh, that breathtaking ass—departing as Greg’s voice turns my arousal into a knot at the bottom of my stomach.
That growling sound isn’t hunger anymore. It’s frustration.
“Is Shannon there?” Greg asks, lowering his voice. “Did I—is this a bad time?” His voice slips into a register used only between men.
“She’s here and she’s fine. So listen, Greg, I need your help. It’s about Shannon.”
“I haven’t called her in eight months!” he protests. “I don’t ask her to do mystery shops for me ever since you played Santa and bailed me out! Carol’s the one who got her to do that bookstore evaluation the other day. Not me!”
Bookstore evaluation? “What? No. It’s not about that. It’s about having Shannon do a mystery shop.”
“You’ve lost me completely. I thought you banned me from having Shannon pick up mystery shops?”
“I did. This one is special.”
“Okay. Like how?”
“I’m going to ask Shannon to marry me and I—”
“You’re proposing! Congratulations! Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy and gal. You know, Shannon’s like a daughter to me, and you’re like a—”
“Client,” I say.
“Uh, yeah...client. A good client. A nice, big client I like very much professionally,” he backpedals. “So how can I help my best client?”
“I don’t want Marie to know I’m proposing. She’ll stalk us. Bring a camera crew or something,” I mutter, experiencing something close to a PTSD flashback as I stand here, naked, post-sex, talking about her.
“How can I help?”
“I want to completely surprise Shannon. Shock her. This proposal needs to come out of the blue, so I want you to have Carol ask her to do a high-end dinner evaluation at Le Portmanteau.”
Greg lets out a deep, low whistle. “That place charges four figures for a single dinner.” He goes silent. “Do they hire mystery shop companies? If so, I’ve never had a chance to bid on their contract.”
Maybe I’ve underestimated Greg. I always considered him affable and a little clueless, but I’m hearing the hints of some quid pro quo here.
“You help me set this up for Shannon and I’ll talk to their owner. See what I can do.”
“That would be much appreciated!” Greg booms. “Let me get this straight. You want me to tell Carol to call Shannon and offer her the mystery shop. You know Carol and Amanda will slit my throat if I don’t give them the chance to do this shop, right? They’ll rip my balls off and stuff them up my—”
“I get the picture. How about this—I’ll put in an order for three fake mystery shops. One for Carol, one for Amanda—”
Greg clears his throat. “Ah, Judy and I would—”
“Four. Make it four,” I snap, hearing Shannon’s footsteps coming down the hall.
“I put in the order for pad Thai and chicken satay! Enough for breakfast and lunch tomorrow, too!” she calls through the open doorway as she heads to the bathroom.
She’s got my attention. An order that big can mean only one thing.
A sex binge.
The sound of the shower in the distance makes other parts of my body come to attention. I’ve got to get off the phone. Now. Now now now.
“Great. Take care of the details and bill me directly. This won’t go through Anterdec. Make sure Shannon gets an evaluation form and instructions, an expense account...whatever it is you do. Make it look real. It has to be convincing.” I start to get off the phone and add, “And this is confidential.”
“Oh, my lips are zipped. No worries, Declan, and thank—”
I end the call and sprint for the bathroom.
There’s just enough time for shower sex before the food arrives.
Shannon makes a great, wet appetizer.
Chapter 5
Four days before the proposal...
Going to Marie’s yoga class is about as much fun as playing Mall Santa was last Christmas. With less pee and more pinching.
We have jock straps and cups to protect the jewels during athletic events, but there’s no comparable product to protect your ass from the nimble fingers of a determined ninety year old named Agnes.
Shannon begs me to go. “Mom really feels bad about what happened with the, uh, cameras.”
“Feels bad? Our first amateur sex tape was filmed by your mother. ‘Feels bad’ doesn’t cut it.”
Shannon’s cute little nose scrunches up, her eyes narrowing as her eyebrows meet. “‘First’ sex tape? What do you mean by ‘first’? That implies you intended to have sex tapes. More than one sex tape.”
Damn it. Caught.
“I just thought someday...you know....”
“How about never. Someday is never. The camera adds ten pounds, and YouTube is forever. Plus, who wants to watch themselves having sex? Ew.”
If the camera adds ten pounds to your tits or ass, go camera. I don’t say that aloud, though, because I do not have a death wish. Scratch that one off my list of sexual fantasies. For now, at least.
How in the hell did we get from Marie barging in on us in flagrante delicto to my being the bad guy? “Look, I never taped us having sex, but
your mother did,” I argue.
“Technically, Agnes’ grandson did,” Shannon says primly. She really hates that I’m angry with Marie, and is doing the whole people-pleaser thing that she does when there’s conflict. I think conflict is underrated. When two people clash, you learn more than you can ever find out when everyone’s doing the fake passive-aggressive pretend game.
“It’s hard to decide who to blame more, but I’m leaning on the side of Marie,” I grumble. I’m driving my SUV out of the city and to the suburbs, toward Marie’s yoga studio. Given that the proposal takes place soon, I should try to mend fences with my future mother-in-law. Give her a chance to apologize and all that, right?
“No one realized we’d be in a compromising position when Mom walked into my bedroom.”
“Let’s parse that sentence for a minute and find all the ways it’s just plain wrong. Starting with ‘Mom walked into my bedroom.’ You’re twenty-five years old and have a boyfriend. At a minimum your mother should knock.”
“She’s never needed to knock before.”
“My point exactly.”
“How did I just make your point?”
“Shannon, what kind of mother of a grown daughter doesn’t stop for a second and wonder if she’s going to walk in on a private moment? For all she knew you were doing something indecent.”
“I was!”
“Sex with me isn’t indecent. It’s private, and it’s hot and sweaty and awesome...” What are we talking about here? I had a point, right? Now I’m just ready to skip yoga and go back to my apartment for another sex binge. We need to find a Thai place nearby...
“Then what would I be doing alone that’s indecent?”
I frown. “You could be masturbating.”
She makes a choking sound. “Wait. Having sex with you isn’t indecent, but being caught...you know...is?”
“Right.”
“Explain.”
All this talk about having sex and Shannon taking care of things herself is making my mental picture gallery and video archive turn into one big sexfest. I slip up. I err.
I tell the truth.