by Karina Halle
It’s then that the music quiets for a break beat and I hear something from his bedroom, like a groan. Could my mom have been wrong and he didn’t come home alone? Suddenly I’m very aware that I’m standing in the near dark in my landlord’s apartment, completely trespassing while he might be banging Justine in his room.
But I don’t hear any female noises and I no longer hear his.
I slowly make my way over to his bedroom, mindful of my footfalls, as the music builds up again. His door is open half-way and the light is on. I carefully peek inside.
My mouth drops open.
Bram is lying down on his bed and from my angle I can only see him from the chest down. He’s lying on top of a silky white duvet cover, completely naked. More than that, he has his dick in his hand and is slowly sliding it up and down his shaft.
Oh my God.
Oh my God.
Oh my fucking God.
I’m stunned, frozen in place as I watch him pleasure himself. This may make me a huge pervert, but to me there’s nothing sexier than watching a guy get himself off. Maybe that doesn’t make me a huge pervert but the fact that I’m sticking around to watch him do it, secretly I must add, most definitely does.
And yet I can’t help it. This is my first look at him completely naked and he’s one tanned, muscular machine, his body taught and golden against the white beneath him. His legs are long and toned, there’s a defined six-pack on his abs that glisten with sweat, and his chest is broad and hard with a bit of chest hair that only adds to his pure, vibrant manliness.
Then there’s his dick. I obviously had a hint of it before but now it was large and in charge. His own hand looked like he could barely tame it. I wasn’t sure anyone could.
But right now, I’d be willing to give a shot.
I have a brief fantasy about walking through the door. What would Bram say? I bet he wouldn’t even stop. He would keep going, watching me the entire time. Just before he’d come he’d ask me to get on my knees and crawl to the edge of the bed. With one large, tense hand he’d wrap my hair around his fingers and he’d tell me to slide my gorgeous mouth over his length. He’d tell me, breathless and commanding, to suck his cock.
In the fantasy I do it. I lick him from balls to purple tip and watch his eyes roll back in ecstasy. I’d do it and I’d love it.
But this isn’t a fantasy. This is reality. I’m spying on Bram as he jerks off and I’m fucking wet as hell, the throbbing building between my legs along with the music. Jeez, I really need to get laid because this is ridiculous. Those cobwebs need to be cleared ASAP.
I watch for a few more moments, each one seeming to stretch into an abyss of yearning. I’m practically salivating. I feel no shame in taking it in, not in this moment. Maybe later it will dawn on me that I have a secret, skeezy soul. But now, now I watch and I want. I want to put my mouth where his hands are, feel him, squeeze him just so. Then I’d climb on top and ride the shit out of him, ride him until this need inside of me is gone.
I’ve got to get out of here.
I slowly back away until I can no longer see him but I do hear his groans becoming louder. I know them so well because I’ve heard them often but it’s an entirely different animal to hear them up close, to be able to envision just what his hard body does when he’s that wrapped up in lust.
I manage to leave his apartment, quietly shutting the door behind me, before I can hear him escalate. If he had come in front of me that would have been way, way too much. I might have lost all control over myself.
Once inside my own place, I close the door to my room and try to go to bed. I don’t even bother washing my face or anything. I just want to drift away and start over. But I can’t. My heart rate is up and I feel flushed from head to toe.
Just go back over, I tell myself. It’s that dirty part of me, the one I’ve tried to keep buried. The wild one. The one I know Bram wants to see and wants to bring out of me. But that’s not me anymore.
Still, I slip a hand between my legs and feel how soaked I am. It just takes a few strokes of my clit to get me off and I throw the pillow over my face to keep my own moans from escaping out into the air.
Somewhere behind his music, behind the wall, I think I hear Bram crying out, too, finally coming. I imagine him coming hard, his toes curling up, his head thrown back, his ass muscles clenching. It’s enough to have me coming again, this one sneaking up on me in surprise.
I may have not acted out my fantasy but whatever the hell just happened was one of the hottest things to happen to me in a long time.
I know I fall asleep with a stupid grin on my face.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Bram
When I wake up, I’m feeling strangely refreshed, something I haven’t felt in a while. Maybe it was good that I hadn’t brought Justine back to the apartment after Aida was over. It hadn’t been my plan to shag her anyway. I mean the whole date was made on behalf of our parents. I’m not sure why my father thought anything would come from it and I’m not really sure why I went along with it but old habits die hard.
Oh yeah, it was because Justine was gorgeous. She was also one of those types that put up a battle in the “I don’t like you” department, just like Nicola. It got me going every single time. But while Justine smelled like roses and indifference, I can tell I’m slowly getting through Nicola’s defenses.
At least I hope I am. I’ve never been so unsure with a woman and while I’m finding it mildly frustrating, it’s at least keeping me on my toes. I feel like every day is a new challenge and I haven’t felt that way since I left New York. Shit, I haven’t felt this way in a very long time.
Adding to the perplexities that living next door to Nicola brings, when I finally get out of bed and make my way into the kitchen, I’m shocked to see the kettle on the counter. I had given it to her mother last night to make some tea. Now she was quite the MILF, but then I guess her daughter is too. I’m not surprised that Nicola brought it back – I figured she would – but I am puzzled as to how she got into my place without me knowing it.
And why?
I make my way over to the door and see that’s its unlocked. I have a habit of doing that sometimes, probably because when I first bought the building I was the only tenant in this place for months.
So last night – or this morning – she would have had to come inside and put it on the counter. Was it possible that I didn’t hear her, that she didn’t wake me up?
Or was it that…
Well, after I dropped off Justine at her place and got nary even a peck on the cheek, I took my sexual frustrations home and had a bit of a wank-fest, as you do. I had the music pretty loud, everything that reminded me of my Scottish youth: Portishead, Garbage, Massive Attack, Faithless, Tricky, you know, just to really get in there.
But the minute I was stroking it, Justine became a distant memory. Her face would go out of focus every time I tried to imagine her and in her place was Nicola. It didn’t matter how many other people I tried – Brooklyn Decker, Kate Beckinsdale, that saucy, bitchy redhead that shot Jon Snow on Game of Thrones – Nicola’s face replaced them all.
And why not. It’s a beautiful face. She has the most gorgeous cheeks and a full upper lip that you just wanted to take between your teeth or have her slide along the ridge of your cock. The freckles just add to the appeal. There’s something so wholesome about her yet she always has this wicked gleam in her sloe-eyes that hints at something wild underneath. I know she puts up a bashful and prudish front, but it’s just a front. I know it is. I know how mums get, how wrapped up they can be with their child about being selfless and devoted that they forget they’re still a sexual creature with multiple needs.
I want to let the sexual creature free. Out of its cage. I want Nicola to have the fun she hasn’t had in a long time.
But my usual tactics don’t work with her. I’m not sure what will. And to be honest, I’m not sure if even hitting on her is the right thing, let alone fucking her. The absolute la
st thing I need is to be entangled up with a single mum, no matter how enticing she is, no matter how precious her child is.
I just can’t go down that path.
I know how that ends.
More and more though, it’s becoming something I have little control over. And that, that is what scares me. Fear has no place in my life, not anymore.
I contemplate going over to her place and asking her when she dropped off the kettle. I know that within seconds I’ll be able to tell whether she caught me in the act or not. I wouldn’t even be embarrassed about it. I actually wish she did watch me sampling my own goods. Maybe the sight of me naked would be enough to get her to look at me a little differently. I mean, I know I’m good-looking, I know I have what it takes to lure any woman into bed and I know what it takes to get them off again and again and again. But I think her disgust for me might run a bit deeper than her hormones.
I decide to bypass the whole kettle situation and bring it up later. Even though I woke up refreshed, my head feels cloudy now so I drive up to Golden Gate Park and go for one of my Saturday runs before stopping at the boxing gym. Pounding those bags isn’t as satisfying as pounding a woman, preferably Nicola, preferably from behind, preferably while pulling her hair. But it will do.
When I get back to my building though, all cleaned up and spiffy, I knock on her door only to find that awkward bird of a woman, Lisa, there instead.
“She’s already left for work,” she says, eyeing me like I’m about to bust down the door and steal her virtue. Makes me wonder what Nicola has told her.
“Long shift?” I ask, checking my watch for the time. It’s only about three in the afternoon.
She nods, her expression un-changing.
“Well, I guess I’ll catch her later.”
The door shuts in my face. So polite.
But I don’t plan on letting later happen on this turf. I want to see Nicola in action. At about seven I get a cab and head to The Burgundy Lion. I haven’t been there since she started working and it’s high time I paid it a visit. Back in New York, I was always frequenting the hoighty-toighty nightclubs and martini bars but secretly my favorite kind of place was a dive bar. There’s something so freeing about those places, the freedom to be yourself, to let loose, to express desires, to lurk in the dark. Everyone is equal in the shadows with a cheap drink in hand. Now, the Lion wasn’t a dive bar at all, but it could feel that way on the weekends when everyone seemed to congregate there under the sole purpose of being pissed off their rockers.
When I step inside, I’m assaulted by the smell of beer and overpriced cologne. Though it’s relatively early, the place is almost packed with most of the gleaming teak booths crammed with people. There’s a sense of urgency here, as if you don’t get here on time, the chances of getting laid go down with the rest of your beer.
And there, in all the chaos, I see Nicola behind the bar. Her back is to me but her hair is pulled back, exposing the perfect bare skin of her neck and her upper back as it dips into a loose-cut tank top. She moves with efficiency, whatever she’s doing, while a bunch of guys lean across the bar, bills wavering in their hands. They watch her every move, just as I am.
Something inside me burns hot as coals and I swallow down a surprising burst of jealousy. I can’t remember the last time I got jealous but it’s as if it suddenly dawns on me that I may not be the only one who wants to get in her pants. And of course I know I’m not, but it seemed that until she took the job here, she was relatively safe from roaming eyes.
I’m completely delusional, but I still stride over to the bar and stick myself right beside the guys, my hands stretched along the edge of the bar top.
The guy next to me, some punk with gelled blond hair that would give Zach Morris a run for his money, gives me the fuck off look but I don’t pay him any attention. My eyes are trained on her. They might think I’m here to get a drink but that’s not the case at all.
When she turns around, she plunks four bottles of beer down on the counter and smiles at the guys while she tells them the total. I want to be jealous over that smile alone, even if it’s just for show. Then as they pay, her eyes flit to me, a good bartender, always looking for that next customer and when she sees me, she does a double take. She’s jarred.
This could be good.
“Bram,” she says and then her smile goes wider than the world and I don’t feel jealous anymore. I feel fucking elated. Because that was no “give me a good tip, you wankers” smile, that was an “I’m really glad to see you smile.”
Please Lord, let it have been that kind of smile.
“Hey,” I say, suddenly feeling rather speechless. I clear my throat. “Thought I’d come see you in action.”
The boys take their beers and turn away. I notice they didn’t leave any tip, probably because I had to butt my way on in and hog all her attention.
I reach out and grab Zach Morris’s shoulder. “Listen,” I say to him and it looks like he wants to spit at me. “Just because you have zero chance of going home with her tonight, doesn’t mean you don’t have to tip her.”
“Bram,” Nicola warns quietly, eyes wide as a deer.
“So,” I go on to the wanker, ignoring her, “pay up if you thought her service was good. I was watching. It was good.”
The wanker eyes my hand on his shoulder but I’ve got height and breadth and he’s got…bloody awful hair. He looks at one of his friends who quickly whips out a five from the change she gave back and smacks it down on the table. I take my hand away and they walk off to a booth in the corner, shooting me daggers as they go. They can shoot all they want. If I survived Nicola’s death glares, I can survive anything.
“Bram,” she says again, admonishing me as I turn back to her. “It was fine.”
“It wasn’t,” I told her. “They would have tipped you but your smile for me was so much more beautiful than your smile for them. Jealousy makes dickheads do dickish things.”
She rolls her eyes and flips a dishrag over her shoulder. “I’ve been here long enough to learn some things, you know.”
“I also know you work part-time and tips are as important as blood. I did say it would be a hard job.”
Now there’s a hint of a smile, just a subtle lifting of her lips. “It was easy until you got here.”
I lean forward more on the counter until my eyes are level with her cleavage. She took that advice of mine too. Show off those beautiful tits for tips. But like the gentleman I am, I keep my eyes trained to hers. Even in this light I can make out the many shades of brown in them, the way they all snake in vibrant lines toward her pupil, the very pupil that’s widening before my eyes, as if she likes what she sees.
You better fucking like what you see, I think to myself, wishing now that we weren’t here at all, but back in her apartment or mine, sharing a bottle of wine. Oh the things I could do to try and break down that wall. I’d pull out brick by brick with my teeth until she’s screaming my name.
As if she can see the filthy images in my head, her cheeks grow pink and she looks away for a moment. “So now that you’re here, what will it be?” she asks, her voice now cheery but false. She’s back in bartender mode with polite professionalism.
“Make me something,” I tell her, straightening up. “Anything. Make a Bram McGregor.”
“I don’t think we have enough ego for that,” she says.
I grin at her. “I suppose I have enough already, don’t I? I’m serious though. Make me anything sour.”
She raises her perfectly shaped brow. “Sour? I would have thought you a sweet kind of guy.”
“There’s nothing about me that’s sweet, and you know it.”
But from the way she’s staring at me, I can tell she doesn’t agree with that. “Maybe a shot of sweet,” she concludes after searching my face like a puzzle. “But it’s definitely spicy all the way.”
“All right then, babe,” I tell her. “Take your best shot.”
Even though there’s a
small line forming behind me (the other bartender is James and he seems swamped), Nicola takes her time trying to figure out what Bram McGregor tastes like. I wish she could find out for herself. I’ve seen that cute, pink little tongue at times and I think it could give me a real lashing. I tell her she should add some salt in there for good measure and I swear her cheeks go crimson.
When she’s finally done she slides the drink toward me.
“This is what I call the Bram McGregor. Mainly spicy with a kick of sweet and salty.”
I take the highball from her and my fingers brush against hers as I do so. I pounce.
“I found the kettle in my room this morning. When abouts did you return it and how did you get into my apartment?”
The question takes her completely off-guard but from the way she looks absolutely bashful and ashamed, I know she must have done it when I was whacking off.
“Just when I got home,” she says quickly, suddenly eyeing the next person in line. “I thought you were asleep so I just put it in the kitchen and left.”
Bullshit. But I let it go because even if I called her on catching me in the act, she would deny it – anything to get out of that conversation.
As she tends to the next person, I slip a fifty in the tip jar and take a sip of my drink. The Bram McGregor certainly has a fucking kick to it. It’s actually pretty damn good.
I leave her be for now and look for an empty bar stool and find one by none other than Linden who is at the end of the bar talking to James as he shakes a martini.
“Fuckface,” Linden says when he sees me saunter over, our usual term of endearment. “What the hell are you doing here?”
I shrug. “Bored.” I look at James and pass him the drink. “You have to try this.”
James’s brow piercing raises as he eyes it. “What is it?”
“Your new bartender made it,” I told him. “Try it.”
James does so and then considers it with a tilt of his head. “Not bad.”